The War At Troy

by Lindsay Clarke

  Priam turned to Helen, who only moments before had been naming the enemies who had once been contenders for her hand, and saw her trembling in the wind beside him. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘I feared it.’ Her voice was barely a whisper above the wind. ‘I have feared it from the first.’

  Priam turned away and summoned Antenor to his side. ‘How can we stop this madness?’ he demanded. ‘Our army has advantage of the ground. There is every good chance that it will win the day. But if Paris loses this fight . . .’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘It makes no sense. It must be prevented.’

  Gravely Antenor said, ‘This thing lies with the gods.’

  Priam glanced back at him in suspicion. ‘I know you have no love for Paris.’

  The counsellor did not flinch before the accusation. ‘But there can be no doubt of my love for my king and for my city,’ he answered quietly. ‘If Paris has already put the challenge, we cannot force him to withdraw without bringing humiliation on us all. The Argives will take heart from what must seem cowardice to them, and our own forces will be dismayed by it. I feel the gods at work among us, my Lord. Let this war end where it began -- in the hands of your son.’

  Agamemnon and his commanders watched as Priam rode out through the Scaean Gate of Troy with Antenor standing in the chariot beside him. They saw his men roundly cheering as he passed along the Trojan lines, stopping for a time to speak to the leader of a company of bowmen, and then with Hector and Paris, whose chariots fell in behind him. Then he advanced with his heralds across the plain to where Agamemnon’s standard was snapping and blowing in the wind.

  The two kings came together where the sheep were tethered ready for the sacrifice, and stood eyeing each other for a time, knowing that the burdens of kingship gave them more in common with each other than with any of the thousands of men who watched them as they raised their hands in mutual salute. Priam looked older and wearier than Agamemnon had anticipated, while the High King of the Trojans suspected that the Lion of Mycenae’s wits were probably as slow as his body was strong. Yet both knew that the other might hold the power to extinguish both his rule and his life for ever, and there was, for a few silent moments, a grudging respect between them.

  Agamemnon broke the silence. ‘Our heralds have agreed the terms of this conflict. Do you assent to them?’ And when Priam merely nodded, he added, ‘Then let us perform the rites.’

  The two kings descended from their chariots. After water had been poured over their hands, Agamemnon grabbed one of the sheep, cut some locks from its head and passed them to Talthybius who distributed them among the watching captains. Then the High King of Argos raised his head and arms towards the cloudy mountain range of Ida. ‘Father Zeus,’ he cried, ‘greatest and most glorious of the gods, you who watch over the fate of men from Mount Ida, I call on you this day, as I call on the great Sun who sees all, and on the Earth and the Rivers of the Earth, and on the Powers of the underworld who hold men answerable for their words. Bear witness to the oaths we swear before you now and ensure that they are kept. If Paris kills Menelaus in this fight, then let him keep the Lady Helen and all her wealth, and we, for our part, shall sail away from Troy and leave her in peace. But if my brother Menelaus should vanquish Paris, then the Trojans must surrender his wife Helen and all her treasure back to him, and make such ample restitution to the Argive host that future generations shall know the price of treachery and remember it for ever. Moreover, if Paris should die and King Priam fails to make such reparation, then I shall remain here with my army and fight on till the full measure of the bill is paid. To this I solemnly swear.’

  Agamemnon lowered his arms and shifted his eyes back to Priam. The King of Troy held his gaze for a time and then simply said, ‘To this I also swear.’

  The heralds tipped the bleating sheep off their feet, the two kings drew their knives across the animals’ throats, and hot blood splashed across the ground. Moments later it mingled with the libations of wine that were poured, and Agamemnon was saying, ‘May the brains of whichever party breaks this sacred oath be spilled on the ground as this wine is spilled, even to the second generation.’ Then both kings stood with their heads bowed in silent prayer, and around them the opposing hosts stood witness as the damp wind blew the words away.

  Menelaus raised his head first and stared across the ground at Paris, taking his measure, thinking that the Trojan had put on weight since he last saw him. His face seemed softer and pouchier about the cheeks and jaw. He took strength at the sight, but Paris stared impassively ahead, refusing to let his eyes be caught.

  Brushing back the white hair from his face, Priam turned to Agamemnon. ‘I feel the weight of years on me and have no wish to watch these men battle for their lives. I will return to my city certain that the immortal gods already know whether it is my son or your brother who will shortly meet his doom.’ Raising an arm in salute, he turned to grab the rail of his chariot, and he and Antenor sped back along the road to Troy.

  While the heralds cleared the ground and measured out the distance from which the spears would be thrown, Odysseus put two lots into his helmet -- one marked for each of the combatants. He crossed to Hector, who took the helmet from him and shook it until one of the lots jumped out. Odysseus bent to pick it up and held it for those close by to see. Then he shouted out across the lines, ‘The right to make the first throw falls to Paris.’

  The rain was gusting harder as Paris and Menelaus stood among their supporters for a time, removing their cloaks, dry-throated, glad of the wine and water they were offered, half-listening to words of advice as they adjusted their armour, even trying to joke a little. Then the sons of Atreus briefly embraced each other, and the sons of Priam did the same. Both donned their helmets and took up their stations, each with a sword slung at his side, his shield gripped in one hand and a long spear in the other. Ragged shouts of encouragement broke out from both sides of the front line. Then there was only the noise of the wind.

  Paris balanced the spear in his hand, flexed his thigh muscles and tested the ground beneath his feet. Feeling as if the entire trajectory of his life had been directed towards this fateful moment, he turned his cheek to the wind, trying to calculate its strength. He whispered a prayer to Aphrodite, looked up and fixed his gaze on the armoured figure standing across from him only a few short yards away. Menelaus s face and flowing red hair were hidden inside the bronze curve of his helmet but Paris knew them well enough. He recalled how often and easily that face had laughed during those hours in Troy and Dardania when they had still been friends. He recalled how Menelaus had stood over him in his bloody apron in the temple of Athena and how freely he had welcomed him to Sparta. All the accumulated fury of the years since then must now be compressed inside this man to a single point of unmitigated hatred. And who could blame him for that? And who could blame either of them for loving Helen? Perhaps, Paris thought, with a sudden lurching of the heart, all three of them had been no more than playthings of the gods, who were looking down from Mount Ida now at the one thing that in all their immortal lives they could never experience for themselves -- the fear, and the fact, of death.

  In a single fluid movement, Paris raised the shield on his left arm, dropped the balanced weight of his body onto his right leg, and uncoiled his sinews like the spring of a snare. The long spear hummed and wobbled as it travelled through the air, reached the highest point of its trajectory, then plunged swiftly down to bend its bronze point against the layered strength of the King of Sparta’s shield. Menelaus staggered for a moment under the shock of the blow, but the weapon fell harmlessly away. He laughed out loud, sure now that he had not deluded himself when he caught the smell of victory on the wind.

  The earth felt lively beneath his feet. He could taste the rain on the wind. Menelaus drew a deep breath through his nostrils and whispered a prayer to almighty Zeus that he be given justice at last against the man who had so sorely wronged him. Then he focussed all his senses on the detested
figure across from him, raised his shield-arm, and hurled the spear with all his might.

  So great was the power of unleashed emotion behind the throw that the head of the spear struck Paris’ shield and pushed right on through. It would have shattered the bronze plate over the Trojan’s heart had he not instinctively swerved aside, so the point only tore through the tunic at his flank, scoring the skin there and making it bleed. Unbalanced by the weight of the long shaft stuck in his shield, Paris saw that the head had come too far through to be released. He had no choice but to cast it aside as Menelaus leapt across the ground towards him, brandishing his unsheathed sword as he came.

  Neither man had heard the great moaning roar that went up from the lines. Neither man had time to realize that the rain was beating harder against their faces and that a thicker damp mist was drizzling round them now. Paris lunged aside so that Menelaus s armoured onslaught took him on, panting, past. In the same frantic moment, he was drawing his own sword, but Menelaus swiftly turned again and all but knocked him off his feet with a great buffeting blow of his shield. Roars and shouts were blown on the wind from both lines but the rain began to drive so densely down across the plain that it became hard for the troops to make out what was happening. Paris was stumbling back on the defensive now with only the bronze blade between his body and the advancing strength of Menelaus. Two or three times he contrived to parry the swingeing blows, but then a thrust of Menelaus’s shield knocked him backwards again. Instantly Menelaus raised his sword and brought it down with tremendous force onto the ridge of Paris’s helmet -- only to see the bronze of his own blade snap and shatter under the impact.

  Paris staggered to his feet again, almost concussed by the blow. Cursing his ill-luck, Menelaus threw the useless sword-hilt at his opponent, grabbed him by the horsehair plume and pulled him off his feet. Shrugging off the shield, he threw his weight down onto Paris’s body, and for a time the two men were tussling on the ground like dogs as the rain swirled and gusted round them, turning the ruts to rivulets and the dust to mud. Then Menelaus pushed himself upright, and through the veils of the rain it was seen that he had caught Paris by the chinstrap of his helmet and was dragging him bodily towards the Argive lines.

  As if the clouds had been shattered by the shout rising from the Argive host, the heavens opened and rain came shafting down across the plain so sharp and hard that men dipped their heads and covered their faces with their hands. The sky flickered with a livid glare. Horses whinnied and trembled all along the lines. The whole world had turned to water, and for a time neither army could see the other across the turbid distance between them. As for the two men, they might have been struggling alone on some remote island where they could see barely a yard in front of their faces. And then Menelaus lost his footing. His whole body tipped and sagged, his feet slipped in the mud, and he was down on the ground, staring in bewilderment at the finely-worked leather chinstrap that had snapped off in his hand.

  Half-strangled, bruised and bleeding, Paris slithered away through the mud and stumbled to his feet. Before Menelaus could recover from his fall, he turned and ran towards the Trojan lines, looking for the place where he had left his chariot.

  Afterwards, men said that, for reasons best known to himself, Cloud-gathering Zeus must have permitted Aphrodite to send that storm. Only divine intervention could have protected Paris from the death that was waiting for him if Menelaus had managed to drag him to where a weapon might be found. There was also, some said, a kind of justice in it -- for Zeus had answered Menelaus’ prayer for victory over his enemy, and Aphrodite had swept away her devotee back to the chamber where Helen waited to give him succour. But the truth was that, though many men had fervently hoped for a time that the issue might be settled between Paris and Menelaus, few of them had ever really believed in the deeps of their heart that Agamemnon would simply go home after seeing his wronged brother lying dead in the dust, or that Priam would yield up the wealth in his coffers along with the slaughtered body of his son.

  So it seemed that the immortal gods as well as mortal men had their minds set on war, for how else to explain the strange way that the storm had veered out to sea as swiftly as it came, leaving only a lurid-yellow light behind it in which the solitary figure of Menelaus could be seen striding about the field shouting out his angry demand that the proven coward Paris come again and stand against him?

  Nor was that the end of it, for an archer called Pandarus seized that moment to step out of the Trojan lines, draw the great bow he had made from the horns of an ibex, and release an arrow at Menelaus where he stood shouting on the plain. The younger son of Atreus was saved from death in that moment only because the head of the arrow was deflected by his belt buckle, so much of its force was spent by the time it penetrated his corselet and leather jerkin to puncture his skin.

  Agamemnon saw his brother stagger and fall. Outraged by this treacherous violation of the truce, he shouted for his surgeon, whipped up his horses and drove quickly across the ground to where Menelaus lay bleeding with the arrow still protruding from his flesh. So much blood was flowing through the gash in the jerkin that both men thought the wound fatal. Agamemnon stood up roaring with grief and rage, cursing the Trojans and vowing bloody vengeance. But having recovered from the first shock, Menelaus probed the wound with his fingers and realized that no organ was damaged. He was already reassuring his brother when the surgeon Machaon came up with a company of guards, who ringed the fallen warrior. Agamemnon watched as Machaon exposed the flesh and pulled out the arrow. He was cleaning the wound and applying healing ointments when Agamemnon looked up and saw that the Trojan lines were preparing to attack.

  Immediately he set off to rally his forces. All of his commanders stood ready for action except Diomedes of Tiryns whose men were far out along the line and had not clearly seen what was happening. But Diomedes responded to Agamemnon’s angry commands and swiftly advanced his men so that the two armies clashed with a great shout all along the lines.

  Antilochus, one of Nestor’s sons, was the first Argive to the kill. The spear he hurled struck a fully-armoured Trojan through the forehead, shattering his brains inside his helmet. On the other side, Antiphus threw a javelin at Ajax, which missed its mark but caught another man in the groin. Then blood was flowing everywhere, and the Argives had been so angered by the wounding of Menelaus that the impetus of their rage pushed the Trojans back up the hill.

  Seeing what was happening, Hector drove his chariot to the fore, rallying his warriors by reminding them that Achilles was not in the field. Trojan spirits lifted at his shout, then the plain belonged to Ares, god of war, with his two sons Phobus and Deimos, Fear and Panic, raging round him, and men at their bloody work, hacking and stabbing, warding off blows with their bucklers, or dropping to their knees, clutching at their entrails, as the last cry left their throats and darkness shut down round them.

  Both Agamemnon and Idomeneus proved their worth as leaders on the field that day, but when men were bathing their wounds afterwards and talking over the brave deeds that had been done, it was generally agreed that, of all men, Diomedes had distinguished himself by his ferocity and valour. Agamemnon’s rebuke at the start of the battle must have stung him to prove his mettle, for his chariot smashed straight through into the Trojan lines, spreading panic before it. Even when his shoulder was pierced by another bow-shot from Pandarus, he asked a comrade to wrench the arrow out, called on Athena for aid, and hacked his way among the Trojan charioteers, slaughtering drivers and warriors alike.

  When Aeneas saw that this furious assault might start a rout among the Dardanians, he summoned Pandarus up into his chariot and they bore down on Diomedes together. But the Lord of Tiryns heard a warning shout and swerved so that the long spear hurled by Pandarus glanced first off his shield then off his armour. As Aeneas’s chariot hurtled past, Diomedes threw his own spear. Its point struck Pandarus in the jaw, smashing down through his teeth to cut off his tongue at the root. The force of the bl
ow knocked him bodily from the chariot. Instantly Aeneas reined in his horses and leapt out to stand over his fallen friend. Diomedes jumped from his own chariot, picked up a rock from the ground and threw it at Aeneas, striking him on the hip-bone with such force that he fainted from the pain. Aeneas would surely have died in the next moment if a surge of the battle had not come between him and his assailant.

  So strange and powerful were the events of those moments that men felt the presence of the gods among them. Some said that Aphrodite leapt to protect her son with her own body so that it was the goddess herself who took a wound in the arm from the point of Diomedes’ spear as she sought to carry Aeneas away. They say that Ares came to her rescue then, sweeping her up into his chariot and taking her from the battlefield to where her mother Dione could comfort her and heal the wound she had taken. Meanwhile Diomedes fought on, furiously trying to reach Aeneas in the fray, and was prevented from doing so only by the intervention of Divine Apollo, who warned him of the danger that must come to any mortal man who dares to take up arms against the gods.

  Certainly the tide of combat seemed to lurch in that moment. Diomedes fought on so fiercely that men said he would have cut down Ares himself if he had come across him in the field, but Hector held grimly on at the centre and the Trojan flank found the strength to throw the Argives back elsewhere. And so the battle rolled on across the plain all day with the advantage seeming to shift from one side to the other at different points along the line.

  Menelaus rejoined the fight, disregarding his wound, and was hurtling in pursuit of a wealthy young warrior called Adrestos when he saw a wheel of the Trojan s chariot snarl on the branch of a tamarisk bush. The chariot veered and tipped, its yoke-pole snapped and Adrestos was thrown to the ground. As the screaming horses galloped away, Menelaus leapt from his own chariot to spear the winded man, but Adrestos clutched him by the knees, begging him to spare his life and promising that his father would pay a fortune in ransom for the son he loved. Menelaus was about to summon an aide to escort his prisoner to the ships when Agamemnon came up, demanding to know what kindness the Trojans had ever shown his brother that he should be soft-hearted with this youth now.