Authors: Alessandro Baricco
Meriones killed Phereclus, who had built for Paris the well-made ships, the beginning of the disaster. His hands knew how to fashion any sort of beautiful object. But Meriones pursued him, hitting him in the right buttock, and the point of the spear went straight through, beneath the bone, and tore the
bladder. The hero fell to his knees with a cry, and death enveloped him.
Meges killed Pedaeus, the bastard son of Antenor, whose wife nevertheless reared him as her own son, to please her husband. Meges struck him in the head, in the back of the neck. The spear passed through his skull and cut off his tongue. The hero fell in the dust, teeth biting the cold bronze.
Eurypylus killed Hypsenor, the priest of Scamander, who was venerated by all the people as a god; he pursued him as he tried to flee, and when he reached him drew his sword and sliced through one shoulder, cutting off the arm. The bloody arm fell on the ground, and over the eyes of the hero dark death and implacable fate descended.
We fled and, fleeing, found death. The worst was when Diomedes, the son of Tydeus, appeared, right in the midst of the fray. Diomedes, the brave Achaean commander: the armor gleamed on his shoulders and his head, he sparkled like the autumn star as it rises from Ocean. He descended from his chariot and raged across the plain like a torrent in flood, swollen by rains. Nor could you tell if he was among the Achaeans or us Trojans: he was a river that had broken its banks and flowed swiftly onward, destroying everything in its path. It seemed nothing could stop him: I watched him fighting, and it was as if a god had decided to fight at his side.
Then I took my bow yet again. I stretched the ox sinew with all my strength and let the arrow fly. It struck him in the right shoulder, on the breastplate. The arrow pierced the flesh and went straight through to the other side. His breastplate
was stained with blood. I shouted, “Attack, Trojans, Diomedes is wounded, I’ve hit him!” But I saw that he didn’t fold, didn’t fall. One of his companions pulled the arrow out of his shoulder: the blood spurted on the armor and all around. And then I saw him return to the fight, looking for me, like a lion who, though wounded, doesn’t die but, rather, triples his fury. He attacked the Trojans as if we were a flock of terrorized sheep.
I saw him kill Astynous and Hypiron: the first he struck in the chest with his spear; with his sword he cut off the arm of the second. Nor did he stop to strip their armor but went after Abas and Polyidus. They were the two sons of Eurydamas, an old man who knew how to interpret dreams: but he was unable to read those of his sons, the day they left home, and Diomedes killed them both. I saw him attack Xanthus and Thoon, the only sons of old Phaenops: Diomedes took them from him, leaving him alone with his tears and his grief. I saw him slaughter Echemmon and Chromius, sons of Priam. He leaped into their chariot the way lions tackle bulls to break their necks, and killed them.
At that point Aeneas came looking for me. “Pandarus,” he said, “where is your bow, and your winged arrows and your reputation? Did you see that man who is raging through the fighting, killing all our brave men? Maybe he’s a god who’s angry with us. Take an arrow and strike him as you alone can do.”
“I don’t know if he’s a god,” I answered. “But that crested helmet, and the shield, and those horses—I know them, they belong to the son of Tydeus, Diomedes. I shot an arrow at him and hit him in the shoulder, but he returned to the fight. I thought I had killed him, and instead … This damned
bow of mine makes the blood of the Achaeans run but doesn’t kill them. And I have no horses, no chariot, to ride into battle.”
Then Aeneas said to me, “We’ll fight together. Climb into my chariot, take the reins and the whip, and lead me to Diomedes. I’ll get out of the chariot to fight him.”
“You take the reins,” I said. “If for some reason we’re forced to flee, the horses will take us away more quickly if it’s your voice that’s guiding them. You drive the chariot and leave the fighting to me and my spear.”
So we mounted the shining chariot and, full of fury, urged the swift horses toward Diomedes. They were the best horses ever seen under the light of the sun: they came from a race that Zeus himself had created as a gift for Tros. In battle they were terrifying. But Diomedes wasn’t frightened. He saw us coming and he didn’t run. When we reached him I shouted, “Diomedes, son of Tydeus, my swift arrow, my bitter dart, didn’t bring you down. Now my spear will.” And I threw it. I saw the bronze tip pierce the shield and strike his breastplate. Then I shouted again. “I’ve won, Diomedes, I got you in the stomach, stuck you straight through.” But he, fearless, said, “You think you got me. But you missed the target. And now you won’t leave here alive.” He raised his spear and hurled it. The bronze tip entered near the eye, went through the white teeth, cut the tongue cleanly at the base, and came out the neck. I fell from the chariot—I, a hero—and the bright shining armor thundered down upon me. The last thing I recall is the swift, terrible horses as they swerved in panic. Then my strength abandoned me, and, with it, life.
The bronze tip entered near the eye, went through the white teeth, cut the tongue cleanly at the base, and came out the neck. Pandarus, the hero, fell, and the bright shining armor thundered down upon him. His strength abandoned him, and, with it, life. I knew that I had to get him away, that I couldn’t let the Achaeans have his body and his armor. So I jumped down from the chariot and stood beside him, raising spear and shield, and shouting at all who approached. I found myself facing Diomedes. He did something incredible. He picked up a rock that two men, I swear, could never have lifted. And yet he did it, he lifted it up over his head and threw it at me. It struck me in the hip where it meets the thigh. The sharp stone ripped the skin and tore the tendons. I fell to my knees, placed one hand on the ground, felt a dark night descend over my eyes:
and I discovered suddenly what my destiny was: to never die.
I heard Diomedes approaching, to kill me and strip me of my armor. Three times I heard him arrive, and yet I was still alive. Around me my companions fought, shouting, “Diomedes, what do you think you are, an immortal god?” I heard the voice of Acamas, the commander of the Thracians, calling, “Sons of Priam, don’t you see that Aeneas needs you? How long will you let the Achaeans go on killing your men? Will you let them drive you back to the walls of the city?” And as someone pulled me back, I heard the voice of Sarpedon, prince of the Lycians, shouting, “Hector, where is your courage? You said that you would save your city without the help of allies, you alone, you and your brothers. But I don’t see any of you here fighting. You’re cowering somewhere, like dogs around a lion. And it’s up to us, your allies, to lead the battle. Look at
me, I’ve come from far away, I have nothing here for the Achaeans to plunder, and yet I urge my soldiers on to defend Aeneas and battle Diomedes—while you, on the other hand, aren’t even moving, or commanding your men to resist. You’ll end up the prey of your enemies, you and your city.”
When I opened my eyes again I saw Hector jump down from his chariot, brandishing his weapons and calling his men to battle. Sarpedon’s words had stung his heart, and he rekindled the harsh fight. Finally the Trojans attacked. And the Achaeans waited, white with the dust stirred up by the hooves of their horses. Fearlessly they waited, as still as the clouds that Zeus gathers above a mountain peak on a calm day.
I am Aeneas, and I cannot die. For that reason I was back in the battle. Wounded but not dead. Saved by the fold of some god’s shining robe, hidden from my enemies, and then pushed, again, into the heart of the battle, against Crethon and Orsilochus, valiant warriors in the prime of life, who followed the Achaeans on their black ships to honor Agamemnon and Menelaus. I killed them with my spear, and they fell like tall fir trees. Menelaus saw them fall and took pity on them. Clothed in shining bronze he moved toward me, brandishing his spear. Antilochus came, too, to help him. When I saw them, together, I retreated. When they reached the bodies of Crethon and Orsilochus, they picked them up and laid them in the arms of their companions, and again rushed into the fray. I saw them attack Pylaemenes: he fought from his chariot while his charioteer, Mydon, guided the horses. Menelaus ran him through with his spear and killed him. Mydon tried to drive the chariot away, but Antilochus hit him in the elbow with a rock, and the white reins, adorned with ivory, slipped from his hands, into
the dust. Rushing at him with his sword, Antilochus stabbed him in the temple. Mydon staggered, the horses flung him out of the chariot.
Then came Hector, leading all the Trojans. The Achaeans saw him approaching and began to retreat, frightened. Hector killed Menesthes and Anchialus, but he couldn’t carry off their bodies. And Ajax killed Amphius, but he couldn’t get his armor. Sarpedon, lord of the Lycians, and noble Tlepolemus, the son of Herakles, faced each other. The spears left their hands at the same moment. Tlepolemus was hit in the neck: the bitter point passed through him, and dark night descended over the hero’s eyes. Sarpedon was hit in one thigh, and the eager bronze penetrated to the bone. His companions seized him, without even pulling out the spear. The long spear was heavy, but they carried him off, like that. And Odysseus, seeing his companion Tlepolemus die, rushed to finish off Sarpedon. He killed Coeranus and Alastor and Chromius, and Alcander and Halius and Noëmon and Prytanis. He would have gone on killing if Hector hadn’t suddenly appeared, clothed in shining bronze, terrifying.
“Hector,” Sarpedon cried, lying wounded on the ground, “do not abandon me to the hands of the Achaeans. Save me. Let me die, if I must die, in your city.” Hector said nothing; he went on driving his enemies away. Seeing him, the Achaeans began to retreat, not turning to flee but no longer fighting. And Hector, advancing, killed Teuthras and Orestes, and Trechus, and Oenomaus and Helenus and Oresbius. “Shame on you, Achaeans!” Diomedes cried. “When glorious Achilles was taking part in the war, then the Trojans were terrified, they didn’t even dare to leave their city; now instead you let them get all the way to your ships!” Thus he cried. And the battle extended everywhere, throughout the plain: everywhere
between the waters of Xanthus and those of Simois men were pointing their bronze spears at one another. Ajax was the first to rush forward and break the Trojan ranks. He struck Aca-mas, the most valiant among the peoples of Thrace. The point of the spear entered his forehead and penetrated the bone. Darkness descended over his eyes.
Diomedes, with a powerful cry, killed Axylus, the son of Teuthras, who was rich and beloved of men. He welcomed all to his house, which was right along the road, but no one, that day, came to defend him from bitter death. Diomedes took his life away and that of his driver: both descended underground.
Euryalus killed Aesepus and Pedasus, the twin sons of Bucolion. He cut off life and vigor from their handsome bodies; from their shoulders he took their weapons.
Polypoetes killed Astyalus, Odysseus killed Pidytes, Teucer killed Aretaon, Eurypylus killed Melanthius, Antilochus killed Ablerus. Agamemnon, lord of peoples, killed Elatus.
I saw all the Trojans running back, desperately, toward their city. I remember Adrastus, whose horses, mad with fear, stumbled on a tamarisk bush, throwing him to the ground; and immediately Menelaus was on him. Adrastus embraced his knees and begged him, “Don’t kill me, Menelaus. My father will pay any ransom for my life, bronze, gold, well-wrought iron, whatever you want.” Menelaus was persuaded and was about to leave him to one of his men to be led, a prisoner, to the ship when Agamemnon rushed over to him and cried, “Menelaus, you’re a weakling. What do you care for these people? Don’t you remember what the Trojans did in your house? None of them must escape our hands and the abyss of death, none, not even those who are still hidden in the bellies of their mothers. None must escape—let them all perish together with Troy, without a grave and without a name.”
Adrastus was still kneeling on the ground, terrified. Menelaus pushed him away. And Agamemnon himself thrust the spear in his side and killed him. Then he placed his foot on his chest and ripped the spear point out of the flesh.
The Achaeans pressed and we fled, overcome by fear. We were at the walls of Troy when Helenus, one of Priam’s sons, came toward me and Hector and said, “We must stop our men before they flee into the city and take refuge in the arms of their women, to the scorn of our enemies. Aeneas, we’ll stay and fight and urge the men on, and you, Hector, meanwhile, go into the city and tell the people to pray to the gods to keep at least Diomedes away, who is fighting like a madman, and whom none of us can stop. We were never so afraid even of Achilles. Trust me, Hector. Go to our mother and tell her that if she has pity on Troy and on our wives and our children, she is to take the finest and largest robe in the palace and lay it on the knees of shining-eyed Athena, in the temple high in the citadel. We’ll stay here, urging on the men and fighting.”
Hector listened to him. He jumped down from his chariot and ran to the Scaean gates. I saw him disappear among the men: he ran, with his shield thrown behind his back, and the edges of the shield, of black ox hide, hitting his neck and heels. I turned. The Achaeans were before us. We all turned. As if a god had descended to fight at our side, we attacked.
O
f
course I remember that day. I remember everything about that day. And that alone is what I want to remember.
Hector arrived. He came through the Scaean gates and stood under the great oak. All the wives and children of the Trojans ran to him: they wanted news of their sons and brothers and husbands. But he said only: Pray to the gods, because disaster is hanging over us. Then he hurried to the palace of Priam. An immense palace, with shining porticoes. What splendor … on one side, fifty rooms of polished stone, built one beside the other: there slept the male children of Priam, with their wives. And on the other, twelve rooms of polished stone, built one beside the other: there slept the daughters of Priam with their husbands. Hector entered and Hecuba, his gentle mother, went to him. She took him by the hand and said, “My son, why are you here? Why have you left the battle? The hated Achaeans are crushing you there, against the walls. Have you come to lift up your arms to Zeus, from the height of the
citadel? Let me give you some wine so that you may drink and offer it to the gods. Wine can revive a weary man, and you are exhausted, you who are fighting to defend all of us.”