The rest of the Argives set afire their huts and whatever utensils they did not take with them. Then they boarded their ships, which were under the command of Agamemmon and Nestor, and sailed for Tenedos. This was done according to the decision of the assembly which did not wish these two to enter the horse, the one because of his great majesty, the other because of his old age. At Tenedos they weighed anchor, went ashore, and longingly waited for the fire signal which had been agreed on.
It did not take the Trojans long to notice that the air was heavy with smoke, and when they peered down from their towers, they saw that the Argive ships were gone. Joyfully they thronged to the shore, but stopped to gird on their armor, for they had not given up all their fears. When, in place of the hostile camp, they found the gigantic wooden horse, they surrounded it in wide-eyed wonder. First they admired this amazing work of art to their heart’s content, and then began to argue what to do with it. Some were in favor of dragging it into the city and setting it up on the acropolis as a monument of victory. Others mistrusted this strange gift the Argives had left behind and advised throwing it into the sea or burning it. All the while the heroes, hidden in that great belly, suffered pangs of anguish at each new proposal. And now Laocoon, the Trojan priest of Apollo, made his way through the crowds. But even before he had reached the horse, he cried: “What folly, what madness is this! Do you think the Danai have really sailed? How can you believe that any gift of theirs is without trickery? You know Odysseus! Either some danger lurks in that horse, or it is a war machine which our enemies, hidden somewhere nearby, will direct against our city. In any case, do not trust the horse!” With these words he grasped the heavy lance of the warrior standing nearest him and thrust it into the horse’s belly. The spear quivered in the wood, and the sound which issued from the belly was like an echo from a hollow cave, but the spirit of the Trojans was blind, and their ears did not hear.
While this was going on, some curious shepherds, who had come close to the horse, detected Sinon who had hidden under it; they dragged him out and took him to King Priam. And now all those who had surrounded the horse went to see this new spectacle. Sinon stood there, unarmed and apparently numb with fright, and played the part Odysseus had invented for him. He lifted pleading hands, now to heaven, now to the spectators, and sobbed: “Alas! What land shall I turn to, what sea? For the Argives have banished me, and the Trojans will surely kill me!” The very herdsmen who had seized him were moved by these words, and a number of warriors went up to him, asked him who he was and where he came from, and told him that if he were really guiltless he should be of good courage.
Finally Sinon gave up his show of fear and said: “I am an Argive. I do not deny it. Misery shall not succeed in making a liar of me. Perhaps you have heard of Palamedes, prince of Euboea? At Odysseus’ instigation he was stoned to death, simply because he had counselled his countrymen against waging war on Troy. I am a poor kinsman of his, and ever since his death I have had no one to turn to. You see, I dared threaten vengeance for the murder of my kinsman, and the son of Laertes began to hate me and has persecuted me all the years of this war. He did not rest until together with false Calchas he had plotted my death too. For when the Argives at last decided to flee—a plan they had weighed so often—and this wooden horse was already made, they sent Eurypylus to the oracle of Apollo, because they had seen ominous signs in the sky. And this was Apollo’s answer: ‘When you left for this war, you propitiated the angry winds with the blood of a virgin. Now you must buy your safe return with blood. You must sacrifice one of your own people.’ The Argives shuddered at these words. But Odysseus summoned Calchas, the soothsayer, to the assembly, and begged him to reveal the will of the gods. For five days Calchas, hypocritical Calchas, refused to designate any particular warrior for the offering. Finally, pretending that Odysseus was forcing his hand, he called my name. And everyone agreed readily, for each was glad to escape death himself. The terrible day dawned. They wreathed me as a victim and bound the sacred fillet about my head. The altar, the wine, the flour—everything was prepared. But I broke the thongs that bound me, fled, and hid in the reeds of a swamp until they had sailed away. Then I crept out and took shelter under the belly of the sacred horse. I cannot return to my country or to my people. I am in your hands. You must decide if you wish to be generous and let me live, or kill me as my fellow Argives threatened to do.”
The Trojans were moved by these lies. Priam spoke kindly to Sinon. He told him to forget his cruel comrades and promised him refuge in his city. All he asked in return was information about the wooden horse which the prisoner had just called “sacred.”
Sinon’s hands were freed of their bonds. He lifted them to heaven and prayed with false fervor: “You gods, to whom I was consecrated! O altar, and sword which menaced me, be my witnesses that the ties which bound me to my countrymen are severed, that I am not doing wrong in revealing their secrets!” Then he began his tale. “During the whole course of this war the Achaeans had staked their hopes on the help of Pallas Athene. But ever since her image, the Palladium, was stolen from the temple you reared for her in Troy, all has gone wrong. You Trojans probably do not know that it was taken by some of our men! The goddess was angry and withdrew her favor from the Argives. Then Calchas, the soothsayer, declared that we must launch our ships immediately and return to our own country to find out what the gods wished us to do. He said it was useless to expect victory until the Palladium was restored to its proper place. This was why the Danai at last resolved to sail home. But at Calchas’ advice they first built this great wooden horse as a gift for the goddess. He claimed it would calm her anger. They made it tall and wide so that you Trojans could not wedge it through the gates and take it into your city, because if you did, Athene’s favor and protection would go to you instead of to the Achaeans. If, on the other hand, you injured the sacred horse in any way—and the Danai hoped you would!—Athene would surely destroy your city. They intend to return as soon as they have learned the will of the gods in Argos, and expect to give the Palladium back to a city which has already been condemned by its own impious deeds.”
This web of lies was so cleverly devised that Priam and his warriors believed it and trusted Sinon. And Athene watched over the fate of her friends who sat within the horse shaken with anxiety, for ever since Laocoon had voiced his warning, they had been consumed with the fear of death. But an almost matchless miracle freed the heroes at least from this one danger. After the death of Poseidon’s priest, Laocoon, who was the priest of Apollo, had been chosen by lot to fill the vacant post, so that he was now priest of Poseidon as well. Just as he was about to sacrifice a splendid bull to the sea-god, two enormous snakes, coming from the direction of Tenedos, swam through the glassy water toward the shore. Their heads topped with scarlet crests loomed high above the surface of the sea. The rest of their bodies writhed through the water which moved and splashed with their passage. And now they crawled ashore, darted out their tongues, hissed, and looked about with eyes like flame. The Trojans, who were still thronged around the horse, grew pale as death and took to their heels. But the serpents made straight for the altar where Laocoon and his two young sons were busy with the sacrifice. First they wound themselves around the two boys and sank poisonous fangs into their tender flesh. When the children screamed and their father came running with drawn sword, they looped their heavy coils twice about him and reared their crests above his head. The fillet of the priest dripped with venom. In vain he tried to loosen the noose of their bodies with his hands. In the meantime the bull, which Laocoon had already struck with the axe when he heard his sons cry for help, shook the blade from his neck and fled bellowing from the altar. Laocoon and his children died from the bite of the snakes, and the creatures slithered along the ground until they reached the temple of Athene. There they hid at her feet, under the shield of the goddess.
The Trojans interpreted this awful event as punishment inflicted on the priest for the doubt he had expressed. So
me hurried to the city and made a breach in the wall, large enough to admit the wooden horse. Others fastened wheels to its feet and twisted strong ropes to throw over its lofty neck. Then they pulled it to Troy in triumph. Girls and boys followed in solemn procession and chanted hymns. Four times the horse caught on the raised threshold of the gates before it finally rolled over, and four times the belly resounded as though bronze had struck on bronze. But still the Trojans did not hear, and they conducted the wooden image to the acropolis amid waves of thundering acclaim. In all this ecstasy of joy, only Cassandra, King Priam’s daughter, whom the gods had lent the power of foretelling the future, remained aloof. With unclouded vision she saw what was to be. Never had she spoken a word which had not come true, but she had the misfortune always to be doubted. Now too she recognized danger and ran from the palace, driven by the spirit of prophecy. Her hair fluttered wildly, her eyes were glazed, and her slender neck swayed like a twig in the wind. She cried aloud through the streets: “People of Troy, do you not realize that we are travelling the road to destruction? That we stand at the verge of death? I see the city filled with fire and blood. I see death breaking out of the belly of that horse you have brought here so exultantly. But why do I speak? If I used thousands of words you still would not believe me. You have fallen prey to the Furies who will take vengeance on you for Helen’s marriage.”
But the Trojans only laughed at the girl or mocked her. At best one would stop and say: “Have you grown so shameless, Cassandra, that you, a girl, run around in the streets alone? Don’t you see that everyone is ridiculing your foolish talk? Better go home before anything happens to you.”
THE DESTRUCTION OF TROY
Late into that night the Trojans gave themselves up to feasting and celebrating. Flute boys moved among the revellers. Again and again the cups were filled with wine, seized in both hands, and drained to the last drop. At midnight, when tongues and lids grew heavy and all were dulled with sleep, Sinon, who had feasted with the rest, pretended to grow drowsy. He rose from his couch, walked softly out of the gates, lit a torch, and waved it so that it could be seen on the shores of Tenedos. Then he extinguished it, crept up to the horse, and knocked gently on the belly, as Odysseus had told him to do. The heroes heard the sound. But they only turned in silence to receive the command of the son of Laertes. He bade them go out as quietly as possible, and warned those who were most impatient. Noiselessly he slid back the bolts, put out his head, and looked around to make sure no one was awake. Then, as a ravening wolf prowls softly to the sheeppen, between watchful shepherds and dogs, he climbed down the rungs of the ladder which Epeius had made along with the horse. One hero after another followed him, his heart thudding against his ribs. When the wooden belly had disgorged all its inmates, they brandished their lances, drew their swords, and scattered through the city. And now dreadful slaughter overtook the Trojans, dazed with sleep and wine. Firebrands were tossed into their homes, and soon the roofs began to burn over their heads. At the same time, a favorable wind carried the fleet from Tenedos into the harbor on the Hellespont, and soon after the entire Argive host rushed into the city through the broad breach the Trojans themselves had cut for the horse. The already vanquished city was filled with screams of agony. The maimed and wounded crawled among corpses, and anyone who still ran unharmed was hit in the back with a lance. Dogs yelped and howled above the moans of the dying, and the clamor was swelled by the wails of women and children.
But the Argives too had heavy losses, for although the greater part of their enemies were unarmed, they fought as well as they could. Some hurled their cups at the foe. Others snatched burning brands from the hearth, or hacked about with spits, hatchets, axes, or whatever they could lay hands on. So the Danai had to be on their guard. Stones were thrown at them from the roof tops, and some were crushed by burning walls which collapsed as they passed. When they had fought their way to the acropolis, many Trojans issued fully armed from the palace of Priam, so that the Argives had to fight for their very lives.
In the course of the battle the city grew lighter and lighter, though it was still night, for the many torches carried by the Achaeans and the brilliance of the spreading conflagration made Troy as bright as day. And now that the Argives no longer feared to mistake friend for foe in the dark, they became bolder and went purposefully for the noblest among the Trojan heroes. Diomedes killed Coroebus, son of great Mygdon, by driving his lance through his stomach. Then he slew brave Eurydamas, the son-in-law of aged Antenor. Soon after he met Ilioneus, one of the oldest among the Trojans, who fell on his knees and, catching at the victor’s sword, cried in a trembling voice: “Whoever you may be, give up your anger! For only victory over the young and strong brings glory. Spare an old man, for you too will some day be old and look for mercy.” For an instant Diomedes stayed his sword and hesitated. But then he pierced his enemy’s throat, saying: “I do, indeed, hope to grow to honored old age, but first I must use my young strength to send all my foes to Hades!” And he rushed on and killed many other Trojans.
Ajax of Locris and Idomeneus were also pursuing the Trojans relentlessly. But Neoptolemus picked out the sons of Priam as his victims and slew three of them, and after that Agenor, who had dared fight with Achilles, his father. Finally he came on Priam himself. The old man was praying at an altar of Zeus built out in the open. Eagerly Neoptolemus lifted his sword. Priam looked him fearlessly in the eye. “Slay me, O son of brave Achilles,” he said. “I have suffered much; many of my children have died before my eyes. Why should I still see the light of the sun? I wish I had died long before this. I wish your father had killed me. Since he did not, satisfy your own fierce heart and release me from my griefs.”
“Old man,” Neoptolemus answered, “you urge me to do what my own soul bids,” and he cut off the old king’s head lightly and swiftly as the reaper in the heat of summer mows the grain in the sun-baked field. The head rolled along the ground, and the body lay among the corpses of other Trojans.
The common warriors in the Argive host were far more cruel. In the king’s palace they had found Astyanax, Hector’s little son. They snatched him from his mother’s arms, and, full of hatred against Hector and his line, hurled him down from the ramparts. When they wrested him from his mother, she cried: “Throw me from the wall too! Or cast me into the flames! Since Achilles killed my husband, I have been living only for my child. Take from me the agony of a life without him!” But the men did not even listen to her and stormed away.
So Death prowled about, entering now this house, now that. He spared only one, the home of old Antenor who had been so generous and kindly a host to Odysseus and Menelaus and saved their lives long ago when they came to Troy as envoys. For this the Danai now spared him and left him all his possessions.
As long as Troy was under siege, Aeneas had fought from the walls with unbroken strength. But when he saw the city burning in all quarters, when he realized that further resistance was useless, he acted like a brave sailor in a storm who defends his ship against the raging sea as long as possible, but when he knows that sinking is inevitable, abandons it to the waves and tries to save himself in a boat. So now Aeneas took his father Anchises on his broad shoulders, his son Ascanius by the hand, and hastened away. The boy pressed close to his father, and his feet hardly touched the earth as Aeneas leaped across the countless bodies which littered the streets. And Aphrodite never left her son’s side, for wherever he went the flames receded, the clouds of smoke parted, and the arrows and spears the Danai hurled at him fell harmlessly to the ground.
In all other places, murder was abroad. Just outside the chamber of faithless Helen, Menelaus, her first husband, found Deiphobus, son of Priam. Since Hector’s death he had been the pillar of his house and his people; after Paris was slain, Helen had fallen to his share. He was still drowsy and numb with the evening’s carousal as he staggered to his feet and fled through the corridors of the palace. But Menelaus overtook him and killed him with his sword. “Die here, a
t my wife’s doors!” he cried in a voice like thunder. “If only I could have killed Paris in this place! But just as he had to die, so you too shall not take delight in Helen and go unpunished! You shall learn that no one who does wrong can escape the hands of Themis, goddess of justice.” And Menelaus rolled the corpse to one side with his foot and started on a search through the palace, for his heart, torn with emotions, yearned for Helen. Fearing her husband’s anger, she had hidden herself in the farthest corner of the house, and it took him a long time to find her. When he first caught sight of her, jealousy prompted him to slay her, but Aphrodite, who had made her even fairer than before, struck the sword from his hand, dispelled his rage, and woke the old love sleeping in his heart. He was bewitched by Helen’s beauty, and again and again his hand refused to raise the sword. Suddenly he forgot all the wrong she had done him. But when he heard the battle cry of the Argives, he felt ashamed to think that he was standing in front of false Helen, not as an avenger, but as her slave. Against his will he picked up the sword which had fallen to the ground, curbed his passion, and aimed a blow at his wife. But in his heart he hated to harm her, and so he was relieved when Agamemnon came up to him, laid his hand on his shoulder, and said: “Wait, Menelaus! It is not proper for you to slay your lawful wife, for whose sake we have endured so much suffering. She is far less at fault than Paris who broke the laws of hospitality. But he and all his line and all his people have now been punished. They have paid with their lives.” So spoke Agamemnon, and Menelaus obeyed him with seeming reluctance but inner joy.
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