‘King Agamemnon,’ answered Nestor, ‘Zeus, Lord of Thunder, has declared against us! The rampart is over-run and dismantled; a massacre has begun. Our men scurry about in such disorder and noise that you would find it hard to say from which particular point they were retreating. I suggest therefore that we avoid battle ourselves—for what can wounded men do?—and hold a council instead, to consider possible means of saving the day.’
Agamemnon assented: ‘Yes, indeed, friend: Almighty Zeus must have willed our ruin. The fortifications which cost us so much labour, and to which we entrusted the security of our fleet, are over-run and the Trojans have reached the highest row of ships. When Zeus was actively helping the Greeks, I knew it well; but now I know with equal certitude that he has bound our hands, drained our strength, and granted the Trojans as much glory as if they were Immortals. I trust you will agree that we ought at once to embark in our flotillas—namely those on the water’s edge—throw out mooring-stones at a safe distance from the shore, and wait there until nightfall. If the Trojans then retire, though even darkness may not check their fury, we will perhaps succeed in launching further ships. Nobody needs to apologize for evading disaster, especially by night. The quicker you run, I say, the longer you live!’
Odysseus glared at Agamemnon. ‘Son of Atreus,’ he exclaimed, ‘what did I hear? Worthless wretch—fit only to command a rabble, not the good soldiers whom Zeus has, worse luck, authorized you to waste in a series of disastrous campaigns until all are killed—do you propose to raise the siege, after these many years of effort and suffering? Pray keep your mouth shut, or someone may catch a remark that no sceptred king handling so huge a force as yours, and supposedly endowed with common sense, has any right to make! I am scandalized by your view that we should launch our flotillas, while the issue of this battle still remains in doubt—thus playing into the Trojans’ hands, and increasing our chances of defeat. If the troops yonder get wind of your intention, they will look over their shoulders, break off the fight, and rush panic-stricken towards the shore—a disaster for which, my lord, you alone will be accountable!’
Agamemnon answered: ‘Your sharp reproach abashes me, Odysseus; but upon my word, I was not insisting on an evacuation against the army’s wishes. By all means let one of you offer more bellicose advice. I should welcome that from any prince, old or young.’
Diomedes of the Loud War-Cry answered: ‘You need not go far for advice, son of Atreus, if you will accept it without resentment. True, I am the youngest man present, yet nobody can say that mine is an ignoble lineage. My great-grandfather Portheus had three sons: Agrius, Melas, and Oeneus the Horseman; Oeneus, my grandfather, was the bravest of the trio, who lived in the district of Pleuron and rocky Calydon. However, my glorious father Tydeus, since fallen at Thebes, obeyed the wishes of Zeus and the other Olympians by migrating to Argos. There he married Deipyle, one of King Adrastus’ daughters, and had a large, rich mansion, surrounded by wheat-lands, fenced orchards, and flocks of sheep at pasture. Tydeus having proved himself the finest spearman in Greece—you all know that I speak the truth—no one must belittle my advice by accusing me of inherited cowardice. Very well, then: I hold that it is our duty to appear on the battlefield where, though we decide to stay out of spear-range and thus avoid being wounded a second time, we can at least spur forward those of our comrades whom some obstinate grudge has hitherto kept in the rear.’
Diomedes’ speech was cordially received, and the whole group, headed by Agamemnon, moved on.
***
Poseidon the Earth-Shaker, observing them intently, adopted the disguise of an old, old man and caught Agamemnon by the right hand, exclaiming heartily: ‘My lord King, if Achilles loves to watch the rout and slaughter of his fellow-Greeks, he cannot have a grain of sense. Why, he runs a considerable risk of getting killed himself! May Zeus cripple him for his cruel heart! However, the gods are far less angry than they appear. Believe me, my lord, you will yet see Trojan chariots streaming back across the plain in a cloud of white dust.’
Poseidon then ran off, and uttered so tremendous a shout that it altogether restored the Greeks’ flagging spirits: the sort of shout that might have issued from the lungs of nine or ten thousand men as they clashed in battle.
Standing on a peak of Mount Olympus, Hera of the Golden Throne gazed down at the naval camp, and was delighted to recognize her brother Poseidon busily rallying the Greeks; though a glance at Mount Ida told her that Zeus was still seated there. Oh, how she loathed him! But, she thought, what about visiting Ida, dressed as attractively as possible, and making him conceive a sudden passionate desire for her? That might be the best way of outwitting him! Once he had been decoyed into bed, Sweet Sleep could be persuaded to settle on his eye-lids and fog his sharp wits.
Hera retired to her boudoir—their lame son Hephaestus had built it, hinging the stout doors to pillars and providing a secret bolt, the management of which she alone understood. In she went, shot the bolt and, taking off all her clothes, used an ambrosial lotion to remove every stain or smutch from her delicious body. Next, she rubbed ambrosial oil into the skin—so penetratingly fragrant did it smell that she had merely to shake the flask anywhere in Zeus’ brazen-floored Palace, and the scent would spread through Heaven and the entire earth! Then she poured a little of the same oil on her hair, combed it well in, and plaited the long, shining tresses. After that, she chose a fresh linen robe, tastefully woven by Athene, pinned on a number of handsome jewels, and fastened it across her breast with gold clasps. She added a girdle of a hundred tassels; hooked a lucent three-drop ear-ring into each ear to make herself look even lovelier; and finally draped a splendid new veil, bright as the Sun, over her head and shoulders. Nor did she forget a beautiful pair of sandals.
The result satisfied Hera, who left the boudoir and called Aphrodite the Laughter-Loving aside. ‘Will you deny me a favour, dear child,’ she whispered, ‘just because you support the Trojans in this war, and I am supporting the Greeks?’
Aphrodite whispered back: ‘Queen Hera, daughter of great Cronus, tell me your needs and, unless the favour is beyond my competence, I shall be charmed to grant it.’
Hera then asked craftily: ‘Could you lend me Love and Love-longing, the two powers you employ for defeating Immortals and mortals? The fact is, I am visiting my ancient uncle and aunt, King Oceanus and Queen Tethys. When Zeus the Far-Sighted imprisoned our father Cronus between earth and barren sea, this kindly couple took me from Mother Rhea’s care and brought me up in a palace at the brink of the habitable world. My mind is set on ending that stale old quarrel of theirs; they have not caressed each other or slept in the same bed for ages. If I can reconcile them, and arrange a second honeymoon, they will hold me in affection and esteem.’
Aphrodite unfastened the exquisite embroidered girdle which housed her enchantments—Love, and Love-longing, and Love-talk—powers that fool even the wisest intelligence. Handing the girdle to Hera, she said: ‘I could not refuse your plea without the greatest impropriety, Queen Hera; after all, you are the wife of Father Zeus, no less! If you stow this away in the fold of your robe, I hardly think that your mission will fail.’
Hera smiled for answer, and accepted the advice.
No sooner had Aphrodite gone, than Hera flew eastward, touched at Pieria and pleasant Emathia, skimmed the snowy hills where the Thracian horse-breeders roam, and from Mount Athos crossed the rough Aegean Sea. At Lemnos, the home of Prince Thoas, she met Sleep, the twin of Death, and grasped him by the hand. ‘Sweet Sleep,’ she cried, ‘please help me again, and I shall be eternally grateful! I want you to wait until Zeus and I have performed the act of love, then you must settle on his shining eyes and softly close their lids! In return, I will order my son Hephaestus to forge you an imperishable golden throne, complete with a foot-stool, for festival use.’
Sleep replied: ‘Divine daughter of Cronus, it is easy enough to make other Immortals drowse off, even Oceanus himself, the senior god still reigning; but I da
re not serve Zeus the Shield-Bearer so, unless he gives me his express sanction. I found myself in frightful trouble a couple of generations ago, after doing you this very favour: because, taking advantage of Zeus’ comatose state, you let loose a great tempest and drove his son Heracles’ ship far from home, to the populous island of Cos. Zeus awoke in anger and began tossing the Olympians out of his Palace; frantically trying to capture me. I would soon have been hurled down from the bright upper air, to perish in the Pit of Hell, had it not been for dear Mother Night, with whom I took hurried refuge; she protected me; and, enraged though he was, Zeus feared to displease that swift-flying subduer of gods and men—so he abandoned the chase. You ask me to risk my life a second time? I regretfully decline.’
‘Sweet Sleep,’ Hera told him, ‘your qualms are foolish! How can Loud-Voiced Zeus feel as strongly about those Trojans as he did about his beloved son Heracles? Grant me this favour and I will marry you to one of the younger Graces: yes, to Pasithea herself, with whom you have always been in love!’
‘Agreed,’ said Sleep:
‘Swear by the waters of the Styx—
No firmer oath is known—
Which no god dares to take in vain
Lest Heaven be overthrown;
‘But, as you swear, fail not to grasp
The earth with your right hand,
And with your left the shining sea,
For all to understand—
‘All deathless ones inhabiting
Earth, sea or upper air,
Even those old gods, by ZEUS bound
In CRONUS his dark lair—
‘That to my merry marriage-couch
A Grace you’ll surely bring,
Sweet PASITHEA, whom I love
Far beyond everything!’
Hera duly swore by the waters of Styx, naming all the Immortal Gods as witnesses, even those Titans who lie banished and bound in a dark lair below the horizon.
Under cover of mist, Hera and Sleep then left Lemnos, passed over Imbros, and continued towards Mount Ida, mother of wild beasts. Leaving the sea behind them at Lecton, they skimmed above the Idaean forest. Here Sleep halted, just out of Zeus’ sight and, disguised as the shrill-voiced bird which gods call a chalcis, but men a ‘night-jar’, perched on the tallest pine-tree in the whole district. Hera flew forward alone to Gargarus, the highest peak of the range, where Zeus still sat.
Now, as soon as Zeus saw Hera, a most passionate desire seized him: it was exactly like the delightful occasion, centuries before when, unknown to their kind-hearted parents, these two first committed incest together. He rose to his feet. ‘Hera,’ he said, ‘why have you not brought your chariot and horses with you for the steep return journey?’
Queen Hera answered slily: ‘I am visiting our ancient uncle and aunt King Oceanus and Queen Tethys, who live at the brink of the habitable earth. My mind is set on ending that stale, old quarrel of theirs; they have not caressed each other or slept in the same bed for ages. I only wanted to tell you this plan of mine: you might have been annoyed if I had gone away without any explanation to Oceanus’ palace beside his deep-flowing, world-girdling river. My chariot-team stands tethered at the foot of this mountain.’
‘Darling Hera,’ said Zeus, ‘surely another day will do as well? Let us make love at once! Never in my entire life have I felt such intense longing for goddess or nymph as I feel for you this afternoon! Why, my interest in Ixion’s wife Dia, on whom I begot the wise Peirithous, was nothing by comparison; and this also applies to Danaë, daughter of Acrisius, the girl with the beautiful ankles, on whom I begot the hero Perseus; and to the celebrated Europa, daughter of Phoenix, on whom I begot King Minos and his brother Rhadamanthus. Indeed, it applies to Semele, on whom I begot the universally adored Dionysus; and to Alcmene the Theban, on whom I begot bold Heracles; and to our sister Demeter, the goddess with the beautiful hair, on whom I begot Persephone; and to the famous Leto, on whom I begot Apollo and Artemis. Why, I would venture to say, dearest wife, that I have never yet conceived so delirious a passion even for you yourself!’
Hera’s answer was as sly as before: ‘Revered Son of Cronus, what a shocking idea! Do you actually mean us to make love up here, in full sight of Olympus? Suppose some god were to play spy, and tell the other Immortals all he had seen? I should not have the face to go home after that; it certainly would give me a pardonable grievance against you. But if I must humour you in this inconvenient fashion, pray escort me to your Olympian bed-chamber, with its stout doors hinged to pillars, built by our son Hephaestus. We can be private there.’
‘No, no, Hera,’ replied Zeus. ‘You need not fear that any god or man will witness our marital sport! I shall spread an immense golden cloud over you, which the brightest eye in existence, the Sun’s, would fail to pierce.’
Zeus then caught hold of Hera, laid her down masterfully, and took his pleasure of her. The earth beneath them was divinely induced to sprout a soft, thick, vigorous crop of fresh grass, tender clover, crocuses and hyacinth flowers, that raised the lovers a hand’s breadth into the air. So they embraced, on the crest of Gargarus, covered by a golden cloud from which cool, sparkling dew dripped upon their naked bodies; until Zeus dozed off, conquered by the arts of Love and Sleep, still clasping Hera to his breast.
Sleep hurried towards the naval camp, where he sought out Poseidon. ‘Earth-Shaker,’ he said urgently, ‘the coast is clear at last! Hera has tricked Zeus into pleasuring her, and I have lulled him asleep. So help the Greeks as much as you wish; let them enjoy their hour of glory!’
Sleep then passed on, but though he took this message to several illustrious princes, it was Poseidon whom it cheered the most. Springing ahead of the front-line, Poseidon shouted: ‘Greeks, shall we allow Hector, son of Priam, a second triumph? Is he to capture our fleet? That has been his boast ever since Achilles retired in a sulk. But if we encourage one another to fight, there will be no massacre to trouble Achilles’ conscience. Do as I say! Collect the toughest, broadest shields, and the tallest spears in camp, put on glittering helmets, and form up behind me! You may be sure that Hector, despite his courage, will not long withstand us. And if a stubborn fighter has only a small shield, he should hand it to a less dependable comrade in exchange for a larger!’
Poseidon’s advice was eagerly accepted. Despite their wounds, Agamemnon, Diomedes and Odysseus armed themselves and supervised the distribution of shields and weapons—the best gear went to the better soldiers, the worst to the worse. So the army paraded under Poseidon—he carried that terrible, keen-edged sword of his which resembles a lightning flash, and which nobody dares face in battle. The Trojans had meanwhile been marshalled by glorious Hector. A wave came hissing among the ships and huts, and at that signal the Greeks advanced with a resonant shout behind Poseidon:
Seas that break against the hill,
When winds blow north-easterly;
Fire that sweeps a wooded hill;
Gales that howl in bush or tree—
none of these natural forces ever made so dreadful a noise as the roar of battle that arose when the Trojan and Greek armies met once more!
First Hector threw his spear at Great Ajax’s exposed breast, and struck it at the point where shield-baldric and sword-baldric crossed. The blade turned, without piercing the corslet, and Hector retired in vexation. But suddenly something flew over the rim of his shield and caught him below the neck: Ajax had picked up and flung one of the many big boulders—chocks for beached vessels—now rolling among the fighters’ feet. It spun Hector around like a peg-top!
The sudden lightning stroke
Blasted a forest oak;
Mortals who saw
With what a shock it fell
Sniffed at the brimstone smell,
Trembling for awe!
Hector’s fall caused the Trojans similar terror. Though dropping his spear, he lost neither helmet nor shield as he clattered to the dust. The exultant Greeks threw a volley of spears and rushed up, trying to
drag him off; but the bravest Trojans in the field—Polydamas, Aeneas, Agenor, King Sarpedon of Lycia, and Prince Glaucus—had by now solicitously interposed a barrier of shields, and no enemy could reach Hector. He was carried moaning to where his chariot-team stood ready harnessed beyond the fosse, and driven away towards Troy. Pausing at the ford of the deep River Scamander (whose god can address Zeus as ‘father’), his friends took Hector out of the chariot and poured water on his face. He recovered consciousness, looked about him, struggled to his knees, vomited blood, and fell again in a dead faint. Ajax’s boulder had tamed that bold spirit!
As soon as Hector left the field, the Greeks began to enjoy themselves. Little Ajax darted ahead of them all and speared Satnius, son of Enops, in the side: Satnius’ mother was a Naiad who had taken Enops as her lover while he herded his flocks beside the River Satniöeis. He tumbled lifeless, and a fierce tussle ensued for the possession of his corpse. Polydamas, son of Panthous, advanced to the rescue and drove his stout spear clean through the shoulder of Arëilycus, son of Prothoenor, mortally wounding him. Polydamas yelled: ‘Once more I have not struck in vain! Arëilycus can keep my spear as a crutch when he limps down to Hell.’
The Anger of Achilles: Homer's Iliad Page 24