Early the next morning, Achilles received the gift with savage delight. Now he was ready for Hector. He summoned an assembly of all the Greeks, and he and Agamemnon were formally reconciled. Achilles apologized for sulking over something as trivial as a captive girl, and Agamemnon expressed regret for his high-handedness.
While the men took their morning meal, to give them strength for the day ahead, Agamemnon had gifts brought from his tent for Achilles, the gifts he had promised before: tripods, gold, women (including Briseis), horses, and cauldrons. And the Greeks performed a great sacrifice to seal the reconciliation in the eyes of the gods.
Achilles was too sick at heart to eat, and spurned all entreaties to do so. But Zeus took pity on him, and sent Athena to infuse in him nectar and ambrosia, so that he should not faint from hunger on the battlefield. Poised on the razor’s edge between fury and despair, he donned his new armor, and pulled his great spear from the rack, while Automedon yoked his team of immortal horses and prepared the chariot once more.
Achilles mounted the chariot and called out to his noble steeds. For these two stallions were the offspring of Zephyrus, the west wind, and Swiftfoot, one of the Snatchers. “Xanthus,” Achilles called out, “and you there, Balius! Listen up! Today I commend myself to your care. Bring me back to the Greek lines, whether I am alive or dead!”
And Xanthus replied: “Yes, we shall save you today, Achilles, but the day of your death draws ever nearer. It is your fate, and none can escape the doom that is written for him.”
“No need to prophesy my death, dear Xanthus,” Achilles replied. “I already know that I shall die here, far from home. But never mind that! Today is the day I shall make the Trojans suffer!”
The Death of Hector
The next morning, the Greeks and Trojans again faced one another across the plain—the same beginning as often before, but with the vital difference, to the morale of both sides, that peerless Achilles was there, in the front rank, eager for the fray. Meanwhile, on Olympus, Zeus the cloud-gatherer summoned an assembly of all the gods, including Poseidon and all the rivers and nymphs. He was concerned that under Achilles’ leadership the Greeks might sack Troy before its time, and as a way of keeping things in balance, he gave the gods permission to go down once more and support whichever side they liked, while he remained on Olympus and watched.
As a result of the gods’ interference, the battle seesawed across the plain. Gradually, however, Achilles gained the upper hand. Poseidon prevented him killing Aeneas, and Apollo hid Hector from him, but by the end of the day the Greeks had driven the Trojans off the plain and back to the city walls. The gods returned to Olympus, except for Apollo, who hovered around Troy. He watched as King Priam gave the gatekeepers a delicate task: they were to hold the gates open for the retreating Trojan troops, while not allowing a single Greek to enter, especially Achilles.
They did as they were told, but Achilles still might have burst into the city, had not Agenor, son of Antenor, summoned up his courage. Despite knowing that he was no match for the Greek hero, he confronted him and delayed his advance toward Troy, giving his men time to make themselves safe. And though Achilles aimed a killing blow at the young Trojan, Apollo hid Agenor in mist and swept him from the battlefield to the safety of the city. Then he himself took on the appearance of Agenor and kept Achilles occupied at some distance from the city while the rest raced for the gates. Troy’s doom was delayed for another day.
All the Trojans were safe inside the city? No, not all, for Hector remained outside. Though his parents, Priam and Hecuba, begged him from their vantage point on the walls to come inside, to save himself, the very thought made him ashamed. But now Achilles had extricated himself from his futile pursuit of Apollo; realizing that he was dealing with a god, he abandoned the chase and raced once more for the city gates. Priam saw him coming and redoubled his appeals to his son, and Hecuba shed bitter tears, imploring her son to save her from inconsolable grief. But war is a cruel master. Hector remained unmoved, though in his heart thoughts of flight competed with visions of a heroic victory.
Inexorably, Achilles drew closer, hefting his great spear on his shoulder, his armor seeming to glow. Finally, Hector could take it no more. He broke and ran. Achilles set out after him, and he was famously swift-footed. Three times around the walls of Troy they ran, pursuer and pursued, and gradually Achilles was closing the gap, as a hound gains on a hind in flight. There can be no doubt that he would have caught him, had Apollo not breathed strength into Hector’s limbs. From the walls of Troy Priam and Hecuba looked on aghast and prayed helplessly for their son’s life.
Up on cloud-covered Olympus, Zeus asked the assembled gods whether or not they should let noble Hector be laid low by Achilles. But Athena rebuked her father, saying: “How can you even think of releasing the man from his doom? He is mortal; he would die soon anyway, but this day is fated to be his last.”
As Achilles and Hector began their fourth circuit of the great walls of Troy, Zeus raised high his golden scales. In one of the pans he placed the death of Hector and in the other the death of Achilles. Hector’s doom was heavier, and Apollo immediately withdrew his support from the prince of Troy. Meanwhile, Athena appeared to Achilles and told him to rest and catch his breath, for she would go to Hector and persuade him to stand and fight.
No sooner said than done, and she appeared alongside Hector as his dear brother Deiphobus. And Hector believed her when she said that she would fight at his shoulder, that the two of them would tackle Achilles together and bring him down in his pride, as two tawny lions work together to bring down a magnificent gazelle.
So Hector stood his ground and waited for Achilles to draw close. Instead of the usual taunting—for each knew the other’s lineage and prowess—Hector promised that, if he should win, he would not insult or mistreat Achilles’ corpse. But Achilles replied: “Does the wolf deal with the lamb? I’ll make no pact with you. On guard!”
With these words he cast his long-shadowed spear, but Hector ducked and it passed safely over his shoulder and stuck in the earth. Now it was Hector’s turn: “You seem better at hurling words than spears,” he cried, but his spear was deflected harmlessly by Achilles’ marvelous shield. He called on Deiphobus to pass him another spear, but there was no reply, for there was no one near him. And now he realized that he had been duped by a deity, and knew that his doom was imminent.
Hector bravely drew his sword and advanced on Achilles, slicing the keen blade through the air. Achilles adopted a defensive position, tucked in behind his great shield, and once more hefted his spear over his shoulder; for Athena had surreptitiously returned it to him. Hector’s armor—the armor he had taken from Patroclus—protected almost his entire body, except for the neck. As the Trojan charged forward, Achilles thrust his spear at the exact spot—a terrible wound, but not enough to kill him immediately. Hector fell to the ground, choking on his own blood, and Achilles stood in triumph over him. “Did you think you could get away with killing Patroclus, you swine? The dogs and kites will rend your body, while the Greeks honor Patroclus.”
In a bubbling whisper, Hector begged Achilles not to dishonor his body, to let his father ransom it, but the Greek victor refused. “Ask me nothing, you whining cur! I hate you with such passion that I could hack chunks from your body and eat them raw! No amount of gold will stop you feeding the crows.”
So Hector died at the hands of a pitiless man. But inside Achilles something slumped, and he spoke to himself: “It is done. Now I can accept my own death when it comes.”
He called on his fellow Greeks to return to camp, leaving only a token force on the plain in case the Trojans tried anything. After stripping Hector of his armor, reclaiming it as his own, he pierced the dead man’s ankles, drew strong cord through the holes, and tied the body to his chariot. So he drove back to the Greek camp, defiling the body of his foe, dragging it over the rocky plain, breaking every one of its bones, disregarding the laws of gods and men.
Achilles defiled the body of Hector by dragging it behind his chariot.[72]
Priam and Hecuba, looking down from the walls, saw their son’s death, and collapsed to the ground, broken by grief. But Andromache still knew nothing.
She was in the chambers she shared with her husband, drawing a bath for him to enjoy when he returned from battle. But then the sound of Hecuba’s wailing reached her, and she ran in trepidation to see what had happened.
She arrived just in time to see Achilles dragging Hector’s body toward the ships. The sight caused her to fall in a faint to the floor, but the wailing of her parents and the womenfolk roused her. She mourned equally for herself and her fatherless son. Neither of them now had anything to hope for. Their lives had fled with Hector’s.
Two Funerals
Night fell and, with his vengeance complete, Achilles let grief possess him. In the night Patroclus appeared to him, begging for an early funeral so that he could cross the Styx into Hades. In his dream, Achilles stretched out his hands for his friend, but grasped only mist and air. And the next day the Greeks forgot war and devoted themselves to the funeral rites for one they had loved and honored.
Men collected firewood and heaped it on the shore. Achilles’ womenfolk prepared Patroclus’ body, and Achilles himself bore it and laid it on the pyre. He cropped his hair in mourning and closed Patroclus’ hands around the golden tresses. Sheep were sacrificed, and the corpse smeared with fat. Four horses were killed and their bodies added to the pyre, and two fine hounds, and all twelve of the Trojan youths Achilles had captured the previous day, their throats slit. Then Achilles thrust the burning brand into the pyre, and the hungry flames consumed all. And he swore that Hector’s body should receive no such funeral, but should be food for dogs and crows.
The following day, the Greeks damped down the glowing coals of the fire with wine, sifted the ash for Patroclus’ bones, and sealed them in an urn. Achilles reverently laid the urn in the ground and surrounded it with all those things that were dear to his dearest friend, and whatever he would need for his final journey. Then all the Greeks heaped up a vast mound of protective earth over the bones, and turned in his honor to athletic competition, as was the custom.
But the games did little to settle Achilles’ anger with Patroclus’ killer. Still his heart was racked with bitter grief. Time and again he harnessed his chariot in the dawn’s gray light to drag Hector’s body around the newly constructed tomb, seeking to calm his restless spirit that way. But each day Apollo refreshed and restored the mutilated corpse.
The gods looked on from high Olympus in abhorrence at this transgression of sacred custom. For a while, the opposition of Hera and her allies created a stalemate, but Zeus, as always, had the deciding vote, and he issued a direct command: Achilles is to return Hector’s body to Priam. He summoned Thetis, to ask her to make her son see reason, or risk the anger of the gods. And he sent Iris to Priam, to tell him that the way was clear for him to ransom his dear son’s body.
Thetis found her son still wrapped in inconsolable sadness over the death of his friend, and exhausted by sleeplessness and savagery. But he readily obeyed Zeus’ command: he would let Priam have Hector’s body. He put aside the thought that he was somehow doing Patroclus a disservice by returning the body. Meanwhile, Iris told Priam to go alone and secretly to Achilles’ tent, with valuable gifts for the ransom, taking only a driver for the cart; and she told him not to worry about the danger, because Zeus would send Hermes himself, the wayfinder, to guide him. She found the king begrimed with dust and earth that he had poured over his head and body in his grief, and all the womenfolk of the palace in deep mourning.
Hecuba thought her husband had lost his mind, but, trusting in Zeus, Priam was determined to go. He ordered a great wagon loaded with bolts of the finest cloth, ten talents of gold, tripods, cauldrons, and a gorgeous golden cup of the finest Thracian workmanship. When they reached the ford across the Scamander, they were met by Hermes in the guise of a young Myrmidon from Achilles’ camp. Safely he guided the old man through the Greek picket lines, by the simple expedient of putting the sentries to sleep.
So Priam completed his terrifying journey and entered Achilles’ quarters. The son of Peleus greeted him kindly, and the old man dropped to the floor and tearfully begged the warrior to pity his old age and grant him the right to take his son’s body back to Troy. Achilles gently raised the old man to his feet and bade him sit down, but Priam said that he could never rest while Hector’s body lay unburied and dishonored.
Priam made his way in secret to beg Achilles for Hector’s body.[73]
Achilles’ temper flared at the suggestion that he had acted in a dishonorable manner, but he accepted the ransom and had all the valuables taken from the cart and stored in his quarters. Then he had his womenfolk bathe and anoint the corpse, and dress it in fine linen. He suggested that Priam spend the night in his quarters, and wait for daylight to make his way back across the plain to Troy. And for the first time since his son’s death Priam felt able to sleep for a few hours, calmed by Achilles’ assurance that the period required for Hector’s funeral rites should be an armistice, untainted by war.
But in the middle of the night, while Achilles lay asleep, Hermes appeared again to Priam and urged him to arise and leave, in case word reached Agamemnon or one of the other Greek officers that the king of Troy was in their camp, and could easily be taken. Priam got ready in silence, and Hermes guided him back to the Scamander, where he took his leave and returned to Olympus. Priam, head bowed and covered, drove the cart slowly home along familiar lanes.
At the sight of Hector’s body, trundling toward the city in the dawn’s early light, all gave in to grief and mourning. Women tore their hair and raked their nails down their cheeks, while sighing bitterly when they thought what they had lost and what the future held for them. Andromache was utterly disconsolate, and young Astyanax wailed constantly, oppressed by the mood and his mother’s tears.
Achilles arranged a truce as promised, and the citizens of Troy piled up wood for nine days. On the tenth they carried Hector out of the city gates to his pyre and burned him with all honor. With tears streaming down their cheeks, they gathered his bones and sealed them in a jar of gold. They placed the jar inside a deep-dug grave, and heaped up stones and a mound of earth over the remains. And so they buried Hector, breaker of horses.
The Death of Achilles
All too soon, after the funeral truce, armor was once again donned, weapons once more straightened, sharpened, and burnished. Now reinforcements were arriving for the Trojans from the ends of the earth. From the north came a contingent of the wild warrior women, the Amazons; from the south came Memnon of Ethiopia. The war was not over yet.
The Amazons were led by Penthesilea, a daughter of Ares, who was eager for glory in a war against men. She and her troop displayed great valor on the battlefield, and took many Greek lives, but then Penthesilea met Achilles. The duel was brief: Achilles’ spear soon found her breast. But when the Greek hero removed the dying woman’s helmet, he fell in love with her. He refused her burial, and kept the body by his side in his tent. Thersites, the crude troublemaker of the Greek army, made lewd suggestions about what Achilles got up to with the corpse, and paid for his insults with his life. But Diomedes was Thersites’ kinsman, and he and Achilles fell out over the murder, until their fellow officers and aristocrats reconciled them. They did not want to see Achilles go off in another sulk. Nevertheless, he had to leave for a while, to be purified for the murder.
Memnon of Ethiopia was a giant of a man, the son of Eos and Tithonus, equipped with armor made especially for him in Hephaestus’ workshop. He and his men cut swathes through the Greek troops, and confined them once again to their encampment. In the course of the Greek rout, Paris wounded one of the horses of Nestor’s chariot team. The old man couldn’t make it back to the Greek lines; his charioteer was dead, and he was caught in no-man’s land. Just then, Memnon approached, and it seemed as
though the Greeks would lose their most respected counselor—but Antilochus, Nestor’s son, stepped up and took Memnon’s blow in his father’s stead, and his head rolled in the dust.
Antilochus’ sacrifice gave Achilles time to rescue Nestor from Memnon. The two heroes faced each other, battle fury disfiguring their faces. As they hefted their spears, up on Olympus the two mothers were begging Zeus for the lives of their sons. Once again Zeus raised the golden scales of fate. The death of Memnon was heavier, and Achilles slew him. Eos had not been able to save her son’s life, but she implored Zeus for a special boon. And the father of gods and men turned the smoke from Memnon’s funeral pyre into birds, which fought in mid-air, and fell dead into the flames as offerings to the hero.
But the slaying of Memnon was Achilles’ last great deed. His death had often been foretold. He knew it, and he had made his choice, the heroic choice. After Memnon’s death, the Trojans had no fighters to match the remaining Greek heroes, and they found themselves hard pressed. Achilles burst into the city at the head of his men, and the city seemed certain to fall—but this was the day of Achilles’ doom, not Troy’s. Apollo the archer himself took the form of Paris, no mean bowman even without the god’s help. Paris aimed for the body, but Apollo knew better, and steered the fatal dart onto Achilles’ ankle, the only place where his skin could be pricked. And though it was only an ankle wound, all his vulnerability was located there, and his life ebbed away on the threshold of the city.
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