He thought for a while. “Did you ever meet Helen, the wife of Paris?”
Hektor nodded. “Briefly. She was a shy woman and deeply in love with my brother.”
Odysseus said, “I met her once. I thought her sweet-natured but mousy and plain. You know how she died?” Hektor nodded, his brow darkening. Odysseus went on. “The men who were there when she threw herself and her children from the heights of King’s Joy are speaking of her as a great beauty. Throughout our camps there is talk of the beauteous Helen and her gallant death.”
“What is your point, sea uncle?”
“Only that they do not speak falsely. Soldiers cannot speak of women in terms they do not understand; they do not admire kindness, or modesty, or unselfishness. But they admire Helen’s self-sacrifice, so they tell us she was beautiful, like a goddess walking among us. And it is the truth.
“You are suffering under a great burden, Hektor. We have spoken of this before, and you will not reveal it to me. But not revealing something about yourself does not make you a liar. You show your true nature in each action you take.”
Hektor was silent, and Odysseus wondered if the agony he was suffering was because of the love between Helikaon and Andromache. Yet the young man seemed to be suffering an inner torment, blaming himself for something rather than cursing others.
He shrugged inwardly. If Hektor chose not to share his problems, there was nothing he could do about it.
“You have soundly beaten Achilles once, at your wedding games in a fistfight in front of thousands,” he said, returning to his mission. “This will be a battle with swords, to the death. Achilles is seeking revenge. You killed his shield bearer Patroklos two days ago.”
Hektor nodded. “I know. I recognized him. He was a skilled warrior.”
“He was indeed. And I liked him greatly.”
“Whose idea was the ambush?”
“It was Agamemnon’s. He calculated you would be short of supplies by now and be tempted by the supply train. Patroklos volunteered to lead it. He was easily bored, and the long summer without any action was harder on him than on most.”
“Achilles agreed to this?”
“No. He refused to allow Patroklos to go, but Patroklos went anyway, against his king’s orders. Now he will go to the pyre at dawn, and Achilles is insane with anger. He believes you targeted Patroklos deliberately, with the intent of paying him back for your victory at the games.”
“That is madness! Why would he think that?”
Odysseus thought for a long while. Then he said, “I like Achilles greatly. I have fought beside him on many occasions and lived cheek by jowl with him all summer long. I like him,” he repeated, “but, like his sister Kalliope, he has inner demons with which he fights every day. His honor is everything to him, yet this honor means he must constantly be in competition with himself and with others. Honor to him means always winning, and if he does not win, it eats him up inside like a vileness of the heart. He assumes, of course, that you feel the same way and that you are spoiling to fight him. He cannot understand why you are reluctant. So he calls you a coward, although he does not believe it.”
He went on. “Agamemnon is more than happy for this fight to take place. If you die, the Trojan cause will suffer a great blow. If Achilles dies, Agamemnon will celebrate privately, too.”
“Why would he?”
“Achilles’ father, King Peleus of Thessaly, was a bully and a coward. Agamemnon could manipulate him and found him an agreeable northern neighbor. But Achilles will be a strong king and, if they each return to their lands, a daunting new power on his border.”
“If they return to the west, Odysseus. These kings are foolish if they think they can stay away from their lands for so long and not face problems back home. Things will never be the same for them.”
“Indeed,” Odysseus agreed happily. “Agamemnon’s wife, Klytemnestra, loathes him, it is said. I’m sure she already has a new husband in waiting.”
Hektor’s face darkened at that, and Odysseus cursed himself. Hektor fears that Andromache is only waiting for him to die so that she can marry Helikaon, he thought. What fools we humans are, he thought sadly.
“It is growing dark, and I am in no mood for riding again tonight,” Odysseus said. “I will make camp here. I will wait for you until noon tomorrow. If you do not come, I will return to the city alone.”
They both stood up, then embraced as old friends again. Odysseus clapped the prince on his shoulder. “Come back to Troy with me!” he urged him. “Fight Achilles! It will be the greatest fight we mortals have ever seen, and the name of Hektor will be remembered to the end of eternity!”
The next day the king’s aide Polydorus sat in Priam’s gold-encrusted chariot as it jolted through the city streets flanked by heavily armed riders. Beside him the king was wrapped in a heavy wool cloak, although Polydorus was sweating freely under his bronze armor in the stifling afternoon heat.
He shot a glance at the old man, who was peering around, his face a mask of confusion and fear. It was the first time Priam had left his palace since the beginning of summer, and much had changed, none of it for the better.
The king had announced his intention that morning of going to the Great Tower of Ilion. Polydorus had found reason to postpone the visit, hoping that Priam would forget about it, as he always had before. But this time the old man persisted, and eventually the aide had the golden chariot brought to the gates. He was fearful that the people would see their king addled and bemused, and he ordered the charioteer to make all speed to the tower and to stop for nothing even if the king ordered it.
“I do not know this city,” Priam muttered anxiously as the gleaming chariot passed the squalid shacks of the refugees. “Where are we, boy? Is this Ugarit? We must make haste for home. My sons are conspiring against me. They wish to see me dead. I do not trust Troilus, never did. Hekabe warned me. She will know how to deal with him.”
Polydorus said nothing, and the king became quiet, gazing around at a city that was foreign to him. There were few people to be seen on the streets, although Polydorus knew that the shanty city hid hundreds dying slowly of hunger, thirst, and hopelessness. Babies and old people were the first to succumb. When the last well ran dry, which he knew could happen at any time, everyone in the city would be dead within three or four days.
They reached the steps to the south battlements. Priam was helped out of the chariot and climbed slowly, his bodyguard in full armor clattering up the stairs in front of him and behind. Soldiers guarding the wall watched open-mouthed as their king shuffled past them. A few cheered, but the sound died away quickly to leave an eerie silence.
Plunging into the darkness of the great tower, Polydorus looked up the narrow stone stairs with dread lying heavy on his chest. But Priam had climbed that way a thousand times, and his steps were firm as he set off. Polydorus came behind him, his gaze fixed on the old man’s bony ankles and not on the steep drop to their right. He knew that if the king fell, they both would. Polydorus would try to save him, of course, but it would be impossible. They would both die, smashed on the stones far below. The old man stopped halfway up and rested against the dank wall, then took a deep breath and carried on.
When they stepped out into the daylight again, Polydorus breathed a sigh of relief. It was a rare day in Troy when the wind did not blow, yet the air was quite still on the top of the tower. The sky above was pale blue and cloudless.