First Hector slew Stichius, the leader of the Boeotians, then Arcesilaus, friend of Menestheus. Aeneas killed and stripped of their armor Iasus of Athens and Medon, half brother of Ajax of Locris. Mecisteus fell by the hand of Polydamas. Polites slew Echius and Agenor Clonius. Paris shot Deiochus through the back as he was fleeing from the field, and the point of the lance came through his breast.
While the Trojans were seizing the weapons of their victims, the Argives fled in utter confusion, dashing toward the trench and the palisade, swerving hither and thither. Some, goaded by terror, were already crossing the wall. Then Hector called to his men, and his voice rang across the field: “Let the bodies lie in their bloodstained armor and make straight for the ships. If I come on anyone bound elsewhere, I shall do him to death!” Thus he cried out, lashing on his horses, and drove toward the trench, while all the heroes of Troy followed him in their chariots. With his feet full of godly strength, Apollo stamped down the steep banks of the trench and made a bridge for them as long as a spearcast. On this path the god himself crossed first, and with one thrust of his aegis he demolished the wall of the Argives, just as a child playing on the shore of the sea scatters the forts of sand he has only just built. The Achaeans were again crowded into the passageways between their ships and lifted their hands to the gods in supplication. And when Nestor made his prayer, Zeus answered with thunder that boded mercy.
The Trojans interpreted the sign from heaven to their own advantage. They raged across the wall with horses, chariots and men, and fought from the chariots, but the Danai fled to the ships and defended themselves from the decks.
While Argives and Trojans were still fighting for the wall, Patroclus sat in the splendid house of Eurypylus, whose wound he was tending, anointing it with the balm of soothing herbs. But when he heard the Trojans crashing the wall and the Achaeans fleeing with loud cries of distress, he struck his thigh with the flat of his hand, and his voice was troubled. “Eurypylus,” he said, “much as I want to help you back to health, I cannot stay here any longer, for the din outside is coming too close. Your comrade-in-arms will have to help you now. I myself will go to the son of Peleus and with the aid of the gods try to induce him to take part in battle again at long last.” Hardly had he ended before his swift feet bore him away.
All the while the struggle for the ships went on, and the fortunes of war were equally divided. Hector and Ajax were fighting for one of the ships, and the son of Priam could not force him from his stronghold nor throw a firebrand into the vessel. And the son of Telamon could not drive Hector back. Ajax’s spear felled Caletor, a kinsman of Hector who had been fighting at his side, and Hector slew Lycophron, comrade of Ajax, with his lance. As he fell, Teucer sprang to his brother’s aid and sped a shaft into the neck of Clitus, charioteer of Polydamas. Polydamas, fighting on foot, caught at the reins of the horses as they plunged away. A second arrow of Teucer’s flew toward Hector, but Zeus broke the bowstring, and the missile swerved to one side. Sorrowfully the archer recognized the interference of a hostile god. Ajax counselled his brother to lay aside his bow and arrows and fight with shield and spear. This he did and set on his head a stately helmet. Hector, on the other hand, called to his men: “Take courage! I just saw the Thunderer break the shaft of the bravest of the Argives. So on to the ships, for the gods are with us!”
On the other side Ajax exhorted his warriors. “Shame on you, Achaeans!” he cried. “We must save the ships or die! There is no other course. If mighty Hector burns them to their keels, do you intend to walk home across the ocean? Or perhaps you think Hector is bidding you to a dance rather than to battle? Better to hasten the choice between life and death than loiter in shameful uncertainty, downed by men less worthy than ourselves, men who fight shielded by gods!” So spoke Ajax and felled a Trojan hero, but for every man he laid low Hector slew one of his own comrades. After a little, the struggle centered about the body and armor of Dolops whom Menelaus had killed. Hector called on all his brothers and kinsmen, but Ajax and his friends guarded the ships with a veritable wall of shields and lances.
Then Menelaus urged forward Antilochus, Nestor’s son, saying: “There is no one younger and swifter than you in the entire host, and no one braver! It would be a praiseworthy deed if you leaped from the ranks and slew one of the Trojans!” Thus he incited Antilochus, and the youth instantly sprang forward from the throng, looked threateningly about him, and hurled his gleaming spear. As he aimed, the Trojans flew apart, but he struck Melanippus, son of Hicetaon, under the nipple. He fell, and his weapons clattered around him. Antilochus raced to him like a hound to the fawn the hunter has shot from ambush, but when Hector advanced on him, he fled like a beast of prey which has mangled the herdsman or the dog and, well aware of what he has done, runs away when he sees men coming toward him. Trojan missiles sped in his wake, and Antilochus did not turn until he was safely on his own side again.
And now the Trojans rushed on the ships like bloodthirsty lions. Zeus seemed resolved to grant the merciless wish of Thetis, whose anger was long and unrelenting like that of her son Achilles. Nevertheless, as soon as the first ship burst into flame, he visited flight and pursuit on the Trojans and again rewarded the Argives with triumph and glory. Hector fought with bitter rage. He foamed at the mouth, his eyes glittered under his beetling brows, and the fierce crest of his helmet streamed in the air. Because he was destined to live only a few more days, Zeus gave him strength and splendor beyond all other men for one last time. Already Pallas Athene was preparing grim death for him. But now he tried to break through the ranks of his foes wherever he saw the densest throngs and the finest armor. For a long time he fought without success. The Danai stood man beside man in a solid mass, like a cliff in the sea against which the tide pounds in vain, while the spray of the surf spatters its sides. But he threw himself on the warriors as, in a storm, a wave rushes on a ship, and the Argives were stricken with terror and fled. One—it was Periphetes of Mycenae, son of Copreus, and a better man than his ugly father—stumbled against the lower rim of his shield and fell backwards, and Hector’s lance stabbed him in the breast.
The Achaeans were retreating from the foremost ships, but they did not scatter through the streets of the camp. Shame and dread kept them together. They crowded around the huts and exhorted one another, above all old Nestor who quickened their hearts with his battle cry. Ajax, son of Telamon, strode over the ships, and in his right hand he wielded a pole twenty-two cubits long and bound with iron rings. As an agile rider leaps from horse to horse while the spectators stare in amazement, so he sprang from ship to ship and called down to the Argives in a terrible voice. But Hector too was not content to rest in the safe haven of the ranks. As an eagle flashes through the sky and swoops on flocks of cranes or swans resting on the margin of a stream, he rushed on one of the ships, and Zeus himself pushed him on from behind so that he flew forward and all his men after him.
Then the battle for the ships broke out afresh. The Argives were ready to die rather than flee, and there was not a Trojan who was not in high hopes of being the first to fling a firebrand into the ships. And now Hector laid hold of the stern of the fair ship which had brought Protesilaus to Troy but was not destined to take him back, since he had fallen in the battle which took place shortly after the landing. The struggle focused around this ship. It was not a matter of shooting the bow or casting the spear. Fighting at close quarters, the men used sharp hatchets, battle-axes and swords against one another, and thrust with their lances, keeping them in their hands. Many a good sword slipped from lifeless fingers or fell from the shoulder of a fighter, and the earth ran with blood. But Hector, once having seized the stern, held fast to it and cried: “Now bring the brands and raise the battle cry! For Zeus has given us a day which shall make return to us for all that has gone before. On, and take the ships which have caused us so much suffering! Not one of our elders would restrain us from using this moment to the full. Zeus himself bids us go!”
Even
Ajax could no longer withstand Hector’s attack. The missiles came too hard and fast. He drew back a little and swung himself to the bench at the rudder. But never did he cease watching where he might fend off the foe, and he brandished his lance against the Trojans drawing closer with the brands. At the same time he spoke to his friends in a thundering voice. “Be men!” he called to them. “Or do you think there are others beyond the ships, others who will help you, or a stronger wall to shelter you? You have no city to flee to like the Trojans. We are on enemy soil, crowded to the edge of the sea, far from the land of our fathers. Our safety depends on the strength of our arms.” Thus he spoke and thrust with his lance at every Trojan advancing with a brand, so that soon twelve bodies lay on the ground before him.
THE DEATH OF PATROCLUS
While the ship on which Ajax stood had become the center of a struggle to the death, Patroclus, leaving wounded Eurypylus, had hastened to Achilles. When he entered his house the tears gushed from his eyes like a torrent which pours its dark waters over a steep cliff. Compassionately the son of Peleus gazed at him and said: “You are crying like a child, Patroclus, a girl child who runs after her mother and screams ‘take me, take me!’ and clings to her gown until the mother lifts her into her arms. Have you bad news from Phthia? And do they concern my Myrmidons, or me, or yourself? I know that your father Menoetius and my father Peleus are alive. Or is your sorrow for the people of Argos, who are perishing miserably as a result of their own presumptuousness? Tell me what is in your heart and let me know all.”
First Patroclus only sighed, but then he spoke: “Do not be angered with me, noblest of heroes. It is true that the fate of the Argives weighs heavily on my soul. All the bravest lie among the ships, laid low by missiles launched or thrust. Diomedes is wounded; Odysseus and Agamemnon gashed with lances; Eurypylus struck in the thigh by an arrow! None of these fight in our ranks now; they have been given over to the physicians. But you are implacable! Your parents are not Peleus and Thetis, the mortal and the goddess! The dark sea or the stony mountain must have borne you, for your heart is relentless. Well then, if you are held back by your mother’s words or by some message from the gods, let me at least go with your warriors and bring comfort to the Achaeans. Let me gird on your own armor. Perhaps the Trojans, seeing me and thinking it is you, will stop fighting and give us time to rally our strength.”
But Achilles scowled and said sulkily: “It is not my mother nor the voice of gods that keeps me here. It is the bitter pain gnawing at my soul, pain that an Argive has dared to rob me, his peer, of what was mine by right. But I never intended to cherish my grudge forever, and from the outset resolved to give it up when the battle came close to my ships. Now, while I cannot make up my mind to take part in the fight myself, you may take my armor and lead our fighters. Rush on the Trojans with all your might and drive them from the ships. There is only one you shall not attack, and that is Hector. And be careful not to fall into the hands of a god, for Apollo loves our foes. As soon as you have saved the ships, turn back. Let the rest slaughter one another in the open field. For I should be willing to let all the Argives perish, so that we two might be the only ones left to tear down the walls of Troy.”
While they were talking, Ajax was more and more sorely pressed near the ships, and his breath grew labored. Spears and arrows rattled against his helmet. His shoulder, burdened by his shield, began to stiffen. The sweat of anguish poured from his limbs, but he could not rest. When Hector’s sword struck off the top of his lance so that only the broken shaft was left in his hand and the brazen point clattered to the ground, Ajax knew that the Argives were confronted with the powers of a god, and he drew back in dismay. Then Hector and his men tossed a huge brand into the ship, and the flames leaped up and closed over the stern.
When Achilles saw the flare of fire, his stubborn heart winced with pain. “O Patroclus!” he cried. “Keep them from taking the ships and barring our men from escape. I myself shall go to assemble my warriors.” Patroclus rejoiced and swiftly girt on the greaves of Achilles. About his breast he bound his spangled cuirass, slung his sword over his shoulder, set on his head the helmet with its streaming horsehair crest, seized the shield with his left hand and with his right two mighty lances. He would have liked to take the enormous spear of his friend Achilles. Chiron, the Centaur, had once given it to Peleus. It was carved from an ash of Mount Pelion in Thessaly, and it was so large and so heavy that no one except the son of Peleus could handle it. And now Patroclus bade Automedon, his friend and charioteer, harness the horses Xanthus and Balius, the immortal offspring the harpy Podarge had borne the god of the west wind, and besides these the horse Pedasus, which the son of Peleus had once taken as spoils from Thebe in Cilicia. Achilles, meanwhile, called together his Myrmidons, and they came like hungry wolves, fifty men from each of the fifty ships. And their five leaders were Menesthius, son of the river-god Spercheus and Polydora, the fair daughter of Peleus; Eudoras, son of Hermes and Polymele; Pisander, son of Maemalus and, after Patroclus, the best fighter of them all; and last Phoenix, gray about the temples, and Alcimedon, son of Laerces.
As they were leaving, the son of Peleus called to them: “Let my Myrmidons not forget how often they threatened the Trojans and reproached me for my wrath which compelled them to refrain from battle. The hour you have yearned for has come. Now fight to your hearts’ content!” When he had spoken, he withdrew to his house and from a chest filled with tunics, mantles, coverlets, and other precious possessions his mother Thetis had given him to take on the journey, he fetched a cup, artfully wrought, from which no one but himself had ever drunk the sparkling wine and from which no god but the Thunderer had received libation. Now he stepped outside, poured a libation to Zeus, and prayed that the Argives might win and Patroclus, his comrade-in-arms, return to the ships in safety. The first request Zeus heard with a nod; at the second he shook his head, but all this was unseen by Achilles. He returned to his house to put away the cup. Then he went out to watch the battle between Achaeans and Trojans.
Like a swarm of wasps the Myrmidons sped in the wake of Patroclus, their leader. When the Trojans saw him coming, their hearts hammered with terror and their companies faltered in confusion, for they thought it was Achilles. They looked desperately about for a way to escape destruction. Patroclus took advantage of their fear and cast his shining lance into their midst where the press was thickest about the ship of Protesilaus. It struck Pyraechmes of Paeonia and pierced his right shoulder. Moaning he tumbled on his back, and the Paeonians around him were bewildered with dread and fled before Patroclus. He quenched the fire, and the ship was only half-burned. Now all the Trojans took to flight, and the Danai pursued them through the passageways between the ships. But soon the Dardanians rallied, and the Argives were forced to fight on foot, man for man. Patroclus shot Areilycus in the thigh; Menelaus thrust his lance into the breast of Thoas; Meges, son of Phyleus, stabbed Amphiclus in the calf; Antilochus, son of Nestor, pierced the groin of Atymnius. Then Maris, enraged by the fall of his brother, rushed at Antilochus, placed himself in front of slain Atymnius, and brandished his lance. But Thrasymedes, Nestor’s other son, gored his shoulder and upper arm with his spear, so that he sank dying to the ground. When brothers had thus killed brothers, Ajax the Less leaped nimbly forward and smote Cleobulus in the neck with his sword. Peneleus and Lycon ran at each other with their lances but lunged past, each missing his mark; when they took to their swords, however, the Achaean triumphed. Meriones hit Acamas as he was mounting his chariot and pierced his right shoulder. Down from the chariot he toppled, and darkness veiled his eyes.
Ajax the Great was intent on one thing alone: to strike Hector with his spear. But the son of Priam was a skillful and experienced warrior and covered himself so deftly and well with his shield that arrows and lances bounded off the oxhide. He was, of course, aware that victory was turning from him and his men, but he remained steadfast, thinking at least to protect and save his dear companions. Not until the o
nslaught swelled to resistless fury did he turn his chariot and goad his splendid steeds back across the trench. The other Trojans were not so fortunate. Many of the horses broke the poles and left the chariots shattered between the stakes of the palisade. But whoever cleared the trench sped toward the city, swirling up the dust, and Patroclus, sounding the battle cry, pursued them. Many plunged headlong, falling under the wheels, and the chariots overturned. At last the immortal horses of the son of Peleus leaped the trench, and Patroclus lashed them on, for he wanted to overtake Hector’s speeding chariot. On the way he killed whomever he found in the field between the wall and the river. As he stormed ahead, Pronous, Thestor, Eryalus and nine other Trojans fell by his spear, the thrust of his lance, or the stones he hurled. Sarpedon of Lycia saw this with grief and bitterness, reproved and incited his men, and sprang from his chariot in full armor. Patroclus did the same, and now they rushed at each other with loud cries like eagles with sharp talons and curved beaks.
Seated on Olympus, Zeus looked pityingly on Sarpedon, his son. But Hera reproached him. “What are you thinking of?” she said. “Would you spare a mortal who is long since forfeit to death? If all the gods removed their sons from battle, what would become of the destinies you yourself are resolved to fulfill? Believe me, it is better to let him perish in the field, to give him over to Sleep and Death, and let his people bear him away, bury him, and heap him a mound.” Zeus let the importunate goddess have her way, but from his heavenly eyes there dropped a tear for his son.
Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece Page 47