The Trojan War

by Bernard Evslin

  “You forget,” said Helen. “I, too, know Trojan and Greek.”

  “It is different with you now, beautiful queen. For your heart and soul reside in that radiant young prince, Paris. And you must whole-heartedly follow his fortunes …”

  A strange voice broke in.

  “But will she follow her prince to Hades—where he must soon go by reason of her foul enticements?”

  It was Cassandra. Almost invisible because she was clothed in black, but her eyes, like a cat’s, were burning holes in the darkness.

  “You know my little sister-in-law, no doubt,” said Helen. “And do not feel offended. What would be the most unpardonable rudeness in anyone else is genius in her. The sign of genius, apparently, is a systematic and ruthless discourtesy.”

  “You have good reason to dislike me,” said Cassandra. “The moment I saw you I knew you meant the destruction of Troy. Every breath you exhale poisons Ilium. Every glitter of your leman’s eye kindles a flame for that night of flame when Troy will be sacked. In your voice that coo of love is the death-rattle of brave men.”

  “You see how wise one is in accepting flattery when it comes,” said Helen to Cressida. “So soon afterward one hears something else.”

  “Good Cassandra,” said Cressida. “On such a night, between battles, when the darkness itself seems pregnant with events struggling to be born, on such a night, there is an appetite, I think, for prophecy more than for food or drink or love. Tell us what will happen—who will be killed tomorrow and who survive? Will the Trojans drive the Greeks to the sea and burn their ships? Will the Greeks drive back the Trojans and storm these walls? Will Achilles return to the fray? Will Hector rage again like a lion in the field? And what of Paris? And young Troilus—so like Paris in beauty of face and form, yet shy where his brother is bold—what of him? He escaped death by a hairbreadth today; will he be as fortunate tomorrow?”

  Helen was gazing at the moon, seemingly absent, but listening hard all the same. For she recognized in these last words of Cressida not an address to Cassandra but a message to herself. Cressida fancied young Troilus among all the Trojan men, and was obliquely asking Helen to drop a hint to the lad, the most naive and inexperienced of all Priam’s fifty sons.

  “Do not plague me with your sordid little queries,” said Cassandra to Cressida. “You say one thing but mean another. You seek to entrap my brother, Troilus.”

  “I do not understand what you mean, dear Cassandra,” murmured Cressida. “But then it is said that you often prophesy in riddles. Are you doing that now—riddling us? Please tell us what will happen in the battle tomorrow. But in plain words.”

  “In plain words, shut up,” said Cassandra. “I will not speak of the battle tomorrow. I will not speak at all. But wait. I do see something. A bloody thing is about to happen right now. Not tomorrow, now. My vision, god-poisoned, pierces distance. I see Ulysses and Diomedes preparing for a foray.”

  “Diomedes,” said Cressida. “A very likely man. He was another Achilles in the field today. He seemed like a god descended, bright as a star. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Yes,” said Helen. “He is too young to have been one of my suitors. Today I rather regretted it. He put on a remarkable performance. Remarkable.”

  Cassandra went on: “Ulysses dons a skullcap of boarhide and a half cloak of polished boarhide to serve as an arrow-proof vest. Diomedes, despite the warmth of the night, wraps himself in a wolfskin cloak. They costume themselves like this to cast bulky shadows, for the moon is very bright, and they wish to steal among our men—and Ulysses is a master of artifice. They carry short hunting spears, and knives at their belts—no swords to rattle against their legs. No bows and arrows, for they will be working in close. They seek to raid our lines and capture a Trojan and extract information from him. And into the jaws of this trap the gods are sending one of our officers named Dolon. He seeks to invoke the aid of darkness by putting on a moleskin cloak and moleskin cap. For moles are blind and cannot see, and their hide, he believes, will protect him from being seen as he scouts out the Greek positions. Foolishness. The whole art of magic is the exchange of attributes through invocation, and he has no magic. Poor Dolon … he must die.”

  Cassandra paused. Unwinkingly her cat’s eyes burned holes in the darkness.

  “Tell … tell …” whispered Helen. “What are they doing? Please tell. …”

  Cassandra resumed her tale in a low monotonous voice. She cared nothing for her listeners—she never cared for listeners—she told things to herself, but she knew that others overheard. “The Greeks pick their way among fallen bodies and pools of blood. At their approach, birds flutter away. When they pass by, the birds return to drink. There is a rustling as rats scurry amid the corpses. Oh, things of night do feed richly upon the battle’s fruit.”

  She fell silent again and the others, listening, thought they heard rats gnawing and birds sipping. And these tiny sounds were the most terrible they had ever heard.

  “Listen well, my slothful sisters, and I will tell you a tale of this busy night … of this vast and starry bloody night. Ulysses and Diomedes pick their way among corpses to spy upon the Trojan lines, while Dolon skirts pools of blood to spy upon the Greeks. They will meet, they will meet, and sad will be the tale thereof. For Dolon knows a secret. Upon this night allies have come to join our forces. King Rhesus of Thrace with a thousand henchmen—from that land behind the north wind where men grow large and fierce. Drawing the chariot of King Rhesus is a pair of horses unmatched by any in the world except those that Diomedes took from Aeneas earlier today—a pair of milk-white mares, sired by Pegasus upon one of the white-maned gray mares that draws Poseidon’s chariot when he raids the beaches.

  “And their coming should be a joy to us. O Watchers upon the Wall, sisters, the coming of Rhesus should be an occasion for rejoicing. For anciently it has been told that our city cannot fall once these mares drink of our river. Once these thirsty steeds dip their muzzles into the waters of the Scamander and drink therefrom, the walls of Troy must stand and its inhabitants be undisturbed. Will Rhesus arise in the rose and pearl dawn of the Dardanian plain? Will he start the bronze dust as he drives his chariot toward the Scamander and allows his mares to drink before the thirsty work of battle begins? Alas, alas, Dolon knows that the Thracians have come with Rhesus at their head. He knows they guard the right flank, that they have put out no sentries, and that they sleep soundly after their exhausting journey. He knows the tale of the prophecy. Dolon steps quietly. But Ulysses has ears like a fox; he hears someone coming. He pulls Diomedes into the shade of a tamarisk tree, and there they wait. They seize Dolon when he comes. Yes … now they have him. He has fallen into their jaws like a mole taken by a night-running hound. They tie him to the bole of the tamarisk tree. He pleads with them; they do not answer, but speak to each other in grunts. Now he is ready. Ulysses takes out his knife, saying: ‘We are Greeks. We are after information. You will please answer what we ask or we will carve you like a joint of meat. You are dead already, you see, because we will not leave you alive. But you can spare yourself some pain. Why not spend your last minutes without pain?’

  “Dolon sobs. He is a brave man, but not brave enough for this. He is brave in the sunlight, but now they are under the cold lamp of the moon. He has been ambushed by shadows, by men big as shadows who speak to him in a strange yet understandable language, saying nightmare things.

  “Diomedes grows impatient while Dolon hesitates. He wields his knife and slices a finger off Dolon’s hand. Dolon’s screams are stifled by Ulysses’ hand clapped over his mouth.

  “ ‘That hurts, does it?’ says Diomedes. ‘Don’t forget you have ten of those, not to mention your toes. Why don’t you tell us what we want to know?’

  “Dolon cannot bear this; few men could. He begins to babble away telling them more than they wish to know. Ulysses slaps him across the face, bidding him be still and just answer the questions.

  “ ‘Have
you posted sentries?’

  “ ‘No.’

  “ ‘Why not?’

  “ ‘We thought you were too beaten, too disheartened to make any forays this night.’

  “ ‘How are you encamped? What are the disposition of your forces?’

  “ ‘We Trojans hold the center. To the left, toward the sea, lie the Lelegians, the Cauconians. On the left flank are those raiders from Crete, the sea-harassing Pelasgians. To the right of us are stationed the Lycians, the Mysians, the Phrygians and Maeonians. On the extreme right flank are those newcomers, the Thracians, under King Rhesus.’

  “ ‘The Thracians? Are you sure?’ said Ulysses. ‘I know of no Thracians here.’

  “ ‘They have joined us only tonight. I was a member of the welcoming party. Pray let me go, good sirs. My father is the herald, Eumedes, and heralds grow rich in times of war. He will pay a large ransom for me. I will tell you what I know, but then let me go.’

  “Diomedes prods him with the point of his dagger.

  “ ‘Speak on,’ he says. “Who leads these Thracians?’

  “ ‘I told you, King Rhesus.’

  “ ‘Is he accounted a good fighter, this Rhesus?’

  “ ‘The finest. Ranks with the best. And, in a chariot, is perhaps the very best. For his steeds are matchless.’

  “ ‘Indeed?’ asks Diomedes. ‘Better than those of Aeneas?’

  “ ‘As good, as good. Some say better. They were sired by Pegasus upon one of Poseidon’s own surf-mares. They are tall and they run like the wind. And his chariot is made of silver and gold with brass wheels—and his axis sprouts six long knives which scythe down the enemy. Am I not a good informant, O captors? Pray, accept a ransom and let me go.’

  “ ‘But how many men does he lead?’

  “ ‘A thousand Thracians come with him. But best of all … I know something else! Don’t kill me yet, don’t kill me yet! I have something else to tell!’

  “ ‘Tell away. The night grows old, and our patience short.’

  “ ‘Don’t kill me yet, not yet! Just listen to this!’ ”

  Cassandra broke off her tale, eyes huge and staring.

  “Go on … go on,” cried Helen.

  “Don’t stop now … Tell. Please tell,” whispered Cressida.

  “Oh, no!” muttered Cassandra to herself, pressing her knuckles against her mouth. “He must not! No, Dolon, do not tell them! Do not inform them of the prophecy! It will be fatal! … Oh, coward! He tells! He tells! …”

  “Tells what?” cried Helen.

  “What I told you, you fat-hipped fool! Has it fled your memory so soon? The prophecy concerning the mares of Rhesus—that if they drink of the Scamander’s waters, Troy shall not fall. He tells this to Diomedes and Ulysses; that is all they have to know. Ulysses thanks him and signals to Diomedes who, with one swift movement, cuts Dolon’s throat as if he were a sheep. They leave him bound to the tamarisk tree, and set off to their left—toward the extreme right flank of our lines—where sleep Rhesus, the Thracian host, and the fatal mares.”

  POSEIDON DECIDES

  THE GOD OF THE sea was vexed. Unlike the other gods he had held himself aloof from this war. He had preened himself on being so far above the affairs of petty mortals that he might not stoop to take a hand in their quarrels. This was a unique position in the Pantheon; all the other gods had lined up one way or the other. And, for a while, this sense of uniqueness served his pride. But now of late he had felt a difference. The combatants, Trojan and Greek, offered him fewer prayers, less sacrifices, adorned his statues more meagerly, built him fewer altars. They implored his intercession only in specific sea matters—voyages, piracies, and the like. But this had developed into a land war, so Poseidon was feeling neglected.

  “All because of my impartiality,” he raged to himself. “An attribute I have always held truly divine. Instead of being thankful that I do not meddle in their battles, killing this one, saving that one, turning all their plans awry—instead of being thankful for my benign indifference, they have dared to neglect me. The Trojans, knowing that Athena is against them, sacrifice to her constantly. But yesterday Hector sent all the women of Troy in great droves, led by Hecuba, to the Palladium to pray to Athena to turn a less furious face upon them. Similarly, the Hellenes court Apollo, who favors the Trojans. Yes, they pray and sacrifice to him and to his cold sister, and to that blundering bully, Ares. They crawl to all the gods who favor Troy. The Trojans again fill the air with supplications to Hera, whom they know loathes them. It’s getting so a god has to punish a nation to get its respect. Well, I’m weary of being neglected. I shall take sides too. Those I favor shall thank me, those I mistreat shall implore me … Yes, I shall have my mead of mortal attention—without which, it is curious to say, we gods, even the most powerful of us, are apt to shrivel and waste.

  “Now who shall it be—Trojan or Greek? Very difficult. No instantaneous bias suggests itself, only a mild dislike for each.”

  The trouble here was that Poseidon for all his tempestuous bluster had a strong feminine side to his nature. He was incapable of loving or hating people in groups. Generalization irked him. He could form a powerful attachment to an individual—as he had to Theseus, for instance, said to have been his son—and keep an eye on him through all circumstance and crown his deeds with glory. Or, far more often, he could hold an implacable grudge against someone, and pursue him with storm, tidal wave, sea-monster, every type of marine catastrophe. But, as he thought about things, he found himself incapable of preferring either Greek or Trojan en masse.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “Let me consider this carefully. Certainly I can find cause to favor one side or the other …

  “Greek or Trojan, Trojan or Greek? Shall I have to draw straws? Seems a paltry device to decide such potent favor. Perhaps I should consult my preferences among the gods—who have all involved themselves in this fray. Here again it is very difficult. I have reason to dislike all my brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. My sister, Demeter, has always pleased me the most, I suppose. On the other hand, she takes least interest in this war among all the Pantheon. She dislikes war too much. It means the destruction of crops, whoever wins. And she is the Lady of Growing Things.

  “I have this old feud with Athena, and her espousal of the Greeks might lead me to choose the Trojans. Against this, though, those mealy mouthed, high-stepping twins, Apollo and Artemis, help Troy, and I should not wish to be on the same side of any question as they are. Apollo’s flaming nuisance of a chariot parches my waters whenever it can catch them in shallow pools. While that grasping, bare-thighed, male-hating icicle sister of his has the gall to meddle with my tides. Her keen whistle pierces to the underwater kennels where the seadogs sleep. She summons them, leashes them with a chain of silver light, and swings them high, low, despite my dominion of the sea. Her I will destroy one day. I don’t quite know how, but I will find a way.

  “Difficult … most difficult question. Quite gives me a headache.”

  And he spit a tidal wave that covered an ancient island with a wall of water a hundred feet high. When the wave subsided the island had disappeared, and has never been seen since.

  All this time he had been hovering over the face of the waters. Now he whistled up his chariot—not the beach-raiding one drawn by his white-maned gray mares, but the sleek green sea-going chariot drawn by dolphins. He sped to his palace of coral and pearl. Seated on his great throne, which was of whalebone lined with mother-of-pearl, he felt more at ease, and resumed his thought.

  “I am unable to decide this way,” he said to himself. “That is clear. Perhaps it is better so. Weighing this, calculating thus, that has never been my style. My rage is storm. My kindness a fall of light, sudden bliss of blue weather. I am sudden, capricious, king of tempest. The sea itself takes its famous changableness from my moods. I shall watch the battle then as it shapes up this morning and, as I watch, take inspiration from what I see. Yes … that will relieve me of this head-split
ting meditation, and provide some diversion also. For I find uncertainty pleasing—and have always diced with dead men’s bones. Very well, then, I shall watch the battle, and decide. And woe be to the forces, Greek or Trojan, whom I decide against.”

  He took a great bowl made from a single chrysoprase, the largest in all the world. It is a light-green jewel pure as a child’s eye holding much light. This bowl of chrysoprase he filled with clear water. And, watching the water, and thinking about the Dardanian plain, he saw cloudy pictures form and dissolve, and they were the images of battle.

  Poseidon, like all gods, was intensely amused by the sight of men fighting. The fiercer the fighting, the more he enjoyed it. A good killing sent him into peals of laughter. This laughter of the gods at the sight of death and suffering is sometimes dimly heard by men—as a natural sound, usually, the wind howling on a peculiar note, the cry of an owl striking, a scream out of nowhere waking the sleeper who tries to identify it, and fails.

  Thus, Poseidon, on his whalebone and nacre throne, rocked with laughter as he saw the battle rage on the Dardanian plain. He saw the cloudy images form and dissolve in his bowl of pure water. So much blood was spilled in these scenes that the bowl was tinged with red, and this pleased Poseidon.

  He saw Agamemnon, clad in gorgeous armor, goaded to fury by the whisper of Athena. Agamemnon clove the Trojan ranks, thrusting with his long spear, shearing through shield, breastplate, helmet—crushing bone, drinking blood.

  “How gaudy he is, this commander,” said Poseidon to himself. “This wild boar from Mycenae who cannot utter a word without creating dissension; how splendidly he is clad, and how splendidly he fights, to be sure. Marvellous his armor. Of lapis lazuli, of bronze, and of pure beaten tin. He glitters like a beetle on the dusty plain. And, like a beetle, he can be crushed.”