The Fall of Troy: Part 3

Waiting for the result: By Rubens

THE FALL OF TROY:
Part 3

By Philip Womack

It was almost midday. The sun was getting too hot, and Paris was beginning to feel hungry, and wasn’t sure whether eating in front of three powerful goddesses might not count as disrespectful, when finally Hermes, who had been arbitrating between Hera, Aphrodite and Athene, announced that they had decided in which order they would be presented to be judged. 


Hera’s peacocks displayed their tail feathers, and clustered near their mistress. News of the judgement had spread far throughout the hills and plains of Troy, and many minor deities had appeared to watch, the tree nymphs rustling and clutching each other with anticipation, and the river gods poking their weedy heads out of the spring water.

It must be said that Hera, the queen of the gods, was beautiful, in rather a stern way, and some even said that she was strictly speaking more beautiful than any of the others. 

As she approached Paris, the folds of her dress crackled, as if to remind him of the power of Zeus. A golden diadem gleamed upon her head, and as she adjusted her long purple robe, her golden bangles clattered together. It was as if a mountain had taken female form.

Paris gulped. Hera did not smile at him, but simply touched him on the forehead.

Suddenly he was no longer on the hillside, a poor shepherd, but sitting on a high golden throne. Below him were arrayed all the kings of the world, their crowns in their hands, and below them all the princes and lords, all hailing him as their High King. 

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All around him his domains stretched, full of fat cattle, tin mines, merchant ships, potteries, forges and farms. They stretched further than he even imagined.  A dark man with a red spot on his forehead laid a huge diamond at his feet. A woman, with long black hair, dressed in fawnskins of a sort he’d never seen before, and with feathers in her hair, put a strange animal’s pelt around his shoulders. An Emperor from the east with a long pigtail opened up his palace full of dragons for him.

And then he saw everything. Bronze statues that moved; huge, stepped palaces full of ingots; a giant stone sphinx; enormous stone heads; even a herd of elephants with rubies glinting on their foreheads. He saw things he did not even understand: things that flew, and moved quickly, belching steam, and things that hummed and crackled. He felt it all rush through him.

Paris, who had only known the wealth of sheep and hides, of wooden drinking cups and fat wineskins, had seen the ships bringing treasure and silks to the shores of Troy and its citadel, and something stirred inside him.

Was not all this for him? Did he not deserve all this as his right? He lifted his palm, and fifteen high kings fell prostrate; he stood from his throne, and the fur clad lords of the north knelt to him, and the horse-taming queens of the plains, and the empress from the southern islands who wore a snake around her neck.

He did not want it to stop.

But it did, as suddenly as it had begun, and when he came back he looked into Hera’s dark eyes, and almost gave her the golden apple there and then.

Hermes coughed, and Hera drew back with a satisified grin, the peacock squawking, and Athene took her place. Hera believed she had won, and withdrew with as much grace as she could muster, but her peacock nipped Athene’s owl as it swooped past. The owl, put out, ruffled its feathers, and settled on a rock.

Athene knew that Paris was at heart rather a silly young man, who fancied himself as a fighter, and so she said, “Hera offers you kingly power. I offer you more.” And she touched him lightly on the forehead.

Now Paris was riding in his chariot, leading his army into war against the clamouring barbarians, and he could feel the landscape inside him. He could tell how many fighters they had; where the plain turned into mountain; how their horses would founder at the ford. He was at the forefront of the advance, and he was like a comet through the night.

He won, his men streaming through the gates of tall cities. They poured their drinks on the ground for him, and yelled his name, and gave him women and cattle. And there was more. When he looked at the stars,  he knew each of their names, and he knew when the sun would turn black, and how to navigate between the most dangerous straits; he knew the habits of the hawk, and where the bear sleeps.

He felt this knowledge in him, and something more tugged at his mind. He didn’t really like fighting, it was true, preferring to shoot arrows from a distance. But to know all these things, and to have the world come to him and call him the best fighter, the most intelligent strategist; this was better, wasn’t it, than simply to be loved for power?

Once more Hermes cleared his throat, and Athene withdrew. Athene never smirked, but there was a slight crease in her forehead that those who knew her would tell you meant she was well pleased.

There was only one goddess left. Aphrodite. She had not even bothered to comb her hair, and she was looking, if truth be told, a little flustered; her doves were sulking, and her nymphs, cowed by Hera’s commands, had not been in attendance to help her.

Aphrodite looked into Paris’s inmost heart, and she smiled. She knew that this rather foolish young man did not want battles, or power. She knew that he liked to oil his beard and to look at his reflection in the forest pools, practising pouts to catch the eye of a pretty youth or maiden. Aphrodite smiled secretly, reached out her gentle hand, and touched Paris on the forehead.

And what Paris saw this time was a stone room, with a simple divan in it, and a bearskin rug on the floor, and a table set with a jug of wine and two cups, and a plate of grapes and pomegranates, and, eating a grape, popping it into her mouth, was a woman.

Helen, Queen of Sparta, the wife of Menelaus, the most beautiful woman, not just in the world, but in all of time and space.

There was no need to think any further. The sounds of the soldier’s clashings, of the diamonds pouring on stone, of the acclamation and the glory, all faded away, and all there was, was the feel of Helen’s soft hand in his, and her calm, intelligent eyes on his, and then she smoothed the hair away from his brow, and said his name.

If we are looking for causes, we have already pointed the finger at Peleus and Thetis forgetting to invite Eris to their wedding; at the apple that she threw down; and at the judgement Paris was forced to make; but really, perhaps the cause of the Trojan War was this: a hidden look, a secret smile, and a hand grasping an elbow after a feast. Maybe there were no gods, or judgements, or goddesses; maybe all it was can be telescoped down to a single, fatal glance across a hall.

Paris had already made his decision. He knelt, and profferred the apple to Aphrodite, who took it slowly, enjoying every moment, her doves cooing to each other with delight.

The other goddesses, who had sworn on the Styx to abide by his judgement, disappeared in a huff. Athene in particular glared; she had always thought Aphrodite the most irritating of her divine relations.

Paris was left alone with Aphrodite. Aphrodite tidied her hair, acknowledged her prize, yawned, called her doves, and departed. When she got home to her cool mansion on Olympos, she placed the golden apple carelessly in an alcove, where soon it was forgotten, although she always made sure that if Hera came by it was placed to its advantage.

King Priam, meanwhile, had heard about this contest on the borders of his kingdom, and had made haste to see it. And there was no doubt, when he saw Paris, that here was one of his sons. There was nothing for it but to embrace him, and restore him to his place. But when Priam brought him back to the citadel of Troy, Hecuba, though she smiled outwardly, knew that the end was near. 

The flame that she had tried to quench  was burning still.

NEXT WEEK: Helen of Sparta. 

Read Parts One and Two here.

THE FALL OF TROY: PART 2

Paris by Desmais

THE JUDGEMENT OF PARIS: I

by Philip Womack

About fifteen years before King Peleus was marrying his sea-goddess wife Thetis, and Eris threw down that famous golden apple among the goddesses, in a large, tapestry-hung chamber in one of the topmost towers of the citadel, Hecuba, Queen of Troy, gave birth to a little boy. 

It was an easy birth; easier than any of her many other sons and daughters had been. Some of them were out breaking horses on the plains below the walls, others were washing clothes in the river, and the younger ones were scampering about the room as she lay with her new son tucked into the crook of her arm. She rather liked him: he had a gleam in his eye that she'd not seen before.

But that night, after the nurses took him away and placed him in his cradle, she dreamed.

It was not unusual for Hecuba to dream: but this one was particularly vivid, and it woke her up, gasping, sweating, panting with fear. Instead of a boy, she had given birth to a flaming sword.

She ran through the halls, her yawning maids pattering after her, and went to wake the seers from their sleep. Being seers, however, they had already seen her coming, and so they were prepared, heads bowed, to deliver the sad news. Hecuba asked them to wait until Priam, the King, was there. Kings do not enjoy being woken from their slumbers any more than the next man; and so rather crossly he paced around the room, hands clasped behind his back, hoping that they would get on with it.

Eventually, after much consultation, the chief seer threw back his hood, and said, “The flaming sword is your new son. This boy, my lord, will destroy your city.”

They could not kill him: he was their own son, after all, even though they had so many others, some of whom had crept in, and were listening, hanging off the stairs and railings like so many monkeys. So Priam and Hecuba did what most kingly parents would do in such situations, and after a night and a day of discussion, and with much sorrow, they sent him away with a shepherd, with some firm instructions to abandon him.

(They might have taken note from others who tried to abandon babies with prophecies hanging over them: it never works, and it always comes back to bite you on the nose when you’re least expecting it.)

The shepherd, who was at heart rather a kind man, reluctantly left the little boy by himself on the hillside, where he might be devoured by wolves or die of exposure. That night he could not sleep. And so as soon as dawn broke he returned to the hillside, and to his surprise, found that the boy was still there, finger in his mouth, gurgling. A bear had given him milk - or so the story went. Much relieved, the shepherd took him home in his backpack, and named him Paris.

The boy grew up, ignorant of his princely blood, into a fine, long-haired young man, who would search all night for a lamb, and could set bulls to fight against each other, and could hurl a spear further and with better aim than anyone who lived in the villages around the foothills of Troy. He also had rather a liking for fine clothes, and would run his fingers with enjoyment through the materials that traders brought from the coastal cities.

Because he was such a fine young man, and because they knew anyway what was going to happen, he came to the attention of the gods; and they saw that he was honest, and could judge a dispute well. And also, perhaps, because gods like symmetry, and they had noted that just as Achilles was being born, the man who was to kill him would be making his great decision.

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So it was that, one afternoon, much to Paris’s surprise, when he came wandering down the mountain path with a belly full of meat and a wineskin on his back, he found a young curly haired man, much his own age, sitting lazily on a rock with a smirk on his face, a stick in his hand, and a winged helmet on his head; and behind the young man, were arrayed three women. A peacock was pecking at the earth; perched on a tree was an owl; and a pair of doves was glaring angrily at the owl.

Those who have met gods know that there is a power about them which makes the air tremble.

Paris felt it; he pulled his cap off his head, and knelt down at their feet.

Hermes - for that was the curly-haired young man - looked Paris up and down, as if to say, well, you’ll do. He yawned. It was especially tiring being the messenger of the gods, and he had had a lot to put up with keeping Athena, Aphrodite and Hera from tearing into each other on the journey here; not to mention the birds, who had done everything they could to slow things down by trying to peck each others’ eyes out. Fortunately, he had a pocketful of corn from Demeter, and he’d been using it to keep the peace; the goddesses he’d left to themselves. He could feel the tension crackling between them, like the lightning bolts that Zeus would throw when he was in a temper.

 “You’ve been called up,” Hermes said to Paris. “Go on, you can look at them. You’re meant to.”

Gingerly, Paris stood. The three goddesses spread out into a line, like dancers, ready to prepare themselves.

“What do you want me to do?” said Paris.

“Easy,” said Hermes, and threw him the golden apple.

When he had read the message, and understood, Paris bit his lip and put down his wineskin. He would have to make a decision. How could he choose between these three divine beings? Hera was the queen of the gods. Aphrodite - whose glance alone was enough to make him quail - commanded desire. And Athene's weapons glittered brightly. And what, whoever he chose, after all, was going to prevent any of these goddesses from making sure that he never went bull-fighting again?

NEXT WEEK: PARIS MAKES A CHOICE

Read Part 1 Here.

Philip Womack's seventh novel, THE ARROW OF APOLLO, which takes place after the Trojan War, is now raising funds on Unbound.