The War At Troy

by Lindsay Clarke

  His voice had been gentle enough, and the offer was sincerely made, but the old man’s pride bristled at it. ‘I cannot think of that while Hector’s body lies unburied. A fortune in ransom waits for you in the wagon outside. Take it, and let me leave with my son.’

  Achilles stiffened again. ‘Do you think you’re alone in grieving? I assure you, you are not. And I doubt that my father will ever look on my body as you shortly will on that of your son. So do not insult me by thinking that I have any interest in the ransom you will pay. I will take it only to repay my followers for their sufferings in this war. But I am a man of sorrows as you are, King of Troy. As you grieve for Hector, I grieve for my friend who was killed by your son. We are alike in grief, you and I. We should treat each other with respect and courtesy.’

  Chastened by a man that he had thought closer kin to a wolf than to his own noble son, King Priam stood abashed. Like a great wave striking him from behind, exhaustion overcame him. Achilles saw it in the sudden pallor of his face. He heard it in the voice that whispered, ‘Forgive me. It was my grief that spoke.’

  Achilles reached to pull up a chair and the old king sat down with his head in his hands. Achilles stood across from him. His eyes were closed as he spoke. ‘I could never have killed Hector as I did if he hadn’t been wearing my own armour. I knew its weakest place. But when I thrust the spear, it felt as if I was pushing it into myself. And if I despoiled your son’s body, it was because I loathe my own that it still stands here, living and breathing, like a useless thing, when it should be ashes and dust and I should be with Patroclus and Hector among the shades. It is I who should beg forgiveness of you, King of Troy, but I am not a man who was born to beg.’

  When Achilles opened his eyes he saw the silent tears that were pouring down the old man’s face. A moment later -- almost as though they were indeed father and son grieving together -- he too began to weep.

  After a time Achilles went out of the lodge and gave orders that the body of Hector should be bathed and anointed with oil and dressed in a clean tunic and wrapped in a mantle so that the old man would not have to look upon its wounds. Then he came back inside and persuaded the king to eat something with him and to rest his old bones on the bed that was prepared for him before making the journey back across the plain to Troy.

  Achilles did not sleep at all that night, and he woke the king before first light so that he could pass back out of the Argive camp undetected. With his own hand he helped King Priam to climb up into the wagon that now carried the body of Hector on its bier. Idaeus climbed up beside his king and took the reins. He was about to whip the mules into motion when Achilles said, ‘Tell me how long you mean to devote to the funeral.’

  Priam shook his head. ‘It is hard for us cooped up in the city. It will take time to gather the wood we need for Hector’s pyre.’ Achilles nodded gravely. ‘Tell your men that they may go to the mountains freely to fetch wood. They will not be troubled by our warriors. I promise you that the memory of your son shall be held in honour among us.’

  ‘Then know that we Trojans will mourn him for ten days. Then we will perform his rites. By the twelfth day we will be ready to fight again.’

  Already faint streaks of light were breaking in the east. Achilles said, ‘You have my word that the Argives will not take to the field before that day.’

  King Priam leaned forward and offered his hand. Achilles reached up to grip it firmly, and when they pulled apart, Idaeus whipped up the beasts into motion. Priam sat huddled in his cloak against the cold and did not look back, but Achilles stood for a long time watching the wagon roll slowly away into the dawn mist that was rising off the river.

  Murder at the Shrine

  Helen was woken from her sleep by the sound of Cassandra’s wailing in the square outside the palace. In the bed beside her, Paris stirred in the depths of his opium dream, but he did not wake. Helen could smell the sleep on him. She could taste the fetor of wine and poppy on his breath. The air about her head felt thick and cloyed.

  Softly, so as not to waken him, she slipped from the bed, pulled a wrap about her shoulders against the dawn chill, and crossed to the casement where she could look down onto the broad square of the citadel. Cassandra was mopping and mowing there, oddly beautiful in the dawn light, like a scrawny dancer miming some ritual of grief. A wagon had come to a halt beside her and -- to her amazement -- Helen saw the herald Idaeus helping King Priam to climb down, a little shakily, from the driver’s bench. Only then did she take in the mantle-covered shape laid out in the back of the wagon, and know that Hector’s mutilated body had come home.

  Helen wanted to weep and could not do so, though her heart felt it might break open like an ill-made dam. People were appearing in the street, some of them only half-dressed. The women among them began to raise once more their desolate keening moan. Any moment now Andromache must come running from the house where she had grown thin from mourning since the day of her husband’s death. And then Hecuba would be there too, with Polyxena at her side to prop her failing strength. Helen knew that their cries would rend her heart as surely as they would rend the morning sky. Troy was now the capital city of grief, and feeling herself to be all the cause of that grief, she desired nothing more than the oblivion into which Paris had increasingly withdrawn since he had watched the death of Hector.

  And still he slumbered, for all the inconsolable noise outside, and she could not bear it. Helen crossed the room and pulled the rich throw off his naked body. His hands crossed quickly at his shoulders as though clutching against the cold. He snorted and shook his head, but his eyes came open only when she smacked her hand across his face as she had done once before in Sparta, long ago.

  Paris jerked awake from his dream, staring wide-eyed, expecting to confront the derisive scowl of Menelaus, and saw instead the drawn face of Helen staring down her perfect nose at him.

  ‘Your brother has come back to haunt you,’ she said, and turned away.

  Then he heard the keening in the street and knew what must be happening.

  ‘It seems your father has had the courage to do what you didn’t dare, Helen said as she sat down at her dressing table, staring with distaste at the face reflected back at her from the mirror’s polished bronze. ‘He has confronted Achilles and persuaded him to give back Hector’s body.’ She could hear him stirring across the room but she was speaking to the mirror now. ‘Only once in all the time I’ve been here did Hector ever reproach me -- even though my being in this city put his whole world at risk. And it seems to me now that with Hector dead, everything that was noble is quite gone from Troy.’

  ‘And how long will it be before you are gone?’ His voice came at her with more cruelty than she had ever known before. ‘Do you think I’m not astonished each morning to find you still here -- that you haven’t slipped away in the night to throw yourself on Menelaus’s mercy?’ And by now his despair was so intransigent that he added, ‘You found it easy enough to betray him once. Why shouldn’t you betray me too?’

  Helen stared at him aghast, amazed by the hatred in his eyes and voice. The shock could hardly have been greater if he had picked her up and thrown her across the room.

  Was it possible that they had begun to hate each other then? Was it possible for such an ecstasy of love to turn against itself like a famished creature gnawing its own limbs? How could they have diminished themselves to this?

  And outside the women of the city keened their grief and pain.

  Paris turned away from her, locking himself in silence.

  She stared at the shadows along his back, and when he failed to turn, she looked into the mirror and was appalled by the frigid stranger waiting there.

  For ten days the city mourned its fallen hero. On the eleventh day they raised a burial mound around the golden urn that held his ashes, and so great was the noise of lamentation that men said it stunned the birds of the air.

  Throughout those days of mourning the Argives left the Trojans in peace whil
e they mended their wounds and gathered their strength for what they now hoped would prove to be the final push against the city. Hector, the great champion of Troy, was dead, and the morale of the beleaguered Trojans at its lowest ebb. Surely the end of this misbegotten war must soon be in sight?

  That anyway was how the warriors encouraged each other when they armed themselves to fight once more. But they had not reckoned with King Priam’s indomitable will, for even in the dark hours of his grief he had been making dispositions. When the men had gone out during the truce to gather wood from the mountains, messengers had gone with them. They had reached Priam’s half-brother, King Tithonus at Susa in Assyria, begging him to send the aid that had long been promised. The answer arrived by carrier pigeon, and Priam was quick to let it be known that a regiment of Ethiopians was crossing Phrygia out of Armenia on its way to Troy under the command of Memnon, a black warrior who was reputed to be the most handsome man on earth.

  So the struggle was resumed but with a grim weariness that left both armies in poor heart. Even Achilles was no longer seen to fight with the fervour that had once terrorized the Trojan host and some of his friends began to believe that he was looking for only one thing on the Trojan plain, which was his own death.

  Only once was he seen to flash with the same murderous anger that had carried him through the killing field at the bend of the Scamander. It was directed against one man, and he a member of the Argive host. Achilles was returning across the plain at the end of a day’s fighting when he saw Thersites using the point of his spear to gouge out the eyes of the Amazon Queen Penthesileia, who had been dragged from her silver chariot and slain that day. Overwhelmed with fury and disgust, he leapt down from his chariot and knocked the man violently aside with his shield. A few moments later Diomedes found Achilles sobbing beside the corpse of the maiden warrior, and rebuked him for shedding tears over the enemy. The two warlords would have come to blows if their friends hadn’t pulled them apart, but the animosity did not end there. When Achilles heard that Diomedes had ordered Thersites to throw the body of the Amazon Queen into the Scamander, he crossed the plain to retrieve it with his own hands. He had just pulled the body back up the bank and was tenderly wiping the mud from her face with his cloak when Thersites shouted out that Achilles must truly be desperate if he was ready to pleasure himself with a barbarian woman’s corpse.

  Achilles brought the blade of his sword down into the man’s skull with such force that it sent the teeth scattering from his mouth. Infuriated by the murder of his kinsman, Diomedes felt his resentment grew even more bitter when Achilles ordered his Myrmidons to bury the gallant woman with great reverence.

  Two days later Memnon and his Ethiopians came up to Troy, and though they were held at bay for a time, they managed to fight their way through to the city. To the weary eyes of Agamemnon and his commanders, the high walls of Troy began to appear more impregnable than ever. Disputes among them were now frequent and rancorous, Diomedes claimed that it had been madness to allow the Trojans a time of truce rather than pushing home the advantage of Hector’s death. Achilles refused to answer him but Ajax roundly defended the cousin whose ruthless courage he had come to admire with a passion since the bloody slaughter at the oxbow bend. Nestor as always strove to hold the ground between the contending parties, while Idomeneus and his Cretans grew impatient with their squabbling allies, and Odysseus wearily dreamed of home.

  Achilles took to spending more time at the shrine of Apollo in Thymbra, hoping that he might meet Polyxena there again. In his desolated mind she had come to seem the one uncorrupted thing left anywhere across the corpse-strewn plain of Troy. But time after time he came there without seeing her, and with each disappointment the need became more urgent until he brought himself at last to ask the priest why the girl no longer came to the shrine.

  Uneasily Laocoon glanced away. ‘Her father the king believes it too dangerous for her to leave the city.’

  ‘And if I gave my word that no harm would come to her?’

  ‘Can the son of Peleus speak for all the Argive host?’

  ‘I can speak for myself. My word is protection enough.’

  The priest nodded. ‘And if I were to speak to Polyxena, what should I say when she asks why the son of Peleus wishes to see her?’

  Achilles frowned into the marble silence of the temple. ‘Tell her,’ he said after a time, ‘it is because we remain one in the place of grief, she and I.’

  Disconcerted by the unguarded innocence of this terrifying man, Laocoon nodded again. ‘Come again tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I will talk with the king and see what can be done. Now make your offering to the god, son of Peleus.’

  But there were forces at work around Achilles of which his proud heart had no knowledge. Still rankling over the murder of Thersites, Diomedes sought out Odysseus one evening and asked him whether he was not suspicious of the way that Achilles, like Palamedes before him, was spending too much time at the shrine of Thymbraean Apollo.

  ‘Palamedes was a traitor,’ Odysseus answered. ‘Achilles is not.’

  ‘How can you be so sure of that?’

  ‘Because the mind of Palamedes was devious and subtle, while Achilles is as straight as his father’s spear. Why would you think otherwise?’

  ‘Did it never strike you as strange,’ Diomedes said, ‘that Achilles should have insisted on permitting the Trojans all that time to mourn Hector rather than sending in his Myrmidons to overwhelm them while they were at their weakest?’

  Odysseus had indeed found it so strange that he had spoken privately to Achilles about it at the time. At first Achilles had tried to fob him off with pieties about how it behoved warriors to honour the death of a hero on whichever side he fought. But Odysseus had observed the shiftiness in his honest eyes, and pressed him further until he learned the story of how Priam had come secretly to the Argive camp. Astounded that such a thing could have happened, Odysseus had agreed to say nothing of it to the other leaders, but he was left uneasy by the knowledge that secret channels of communication existed between the Myrmidons and Troy. He was further unsettled now by the questions that Diomedes had put to him, but he was also aware of the hostility that had sprung up between the two Argive leaders.

  ‘Are you really suggesting,’ he asked drily, ‘that Achilles is looking to make a separate peace with the Trojans?’ And when Diomedes muttered something to the effect that Achilles showed so little enthusiasm for the fight these days that it wouldn’t greatly surprise him, Odysseus said, ‘Dare you suggest as much to his face? Even Ajax would tear you limb from limb if he heard you call his hero a traitor.’

  ‘I have not gone so far,’ Diomedes answered. ‘I merely suggest that these frequent visits to the Thymbra give grounds for suspicion. I seem to remember that there were men who denied that Palamedes could be a traitor when you voiced the same suspicions about him.’

  Now Odysseus was on uneasy ground. ‘So what do you mean to do about it?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought it might be wise to keep watch on him when he next goes to the shrine. Don’t you agree?’

  Odysseus shrugged. ‘I think it’s as likely that Achilles is a traitor as that you are, my friend. But if it will put your mind at rest, by all means do so. However I think that Ajax and I should come along with you. We needn’t say anything to Ajax about your suspicions -- merely that we feel Achilles is taking unnecessary risks in exposing himself outside the camp this way, and that his friends should be discreetly at hand in case of need.’

  When Achilles made the journey to the shrine on the following afternoon, he was followed by Diomedes, Ajax and Odysseus, though they kept at a far enough distance for him not to be aware of their presence. He entered the cool silence of the temple, paid his fee to the attendant, and then was kept waiting for longer than he would have expected.

  After a time the priest Laocoon appeared. ‘The person about whom you asked is here,’ he said, ‘but she remains in some anxiety about seeing you again.’
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br />   ‘She need have no fear,’ Achilles answered. ‘I only wish to speak with her for a while.’

  The priest nodded uncertainly and withdrew again. Achilles waited alone, wondering at the impulse that had brought him to the shrine. How could he have imagined that the young woman would ever look with kindness on her brother’s killer? What had he been dreaming of? What could he possibly have to say that Polyxena would wish to hear? Flushing suddenly, he was about to get up and leave when he heard a stirring from the inner door and Polyxena was there. Wearing a pale blue gown and holding her hands clasped tightly together, she stared down at the marble floor.

  Achilles flushed again. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said hoarsely.

  She did not look up as she said, ‘I don’t understand why you wished to see me.’

  ‘To talk a little. There are things that lie heavy on my mind.’

  ‘You mean the death of my brother?’ Coldly she added, ‘It was gracious of you to return his body.’ And when she glanced up at him, he saw only fear and hostility in her eyes.

  He said, ‘But you would rather I was dead in his place.’

  She did not answer him, merely turned her anxious gaze to where the bronze statue of Apollo gazed serenely down across the temple.

  Achilles said, ‘Hector and I were enemies. Don’t you think that he would have killed me too if the gods had been with him?’

  ‘I’m quite sure he would. But he had good cause. No one asked you to come here and attack our city.’

  He said, ‘My friend Menelaus was also given good cause.’

  Polyxena looked up at the heat in his voice, but she merely shrugged before glancing away again. And he had no wish to wrangle with her. Quietly he said, ‘It was a hard fate that brought Argos into conflict with Troy.’ He paused uncertainly, then added, ‘And I have been thinking also that it must have been a great love between Prince Paris and the Lady Helen that they were ready to plunge the world into war for its sweet sake.’