“By the Battle-God! That is not Akhilles, but somebody else wearing his armor! Akhilles’ shoulders are twice that wide! Maybe that boyfriend of his. The armor doesn’t even fit him. In the name of Ares, what is he playing at? Does he really think he can deceive anyone who has ever seen Akhilles fight?”
“I suppose it is a ruse to hearten Akhilles’ men,” said his charioteer, young Troilus.
“Whatever it is,” Hector said, “we’ll make short work of him. I might hesitate to face Akhilles, even on a propitious day; but the day has never dawned when I would be afraid to face Patroklos. Perhaps, youngster, I should put my armor on you and set you in my chariot and send you out to take him on.”
“I will do it gladly if you will allow it,” said the boy eagerly, and Hector laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I daresay you would, lad; but don’t underestimate Patroklos as much as that. He is not at all a bad fighter; not in my class or Akhilles’, it’s true, but you’re not ready for him yet; not this year and probably not next year either.”
He called his armorer, who came and strapped on his best armor; then the others heard the creaking of the gate as Hector rode out.
“This frightens me,” Andromache said, hurrying to the best vantage point for watching. “Great Mother, how that wretched boy drives his chariot! Has Hector taught him neither caution nor good sense? They will both be flung out in a moment!”
The two chariots rushed together like rutting stags coming together in the height of the season. Troilus was kept busy with the Myrmidons who rushed against the chariot. He fought back one after another while Hector awaited the champion. Then he sprang out along the axle of the chariot, leaving Troilus to defend it, and faced the man decked out in the brilliant gold-decorated armor of Akhilles.
Hector’s sword swung up to meet the Akhaian, who rushed at him, swinging. One swift step and Patroklos was down; but as Hector rushed in to finish him off, the youth scrambled up as if the heavy armor were a feathered cloak, and backed away. The men exchanged a flurry of blows so rapid that Kassandra could not see that either of them had the least advantage. A small shriek from Andromache told her that her husband had taken a wound; but when she looked, she saw that Hector had recovered himself at once and was thrusting violently enough that Patroklos was retreating toward his chariot. His sword drove hard into the place where the armor met the armpiece, then came free in a shower of blood. Patroklos staggered back; one of the Myrmidons caught him around his waist and lifted him bodily into the chariot; he was still standing, but swaying and white-faced. His charioteer—or was it Akhilles’ charioteer?—slapped at the horses, and they galloped back toward the beach and the Akhaian tents with Hector in hot pursuit.
Troilus loosed an arrow which struck Patroklos in the leg, and he lost his balance and fell; only the quick grab of the charioteer kept him from being flung out of the chariot. Hector motioned to Troilus to abandon the pursuit; Patroklos was either dead or wounded so gravely that it was only a matter of time before he died. Hector’s chariot turned back toward Troy; Andromache started to dash down the stairs as she heard the creaking of the ropes that opened the great gate, but Kassandra held her back and they waited until Hector came up the stairs. His arms-bearer came and began to help him out of his armor, but Andromache took his place.
“You’re wounded!”
“Nothing serious, I assure you, my dear,” Hector said. “I’ve had worse wounds in play on the field.” There was a long gash in his forearm, which had not injured the tendon; it could be dealt with by cleansing with wine and oil and a tight bandage. Andromache, not waiting for a healer, began at once to care for it, and asked, “Did you kill him?”
“I’m not sure whether he’s dead yet, but I assure you, nobody really ever recovers from a thrust to the lungs like that one,” Hector said, and almost at the same minute they heard a noise from the Akhaian camp: a great howl of rage and grief.
“He’s dead,” Hector said. “That’s one in the eye for Akhilles, at least.”
“Look,” said Troilus—“there he is himself.”
It was indeed Akhilles himself, wearing only a loincloth, his great shoulders bare and his long pale hair flying. He strode from his tent and toward the walls of Troy. Just out of bowshot he paused and, raising his clenched fist, shook it at the walls. He shouted something, lost in the distance.
“What did he say I wonder?” Hector asked.
Paris, who was unarming close by, said, “I suppose some version of ‘Hector, son of Priam’—with a few choice remarks about your ancestry and progeny—‘come down here and let me kill you ten times over!’ ”
“Or, more likely, ten thousand times,” agreed Hector. “I couldn’t quite make out the words, but the tune is clear enough.”
“So now,” said Paris, “shall we celebrate?”
“No,” Hector said soberly, “I do not rejoice; he was a brave man and, I think, an honorable one. He may have been the only one to keep Akhilles’ insanity within bounds. I am sure that the war will go the worse because he is no longer among them.”
“I can’t understand you,” Paris said. “We’ve done away with a great warrior, and you’re not delighted. If I’d killed him, I’d be ready to declare a holiday and a feast.”
“Oh, if all you want is a feast, I’m sure we can arrange that somehow,” Hector said. “I’m sure many will rejoice; but if we kill off the decent and honorable foes among the Akhaians, we will be left to fight the madmen and rogues. I fear no sane man, but Akhilles—that is another matter. I probably mourn Patroklos as much as any man save Akhilles himself.”
Aeneas went and looked over the wall. “Where is Akhilles? He’s gone.”
“Probably back in his tent trying to get Agamemnon to call off the fighting for a few days of mourning.”
“This would be the time to hit them hard,” said Paris,“before Akhilles recovers: while they’re still disorganized.”
Hector shook his head.
“If they ask a truce, we are honor bound to give it,” he said; “they gave us a truce to mourn your sons, Paris.”
“I didn’t ask for it,” Paris snarled. “This isn’t war, this careful exchange of honors; it’s some kind of dance!”
“War is a game with rules like any other,” Priam said. “Wasn’t it you, Paris, who complained that Agamemnon and Odysseus had broken the rules when they seized the Thracian horses?”
“If we’re going to fight,” Paris said, “let us try to win; I see no point in exchanging courtesies with a man when I’m trying to kill him and he’s doing his best to return the favor.”
Both Hector and Paris started speaking at once. Priam demanded, “One at a time,” and Hector shouted the louder.
“These ‘courtesies,’ as you call them, are all that make war an honorable business for civilized men; if we ever stop extending these courtesies to our enemies, war will become no more than a filthy business, run by butchers and the lowest kind of scoundrels.”
“And if we are not going to fight,” Paris said, “why do we not settle our differences with an archery contest, or games such as boxing and wrestling? In this case it seems to me that competition would make more sense than a war; we are competing for a prize.”
“With Helen as the prize? Do you think she would be willing to be the prize in an archery contest?” scoffed Deiphobos.
“Probably not,” said Paris, “but women are usually disposed of as prize to someone’s greed, and I don’t see why it should make so much difference.”
IT WAS EARLY the next day when Agamemnon, in the white robes of a herald, came under a peace flag to Priam’s palace, and as a peace offering brought Hecuba’s two waiting-women, Kara and Adrea, who had been taken from Kassandra when she entered the city. Then Agamemnon asked Priam, in honor of the dead, to grant a seven days’ truce because Akhilles wished to hold funeral games to honor his friend.
“Prizes will be given,” he said, “and the men of Troy are welcome to compete and will be
considered for prizes on even terms with our own people.” He added after a moment that Priam would be welcome to judge any contests for which he felt qualified—chariot racing perhaps, or archery. Priam thanked him gravely, and offered a bull as a sacrifice to Zeus Thunderer, and a metal caldron as a prize for the wrestling.
After Agamemnon had soberly accepted the gifts and gone away with courteous expressions of esteem, Paris asked disgustedly, “I suppose you’re going to compete in this farce, Hector?”
“Why not? Patroklos’ ghost won’t begrudge me a caldron or a cup, or a good bellyful at his funeral feast. He and I have no more quarrel now; and if I’m killed at the final sack of Troy, if there is one, we’ll have something to talk about in the Afterworld.”
6
DEATHLY SILENCE hung over Troy all the next day, and over the Akhaian camp. At midafternoon, Kassandra went down to the city wall; she could see into the camp and as far as the beach full of ships from the high edge of the wall of the Sun Lord’s house, but from there she could not hear anything or tell what was taking place.
Andromache was at the wall with Hector and others of Priam’s household. They welcomed Kassandra and made room for her where she could see what was happening. “This would be the best time to attack them and burn the rest of their ships,” Andromache suggested, but at Hector’s fierce look she drew back.
“I was joking, my love; I know you are incapable of breaking a truce,” she said.
“They did,” Paris reminded them. “If I had been killed and we had sought a truce for my burial, do you really think they would not storm us at the very height of the feast? Odysseus and Agamemnon are probably urging them right now to make an attack when we least expect it.”
“The camp looks almost deserted,” Kassandra said. “What are they doing?”
“Who knows?” Paris said. “Who cares?”
“I know,” Hector said. “The priests are laying out Patroklos’ body for burial or burning; Akhilles is mourning and weeping; Agamemnon and Menelaus are plotting some way to break the truce; Odysseus is trying to keep them from fighting loudly enough for us to hear; the Myrmidons are setting up for the games tomorrow—and the rest of the army is getting drunk.”
“How do you know that, Father?” asked Astyanax.
Hector said, laughing, “It’s what we would be doing if the shoe were on the other foot.”
At this moment a young messenger, in the dress of a novice priest of Apollo, came up inside the wall.
“Your pardon, nobles; a message for the Princess Kassandra,” he said, and Kassandra frowned. Had one of the serpents bitten someone, or one of the children fallen into a fever? She could think of no other reason she should be summoned; her Temple duties for the day, never very pressing, had been performed, and she had been given leave to absent herself.
“I am here,” she said. “What is wanted?”
“Lady, guests have arrived at the Sun Lord’s house; they came by the mountains to avoid the Akhaian blockade, and they seek you. They say the matter is of very great urgency and cannot be delayed.”
Puzzled, Kassandra bowed to her father and withdrew. As she climbed to the Temple, she wondered who it might be, and why they should seek her out. She went into the room where visitors were entertained; in the darkness of the room after the sunlight, the strangers were only a half dozen indistinct forms.
One among them rose and came toward her, opening her arms.
“It rejoices my heart to see you, child,” she said, and Kassandra, her eyes adapting to the dimness of the room, looked into the face of the Amazon Penthesilea.
Kassandra fell into her enthusiastic embrace.
“Oh, how glad I am to see you all! When I came from Colchis there was no sign of you, and I believed you were all dead!” she cried.
“Yes, I heard you had been seeking us; but we had gone to the islands, seeking help and perhaps a new home country,” Penthesilea said. “We found it not, so we returned, and I had no way to send word to you.”
“But what are you doing here? How many of you are here?”
“I brought with me all of us who remain who have not chosen to go and live in cities under the rule of men. We have come to defend Troy against her enemies,” Penthesilea said. “Priam told me once, many years ago, that before he would send to women to help in the defense of his city, Troy would indeed be fallen on evil times. Perhaps by now I know better than he how evil is the case in which Troy finds itself.”
“I do not know if my father would agree with you,” Kassandra said. “The army is rejoicing because Hector has just killed the second-most-dangerous fighter in the Akhaian army.”
“Aye; they told me in the Sun Lord’s house,” Penthesilea said. “But I do not think Troy any the nearer safety because Patroklos lies dead.”
“Kinswoman,” Kassandra said gravely, “Troy will fall, but not to the hand of any man. Do you think, then, that we can contend with the hand of a God?”
Penthesilea smiled in her old way and said, “It is not the destruction of the walls that we need fear, but the destruction of our defenses. Troy could be defeated and sacked, and if it is the will of the powers above that this should happen—” She broke off and held out her arms to Kassandra, who went into them like the child she had been.
“My poor child, how long have you been alone with this? Is there no one in Troy, soldier or King or priest, to trust your Sight?” she asked, holding her like a child against her meager old breast. “None of your kinsmen or brothers? Not even your father?”
“They least of all,” Kassandra murmured. “It angers them when I speak doom for Troy. They do not want to hear. And perhaps, if I can offer no way to avert this fate, but can only say it must come . . . perhaps they are right not to dwell on it.”
“But to make you suffer all this alone—” Penthesilea began, then broke off and sighed. “But now I must present myself with my warriors to Priam, and greet your mother, my sister.”
“I will take you to the palace that he may welcome you,” said Kassandra.
The old Amazon chuckled. “He will not welcome me, my darling, and the more desperately he needs the fighting skills of my women, the less welcome I will be,” she said. “The best I can hope for is that he will not refuse us; perhaps I have waited late enough that he will know how badly he is in need of even a few good warriors. Mine number twenty-four.”
“You know as well as I that Troy cannot afford to spurn any help from any source whatever, even had you brought an army of Kentaurs,” Kassandra said.
Penthesilea sighed and shook her head. “There will never be such an army again,” she said sadly. “The last of their warriors are gone; we took in half a dozen of their youngest boy children, after their horses died. Now villagers scratching the ground for a harvest of barley and turnips pasture their goats and swine where once the Kentaurs roamed with their horses; our mares too are perished, save these last pitiful few. There are few horses now on the plains near Troy, I see. The wild herds have been captured by the Akhaians or by the Trojans themselves.”
“Apollo’s sacred herd still roams free on the slopes of Mount Ida; none has ventured to touch them,” Kassandra reminded her. “Even the priestesses of Father Scamander have not ventured to lay a bridle on their heads.” But this made her think of Oenone, and she wondered how she fared. It had been years since she had caught sight of the girl; now the women of Mount Ida never came down to the city even for festivals. Paris never spoke of her and as far as Kassandra could tell, never thought of her, even though, now that Helen’s children had been killed, Oenone’s child was his only living son.
She said, “You and your women must be weary from travel; I offer you the hospitality of the Sun Lord’s house. Let me bring you servants who will conduct you to a bath, and if you wish for guest robes—”
“No, my dear,” Penthesilea said. “A bath would be more than welcome, but my women and I will present ourselves in our armor and riding leathers; we are what we are and
will not pretend to be otherwise.”
Kassandra went to make the arrangements, then to prepare herself to dine at the palace. She sent word that she would be bringing guests, but only to Queen Hecuba did she disclose their identity. As kinswomen she knew they would be welcomed, but she knew Priam had no love for the Amazons. Even so, the laws of hospitality were sacred and she knew Priam would never violate them.
In defiance, she thought of robing herself in her old riding leathers and bearing weapons; Priam would be angry, but she wished to identify herself with the Amazons. But when she took the old clothes from her chest, the soft undertunic would not even go over her head; it had been made for the girl she had been when she rode with the Amazons. The leathers were old and cracked, and would not fit her either; why had she kept them all these years? The girl she had been was gone forever.
Lying at the bottom of the chest was her bow of wood and horn; she could still draw that, she supposed; and she had kept her sword and dagger bright and free of rust. I could still ride, and I am sure I can still fight if I must, she thought, even though I now have no Amazon garments; perhaps before my city falls I may still draw weapons in her defense. It is not clothing but weapons and skill that make an Amazon. She saw and felt herself—though she had not moved a muscle—fitting an arrow to the great bow, drawing the cord back and back, letting the arrow fly . . . But at whom? She could not see the target where the arrow sped. . . .
Nevertheless, it heartened her to think she would not stand helpless in the final defense of Troy. Kassandra put away her weapons in the chest—the leathers she would throw away, or better yet, keep them for Honey one day. She dressed herself in a fine gown of woven linen from Colchis, and put her best golden earrings—they were made in the form of serpent heads—in her ears. She added a golden bracelet and the necklace of blue beads from Egypt, and went down to meet her guests.
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