The Siege of Troy Read online

  “She must have loved you very much,” Helen said. “How could you leave her?”

  He shrugged, as if the matter was no concern of his, then changed his mind.

  “It’s not easy to love someone who’s immortal. Someone who never ages, someone who is never in pain, when you know that you yourself will one day die and be replaced by others, when you watch your body begin to shrink, when you lose your hair, your strength, your desire. I wanted a woman who would age along with me, who would lose me, or I would lose her. Love without pain is nothing.”

  That was what he said, and that night Helen slept badly. She had a good marriage with Menelaus, and she wasn’t unhappy in Sparta, but the gentle, melancholy expression in Paris’s eyes had aroused something within her: the dream of a different life, away from the dusty roads of Sparta, away from the sharp, challenging eyes of the Spartans. Away from her husband’s silence. Menelaus never spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. He saved his tender, quiet words of love for his war horses.

  To put it simply, she was in love. It was wonderful. When she saw Paris, hundreds of butterflies danced in her breast. Her husband—whom she had chosen herself—was stronger than most men, but he had been raised to wage war, not to sit up late whispering softly to her.

  Who could blame her?

  Who could blame Paris?

  Evening after evening they were together. One thing led to another, and one fine day Helen took a considerable portion of her generous dowry and ran away with Paris.

  That was the beginning of a war that would last ten years.

  The lovers’ crime was not insignificant. The Achaean kings, with Agamemnon at their head, had sworn that they would support Helen’s chosen husband. Menelaus wanted his wife back, and he wanted to punish the man who had stolen her away. He believed that Paris had forced Helen to go with him; he couldn’t imagine that she would desire another man.

  The conflict began badly. The Achaean fleet had gathered in the harbor of the small town of Aulis, but there wasn’t a breath of wind; not so much as a leaf moved for months. The Achaeans sacrificed one bull after another, and countless sheep; they begged and prayed for wind, but their sails drooped like a donkey’s ears. Eventually they turned to Calchas, the old seer. His advice was simple: Agamemnon must sacrifice his beloved daughter Iphigenia. However, he refused, incurring the wrath of the others, especially Odysseus and Menelaus: “Are we going to be stuck here for years, just for the sake of a little girl?”

  Agamemnon gave in and asked Iphigenia to come to Aulis on the pretext that she was to be betrothed to Achilles, the greatest of all heroes. It’s easy to imagine how the sixteen-year-old’s heart skipped a beat when she heard the news. All the girls dreamed of that well-built, fair-haired young man; according to the rumors, he was the son of a sea goddess. Iphigenia suspected nothing. The journey from Mycenae to Aulis took a couple of weeks, which she spent dreaming of the life that awaited her. And it’s equally easy to imagine how devastated she must have been when her father laid her on the sacrificial altar with his own hands as he shed bitter tears.

  “Why must I die, Father?” Iphigenia asked. Agamemnon’s only answer was that sometimes it is necessary to sacrifice oneself for one’s country, or one’s honor for another person’s honor; he could hear exactly how hollow those words sounded. They weren’t just lies; they were a nauseating betrayal. And yet the girl must die. Then at last came the favorable winds that carried the Achaeans to the coast of Troy and the decade-long, desolate war.

  Agamemnon paced back and forth in his tent, a nagging sense of unease filling his mind as he waited for the other kings and generals. They had trusted him so far—but for how much longer? Particularly after the spectacle of the previous day.

  An old man in a white robe had turned up in the Achaean camp, carrying a golden staff. He brought valuable gifts of gold and cattle. He wasn’t just anyone, he was the high priest from the temple of the sun god Apollo, up in the mountains. The men immediately flocked around him, knowing what this was about. Their commander, Agamemnon, had stolen away the high priest’s daughter, Chryseis, the girl with the sparkling eyes. Over and over again her inconsolable father had pleaded with Agamemnon to set his daughter free. It was already ordained that she would one day become high priestess in Apollo’s temple.

  Agamemnon had always refused. Many of the men and their commanders thought this was wrong, an offense against the god, but they didn’t dare to voice their opinions.

  What would happen this time?

  Would Agamemnon realize that not even a powerful king can oppose the will of the gods?

  “You’re a slow learner, old man. Why are you hanging around here?” he said.

  The priest was no coward.

  “Mighty Agamemnon, listen to me one last time. You can see all the gifts I have brought for you and your men. All I want is my child.”

  Agamemnon laughed.

  “Unfortunately I want her too.”

  “But I also bring another great gift, one that cannot be seen. Apollo, the ruler of the sun, has promised you a great victory in this war, and a safe journey home.”

  The faces of the battle-weary troops lit up. May there be an end to this terrible war. May they return safe and well to their families. Even though they didn’t say a word, their longing was so palpable that Agamemnon felt it rushing toward him like a warm wind. This made him even more angry. He had sacrificed his daughter to get to this war, but now he couldn’t give up another girl in order to win it and to save many people from the darkness of death.

  “Your daughter will come with me to my home, and she will grow old there. Until then she will work at the loom here and share my bed at night. Go away, old man, and don’t let me see you again. If I do, not even your god will be able to protect you from my rage,” he replied, as stubborn as a mule.

  Everyone was horrified, especially Chryseis’s unhappy father, who left the camp with tears in his eyes and walked slowly home beside the restless sea.

  “Make them suffer for every one of my tears,” he prayed to Apollo. And that’s exactly what happened.

  The army’s already difficult situation became even more difficult. A merciless sun tormented them all day long, from early morning until late afternoon. The sea lay as still as a toad. Not a single ripple. It was also full of poisonous jellyfish. The men dared not bathe, and their food went bad very quickly in the searing heat. They were dirty, hungry, and tired. They barely had enough energy to put on their armor. They behaved like lost children during the daily battles, allowing themselves to be slaughtered like cattle.

  Something had to be done, and Agamemnon was summoned to a council of war. When everyone had taken their seats, the Achaeans’ greatest hero and warrior turned to Agamemnon.

  “I think it’s time to reconsider. The army can’t hold out much longer. A plague has swept through the ranks, the men are suffering because of the strength of the bold Trojans and because of the fury of the gods. We must consult a seer or someone skilled in interpreting the flight of birds. What can we do to turn the fortunes of war to our advantage?”

  After Achilles had spoken, he sat down. Calchas was also present; he was a well-known interpreter of the flight of birds, and he saw the future as clearly as he saw the past and present. He had led their swift warships through every danger and brought them safely to the green coast of Troy. He immediately rose to his feet.

  “Achilles, favorite of the gods, you want me to tell you why Apollo is angry. I will do so, but you must promise to protect me, because I believe that the man who rules over us will be enraged.”

  “Speak up without fear, Calchas. I swear that as long as I live no Achaean will harm you, not even if you are thinking of the noblest among us,” Achilles assured him.

  Calchas then explained that the sun god was not angry because the Achaeans hadn’t sacrificed en
ough bulls or sheep, but because Agamemnon had insulted his priest and the priest’s daughter, who was designated to follow in her father’s footsteps.

  “If fair-haired, sparkling-eyed Chryseis is not returned to her father, the Achaeans will never win this war.”

  With those words he sat down, afraid that his legs might give way. Agamemnon’s fury was not to be taken lightly. The mighty king shouted at Calchas, complaining that his prophecies were never in Agamemnon’s favor, and this time was no exception. He was going to have to send Chryseis back. He paused for a moment, then went on: “Everyone knows that I prefer her to my wife, so why should I let her go? But I will do it, because above all I want what’s best for the army. I will do it, but I want another woman to compensate for my loss.”

  “There are no more women,” Achilles said.

  “I don’t care. I’ll take Odysseus’s woman—or yours.”

  That was too much for Achilles.

  “You greedy wretch! I sailed here to defend your honor, and that of your brother. I have no quarrel with the Trojans; they haven’t stolen my oxen or burned down my house. There are many seas and mountains between them and me. I came here anyway, and every day for your sake I face their heavy swords, their spears equipped with a sharp bronze spike, their deadly arrows. You will not touch Briseis, my woman.”

  Agamemnon laughed.

  “I’ll take her from your tent myself. Try and stop me, if you dare. I am the one with the greatest power; it was given to me by almighty Zeus, who gave you your strength. No one shall defy me, not even you. I don’t care if you’re related to the gods—or to at least one of them, since your mother left her door wide open day and night.”

  The other leaders held their breath. How would this end? Achilles placed a hand on his silver sword, but reconsidered.

  “If you take my woman, you will never see me fight among the Achaeans again, and that is something you will bitterly regret. You yourself are as courageous as a roe deer; you send others to fight while you roll around in bed with your woman.”

  Agamemnon rose to his feet.

  “Get out! You’ve been waiting for your chance. Everyone knows you’re a good warrior, but you have a brain the size of a cockerel’s.”

  Achilles drew his sword and took a step forward, but Nestor, the wise king of Pylos whose deep voice was like silken honey, moved between the two men.

  “We have lost many comrades in this dreadful war; let us not attack one another on top of that. I am old and I have seen greater warriors and heroes than the two of you, but they listened to my advice.”

  Agamemnon had great respect for Nestor.

  “You speak wisely, and I will do as you say, even though Achilles thinks he’s better than the rest of us.”

  “That’s not true, but I won’t obey foolish orders. I promise not to fight for my Briseis, but woe betide you if you touch anything else that belongs to me,” Achilles replied.

  The storm abated.

  Achilles returned with his people to his ships, while Agamemnon picked out twenty men, led by Odysseus, to return Chryseis to her father and the temple of Apollo.

  He then sent two of his most trusted soldiers to fetch Briseis from Achilles’s tent, and sacrificed one hundred goats and oxen in order to appease the sun god. The sky grew dark with the dense smoke, the men washed themselves in the sea then sat down to eat the animals’ entrails.

  The two men who had been ordered to collect Briseis walked slowly beside the gray sea. They were not happy about their task. They had no choice but to obey their king, even though he’d gone too far this time. The courage of Achilles was the only reason why the Achaeans hadn’t lost this unjust war.

  They found him sitting by his pitch-black ship and stood before him, not daring to say a word. He met them without anger in his heart; they were simple messengers, not responsible for their errand. His friend and brother-in-arms Patroclus brought out Briseis, the young woman who shared Achilles’s bed. Admittedly she was his slave and he was her master, but they were young and beautiful, and a passion and an affection for each other had grown in their hearts. It was painful for them to be parted, anyone could see that. She accompanied the two men with heavy footsteps.

  After a little while Achilles went off on his own, away from the eyes of his men, and wept—not just because Agamemnon had insulted him, but because he had grown fond of Briseis with her night-dark eyes and her lovely cheeks. He hid his face in his hands and the tears flowed.

  “Mother of mine, when you gave birth to me you knew that I was destined for a short life. In return Zeus promised me great glory. I am still young, but I have lost my honor. I have been kicked like a stray dog, robbed of my woman, whose caresses will now bring solace to my worst enemy. Never again will I fight in the midst of the battle; I will watch as the Trojans slaughter the Achaeans and I will not lift a finger until Agamemnon or his messenger begs me on bended knee to save them.”

  So he spoke, and eventually he fell asleep with a heavy heart.

  ________________

  Some of us had done the same—fallen asleep, I mean—but not all of us. My friend Dimitra had tears in her eyes. I edged closer to her. “Why are you crying?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied quietly. It was an answer to think about; I wanted to console her, but I couldn’t come up with anything to say. Our teacher took a deep breath, went over to the window, and peered up at the sky.

  “Even in hell the weather can be good occasionally,” she said, and sent us home.

  As usual Dimitra and I wandered along together. It was a good opportunity to follow up on my question. It was one of those afternoons in the village when the sun leaned against the high mountains in the west like a weary shepherd leaning on his crook.

  “Why were you so upset?” I asked Dimitra.

  “Do you remember Katerina?” She was almost whispering, as if she were making some kind of obscene suggestion, and she had fresh tears in her eyes.

  Indeed I did. Katerina was the village beauty, tall and slender as a cypress. Young men came from all over the area just to catch a glimpse of her. As she walked across the square to church on Sundays, every conversation fell silent. She could have had anyone she wanted, but her heart beat faster for a man she couldn’t have because he was married. However, that didn’t stop him from getting her pregnant. Her father couldn’t bear such shame, nor could her mother. They lured Katerina to an isolated field, where they tied her to an ancient chestnut tree. Her father told her that he didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice, for the sake of her three sisters. No man would think of marrying the sister of such a whore. No one could bear such shame. He shot her in the heart three times—once for each sister.

  Then he and his wife went to the local police officer and told him what they’d done. Then came the silence. The long, black, stubborn silence. Katerina was buried in that silence. Her lover emigrated to America, her father spent a couple of years in jail because there were mitigating circumstances involving the honor of the family. No one mentioned Katerina’s name.

  It really wasn’t hard to understand why Dimitra was crying. Whatever happens, a woman always dies in the end.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY I was woken by the rain pattering on my windowpane. My heart leaped; the weather had been far too dry for far too long. The earth was thirsty.

  On the way to school Dimitra said that our village might not be the prettiest in the world, but the smell of the ground after rain was so wonderful that the whole world felt like a caress.

  Miss was already at her desk, and she had written on the blackboard in beautiful letters: Ανάγκα και ʋεοί πείʋονται. Which means: Even the gods must obey necessity.

  We were to write a short essay on this topic. We had absolutely no desire to do so; we wanted to hear the next part of the story about the heroes and the madmen.
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br />   Miss followed the example of the gods. She obeyed necessity and happily continued with her tale.

  ________________

  Agamemnon, pleased at having taught Achilles a lesson, slept much better that night. Toward morning his dreams became so vivid that he got up, put on his cloak and his sword, and went out.

  It was a joy to the soul to see the first flush of dawn making the copper-clad ships in the bay glow like sunflowers. In addition, he was filled with conviction. The dream had been more than clear. It was an order from the highest power.

  Without hesitation he instructed his messengers to call the other commanders to wise Nestor’s tent. It didn’t take long for them all to gather, tense and uneasy. What lay behind this unexpected summons?

  When they were seated and had stopped whispering to one another, Agamemnon began to speak.

  “Listen to me, my friends! Last night, during this immortal night, Zeus came to me. He had adopted your form, Nestor, and spoke with your silken honey voice, but he was very firm. ‘Are you sleeping, Agamemnon?’ he asked. ‘You who are the son of the great horse-breaker Atreus and the commander of the long-haired Achaeans. Prepare for battle at once, for now the city of Troy with its wide streets will be taken; its fate is sealed. No deity shall prevent you.’ I wanted to question him, to be sure that it was him and not some evil demon deceiving me while I was defenseless and sleeping, but he was gone. Therefore, let us all prepare our men for the final battle. But first I want to test them. I have the right to do so.”

  Agamemnon paused to see if there were objections, but no one spoke.

  “I am going to tell the men to flee, and you, each and every one of you, must try to persuade them to stay.”

  What nonsense was this?

  Wise old Nestor, who had ruled for longer than anyone on Pylos with its pale sandy shores, got to his feet and spoke calmly and thoughtfully, as always.