The Anger of Achilles: Homer's Iliad

by Robert Graves

  Achilles added: ‘Now listen carefully! I want you to win me such fame that the Greeks will gladly restore Briseis, and shower splendid gifts on me besides. But once you have driven the Trojans from our camp, go no farther: though Zeus the Thunderer may crown your arms with glory, it will hurt my honour if you yield to ambition or blood-lust and take too much on yourself. Also I foresee the danger that a single-handed pursuit of the enemy towards the city might bring you up against some Olympian or other—Apollo the Archer, for instance, who favours the Trojans. Therefore return, as soon as your main task is finished, and leave the two armies battling on the plain. Ah, if only Father Zeus and Athene and Apollo would let the Trojans kill every one of the Greek champions, except you and me; and then let us slaughter what remained of the Trojans, and capture their Citadel!’

  Zeus had decided that Ajax’s stand in the galley should be brought to an end while Achilles and Patroclus were conversing. He was hacked or lunged at ceaselessly, and dazed with blows raining on the cheek-pieces of his helmet; the tower-like shield made his shoulder ache. He laboured for breath, sweat bathed his limbs; and at last he could fight no more.

  Tell me, ye gracious MUSES

  Who on Olympus dwell,

  How fire from Trojan torches

  Into that galley fell.

  It happened as follows. Hector swung his broadsword and struck Ajax’s sea-pike just below the socket, severing the head, which flew off and left him a mere pole to brandish. Ajax now understood that Zeus had withdrawn his favour and was helping Troy; so he leaped down and rejoined his comrades in their new line of defence. The Trojans could at last send flames coursing along the galley from bow to stem, and Achilles, slapping his thighs for vexation, cried: ‘Look, Patroclus! A ship is on fire! You must intervene at once and protect our flotilla, if we are ever to return. Buckle on my armour, and I will parade the Myrmidons.’

  Patroclus buckled on a handsome pair of greaves with silver clasps, and Achilles’ strong corslet, twinkling like the starry sky. Next, he borrowed his baldric and powerful silver-studded sword; also his huge shield, and bright, tough helmet topped by a menacing horsehair plume. Finally he chose two stout spears of suitable weight and length, rejecting the extravagantly large lance which Achilles alone could wield—this lethal weapon, lopped from an ash-tree growing on a peak of Mount Pelion, had been presented by Cheiron the Centaur to King Peleus.

  Then Patroclus asked Automedon, whom he admired and trusted as a fighter, to yoke and harness Achilles’ divine team, the wind-swift Xanthus and Balius—out of Podarge the Harpy by West Wind, and both foaled near the Ocean Stream. Automedon harnessed a third horse, using a side-trace; namely Pedasus, a stallion captured at Eëtion’s city of Thebe and, although not of divine breed, exceptionally fast.

  Achilles went around the Myrmidons’ huts, calling them out on parade.

  The wolves dined well today

  High on the wooded hill,

  An antlered stag their prey:

  I’ll swear they ate their fill!

  Their jaws with blood are red

  As in a pack they go,

  Most sumptuously fed,

  To where dark waters flow.

  Thin-tongued they lie and lap

  The surface of a pool

  And belching, chap to chap,

  Their throats at leisure cool.

  It was with a similar sense of well-being that, fresh from their long holiday, the Myrmidon chariotry and infantry formed up behind Patroclus. Their flotilla of fifty ships, each manned by a crew of fifty, had five detachments. Menestheus of the Shining Corslet, son of Achilles’ lovely sister Polydora, commanded the leading detachment. His putative father, Borus, son of Perieres, had paid King Peleus lavish bride-gifts for Polydora’s hand; but his real father was the tireless River-god Spercheius, a son of Zeus.

  Another captain of divine parentage commanded the second detachment: namely Eudorus, son of Phylas’ dancing daughter Polymele. Hermes the Gift-Bringer, famous for having killed the hundred-eyed giant Argus, had fallen in love with Polymele, singling her out from the Archer-goddess Artemis’ troop of singers, and gone straight up to her bedroom. When Eudorus was born, Echecles, son of Actor, demanded Polymele’s hand, offering lavish bride-gifts, and married her; but old Phylas took charge of Eudorus (who proved an outstanding athlete and soldier) and brought him up as tenderly as if he had been his son.

  Brave Peisander, son of Maemalus, the best spearman, apart from Patroclus, in the whole force, commanded the third detachment. King Phoenix commanded the fourth detachment; and Alcimedon, son of Laerces, the fifth.

  Achilles inspected his parade. ‘Myrmidons,’ he said firmly, ‘do not let me find you repudiating your recent fierce threats against the Trojans, which, by the way, came joined with taunts that my mother must have nursed me on gall, instead of milk—I was so hard-hearted. You agreed that it would even be better to sail home than stay here, shamefully restrained from battle. I cannot forget those impudent words. Now, however, a great task confronts you, such as should warm your hearts: to clear this camp of enemy troops. Face it like men!’

  Enthusiastically the Myrmidons closed their ranks. Shield to shield, shoulder to shoulder, plume to plume, they were as tightly wedged as the carefully hewn stones of a storm-proof house-wall. Patroclus and his comrade Automedon posted themselves at their head, in full armour and eager to fight.

  Achilles visited his hut and went to a painted chest in which, before he came away from Phthia, his mother Thetis, had stored warm tunics, cloaks for bad weather, and rugs. Here he kept a splendid cup, strictly reserved for libations poured to Zeus—he alone might handle it. Taking out the cup, Achilles used brimstone and clear water to purify the bowl and, after cleansing his own hands, filled it with bright wine. Then he stood in the centre of the parade-ground, poured Zeus a libation, fixed his eyes on Heaven, and prayed:

  ‘Pelasgian ZEUS, you live and move

  In chill Dodona’s awesome grove,

  Surrounded by your Sellian priests—

  They lie upon the ground like beasts

  With unwashed legs, and from the sound

  Of leaves true oracles expound.

  You are the god who pitied me,

  Who honourably made good my plea

  By humbling Agamemnon’s pride;

  O now, once more, be at my side,

  While here I wait unarmed, and send

  Patroclus out, who calls me friend,

  My warlike Myrmidons to lead

  Against the Trojans.

  Deign to speed

  His victory, O All-Seeing One;

  Vouchsafe that when the fight is done

  Hector will grant that my dear squire

  Burns with his own unaided fire:

  Not waiting for me on the field,

  To help him shine with spear and shield;

  Also, that when from this our fleet

  The routed enemy retreat,

  He shall march back across the plain

  Unwounded to my arms again.’

  Zeus, who had been listening attentively, granted no more than the first part of Achilles’ prayer; he allowed Patroclus to drive Hector from the camp, but not to march back unwounded.

  Achilles replaced the cup in its chest, and paused at the doorway of his hut, anxious to watch the Myrmidons’ performance.

  Wasps that build their fragile nest

  By the track can prove a pest:

  If a careless passer-by

  Treads too near it, out they fly,

  Buzzing loud with fortitude

  In defence of their young brood.

  Still more strident are their tones

  When small boys come flinging stones:

  Furiously they attack

  All who venture up the track.

  Like wasps, the Myrmidons streamed out in defence of their ships, Patroclus turning to yell: ‘Forward, comrades! Show what you can do! Teach the High King how blind he was to dishonour our great commander
Achilles, son of Peleus—the finest fighter in this army, as you are its finest contingent!’

  The frenzied Myrmidons leaped upon the Trojans, who at once recognized Achilles’ well-known armour, chariot, and driver. Feeling certain that he had forgotten his grudge and come to terms with Agamemnon, they wavered, glancing around them to make sure that a line of retreat lay open.

  Patroclus drove straight for a group of Trojans massed beside the burning galley, and hurled at Pyraechmes: this bold and capable Paeonian king had brought a large force of chariotry from Amydon on the Macedonian river Axius. The spear transfixed Pyraechmes’ right shoulder, and he fell groaning to the dust. With wild shouts of dismay the Paeonians retired behind the uppermost row of ships. Some Myrmidons pursued them, others extinguished the fire before the galley was more than half consumed; and a fearful din went up.

  Raise the gloomy mist that shrouds

  Heaven, O Guardian of the Clouds!

  Sweet it is when, clear displayed,

  Spur and promontory and glade

  (Solace to the wearied eye)

  Edge the infinite blue sky.

  The Greeks were glad to suffocate the blaze, which might have shrouded their whole camp in smoke; but did not pause to look about them, for though the Trojan line had been driven a short distance back, it still held. Numerous hand-to-hand combats between champions ensued. First, Patroclus speared Areilycus in the thigh, breaking the bone, and sent him flat on his face. Next, King Menelaus struck Thoas on the right breast past the rim of his shield; he died at once. Then Meges son of Phyleus stopped Amphiclus’ rush by a deadly lunge at the bulging muscles of his thigh.

  Nestor’s sons, Antilochus and Thrasymedes, engaged two brothers named Atymnius and Maris, close friends of Sarpedon, and descendants of the Lycian King Amisodarus, who reared the monstrous Chimaera, later destroyed by Perseus. Antilochus thrust Atymnius in the side, toppling him over; Maris ran forward furiously to defend the corpse; but a sharp blow from Thrasymedes crippled his arm, and he soon caught up with Atymnius on the gloomy road underground.

  Cleobolus, knocked down in the mělée, yet unhurt, was struggling to his feet; Little Ajax swung a sword and warmed the blade in blood from Cleobolus’ severed neck. Peneleos and Lycon cast at each other, but both missed their mark. Lycon then broke his sword-blade off at the hilt against the base of Peneleos’ crest; Peneleos struck home behind Lycon’s ear and left the head dangling by a strip of skin. Meriones of Crete pursued Acamas, wounding him mortally in the shoulder while he tried to remount his chariot. King Idomeneus drove a spear through Erymas’ mouth and out at the back of his skull, dislodging the teeth. Blood filled his eye-sockets, nostrils and mouth as the black cloud of death covered him.

  Marauding wolves observe a flock

  That on the hillside feeds;

  Their shepherd, piping on a rock,

  The danger hardly heeds,

  Thus each bold wolf can make his bid

  For hauling off a lamb or kid.

  The Trojan rank and file, seeing so many of their champions killed, fled like sheep from wolves. Hector also retired. Great Ajax made several attempts to kill him, but this experienced soldier protected his shoulders with a broad bull’s hide shield and let the spears and arrows whistle past. He knew well that the tide of battle had turned and, since the Trojans were streaming away in disorderly flight, like wisps of clouds when a storm blows up, he himself headed slowly back for Troy, across the bridge heaped by Apollo. Many of his comrades, however, reached the fosse at a point where its banks remained steep. Their chariot-poles broke off in the descent, and the horses bolted.

  Patroclus went after Hector, shouting encouragement to his Myrmidons, and taunting the Trojans who were now scattered in wild confusion and hidden by a tall dust-cloud. He charged at the largest mass of fugitives, tumbling down chariot-fighters, driving over their dead bodies, and wrecking their chariots. Then he guided Achilles’ immortal team in vain pursuit of Hector.

  The expected rains are falling now

  To enrich the good black soil,

  For thus in autumn ZEUS rewards

  The honest ploughman’s toil.

  But hold, enough! without a pause

  In prodigal downflow

  Rain fills the torrents over-full,

  And through the vale below

  Enormous floods of water pour

  Cascading to the sea;

  Our orchards from the roots they rend

  And with our farms make free.

  The cause is daylight clear: Great ZEUS

  Detests the City Hall.

  Our magistrates are godless rogues

  And ruffians, one and all!

  The flight of the Trojan chariotry was no less precipitous; yet Patroclus headed off several squadrons, forcing them into an angle between the rampart and the river. There, in vengeance of his dead comrades, he slaughtered them by the score. First he killed Pronous, spearing his exposed right breast. Next, he lunged at Thestor, son of Enops, who, out of his senses with fear, had let fall the reins and sat crouched on the chariot floor. The spear pierced his jaw, and lodged so fast among the roots of his teeth that, in trying to tug it free, Patroclus pulled him gaping over the rails. It was as when:

  Perched on a rock with glittering hook and line

  The lusty angler gaffs a fish divine.

  He then hurled a boulder at Euryalus’ helmet, which crushed his skull. One after the other, he dispatched Erymas, Amphoterus, Epaltes, Tlepolemus, son of Damastor, Echius, Pyris, Ipheus, Euippus, and Polymelus, son of Argeas; all of them Lycians, as their loose-woven tunics plainly showed.

  King Sarpedon, aghast at Patroclus’ progress, cried: ‘For shame, men of Lycia, what are you about? Take heart now! I will myself engage this unknown Greek champion who has destroyed so many of our gallant soldiers.’ Sarpedon thereupon sprang to the ground, fully armed; and Patroclus did the same. These two heroes flew at each other like ospreys—

  With crooked talons and curved beaks they fight,

  Those ospreys, screaming from a dreadful height!

  Zeus watched them pityingly, and observed to Hera: ‘Alas, that my beloved son Sarpedon Patroclus must kill! It is his doom. None the less, I have a good mind to defy the Fates by snatching him alive out of this duel, and setting him down safely in his own rich land.’

  Hera protested: ‘Most revered Son of Cronus, your admission appals me! So you consider snatching a mortal from the death to which the Fates long ago sentenced him? Do as you please, of course; but none of your fellow-Olympians will approve. Indeed, I warn you solemnly that any such intervention would scandalize most members of your household: they have beloved sons by the dozen still battling before Troy, and all want to save their own doomed darlings. You would be a fool, in fact, to whisk Sarpedon away alive, however deeply you may deplore his end. Why not let him succumb, but afterwards send Death and Sweet Sleep to carry the corpse to Lycia, where the royal family and their friends can bury it in a hero’s barrow under the customary pillar?’

  Father Zeus, taking Hera’s advice, foreshadowed King Sarpedon’s death by releasing an ominous shower of blood-red rain.

  The two champions approached each other, and Patroclus killed Sarpedon’s charioteer Thrasymelus, a famous fighter, with a spear-cast just above the groin. Sarpedon’s return cast missed Patroclus, but wounded his trace-horse Pedasus in the right shoulder. Pedasus foundered, and the squeals of agony he raised frightened the two divinely-born team-mates. They reared and baulked, entangling the reins and making their yoke creak. Automedon leaped from the chariot, sword in hand, and cut the side-trace; at once they grew manageable again. As Sarpedon flung another spear, which harmlessly skimmed past Patroclus’ shield, he felt himself struck on the midriff, close to the heart.

  Shipwrights with sharp axes go

  Up the hillside, to and fro,

  Seeking timber suitable

  For a merchant-vessel’s hull.

  Silver poplar, pine and oak
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  Fall beneath their deadly stroke.

  So fell Sarpedon, and lay stretched on the plain, clawing the bloody dust in his despair:

  The tawny lion down did pull

  A noble-hearted bull;

  Dying among the cows, he lay

  And roared his life away.

  ‘Dearest Glaucus,’ Sarpedon moaned, ‘show what a magnificent soldier you are! Collect your comrades, draw swords, and defend my body. If Patroclus is permitted to strip it of armour, you will never escape the disgrace, not even in old age! To work, Glaucus, and restore the day!’

  These were the last words he spoke before death glazed his eyes. Patroclus set one foot on his breast, for purchase, and tugged at the spear, bringing out the midriff with it, and giving the soul a convenient egress. Lycian men-at-arms restrained Sarpedon’s horses from taking off the now masterless chariot; but Glaucus was in a quandary. Though he longed to protect the royal corpse against despoilment, the arrow-wound inflicted by Teucrus earlier that day had crippled his right arm. Gripping the shoulder to ease its pain, he humbly prayed to Phoebus Apollo:

  ‘Wherever you may be,

  In Lycia’s lovely land

  Or on the Trojan strand

  Wandering free

  APOLLO, turn to me!

  ‘Look where the best of kings,

  My lord Sarpedon, lies!