Hector said bitterly: ‘I cannot regard your grudge against Troy as being a very decent one. It is for you alone that our people are dying in defence of these walls—their shouts must surely have reached your ears? Yet you often scold a friend who shirks battle.’
Paris, now busily testing his bow, answered: ‘Sharp words, though not unreasonably so. Allow me to explain that I bear no particular grudge against Troy; but, feeling a little sad, I wanted to enjoy a good cry on a chair in this bedroom. My wife has just suggested that I should fight again, and I am taking her advice; because one never knows who will win the next round, does one? Wait, while I re-arm; or else go ahead, if you prefer—I will soon overtake you.’
When Hector remained silent, Helen said sweetly: ‘Brother-in-law—if a bitch like myself may venture to claim kinship with you—pray listen to my complaint:
‘O that a storm had burst
And carried me away
New-born, so that my first,
Was also my last, day—
‘Had burst and carried me
To some far, rocky steep,
Or in a grave of sea
Buried me fathoms deep!
‘Ah, if I had never grown to womanhood, none of these dreadful events would have taken place! But, since the gods planned things as they did, I wish at least that I had eloped with a better man—someone sufficiently honourable not to make light of the general contempt which he earns. Paris is, I fear, incorrigibly shameless: all your troubles have been caused through my being a bitch, and Paris being rotten to the marrow! Zeus, of course, will punish us both severely; and long after we are dead, bards will compose derisive songs about our failings. But do sit down and rest on this settle!’
Hector answered: ‘I am sorry that I have to decline your friendly invitation, Helen. My heart is set on getting back as soon as possible; the troops miss me. Make your husband hurry, if he will not do so himself, and see whether he can overtake me this side of the Gate. I must first visit my own home for a brief goodbye to my beloved wife and our little son; we three may never meet again.’
Hector left the house, but on reaching his own hall, could not find Andromache. He shouted to the staff: ‘Tell me, where has your mistress gone? Visiting one of my sisters or sisters-in-law? Or to the Citadel, where my mother is propitiating Athene? I want the truth, not guesses!’ A maid-servant looked up and said: ‘My lord Hector, if you want the truth, she has not gone visiting any sister or sister-in-law of yours; nor is she at the temple. She ran out to the Ilian Tower in a fit of distraction, having heard that our men were being severely handled by the Greeks. The nurse-maid took your little boy along, too.’
Hector thereupon retraced his steps, down the well-paved street leading to the Scaean Gate and the plain beyond. Fortunately, Andromache intercepted him before he passed through. (Her father, the magnanimous King Eëtion of Cilicia, who lived in the city of Thebe, under the wooded slopes of Mount Placus, had demanded a large dowry when she married Hector.) Behind Andromache came the nurse-maid, carrying Scamandrius, Hector’s son, a child of star-like loveliness and universally nicknamed Astyanax—‘King of the City’—because Hector, on whose shoulders rested the defence of Troy, felt such affection for him. As Hector stood gazing at Scamandrius with a quiet smile, Andromache clung to his hand, and sobbed: ‘Dear husband, this reckless courage will be your undoing! Have pity on Scamandrius and on me! What if the Greeks make a concerted rush at you? I would rather die than become your widow! Once you are gone, nothing but sorrow awaits me. It is not as though I still had parents: Achilles killed my father in the sack of Cilician Thebe—he showed proper respect, I admit, by burning his corpse without removing the fine inlaid armour, and raised a royal barrow over the ashes; after which Zeus’ daughters, the Mountain-nymphs of Placus, planted an elm-grove to mark the site. In the same raid, however, Achilles had slaughtered all my seven brothers, out in the fields among their cows and sheep; and captured my mother, the Queen, whom he brought to the Greek camp with the rest of his booty. Later he accepted a prodigal ransom for her, and she returned to my grandfather’s palace; but soon died of some disease sent by Artemis the Archer.
‘So, dear Hector, you are now not merely my husband—you are father, mother, and brother, tool Be merciful, stay here on the Tower; do not orphan this darling, do not widow me! And, another thing, I beg you to draw up your men beside the fig-tree over there, where the wall is weakest and more easily scaled. Three attempts on it have already been made by Great and Little Ajax, and Idomeneus of Crete; also by Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Diomedes. I wonder whether a prophet revealed the weakness of that wall to them, or whether they noticed it themselves?’
Hector answered: ‘Your forebodings weigh heavily on my heart, yet I should lose my self-respect if the Trojan nobles and their womenfolk caught me malingering. I could not bring myself to do so, in any case; I have always fought courageously with the vanguard for my father’s glory and my own. But let me tell you this: it is my conviction that our holy city must soon fall, and that every man in Troy must die around King Priam. What agony awaits my mother, my father, my brothers, and the many hundreds of brave Trojans doomed to lie in the dust at our enemies’ feet! I confess, though, that all this troubles me little when I brood on the agony that awaits you—led weeping into slavery by some mail-clad conqueror! In Greece you will have to work the loom under the eye of a harsh mistress, and draw water at her orders from the spring of Messeis or of Hypereia, suffering ill-treatment and perpetual restraint. As your tears flow, fingers will point, and it will be said: “Look, she was once the wife of Hector, the Trojan Commander-in-Chief during the recent war!” Then fresh grief will stab your heart for the loss of a husband who so long postponed the dreadful hour of your captivity. May I lie deep beneath a barrow before you are rudely carried off—may I be spared the sound of your heart-broken shrieks!’
He stretched out a hand towards little Scamandrius, who shrank away, hugging his pretty nurse-maid; the bronze armour terrified him, and so did the tall horsehair plume that nodded fiercely from his father’s helmet-top. Andromache smiled; Hector smiled too. He removed the helmet, laid it shining on the ground, took Scamandrius in his arms, kissing and dandling him, and then prayed:
‘O ZEUS, Sole Ruler of the Sky,
And all you other gods on high,
Grant that my infant son may live
To gather fame superlative.
Reserve, I beg you, for this boy
A bold, strong heart to govern Troy
And shine as once his father shone.
May the whole city muse upon
His feats, as often as the car
Brings him spoil-laden home from war
(Spoil reddened with the owner’s gore)
To cheer his mother’s heart once more;
Then let all say, if say they can:
“His father was the lesser man!”’
The prayer done, he handed Scamandrius to Andromache. As she embraced him, half-laughing, half-crying, Hector stroked her shoulders pityingly. ‘Dearest Andromache,’ he whispered, ‘control your grief! No Greek will kill me, unless Heaven permits him; and what mortal, whether he be courageous or a coward, can evade his destiny? Go home now, attend to your spinning and weaving, keep your women hard at work; but war is a man’s task, and especially mine as the Trojans’ leader. You must leave it to me!’ With that, Hector fell silent, picked up the plumed helmet, set it on his head again, and made for the gate.
As Andromache ascended the hill, glancing frequently over her shoulder, great tears rolled down her cheeks. Arrived at the house, she raised a lament, in anticipation of Hector’s death, and all the womenfolk wept with her—none of them expecting him to survive his furious stand against the Greeks.
Paris did not, as it proved, stay much longer in his bedroom. Though fully armed, like a run-away horse he galloped along the streets:
A stallion on pearl-barley fed,
A nimble horse of noble breed,
/> Has burst the halter-rope and fled
From his full manger at full speed.
He runs in pride with streaming mane,
Towards waters that will cool his rage,
And whinnies at the mares again
In their accustomed pasturage…
So Paris ran, with exultant laughter, and overtook Hector as he turned from his farewell to Andromache. Paris said grinning: ‘I apologize for delaying so busy a man—I should have come directly you ordered me.’
Hector replied: ‘Nobody in his senses would under-rate your fighting qualities, brother; you are strong enough. But I find it painful to hear our people complaining of the distress that your wilful irresponsibility and carelessness have brought on us all. Well, we shall put everything right one day perhaps, if Zeus ever lets us chase the Greeks from our country and dedicate a thanks-giving bowl at the Palace to himself and his fellow-Immortals.’
Book Seven:
Hector Duels with Great Ajax
Watch the sailors, how they row,
Bright oars flashing to and fro,
All day long without complaint
Hauling, until like to faint—
Wearied muscles, bodies wet
With sea-spray and their own sweat!
None too soon, a Heaven-sent gale
Bellies out the broad main-sail.
The exhausted Trojans, still fending off Greek attacks, felt a similar relief when Hector the Glorious and his brother Prince Paris emerged at last from the gates of Troy, both of them in fine fettle. Paris at once made for Menesthius of Arne, the son of Thracian King Areithous and his Queen Phylomedusa the Large-Eyed, and struck him dead. Hector then drove a spear into the neck of Eïoneus the Magnesian, below the helmet-rim; he died instantly. Glaucus, too, the Lycian commander, saw Iphinous, son of Dexius, mounting his chariot, and sent him mortally wounded to the ground with a javelin through the shoulder.
None of these incidents evaded Owl-Eyed Athene’s watchful gaze. She flew down from the peaks of Olympus to prevent the slaughter of any more Greeks; but, on reaching Troy, found herself confronted by Phoebus Apollo, patron of the Trojans, who rose to greet her beside Zeus’ oak-tree.
‘To what,’ he asked, ‘may I attribute your visit, Athene, daughter of Almighty Zeus? A decision to give the Greeks an unfair advantage in today’s fight, after refusing the hard-pressed Trojans’ plea for mercy? Well, sister, my advice is that we should unite in ending this battle. The war is of course another matter: it may be resumed later, until Hera and yourself have achieved the total destruction of Troy, on which your hearts are set.’
‘By all means,’ Athene answered, ‘let us end the battle, Lord of the Silver Bow! I came here with this very intention, but how do you think we should put it into effect?’
‘Suppose,’ said Apollo, ‘that Hector caused a diversion by challenging any Greek to single combat? Would the Greeks not, for honour’s sake, send someone against him?’
Athene agreed, and Prince Helenus, catching the message that they flashed into his mind, hurried towards Hector. ‘Listen, brother,’ he cried, ‘I have received an assurance from the Immortals that your death is not yet due. You should shout a challenge, they suggest, announcing your readiness to meet the best man on the enemy side in single combat—but both armies must be seated and observe a truce.’
This news pleased Hector. He went along the Trojan front-line pressing men back with his spear held horizontally until they sat down and removed their armour; and Agamemnon the High King, when he saw what was happening, followed Hector’s example. Athene and Apollo, wearing vulture disguise, perched together on a branch of Zeus’ sacred oak: Athene beaming at her Greeks, Apollo beaming at his Trojans, as the closely packed armies crouched opposite each other, their ranks a-bristle with shields, plumes, and spears planted upright.
The west wind rises, ugly ripples spread
Across the sea, and clouds race overhead…
Such was the scene which the dark waves of men-at-arms, extended across the dusty plain, brought to their minds.
Hector spoke: ‘Trojans and Greeks, pray give me your attention! Earlier today, Zeus Son of Cronus, enthroned on high, disrupted our attempt at peace-making; he plans, it seems, a continuous struggle until you Greeks either take Troy or suffer a decisive defeat. Meanwhile, I propose a duel between your bravest champion and myself, Prince Hector. And I will abide by the following terms, which I invoke Father Zeus to witness: that, if your champion overcomes me in fair combat, he may freely possess himself of my arms and armour—on condition, however, that the Trojans may retrieve the body for decent burning and burial. If, contrariwise, Apollo grants me victory, I promise to surrender my opponent’s body after dedicating his arms and armour in the god’s temple at Troy. Thereupon:
‘You long-haired Greeks the corpse shall burn,
And weep, and give him praise,
And by the banks of Hellespont
A glorious mound shall raise.
‘Then some bold captain, born too late
To know that man or me,
Long hence will sight it from his ship
In sail across the sea.
‘And, pointing, cry: “That glorious mound
Heaped upon yonder shore
Holds Such-and-such whom Hector’s hand
Slew in a bygone war.”
Thus shall my name inherit fame
When I have gone before.’
Silence ensued. The Greeks, though ashamed to refuse Hector’s challenge, were equally loth to accept it. At last, King Menelaus arose, groaning quietly, and upbraided his companions: ‘Cowards! Women not men! Despite your persistent threats against Troy, none of you will face Prince Hector. What a disgrace! What wickedness! But, for all I care, you may continue sitting there, scared and inglorious, until you turn to mud on this plain! I accept the challenge myself, aware that the Immortals hold the threads of fate in their fingers, and will bestow victory on whichever champion they favour.’
Menelaus at once buckled on his armour, prepared to fight; which would have been his ruin, Hector being by far the more experienced soldier of the two, had not his fellow-princes leaped up and restrained him. Agamemnon caught at his arm, exclaiming: ‘Are you mad, brother? This is no time for one of Zeus’ foster-sons to behave so extravagantly. Yes, I know that you will withdraw now only with shame and reluctance, but you should never let mere ill-temper send you against Hector, son of Priam! Many Greeks beside yourself have reason to hate him, and he is more than your match as a duellist. Why, even Prince Achilles, though he delights in battle, has always steered clear of Hector, and you can hardly be compared to Achilles! Sit down again among your comrades—I insist upon it—while we choose some other hero to accept the challenge. And I can tell you that, however fearless and pugnacious our champion, he will be glad enough to rest his legs afterwards—if indeed he survives the combat.’
Dissuaded from persisting in his rash resolve, Menelaus allowed his friends to disarm him. But old Nestor, King of Pylus, sprang up, and shouted indignantly: ‘Fie upon you! Were Peleus the Horseman here, he would be scandalized by this disgraceful scene—I am referring to Achilles’ father, the eloquent King of the Myrmidons who once entertained me in his palace and questioned me at length about the lineage and family connexions of all our Peloponnesian nobles. He would be so scandalized, I repeat, to see you cowering before Hector, that he would hide his face in horror and pray for instant death! Ah, if only Zeus and Athene and Apollo would restore this aged body of mine, and make me as once I was when my Pylians fought the Arcadians outside the walls of Pheia, near the River Jardanus! I must tell you of the triumph that Athene vouchsafed me. Well, for a start: the God Ares gave Areithous, King of Arne [whose son Menesthius has now been killed] a fine suit of armour; but Lycurgus the Arcadian, knowing that Areithous was nicknamed “the Mace-man” because he always preferred a mace to bow or spear, trapped him in a narrow defile where the mace had no play, and toppled him over with a j
avelin through the belly. So Lycurgus won the armour, and wore it constantly, until, growing too old for battle, he gave it to his favourite squire, Ereuthalion. Ereuthalion sported the armour that day at Pheia, when he came forward and issued the same sort of challenge as you have just heard from Hector’s lips. My Pylian comrades recoiled in fear, and it remained for me, though the youngest among them, to show my courage by facing the Arcadian champion… I have never killed a taller or a stronger man! Ereuthalion’s corpse, spread-eagled on the ground, looked positively enormous. Ah, if only I were still young and vigorous, Hector would soon find a worthy opponent. But it seems that not a single one of you Greek princes will dare cross swords with him.’
Nestor’s reprimand brought nine princes flushing to their feet. First, Agamemnon; next, Diomedes of the Loud War-Cry; then Great and Little Ajax. These were followed by Idomeneus of Crete; his comrade Meriones (a rival of Ares himself); Eurypylus, son of Euaemon the Thracian; Thoas, son of Andraemon the Aetolian; and, lastly, Odysseus of Ithaca.
Nestor spoke again: ‘Since nine of you seem eager to fight Prince Hector, lots must be cast for the privilege; and, should the lucky winner escape alive, his salvation will be the salvation of us all.’
Each of the volunteers chose a lot (a potsherd or a twig) which he marked with his sign, and let fall into Agamemnon’s helmet. Both armies then prayed to Father Zeus: the Greeks, that Great Ajax might be chosen as their champion or, failing him, Diomedes; the Trojans, on the contrary, that Hector might meet Agamemnon, the rich King of Mycenae.
Nestor shook the helmet; and a herald, picking up the lot that leaped out, carried it sunwise round the circle of contestants, asking each in turn: ‘Is this yours, my lord?’