Reaching out a hand, the goddess dragged Sthenelus, Diomedes’ driver, from the chariot, and climbed in herself. Diomedes did the same, and the oaken axle groaned under their weight. Athene seized whip and reins and guided the team straight at Ares who, bespattered with blood, was busily despoiling the corpse of huge Periphas, son of Ochesius, the bravest man in the entire Aetolian contingent. Since she wore Hades’ helmet of invisibility, Ares failed to notice her. He saw only Diomedes and, abandoning his task, lunged murderously at him across the yoke and reins. Athene pushed the spear aside, and Diomedes countered with a swift stab at Ares’ taslets. The blade entered his belly close to the groin…
In summer, when the fields are dry
A west wind, shrieking loud,
Has overcast the fair blue sky
With inspissated cloud.
Diomedes was reminded of this pastoral scene as he watched Ares mount to Heaven like a dark mist, and heard him bellow louder than nine or ten thousand men clashing in battle. Both Greeks and Trojans trembled at his voice.
Ares burst into the divine Palace on Olympus and collapsed miserably on a throne beside Zeus the Son of Cronus. ‘Father,’ he cried, as he displayed the ichor welling from his wound, ‘how can you permit Athene’s violent behaviour? Whenever we trouble to intervene in human affairs, we seem fated to find ourselves the victims of each other’s schemes and, what is worse, to fall foul of you! You should never have created that shrewd, reckless, evil-minded virgin-goddess! We others obey you loyally, but because she was born out of your own head, you neither say nor do anything to control her pestilential deeds—in fact, you encourage them. Today when she urged the foolhardy Diomedes to challenge us Immortals, he first wounded Aphrodite’s palm just above the wrist, and then dared lunge at me, as though he were a god! But for my quick tactics, I might have been left lying in anguish among those grisly heaps of dead, never to recover from some further damage inflicted on my helpless body.’
Zeus scowled at Ares. ‘Renegade,’ he cried, ‘be off, or else stop whining! I dislike you more than all the rest of my family put together—those eternal quarrels, wars, and battles! You are as intolerably stubborn as your mother Hera, whom I find it hard enough to control, even by shouting her down. She must have prompted this disastrous folly. Still, I cannot bear to see you suffer; after all, I am your father. Yet if you had inherited your violent nature from anyone else but Hera, I should long ago have chained you in a deeper Hell than the rebellious Titans themselves.’
Zeus now ordered Apollo to heal Ares’ wound. He did so with a soothing ointment that took effect as quickly as when fig-juice curdles the sweet milk into which it is being stirred. Meanwhile, Hebe filled a hot bath and fetched Ares some clean clothes. He was soon comfortably seated at Father Zeus’ side, once again rejoicing in his strength.
Hera and Athene also came back to the Palace, pleased that they had prevented him from killing more Greeks.
Book Six:
Hector and Andromache
The Greeks and Trojans were thus left by the gods to their own unaided devices. Spears hummed between the two armies as the tide of battle ebbed and flowed across the plain bounded by the Rivers Simöeis and Scamander. Great Ajax, the Greek champion, saved his Salaminians on one occasion when, single-handed, he broke a Thracian battalion and killed its handsome commander Acamas, son of Eussorus. Swinging his sword against Acamas’ helmet-ridge, which was topped by a thick plume, Ajax drove the sharp bronze edge through his brain.
Axylus, son of Teuthranus, died next. This very popular nobleman lived in the town of Arisbe on the road from Troy to the Black Sea, and had kept open house there. Yet none of his former guests ran forward now to protect him and his charioteer Calysius from the onslaught of Diomedes, who dispatched them both. Diomedes’ lieutenant, Euryalus, son of Mecisteus, having already killed the Trojans Dresus and Opheltius, went in pursuit of Aesepus and Pedasus, Bucolion’s twin sons by the River-nymph Abarbarea—this Bucolion being King Laomedon of Troy’s eldest son, a bastard who had been tending the royal flocks when the nymph fell in love with him. Euryalus took Aesepus and Pedasus’ lives, and their armour as well.
Stubborn Polypoetes the Thessalian laid Astyalus low; as Odysseus also did Pidytes of Percote; and Teucrus, the magnificent Aretaon. Nestor’s son Antilochus speared Ablerus; the High King Agamemnon speared Elatus of Pedasus, a town perched above the lovely Satniöeis River; Leïtus the Boeotian caught Phylacus as he fled; and Eurypylus the Thessalian accounted for Melanthius.
Adrestus of Percote, King Merops’ son, lost control of his team: they bolted, stumbled on a low tamarisk-bough, snapping the chariot-pole at its base, and sent him sprawling beside a wheel; then off they galloped citywards among the rest of the chariotry. Menelaus rushed up, brandishing a spear, but Adrestus clasped his knees in suppliant fashion, pleading: ‘Have mercy! My father King Merops will pay you an enormous ransom as soon as he hears that I am alive and your prisoner. His palace is crammed with bronze, gold and valuable iron.’
Menelaus nodded agreement, and would at once have sent Adrestus down to the camp under armed escort, had not Agamemnon come along and protested: ‘My dear brother, why this tenderness towards the enemy? Have they treated you and your relatives well enough to deserve such compassion? In my view we should not spare a single male Trojan, not even a child still in his mother’s womb; but make it our duty to extirpate the whole cursed brood, and leave their dead bodies unwept and unhonoured.’
This righteous argument convinced Menelaus, who thrust Adrestus away. Agamemnon murdered him, with a sharp stab in his side, placed a heel on the prostrate body, and tugged out the spear-blade.
Nestor’s shrill voice now echoed across the battlefield. ‘Come, my lads and brothers-in-arms! Press on the rout, and kill as many Trojans as you can. Why compete with one another in collecting loads of booty? Wait until all is done, and strip the corpses at your leisure.’
The Greeks cheered Nestor, and would have chased the beaten and dispirited mob of Trojans back into their city, but for Priam’s son Prince Helenus, a most reliable prophet. He approached Hector and Aeneas, saying: ‘My lords, since you are acting as joint commanders-in-chief, I beg you to rally your troops in defence of the gate before they stream through and fall exhausted on the laps of their wives. This is no time for delay! My lord Hector, while Aeneas helps us to beat off the Greek attack, weary though we may be you should briefly visit the city—I see no other alternative—and tell our mother what to do. She should assemble all the old noblewomen there in Athene’s temple on the Citadel, unlock the holy inner shrine, cover the knees of the divine image with the largest, grandest robe she possesses—the one she herself prizes most—and vow Athene the Bright-Haired Spoil-Winner a sacrifice of twelve oxen that have never known yoke or goad, if she consents to save the city, its women, and its little children. The goddess will perhaps restrain Diomedes, whose terrible spear has been the main instrument of our defeat. His performances today prove him the best man on the Greek side. Achilles may have a divine mother, but did he ever scare our people so? Nobody can match Diomedes when that divine battle-fury overcomes him.’
Hector took Helenus’ advice. He leaped from his chariot in full armour, and ran through the ranks shaking two spears and rallying the disorderly mass of Trojans; until, with a shout of defiance, they turned about. The Greeks, taken aback, discontinued their slaughter and gave ground, believing that some Olympian had darted down from Heaven to check the fugitives. ‘Brave Trojans, glorious allies,’ Hector yelled, ‘fight like the heroes that you are, while I hurriedly return to Troy! I am telling King Priam’s Councillors, and our wives too, that they must pray for our safety and offer the gods hundred-beast sacrifices.’ As Hector hastened off, the enormous black bull’s hide shield drummed against his neck and ankles.
***
Two heroes now advanced towards each other over the no-man’s-land which separated the armies. They were Glaucus, son of Hippolochus, and Diomedes, son of Ty
deus. Diomedes cried: ‘May I inquire your name, sir? We have not met hitherto, and your courage is remarkable. Any Trojan father whose son challenges me to single combat deserves my pity. So pray reassure me that you are not an Olympian in disguise; I am fighting no more Olympians today—warned by the case of proud Lycurgus, son of Dryas, who was King of the Edonians. This Lycurgus, you may remember, armed only with an ox-goad, drove the Maenads of Dionysus’ army from the rich land of Nysa. They flung away their ivy-wands in terror, and even Dionysus plunged trembling to the sea bottom, where the Goddess Thetis opened her arms and comforted him. The Blessed Gods, however, enraged by this disrespect to one of their number, blinded Lycurgus and cut short his life. Myself, I want to avoid their hate; but come forward and fight me, if you are a mortal who eats and drinks just as I do; for then I shall be happy to end your military career.’
Glaucus answered:
‘Why noble son of Tydeus, why
Must you inquire my name?
All forest leaves are born to die;
All mortal men the same.
‘Though Spring’s gay branches burgeon out,
Their leaves continue not,
Cold autumn scatters them to rout,
And in cold earth they rot.
‘Next year, another host of leaves
Is born, grows green and dies;
Old MOTHER EARTH their fall receives—
The fall of man likewise.
‘Still,’ he said, ‘if you insist on it, I will give an account of myself, which many soldiers here will be glad to confirm. In the centre of Greece stands a city called Ephyra, where Sisyphus, son of Aeolus, once reigned. He was the craftiest man of his day, and through his son Glaucus became grandfather to Bellerophon. The gods endowed Bellerophon with such strength and manly beauty, that Anteia, wife of King Proetus the Argive, his powerful overlord, tried to seduce him. When the prudent and honest Bellerophon rejected her advances, she secretly approached Proetus, and said: “If you value your life, husband, kill Bellerophon! He nearly succeeded in raping me.” Proetus believed this lie but, despite his anger, could not bring himself to murder a guest. Instead, he sent him across the sea with a sealed package for Iobates the King of Lycia; it contained engraved tablets requesting vengeance on the bearer, who had insulted Iobates’ daughter—this same Anteia.
‘The Olympians brought Bellerophon safe to the mouth of the Lycian River Xanthus, where Iobates received him splendidly: the feasting lasted nine days, and every day they slaughtered a fresh ox. At dawn, on the tenth day, the time came for Iobates to inquire: “My lord, what news do you bring from my esteemed son-in-law Proetus?” Bellerophon innocently produced the sealed package, and Iobates, having read the tablets, ordered him to kill the Chimaera. She was no ordinary beast, but a monstrous sister of the Dog Cerberus: her goat’s body had the fire-breathing head of a lioness at one end, and the tail of a serpent at the other. Nevertheless, by dutiful obedience to the dictates of Heaven, Bellerophon, with Athene’s help, destroyed her. Sent against the Solymians next, Bellerophon defeated them in what he afterwards described as the fiercest combat he remembered. Iobates then told him to crush the Amazons, each of them a match for any man at fighting. Finally, on his homeward journey, the task accomplished, he fell into an ambush laid by Iobates and, though his assailants were the boldest in the wide land of Lycia, killed every one. Iobates realized at last that Bellerophon must be under divine protection, and handed him Proetus’ letter, demanding exact particulars of his alleged attempt on Anteia’s virtue. Convinced by Bellerophon’s frank reply that she had lied, Iobates married him to his other daughter Philonoë, and gave him the co-sovereignity of Lycia. The Lycians further presented Bellerophon with a freehold estate of their best vineyards and corn-land. Philonoë bore Bellerophon two sons, named Isander and Hippolochus; also a daughter, named Laodameia, on whom Zeus the Lord of Counsel fathered the famous Sarpedon yonder.
‘Bellerophon’s life ended dismally. He offended the gods by visiting Olympus uninvited, on the back of his winged horse Pegasus, and they condemned him to wander, a lonely and miserable outcast, over the Aleian Plain, shunning human society. Of his two sons, Isander was killed when Ares the Bloodthirsty came to the aid of the Solymians; and Laodameia while seated at her loom by angry Artemis of the Golden Reins. Hippolochus survives; he is my own father and sent me here under strict orders not to disgrace our family, which combines the noblest blood of Ephyra with the noblest of Lycia, but to outdo all my fellows in skill and courage. This, then, is who I am.’
The delighted Diomedes planted his spear upright in the soil, and returned a most gracious answer: ‘Prince Glaucus,’ he cried, ‘you and I are bound together by inherited ties of friendship; my grandfather, King Oeneus, once entertained your grandfather, Bellerophon, in his palace for no less than twenty days, and they exchanged gifts at parting. Bellerophon got a belt of Tyrian purple, and Oeneus a two-handled gold goblet, which I still have at home. Unfortunately, I cannot remember my father Tydeus; he died while I was an infant, during the Achaean attack on Thebes; but, the fact is that you in your Lycian, and I in my Peloponnesian city, are guest-cousins and entitled to lavish hospitality whenever we visit each other. It therefore behoves us to avoid personal combat in future. After all, there are as many Trojans and Trojan allies for me to kill as Heaven permits, and there are as many Greeks for you to kill! Let us exchange arms in public acknowledgement of our guest-cousinship.’
Glaucus leaped from his chariot and advanced to meet Diomedes. They shook hands in token of friendship. Yet Zeus, Son of Cronus, must have addled Glaucus’ wits: imagine exchanging a golden suit of armour worth at least a hundred cows, against a bronze suit hardly worth nine!
***
As Hector the Bright-Helmed reached the oak-tree just outside the Scaean Gate, a crowd of Trojan women ran up, pestering him with inquiries about husbands, brothers, sons and friends. His sole reply, ‘Pray to the Gods!’, gave them little comfort. He strode on towards the polished stone colonnades of the Royal Palace, and the two rows of bedrooms facing each other across a wide central courtyard—fifty for Priam’s sons and their wives, twelve more for his daughters and sons-in-law. The bedrooms were also built of polished stone, and had separate roofs.
Hector’s mother, Hecuba the Beautiful, met him, accompanied by Laodice, his loveliest sister. ‘My son,’ cried Hecuba, seizing him by the hand, ‘why have you deserted the battlefield? To invoke Zeus from the Citadel? The accursed Greeks must be pressing us hard if that is your mission! Wait while I fetch you some sweet wine—first for a libation to Zeus and his family, and then for your own refreshment. Wine is an excellent restorative when one is as jaded as you look.’
Hector answered: ‘I appreciate your kindness, Mother; but wine would cripple my courage and rob me of strength. Besides, I should be ashamed to pour libations with such filthy, blood-stained hands as these—nobody should ever do so before washing himself! Now, please assemble the old noblewomen of Troy in Pallas Athene’s temple on the Citadel; then unlock the holy inner shrine, cover the knees of the divine image with the largest, loveliest, grandest robe you possess—the one you prize most—and vow Athene the Bright-Haired Spoil-Winner a sacrifice of twelve oxen which have never known yoke or goad, if she consents to save the city, its women, and its little children. The goddess will perhaps restrain Diomedes, whose terrible spear has been the main instrument of our defeat.
‘Do this without delay, while I persuade Paris to resume the battle. O that the earth would open and swallow that brother of mine! The tender protection afforded him by Aphrodite has brought nothing but grief on our noble father and on all his sons and subjects. A glimpse of Paris’ ghost descending to the gates of Hell would, I confess, make me happy indeed.’
Hecuba called her maids of honour from the Palace hall, and together they summoned every old noblewoman in Troy. Then she descended to her fragrant store-room, where she kept the embroidered robes which Prince Paris had looted at Sidon on his ret
urn voyage from Sparta with Helen—Sidonian women are famous for embroidering. Hecuba chose the largest and most beautiful robe of the whole pile—it lay at the very bottom, twinkling like a star. She took this up to the Citadel, followed by her flock of aged dames.
There Athene’s priestess, pretty Theano, who was Cisseus’ daughter and Prince Antenor’s wife, unlocked the inner shrine, and the company raised their hands in lamentation to Athene; while Theano, taking the robe from Hecuba, spread it on the knees of the divine image, and prayed as follows:
‘ATHENE, guard this Citadel!
ATHENE, fair beyond compare,
I pray you, guard it well!
‘Snap Diomedes’ lance, let Fate
Cause him to fall, in sight of all,
Dead at the Scaean Gate!
‘And listen well, for here and now
A sacrifice of no small price
Most reverently I vow!
‘Twelve oxen which have never yet
Suffered the goad, to you are owed—
Think not we shall forget!
‘But when Troy’s soldiers call on you,
Guard well their lives, guard well their wives,
Their tiny children, too!’
Athene, however, stubbornly disregarded Theano’s prayer.
Hector stopped at the fine mansion which the best masons and carpenters in Troy had built for Paris, to his own design. It adjoined the Royal Palace and Hector’s own house, and consisted of a courtyard, a hall, and a large bedroom above. Hector hurried up the stairs, proceeded by his bronze spear-point with its gold socket-band—the spear measured nearly fourteen feet in length—and entered the bedroom. He found Paris furbishing his handsome breast-plate, arms and shield. Helen sat not far off, superintending her maids as they wove or embroidered linen cloth.
The Anger of Achilles Page 12