by Stephen Fry
When Paris and Menelaus had walked away from each other for what Hector judged to be the correct number of paces, he called out for them to stop. They turned. Silence fell. Paris took his spear, pulled back his arm and threw …
The crowd gave a great gasp as the spear’s long shadow sped towards its target. The tip struck the very centre of Menelaus’s shield with a loud thump, but the armour of tough hide bent the point back. A fine shot, but not a wounding strike. The Greek contingent sighed with relief, the Trojans groaned with disappointment.
Now it was Menelaus’s turn. He hefted the spear, feeling the balance.
To give Paris credit, he did not shrink back or cower. He stood firm and erect. Menelaus took aim and let his spear fly. It too struck the shield full centre, but this time the spearpoint punched through. Paris turned with a deft athletic movement at the last moment. The tip did not pierce him, but it did graze his side. Hearing Paris’s sharp involuntary cry and seeing the blood, Menelaus sensed victory. With a wild yell, he closed at speed, swinging his sword down onto Paris’s helmet. There was a loud crash, but it was the sword that shattered, not the helmet.
As a stunned Paris staggered backwards, Menelaus grabbed at the helmet’s horsehair plume and pulled hard. Paris fell to his knees in the dust and Menelaus began to drag him along the ground by the chin strap. He would have throttled the life from him, just as Achilles had strangled Cycnus all those years ago when the Achaean ships first made landfall, had not the goddess Aphrodite intervened on behalf of her favourite. She broke the straps and Menelaus jerked backwards, grasping an empty helmet.
Aphrodite now caused Paris to disappear in a swirl of dust and confusion. Menelaus called out his name but could not see him. No one could see him. He had been spirited away to his bedchamber in the palace, safe behind the walls of Troy.
The crowd roared its frustration and disappointment.
Inside the palace Aphrodite appeared before Helen and commanded her to go to Paris, to tend to him and make love to him.
‘My true husband Menelaus has won,’ said Helen. ‘Why should I go to the coward Paris? If you love him so much, go to him yourself. You stroke his brow. You make love to him. I hate the very sight of him.’
Aphrodite’s face transformed into a twisted mask of fury. ‘Don’t you dare disobey! Make an enemy of me and discover just how hated you will be by Trojans and Greeks alike. No woman in history will have such abuse, scorn and punishment heaped upon her head as I will make sure is heaped upon yours. Go!’
Helen shivered at the violence of Aphrodite’s rage. The sight of divinely radiant beauty turning so quickly into a Gorgon scowl of such screeching ugliness would have frightened even the mighty Ajax. Wrapping the shining white shawl tight around her shoulders, Helen made her way to Paris’s rooms.
He was sitting on the bed, gingerly touching the scratch on his side and wincing.
‘So the mighty warrior has returned from his great and glorious triumph, his terrible wounds gushing with blood,’ said Helen with disdain. ‘All these years you’ve been telling me how you would spit Menelaus like a roast duck with your spear. How much stronger, and faster, and wilier and braver you were … And now look at you … pathetic.’
‘Menelaus was helped by Athena!’ Paris complained. ‘I’ll get him tomorrow. For the moment, let us make love you and I … Come, come to bed.’
Menelaus, meanwhile, was yelling up at the Trojan battlements.
‘Had enough, Paris? Had enough? Victory then is ours! This very day we take Helen and my son Nicostratus and sail away from this pestilential town for ever. For ever!’
Helen was sure that the cheering from both sides must have been the loudest noise a massed group of mortal humans had made since the world began.
Down on the plain the soldiers of both sides were crazed with joy.
Home! thought the Greeks. Home!
Peace! thought the Trojans. Peace!
But Hera’s hatred of Troy demanded more, far more than this. It demanded the complete destruction of the city, its razing to the ground.
On Olympus she and Athena would give Zeus no rest.
‘The matter is not decided, and you know it,’ said Hera.
‘How can it be left like this, father?’
‘It is absurd.’
‘It settles nothing and only dishonours each side.’
‘It dishonours the gods. All of us, but most especially you, Zeus.’
The combined persuasive powers of wife and daughter were too much for him to resist and Zeus bowed his head.
‘Go, then,’ he said. ‘If you must.’
Athena took herself off to the walls of Troy where, disguised as Laodocus, the warrior son of Antenor, she sought out the Trojan archer Pandarus. She whispered to him that eternal glory would be his if he raised his bow and shot Menelaus, who was still striding up and down calling up for Paris to face him like a man.
Pandarus took careful aim and fired. The arrow would have pierced Menelaus’s armour and reached a vital organ, but quick as lightning, Athena was there to deflect it,fn32 and the tip stuck into the flesh of his leg instead – not a fatal wound, but serious enough for the blood to spout and for Menelaus to fall to the ground.
The Greeks roared with fury at this flagrant betrayal of the terms of the truce and the armies now clashed in earnest. For the first time in more than nine years, real battle was joined on the plain of Ilium. The River Scamander – sometimes called the Xanthus, the Yellow River – would soon be flowing red.
DIOMEDES V. THE GODS
The injured Menelaus had his wound healed by MACHAON, a son of Asclepius, who applied a salve mixed by the centaur Chiron himself.fn33
Meanwhile, the battle exploded into a full, violent frenzy. The shooting of his brother seemed to bring out the true leader in Agamemnon, who was everywhere in the fray, roaring on encouragement to his generals, Odysseus, Ajax and Aias and Diomedes.
The last named, Diomedes, King of Argos, son of Tydeus, was filled with especial fury and valour. This was his hour, his aristeia. He blasted his way through the Trojan ranks like a cyclone. Pandarus, high up on the walls of Troy, shot at him and wounded him; but with barely a grunt Diomedes had his friend and companion STHENELUS pull the arrow out.
‘You’ll have to do better than that, you coward, Pandarus,’ he yelled, before diving into the fight once more, slaughtering to the left and slaughtering to the right.
The Olympians were caught off guard by the sudden eruption of violence. After all these years of stalemate, it astonished the gods to witness the two sides now hurling themselves at each other, swords hacking, chariots thundering, arrows and spears flying, and the air filled with war cries and the screams of the injured and dying. And the sight of Diomedes rampant caused even the god of war to blink with wonder. But Ares, always on the side of the Trojans, came to and threw himself into the thick of the fighting, tossing Greek warriors aside and making his way inexorably towards Diomedes, whom he would have felled, had not Athena shouted at him to desist and let the mortals be. Ares stumped off to the banks of the Scamander to sulk.
No one had ever seen a warrior as entirely and terrifyingly energized as Diomedes was that day. He was enthused – a word whose literal meaning is ‘to be filled with the spirit of a god’ (en-theos). If there were such a word in English, we might say that Diomedes was ‘engodded’ – Athena being the god in question. She even gave him the power to discern the immortals themselves.
‘Engage with any of them if you need to,’ Athena whispered to him, ‘any but Aphrodite. She is not a battle deity and should be left alone.’
Diomedes killed two sons of Priam – and Pandarus too, who in an excess of confidence had come down from the walls of Troy to join the battle at ground level. At least a dozen senior Trojans fell before Diomedes’ blaze of violence. It looked as if the inspired Argive now had Prince Aeneas, leader of the Dardanians, at his mercy too. Diomedes raised over his head a boulder that two strong men could neve
r have been able so much as to move and brought it down on Aeneas, who tried to twist aside. The boulder missed his head but smashed his hip. Diomedes unsheathed his sword, and was all ready to finish him off, when Aeneas’s mother Aphrodite interposed herself. Diomedes in his unquenchable bloodlust and frenzy attacked her, cutting the wrist where it joined her hand. Silver-gold ichor poured from the wound and Aphrodite fled squealing to the riverside where her lover Ares was still brooding.
‘That Diomedes is mad!’ she said to him. ‘In this mood he would take on great Zeus himself! Lend me your horses and let me fly to Olympus to be healed.’
In the meantime Aeneas, shrouded in a mist created by Apollo, was ministered to by Apollo’s twin, the goddess Artemis, and their mother, the Titaness Leto. When this was done, Apollo called over to Ares and told him to stop staring into the river like a moody adolescent and enter the fray.
‘Diomedes is destroying our best Trojan fighting men! Off your arse and into battle.’
Pricked and shamed, Ares now waded in on the Trojan side, and the whole tide of battle began to turn. Diomedes may have slain many Trojans, but Ares set about killing twice as many Greeks.
Athena flew to Olympus and entreated Zeus to let her and Hera join in. ‘If Ares is allowed to help the Trojans, then we must be allowed to help the Achaeans.’
Zeus groaned and shook his head in despair. This was exactly the situation he had feared and most hoped to avoid. A full divine intervention in what he had intended to be a purely mortal affair. But once more he bowed his head in agreement.
Athena charged into the Trojan ranks, her Gorgon aegis flashing.
‘Hey, Diomedes!’ she called across to him. ‘Are you warrior or weasel? Look, there’s Ares in the thick of the fighting. Dare you take him? Dare you take on the god of war himself?’
With a blood-curdling roar, Diomedes hurled his spear straight into Ares’ guts, into his very bowels.
A shudder swept the ranks of both armies as a howl of pain like no other sound ever heard emerged from the wounded war god. Only Diomedes had been given the power to see the immortals, of course. To the warriors on both sides the sound was as mysterious as it was appalling. For a brief moment the fighting stopped as everyone looked around them in horrified wonder.
Ares flew screaming up to Olympus to be healed. Zeus was unsympathetic. The war god had always been his least favourite child. He grudgingly saw to it that his wounds were tended to; but when Athena and Hera also returned to Olympus, he was only too pleased to declare all such future interventions forbidden.
‘I have never seen such a display,’ he said. ‘Are you Olympian gods or wild children? I am ashamed of you. From now on you take no part in the fighting. We leave the mortals to sort it out for themselves without our direct aid. Understood?’
Exhausted, and for the moment shamed, the gods bowed their heads in submission.
Zeus had not, however, forgotten his promise to Thetis.
HECTOR AND AJAX
Now that Ares was out of the fight, the Greeks were able to press on right up to the walls of Troy. Diomedes led the charge, supported by Ajax, Odysseus, Agamemnon, Menelaus, Aias – even old Nestor pushed through, sword swinging back and forth with a strength that belied his years.
Hector saw that the Trojans were losing ground and that the city could soon be taken. He knew that it was up to him to stem the tide and saw that there was just enough time for him, with Aeneas fighting close at his side, to bring the Trojan army into the city, close the gates and prepare properly for a counter-attack.
At the royal palace Hecuba embraced him and offered a cup of wine and a little rest. Hector pushed the cup away.
‘Thank you, Mother, but if I take any wine my mind may slow and my resolve weaken.’
He took the staircase up to Paris’s and Helen’s apartments. ‘Polishing your armour, brother? Yes, I would say that’s about your style.’
Paris flushed. ‘Don’t mock me, Hector. I may not have your skill and valour, but when it comes to it I can fight and I will. I go now to sharpen my sword and spearpoint. I’ll catch up with you quickly.’
Helen watched him leave. ‘You are fighting harder than anyone,’ she said to Hector after Paris had gone, ‘and risking your life for what? All for my sake, worthless as I am. And, of course, for the sake of your pitiful brother Paris and his vanity. I would rather never have been born than bring this all on you.’
Hector looked into the loveliest human face there had ever been. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘don’t upset yourself. I do what has to be done. No one in our family blames you, Helen. They know what you have suffered since you have been wrenched from your home. My father and mother have welcomed you. You are a princess of Troy. You are my beloved sister. We fight for your honour and for our own. We do so gladly and with pride.’
At the Scaean Gate Hector found his wife Andromache, who was holding their baby son in her arms.
‘Hello, little Scamandrius,’ said Hector, gazing down at the sleeping child, whom the rest of Troy called Astyanax, ‘lord of the city’. ‘How fine he looks. Like a star.’
‘Oh, Hector!’ said Andromache. ‘Must you fight? I don’t want my son to grow up without a father. Achilles killed my father, suppose he or Diomedes kills you?’
‘We are born with our fate and no one has ever avoided theirs,’ said Hector. ‘Besides, how could I live with the shame of knowing that where so many of my brothers and fellow Trojans have risked their lives I slunk home and hid? Death is better than dishonour. I fight for you and Scamandrius too. If we give in now, the Danaans will sack the city and kill us all anyway. And you would be taken off to be a slave in some Greek household. That I will not allow.’
Hector’s helmet caught the sun. The flash from its polished bronze woke Astyanax, who opened his eyes. The sight of the great plume of the helmet’s crest nodding down into his face made him scream out in fear. Andromache and Hector laughed. Hector removed the helmet, picked the child up and kissed him.
‘Grow to be a finer man than your father ever was, Scamandrius,’ he said, swinging him high in the air before returning him to his wife’s arms. ‘And never fear, my darling Andromache. I will not die. Not today.’
Nodding to the gatekeeper, he strode out – Paris ran to catch up, gleaming in his fine armour.
‘Here we are, brother,’ said Paris. ‘I said I’d be quick, didn’t I? Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.’
Hector smiled. ‘You’re impossible to stay angry with. I know you are brave and willing and able to fight, but it breaks my heart when I hear others heaping scorn on you. Let’s do such work today that both our names will live on for so long as men have tongues to sing.’
Arm in arm the brothers stepped from the city and out onto the plain where the battle raged.
Instantly they launched themselves into the fight, each bringing down a notable Achaean warrior.
Athena and Apollo, watching, cast each other sidelong glances.
‘I suppose you want to swoop in and bring victory to your beloved Argives,’ said Apollo. ‘And what’s to stop me doing the same for the Trojans?’
‘Our father has forbidden us … Let us halt the bloodshed and do something wise instead …’
‘Such as?’
Athena told Apollo her plan and he bowed his head. ‘It shall be as you say …’
Priam’s son Helenus, the seer and augur of the family, now heard a voice whispering in his ear. He went immediately to find his older brother, who was right in the heart of battle, hacking away at his enemies.
‘Hector!’ he said, pulling him aside. ‘Listen. The gods have spoken to me – to spare bloodshed each side should nominate a champion.’
‘What?’ said Hector, panting. ‘We tried that …’
‘Why not try again? The match between Menelaus and Paris decided nothing. Your life against whomever the Greeks choose? One on one?’
Hector thought quickly and then raised his voice above the din to issue the chal
lenge.
‘Hear me, soldiers of Hellas!’ he cried. ‘Send me your best warrior to be your champion. If he defeats me, he may take my armour and weapons but must return my body to Troy for cleansing and burning. If I defeat him, I shall strip him of his arms and armour but leave the body for you to take and purify. This issue will settle all. Can we agree?’
Menelaus spoke up at once, offering to be the champion once again, but Agamemnon silenced him.
‘You have fought hard enough, brother. The gash in your leg is still healing. Besides, great warrior that you are, you are not the equal of Hector. On height alone you are outmatched.’
Nine other leading Greeks – Agamemnon himself, Diomedes, Idomeneus, the Great and Little Ajaxes, Odysseus and three more all stood up. Each scratched their name on a stone which they threw into Agamemnon’s helmet. Agamemnon shook the helmet and out jumped the stone bearing the name of Telamonian Ajax – Ajax the Mighty.
A great cheer went up, for the Achaeans had come to believe that this giant of a man was all but invincible. His size and strength were unsurpassed on either side. Ajax armed himself and raised up his huge tower shield, which was composed of seven layers of thick hide finished with a final layer of hammered bronze. You or I could no more have lifted that shield than we could lift a mountain.
Once again the armies parted to create an arena.
Ajax and Hector faced off against each other. Hector won the honour of throwing first, and his spear penetrated the first six layers of hide on Ajax’s shield but was turned away by the last. Next it was Ajax’s turn, and his spear punched through Hector’s shield and would have pierced his flesh had not Hector turned away just in time.
The soldiers on each side were too absorbed to cheer. They shivered in the knowledge that they were watching history. History of such profound importance that it would become the stuff of legend. The grace and speed of Hector against the power and strength of Ajax.
