King, to tell him he meant to bring war to Death’s city.
Menelaus and Agamemnon invoked the betrothaloath and called up all the men who owed them service. They told their recruits only that Helen was gone and that they were making war on a great king in the East to get her back. The most intractable and desirable recruit was Odysseus, who had in the years since the wedding kept to Ithaca, his island kingdom, and spent his days in contemplation in Quickness’s shrine.
Menelaus went to Ithaca, found Odysseus at prayer and demanded that he arm himself and come with him. Without getting up, Odysseus observed that he was indifferent to Menelaus’s domestic problems and that in light of Menelaus’s bad breeding Helen had probably left of her own accord, thereby negating the compact. Menelaus, implacable, said that he would bind Odysseus and bring him as a slave if not as a companion. Odysseus invited him to try and blood was in the air when on impulse Menelaus told him the name of the personage with whom he quarreled. Odysseus hesitated, glanced at his altar, sighed and said, “Your enemy is a terrible one but it seems I must go with you,” and took his spear down from the wall.
They left Ithaca on a mirror-clear night, the ships sweeping through black water and reflected stars. Soon the dark hulls ground on the sands of Ilium, Death’s country, the white sails were furled, and they leapt down onto the shingle with weapons in hand. The sand crackled underfoot—Odysseus scooped up a handful and sawthat it was made up of ground bone, tiny fragments of tooth, skull and vertebrae. They pitched their tents on the shore in the shadow of Ilium’s tall jagged walls and the odor of the charnel smoke rising from its towers. The augurs stared forlornly at the birdless sky.
The next morning the Greeks mustered to attack. As they drew near Ilium’s massive gate and spike-surmounted walls they wavered, even Agamemnon hesitating, but Menelaus was indifferent both to his men and to terror and he led the way, eyes shining, without looking back to see if they followed. Passing the black tree growing before the gate of Ilium, Menelaus struck the gate three times with the pommel of his bronze sword.
A fog came down on them just as they were bringing up their battering ram—on that much, everyone afterwards agreed. From there, the stories diverged. Some spoke of stumbling out of the fog onto an endless plain of frost where they wandered for days without seeing any evidence of living things except, sometimes, their own footprints. Some found a palace woven of giant bones from which rushed grey warriors with grim faces who shrugged off even the cruelest blows. Others spoke of a grey devil sitting on a stone who sang dirges in answer to their shouted questions.
Many Greeks died in battle but some of them came back to take their places in line with the living, their wounds still open but no longer bleeding. Menelaus didnot like it but he did not fall short of men. Sometimes Death’s army sallied forth from Ilium, full of rage, but their passion was quickly spent and often his soldiers would stop in the middle of battle as though transfixed by a sudden inspiration, their gazes fixed on the horizon, motionless, even as the rejoicing, vindictive Greeks hacked them to pieces.
The high walls of Death’s city became the ubiquitous background of the Greeks’ dreams. There was a universal sense of oppression to which only Menelaus was immune—he fought with delighted abandon, never giving ground, always attacking. He would face a thicket of spears alone if his men’s courage failed, but he was never wounded or even tired. His tent was the only one in camp from which laughter was heard and his recklessness and apparent contempt for his enemy gave heart to his soldiers. Agamemnon strove to follow his brother’s example, and though he could not be as careless he fought valiantly against the soldiers of Death—he cursed and roared, hacked
Menelaus and Agamemnon invoked the betrothaloath and called up all the men who owed them service. They told their recruits only that Helen was gone and that they were making war on a great king in the East to get her back. The most intractable and desirable recruit was Odysseus, who had in the years since the wedding kept to Ithaca, his island kingdom, and spent his days in contemplation in Quickness’s shrine.
Menelaus went to Ithaca, found Odysseus at prayer and demanded that he arm himself and come with him. Without getting up, Odysseus observed that he was indifferent to Menelaus’s domestic problems and that in light of Menelaus’s bad breeding Helen had probably left of her own accord, thereby negating the compact. Menelaus, implacable, said that he would bind Odysseus and bring him as a slave if not as a companion. Odysseus invited him to try and blood was in the air when on impulse Menelaus told him the name of the personage with whom he quarreled. Odysseus hesitated, glanced at his altar, sighed and said, “Your enemy is a terrible one but it seems I must go with you,” and took his spear down from the wall.
They left Ithaca on a mirror-clear night, the ships sweeping through black water and reflected stars. Soon the dark hulls ground on the sands of Ilium, Death’s country, the white sails were furled, and they leapt down onto the shingle with weapons in hand. The sand crackled underfoot—Odysseus scooped up a handful and sawthat it was made up of ground bone, tiny fragments of tooth, skull and vertebrae. They pitched their tents on the shore in the shadow of Ilium’s tall jagged walls and the odor of the charnel smoke rising from its towers. The augurs stared forlornly at the birdless sky.
The next morning the Greeks mustered to attack. As they drew near Ilium’s massive gate and spike-surmounted walls they wavered, even Agamemnon hesitating, but Menelaus was indifferent both to his men and to terror and he led the way, eyes shining, without looking back to see if they followed. Passing the black tree growing before the gate of Ilium, Menelaus struck the gate three times with the pommel of his bronze sword.
A fog came down on them just as they were bringing up their battering ram—on that much, everyone afterwards agreed. From there, the stories diverged. Some spoke of stumbling out of the fog onto an endless plain of frost where they wandered for days without seeing any evidence of living things except, sometimes, their own footprints. Some found a palace woven of giant bones from which rushed grey warriors with grim faces who shrugged off even the cruelest blows. Others spoke of a grey devil sitting on a stone who sang dirges in answer to their shouted questions.
Many Greeks died in battle but some of them came back to take their places in line with the living, their wounds still open but no longer bleeding. Menelaus didnot like it but he did not fall short of men. Sometimes Death’s army sallied forth from Ilium, full of rage, but their passion was quickly spent and often his soldiers would stop in the middle of battle as though transfixed by a sudden inspiration, their gazes fixed on the horizon, motionless, even as the rejoicing, vindictive Greeks hacked them to pieces.
The high walls of Death’s city became the ubiquitous background of the Greeks’ dreams. There was a universal sense of oppression to which only Menelaus was immune—he fought with delighted abandon, never giving ground, always attacking. He would face a thicket of spears alone if his men’s courage failed, but he was never wounded or even tired. His tent was the only one in camp from which laughter was heard and his recklessness and apparent contempt for his enemy gave heart to his soldiers. Agamemnon strove to follow his brother’s example, and though he could not be as careless he fought valiantly against the soldiers of Death—he cursed and roared, hacked
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