Onessimus: Troy's Fall Denied
By A.J. Mittendorf
I sing of wars and rumours of wars. I sing of Achilles' exploits far on the windy plains of high-towered Troy, of his defeat over Hector, and of his mercy to Hector's father, Troy's king. I sing of Odysseus' cunning defeat over Troy by means of a hand-crafted horse and of his nine-year voyage back to his island home of Ithaca. I sing of Aeneas' narrow escape and of his odyssey to Hesperia where he fought for Troy anew. I do not sing these tales themselves, I sing only of them, for they are mis-matched threads in an ancient cord. They are lifeless islands in a windless sea. They are Calypso's charms that hold men captive. They are the Gorgons' glorious tresses, the Harpies' sweet perfume, Sirens' song. I was there. Not that I am anyone. I am a mere nail in one of more than a thousand ships, a simple gust of wind in a single sail, a lone oar among hundreds of thousands, but I know what happened. Long before Aeneas would have need to escape Troy's destruction, before Odysseus had chance to use his craftiness, even before Achilles returned to the fray or Troy could tumble to shake the earth, Onessimus rose from the ranks of Greece, putting a stop to the battle for the golden apple, the conflict for the prize worth many lives--the godlike woman, Helen of Troy.
Achilles had too long been absent from the fight, and we were losing ground under Hector's triumphant tirade laying siege at our beaked ships. So Agamemnon, our Commander-in-Chief, sent three emissaries to Achilles--Odysseus of the nimble wits, grey-headed Phoenix, and the formidable Telamonian Ajax--entreating him to return to the fight. That night, having quenched our hunger and thirst, having buried our many dead, and having washed the gore from our bodies, we sat silently on the beach beside our fires, none caring to speak. When war hangs in the balance, anyone who speaks, whether for or against, opens the door for all to be lead back to battle; it is a favoured technique of the Fates into whose arms we were less than eager to run. So all those who were both wise and reluctant sat silently, staring into our campfires as if Medusa herself, with snakes of wisps of flame, were providing warmth and light. Then Agamemnon, standing on the prow of his ship, called us to assembly on the beach, and when he had our ears, he began: "My faithful soldiers, attend to what I have to say. As I have already told you, not long ago Zeus sent a dream in the form of Nestor telling me that we had approached the time to complete our goal here at Troy: to bring her to the ground, plunder her, and return Helen to Menelaus, her rightful spouse, saving her from those kidnaping Trojan thieves and sparing Menelaus more years of concern for his gentle bride. It is a noble goal, but we have lost many lives, and Achilles has not returned with those I sent to him. I see now that Zeus tricked me into bringing Greece to ruin, and that we should instead return to our families and friends at home."
Each of us, nodding to his neighbour, conceded that this may be the wisest of all possible decisions, so we began to gather our armour. But Diomedes, the red-haired giant among us, marched toward Agamemnon through the assembly, once or twice forcing men's armour clashing to the ground, "My lord Agamemnon, who has bewitched you? You accused me of cowardice just yesterday. Even as I was saddling my horses in full armour, preparing to sally forth, you claimed that I was holding back from war. I swallowed my pride and said nothing, but went off to battle, even battling the gods themselves, and now you dare suggest to the men, in my presence, that we retreat? Now you listen to me: Victory walks among us not unlike the way Achilles walks with Patroclus; we need only reach out our arms to embrace her, then she will carry us home with honour, with Troy's plunder--their gold and women--and the very prize we set out for: the wife of Menelaus. It is indeed a noble goal, and it is hours, maybe days away. We have been too near the mark for too long to quit so hastily like the child whose mother has called him home for supper." At this, he turned to all of us, and, with the voice of Ares himself, he declared bravely and clearly, "My sword will drink its fill of the finest Trojan wine, even the king's wine. My ships will carry as much of the Trojan spoils as they can bear. My Calydonian cohorts will return to their wives as wealthy men. All of us must take like men what is ours, then return with our heads high to the wine-waters of home!"
We turned again to don our armour and prepare our hearts for war, acknowledging to one another the power of Diomedes' leadership, and vowing to fight well in honour of one so great as he. Then Onessimus stepped forward to share his thoughts with Agamemnon. He was only one of the men, not a general or a king, not even the first born of a king, but as a younger son of one of our wisest kings, the generals would often hear his thoughts and, on occasion, heed his counsel. Nestor almost tried to stop him though, but thought better of it. He halted in his march toward Onessimus, folded his arms and let him speak, and Onessimus, having bowed low to Agamemnon, began: "Mighty Agamemnon, I am convinced that you are correct. It is better for us to return home with all heads intact than only a few held high; perhaps I can sway the rest. May I address the men?"
Agamemnon offered his army's ears, and Onessimus called to them, "Fellow warriors, we have heard much wisdom of the elders, our generals and our kings. Listening to them, following their commands, has done well to keep us fighting-strong these nine years of war. We have lost only half the men we came with and only half of Troy remains! This war can last another nine years before numbers fallen from our ranks force us to return home. Will our families not rejoice in seeing us then? Our graying mothers will ask us, 'I sent a babe to Troy with Agamemnon; who are you?' Our wives, their eyes wide with surprise at seeing us so unexpectedly, will greet us in the doorway with great smiles, glancing eagerly over their shoulders toward their inner chambers. In another nine years, my friends, only the dogs who survive our absence will remember us when we return. Now, I tell you that there is no reason to continue this fight, not for another nine years, not for another nine days. The prize we came for will have long lost its value by now, and greater prizes await our 'rescuing' from Ocean, who now reaches shoreward to carry us out safely like a young woman with child who longs to coddle her young. Aeolus urges us to the ships, providing, even now, ample wind for our sails, and look! Even now the rising fingers of Dawn wave us seaward promising a smooth day of fair sailing. Let us go to sea. What wonders await us there, and what greetings will welcome us home?"
With those words, Onessimus struck such longing for home in each of us that we roared in unison and threw our fists high in the air, saluting our friend whose powerful words were to lead us all home to aging parents, lonely wives, and growing children. But as our cheers subsided, Menelaus stepped forward to challenge Onessimus: "So you miss your mummy, do you? Fine, then, go on home. No one will stop you. A soldier who is unable to keep his eyes away from home is no good to any of his comrades. Go, but first, I want you to explain what you mean by the prize having lost its value. Helen is the prize; she is Zeus's daughter, a queen, and my wife. So, tell me what you mean, boy. Speak up; no one can hear you, but speak well also. You wouldn't want to go home to Mummy minus your head."
Blanching, Onessimus was in no hurry to respond, even though Menelaus waited with his hand on his blade. He considered his words carefully, praying for wisdom and realizing that he had overstepped his bounds. It is no small thing to stand at odds with a king. "I wish no dishonour upon you, Mighty Menelaus. Your deeds are great, befitting a king, but not even a king's wife is equal in value to nine years of this army's life, and I doubt an honest answer from any of the men would praise your queen's splendour." He paused as Menelaus angrily eyed the men around him, and we all took a step back. He brought his eyes back to Onessimus who swallowed and cautiously continued, "Smell this salty air, Menelaus, and feel the wind; even the loveliest face caught in nine years of this weather would turn quickly to leather. In sum, Peerless Menelaus, favoured of Ares, the face which launched a thousand ships nine years ago, would launch no more than ten today."
Onessimus closed, and Menelaus snapped his blade to his young opponent's throat. "I should slice you where you stand; your soul would be en route to Hades before your body fell to the dust. But you are young and the son of a king we all admire, and none more than I. You are speculating, and I would teach you to think better of Helen." Onessimus could do nothing but concede Menelaus's point, cautiously nodding in response. Menelaus smiled wryly and withdrew his blade. "Good answer!" he nearly cheered. "This would not be the first time for your speeches to cause trouble. Lucky for you I was around this time. I know that you are no coward, but when we do not know for sure we must assume the best." There was no response from Onessimus. "I do not want to enforce my point again; are we still in agreement?" Onessimus bowed reverently to the king and backed away. Menelaus turned his attention back to the men and stabbed his sword in the air. "Achaean men at arms, the battle is still ours!"
All of us took our own swords to cheer, thrusting them toward the stars, mimicking Menelaus, jabbing and brandishing them with delight of battle. Diomedes jeered at Agamemnon. Even Menelaus turned to him an evil eye, and Agamemnon sank away, flushed, not unlike a ship caught in the great whirlpool of Charybdis when she drinks in the sea, swallowing all afloat on it.
Menelaus sheathed his blade without expression when the cheering died. All warriors, following the call to battle, adorned themselves for war, but Menelaus stood by the ships, silently watching for a time. Nestor approached him from behind and clapped his back. "Well done, my friend. Until Achilles returns, we need only bide our time on the field, and you have secured the battle for us, perhaps even our victory. Look at the bold eagerness of our men now!"
"With little thanks to Onessimus." Menelaus began then shrank, dropping his eyes. "Forgive me Nestor. But I do fear that, if we are to avoid disaster, we should have left him where he wishes most to be."
"That would not be so good a thing as you imagine, Menelaus. I brought him along with good reason in mind. He is Onessimus, and we must allow him to be Onessimus. Despite his continuous contrary advice, he has done his part in keeping us focused on the fight, just as he did today with your assistance. The soldiers' hearts had melted with dread and become like water running down hill, away from Troy, toward the sea--and home. You said yourself that a soldier's eyes must remain on the battle. Your words to Onessimus reached deep within all our men to pull out the spirited warriors that would have otherwise remained buried. Now they will fight! As one who has no ship, no place to retreat except to his sword, so each man shall fight. Without Onessimus, you would have had no voice, and we would be scattered sheep, but with Onessimus, we are a flock."
Onessimus returned to the fray with the rest of us, but not to fight. He neither challenged the Trojans, nor did he accept any challenges. Instead, through the entire morning, he stood on a small mound on the field of battle. He wore his armour, but was not armed; his sword lay in its scabbard, and his sturdy spear stood thrust in the ground beside him. He studied Troy--the well-built walls and the watchers of war upon them--but as sword collided with sword all around him, sending tiny stars dying to the ground, his good friend, Philemon, in the midst of fighting, called to him, "Onessimus! Come! Join the fight!" And having run his opponent through, Philemon stood straight, letting out a breath with a smile, and declared, "The kill is good!" just as another man's sword sliced with a vengeance to the bone of Philemon's neck, and his head lolled away to the side as his body fell dead to the dust. Onessimus, struck to his heart by his friend's fall, was about to draw his own sword in vengeance when Antilochus called out to Onessimus, availing him to his senses. Antilochus' sword was drawn and his shield raised as he made his way through the fray to Onessimus' side. "I know you all too well, Onessimus. Nearly born an orphan, your parents were killed after the wild boar hunt at Calydon where my father fought the war-like Curetes for you in his prime. He searched the city's wreckage for spoils and found you almost dead yourself. He took you as his own and raised you as my brother. We played many a war-game together, you and I as boys, in order to learn to fight as one, like the sons of Telamon, but you were always too quick to show mercy to your fallen foe--a despicable gesture! Only a brute stirs up trouble for his friends by ending a match before the enemy is fully vanquished. Father tried to teach you to hide your mercy, to keep it locked away and to display it proudly only for a countryman or the love of a good woman. You had no shame, and I doubt that you have learned it even in all these years fighting Troy. I see the look in your eye and saw the same last night. What could you possibly do that would not cost us your life, Onessimus? As your brother I ask you, do nothing brutish. Fight while the fight is in you; you may be dead tomorrow! Honour your father and mother; honour Nestor who loves you as a son. You are a strong soldier, an enormous asset; fight to kill and be glad for each life lost that is not your own--and do nothing brutish."
Onessimus smiled lightly, not meeting his brother's eyes. "I hear conflict in your words, Antilochus, but remember what Father sings, "A sweet song is sweeter after sadness; fine wine is finer after tears." Those who are brutish are the tension that sweetens the wine when the tears have dried."
Antilochus pointed at Onessimus accusingly with his sword, "You flatter yourself, Onessimus."
"No, Antilochus. I am not speaking of myself, but of Mercy. This war is wounded, and Helen--Helen is the sweet, sweet fruit of Discord, and we are spoiled goddesses demanding her for ourselves when she can neither be had nor divided." Here he turned to look at his brother. "Tell me, Antilochus, whose children will be the next to fight for an apple whose nature demands a fight but can never be won? Mercy is brutish, but not so much as Mercy's absence. Like a fine horse gone lame, this war must die. If we try to nurse a lame horse, it simply goes on hurting. Then when he does die, we are saddened, of course, but not so much as by the memory of a horse whose life was consumed by pain--a horse who was once great, but which no one could any longer ride or work but only watch as it ate grass and walked the pastures being not dead. Then we would remember the glorious days when it was still strong and healthy--the horse we rode across the country on the hunt--and hate ourselves for not showing mercy."
"Does mortal man show mercy to Eternal War, Onessimus? Are you not mortal? No, you must be an Eternal, and so you can heal?" Antilochus fell to his knees in mock obeisance. "Regard Onessimus stellified! Allow Ares to live according to your mercy, my brother; heal him, I beg you! Were you to be so very gracious, there is no doubt that he will bow before you in gratitude and vow his allegiance for all your days. Or is the Eternal Ares so badly wounded in the sight of one so great as Onessimus, that even he is unable to heal and must, with his mighty sword, in but a single blow, end the misery of War? Such judgments reside solely on the shoulders of Onessimus, for all the gods seek his power and wisdom--cowering before him, for he is greater and, without equal, mightier still than all-powerful Zeus who also pleads for the mercy of Onessimus on his warrior son's behalf!"
"Your antics are not without their merit, but you must remember, Antilochus, I am driven by what I am."
"What is it, then, that you have decided to do?"
Onessimus paused to consider the question. "I will find for certain if the prize we fight for is as glorious as we have painted her with our blood. If she is, then I will fight as eagerly as any of our leaders to win her back. If she is not, however I am able, I will show mercy to these hobbling hostilities."
Antilochus scoffed and left his brother's presence, marching back to the melee. As Onessimus watched, the earthy cloud that the fighting men raised hid Antilochus from his view, and he was gone. Onessimus looked again on the walls and breathed deeply. Then, with spear in hand, he began his own march on Troy.
Onessimus marched through the battle field much as a comet moves against the sky--paying no heed to the stars around it. And as a comet draws the eyes of people in wonder to itself, so Onessimus drew his comrades' eyes, and all the eyes of Troy, to himself. In a great wave across the battle field, pairs of men ceased their various fights to question each other, pondering the meaning of Onessimus' actions. He marched through the armies and across the plains between them and Troy; his appearance became a point of light set against the base of the walls of Troy.
Nearly two hundred archers stood on those walls with their bows and arrows poised and aimed and ready to claim a part of Onessimus' heart in an instant. Priam also stood on the walls with a great company of distinctly amused spectators watching Onessimus; Laocoon was among those who gawked at the boy-soldier beneath them as Onessimus addressed the king: "Lord Priam, your great wisdom of war betrays you. Not long ago your sword would sing its slaying as you would strike; perhaps your skill out-weighs even Nestor's with whom you fought the Curetes side by side at Calydon. But your great experience, like a council of elders, forbids you to fight anymore, for with experience comes age. I invite you, my lord, to defy your years and join the battle again; be a part of this war."
"Is that a challenge? What is it you want, boy? Speak quickly. I have better things to do that to be entertained by you."
Feeling the first pangs of indecision, Onessimus resigned himself to his task and, raising his palms, asked plainly, "I ask that you send out Helen."
Priam stood straight and looked around at his citizens, as though asking if they had heard the same thing he had. The stunned silence on Troy's walls seemed tangible as every Trojan recoiled in wide-eyed disbelief. Heads turned from one to another as if to make certain they had heard correctly. The archer's eyes, praised for their lack of expression, danced back and forth to the archers beside them as though Onessimus had made an off-colour joke at Priam's expense, and all were wondering how Priam would react, wanting to follow suit. But the tension grew too great for the bubble of silence, and it finally burst as the entire assembly fell into laughter together. Even the many archers found their aims aquiver while they snorted and teared, trying to hold their laughs.
Looking down on Onessimus from his walls, wiping tears from his eyes and gaining control over his laughter, Priam called again, "Allow me, as one oh so very wise in war, to explain this outburst to you, son. The very reason our two nations are at war is that Helen is within my walls and not within your own. For nine years we have held her and fought with your army to keep her. I doubt that we will so lightly hand her over to you, even having asked as sweetly as you did. Now away with you! Fight your fight!"
Onessimus stood his ground. Before losing his audience behind the walls, he called back to Priam, "My lord, I am not so young as to be foolish enough to think that you would surrender Helen even if I were to ask with all the sweetness at my disposal. I am not asking that you turn her over to me, but that you simply allow me to see her."
Priam responded sharply, "You will see her if your army defeats mine, otherwise you will be dead. Why should I risk losing the cause of this great war to you? What reason can you possibly give?"
"I am one man with every available Trojan archer ready to kill me at the slightest sign of treachery. I am too near the walls for any of your men to miss me, and too far from the battle line for my countrymen to come to my aid. My sword is sheathed, and I now lay my spear on the ground at your wall. I wish only to see if Helen is worthy of the blood I spill."
Priam looked to Laocoon, seeking his opinion, feeling uncertain in his own decision. Laocoon responded emphatically to Priam's unspoken question: "Surely you will not consider it, my king. Kill him!--now!--while his defenses are down. I have no doubt that our enemy's leaders sent him to perform some twist of thought. We have yet to receive any reason to trust a Greek; I would not trust him even if he brought as a gift their largest and most powerful horse to offer as a token of peace. My advice is, do not trust him."
"What danger do you see? This young man's arguments are strong: my men stand ready, his fellows are far off, only watching; not one has moved in toward us. His shield is down, as is his lance, and his sword is sheathed. If this is a trick, it is most unorthodox. I find myself almost wanting to proceed with it if only to see the outcome. But if you see a danger, tell me; I will take your advice if your reasoning is as sound as this young man's."
Laocoon's posture continued to show concern but became arrested, acknowledging that his argument is not as strong. "I have no idea what he has planned, my king; I only know that he must have planned something or there would be no such request, however unorthodox. Do not trust him."
Priam looked around at the rest of his advisors. They all, with urgent eyes, silently beseeched him to take Laocoon's advice and not allow the captivity of their great prize to be compromised. Cassandra also stood nearby and warned Priam, "My lord, do whatever best suits your purpose, but know this: If you grant the request of the young soldier at the gate, both sides will lose their prize." "Rubbish!" Priam declared, "How is that even possible?" But she did not respond. As she walked smugly away, she kept to herself the knowledge that there are far worse outcomes for this war than what her father would choose, and she was gratified to know that she had at least once been able to use her punishment to her homeland's advantage.
Priam watched Cassandra leave. He was somewhat confused and distracted by what she had said and more than a little frustrated that she had been on the walls in the first place, if she wasn't going to make herself useful by giving sound advice rather than ridiculous riddles. But he still lacked direction, and, since Zeus's eagles offered no help, he was left to his own devices. He leaned again over the edge of his wall, "Boy, what are you called?"
"Onessimus, my lord, son of Nestor."
Priam's eyes widened in surprise and recognition. "You are Onessimus? Ha! I was with your father when he found you nearly dead among the rubble in Calydon. It was I who advised him to keep you--the finest booty of the city--a young warrior! Much to the chagrin of Meleager. You have grown well." Onessimus looked bashfully away from Priam who shook his head in pleasant disbelief at the well-developed youth before him. "Very well, Onessimus, you shall have your request. Remember, though, that even though you are the son of my friend, you are also a son of my enemy. At the first sign of treachery you will die. My men stand at the ready with me, yours are still at bay. Leave your spear, and keep your sword in its scabbard. Helen will be sent outside of the Scaean Gate there before you; you may see her for but a moment, then she will be brought back within my walls. If you act honestly, your safety is guaranteed until you again reach the battle line. If you do not, you will die."
Before Onessimus could respond, the Scaean Gate opened just enough to allow Helen to silently emerge. She was armed with studied defiance, and well-learned courage radiated from her like a crown. In her nine-year captivity, she had hoarded every piece of dignity that was allotted to her, so that when Onessimus met Helen, he met Strength as a child meets a great warrior of renown, and he was awed by her beauty, by her careful control of fear, by the sea of tears that she held back as if at low tide, by her stamina against unnumbered abusers. He stepped closer to her, her age impossible to guess. She seemed a child; she seemed an old woman.
When he moved toward her, every archer in unison moved with him, pulling harder on the strings of their bows and taking more careful aim. Onessimus regarded them for a moment before looking back at Helen, and he saw her pleading with him; he saw her mocking him; he felt her instructing him and saw her resigning herself to her own instructions. Onessimus nodded, understanding finally. Then he began his turn toward the ships, back to battle, away from Helen without immediately taking his eyes from her. As slowly as the stars move from the East, so Onessimus turned, and all of Troy began to breathe calmly, fanning themselves and smiling meekly, feeling secure now in the decision of their redoubtable king. Then, with the swift speed of a meteor, and the lithe grace of a discus thrower, Onessimus drew his sword, spun around and sliced through Helen's neck to watch her body fall limply to the ground.
The archers pulled their strings tighter in reflex but caught themselves. Stunned by the audacity of Onessimus, many simply lowered their bows as they had their jaws, allowing the strings to loosen gently. Others allowed their arrows to aimlessly escape their bows, striking the wall or ground without effect. Then, as though they had only a single mind among them, they all turned from the wall, disappearing behind it. Priam, for his part, was equally dumfounded and perplexed. As he watched his archers depart the walls, part of him wanted to demand that they return; another part of him understood their reasoning and refused to let him speak. The final sounds from Priam before he, too, left the walls, were a series of guttural croaking noises emanating from a wide-opend mouth on a face with eyes equally wide.
Out on the battle field, the men who had all been watching the scene at Troy's Gate, stood now in dumb confusion--what to do now? One formerly fighting pair looked at each other and shrugged before they simply dropped their swords and shields where they stood. Nearby, other men did the same; near them other men followed their lead, and soon the entire field once again, in a climactic finish to the fight, briefly echoed with the sound of clashing arms until every sword and spear and shield lay lifelessly on the ground. In peace then, every man silently retreated, the Greeks to their ships, the Trojans to Troy. The Scaean Gate opened again, welcoming Troy's warless warriors, each of them passing by Onessimus, who slunk to the ground beside the body of the great prize of Greece and wept.
