The Trojan War (17 page)

“River!” she called. “O tall brown god who loved me while I was yet a maid. River-god, strong brown lover, Axius, spirit of the Scamander, answer me now—for I have come to you once again.”

The river was a blackness spangled with gold in the moonlight. And gold was the color of the god who arose before her.

“Many tender maidens bathe in my stream,” he said. “Which one are you?”

“Andromache.”

“Oh, yes? … I think I remember. Very sweet and willing. How have you been since last we met?”

“Flourishing, my lord. I am wife to Hector, son of Priam, first among the princes of Troy.”

“Hector—the great warrior?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been wed?”

“Seven years.”

“Why have you left his bed and come to seek me now?”

“Tomorrow Hector fights Achilles.”

“Foolish child! Hurry home, wake him up, take him into your embrace! It is your last night together.”

“No.”

“No? Did you say it was Achilles he was fighting?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought. My dear child, no one, no one at all, engages Achilles in single combat and returns to his wife. It’s just not done. The man is completely fatal. Couching here on my river-bed I have watched him in action now for nine years and, believe me, he is the complete widow-maker. Go home and love your husband, lady; tomorrow you are a widow.”

“I beg leave to differ,” said Andromache. “There is something in woman that rebels against these ordinances of the Fates … these absolute iron edicts concerning the future. We do not like to foreclose on possibilities. To us the future is precisely that which is pregnant with new life, new chance, new luck. I have heard the prophecy concerning Hector, but I will not accept it. And I need an ally strong as Fate. That is why I have returned to you, O river-god.”

“Strong as fate? You flatter me. More powerful gods than I bow to fate. I do well enough here, but after all I am only a small local deity. Beyond the banks of this river I have no authority whatever.”

“Ahh—but rivers rise. Rivers rage. Rivers overflow their banks and extend their authority across great fields. They sweep away walls, cities. Rivers drink floods and grow to mighty torrents rivalling the sea. You are too modest, Axius. It is a new quality. I never noticed it before.”

“And you are a very clever, very persuasive lady,” said Axius. “Something I did notice before, but had forgotten. Speak plainly; what is it you want me to do? Ask me what you will, and if it is in my power I shall help you.”

“Trojan meets Greek upon your bank tomorrow. Hector will meet Achilles on your shore. Go into flood, my lord. Rage over your banks—but selectively. Sweep Achilles away. Drown him in his heavy armor.”

“How do you know they will fight upon my bank?”

“They shall. I promise.”

“Then I promise to do what I can. Sweet Andromache, you have returned to me on a night of hot moonlight when I was feeling old and stagnant, and have restored to me the lusty tides of my youth. I will do as you ask though stronger gods oppose me.”

Andromache returned to the palace and, later that morning, as she helped Hector on with his armor, she still gave off the fragrance of that river which half-girdled Troy, running from the mountains to the sea, with dragonflies blue as jewels darting at its ripples and with elm-tree and willow and tamarisk dipping toward their reflections. And yet it was a river which could change its temper with brutal suddenness—drinking rain, gulping floods from the hills, and rising, raging over its banks, devouring town and village.

And Hector, donning his shining armor, felt himself fill with the strength of that river whose presence had been brought into this room by his river-smelling wife.

Andromache spoke: “One request. You know I never meddle into your affairs. But do me this favor, my husband, my lord, and let me advise you out of a dream that came to me in the night.”

“Speak, my dear.”

“Do not seek Achilles beyond the Scamander, but stay within the bend of the river, and let him come to you. If you do so, according to my dream, you shall defeat the son of Peleus and win everlasting glory … and return to me after the battle is over.”

She fell to the ground and hugged his knees.

“Promise!” she cried. “Promise, oh, husband, please promise!”

“I promise,” he said.

A detachment of Trojans pretended to flee before Achilles and his Myrmidons, drawing them toward the Scamander. There they turned to face the Greeks within a half-circle of marshy land lying in a bend of the river. Achilles could not use his chariot; its wheels sank up to their hubs in the marshy ground. So he dismounted and fought on foot, followed closely by his Myrmidons. But mounted or afoot he moved through the Trojan ranks like Death itself with his scythe. Every thrust of his spear drank blood. Charging ahead he broke the Trojan ranks, and the brown columns of his Myrmidons, festive as ants, gorged their swords on the flesh of the scattered foe.

Now Hector and his picked guard charged into the marshy arc in a flank attack on the Myrmidons. Howling with ferocious joy Achilles sought Hector through the mob of fighting men.

“Stand, son of Priam!” he roared. “Try your stolen armor against my weapon’s edge! Stand and face me or my spear will find your life between your shoulderblades, and you shall die a shameful death!”

Despite himself Hector found his courage melting at the sound of that terrible voice. He did not turn and flee, but retreated slowly until his back was to the river and he could retreat no further.

“Now! Now!” shouted Achilles. “You have a narrow choice, killer of Patroclus. Death by water or death by blade.” And he drew back to hurl his spear. But Axius arose invisibly from the depths of the river and cast a cloak of mist about Hector. Achilles, poising his mighty lance, saw Hector disappear. Saw mist rising from the bank of the river, hiding his foe from sight. He cast his spear into the column of mist, but saw it sail harmlessly through and land in the river. For Axius had lifted Hector in his arms and borne him safely to the other side of the river. And all Achilles could see was tatters of mist drifting across the face of the water, and he knew that Hector had escaped his wrath once again.

Now, in terrible fury at this loss, he turned upon the other Trojans, and killed, and killed, and killed. The wet marshland grew wetter yet with running blood. Men sank to the top of their shin-greaves. Only Achilles remained lightfooted as a demi-god, running over the surface of the mud like marsh-fire. His new-moon sword rose and fell as if he were mowing a field. Every time it fell, a Trojan died.

Finally, the Trojans in panic fled into the river. But Achilles followed with his Myrmidons and slaughtered them as they tried to cross the ford. Bodies fell into the river and disappeared. The water ran red as sunset. Now Axius arose again from the depths of the river—in his own form this time—and Achilles found himself confronting a figure tall as a tree with greenish, coppery skin.

“Halt, Achilles,” he said in a voice that rumbled like a waterfall. “Son of Peleus, halt—before I drown you beneath fathoms of my outraged stream.”

“You must be the god of this river,” said Achilles. “Very well. I have no quarrel with you, my lord. My business is with Trojans.”

“But I have a quarrel with you, you tiger in human form. How dare you stain my waters with blood? Pollute my stream with corpses? Prince of Phthia, you have offered me deadly insult, and now you yourself must die.”

Axius leaned down scooping into the river with his mighty hands and flung a wave at Achilles. The heavy water hit him full, knocking him off his feet, tumbling over him. He fought for breath. Every time he tried to rise another wave knocked him down. The river-god stood waist-deep flinging torrents of water over the bank. Caught like a beetle in his heavy armor, unable to rise, Achilles was rolled over and over into the river itself. He must surely have drowned had not his mother been Thetis, daughter of Nereus, Old Man of the Sea, who bequeathed to all his descendants the power to breathe under water. But the Myrmidons had no such lineage; they were capable of drowning, and those that had followed Achilles into battle were caught in the rising waters and drowned, every one.

Achilles, who had stumbled to his feet, saw his men drowning about him, and could not help them. He sprang into the middle of the stream and challenged Axius, shouting: “Fight fair, you watery demon! I have contended with you in your element, and you have not killed me. Now come up on land and fight me with sword and spear.”

But Axius uttered a cataract laugh and, knowing now he could not drown Achilles, tried to crush him under a weight of water. He curled himself into a huge crested wave that towered taller than any building in Troy and smashed this entire mass of water down on Achilles, who was hurled to the bottom of the river. He felt himself being pummeled, beaten, choked—felt an unbearable pressure squeezing his ribs. His arms were crushed against his sides; he could not even raise his sword.

Seeing his enemy pinned helplessly to the river-bed, Axius now scooped up boulder after boulder and rained them down on the Greek hero—like a boy pelting the ground with stones, trying to squash an ant.

But Thetis, Lady of the Living Waters, knew everything that was happening in every sea and stream and river of which the earth drank. Rising swift as thought from the depths of the sea she appeared before Hephaestus, who worked at his smoky forge inside his volcano. Clasping him in her cool arms she flew the hot little lame god to the lips of the crater, and said: “Look! See what’s happening! Axius is murdering my son!”

Hephaestus, blissful as a babe always at Thetis’ touch, half-dazed before the sea-magic of her beauty, dived back into the volcano, returned with an armful of fire from his forge. Now this fire is hotter than man ever sees burning in any furnace. It is the essential flame, the very core of flame, burning deep in the bowels of the earth, and is the source of all flame. And the lame god cast this fire that was hotter than fire down upon the river-bank. It kindled reeds, elm-trees, willows, and heated the mud itself to a molten mass. The river boiled. Axius, god of the river, felt his flesh scorching. And while he was a god and could not die, he could feel pain, and the pain of Hephaestus’ red fire was so terrible that he cried: “Hold, Hephaestus, hold! Hold off your red fire! And I will break my vow to Andromache and allow the son of Thetis to escape!”

The smith-god recalled his fire. Axius dived to the river-bottom to cool off his blistered shoulders. Achilles staggered to his feet, took off his helmet, emptied it of water, then clapped it on his head again, forded the river, and set off in chase of Hector.

Andromache, watching from the city wall, had been seized with great joy when she saw the river rise. She was filled with a marvellous laughing happiness when she saw Axius hurl his crested wave and bury Achilles under tons of water. But when she saw the banks burst into flame, saw the river boil, and the river-god’s hair burning, and heard his wailing—when she saw Achilles rise from the depths of the river like the spirit of vengeance itself, the terrible tin of his greaves cleaving the water, and saw him race over the plain seeking Hector, and the light flashing from his sun-disk shield and his new moon-sword—then she knew that in him was gathered the strength of a natural force, crushing all plots and stratagems and wifely schemes—then she knew that Hector was doomed.

“I will not watch him being killed,” she said to herself. “I cannot bear it. No wife should be made to watch her husband being butchered. I will go back now and get my baby and, at the very moment that Hector falls, I will leap with my son in my arms, dashing out our lives on the plain below. Thus father, son, and wife will be burned on one pyre, and cheer each other on the last journey to Erebus.”

She left the wall and went to her home. Entering the nursery she took her babe from the nurse’s arms. But when she looked into its face her strength deserted her and she fell into a swoon.

Now, in the shadow of the wall, watched by his father and his mother and all the people of the court, Hector turned to face Achilles—breathing one last prayer as he did so:

“I call to you, Apollo. I ask not for victory, for victory cannot be given, it must be taken. All I ask is that my courage last; that my marrow does not freeze at his terrible war-shout; that my knees do not melt before the white-hot fury of his lipless face; that I can stand my ground before his dread charge, and meet him weapon upon weapon without fleeing. My father watches on the wall. The pride of Troy rides upon my shoulders. Fair Apollo, bright Phoebus, I pray you, let me face my death like a man.”

Apollo heard and sent down a shaft of sunlight that hit the back of Hector’s neck, gilding his helmet and warming his courage so that he stood full to Achilles’ charge. Met him sword upon sword and shield upon shield, standing firmly planted before that fearful rush that no other man had ever withstood.

But Achilles felt himself being caressed by a delicious chill. He was bathed in sweet combative airs. The clash of weapons was bright music to which he moved perfectly, as in a dance. And he was happy to have a partner for this deadly dance, happy that Hector did not break and run before him. He wanted to feast himself slowly and gluttonously on the death of the Trojan who had killed Patroclus. His new-moon sword flashed. It locked with Hector’s sword. Intimately the blades writhed. A great shout went up from the walls of Troy as the people there saw their champion stand so stoutly against Achilles, parrying his thrusts, blade meeting blade in equal play.

“Can it be?” thought old Priam. “Will my long years be crowned by this enormous glory? Will my son really be able to stand against this monster?”

Achilles laughed aloud as he felt the force of Hector’s parry.

“Well done,” Achilles said. “You’re as good a man as ever I met. Almost as good as the one you killed—but for that one you shall pay.”

Hector did not answer. He saved his breath for fighting. He was putting all his strength into every parry and counterthrust, and so far had met sword with sword and had kept the terrible new-moon blade from shearing through his armor. But every stroke now that Achilles aimed seemed to fall from a great height, seemed to fall with greater and greater weight as if it were plunging toward the center of earth. Hector felt his arms grow weary, his shoulders numb with the weight of his own muscle bunching to move his arms. Achilles’ blows fell with greater and greater weight, and the laughing voice grated in his ear.