Read Online The Song of Troy by Colleen McCullough - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Colleen McCullough
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power, then, on the climax, as the last chord died away into stillness, I began to sing.
‘He was alone, at every turn was enmity.
Queen Here brooding spread her hands,
And Olympos shook its golden rafters
As she turned restless to watch him.
Implacable her divine rage! King Zeus
Powerless in all the reaches of his sky
Because he promised glorious Here this,
His son into groaning bondage on earth.
Eurystheus her minion cold and pitiless,
Smiling as he counted those runnels,
His sweat that Herakles gave in payment.
For the children of the Gods must atone
Because the Gods are above retribution,
And that is the difference between men
And the Gods who prey on them as victims.
Bastard child without that drop of ichor,
Herakles took up the price of passion.
In agony and degradation did he pay,
While Here laughed to see mighty Zeus weep…’
It was the Lay of Herakles, not dead so many years, and as I sang I watched them both. Ajax listened intently, Achilles with his body tensed, leaning forward with his chin propped on his hands, both elbows on the arm of my chair, his eyes only a thread away from my face. When at last I put the lyre from me he dropped his hands with a sigh, exhausted.
So it began, and so it went on as the years rolled by. Achilles forged ahead in everything, Ajax plodded doggedly through his assignments. Yet Telamon’s son was not a fool. He had a courage and a determination that any king mighty envy, and he always managed to keep up. But Achilles was my boy, my joy. Every single thing I told him was stored up with jealous care – to be used when he was a great king, he would say with a smile. He loved learning and excelled in all its branches, as good with his hands as he was with his mind. Even now I have some of his clay bowls and little drawings.
But above all scholarship, Achilles was born to action, to war and to mighty deeds. Even in the physical sense he outstripped his cousin, for he was quicksilver on his feet and took to handling weapons like a greedy woman to a casket of jewels. His aim with a spear was unerring, nor could I see the sword once he drew it. Swish, slash, chop. Oh yes, he was born to command! He understood the art of war without effort, by instinct. A natural hunter, he would come back to my cave dragging a wild boar too heavy to carry, and he could run down a deer. Only once did I see him in trouble, when, after his quarry at full tilt, he came crashing down so hard that it was some time before he recovered his full senses. His right foot, he explained, had given way.
Ajax could flare into violent rage, but I never saw Achilles lose his temper. Neither shy nor withdrawn, he yet possessed an inner quiet and restraint. The thinking warrior. How rare. In only one respect did that gash of a mouth reveal the other side of his nature; when something did not suit his sense of fitness he could be as cold and unbending as the north wind bearing snow.
I enjoyed those seven years more than all the rest of my life put together, thanks not only to Achilles, but to Ajax too. The contrast between the first cousins was so marked and their excellences so great that welding them into men became a task filled with love. Of all the boys I have taught, I loved Achilles most. When he drove away for the last time I wept, and for many moons afterwards my will to live was a gnat as persistent as the one which tormented Io. It was a long time before I could look out from my chair and see the golden trim on the roof of the palace shining in the sun without a mist hovering before my eyes that made the gilding and the tile dissolve one into the other like ore in a crucible.
4
NARRATED BY
Helen
Xanthippe gave me a rough tussle; I came from the field panting and exhausted. We had gathered a large audience, and I gave the circle of admiring faces my most radiant smile. No man was interested in congratulating Xanthippe for winning the bout. They were there to see me. Crowding about me, they sang my praises,
‘He was alone, at every turn was enmity.
Queen Here brooding spread her hands,
And Olympos shook its golden rafters
As she turned restless to watch him.
Implacable her divine rage! King Zeus
Powerless in all the reaches of his sky
Because he promised glorious Here this,
His son into groaning bondage on earth.
Eurystheus her minion cold and pitiless,
Smiling as he counted those runnels,
His sweat that Herakles gave in payment.
For the children of the Gods must atone
Because the Gods are above retribution,
And that is the difference between men
And the Gods who prey on them as victims.
Bastard child without that drop of ichor,
Herakles took up the price of passion.
In agony and degradation did he pay,
While Here laughed to see mighty Zeus weep…’
It was the Lay of Herakles, not dead so many years, and as I sang I watched them both. Ajax listened intently, Achilles with his body tensed, leaning forward with his chin propped on his hands, both elbows on the arm of my chair, his eyes only a thread away from my face. When at last I put the lyre from me he dropped his hands with a sigh, exhausted.
So it began, and so it went on as the years rolled by. Achilles forged ahead in everything, Ajax plodded doggedly through his assignments. Yet Telamon’s son was not a fool. He had a courage and a determination that any king mighty envy, and he always managed to keep up. But Achilles was my boy, my joy. Every single thing I told him was stored up with jealous care – to be used when he was a great king, he would say with a smile. He loved learning and excelled in all its branches, as good with his hands as he was with his mind. Even now I have some of his clay bowls and little drawings.
But above all scholarship, Achilles was born to action, to war and to mighty deeds. Even in the physical sense he outstripped his cousin, for he was quicksilver on his feet and took to handling weapons like a greedy woman to a casket of jewels. His aim with a spear was unerring, nor could I see the sword once he drew it. Swish, slash, chop. Oh yes, he was born to command! He understood the art of war without effort, by instinct. A natural hunter, he would come back to my cave dragging a wild boar too heavy to carry, and he could run down a deer. Only once did I see him in trouble, when, after his quarry at full tilt, he came crashing down so hard that it was some time before he recovered his full senses. His right foot, he explained, had given way.
Ajax could flare into violent rage, but I never saw Achilles lose his temper. Neither shy nor withdrawn, he yet possessed an inner quiet and restraint. The thinking warrior. How rare. In only one respect did that gash of a mouth reveal the other side of his nature; when something did not suit his sense of fitness he could be as cold and unbending as the north wind bearing snow.
I enjoyed those seven years more than all the rest of my life put together, thanks not only to Achilles, but to Ajax too. The contrast between the first cousins was so marked and their excellences so great that welding them into men became a task filled with love. Of all the boys I have taught, I loved Achilles most. When he drove away for the last time I wept, and for many moons afterwards my will to live was a gnat as persistent as the one which tormented Io. It was a long time before I could look out from my chair and see the golden trim on the roof of the palace shining in the sun without a mist hovering before my eyes that made the gilding and the tile dissolve one into the other like ore in a crucible.
4
NARRATED BY
Helen
Xanthippe gave me a rough tussle; I came from the field panting and exhausted. We had gathered a large audience, and I gave the circle of admiring faces my most radiant smile. No man was interested in congratulating Xanthippe for winning the bout. They were there to see me. Crowding about me, they sang my praises,
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