Priam went on looking down at the fighters. “And that man,” he asked, “who is he? Shorter than Agamemnon but his chest and shoulders are broader. Do you see him? He is reviewing the ranks, and is like a thick-fleeced ram wandering among flocks of white sheep.”
“That is Odysseus,” I answered, “the son of Laertes, who grew up on the rocky island of Ithaca and is famous for his cunning and his intelligence.”
“It’s true,” said Priam. “I’ve met him. He came here once as an envoy, with Menelaus, to discuss your fate. I welcomed them in my house. Menelaus, I recall, spoke quickly, a few clear words. He spoke well, but he was young … Odysseus, on the other hand … when it was his turn to speak, he didn’t move. He looked down as if not knowing what to say: he seemed overcome by anger or else a complete fool. But when, finally, he spoke, a voice emerged so deep … the words were like winter snow … and no man would have dared challenge him, my daughter, and it didn’t matter if he was shorter than Menelaus or Agamemnon …”
Then among the fighters Priam discerned Ajax, and asked me, “And that man, who is bigger and stronger than all the other Achaeans, who is he?” And I answered, and spoke to him of Ajax, and then of Idomeneus, and then of the other Achaean chiefs. I could recognize them all now, the bright-eyed Achaeans. One by one I could have talked of them to that old man, who wanted to know who his enemies were. But at that point Idaeus, the herald, arrived. He approached Priam and said, “Rise, son of Laomedon. The leaders of the Teucri-ans, breakers of horses, and of the bronze-armored Achaeans invite you to descend to the plain, to approve a new agreement between the two armies. Paris and Menelaus with their long spears will fight for Helen. All the others will seal a pact of friendship and peace.”
Priam listened, and he shuddered. But then he ordered horses to be brought, and when everything was ready he got into his swift chariot, along with Antenor, and they went out of the Scaean gates at a gallop. They crossed the plain, and when they reached the armies they stopped right in the middle, between Trojans and Achaeans. I saw Agamemnon stand, and with him Odysseus. The heralds brought animals for the sacrifices that would seal the pacts. They mixed the wine in the great bowl, and poured water over the hands of the kings.
Then Agamemnon raised his hands to heaven and prayed to Zeus in the name of all. “Father Zeus, supreme and glorious, and you, Sun, who see all and hear all; Rivers, Earth, and you who under the earth punish traitors, be our witnesses and preserve our pacts: if Paris kills Menelaus, he will take Helen and all her possessions, and we will go away forever on our ships that plow the sea; and if Menelaus kills Paris, the Trojans will give us Helen and all her possessions, and will pay the Argives a price so high that it will be remembered for generations and generations. And if Priam and his sons are unwilling to pay, I will fight for that recompense, and remain here, until this war ends.”
So he prayed, and then with a sure stroke he slaughtered the lambs and laid them, trembling as they died, on the ground. All the chiefs drank from the great wine bowl and prayed to the gods. And they said to one another, “If anyone dares to violate the pacts, may Zeus pour out his brains and those of his children as we pour this wine!” When everything was done, Priam, the old king, the old father, climbed into his chariot beside Antenor and said to the Trojans and the Achaeans, “Let me return to my wind-whipped city, because I don’t have the heart to watch my son Paris fight here with fierce Menelaus.” He spurred on the horses himself, and went off.
Then came the duel. Hector and Odysseus marked out on the ground the area where the two men would fight. Then they placed lots in a helmet, and, after shaking them, Odysseus, without looking, drew the name of the one who would be first to hurl the deadly spear. And fate chose Paris. The warriors were sitting all around. I watched Paris, my new husband, put on his armor: first the fine greaves, fastened with silver pins; then the breastplate over his chest; and the bronze sword studded with silver, and the big heavy shield. He placed on his head the shining helmet: the tall crest blew in the wind, stirring fear. Finally he grasped the spear and held it tight in his fist. Opposite him, Menelaus, my old husband, finished putting on his armor. Under the eyes of the two armies they advanced, looking at each other fiercely. Then they stopped, and the duel began. I saw Paris hurl his long spear. Violently it struck Menelaus’s shield, but the bronze didn’t crack, and the spear broke and fell to the ground. Then Menelaus in turn raised his spear and hurled it at Paris with enormous power. It hit in the middle of the shield and the deadly point tore through and pierced the breastplate, grazing Paris in the side. Menelaus drew his sword and rushed at him. He struck him hard on the helmet, but the sword broke. He cursed the gods and then with a leap grabbed Paris by the head, hands clutching the shining plumed helmet. And he began to drag him toward the Achaeans, Paris lying in the dust and he, holding the helmet in a murderous grip, dragging him, until the leather strap that held the helmet in place under his chin broke and Menelaus found himself with the helmet empty in his hands. He raised it to the sky, turned to the Achaeans, and, swinging it in the air, tossed it among them. When he turned again toward Paris, he saw that he had escaped, disappearing among the ranks of the Trojans.
It was at that moment that the woman touched my veil and spoke to me. She was an old seamstress who had come with me from Sparta, and had sewed splendid garments for me there. She loved me, and I was afraid of her. That day, up on the tower above the Scaean gates, she came to me and in a low voice said, “Come, Paris awaits you in his bed. He has put on his finest garments—as if he had returned from a feast rather than a fight.”
I was astonished. “Miserable creature,” I said to her, “why do you want to tempt me? You would be capable of bringing me to the ends of the earth if a man there was dear to you. Now, because Menelaus has defeated Paris and wants to take me home, you come to me plotting deception … You go to Paris. Why don’t you marry him, or become his slave? I will not go, it would be dishonorable. All the women of Troy would feel shame for me. Let me stay here, with my grief.”
Then the old woman looked at me in fury. “Be careful,” she said, “and don’t make me angry. I could abandon you here and sow hatred everywhere, until you would find yourself dying a miserable death.” She frightened me, I told you. Old people, often, inspire fear. I held the shining white veil tight around my head and followed her. They were all looking down toward the plain. No one saw me. I went to Paris’s rooms and found him there. A woman who loved him had enabled him to enter Troy through a secret gate and had saved him.
The old woman took a chair and placed it facing him. Then she told me to sit. I did. I couldn’t look him in the eyes, but I said to him, “So you escaped the battle. I wish you were dead, killed by that magnificent warrior who was my first husband. You who boasted you were the stronger … You should go back and challenge him again. But you know very well that it would be the end of you.”
I remember that then Paris asked me not to hurt him with my cruel insults. He said to me that Menelaus had won that day, because the gods were on his side, but maybe the next time he would win, because he, too, had friends among the gods. And then he said to me: Come, let’s make love. He asked if I remembered the first time, on the island of Cranae, the day after he abducted me. And he said to me: Not even that day did I desire you as much as I desire you now. Then he rose and went to the bed. And I followed him.
He was the man who in that moment everyone down on the plain was searching for. He was the man whom no one, neither Achaean nor Trojan, would have helped or hidden that day. He was the man they all hated, as the black goddess of death is hated.
Pandarus • Aeneas
My name is Pandarus. My city is Zelea. When I left to go and help defend Troy, my father, Lycaon, said to me, “Take horses and chariot to lead our people into battle.” We had in our splendid palace eleven new, magnificent chariots, and for each chariot two horses fed on white barley and spelt. But I didn’t take them. I didn’t listen to my father and went to wa
r alone, with bow and arrow. The chariots were too beautiful to end up in a battle, and the animals, I knew, would only suffer hunger and fatigue. So I didn’t have the heart to take them with me. I left with bow and arrow. Now, if I could go back, I would break that bow with my hands and throw it in the fire to burn. In vain I brought it with me, and my fate was unhappy.
Paris had just vanished into nothing, and the armies stared at each other mutely, wondering what to do. Was the duel over? Had Menelaus won, or would Paris return to fight? Just then
Laodocus, the son of Antenor, approached and said to me, “Hey, Pandarus. Why don’t you shoot one of your arrows and take Menelaus by surprise, now? He’s standing there in the middle, defenseless. You could kill him, you’ve got the skill. You would be the hero of all the Trojans, and Paris, I’m sure, would cover you with gold. Think about it?”
I thought about it. I imagined my arrow flying to its target. And I saw the war end. It’s a question you could think about for a thousand years and you would never find an answer: Is it permissible to do a vile thing if by doing so you can stop a war? Is betrayal forgivable if you betray for a just cause? There, amid my people in arms, I didn’t have time to think about it. Glory drew me, and the idea of changing history with a simple, precise action. So I grasped my bow. It was made from the horns of an ibex, an animal that I had hunted myself: I had killed it with a shot under the breastbone as it was jumping down a cliff, and from its horns, sixteen palms long, I had had my bow made. I stood it on the ground and bent it to hook the string, made of ox sinew, to the gold ring fixed at one end. My companions, around me, must have understood what I had in mind, because they raised their shields to hide and protect me. I opened my quiver and took out a new, swift arrow. Briefly I addressed a prayer to Apollo, the god who protects us archers. Then I pinched together arrow and string and pulled them back until my right hand came to my chest and the point of the arrow was steady at the bow. With all my strength I bent the ibex horn and stretched the ox sinew until they formed a circle.
Then I shot.
The bowstring whistled and the sharp-pointed arrow flew swiftly, high above the men. It struck Menelaus just where the gold clasps fasten the breastplate to the war belt. The tip cut through the fastenings, through the leather band that protects the belly, and reached his flesh. Blood oozed along his thighs, down his legs, to his slender ankles. Menelaus shuddered when he saw the black blood, and so, too, did his brother Agamemnon, who immediately went to him. He took him by the hand and began to weep.
“My brother,” he said, “have I perhaps sent you to die by making a foolish pact with the Trojans, under which you fought, alone and defenseless, before our eyes? Now the Trojans, who swore to the pact, have wounded you, breaking our agreement …” Agamemnon wept. He said, “If you die, Menelaus, I will die of grief. No Achaean will stay and fight here. We’ll leave your wife, Helen, to Priam, and I’ll be forced to return to Argos in disgrace. Your bones will rot here, beside the walls of Troy, and the proud Trojans will trample on them, saying, ‘Where is Agamemnon, the great hero, who brought the Achaean army here only to return home with empty ships, leaving his brother on the battlefield?’ Menelaus, don’t die: if you die the earth will open up beneath me.”
“Don’t be afraid, Agamemnon,” Menelaus said to him. “And don’t frighten the Achaeans. You can see, the point of the arrow hasn’t gone all the way into the flesh, it’s just grazed it. First the breastplate and then the belt deflected it. It’s a slight wound.”
“If only that may be true,” said Agamemnon. Then he ordered the heralds to call Machaon, the son of Asclepius, who was famous as a healer. They found him in the ranks of the army, among his men, and led him to where fair-haired Menelaus lay wounded. Around him were all the bravest Achaean warriors. Machaon leaned over Menelaus. He pulled the arrow from the flesh, observed the wound. Then he sucked the blood and skillfully applied soothing drugs that the centaur Cheiron had once given to his father in friendship.
They were still gathered around Menelaus when we Trojans began to advance. We had all taken up our arms, and in our hearts had only a desire for battle. Then we heard Agamemnon call to his men: “Argives, may you be strong and brave. Zeus does not help traitors, and those men whom you saw violate our agreement will be devoured by vultures, while we, having conquered their city, will carry off on our ships their wives and children.” He was no longer the hesitant and doubtful Agamemnon we knew. That was a man who wanted the glory of battle.
We advanced in a tumult of sound. We were of different lands and peoples, and each cried out in his own tongue. We were a herd of beasts with a thousand different voices. The Achaeans, instead, marched in silence. You heard only the voices of the commanders giving orders, and it was something to see all the men obey, submissive, without a word. They came toward us like waves toward the rocky shore. Their armor sparkled like the foam of the sea spraying along the crest of the waves.
When the two armies met, there was a huge crashing of shields and spears and fury of armed men in bronze. The convex leather shields collided, and cries rose, of joy and grief intertwined, of the dead and the living, all mixed up in a single immense roar in the blood that soaked the earth.
Aeneas
The first to kill was Antilochus. He hurled his spear at Echep-olus and struck him in the middle of the forehead: the bronze tip pierced the skull, under the crested helmet. Echepolus fell like a tower, in the midst of the brutal fight. Then Elephenor, leader of the bold Abantes, grabbed him by the feet and tried to drag him out of the fray in order to strip off his armor as quickly as possible. But to pull the body he had to leave his side unprotected, and just there, where his shield couldn’t cover him, Agenor struck. The bronze spear penetrated the flesh and carried away his strength. Over his body a tremendous struggle was unleashed between Trojans and Achaeans; they were like wolves that attack each other and kill for the prey.
Then Telamonian Ajax struck Simoisius, the young son of Anthemion, struck him on the right side of the chest; the bronze spear passed through his shoulder, and the hero fell to the ground, in the dust, like a branch cut and left to dry beside a river. Ajax was stripping him of his armor when a son of Priam, Antiphus, saw him and from a distance hurled his spear. It missed Ajax but hit Leucus, one of the companions of Odysseus: he was hauling off a corpse when the bronze tip pierced his belly. He fell, dead, on the dead man he was pulling by the arms. Odysseus saw him fall and his heart swelled with anger. He went up to the front lines and looked around, as if seeking prey; the Trojans retreated before him. He raised his spear and hurled it, swift and powerful, through the air. It struck Democoon, a bastard son of Priam. The bronze point entered his temple and pierced the skull. Darkness descended over his eyes, and the hero fell to earth. His armor thundered down around him.
Then Pirous, the leader of the Thracians, attacked Diores, the son of Amarynceus. With a sharp rock he hit him in the right leg, near the heel: it broke the bone, severed the tendons. Diores fell to the ground. He felt that he was dying and reached out his arms to his companions. But Pirous arrived instead and with his spear ripped open his stomach: the guts poured out on the ground, and darkness covered his eyes.
And Thoas attacked Pirous, striking him in the chest with his spear, piercing his lung. Then he pulled out the spear, grasped the sharp sword, and tore open his stomach, taking his life away.
Slowly the battle began to turn in favor of the Achaeans. Their commanders, one by one, challenged ours, and each time won. First, Agamemnon, lord of peoples, knocked the great Odius, the commander of the Halizonians, out of his chariot. And as Odius tried to escape, Agamemnon struck him in the back with his spear, running him through. The hero fell with a great din, and his armor thundered down upon him.
Idomeneus killed Phaestus, the son of Borus of Maeonia, who had come from the fertile land of Tarne. He hit him in the right shoulder as he was trying to get out of his chariot. The hero fell backward, and darkness enveloped him.
Menelaus, the son of Atreus, struck Scamandrius, the son of Strophius. He was an extraordinary hunter: Artemis herself, it seemed, had taught him to kill the wild animals that live in the woods and the mountains. But that day no god helped him, nor did his death-bearing arrows save him. Menelaus of the glorious spear saw him running away, and the spear caught him between the shoulder blades and emerged from his chest. The hero fell forward, and his armor thundered down upon him.
Meriones killed Phereclus, who had built for Paris the well-made ships, the beginning of the disaster. His hands knew how to fashion any sort of beautiful object. But Meriones pursued him, hitting him in the right buttock, and the point of the spear went straight through, beneath the bone, and tore the bladder. The hero fell to his knees with a cry, and death enveloped him.
Meges killed Pedaeus, the bastard son of Antenor, whose wife nevertheless reared him as her own son, to please her husband. Meges struck him in the head, in the back of the neck. The spear passed through his skull and cut off his tongue. The hero fell in the dust, teeth biting the cold bronze.
Eurypylus killed Hypsenor, the priest of Scamander, who was venerated by all the people as a god; he pursued him as he tried to flee, and when he reached him drew his sword and sliced through one shoulder, cutting off the arm. The bloody arm fell on the ground, and over the eyes of the hero dark death and implacable fate descended.
Pandarus
We fled and, fleeing, found death. The worst was when Diomedes, the son of Tydeus, appeared, right in the midst of the fray. Diomedes, the brave Achaean commander: the armor gleamed on his shoulders and his head, he sparkled like the autumn star as it rises from Ocean. He descended from his chariot and raged across the plain like a torrent in flood, swollen by rains. Nor could you tell if he was among the Achaeans or us Trojans: he was a river that had broken its banks and flowed swiftly onward, destroying everything in its path. It seemed nothing could stop him: I watched him fighting, and it was as if a god had decided to fight at his side.
An Iliad Page 3
