An Iliad

by Alessandro Baricco

  First was Andromache, who was his wife. “Hector, by dying young you leave me a widow in our house, with a small child who will never grow up. This city will be destroyed, because you who protected it are dead. The wives of the princes will be dragged onto the ships, and I will be among them. One of the Achaeans will take your son and hurl him down from the high towers, giving him a horrible death, in hatred and contempt for you who killed so many sons of the Achaeans, and brothers, and friends. Your parents mourn you today, the whole city mourns you, but no one mourns you with such sorrow as your wife, who will never forget that you died far away from her.”

  Then Hecuba grieved for him: the mother. “Hector, among all my sons the dearest to my heart. The gods who loved you so much in life even in death have not abandoned you. Achilles dragged you on the ground, to make his beloved friend Patroclus happy, but now I find you here and you are beautiful, and fresh, and whole. Achilles destroyed you with his spear, but I think you died a sweet death, my son.”

  And finally Helen of Argos mourned him. “Hector, my friend. Twenty years have passed since Paris took me away from my homeland. And in twenty years never once did I hear from you an unkind word or an insult. And if someone spoke ill of me, here in the palace, you always defended me with sweet, gentle words. I weep for you because in you I mourn the only friend I had. You’re gone, leaving me alone to be devoured by hatred.”

  So they mourned through the night, the women and men of Troy, around the body of Hector, breaker of horses. The next day, they built a pyre in his honor and let the flames flare up high in the rosy light of dawn. They stored his white bones in a golden urn, wrapped in a purple cloth. The bones repose now in the depths of the earth, where no Achaean warrior can ever disturb them.

  Demodocus

  Many years after these events, I was at the court of the Phaeacians when a mysterious man arrived from the sea, who had been shipwrecked and had no name. He was welcomed like a king, and honored with all the rites of hospitality. During the sumptuous banquet prepared for him, I sang the adventures of heroes, because I am a bard and singing is my work. The man listened, sitting in the place of honor. He listened to me in silence, filled with emotion. And when I finished he cut a piece of meat and offered it to me, and said, “Demodocus, a Muse, a daughter of Zeus, was your master, for you sing the stories of the Achaean heroes with wonderful art. I would like to hear in your voice the story of the wooden horse, the trap that godlike Odysseus devised for the destruction of Ilium. Sing it, and I will tell everyone that a god taught you to sing.” This he asked me, the man without a name. And this is what I sang for him, and for all.

  ···

  Already the tenth year had passed and the war was still going on between Achaeans and Trojans. The spears were tired of killing, the straps of the shields, worn out, were breaking, and the weakened bowstrings let the swift arrows fall. The horses, grown old, grazed sadly, heads lowered, eyes closed, mourning the companions with whom they had run and fought. Achilles lay under the earth beside his beloved Patroclus. Nestor wept for his son Antilochus; Telamonian Ajax wandered through Hades after killing himself; Paris, the cause of the evil, was dead, and Helen lived with her new husband, Deiphobus, son of Priam. The Trojans mourned Hector, and Sarpedon, and Rhesus. Ten years. And Troy still rose intact in the shelter of its invincible walls.

  It was Odysseus who invented the end of that endless war. He ordered Epeus to construct a giant wooden horse. Epeus was the best when it came to making instruments or machines for war. He set to the work. He had tree trunks brought down from the mountains, the same wood with which many years before the Trojans had built the ships of Paris, the origin of the evil. Epeus used the wood to build the horse. He began with the belly, broad and hollow. Then he attached the neck, and on the purple mane he poured pure gold. In place of the eyes he put precious stones: the green emerald and the blood-colored amethyst sparkled together. To the temples he attached the ears, pricked as if to grasp in the silence the sound of the war trumpet. Then he put on the back, the sides, and finally the legs, bending them at the knees, as if they were running, a motionless but true gait. The hooves were of bronze, plated with gleaming tortoiseshell. In the side of the animal the genius of Epeus cut a small, invisible door, and attached a ladder that when needed could let men go up and down, and then disappear inside the horse. He worked for days. But finally the marvelous horse appeared: gigantic, to the eyes of the Achaeans, and terrifying.

  Then Odysseus called the princes to an assembly. And, in that deep voice that was his alone, he spoke. “Friends, you continue to have faith in your weapons, and in your courage. But meanwhile we’re growing old here, without glory, exhausting ourselves in a war without end. Believe me, only by intelligence, not by force, will we take Troy. Do you see that, the magnificent wooden horse built by Epeus? Listen to my plan: Some of us will climb inside it, fearlessly. The others, after burning the encampment, will set sail for the open sea, leaving the beach deserted, and will go and hide behind the island of Tenedos. The Trojans will have to believe that we’ve really gone. They’ll see the horse: they’ll take it for a homage to their valor, or a gift to the goddess Athena. Trust me: they will bring it into their city, and it will be their end.”

  Thus he spoke. And they listened. And they had faith in him. They drew lots to see who would go inside the horse. And the lots indicated five of them: Odysseus, Menelaus, Diomedes, Anticlus, and Neoptolemus, who was the son of Achilles. They climbed inside the horse, and then they closed the little door that Epeus had cut in the wood. They crouched down in the darkness with anguish in their hearts. They were like animals who, frightened by a storm, have taken refuge in their den and now await the sun’s return, tormented by hunger and unease.

  The others meanwhile waited for night, and when it was dark they destroyed their encampments and put the ships to sea. Before dawn rose they had gained the open sea and disappeared behind the island of Tenedos. On the beach, where the immense army had lived for ten years, there remained only corpses and smoking ruins.

  Amid the first shadows of breaking day, the Trojans saw, far off, the smoke of the fires. The news that the Achaeans had fled spread quickly, echoing again and again from one to another, a cry of ever-increasing hope and joy. They emerged from behind the walls, just a few at a time, and then in greater numbers, and crossed the plain to see. When Priam arrived, surrounded by the old men of Troy, what he saw was an immense empty beach, in the middle of which towered a gigantic wooden horse. They gathered around that marvel. Some, because of their hatred for the Achaeans, wanted to throw it into the sea or hack it to pieces with axes; but others, seduced by the beauty of the horse, urged that it be consecrated to the gods and brought into the city as a magnificent monument to the war that had been won. And in the end they prevailed, because men are pitiful, and it is not given to them to see the future, but only to live enveloped in the fog of the present. They drove the horse on its speeding wheels over the plain, accompanying it with singing and dancing. Loud were the cries of the men who were pulling the thick ropes, who by their great effort were dragging into their dwelling place an animal with poisonous entrails. When they arrived at the wall, they had to widen the gates to get the giant horse into the city. But this, too, they did amid dancing and singing, while they scattered a carpet of flowers where the animal would pass and sprinkled honey and perfumes everywhere.

  Then Cassandra, the daughter of Priam, appeared, who had received from the gods the gift of being able to read the future and the punishment of never being believed. She appeared like a fury in the middle of that celebration, tearing her hair and her clothes and crying. “Wretched people, what is this horse of misfortune that you are driving like madmen? You are rushing toward your darkest night. This creature is pregnant with enemy soldiers, and it will give birth to them in the night under the affectionate gaze of Athena, the destroyer of cities. And an ocean of blood will run in these streets, overwhelming us all in a great wave of death. Ah, belo
ved city of my ancestors, you will soon be ashes in the wind. Father, Mother, I beg you, return to yourselves and send away this horror. Destroy that horse, burn it, and then indeed we will celebrate with singing and dancing. Only then will we rejoice at freedom regained, freedom that we so love.”

  Cassandra cried out. But no one would listen to her. And her father, Priam, reproached her violently. “Prophetess of doom, what evil divinity has possessed you this time? Does our joy distress you? Can’t you let us celebrate in peace this long-awaited day of freedom? The war is over, Cassandra. And this horse isn’t doom but a worthy gift for Athena, the patron goddess of our city. Go, return to the palace, we no longer need you. From today onward, there is to be no more fear in the shadow of the walls of Troy, but only joy, and celebration, and liberty.” So Cassandra was dragged into the darkness of the palace by force. In her eyes Troy was already burning in the leaping flames of ruin.

  They brought the horse to the temple of Athena, placing it on a high pedestal. All around, the people indulged in the most unrestrained joy, abandoning themselves to their folly and forgetting all caution. A few sentries stood at the gates, survivors of a war that was thought to be over. Finally, in the rosy light of sunset, Helen of Argos came out of the palace, brilliantly arrayed. Under the admiring eyes of the Trojans she crossed the city and arrived at the feet of the giant horse. Then she did a strange thing. She circled around it three times, imitating the voices of the wives of the Achaean heroes hidden inside, calling them, and begging them to come to her arms. Enclosed in the blind darkness of the belly of the horse, the five Achaeans felt their hearts breaking. It really was the voices of their wives, however incredible; it was their voices, and the voices were calling them. It was a cruel sweetness, and they all felt the tears rise in their eyes, and anguish swelled their hearts. Suddenly Anticlus, who was the weakest and the most inexperienced, opened his mouth to cry out. Odysseus jumped on him and pressed his hands over his mouth, both hands, forcefully. Anticlus began to wriggle, trying desperately to free himself. But implacable Odysseus pressed his hands over his mouth and didn’t stop until Anticlus gave a shudder and then another, and a last, violent jolt, and then died, suffocated.

  At the feet of the horse, Helen of Argos threw a last glance at the mute belly of the creature. Then she turned and went back to the palace.

  The whole city, then, sank into slumber. Flutes and pipes slid from hands, and the last barking of the dogs punctuated the silence that is the companion of peace.

  In the still night, a torch shone, to give the sign to the Achaean fleet. A traitor let it shine high in the darkness. But some say that it was Helen of Argos herself who betrayed Troy. And while the Achaean ships returned to the beach, and in silence the army flooded the plain, from the belly of the horse came Odysseus, Menelaus, Diomedes, and Neoptole-mus. Like lions they set on the sentries at the gates, shedding the first blood of that terrible night. The first shouts rose into the sky over Troy. Mothers woke without understanding, hugging their children and grieving softly, like swallows. Men turned in their sleep with presentiments of doom, dreaming of their own death. When the Achaean army came through the gates, the massacre began. Widow of her warriors, the city began to vomit corpses. Men died without time to seize their weapons, women died without even trying to escape. The children died in their arms and, in their wombs, the unborn. Old men died without dignity as, lying on the ground, they raised their arms begging to be spared. Dogs and birds, intoxicated, went wild fighting for the blood and flesh of the dead.

  In the midst of the massacre Odysseus and Menelaus rushed about, looking for the rooms of Helen and Deiphobus: they wanted to take back what they had so long been fighting for. They surprised Deiphobus as he tried to escape. Menelaus thrust the sword into his stomach. His guts poured out on the ground and Deiphobus fell, oblivious of war and chariots forever. They found Helen in her rooms. She followed her old husband, trembling. In her heart she felt relief for the end of her misfortune, and shame for what it had been.

  Now I should sing of that night. I should sing of Priam, killed at the foot of the altar of Zeus, and little Astyanax, hurled by Odysseus down from the walls, and the lament of Andromache, and the shame of Hecuba, dragged off like a slave, and the terror of Cassandra, raped by Oilean Ajax on the altar of Athena. I should sing of a race that was butchered, and a beautiful city that became a flaming pyre and the silent tomb of its sons. I should sing of that night, but I am only a bard. Let the Muses do it, if they can. A night of such sorrow I will not sing.

  Thus I spoke. Then I realized that that man, the man without a name, was weeping. He wept like a woman, like a wife bent over the man she loves who has been murdered by his enemies. He wept like a girl captured by a soldier, a slave forever. Alci-nous, the king, realized it, sitting next to him, and nodded to me to stop singing. Then he leaned toward the stranger and said, “Why do you weep, friend, hearing the story of Ilium? It was the gods who willed that night of blood, and those men died so that afterward they would be sung of forever. Why does their story make you suffer? Maybe on that night your father, your brother died, or you lost a friend in that war? Do not be obstinate in your silence, and tell me who you are and where you are from, and who is your father. No one comes into the world without a name, however rich or poor. Tell me your name, stranger.”

  The man lowered his gaze. Then he said softly, “I am Odysseus. I come from Ithaca and there, one day, I will return.”

  Another Kind Of Beauty: Note On War

  This is not just an ordinary time in which to read the Iliad. Or, rather, to rewrite it, as I have done. This is a time of war. And although “war” seems to me the wrong word to describe what is happening in the world (a term of convenience, I would call it), certainly it is a time when a kind of prideful barbarism that for millennia was linked to the experience of war has again become a daily experience. Battles, assassinations, bombings, torture, decapitations, betrayals. Heroism, weapons, strategic plans, volunteers, ultimatums, proclamations. From some depths that we thought were sealed, the whole atrocious and shining armamentarium that from time immemorial has been the escort of mankind at war has returned to the surface. In such a context—extremely delicate and shocking—even the details take on a particular significance. To read the Iliad in public is a detail, but it is not an ordinary detail. To be clear, I would like to say that the Iliad is a story of war, without caution and without half measures, and that it was composed in order to sing of mankind at war, and to do it in a way so memorable that it would endure into eternity, as far as the last child of a child, continuing to sing of the solemn beauty, and the immutable emotion, that war once was and always will be. In school, maybe, they tell it differently. But the point is this. The Iliad is a monument to war.

  So the question naturally arises: what meaning does it have at a time like this to dedicate so much space and attention and time to a monument to war? How in the world, when there are so many stories, does one find oneself drawn to that one, as if it were a light that dictated a flight into the darkness of these days?

  I think a true answer could be given only if one were capable of understanding completely our relationship to all stories of war, and not this one in particular: understanding our instinct to never stop telling those stories. But it’s a complex matter, which certainly can’t be resolved here, and by me. What I can do is stay with the Iliad and note two things that, in a year of working closely with the text, occurred to me: two things that summarize what in that story appeared to me with the force and clarity that only true lessons have.

  The first. One of the surprising things in the Iliad is the power, I would even say compassion, with which the motivations of the conquered are conveyed. It’s a story written by the conquerors, and yet our memory preserves also, if not above all, the human figures of the Trojans: Priam, Hector, Andromache, even minor characters like Pandarus and Sarpedon. I found, working on the text, this supernatural capacity to be the voice of all humanity and no
t only of themselves, and discovered how the Greeks have handed down, in the Iliad, between the lines of a monument to war, the memory of a stubborn love for peace. At first sight, blinded by the brightness of armor and heroes, you don’t realize it. But in the shadow of reflection an Iliad that you don’t expect emerges. I mean the feminine side of the Iliad. It’s often the women who express, without mediation, the desire for peace. Relegated to the margins of combat, they embody the persistent and almost clandestine hypothesis of an alternative civilization, free from the duty of war. They are convinced that one could live in a different way, and they say so. They say it most clearly in Book 6, a small masterpiece of sentimental geometry. In a suspended moment, empty, stolen from battle, Hector enters the city and meets three women, and it’s like a journey to the other side of the world. On close examination, all three utter the same plea—for peace—but each with her own emotional tonality. His mother asks him to pray. Helen invites him to sit beside her and rest (and also something more, perhaps). Andromache, finally, asks him to be father and husband ahead of hero and fighter. Especially in this last dialogue, the synthesis is of an almost didactic clarity: two possible worlds stand facing each other, and each has its arguments. Tougher, blinder, those of Hector; modern, much more human, those of Andromache. Is it not remarkable that a male and warlike civilization like that of the Greeks chose to hand down, into eternity, the voice of women and their desire for peace?