Helen of Troy (82 page)

Hector sleeping out in the field. Patroclus lying dead in the Greek camp. Paris in my arms high in our palace. I wondered, fleetingly, how Achilles was passing this night. I could not know that he was awaiting a new suit of armor, hastily made by the gods, so that he could come and destroy us all in the morning.

LVIII

B
efore dawn, so that I am not sure Paris slept at all, he was up and readying himself for battle. I watched his dark outline moving in the chamber. He bent over and kissed me, thinking me asleep. I sat up and embraced him, trying to keep the fear and urgency from tingling down my arms.

“Today will be the day,” he murmured. “I feel it.”

“As do I,” I said, wanting our victory, dreading the destruction.

Hector and his men were waiting on the field near the Greek lines, and in the fresh new light their fellow soldiers poured through the gate to rejoin them, chariot spokes catching the sun, winking at those of us watching from the walls. Numbers swelled on the field until it was covered. The area near Troy was empty; everyone was near the ships.

We were too far away to see, but I knew I could remedy that. I went to my chamber and called for Evadne. She would know what to do, how to take me there.

I was at the very front of the lines. I saw Hector—his face looking suddenly much older, his helmet hastily cleaned of its grime but no longer shining—striding amongst the men. He greeted Paris and Aeneas as they joined him, and was giving instructions to his soldiers when suddenly, in the red blaze of the rising sun, Achilles stood on the crest of the defensive trench and cried out. His voice was so loud it blared like a trumpet, his face contorted and his lips quivering. He screamed at the Trojans that he was here to avenge the death of Patroclus, and meant to kill Hector. Somehow he had had new armor made overnight, and it shone like a mirror.

At the sound of his name, Hector flinched almost imperceptibly. Only someone placed as I was could have seen it; surely Achilles did not. Before Hector could retort with a speech of his own, his men were drawing back. The vicious face, the thunderous voice, and the stories about Achilles as an invincible warrior did their work. The Trojans began to flee.

Yes, flee. They turned tail and began a disorderly retreat back toward Troy. In vain Hector and Paris ordered them to stand their ground.

“You fight a man, not a god!” cried Hector. “Stand firm!” But all around him the men were falling back anyway.

“He is mortal, one spear can cut him down!” shouted Paris. “Do not melt away!”

But in vain. The retreat turned into a rout. The Trojans panicked and ran toward the walls of their city. Their allies, surrounding them in the field, were no braver.

Antenor lost two sons, cut down by the pursuing Greeks. Deiphobus, running alongside Hector, panted, “We must all take refuge in the city!”

“No!” cried Hector. “Never!”

The Trojan forces separated. One side, led by Deiphobus, made directly for the city; the others were cut off by the surging Scamander River. Achilles, roaring like the river itself, came upon Aeneas and attacked him. Aeneas stumbled and fell, but somehow managed to escape the killing wrath of Achilles. The enraged Greek warrior had to turn his attention to the Trojans trapped by the river. Suddenly he came upon a young boy—far too young to be there at all—and cut him down, as if he wanted to make up for Aeneas. It was Polydorus, the little son of Priam. He must have slipped through the gates with the soldiers, disobeying his father, running away to battle. He crumpled and fell headlong into the river. Achilles plunged after him, pursuing the flailing Trojans, sword arm swinging, and killed many before being caught in a mighty wave of water, almost drowning. Bedraggled and more infuriated than ever, he hauled himself up on a bank.

“Kill! Kill!” he screamed, slashing at the air around him. “Let my arm grow weary with the killing!”

The Trojans quivered as if enchanted and unmanned.

“There is nothing magic about him!” I cried. “Take action!” But I was mumbling in my dream-mind and my cries reached no one, not even Paris.

Paris! Where was Paris? I did not see him. Oh, let him be safe!

The Scamander was choked with bodies; they swirled and spun in the muddy water, catching on branches. But Achilles was beyond the river now. Those men he killed had done nothing to sate him. It was Hector he sought, Hector he hungered for.

“Hector! Hector!” he screamed. His voice had lost strength, and he rasped, but somehow that was more menacing. He moved like a beast of prey, flying over the terrain, scattering the entire Trojan army across the plains ahead. Oh, the shame! To flee before one man!

Priam, leaning over the walls, gave the orders for the gates to be opened, and the guards pulled at them. Trojans poured in, in disarray and panic.

The entire army had been routed! All the commanders fled, the braggart Antimachus, and Helenus and Deiphobus and Aeneas himself, and Paris. Oh, thank the gods, Paris was safe!

At that knowledge, I stirred on the couch. “Evadne,” I said. Could she even hear me? Was my voice a normal one?

“Yes, my lady?”

“Undo this,” I said. “Paris is back. I must watch with him.”

I know not what she did, but my vision faded and all I saw was my own chamber. I was weak and limp, as if I had been on the battlefield myself.

“Go, my lady,” she said. She touched my hand and pulled me up, slowly. My feet smarted as they touched the cool floor.

Like a dreamwalker, I made my way down the broad street to the walls. He was stumbling through the gates when I saw him and rushed to him. “Paris, Paris!” I threw my arms around him. “Achilles,” he murmured. “He turned everything.”

“He is only a man,” I said.

“He holds Hector responsible for the death of Patroclus,” panted Paris, trying to catch his breath. “It is a private quarrel.”

“It is a war! There are thousands of men on the field,” I said.

“But to him, there were only three: himself, Patroclus, and Hector. Or, I should say, only one—himself. He has made the entire war about himself, insults to his honor, and so on.”

I had a wild temptation to say,
For once, it isn’t about Helen?
But I would not voice those flippant words, not at this moment.

“
He
has killed his friend, and that’s what torments him. He made him wear his armor and impersonate him, sent him out to his doom, because his own pride refused to let him fight. So who has killed Patroclus, truly? The sword of Hector, or the pride of Achilles? Achilles knows the truth.”

“He betrayed his friend, then.”

“Yes, and now he seeks to assuage his guilt by attacking Hector, but it can never be assuaged. Nothing can change or erase it.”

“You are here, you are safe,” I said. Gods forgive me, Andromache forgive me, but that was my chief concern.

Paris turned away, looking over the ramparts. The field was empty now. Hector stood alone. From a distance, Achilles approached. He had ceased running and was walking slowly and deliberately, inexorably. I could see the front flap of his armor lifting as his thighs moved.

“Hector!” Priam called. “Come inside. Do not face that man! Do not! You are our glory and our defense! Oh, think of me, your father!” He then launched into a recitation of all the dreadful things that would befall him if Troy fell—how he would be dishonored and mutilated, torn by dogs in his nakedness.

Hecuba, standing beside him, suddenly lurched forward. She ripped open her gown and displayed her withered, sagging breasts. “Hector! Hector!” she called. “Honor these breasts, the breasts of your mother, which nourished you! I beg you, come inside! Do not face that man!”

Hector looked up. “Mother, cover yourself!” he ordered. He turned back. Achilles was within spear range.

Hector stared at him a moment. Troy’s greatest warrior stood his ground, legs planted firmly apart, head up. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he bolted and ran.

He ran faster than I could imagine. He tore around the walls of Troy. We could not circle the inside walls quickly enough to keep pace with him, keep him in our view, as Achilles chased him. What was he thinking? That our archers would shoot Achilles down? But Achilles was too close to the base of the walls for that, and no arrows could reach him. And he was too close to Hector the entire time. He was right behind him, as happens in the worst dream when we run and run and the
thing,
whatever it is, shadows us, trips our heels.

Three times Hector circled the walls of Troy. He could not shake Achilles. Then, at last, he stopped and faced him. He seemed to see someone beside him. I heard him, faintly, speak to Deiphobus. But Deiphobus was inside the walls with all the rest. I saw Deiphobus leaning over the ramparts, his usually smug face showing anguish.

“No, brother! No, it is not I! He fools you, a cruel god fools you!” he cried.

Could Hector even hear him, far below?

“Here I stand, Achilles!” cried Hector. “I run no more! But before we move, I swear to you, if I kill you I will keep your armor but not your body. Your comrades shall have it, to honor it. Swear the same to me!”

A silence, then a dreadful laugh. “You wear my armor already! So when I kill you, I’ll take it back, and have two sets at once. But as for a pact, an honor between us? No, lions make no pacts with men, they tear them apart. Wolves and lambs do not part in peace. One must die. And so with you and I.”

He took one small step forward and hurled his spear, but missed. Hector yelled, “So the godlike Achilles has missed his mark!” He threw at Achilles and his spear struck the shield but did not pierce it—how could it, made by a god?—and he called for Deiphobus to bring him a second weapon. Then Hector turned around and saw there was no one there, glanced up and saw his brother inside the walls. “Athena . . . you bitch, goddess-enemy of Troy, you have betrayed me.”

Athena, hating Troy, loving Achilles, had impersonated Deiphobus and then left Hector naked on the field. He knew what it meant. His doom, his destiny, was there by his side, breathing death upon him. “Ahh!” Hector reached for his sword and lunged toward Achilles, swinging at him with all the wildness of hopeless rage and grief.

Achilles stood coolly, watching him come, then cried out, “I know my own armor, where it is weak!” and plunged his spear into a place near the collarbone, in the neck, as Hector rushed upon him.

For an instant Hector hung there in the air, speared, then he toppled to the ground and lay on his back, arms sprawled. Achilles jumped over him and cried, “The birds and dogs will have their fill of you.”

Hector still moved; he was not dead. His arms scrabbled on each side and his chest heaved. From inside the helmet his voice carried faintly. “I beg you, in the name of your mother and father, to spare my corpse and let my countrymen bury me with honor. Take a ransom for me, ransom of bronze and gold, but give me to them.” His words faded away, his strength gone.

Achilles laughed again, more loudly, as if he had imbibed the ebbing power of Hector. “Beg me not, you fawning dog, and do not mention the name of my mother or father! Ransom? Nothing could ransom you, not even if Priam weighed out your weight in solid gold!”

Still Hector had some speech left. “So . . . no heart to you, hear my curse. Paris and Apollo will destroy you at the Scaean Gate. Mark it.” Then all speech stopped.

Then—so shameful it was excruciating to watch, and utterly without honor—Achilles cut the ankles of Hector, threaded them through, and dragged his body back to the Greek camp behind his chariot, laughing hysterically all the while. The poor dead Hector bounced behind the chariot, raising a cloud of dust.

I buried myself against Paris. “No, no!” I cried.

Priam screamed, and Hecuba stood like a statue. Someone went to fetch Andromache. She had been waiting within their chambers, drawing a hot bath for Hector. So many times had he gone out to battle, so many times had she welcomed him home. She had not wanted to watch at the walls, as if she believed that keeping the same ritual every day in their chambers would protect him from harm. But now, called, she came to the walls in time to see the dust cloud of Achilles’s chariot making for the Greek camp.