Meanwhile, the Trojans, foiled by the Greeks’ trench, decided to abandon their chariots at its lip and press forward on foot. They formed up in five columns, and at the head of each column strode a great hero: Hector for the first, then Paris, Helenus, and Aeneas, while the allied column was led by Sarpedon of Lycia. Each column advanced against a section of the Greek rampart that they thought might be vulnerable—a gate, a stretch of less secure stonework. In answer to Trojan prayers, Zeus, surveying the action from Ida, sent a cloud of dust swirling into the Greeks’ eyes.
The Trojans pressed forward with renewed vigor, and began tearing at the rampart with their hands, pulling away loose stones and earth and logs. But as fast as they removed stuff, the Greeks filled the gaps with oxhide sandbags, while raining stones and missiles down from the top of the rampart onto the attackers, as thick as hail or a snow storm.
But now the allied contingents had demolished enough of the rampart in front of them to try to clamber over it. Ajax and his half-brother Teucer ran to plug the gap, and Ajax lunged with his spear at Sarpedon. Death would certainly have met the son of Zeus had his father not protected him. Sarpedon was checked, but not hurt, and the battle raged furiously but indecisively at this stretch of the wall.
Elsewhere, however, Hector found and lifted a mighty boulder, greater than any two men of today could raise, and hurled it with all his strength against one of the gates. The cross-bars gave way and the planks of the gate splintered and burst. Through the breach Hector leapt, and his men poured in after him, while the Greeks turned and fled. It looked as though he would keep his promise to burn the Greek ships.
On Ida, Zeus saw Hector’s success, and felt that the day was won. He turned his attention away from the battlefield, confident that no other god would intervene in the action, for he had forbidden it. But his brother Poseidon, who had not been privy to the deliberations on Olympus, took pity on the Greeks, whom he favored because of his ill treatment at the hands of Laomedon. He took on the appearance of the seer Calchas and rallied the weary and terrified troops. They formed a compact phalanx, an impregnable wall of shields. Hector bore down on them like a boulder rolled in a storm-swelled river, but even he was stopped in his tracks by the massed spears and swords.
The Deception of Zeus
Behind the lines, Nestor met up with Agamemnon, Odysseus, and Diomedes, returning from the beached ships after tending to their wounds. For the third time, Agamemnon counseled retreat, seeing that they could do nothing against the will of Zeus, but Odysseus told him off disdainfully for such talk, unbecoming especially in their commander. Following Diomedes’ lead, the four heroes set out for the front; despite their wounds, they might give fresh heart to their men.
But the matter was not in human hands, and never had been. With Poseidon supporting one side and Zeus the other, the battle was finely balanced. And now Hera conceived the desire to disobey her husband and influence the battle in favor of the Greeks. The plan she came up with was subtle and certain. She went to her chamber, anointed her body with a rare and irresistible scent, and dressed in her most alluring robe. But still she needed to be sure. Calling Aphrodite to her side, she lied to her, for they were on opposing sides in the war.
“I’m going down to earth,” she said, “to try to reconcile the ancient quarrel between Ocean and Tethys. I intend to get them back into bed together. That will do the trick.”
Aphrodite understood what she wanted and untied her girdle of desire, that makes all who wear it irresistible and robs both men and gods of their wits. “Take this girdle,” she said. “Tethys will find her lord more than willing.”
Hera smiled artlessly and took the proffered gift. Concealing it in her breast, she flew down from Olympus to the island of Lemnos, where Sleep, the brother of Death, has his abode. Offering to reward him with the golden throne that her son Hephaestus had made, she told him that she was going to make love to Zeus, and asked him to see that afterward Zeus fell fast asleep.
Sleep was terrified: “No, not I!” he whined. “Once before you had me put him to sleep, while you blew up that storm to distract Heracles, and Zeus’ wrath was terrible. I survived only because my brother Night hid me until his anger died down.”
“It’s not the same thing at all,” countered Hera. “Zeus won’t be as furious about the Trojans as he was about Heracles.” But, seeing that Sleep was reluctant, she increased her bribe: “If you do this for me, I shall see that one of the Graces graces your bed.”
“Swear this by the River Styx,” said Sleep, “the only oath that is binding on the heavenly gods. Pasithea is the one I want!”
Hera swore a solemn oath, and together the two deities set off for Ida. When they reached the mountain, Sleep perched in a lofty pine, to avoid being seen by the father of gods and men, the thunderer. But Hera approached Zeus, the magic girdle slung low about her hips, and he was consumed by desire. He had never wanted any woman as much as he wanted Hera now.
“What? Here, now, out in the open on the mountainside?” exclaimed Hera in mock horror, but her almond eyes shone. “What if someone should see us?”
“Don’t worry,” replied her hasty husband. “I shall veil us in a golden cloud, that even Helios could not penetrate.”
“Penetrate,” purred Hera. “Now there’s a word …” As they lay together, the meadow beneath them bloomed with green grass and multicolored flowers. And when they were done, Zeus lay back satiated, and fell fast asleep with his lady in his arms.
Zeus has many lovers, but Hera is his divine spouse and queen.[68]
No sluggard, Sleep raced straight off for the battlefield and told Poseidon that the coast was clear: with Zeus asleep, the battlefield was his to control as he wished. The earth-shaker moved among the Greek troops, stiffening their resolve, urging them to forget Achilles, arguing that Hector could not withstand them if they worked together. In the guise of a Greek officer, he persuaded them that the best way to defend the ships was to push forward.
And so it came to pass. It was Ajax who made the crucial breakthrough. Hector lunged at him with his spear, but the point was deflected, and Ajax picked up a rock, one of the great stones used as wedges to keep the ships in place on the beach, and struck Hector with it on the chest. Stunned, Hector sank to the ground, blood trickling from his mouth. He would have died then and there, had Aeneas and Sarpedon not dragged him off the field, uncertain whether he was yet alive.
Still the battle raged, but with Hector’s departure something departed also from the Trojans’ hearts, as when a cat glides out of a room. Though they fought on, secretly they began to cast around for some avenue of escape should they need it. And slowly, like a tide just on the turn, they fell back step by step until they found themselves back beyond the trench.
Just then Zeus awoke. He sprang to his feet and surveyed the battlefield below. He saw the Trojans in retreat, and Hector stretched out unconscious on the ground, with men huddled anxiously around him. He knew immediately what had happened. “Treachery and lechery!” he shouted at Hera. “You scheming bitch! Don’t you recall the times I’ve punished you in the past? This time I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!”
Zeus raged on. Hera protested that it was not she who had brought Poseidon back into the fight, but she could do nothing against her lord’s anger, and even Poseidon relented, knowing that, ultimately, Troy would fall. Meanwhile, Zeus sent Apollo to tend to Hector, and the healer-god had the Trojan hero on his feet in no time. Hector’s miraculous return to the battlefield was greeted with joy from his men and dismay from the Greeks, for they knew that only some god could have healed him so quickly and thoroughly. And indeed Apollo led the way before Hector, invisible, but bearing Zeus’ aegis, before which no man can stand his ground. For thunder and lightning groaned and flashed from the aegis, fearsome to behold and hear.
And so once more the battle swung in the Trojans’ favor, with the Greeks fleeing pell-mell back toward their ships in the face of Zeus’ aegis. Onc
e the Greeks had crossed the trench, Apollo kicked at its banks to form a causeway across which the Trojans easily flowed, as unstoppable as a flood tide. When they reached the rampart, Apollo simply swept it aside, as a child wrecks a sand castle on the shore. And now the Greeks had nowhere to go. Their backs were at their ships. Their aching muscles now were animated not by courage but by desperation. Men fell, dead or dying, and every moment that passed brought the end unmistakably closer.
Then Hector, in the forefront as usual—for this was the day Zeus would give him glory—reached one of the Greek ships and grasped its stern with his hand while fighting off all who came near. He called for fire, but Ajax stood nearby and slew all those who came close with burning brands. But even Ajax was eventually beaten back, and then a dozen men rushed in and tossed their torches into the ship, and flames immediately caught hold and licked around the stern. It was, as Fate would have it, Protesilaus’ ship.
The Death of Patroclus
This was the turning-point, the moment Zeus had been waiting for. His intention always had been to allow Hector the glory of bringing fire to the ships, but then to turn the tide against the Trojans. And so the din of battle, now so near, roused Patroclus. He was tending Eurypylus’ wound, but he left immediately to see if his tent-mate might have changed his mind. Now, surely, with defeat staring them in the face, he would agree to Nestor’s plan.
“You’re a hard man, Achilles,” he said. “Surely Peleus was not your father nor Thetis your mother. No, the cold, gray sea and the harsh cliffs were your parents. But at least let me have your arms and armor, and a company of your Myrmidons, to inspire the Greeks to fresh efforts, and to make the Trojans quake at the thought that you have returned.”
Swift-footed Achilles replied: “It’s true that the fighting is now close by, but I swore not to take up arms until it reached my very camp. But I cannot hold on to my anger forever. You may take my arms and armor, and my men—and do your best, I pray. But you must not carry the fight to the walls of Troy; that honor is for me alone. Beat the Trojans back from the ships—that’s all. And then return safe to me.”
So, while Achilles told the Myrmidons to get ready and stirred their hearts for the coming battle, Patroclus put on his friend’s armor, the wedding gift of the gods to Peleus: bronze greaves with silver straps, a breastplate chased with stars, the helmet with its terrifying plume, and the splendid shield. He slung the bronze sword with silver studs over his shoulder and took two of his own spears, molded to his grip. For no one but Achilles could manage his great spear, the gift of Cheiron and the gods to Peleus.
Achilles’ charioteer, peerless Automedon, prepared the chariot and team, and would drive Patroclus himself, so that for a while all should mistake him for Achilles. With a prayer to Zeus—for victory and Patroclus’ safe return—Achilles sent them on their way.
Patroclus and Achilles were beloved companions from their youth.[69]
Patroclus’ appearance on the battlefield terrified the Trojans, and the Myrmidons under his command were fresh after days of rest. But for the Greeks, the arrival of Achilles—or so they thought—was like the clarity that follows a storm, when the light is pure and the air clean and easy to breathe. The Trojans fell back a little way from the ships, but only to rally and prepare another advance. But Patroclus led the Greeks on with blood-chilling war-cries, and they plowed into the Trojan ranks, sowing slaughter. Every Greek officer killed his man, and the Trojan lines began to collapse.
Hector could see that the moment of victory had slipped away, and he wheeled his chariot and headed for home, calling for retreat. But the trench was not so easy to negotiate on the way back, and soon it was filled with abandoned chariots, horses screaming as they struggled to escape their shafts, and broken wheels and bodies. The din was hideous. Now it was every man for himself, as the foot soldiers fled in fear of being struck in the back or crushed under the wheels of the chasing chariots, seeking desperately for safety, shoving friends aside, tripping over fallen bodies. They were easy victims for the pursuing Greeks, and the slaughter was immense.
Only one man had the courage to stand against Patroclus, and that was noble Sarpedon of Lycia. The two of them vaulted from their chariots and prepared to duel. From Olympus, Zeus watched the two heroes and mourned, for he loved his son Sarpedon above all mortals then alive, and it grieved him that he had to die. He was tempted to use his power to fly him safely from the battlefield, but that would set an awkward precedent: all the gods would want to rescue their favorites, every time they were threatened. But the ground received hot tears of blood, shed by the immortal father of gods and men.
Sarpedon first hurled his spear, but his aim was off, and the missile flew safely over Patroclus’ left shoulder. Patroclus made no such mistake: his spear plunged into Sarpedon’s side, just below the rib-cage, and Sarpedon fell writhing into the dust of the Trojan plain. He breathed his last as Patroclus tugged the spear in triumph out of his body, trailing intestines on its bronze head. The Myrmidons stripped the dead man of his armor and bore it back to their camp in triumph. But Zeus commanded Apollo to collect Sarpedon’s corpse, wash it with river water, and anoint it with ambrosia. And then the twins Sleep and Death were to bear him home to Lycia, where his family could bury him with all honor.
With gentle hands Sleep and Death bore Sarpedon’s body home to Lycia.[70]
Darkness fell, but even so the battle raged on unabated in the gloom of an ill-lit night. The Trojans strengthened their ranks, but still Patroclus bore down on them in his lust for battle. Many great heroes he felled, and the Trojan lines fell back. Carried away by success, Patroclus chased the fleeing Trojans toward the city. He forgot Achilles’ orders to hold back, to leave the honor of assaulting the city to him alone. The lust of battle was upon him, and it was easy to hunt down the running Trojans, striking them in the back from his chariot, or in the face if they turned to offer token resistance. He was like a raging forest fire, consuming all before him. When he reached the Scaean Gate of the city, he hurled himself at it three times in a frenzy, but Apollo repelled him, saying: “Back, Patroclus! Troy is not fated to fall to you, nor even to Achilles!”
Just then Hector rode up to confront him, knowing now that he would face Patroclus, and win great glory if he could bring down Achilles’ bosom friend. But there was no glory in the fight. At Zeus’ behest, Apollo stood behind Patroclus, wrapped in mist, and struck him sharply on the back. Achilles’ helmet, that had never before tasted dirt, tumbled in the dust; Patroclus’ spear shattered in his hand, his shield fell from his forearm as the straps broke, and his breastplate magically unbuckled itself. Euphorbus plunged his spear from behind into Patroclus’ back. Gravely wounded, Patroclus began to drag himself to the safety of his own lines, but Hector sprang forward and delivered the killing blow, sealing his own doom.
The Return of Achilles
Achilles wept. He bowed his face and poured dust and ash over his head; he lay on the ground, groaning and tearing his hair. He saw beneath the surface to the pettiness and wretchedness of human life. All his womenfolk, the warprizes he had taken, joined in the lamentation with their ritual cries. The ripples of his agony spread until they reached his mother where she sported in the deep with sea-nymphs. And Thetis knew straight away what the cry meant: that her son’s time had come, that he would never return home. She hurried to his side, as any mother would, to bring what comfort she might.
Achilles poured out his woes to Thetis: “My dearest friend is dead, the armor has been taken that Peleus received from the gods the day he took you for his wife, and now I know that I have little time left on this earth. I must turn my back on life, for I must avenge the death of my friend and rip the life from Hector.”
“You’re right,” said his mother through her tears. “Your death will follow soon after that of Hector. It is foretold.”
“Yet even Heracles had to die,” said Achilles. “If glory such as his awaits me after death, that will be enough. I regret my
anger against Agamemnon; perhaps I might have saved Patroclus’ life. But the past is the past. Now I look to what brief future remains. It’s better to burn out than to fade away.”
“Don’t be too hasty, my son,” replied Thetis. “At dawn I shall bring you a new set of armor, crafted by Hephaestus himself.”
Night drew over the plain, and the weary fighters disengaged. In the Greek camp, all were mourning the death of Patroclus. Achilles swore not to bury him until he had recovered the lost armor and brought back the head of his killer. And he made a dreadful promise: to slit the throats of twelve young Trojan boys beside his friend’s funeral pyre. Then they bathed Patroclus’ body and laid him out on a bed, shrouded in white linen. And all night long Achilles kept vigil beside the corpse, while the Greeks hardly slept, for they knew that on the morrow their champion would rejoin the fray.
Xanthus and Balius, offspring of the west wind, were the semi-divine steeds of Achilles.[71]
Up on high Olympus, Hephaestus and his assistants were devoting the night to Thetis’ request for a new panoply for her son. By daybreak a marvelous work had been wrought. The gleaming breastplate, greaves of layered tin, and close-fitting helmet with golden crest were wondrous to behold; but the masterpiece was the great shield. Five layers of metal made it safe: two of bronze on the outside, two of tin on the inside, and a middle layer of gold.
On the face of the shield was shown the whole cosmos: the earth, the waters, the heavens, and all the celestial bodies. Two cities were portrayed in fine and intricate detail by the divine blacksmith. In one of the cities peace reigned, and the people were celebrating festivals and going about their daily business; but the other city was beset by foes, and scenes of ambush and treachery, of hope and despair, seemed to flow before the eyes of the spectator. Nor was country life forgotten, with its plowed fields and laborers, its cattle and flocks, orchards and vineyards. Young men and women danced while a multitude looked on; and around all lay impassable Ocean.
The Greek Myths Page 21