The Song of Troy

  ‘Aineas!’ Priam said, a curious undertone in his voice. ‘I have looked for you these many days.’

  ‘You perceive me, sire,’ said the man called Aineas.

  ‘Have you seen the Greeks for yourself?’

  ‘Not yet, sire. I came in through the Dardanian Gate.’

  His emphasis on the name of the gate was meaningful; I now remembered where I had heard his name. Aineas was Dardania’s Heir. His father, King Anchises, ruled the southern part of this land from a town called Lyrnessos. Priam always sneered when he spoke of Dardania, Anchises or Aineas; I gathered that in Troy all three were considered upstarts, though Paris had told me that King Anchises was Priam’s first cousin, that Dardanos had founded both the royal house in Troy and the royal house in Lyrnessos.

  ‘I suggest, then, that you go outside onto the balcony and look towards the Hellespont,’ said Priam, oozing sarcasm.

  ‘As you wish.’

  Aineas disappeared for a very few moments, came back shrugging. ‘They look as if they mean to stay, don’t they?’

  ‘A perspicacious conclusion.’

  Aineas ignored this sally. ‘Why did you summon me?’ he asked.

  ‘Surely it’s obvious? Once Agamemnon has his teeth firmly fixed in Troy, Dardania and Lyrnessos will be next. I want your troops to help crush the Greeks in the spring.’

  ‘Greece has no quarrel with Dardania.’

  ‘Greece doesn’t need excuses these days. Greece is after lands, bronze and gold.’

  ‘Well, sire, looking at the formidable array of allies here today, I can’t see that you’ll have need of the men of Dardania to help crush the Greeks. When your need is genuine, I’ll bring an army. But not in the spring.’

  ‘My need is genuine next spring!’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  Priam struck the floor with his ivory sceptre; the emerald in its head gave out blue sparks. ‘I want your men!’

  ‘I can’t pledge anything without my father the King’s explicit permission, sire, and I have not got it.’

  Beyond speech, Priam turned his head away.

  As soon as we were alone, consumed with curiosity, I quizzed Paris about that strange argument.

  ‘What lies between your father and Prince Aineas?’

  Paris tugged my hair lazily. ‘Rivalry.’

  ‘Rivalry? But one rules Dardania, the other Troy!’

  ‘Yes, but there’s an oracle which says that Aineas will rule Troy one day. My father fears the word of the God. Aineas knows the oracle too, so he always expects to be treated like the Heir. But when you consider that my father has fifty sons, Aineas’s attitude is quite ridiculous. My theory is that the oracle refers to another Aineas some time in the future.’

  ‘He seems a man,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Very attractive.’

  Liquid eyes gleamed at me. ‘Never forget whose wife you are, Helen. Stay away from Aineas.’

  The feeling between me and Paris was waning. How could that have happened, when I had fallen in love with him at first glance? Yet it had, I suppose because I soon discovered that despite his passion for me, Paris couldn’t resist the urge to philander. Nor, in the summer, his urge to frolic in the vicinity of Mount Ida. In that one summer between my arrival in Troy and the advent of the Greeks, Paris disappeared for six full moons. When he finally returned, he didn’t even apologise! Nor could he be brought to see how I suffered in his absence.

  Some of the Court women did everything they could think of to make my existence prickly and unbearable. Queen Hekabe loathed me; she considered me her beloved Paris’s ruination. Hektor’s wife, Andromache, loathed me because I had usurped her title of Most Beautiful – and because she was terrified Hektor might succumb to my charms. As if I could have bothered! Hektor was a prig and a nuisance, so up and down and rigid that I soon deemed him the most boring man in a court of boring men.

  It was the young priestess Kassandra who terrified me. She would sweep around the halls and corridors with her black hair streaming wildly, her eyes stark with madness, her white face ravaged. Every time she saw me she would launch into a shrill diatribe of abusive nonsense, words and ideas so tangled that no one could see their logic. I was a daimon. I was a horse. I was the agent of misrule. I was in league with Dardania. I was in league with Agamemnon. I was the downfall of Troy. And so on, and so forth. She upset me, which Hekabe and Andromache soon discovered. That led them to encourage Kassandra to lie in wait for me; they hoped, of course, that I would confine myself to my room. But Helen is made of stronger stuff than that. Instead of retreating, I got into the annoying habit of joining Hekabe, Andromache and the other high noblewomen in their recreation chamber, there to irritate them by stroking my breasts (they really are gorgeous) under their scandalised eyes (not one of them could have bared her own collection of loose beans in the bottom of a bag). When that palled I would slap the servants, spill milk on their boring tapestries and lengths of cloth, engage in monologues about rape, fire and plunder. One memorable morning I enraged Andromache so much that she flew at me with teeth and nails, only to discover that Helen had wrestled as a girl, and was more than a match for a carefully nurtured lady. I tripped her up and walloped her on the eye, which swelled, closed and blackened for almost a moon. Then I went round coyly whispering that Hektor had done it.

  Paris was always being nagged to discipline me; his mother in particular badgered him constantly. But whenever he sought to remonstrate with me or beg me to be nicer, I laughed at him and gave him a litany of the offences the other women committed against me. All of which meant that I saw less and less of Paris.

  In early winter the first disquiet gripped the Trojan Court. It was rumoured that the Greeks were gone from the beach, that they were raiding up and down the Asia Minor coast to strike at cities and towns far apart. Yet when heavily armed detachments were sent to investigate the beach, they found the Greeks very much present, ready to issue out and skirmish. Even so, word of the raiding became positive as winter drew on; one by one Priam’s allies sent word that they could no longer honour their promises of armies in the spring. Their own lands were threatened. Tarses in Kilikia went up in flames, its people dead or sold into slavery; the fields and pastures for fifty leagues around were burned, the grain taken and loaded on board Greek ships, the stock slaughtered and smoked for Greek bellies in Kilikian smokehouses, the shrines stripped of their treasures, King Eetion’s palace looted. Mysia suffered next. Lesbos sent aid to Mysia, and in its turn was attacked. Thermi was razed to the ground; the Lesbians licked their wounds and wondered whether it might be more politic to remember the Greek half of their ancestry, and declare for Agamemnon. Then when Priene and Miletos in Karia succumbed, the panic increased. Even Sarpedon and Glaukos, the double Kings, were forced to stay at home in Lykia.

  We received news of each fresh strike in a most novel way. The message was brought by a Greek herald who stood outside the Skaian Gate and shouted his news for Priam to the captain of the western watchtower. He would detail the city sacked, the number of dead citizens, the number of women and children sold into slavery, the value of the spoils, the dippers of grain. And he always ended his message with the same words:

  ‘Tell Priam, King of Troy, that Achilles the son of Peleus sends me!’

  Trojans grew to dread the mention of that name, Achilles. In the spring Priam had to endure the presence of the Greek camp in silence, for no allied forces arrived to swell his ranks, nor money to buy mercenaries from the Hittites, Assyria or Babylonia. Trojan money had to be carefully conserved; it was the Greeks who now collected the Hellespont tolls.

  A certain greyness entered both Trojan hearts and Trojan rooms. And, as I was the only Greek in the Citadel, everyone from Priam to Hekabe asked me who was this Achilles. I told them as much as I could remember, but when I explained that he was hardly more than a lad – though of splendid stock – they doubted me.

  As time went on fear of Achilles grew greater; the mere mention of his name turn
ed Priam pale. Only Hektor displayed no evidence of fright. He burned to meet Achilles. His eyes would light up, his hand seek his dagger each time the Greek herald came to the Skaian Gate. Indeed, to meet Achilles became such an obsession with him that he took to offering at every altar, praying for the chance to slay Achilles. When he sought me out to quiz me, he refused to believe my answers.

  As autumn of the second year arrived, Hektor lost patience and begged his father to let him lead the whole Trojan army out.

  Priam stared as if his Heir had gone mad. ‘No, Hektor.’

  ‘Sire, our investigations have revealed that the Greeks left on the beach number less than half of the total Greek strength! We could beat them! And when we do, Achilles’s army will have to return to Troy! Then we’ll beat him!’

  ‘Or be beaten ourselves.’

  ‘Sire, we outnumber them!’ Hektor cried.

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  Hands clenched, Hektor kept finding new reasons to convince the terrified old man that he was right. ‘Then, sire, give me leave to go to Aineas in Lyrnessos – with the Dardanians added to our reserves, we would outnumber Agamemnon!’

  ‘Aineas doesn’t wish to involve himself in our dilemmas.’

  ‘Aineas would listen to me, Father.’

  Priam drew himself up, outraged. ‘Authorise my son, the Heir himself, to beg from the Dardanians? Are you out of your mind, Hektor? I’d rather be dead than bow and scrape to Aineas!’

  At which moment I chanced to see Aineas. He had only just entered the Throne Room, but he had heard enough of the exchange at the dais. His mouth was drawn down; his eyes went from Hektor to Priam, the thoughts behind them veiled. Before anyone important noticed him – I was not important – he turned and left.

  ‘Sire,’ said Hektor desperately, ‘you can’t expect us to remain within our walls for ever! The Greeks are intent upon reducing our allies to ashes! Our wealth is dwindling because our income is gone and provisioning ourselves is costing more and more. If you won’t let me lead the whole army out, then at least let me lead out raiding parties to catch the Greeks unaware, harry their hunting parties and make them stop these insolent expeditions to our walls to insult us!’

  Priam wavered. He dropped his chin into his hand and thought for a long time. After which he sighed and said, ‘Very well. Get you to drilling the men. If you can convince me that this isn’t a foolhardy scheme, you may do as you ask.’

  Hektor’s face shone. ‘We won’t disappoint you, sire.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Priam wearily.

  Someone in the Throne Room began to laugh. I looked around, surprised; I had thought Paris away again. But there he stood, laughing helplessly. Hektor’s expression darkened; he stepped down from the dais and pushed his way through the crowd.

  ‘What’s so amusing, Paris?’

  My husband sobered a little, threw an arm around Hektor’s shoulders. ‘You, Hektor, you! Fussing about mere skirmishing when you have such a lovely wife at home. How can you prefer war to women?’

  ‘Because,’ said Hektor deliberately, ‘I’m a man, Paris, not a pretty boy.’

  I stood turned to stone. My husband was not only a fool, he was also a coward. Oh, the humiliation! Feeling all the contemptuous looks around me, I walked out.

  Two beautiful fools, Paris and I. I had given up my throne, my freedom and my children – why did I miss them so little? – to live in prison with a beautiful fool who was also a coward. Why did I miss them so little? The answer was easy. They belonged to Menelaos, and somewhere in my mind I now had to lump Menelaos, my children and Paris into the same unpalatable parcel. Was there ever a fate worse for a woman than to know that not one person in her life is worthy of her?

  Needing fresh air, I went to the courtyard below my own apartments, and there paced up and down until my pain abated. Then, turning quickly, I ran full tilt into a man coming the other way. We put out our hands instinctively; he held me at arm’s length for a moment looking curiously into my face, the last traces of his own anger dying out of his dark eyes.

  ‘You must be Helen,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re Aineas.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t come to Troy often,’ I said, very much enjoying looking at him.

  ‘Can you think of one reason why I should?’

  No point in dissimulating. I smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘I like the smile, but you’re angry,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s my own business.’

  ‘Quarrelled with Paris, have you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I answered, shaking my head. ‘To quarrel with Paris is as difficult as taking hold of quicksilver.’

  ‘True.’

  Whereupon he caressed my left breast. ‘An interesting fashion, to bare them. But they inflame a man, Helen.’

  My lashes fell, my mouth turned up at its corners. ‘That’s nice to know,’ I said, low voiced. Expecting a kiss, I leaned towards him with my eyes still shut. But when, feeling nothing, I opened them, I found he had gone.

  Boredom a thing of the past, I went to the next assembly intent upon seducing Aineas. Who was not present. When I asked Hektor very casually what had become of his cousin from Dardania, he said that Aineas had packed his horses in the night and gone home.

  17

  NARRATED BY

  Patrokles

  The states of Asia Minor nursed their wounds, sullenly crouching back against the vast mountains which belonged to the Hittites. They were frightened to move to Troy and frightened to band together in any one place because they had no idea whereabouts we Greeks would strike next. Actually we defeated them before we so much as sailed on our first campaign; all the advantages lay with us, cruising down the coast just too far out to be spied from land, mobile beyond any move they could make, for there were no easy roads between the various foci of settlement in that land of river valleys between rugged ranges. The Asia Minor nations communicated by sea, and we ruled the sea.

  During the first year we intercepted many ships bearing arms and food for Troy, but these convoys ceased after they realised that we Greeks benefited, not Troy. We were too many for them; none of the cities dotted up and down that very long coast could hope to marshal resistance strong enough to defeat us in battle, nor were their city walls able to keep us out. Thus we sacked ten cities in two years, far down past Rhodos to Tarses in Kilikia, as close to Troy as Mysia and Lesbos.

  When we ranged the seas Phoinix always gave charge of the feeder line between Assos and Troy to his second-in-command, and sailed with us in command of two hundred empty ships to accommodate the spoils. Their bellies rode low in the water when we shook our sails free of the smoke of a burning city, our troop vessels creaking with extra plunder. Achilles was ruthless. Few were left behind to breed future resistance. Those we could not carry into slavery or sell to Egypt and Babylon were slain – old crones and withered men, those no one had any use for. His was a hated name along that shoreline, and I could not find it in my heart to condemn them for hating Achilles.

  As we entered our third year Assos stirred and came to life sluggishly; the snow was melting, the trees in bud. We knew no quarrels or differences, for we had long forgotten any loyalties save those we owed to Achilles and the Second Army.

  Sixty-five thousand men were quartered at Assos: a core of twenty thousand veterans who never left for Troy, thirty thousand more who stayed with us for the duration of the campaign season, and fifteen thousand tradesmen and artificers of all kinds, some of whom remained in Assos year round. One of the permanent leaders always garrisoned Assos in case of attack from Dardania while the fleet was away; even Ajax took his turn at this, though Achilles always sailed. As I would not be parted from Achilles, I always sailed too. He was a fierce commander, one who never gave quarter or listened to pleas for surrender. Once he donned armour he was as cold as the North Wind, implacable. The object of our existence, he would say to us, was to ensure Greek supremacy and leave no o
pposition against the day the Greek nations would begin to send their surplus citizens to colonise Asia Minor.

  When we sailed into Assos harbour after a late winter campaign in Lykia (Achilles seemed to have some sort of pact with the Gods of the sea, for we sailed as safely in winter as in summer), Ajax was waiting on the beach to greet us, waving gaily to signal that he hadn’t been threatened in our absence, and was spoiling to go back to war. Spring had come in full measure, the grass ankle high; early flowers dotted the meadows, the camp horses leaped and frolicked in their pastures, the air was soft and heady as undiluted wine. Filling our chests with the scent of home, we scrambled to jump down onto the shingle.

  We split up then to meet later, Ajax going off with Little Ajax and Teukros, his great arms about them, while Meriones stalked ahead in Cretan superiority. I strolled with Achilles, delighted to be back in Assos. The women had been busy in our absence; pale green shoots in their garden beds promised herbs and vegetables for the cooking pots, garlands of flowers for our heads. A pretty place, Assos, not at all like the dour war camp Agamemnon had built at Troy. The barracks were scattered randomly through groves of trees and the streets wandered the way streets did in an ordinary town. Of course we were secure. A wall, palisade and ditch twenty cubits high surrounded us, fully guarded even through the coldest moons of winter. Not that our closest enemy, Dardania, seemed interested in us; rumour had it that its King, Anchises, was always at loggerheads with Priam.

  There were women everywhere through the camp, some bulging in late pregnancy, and over the winter a landslide of babies had arrived. The sight of them and their mothers pleased me, for they soothed away the ache of war, the emptiness of killing. There were none of mine among those babies, nor any from Achilles. I find women interesting creatures, despite the fact that I am not attracted to them. All of ours were captives of our swords, yet once the initial shock and disorientation had worn off, they seemed able to forget whatever past lives they had known, whatever men they had loved then; they settled down to love again, to have new families and espouse Greek ways. Well, they are not warriors. They are the prizes of warriors. I daresay feminine realities are taught to them by their mothers while they’re still little girls. Women are nest makers, so the nest is of first importance. Of course there were always a few who couldn’t forget, who wept and mourned; they didn’t last at Assos, were sent to toil in the greasy, muddy fields where the Euphrates almost marries the Tigris, there, I imagine, to die still grieving.