by John Dolan
And as he thinks that, there is suddenly a pearly young woman next to him, who says, “But you must fight today, Akilles.”
He turns and sees Iris, herald of the great gods.
She says, “Patroklas was your vassal; will you let him feed the jackals? Do your duty, recover his body!”
Akilles asks politely, “Madam, may I ask which of the gods sent you?”
“Hera sent me.”
“And Zeus?”
“Zeus doesn’t know.”
A man must be very careful when the gods involve him in these palace intrigues. Akilles asks, “How can I fight without armor? They stripped my armor from Patroklas. My mother is bringing me a new set from the blacksmith.”
She’s annoyed at quibbling from a mere half-god; “You must fight, now!”
“My mother told me not to fight without armor.”
“Wear another man’s armor!”
He shakes his head, “I can’t, Madam. Not all mortals are alike. Look at me; only Big Ajax is anywhere near my size. An ordinary man’s armor would be far too small for me.”
She goes silent, and her human figure blurs. That means she’s discussing the matter with Hera. After a moment, she coalesces again and says, “Hera and her daughter have decided that you need not fight today. But you are ordered to go to the wall and show yourself, to frighten the Trojans. This will buy the Greeks a little time.”
She blurs and disappears. He feels Athena’s mantle being draped over his shoulders. She doesn’t show herself or speak to him—she’s not happy that he disobeyed Hera’s order—but she needs him. He can feel her steely mind weaving a sphere of hard light around his head. He walks out of the tent, his grief almost forgotten in this borrowed god-strength. Everyone stares as he walks to the wall; his head is ablaze, flaring like the bonfires that besieged cities light to call for help.
His feet don’t even touch the dust as he walks through the gate and out to the edge of the ditch around the camp. He opens his mouth and Athena’s mantle works the bellows of his lungs for him, compressing them and then releasing a sound no mere human could make. Athena joins her voice to it from the far horizons and it blasts the Trojans like the giant wave that smashes towns after an earthquake.
Akilles’ head is a comet, his voice is a landslide. The Trojans hunker down in terror. Their horses have more sense and turn instantly, heading back for the safety of their stables. The drivers can only hunch in the cars, hands over their ears.
The bravest Trojans have endured that blast and are trying to gather their wits, take up their weapons again, when Akilles roars a second time. Again Athena shrieks with him from the edge of the horizon. This time weaker Trojans simply flee. Some are so terrified that they stab themselves with their own spears.
Only Hektor and a few of the bravest Trojans are still pursuing Patroklas’ pallbearers when Akilles shouts a third time. Even Hektor can’t bear it; he and his comrades break and run. The Greeks cheer, taking Patroklas’ body back into the camp unmolested.
As they come through the gate, Akilles sees the body for the first time. He sent Patroklas off alive, cheerful and modest as ever. He remembers how he scolded his friend. He’ll never get the chance to make amends. This corpse is on his head. This death is his doing.
Hera pauses the sunset, lets the red disk linger above the horizon a few moments, so that Akilles can get a good look at Patroklas’ corpse. She wants him in a killing mood tomorrow morning.
Then she whispers, “Fall!” and the sun sinks into the sea.
The Trojans don’t stop running from Akilles’ great roar until they’re so tired they have to stop. They make camp out on the plain, too scared to sit down or take off their armor. They keep looking westward, afraid Akilles will chase them down.
Polydamus has more sense than the rest. He says, “Comrades, we should go back to Troy right now. If we stay here till morning, we’ll see more of Akilles than we want. And the survivors will be glad to get back to the town. So the smart move is to go there now, before we lose another man. We’ll fight from the walls; they’ve never been able to break through our walls.”
Hektor stomps into the firelight, twice Polydamus’ size, and growls, “I don’t like that kind of talk. It stinks of cowardice. Haven’t you had enough of hiding behind the walls?”
“Prince Hektor, the Greeks can’t match our bows; fighting from the walls, we can pick them off at will.”
“We’ve lost all our gold already, lost most of our best men—but now that Zeus has shown me his favor, you want to run and hide? I won’t allow it. We fight on the plain.”
He turns to the others: “Get some food in you now. I want every man ready by dawn. If you’re worried about your treasure, send a slave back to the city with orders to give it all away. We settle this tomorrow.”
He holds his spear high, crying, “And let Akilles fight me! He’ll be the one who takes a spear in the belly!”
They cheer, warming their hands at Hektor’s foolish words like half-frozen men at a fire.
Polydamus walks off. He was right, but Hektor won’t realize it until it’s too late. Akilles stays awake all night, watching over his friend’s body.
He puts his huge hands on Patroklas’ chest, crying, “Forgive me! I sent you off to die. Forgive me, Menoetius! I sent your son Patroklas to die.”
He stands back as the slaves wash the body with hot water, cleaning off the dust-clotted blood.
Then he puts his hands on Patroklas’ chest once more, sighing, “The only amends I can make you, my friend, is to join you in this Trojan dust. Soon, soon, I promise. We’ll lie together soon. And I’ll make you a gift before we lie together: twelve Trojan warriors’ heads for decoration around your grave, and Hektor’s armor as a trophy. You’ll have dead Trojans’ wives for a chorus of singers, and their burning city for a hearth.”
He steps back. The slaves smear the corpse with perfumed olive oil, then wrap it in strips of linen. Akilles leads his five battalions in a death chant.
Zeus knows where all this is leading. He grumbles to Hera, “I hope you’re happy now! Sometimes I think Agamemnon must be your bastard son.”
Hera sniffs, “Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t help these mortals if I happen to like them! They may not be as clever or strong as we are, but I can still do them a good turn now and then, can’t I?”
Zeus grunts and turns away.
Thetis’ shining feet have carried her into the sky. Now she flies toward a golden tangle of stars and pillars—the miraculous palace of the blacksmith god.
His name is Hefestos, and the main thing about him is that he’s ugly, the one cripple in a family that values good looks. That’s why his mother Hera threw him out of the sky as soon as she saw his twisted legs and wry-wrung face. But Hefestos was a tough little fellow, and now he’s the cleverest of the gods, tolerated for his wondrous gadgets. And through it all he kept his sweet nature, ugliest and the kindest of the family.
He’s always making some new marvel—magic platters that travel on their own, or golden slaves who move like they’re alive.
He made this palace for his wife, Charis. She is beauty, as he is ugliness. They make quite a couple, but the marriage is a happy one.
Charis sees Thetis coming a thousand miles off and floats down through the glowing stairways to meet her guest: “You’re always welcome in our house, Thetis. Come and take some food. It’s not often you come to see us.”
They sit, and the golden slaves serve them. After courtesy is satisfied, Charis asks, “Why have you come up from the sea, Thetis?”
“I need your husband’s help.”
Charis calls, “Husband, come and speak to our guest!”
Hefestos pokes his grinning, ugly head through the door: “Thetis! You’re always welcome! But let me wash off all this smithy grime before I say hello!”
He limps off, a bull’s shoulders on wobbly heron legs. First he puts his tools away, each in its proper place in the big silver box.
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Then one of the golden slaves hands him a wet sponge. He scrubs his chest and head, his ugly face and gnarled, greasy hands.
Another slave hands him a clean shirt; a third holds out his crutch. Tucking it under his arm, he limps back to see Thetis. He beams at the sight of her: “I owe you my life, dear Thetis; I’ll do anything for you.”
He turns to Charis, “My dear, do you know that our guest saved my life?” Charis shakes her head. She’s heard the story a dozen times, but she’s being polite.
He tells it again: “Well, when I was born, there was a little trouble; I came out a bit twisted up, you know, and my mother didn’t like my looks …”
Charis scowls, “In fact she threw you away, the monster!”
Hefestos waves his hand, “A misunderstanding, that’s all! You can’t blame her! They’re very strict about appearances on Olympos! But it’s true, she threw me away. I fell …”
He stares, his jaw tightening as he remembers: “Yes, I fell a long way, kept falling for a long, long time …”
Charis coughs, and he goes on, “Ah, right! Well, I fell into the ocean at last. And there, Ocean’s daughters Thetis and Yurinoma found me and took pity on this poor cripple. They cradled me like a twisted-up dolly, didn’t you, Thetis!”
She smiles at the memory. He stares fondly at her, sighing, “Seven years, eh Thetis?” Turning to Charis, he marvels, “Seven years those two girls took care of me as well as my own mo—”
He stops, blushing. Better not to mention his mother. He starts again, “None of the others even noticed I was missing; who misses a cripple? But Thetis and her sister cared for me like a pet goat with a bad hoof!”
Thetis says, “Charis, your husband is being far too modest. From the moment we took him in, he made himself useful. Hefestos, you paid your keep a thousand times over with the fine things you made: goblets of gold, silver armlets! I’ll always remember your magical toys—”
She turns to Charis, “They were wonderful! There was one that could swim through the sea as if it were alive!”
Hefestos blushes, “Oh, I was just learning back then. I’m a real smith now. So whatever it is you want, I can make it for you. Just name it!”
She starts to explain, then draws the veil over her face to hide her tears. Wiping her eyes, she says: “My friends, Zeus tortures me. He gave me to a human, Peleus. I never wanted to be married to a creature that lives only a few years, but I obeyed—and now my husband is too old to do anything but sleep, while I’m as young as I was at our marriage.”
She sighs, “But there was one comfort, my fine son Akilles. He grew like a tree, stronger, taller than any mortal. And then—well, perhaps you already know what happened to him at Troy?”
They shake their heads, “No, we haven’t heard.” Of course they’ve heard, but they are courteous hosts.
She weeps again, “It started with that vile Agamemnon! These little human kings, their jealousies! He took back a slave girl my son had won fairly. He did it in front of the whole Greek army! My son was shamed—and he liked the girl too, poor boy. So he refused to fight, and then … You’ve heard what happened to Patroklas yesterday?”
They know; they nod.
“You see, he was wearing my son’s armor. Now Hektor has it. So I come to ask you to make my son new armor, to protect the little life he has left.”
Hefestos takes Thetis’ hands and says, “Thetis, he will have armor to amaze gods and humans alike. I only wish I could save him from—”
Charis gestures to him, and he changes tone quickly: “Right! It will be ready by dawn. I’ll go get started.”
Now he limps to his furnace, and calls to his bellows, twenty of them. They obey him like living creatures, and blow any way he wants, soft as a breath or hard as hurricanes.
When the fire is hot, he takes lumps of every kind of metal—red copper, soft tin, bright silver and honey-colored gold—and tosses them into the pot as easy as a cook slicing onions into a cauldron. When the metal melts, he takes the tongs and pours it into a shield-frame.
As soon as one layer cools in the frame, he pours in another. At last he knocks it out of the frame and admires his work: a three-layered disk of bright metal, big enough to protect even a giant like Akilles.
Next Hefestos crafts the face of the shield, the part that men will see in battle. For many, it will be the last thing they ever see. He wants it to be his best work, a way of showing his gratitude to Thetis.
He decides to put the whole world on this shield-face. A few taps of his hammer, and there on the metal is Ocean: waves rocking, birds flying, fish leaping. You can even hear the cry of the gulls. He taps again and the sea is dark; now there’s a full moon on the waves, with the stars burning around it. There are the Seven Sisters glowing, almost winking; there’s Orion, the glowing bones of the hunter. And fleeing him forever, but never escaping, is the Great Bear, the stars that twist and turn, but never sink into Ocean.
Hefestos smiles. It will please his dear Thetis, this metal ocean of his. He takes down a different hammer, gives a single tap on the shield-face; now the sun shines. By the light of this metal sun, you can see two cities. And if you look closer, you can see the people in each town. There’s a big wedding going on in one of them. Men are delivering the bride to her husband’s house, and women are peeking out to watch the procession.
You can even see the bride. You’d fall in love with her if you looked too close. There’s her veil moving in the breeze. You can hear the boys singing a wedding chant in her honor.
Now you can see men gathered to judge a quarrel about blood-money. The murderer says he already paid it, but the dead man’s relations say they never got a penny. Both families have friends who are yelling at the other side, so the heralds have to keep pushing everybody back with their staffs. Two silver coins lying on the marble bench, to be given to whoever makes the best speech.
The other city is dying. Two armies are camped outside it, arguing about whether to sack it or accept a bribe to spare it. You can see the hard faces of the warriors as they gulp unmixed wine and argue about who gets a bigger share of the loot.
But the city isn’t ready to give up yet. The defenders have set a trap. They’ve left a few old men, women, and big children on the walls to fool the attackers, while the strong young men slip out by the back gate to ambush the besiegers.
Athena is leading the defenders, with her brother Ares in tow beside her. She gleams from the shield, as if the metal Hefestos used to make her figure were still molten. She’s twice the height of the warriors following her. Ares lurks near her, dull, crafted of lesser metal. Looking at his figure in the shield, you see him shift, as you turn your head; one moment he’s fearsome and terrifying, the next disgusting and cowardly. You can see the trail of blood he leaves behind and the flies swarming around his head.
The defenders follow a respectful distance behind their two patron gods. If you stare at the marching men for a moment, they don’t move, but if you watch longer, you see them flow, like metal in a forge, down to a riverbed where the besieging forces water their cattle. The defenders hide themselves and wait for the slaves to lead the herd down to the water.
If you watch long enough you’ll see the battle. First, scouts run up to tell the men waiting in ambush that herders are bringing the attackers’ livestock to the river.
Here come those stupid herd boys, oblivious, singing along as one of them plays a flute. They walk right into the ambush. The defenders jump out from the brush, drive off the livestock and chop the herders’ heads off before they can call for help.
But the cattle start bellowing at the smell of blood; the besiegers realize they’re under attack. They put on their armor and rush to the river, where the two sides face off shield to shield.
If you keep watching, you’ll see the battle. You’ll see Strife and Chaos bouncing among mortal men like evil clowns, making the fighters hate and kill each other, then lapping up their blood as they giggle at the terror in dying
warriors’ eyes. And if you look down into the shield-face long enough, you’ll see Fate herself, hammered out of the hardest, darkest metal in Hefestos’ storeroom, dragging three men after her on a rope.
The first of the three is already dead. She’s dragging him along by one heel like a butcher drags a dead goat. Next is a wounded man, coughing up blood, trying to hold his guts inside his ribs. Last in Fate’s coffle is a man still unhurt. He walks along staring at Fate, who strides uncaring, her skirt stained with men’s blood.
You don’t want to look too long at that scene. Better to shift your eyes to what the blacksmith god makes next: a fine field, already plowed three times. Serfs are furrowing it; they work with a will, because as soon as one of them reaches the end of a furrow, there’s a slave waiting with a full cup of good strong wine. Hefestos has made the furrows dark as wet earth, even though they’re crafted from bright metal.
Keep staring at this happy scene and you can watch the crop come up, golden heads of wheat waving in the breeze. It’s harvest-time. Scythes are the only weapons in this battle, and the serfs are singing as they slice bundle after bundle of sweet bread-in-the-making. The landowner watches his workers with a smile. He doesn’t grudge them their noon meal, not today. You can almost smell the barley porridge the women are cooking under a big oak in the middle of the field. And it won’t be just porridge, either, because the master has ordered a big ox killed. His house slaves are busy with their cleavers, cutting up the beast for the cauldron.
But what will they drink? Just look a little longer, and you’ll see! The blacksmith god has made a vineyard of fat black grapes, so many the branches would break if the men didn’t prop them up with big sticks. These sticks are made of silver; they glow on the shield-face. The owners are worried about grape-thieves, so Hefestos has made them a fence of shiny tin, with a ditch of dark metal beyond it. Children are running back and forth among the vines, piling up the makings of next year’s wine while a boy sings harvest songs.
Now you see a herd of cattle, some gold, some of tin, or spotted with different metals. You could watch those fine fat cattle forever as they munch the weeds along a riverbank. Oh, how the cattle enjoy those fragrant water-weeds! The cattle boys have an easy time of it, till the reeds part suddenly and two huge lionesses ambush the lead bull. One clamps her claws on his throat while the other hoists herself onto his back to deliver the death bite. When they’ve killed him, they settle down to feed, tearing chunks of hot meat from his body. Those cowardly herd boys aren’t doing anything but tossing rocks and siccing their dogs at the huge lionesses. The dogs are just as cowardly as their masters; all they do is bark, their rumps backed up against their masters’ shins.