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. 

HELP SUPPORT: THE ARROW OF APOLLO by Philip Womack on Unbound

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 Immortals: review

There is no canon in Greek myth. They're fluid, and The Immortals has moulded something of its own out of them, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to hardly any of the legends we know. It's crazy, balletic, silly, powerful, beautiful, and totally ridiculous; and it's also amongst the most fun and impressive films that I've seen this year.

Theseus and his army

It takes place in a never-never Greece (about 1,200 BC, apparently, although it looks more like an alien desert landscape); the Olympian gods have suppressed the Titans (who suffer, chained up in something that looks like it came from the brain of the Human Centipede guy, under a mountain) but have decided not to take any active part in human affairs. This does not prevent Zeus, however (played with an impish might by Luke Evans) from disguising himself as an old man - and not just any old man, but John Hurt, who is so wise that practically every other word is an aphorism – in order to influence (but not actively, you see) his son Theseus, who must learn to do things of his own free will (and not having been influenced by Zeus. At All.)

Theseus lives in a stone town which has conveniently been carved out of rocks looking over a cliff edge, which can't be very practical, or comfortable when the wind blows, but that doesn't really matter, because it looks pretty impressive. Theseus is also a humdinger of a man - played by Henry Cavill, who's obviously been working out (since he's about to play Superman) - he's the sort of chap that would make the average Abercrombie and Fitch model not want to take his top off on the beach for shame. He is not the prince of myth, though; he is a humble peasant who would die to protect those he loves. He's also pretty nifty with a spear, as it turns out, which is lucky. Think Brad Pitt in Troy but without the sulkiness. And boy does the camera love him, lingering on his body whenever it can; even when he's close to death, having been enslaved, he looks like a bronzed Lycidas. Even the virginal Oracle  (Frieda Pinto, for whom most would swoon any day) whose second sight is tied to her chastity, thinks twice when she sees Theseus. Cavill does a good job with the fairly dire script, too - when he gave a speech to his soldiers to rouse them up a bit, I found myself getting roused up too, despite the cringeworthiness of the lines.

Zeus and Athena: Daddy's girl

The village's - and all of Greece's - existence is threatened: the vile King Hyperion wishes to find the Epirus bow (a magical weapon of great power) and, well, like all baddies ever, take over the world; he also wants to unleash the Titans, though quite why is anyone's guess. Meanwhile, he invades a monastery where the Oracle lives - who happens to be an extremely beautiful girl who likes sleeping on a silken couch with her three other very beautiful oracle-friends - and tortures and kills people, willy-nilly. When one of Theseus' villagers defects to Hyperion's camp, and sees a silver bull into which victims are thrown and burned, as well as dead bodies hung up everywhere, you can almost hear him think, uh oh, this was a bad idea, wish I'd stayed with those lame villagers... Hyperion is so evil he makes Darth Vader look like Bambi. He likes wearing masks, too, as do all his followers - weird, toothy animal masks. He believes in democracy, you see (apparently).

The plot, though, is sort of beside the point, because every scene is so enthrallingly enjoyable in its sumptuous finery, violence or lunacy that one is compelled throughout. It doesn't seem to matter that the Olympus of the Greek gods resembles a gay nightclub, with all the male gods lounging around half-naked  in diamanté and Heath-Robinson hats (there's only one female god, Athena, played by a too-beautiful Isabel Lucas - she should have been Aphrodite, surely?) Nor does it matter that the oracle and her friends wear jangling tea-cosies on their heads. I think the film itself is aware of its excesses - Theseus laughs at a priest's similar headgear.

The film has its own grace, and if you are prepared to take it on its own terms, then you'll find yourself swept away just as if Poseidon himself had come down and caused a tidal wave. And the final scenes point towards a sequel that looks like it might be even bigger, and even sillier, with an aeronautical battle between gods and Titans. Hats off - the sillier the better - to director Tarsem Singh, for this deeply luxurious nugget.

Mythic Interview with Lucy Coats

Here is a link to a lovely interview the children's writer Lucy Coats conducted with me. She writes marvellous mythical stories:

CLICK HERE

Man and Superman

The Greek gods were strange beasts: petulant and childish, their immortality rendering every one of their actions futile. It's all been pre-ordained, anyway. All that the lesser gods can do is stall for time; when Zeus wakes up he'll see what's gone awry and sort everything out with a nod of his shaggy head. In Christian literature, God is often rather dull (just dip into Paradise Lost); as is heaven (singing all day in praise of God? Hmmmm.). Goodies are usually much more boring in literature than baddies. Such is the glamour of evil. In the Morte Darthur you'd much rather hang out with the complicated, sprightly, adulterous Lancelot than with prim, pious Galahad (something T H White picks up on in his marvellous The Once and Future King.)

This is true for superheroes, too. That's why Clark Kent's Superman makes my eyes droop, whilst the twisted Batman makes me raise a cheer. And that's why I absolutely loved Kickass. It's a loopy, lovely, weird cartoon, a joyful paean to adolescence as much as it is stuffed with Kill Billesque violence. Though discomfiting, there is no mistaking the two-dimensional quality of the world in which Kickass takes place, so the violence becomes part of the film's expected texture. Mr Sam Taylor-Wood, otherwise known as Aaron Johnson, is sweet and tender and sympathetic. He plays a dorky, speccy teen who puts on a wetsuit and calls himself Kickass - a real life superhero. Johnson is as thin and rubbery as his suit. As he twirls around his room trying out moves, you can't help but like him and admire him for overcoming his vulnerability. The real star of the movie, though, is the eleven year old Hit Girl. Born into revenge, she can run up walls, slice up bad guys and plan military operations with the finesse of the most brilliant general. She is like a malevolent demon, but is also curiously loveable: twisted by her father into an avenging machine, she has never had a chance to have a childhood.

These superheroes made me feel a lot better about the world than Superman or even the brooding Wingedrodentman: when calamities occur, there is no point hanging around waiting for a deus ex machina who may or may not deign to help. Kickass reminds us that self-reliance and resilience are the greatest qualities that anybody can have. I heartily recommend it, to anyone.