The smith-god recalled his fire. Axius dived to the river-bottom to cool off his blistered shoulders. Achilles staggered to his feet, took off his helmet, emptied it of water, then clapped it on his head again, forded the river, and set off in chase of Hector.
Andromache, watching from the city wall, had been seized with great joy when she saw the river rise. She was filled with a marvellous laughing happiness when she saw Axius hurl his crested wave and bury Achilles under tons of water. But when she saw the banks burst into flame, saw the river boil, and the river-god’s hair burning, and heard his wailing—when she saw Achilles rise from the depths of the river like the spirit of vengeance itself, the terrible tin of his greaves cleaving the water, and saw him race over the plain seeking Hector, and the light flashing from his sun-disk shield and his new moon-sword—then she knew that in him was gathered the strength of a natural force, crushing all plots and stratagems and wifely schemes—then she knew that Hector was doomed.
“I will not watch him being killed,” she said to herself. “I cannot bear it. No wife should be made to watch her husband being butchered. I will go back now and get my baby and, at the very moment that Hector falls, I will leap with my son in my arms, dashing out our lives on the plain below. Thus father, son, and wife will be burned on one pyre, and cheer each other on the last journey to Erebus.”
She left the wall and went to her home. Entering the nursery she took her babe from the nurse’s arms. But when she looked into its face her strength deserted her and she fell into a swoon.
Now, in the shadow of the wall, watched by his father and his mother and all the people of the court, Hector turned to face Achilles—breathing one last prayer as he did so:
“I call to you, Apollo. I ask not for victory, for victory cannot be given, it must be taken. All I ask is that my courage last; that my marrow does not freeze at his terrible war-shout; that my knees do not melt before the white-hot fury of his lipless face; that I can stand my ground before his dread charge, and meet him weapon upon weapon without fleeing. My father watches on the wall. The pride of Troy rides upon my shoulders. Fair Apollo, bright Phoebus, I pray you, let me face my death like a man.”
Apollo heard and sent down a shaft of sunlight that hit the back of Hector’s neck, gilding his helmet and warming his courage so that he stood full to Achilles’ charge. Met him sword upon sword and shield upon shield, standing firmly planted before that fearful rush that no other man had ever withstood.
But Achilles felt himself being caressed by a delicious chill. He was bathed in sweet combative airs. The clash of weapons was bright music to which he moved perfectly, as in a dance. And he was happy to have a partner for this deadly dance, happy that Hector did not break and run before him. He wanted to feast himself slowly and gluttonously on the death of the Trojan who had killed Patroclus. His new-moon sword flashed. It locked with Hector’s sword. Intimately the blades writhed. A great shout went up from the walls of Troy as the people there saw their champion stand so stoutly against Achilles, parrying his thrusts, blade meeting blade in equal play.
“Can it be?” thought old Priam. “Will my long years be crowned by this enormous glory? Will my son really be able to stand against this monster?”
Achilles laughed aloud as he felt the force of Hector’s parry.
“Well done,” Achilles said. “You’re as good a man as ever I met. Almost as good as the one you killed—but for that one you shall pay.”
Hector did not answer. He saved his breath for fighting. He was putting all his strength into every parry and counterthrust, and so far had met sword with sword and had kept the terrible new-moon blade from shearing through his armor. But every stroke now that Achilles aimed seemed to fall from a great height, seemed to fall with greater and greater weight as if it were plunging toward the center of earth. Hector felt his arms grow weary, his shoulders numb with the weight of his own muscle bunching to move his arms. Achilles’ blows fell with greater and greater weight, and the laughing voice grated in his ear.
“Not so soon,” said Achilles. “Don’t start to breathe so hard this early in the game, my fine Trojan. We have barely begun. This is only a little early sword-play; the real work is still to come.”
Then, with a magnificent intricate stroke that changed direction in midair, Achilles snared Hector’s blade in his own, snapped the sword from the Trojan’s hand and sent it flying. And a great groan went up from the watchers on the wall.
“No sword?” said Achilles. “A pity. It was my own sword, too, that you took from Patroclus. Never before has it been sent flying like this. But if you have lost your sword then you need no armor.”
Now, coolly, relentlessly, he stepped around Hector, using his sword as delicately as though it were a small knife. And just as Hector had done to Patroclus, so did Achilles do now to Hector, shaming the Trojan hero by cutting the latchets of his armor. The breastplate fell off. The corselet fell away. The greaves were sheared away. And Hector stood naked except for his helmet.
But Hector, free of his armor, dodged away from Achilles’ sword and ran for the city gate. Achilles flashed after him. Carrying full armor he still ran lightly as Hector did, cutting him off from the city gate and pursuing him around the walls. Like an eagle swooping upon a lamb was the armored Achilles, striding effortlessly after the naked Hector. Around and around three times did Achilles follow Hector—as Hecuba hid her eyes and Priam tore his beard and all the people lamented. Striding relentlessly after his naked prey, flashing in his armor like the evening star, Achilles pursued Hector around the city walls. And, after the third circuit, he lengthened his stride and caught him.
Now Hector fell into the burning embrace of that bright armor like a maiden who has run from her first suitor, but finally swoons into his arms. For Hector’s wind was gone, his marrow was frozen, the hinges of his knees were melting with dread, and his manhood was run out. He fell into Achilles’ bright embrace. One great hand seized Hector’s hair and drew back his head, stretching the strong bronze throat like a lamb’s to the knife. The other hand raised the new-moon sword.
And as Apollo shrieked in anger and threw a cloud across the face of the sun so that the entire Dardanian plain darkened, Achilles with a swift merciful stroke cut Hector’s throat. Then, still unstained, unwearied, and bright as the evening star, he bound Hector’s ankles with the embroidered girdle that Ajax had given Hector after their duel. He bound the other end of the girdle to the axle of his war-chariot, which had trundled up to him at his whistle. He leaped into his chariot, shouted to his stallions, and they began to gallop around the walls of Troy dragging Hector in the dust behind them. Seven times Achilles circled the walls of Troy, dragging Hector’s body behind his chariot.
But Apollo threw a sleep upon Priam and Hecuba so that they would not see the body of their son being dragged in the dust. The sun-god also threw a magic balm upon the corpse of Hector so that the body was not broken or the flesh torn as it was dragged along the rough ground behind that terrible chariot.
With a final shout Achilles swerved his horses and headed back for the Greek camp still dragging the body of Hector.
CRESSIDA
LATE THE NEXT AFTERNOON, while the armies were skirmishing on the plain, Cressida crossed the lines all unseen and entered the tent of Diomedes. She found a slave girl there heating water in a huge copper cauldron, a little pale girl whom Diomedes had captured in a raid two years before on the island of Tenos. The maidens of Tenos have squeaky voices and look like little white mice, but Diomedes had kept her as a bath-girl because her hands were so soft.
“Are you heating water for your master’s bath?” asked Cressida.
“Yes, lady. He comes back all hot and grimy from the fighting. And blood-splattered—you have no idea! And he wants his bath immediately, and a cool drink, and fresh clothes.”
“Heavy labor for so small a girl,” said Cressida in her hoarse purring voice. “I am moved to pity. Now just disappear somewhere and I sh
all do your work this afternoon.”
“Oh, no, lady!”
“Oh, yes, little girl.”
“I daren’t! I daren’t! He likes things just so. He has to be scraped of battle-filth with this ivory stick. Then kneaded in every muscle with warm oil. Then anointed with cool scented oil. Then blotted with a fleecy towel.”
“These are demanding tasks requiring enthusiasm and skill,” said Cressida. “Nevertheless, I think I can do them passably well. So off with you!”
“No, lady, no! I cannot! I dare not! He allows no one else to bathe him. He likes the touch of my hands.”
“You will be feeling the touch of my hands, little one, and you won’t like the feel of them, I promise. Now get out before I lose my patience. And here are three pieces of silver for you.”
“I will not take them; I will not go!”
Cressida slapped the girl across the face so hard that she knocked her off her feet. Then grasped her thin shoulders, pulled her up again, and shook her until her jaw wobbled. Seizing her by the hair she dragged her from the tent. Cressida held the little pale weeping girl in both hands and looked down at her through the tangle of her hair. The slave girl was like a white mouse in the clutch of a beautiful tawny cat.
“You will keep away from the tent all night,” said Cressida. “Understand? If I catch a glimpse of your pasty face before morning I’ll whip you till you can’t walk. Hear me, little mouse?”
“Yes, lady. Anything you say.”
“Here are three pieces of silver. Go find some soldier to kiss away your tears.”
When Diomedes returned to his tent after the day’s skirmishing he found Cressida there heating water in the big copper pot.
“Welcome, my lord,” she said. “Did you have good sport today?”
He looked at her in amazement.
“Who are you?”
“Do you not remember me, O Diomedes? Many a time during the past months coming to Agamemnon’s tent for a war council, you have found me there.”
“Agamemnon’s tent? Yes. But then you are the priest’s daughter, the one that had to be returned to her father because Apollo shot arrows of plague into our camp.”
“I did not ask to be returned to my father. It was his idea entirely. And now, you see, I have crossed over again. I have become attached to the Greeks—or, rather, to a Greek. To you, my lord. I have come back to you.”
He looked her up and down very carefully, and said nothing.
“Let me help you off with your armor. Here is your cauldron all ready. Everything is ready: the ivory stick, the warm oil, the cool scented oil, the fleecy towel. I have acquainted myself with your bath habits.”
“Where is my bath-slave?”
“Here I am.”
“I mean the little girl from Tenos.”
“I sent her away.”
“You sent her away?”
“Do not blame her. She had no choice. I bribed her; she refused the bribe. I beat her. She could not refuse the beating. You will not see her until morning.”
“But do you not know that you have richly earned a beating yourself for meddling with my servants?”
“I put myself into your hands, my lord. But why not let me take your armor off and bathe you? If you still want to beat me then I am at your disposal. But right now you must be weary.”
“You are a daughter of the enemy,” said Diomedes. “Your presence in our tents before brought disaster upon us. Cost us hundreds of men. How do I know that you have not returned with some treachery in view?”
“Oh, I have treachery in view,” she said. “You are acute, my lord. I plan a massive betrayal—but of Trojans.”
As she spoke she had been undoing the latchets of his breastplate. She drew off the heavy curved piece of bronze, and then began to untie the bindings of his corselet.
“After your bath, when you are rested, when you have been anointed in cool scented oils, and clothed in clean garments, and have drunk and fed, and your mind is unclouded by fatigue—then I will tell you what you most want to know.”
Later that night when all the tents were dark, Cressida told what she had done.
“To make it brief, my lord,” she began. “I come to you with those secret oracles which enwrap the fate of Troy. Things which must happen or be made to happen before you can storm those walls and sack the city.”
“How did you come by such oracles? From your father, the priest? Forgive me, but I have seen him, my girl, and I do not believe he is the kind of man the gods really entrust their secrets to.”
“Not from him. Of course not. But from Apollo himself—through Cassandra, whom the sun-god confides in even against her will.”
“And she confided in you?”
“Not at all,” said Cressida. “She loathes me. With good cause. No, it was her brother, Troilus, she confided in. For I, wanting to come to you, not wishing to come emptyhanded, resolved to bring you a love-gift you could not refuse. So I persuaded young Troilus. I asked the young prince to go to his sister, Cassandra, and make her tell him the oracles, and bring them to me.”
“Why did Cassandra, who is so clever, and would know the importance of such oracles to the fate of Troy, why would she entrust them to anyone else?”
“She is clever, poor girl. But she dotes on Troilus, and can refuse him nothing—even as I dote on you. Besides, the poor thing is so accustomed to her prophecies being disbelieved that she is eager to cast the future for anyone who pretends belief. And this I instructed Troilus to do.”
“You are a very clever girl yourself.”
“Love has sharpened my wits. Such love shows how stupid I am. And so cleverness can come from stupidity—which gives me hope I can tease some heat even out of your icy soul, King of Argos.”
“The oracles!” cried Diomedes. “Tell me the oracles. What must we do to take Troy?”
“Two conditions are necessary. One of them is couched in a riddle. It says that Troy can finally fall only through an act of ‘monumental piety.’ And it caps this riddle with a verse:
‘Could is should,
Should is would,
would is wood, of course.
What began with an apple
Must end with a horse.’ ”
“Too much for me,” said Diomedes. “Maybe Ulysses can figure it out. He has a head for such things. What’s the other one? I hope it’s a little plainer, or we’ll be here for another ten years.”
“The other one is quite plain, quite simple. It says Troy shall not be taken unless Troilus dies today.”
“Today? Then it’s too late! It is after midnight; the day has passed!”
“But before it passed, young Troilus had also passed—over the Styx into Erebus where he will join all his brothers sent before him by you and Achilles.”
“You mean Troilus is dead?”
“I have had a very full day,” said Cressida. “Here is a little souvenir of it.”
She handed him a dagger.
“See, my lord, it is sharp. And it has been used. It is encrusted with that which should be more precious to you than jewels—the heart-blood of Troilus.”
Diomedes leaped up. He was a brave man, among the bravest who ever lived, but now he was bathed in an icy sweat of horror.
“You killed him!” he cried. “He loved you, and you killed him! Why, you are Hecate’s own handmaid, a witch out of hell.”
“For shame,” she crooned. “A warrior to be so shocked at the idea of death. How many men have you killed, my lord? How many beautiful sons have you butchered and left in the dust? Why begrudge me my one—which is my love-gift to you? How many times have you seen a cat who loves its master bringing him a dead bird or mouse to lay at his feet as a token of this love? So I lay Troilus at your splendid feet, my master, my king, my only love. His death is the key that unlocks the gates of Troy, and brings you victory—as soon as Ulysses reads the riddle of that other oracle.”
“To kill an enemy in open warfare is one thing,” sai
d Diomedes. “But to slip a dagger into his back while telling him how much you love him is something else.”
“Foolish man,” murmured Cressida. “Your enemies die in pain and terror. Troilus died in bliss. My arms were about him, my lips on his. He did not even feel the blade. If so happy a death could come to all men, it would lose much of its unpopularity.”
THE END OF THE WAR
THIS IS HOW THE PROPHECY was fulfilled concerning Achilles:
Priam came to Achilles’ tent to beg that Hector’s body be restored to him for honorable cremation. The old king humbled himself before the mighty youth—knelt at his feet, and kissed the terrible hands that had killed his son. Achilles relented, and promised to return the body. This kindness was to kill him. For when he bore the body to the city gate, Paris was hiding nearby. As Achilles lifted the corpse from his chariot, Paris loosed his arrow, which Apollo guided to the one vulnerable spot on Achilles—the great tendon behind the right heel. The arrow cut the tendon, killing him immediately.
The promise Achilles had made to his stallions was kept; they were burned on the same pyre, and never had to know another master’s hands on their reins.
Ulysses, faced with the task of unriddling the oracle, prayed to Athena for wisdom. Whether she granted him new insight or refreshed his old cunning, he never knew.
“The verse ends with these words,” he said to himself, “ ‘What began with an apple must end with a horse.’ But what began with an apple? This war, of course. It was started by the golden apple of discord, which led to the squabble among the goddesses, to the judgment of Paris, to the abduction of Helen—all of which led to the thousand ships at Aulis and the siege of Troy. Then the war must end with a horse, the oracle says. What horse? What kind of horse? The verse tells, no doubt. Let’s see now.
‘Could is should
Should is would,
Would is wood, of course.
The Trojan War Page 14
