The Trojan War (8 page)

Ajax did not pose on his followthrough, but let it take him into a wild-boar rush upon his foe—his signature in battle. Hector barely had time to scoop up a boulder. He did not have time to hurl it, only bowled it across the ground. He cast it so skillfully that it took Ajax’s legs out from under him, and the big man sprawled on the ground. Then Hector whipped out his sword and rushed toward the fallen Ajax to cut off his head.

Ajax, seeing him come, picked up the boulder which had felled him and, still lying on his back, hurled it at Hector. It hit him on the breastplate and knocked him off his feet. Both men pulled themselves up and stepped toward each other, swords flashing. Blades clanged against breastplate and helmet. Ajax stood still, pivoting, aiming huge scything blows as Hector circled him, half-crouched, darting in and out, using edge and point. Both men were bruised, shaken, and bloody. Neither yet had the advantage.

It was at this point that Apollo intervened—without meaning to. He had not intended to meddle in the fighting. There had always been some coldness between him and father Zeus, and he did not dare defy the high god’s orders the way Athena did. So, after his consultation with the owl-goddess, which had resulted in Hector’s challenge and Ajax’s reply, he had flown off to intercept his sun-chariot, which, in his absence, was being driven by Helios, his charioteer. The sun-god took Helios’ place in the chariot, gathered the reins in one hand, and whipped up the fire-maned stallions. They set off in a swinging trot across the blue meadow of the sky, heading toward its western rim.

But when Apollo heard the shouting of Greek and Trojan far below, heard the clang of sword against shield, he dipped lower to watch the fighting. The duel was so exciting, he grew so fascinated that, for the first time in memory, he neglected his duties as the sun’s coachman and allowed the stallions to stay in one spot grazing on the fluffy white cloud-blossoms. He kept the chariot reined in, burning a hole in the air, charring the earth below … until he smelled something burning. He saw great clouds of smoke pierced by dancing flames where the lingering coach had set forests ablaze. He put his horses to a gallop, leaving that place as quickly as he could, and fled, bright as a comet, toward the stables of night. But the land below had been charred over great distances, making a waste place which, today, men call the Sahara.

His gallop westward had drawn a curtain of night across the earth. Greek and Trojan, amazed, saw the afternoon sun drop like a red-hot coal, hissing, into the sea beyond the western wall of the city. Hector and Ajax groped for each other in darkness.

Heralds bearing long willow wands rushed forth from the Trojan lines and the Greek lines, calling:

“Night! Night! Sudden night! Leave off fighting and seek your tents, for the light has flown.”

This was the way they ended battles in those days.

Hector and Ajax stopped fighting. They felt the night wind on their hot brows. All at once, these duelling warriors who had avoided killing each other only by the blunder of a god, felt closer to each other than to anyone else on earth.

“Noble Hector,” said Ajax, “I have never met a worthier foe.”

“Nor have I, sir,” said Hector. “Truly I am glad that the light was so magically brief. I welcome this pause.”

“We shall resume tomorrow, no doubt,” said Ajax. “In the meantime let us sleep. But, pray, take this as a gift and a remembrance.”

He unbuckled a purple belt from about his waist. It was of thick, soft wool embroidered in gold and black with the figures of dolphins that play off Salamis, and do odd favors for men.

“Thank you, great Ajax. It is a beautiful cincture; I shall wear it proudly. But take you this. It has never been yielded, sir, but now it is freely given.”

Hector, then, whom a generous gesture always moved to an excess of generosity in return, handed Ajax his silver-hilted sword. The two warriors embraced, turned, and went back to their own lines as the first stars trembled steel-blue in the black sky.

M
ORNING LIGHT REVEALED THE
battlefield so littered with corpses that Greek and Trojan agreed to a truce so that they might honor their dead, build pyres, offer to the gods, and consign the bodies to decent flame.

That morning, too, Zeus called a council of the gods on Olympus. All the members of the Pantheon were required to attend.

Zeus spoke: “Brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, wife … Many a time have I warned you, gathered here in sacred convocation, and individually to your faces, that I permit no direct intercession on the part of any god in the war below. We may keep our favorites, we may grant godlike dispensations and civilities from the privilege of our godheads, but we are not permitted to descend upon the field and actually handle arms like brawling mortals. Yet, as often as I have issued my edicts, that many times have they been disobeyed.

“Gods … I am not accustomed to being disobeyed. The very notion violates not only my principles but my identity. There can be no Zeus where there is defiance of Zeus. You have violated my decrees, some of you, and have intervened on both sides of the battle. Only yesterday my eyes were offended by the unseemly spectacle of brother and sister actually spearing each other on the reeking plain. Do you not know that this is the way that gods destroy themselves? Not by being conquered, not by invasion, through no act of foe, but by stooping beneath themselves—by behaving like mortals. To behave like a mortal is to forfeit immortality. To behave like that animal called man is to forfeit divinity. What is mankind to think when it sees Athena fighting with Ares—in other words, Wisdom in conflict with Warfare? Man seeing this can no longer be either wise or warlike. And since this race of man was created for our edification and amusement, such a falling away from the great creative principles of survival will provide us with an earthful of dull automata whose antics we will find most boring through eternity.

“I repeat my edict then, and for the last time. If I catch any of you, and I mean anyone, no matter who he is or what high domain he rules, if I catch any god or goddess directly aiding either Greek or Trojan, then I shall take that offender and cast him or her down into the depths of hell. Yes, I will plunge that one into the blackness of Hades. There I will fork him with the roots of a mountain, as a boy catches a snake in a cleft stick, so that he cannot budge, but must lie there with giant worms passing in and out of each eye-socket … still alive, still possessing all his strength, all his desires, but unable to move, unable to turn or shift, unable to be comforted. And this through eternity … Any questions?”

There was only silence.

Finally, Poseidon, who always stood on his dignity with his brother, Zeus, said: “Really … these mortals and their affairs are so petty. So unsavory. I don’t see how any god can concern himself overmuch with this breed. Oh, we play favorites, to be sure. I suppose that I tend to prefer the Trojans simply because the Greeks have offended me more in times past. And yet … really, to choose between them would be like discriminating among columns of ants as they converge upon a breadcrumb one has shaken from one’s board.”

Then, casting a sidelong glance at Zeus, he continued:

“Look at them now. Those Greeks are so arrogant and impious. Why they are building their funeral barrows and none of them has thought to sacrifice to Zeus, Lord of Life. Have the Trojans sacrificed to you, brother? Oh, yes, I believe they are doing so now. Aren’t those white bulls they are slaughtering? Yes. Well, as I said, little there is to choose between them, yet the Trojans do seem a bit more courteous. But for a god to intercede? Folly …”

Poseidon arose, shook the billows of his green garments, combed his beard with his fingers, and struck three times with his trident upon the marble floor, summoning a tidal wave which curled its awful cold, green tongue over Olympus. He slipped into the cusp of that enormous wave, and upon his command it subsided, rolling him down into the ocean depths where stood his castle of coral and pearl. But the sea-god left behind him, slyly kindled, a wrath in the heart of Zeus, because he had been given the idea that the Greeks had neglected sacrificing to him.

Dismissing the council after his tirade against intervention, Zeus decided to do a little something himself to discomfit the Greeks. He translated himself to Mt. Ida where he had a summer home. He sat on the peak of Ida looking down upon the battlefield. Poseidon’s gibe had worked; he was full of rancor against the Greeks. Now Mt. Ida is to the north of Troy, and the Trojans faced westward as they tried to drive the Greeks into the sea, so that when Zeus thundered he thundered from the Trojan right, an ancient sign of good fortune. When Hector heard the thundering, he leaped to his feet and cried:

“Enough of truce, brothers! I hear thunder on the right! Hear it? It is a sign from Zeus; he favors us in the battle to come. So let it begin! To the attack!”

The Trojans armed themselves and began a furious attack upon the Greek positions, driving the Greeks backward upon their ships. Diomedes tried to lead a counterattack, and indeed breached the Trojan lines. His chariot was drawn by the marvellous team of Aeneas, and this get of the sun-stallions was faster than any horses ever foaled. But as he sped toward Hector, spear poised, Zeus spotted him, and hurled his lightning bolt. Thunder crashed. Lightning struck directly in front of Diomedes’ chariot. There was an eerie flash, a suffocating smell of sulphur. The horses reared. Diomedes tried to whip them through the smoke, but Zeus threw another thunderbolt. Again the heavens crashed on the Trojans’ right flank; again the searing flash of lightning in Diomedes’ path; again the sulphur stench. The stallions reared again, whinnying in fright. And Diomedes realized that Zeus had decided to favor the Trojans that day, or that hour. He reined in his steeds and drove back to the Greek lines.

Hector led another savage charge toward the ships. They were protected by a deep ditch, called a fosse. Behind the ditch were earthworks of sand. On top of the sand hummocks, and entrenched behind them, were Greeks. Hector and his brothers began to throw rocks into the fosse, and to throw planks across it, so that they could cross over. Sword in hand they fought their way over their rude bridges and began to climb the earthworks.

Watching from Olympus, Hera cried:

“My Greeks are being defeated! I can’t bear the sight of it! Will no god help me? Then I must go alone to save them.”

But Apollo said: “No, stepmother, it would not be prudent. Do not tempt the wrath of Zeus. Every word he said to us this morning was freighted with the promise of eternal humiliation and torment for the god who would defy him. I know him well. You should know him better. If he sees you crossing the sky in your chariot he will transfix you with a lightning bolt. Alas, I know those lightning bolts; I know how they can kill, for did he not slay two of my sons? You remember Phaeton, who borrowed my sun-chariot, and, careless youthful impetuous driver that he was, drove too high, too low, alternately scorching and freezing the earth. Yes, Zeus toppled him from his chariot with one cast of his fiery spear. And there was some justice to it, I suppose; it is the duty of Zeus to protect his realms. But how cruelly and with what little cause did he send his shaft through my son, Asclepius, the marvellous physician, whose only transgression was that he saved so many of his patients from death that it displeased dark Hades, King of the Underworld, who saw himself being deprived of clients, and complained to his brother, Zeus. And Zeus complied by killing my wonderful son. So, stepmother, I beg you, do not dare that awful wrath. Do not attempt to help the Greeks. It is not their day today. Return to your peak, and abide the question.”

Hera was convinced. She returned to her peak and sorrowfully watched the Greeks being routed below. Now the Greeks were driven back upon their ships. If they allowed the Trojans to advance any further, the ships would surely be burned, and with them all hopes of sailing homeward ever again. Agamemnon tried to exhort his men, and his phrasing was as tactless as ever.

“Cowards!” he bellowed. “Empty braggarts. Are you those who claimed one Greek was worth a hundred Trojans? A hundred Trojans? Stand the numbers on their head and we may arrive at something more sensible. For have I not seen one Trojan, Hector, driving a hundred of you at spearpoint like a shepherd dog herding sheep?”

His voice broke into hoarse sobs. Tears streamed from his eyes. He turned his face to the sky, and said: “Oh, father Zeus, why are you punishing me so? Have I not always sacrificed bulls to you, the very finest I could cull from my herd? Great white bulls with black eyes and polished horns and coral nostrils? Swaying broad-backed white oxen too? Or did I perchance by error neglect some sacrifice or libation to you? Is it for this your hand falls so heavily upon me and my men, delivering us to the enemy? Did not you yourself send me a dream bidding me attack the Trojans, promising me victory? Is this the price of my obedience? Oh, father Zeus, have mercy. Let me at least drive the Trojans a little way from my ships if you can vouchsafe me no greater victory.”

Although Zeus was still annoyed at the Greeks and still intent to keep his promise to Thetis that the Greeks would be denied victory until Agamemnon should plead for Achilles’ help, still he was touched by the Mycenean king’s plea, and he relented a bit. This took the form of fresh courage firing the Greek hearts. Crude as Agamemnon’s words were, still the Greeks responded to his speech, and launched a counterattack. They hurled down the plank bridges, and drove the Trojans back from the lip of the fosse.

Teucer now became the most effective of the Hellenes. Hiding behind the enormous shield of his brother, Ajax, he shot arrow after arrow, and it was as if Zeus himself personally guided each shaft. He loosed nine arrows and each one of them killed a man. Nine Trojans fell, nine of the best. With his genius for saying the wrong thing, Agamemnon now rushed up to Teucer, crying:

“Hail, great archer! Every arrow you let fly kills another Trojan. But you must redouble your efforts. Snatch your arrows faster from the quiver. Notch them more speedily to your bowstring, and shoot one after the other without delay. For you must kill as many Trojans as possible while Zeus smiles on you. His smiles are brief, as well we know.”