The Trojan War (13 page)

Hector went purple in the face with rage, smacking his men with the flat of his sword, trying to harry them forward. Ajax, knowing his strength multiplied, stooped to pick up an enormous boulder lying half-buried in the sand—a massive rock, seemingly rooted in the beach—which twelve men had been unable to move. He raised it above his head with an easy motion and hurled it straight at Hector. It hit the Trojan hero’s shield, driving the shield against his chest, knocking him flat. He seemed to be crushed like a beetle; he lay under the rock, legs kicking feebly. But then with a last indomitable effort he thrust himself from under the boulder, and lay there, unable to rise, vomiting blood. Aeneas it was who lifted him onto his shoulders and rushed back toward Troy. Prince Troilus covered their flight, fighting like a young lion.

But when Hector left the field, the Trojans were shattered. The retreat was becoming a rout. By this time Poseidon had ranged behind the Greek lines where the wounded leaders stood in a cluster watching the battle. Agamemnon was there, Diomedes, and Ulysses. Patroclus was there too, tending their wounds. The comrade of Achilles was the most skilled surgeon among the Hellenes. Poseidon, keeping himself invisible, spoke to them in sea-whispers. A huge salt wave of health broke upon their blood, healing them, knitting bone, mending flesh. With loud, glad cries they leaped into their chariots and lent such strength to the Greek countercharge that the Trojans were driven back through the breach of the rampart, scrambling back over the fosse. Troilus tried to make a stand, so did Antenor, and a few other of the most redoubtable Trojan warriors, but they could not stem the Greeks alone, and finally had to flee after the Trojan force which had fled before.

Bedded on flowers and sweet grass, wrapped in a fleecy cloud, Zeus slept in Hera’s arms; and everywhere, except on the Dardanian plain where the battle wore on, lovers touched each other in sleepy rapture. Everywhere, over field and meadow, hung a haze of pollen thickening to a golden drift under the slant rays of the afternoon sun—so that lovers moving toward each other through the grass felt themselves cleaving a heavier substance than air, felt their very blood fusing into a golden heat.

But on the Dardanian plain men killed each other. Heavy metal blades cracked bone, sheared through flesh. Beautiful young men, naked under their armor, drowned in their own blood. And still the Greeks pursued and Trojans fled.

High upon Mt. Ida, on a peak called Gargarus, Zeus slept in Hera’s arms. But Hera did not sleep. Drowsy though she was, still her interest in earthly affairs kept her from joining her husband in slumber. Which turned out to be a mistake …

Moving very carefully, very slowly, she slipped out of his embrace, slithered out from between flower bed and cloud cover, and walked to the edge of the precipice. She looked down upon the Dardanian plain. What she saw made her forget her caution and laugh aloud in triumph. The Trojans were in full flight, pursued by furiously yelling Greeks whose swords and spearheads dripped with blood.

With Hector gone, Paris fled, Troilus and Aeneas wounded, the Trojans were a disorganized rabble instead of an army. It appeared as though the Greeks might be able to storm the walls of Troy there and then. Again Hera laughed.

Too loudly! She heard Zeus grumble. She had thought him deep asleep. She whirled about. To her horror she saw him sit up, stretch, yawn—and scratch his monumental chest. She ran to him and knelt upon the flower-bed, stroking his shoulders.

“Do not awake, dear lord!” she murmured. “Sleep, sleep.”

But Zeus stood up. The habit of vigilance was strong upon him. Besides, into the depths of his sleep had wound a skein of mocking laughter. He put her aside gently and walked to the edge of the precipice.

“Don’t look down there!” she cried. “Why trouble yourself with mundane affairs? Rest, rest, great lord of creation! The rusty old earth will turn a few turns without you.”

But Zeus was looking down upon the plain. His huge brow was furrowed like striated rock. He whirled and took Hera’s throat in those enormous hands that crack stars like peanuts.

“Things have changed,” he said softly, “since we two lay down together. I left the Trojans ascendant. They had breached the rampart and were driving toward the Greek ships. And now, what do I find? Poseidon down there, my treacherous brother, who has turned the tide of battle so that the Greeks are everywhere triumphant. Tell me, was it coincidence, sweet sister, steadfast wife? Was our sudden encounter after all these centuries one of those happy accidents? Or perhaps part of a deeper design?”

“I can scarcely follow what you are saying,” said Hera. “Poseidon at Troy? The Greeks winning? But this is a very abrupt change—as surprising to me as it is to you. What can Poseidon be thinking of to defy your edicts this way? It’s dreadful.”

“Be still! Don’t try to play with me. I am very angry.”

“Angry at me? Do you so soon forget the delicious hour we spent?”

“No, I do not forget. And I may even look forward to other such hours—unless, of course, I decide to punish you so painfully that you will seek to avoid my company. However, we can postpone that decision. Let me attend to Poseidon first.”

The God of the Sea stood tall in his golden armor just beyond the beach, balancing himself on the surf like a child on a skateboard. From time to time he uttered a great northwind yell to hearten the Greeks. But matters were going so well now, he had little to do but watch the battle. Suddenly the sky growled. He looked up. No storm clouds at all, but a wide fair expanse of blueness.

Out of the blue sky shot a thunderbolt—a hooked shaft of white-hot light, burning the air as it passed. It plunged into the water, just missing Poseidon, immediately turning the sea to steam.

“What are you doing?” cried Hera, pleading with Zeus above. “Are you trying to destroy your own brother, Poseidon, Lord of the Deep? Think of the consequences.”

“He should have thought of the consequences,” growled Zeus. “I
am
consequence.”

“Consider his record,” pleaded Hera. “He may have transgressed a bit this afternoon, but after all up until now he has been the most neutral of the gods in this war, has been the one who has obeyed your edicts most strictly.”

“That is why my first bolt missed,” said Zeus. “As you know I usually hit what I aim at. I hope it serves as a warning. For my second bolt will not miss; it will gaff him like a fish.”

But there was no need for another bolt. When Poseidon saw the white-hot zigzag shaft of lightning hit the water he was bathed in steam; felt that he was being boiled like a lobster. And he knew that Zeus had seen him, and was angry. Pausing only to flick a quick idea at Ulysses, he uttered a whistle, which evoked his dolphin chariot in the wink of an eye. Instantly he had mounted the chariot, and was gone—down, down into the depths of the cool sea where all the creatures are too busy eating each other to bother about such things as war.

Poseidon’s last idea flew like a dart and hit Ulysses painlessly in the neck, passing into his head, nestling just beneath his consciousness ready to sprout as a full-fledged idea when its time should come.

“I cannot tell whether you are guilty or innocent,” said Zeus to Hera. “Perhaps I do not want to know. It is the essence of a beautiful woman that she bewilder—and in this a goddess is as a woman—so let it be. But do nothing from now on to change my opinion of your innocence. In other words, dear wife, keep your meddling hands off that war below, or I’ll cut them off.”

“Yes, husband,” murmured Hera.

“Now fly back to Olympus and send Apollo to me. We must undo the harm you have done. Let him come immediately.”

Hera was frightened. She did not take the time to fly but translated herself back to Olympus where she said to her stepson, Apollo:

“Go … go. … Go swiftly to Zeus. He awaits you on Mt. Ida, on the peak called Gargarus. He wants you immediately.”

Apollo appeared before Zeus, who said: “That briny uncle of yours has played us false. He has appeared among the Greeks, endowing them with such strength and courage that they are about to overwhelm the Trojans. I suspend my act of neutrality now—or at least amend it—so that we may be neutral on the Trojan side. Go to work, dear Phoebus. Rally the Trojans. Make them fight again, and prevail.”

Now, Apollo, of course, had watched that afternoon’s fighting, and had been much impressed by the feat of Hector with the chariot wheel. He took a spare wheel of his sun-chariot, one of those glittering golden disks, that, trundling across the blue meadow of the sky, refract the eternal fire as they turn, flashing; and that fire falls to earth in a benign glow that men call sunshine. He took this heavy glittering wheel, and, holding it as a shield, flew to earth.

He appeared among the Trojans, flashing his sun-shield at them and kindling their courage, burning away fears and hesitations. He went to where Hector lay on a litter, pale and crushed and unconscious, almost dead from the blow of Ajax’s boulder. Apollo focused light upon the fallen hero who, in the clammy grip of his swoon, felt the cockles of his heart warming, felt his every vessel filling with sap, putting forth buds. The amazed Trojans saw Hector arise, flushed with heat, eyes glittering.

“What are we doing here?” he cried in a voice like a trumpet. “Why here, in the shadow of our walls? For shame! For shame! The last I remember we were beyond the rampart, advancing upon the Greek ships, ready to put them to the torch. And now, and now … How could we have retreated so far? So soon?”

Troilus spoke. He had refused to be carried beyond the walls for treatment despite grievous wounds.

“I’m with you, brother!” he cried. “Both my arms are broken, but I can still lower my head and charge like a stag.”

Aeneas, also wounded, said: “A breath ago we were gripped by despair, ready to yield the city. And now—such a change! It is obvious, good friends, that a god is among us, that we have again earned the support of heaven, which we had lost for a bitter interval this afternoon. But the favor of gods abides only among the brave. So, forward under Hector! Forward! Forward!”

“Each prince to his chariot!” shouted Hector. “We will mount a chariot charge, one such as our fathers mounted in days of old, and still lie about.”

Now, the Greeks, who had been enjoying themselves chasing the Trojan rabble across the field and spearing them like rabbits, found everything changed. Instead of a fleeing mob scurrying toward Troy, they saw a rank of bright chariots rushing toward them with terrible speed. They heard the squeal of wheel against axle, heard the clank of weapons, and the bugling neigh of the chariot-steeds, and their eyes were assailed by splintering light. They saw light gathered in their enemy; light in sheaves, in quivers, in darts and lances; light splintering off breastplate and helmet, and brass wheel and brass coach, and the brass corselets of the chariot-horses. Light that splintered, quivered, danced; refracted by Apollo’s sun-shield—which, keeping himself invisible, Apollo wielded behind the Trojan lines, harrying them forward with bright cries. And the Greeks, seeing these phalanxes of light, hearing the bright trampling triumph of the chariot charge, knew indeed that the god who had been helping them had deserted the field and that a god who loved their enemy had descended in his stead. They turned and fled. Fled from the shadow of the city wall over the corpse-littered field, in their fearful haste stepping on the bodies of men fallen, not caring whether they were friend or foe.

Back the Greeks swarmed, back over the field, scrambled across the fosse, streamed through the breach in the rampart, and took a stand only when they had reached the first line of ships. The Trojans, doubtless, would have stormed through and begun to burn the ships had it not been for the superb courage of Great Ajax, Ulysses, Diomedes, and Agamemnon, who kept their heads through all the dismay of the route, and rallied their men to beat the Trojans back from the ships.

Great Ajax sprang on board his own ship. He snatched up his thirty-foot mast from where it nested in its cradle on deck, and flourished the enormous shaft as if it were a light throwing lance. He swept it over the gunwales of his ship breaking Trojan skulls like eggs, helmets and all, and swept the deck clear.

Then it was that the glinting dart of Poseidon’s last idea which he had planted in Ulysses’ head began to flower. Ulysses, close-hemmed between Diomedes and Little Ajax and locking shields with both, suddenly whispered to them: “Dear comrades, I quit you only on a matter of strategy. Lock your shields.”

He backed away, took the shields of Little Ajax and Diomedes in his hands, and lapped them with each other, and no gap appeared in the line. He then simply walked away from the battle, walked toward the tent of Achilles which stood with the Myrmidon fleet at the other end of the beach.

“This is it!” he said to himself. “A master notion. Achilles still sulks in his tent ignoring our mortal peril, the death of his comrades, the humiliation of Greek arms, and the certain destruction of the fleet. But he is still nourished by that poison pride of his, and by his justified rancor against Agamemnon, and he still refuses to fight. Nevertheless, suppose his dear friend, Patroclus, were to impersonate him? Don his armor, wield his weapons, ride his chariot, and lead his Myrmidons into the field? That would be a superb stroke. One of two things must happen: Either the Trojans will believe that Patroclus is Achilles, and, seeing him, flee in terror, as they always have; or, they will see through the disguise and kill him. Then, if Patroclus falls, Achilles will have to choose between two passions—his pride and his love for his friend. And, I am sure, with his dear friend fallen, that great heart will burst with spleen, and he will take arms and sweep the field like plague. Either way we can’t lose. All I have to do is persuade Patroclus to talk Achilles into lending him arms and armor.”

Achilles’ tent was cool after the hot sun. And the young warrior, seeing Ulysses so battleworn, refused to let him say a word of business until a slave girl had been summoned to loosen his armor, bathe his feet, swab his face and neck with a cool scented cloth, and bring him a restorative drink of barley steeped in honey.