“Have you not heard, Antilochus,” he called to him, “that a god has given victory to the Trojans and disaster to the Danai? Patroclus has fallen, and all the Argives feel the loss of that dauntless hero. Only one lives who is braver: Achilles. Go quickly to his house, bring him the sorrowful news, and summon him to rescue the corpse which Hector has stripped of its armor.”
A shudder ran through the youth. His eyes filled with tears when he heard these words. For a long time he was speechless. Then he gave his armor to Laodocus, his charioteer, and ran toward the ships on flying feet. When Menelaus had again reached the body, he and Ajax took counsel how they could bear away their slain friend, for they did not expect too much of Achilles, even if he could be prevailed on to come, since he no longer had the armor of the immortals. With a mighty straining of muscles they lifted the body from the earth, and though the Trojans burst into shouts of rage and followed with brandished swords and spears, Ajax had only to turn and they paled and dared not contest his burden. Thus they bore the body from the field and toward the ships, and with them the rest of the Argives fled from battle. Hector and Aeneas were close on their heels, and here and there one of the fleeing dropped a shield or a lance as he retreated across the trench in frantic haste and confusion.
THE GRIEF OF ACHILLES
Antilochus found the son of Peleus in front of the ships, brooding on a fate which was already fulfilled, though he did not know it. When he saw the Argives approaching the ships, he was troubled and said to himself: “Why are the Achaeans running from the field as if routed and flocking toward the camp? I hope the gods have not accomplished what my mother once predicted: that while I was still alive the bravest of the Myrmidons would die at the hands of the Trojans!”
While he was still in thought, Antilochus came toward him, weeping because of the terrible message he had to bear, and called to him from afar: “Alas, son of Peleus! Oh, that what I am forced to tell you had never happened! Patroclus has fallen! And now they are fighting for his naked body, for Hector stripped him of his armor.” When Achilles heard this, the world turned dark before his eyes. With both hands he took up the brown dust and scattered it over his head, his face, and his tunic. Then he threw himself on the ground, measuring his great length, and tore his hair. Seeing their lord and master stretched on the earth, the handmaids whom Achilles and Patroclus had borne away as spoils rushed out of the house trembling. When they learned what had happened, they beat their breasts with loud lament. Antilochus too shed bitter tears and gripped the hands of Achilles, holding them fast, for he feared he would cut his throat with his sword.
Achilles himself moaned so greatly with grief that his mother heard his voice in the depths of the sea, where she sat beside her gray-haired father, and she too began to weep. At the sound of her sobs, the Nereids glided into her silvery grotto and beat their soft breasts and joined in the wails of their sister. “How unhappy I am,” she said to them, “that ever I bore so brave and splendid a son! He grew up like a sturdy young fruit tree, tended and cherished by the hand of the gardener. Then I sent him against Troy. But never again will he return to the palace of Peleus! While he still lives in the light of the sun he must suffer great grief, and I cannot help him! But I will go to my beloved child and hear what sorrow has overtaken him.” So said the goddess, and with her sisters she rose through the waves which parted at her coming and went ashore where her son sat groaning in front of the ships.
“Why do you weep, my child?” she asked him, clasping his head. “Who has stricken your heart with sorrow? Tell me and hide nothing! Has not everything come about as you wished? Are not the Argives thronged in the camp and begging your help?”
With a heavy sigh Achilles answered: “Mother, what is all this to me, now that Patroclus, who was dearer to me than my eyes, is slain and lies in the dust? My own finely wrought armor, the gift which the gods gave Peleus at his wedding with you, Hector has taken from his body. Oh, if only you had stayed forever in the depths of the sea! For had Peleus wedded a mortal wife, you would not have to bear immortal grief for your son who is doomed to die. I shall never return to my native land, for my heart forbids me to breathe and live on among men unless Hector falls by my lance and suffers for robbing me of Patroclus.”
Thetis replied in a voice choked with tears. “My son,” she said, “then you too will be cut off in the flower of your life, for it is decreed that soon after Hector dies your own end is near.”
At that Achilles cried in anger: “Would I could die this very instant, since Fate did not allow me to shield my murdered friend! He died far from his home, and I did not come to his aid. How can my brief life avail the Argives now? I have brought misfortune to Patroclus, misfortune to countless slain friends. Here I sit by the ships, a worthless burden on earth, I who am supposed to be the best fighter among the Achaeans, though in council others surpass me. Cursed be anger, whether it spring in gods or men, for first it is sweet as honey to the heart, but then it grows acrid as smoke.” Suddenly he curbed his grief and roused himself and said: “What is past, is past! I go to strike down the man who slew the friend I cherished above all. I go to kill Hector. Let my fate overtake me when Zeus and the gods decree. Because of me, many a Trojan woman will put both her hands to her soft face to dry bitter tears of mourning, and her breast will heave with sighs. The Trojans will find that I have rested long enough. Do not hold me back, dear mother!”
“You are right, my child,” answered Thetis. “Your shimmering armor is in Trojan hands. Hector himself wears it boastfully. But he shall not vaunt his pleasure in it for long! Tomorrow, as soon as the sun comes up, I shall bring you new arms, made by Hephaestus himself. Do not go to battle until I return.” Thus spoke the goddess and bade her sisters dive back into the depths of the sea. But she herself hastened up to Olympus to find Hephaestus, the smith among the immortals.
Meantime the Trojans once more attacked the body of Patroclus which his friends were bearing away, and Hector, sweeping forward like fire, came so close that three times he seized the corpse by the foot to drag it off, but three time the two Ajaces thrust him away from the dead. He withdrew to one side and then halted again and cried aloud that he would never retreat. Then the two Argive heroes who bore the same name tried to frighten him off from the corpse like herdsmen who try to drive a hungry mountain lion from the flesh of a mangled bullock. But Hector would have carried off the body, had not Iris, at Hera’s command, flown to the son of Peleus and bidden him arm secretly, unseen by Zeus and the other gods. “How can I go into battle?” Achilles asked the messenger of the gods. “My enemies have my weapons. And my mother forbade me go before she herself brought me new armor, made by Hephaestus. There are no arms which would suit me, unless perhaps the great shield of Ajax, and he needs that himself.”
“We know very well that you have been deprived of your glorious weapons,” Iris answered him. “But meanwhile approach the trench just as you are, so that the Trojans may see you. Perhaps they will pause when they catch sight of you. The Achaeans, weary as they are, need a breathing space.”
When Iris had sped away, godlike Achilles rose. Athene herself slung her shield across his shoulder and shed radiance on his features. Swiftly he strode, crossed the wall, and stood by the trench. But mindful of his mother’s warning he did not mingle in battle. He only watched from afar and shouted, and Athene joined her cry to his, so that in the ears of the Trojans it sounded like the blare of a war trumpet. When they heard that voice like ringing bronze, their hearts filled with fear, and they turned back their horses and chariots. And the charioteers shuddered to see the head of the son of Peleus circled with flame. Three times he shouted, and three times Trojans scattered. Twelve of their bravest men fell in the confusion and were killed by the chariot wheels and the lances of their own companions. And now the corpse of Patroclus was out of reach of the missiles. The heroes laid him on a bier, and his friends stood around it lamenting. When Achilles saw his beloved comrade-in-arms, he went among
the Argives again for the first time and threw himself over the body with many tears. And on these two, the living and the dead, the setting sun shed its last glow.
ACHILLES NEWLY ARMED
Both armies rested from the stubborn battle. The Trojans loosed their horses from the chariots, but before they even thought of eating, they assembled in council. Upright they stood in a circle, and no one dared sit, for they were still trembling with terror at Achilles and feared he might reappear. At last wise Polydamas, son of Panthous, who could see both the future and the past, advised them not to wait for the dawn but to return to the city with all possible speed. “When Achilles is full-armed and finds us here in the morning,” he said, “those who escape and reach Troy will be favored by Fortune, but many will be food for dogs and vultures. May Heaven avert such fate! Therefore I counsel you and all your warriors to spend the night in the market place of Troy, where high walls and solid gates will guard us on all sides. When dawn comes let us man the ramparts, and woe to him when he rushes from the ships to attack us.”
Now Hector spoke, and his eyes were stern. “Your words, Polydamas, strike harshly on my ears. What—now that Zeus has granted me victory, now that I have pressed the Argives back to the sea, your timid counsel must seem folly to the people, and not a single Trojan will heed you. I, for my part, bid everyone eat and keep watch. If there is any who fears for his stores and his wealth, let him spend all for a feast to be held in common. Better our men take pleasure in it than the Achaeans! When the day dawns we shall resume our attack on the ships. If Achilles has really returned to the field, he has chosen an unenviable lot, for I shall not stop fighting until he or I bear off the crown of victory.” These ill-advised words of Hector weighed heavier with the Trojans than the sound counsel of Polydamas. They burst into joyful acclaim and hungrily fell on their food.
The whole night long the Argives mourned Patroclus, and Achilles, more than all, made lament. Laying his hands, which had slain so many foes, on the breast of his friend, he said: “What idle words I spoke that time when I tried to comfort old Menoetius by promising him to bring his son back to Opoeis, rich in spoils and glory, after the fall of Troy! Now Fate wills that both he and I pour out our blood on alien soil, for I too shall never return to the palace of my father, gray-haired Peleus, and of Thetis, my mother; the earth of Troy will cover me. But since it is appointed that I die after you, Patroclus, I shall not hold your funeral until I have brought you the armor and the head of Hector, your slayer. And twelve of the noblest sons of Troy I shall offer up at your pyre as well. Until this has been done, rest here by the ships, beloved friend.” When he had spoken, Achilles bade his companions set a great cauldron filled with water on the fire, and wash and anoint the body of the fallen hero. Then they laid him on a bier and spread fine linen over him from head to foot, and over this a white robe.
Thetis, meanwhile, had arrived at the bronze palace which lame Hephaestus had built for himself. It shone like stars, beautiful and everlasting. She found the god sweating at the bellows. He had forged twenty tripods, and at the base of each he had fastened golden wheels which, without the touch of a hand, rolled into the halls of Olympus to the feet of the immortals and returned to his workshop again. They were wonderful to see, complete save for the handles, and these he was just making ready, wielding his hammer to rivet them in their proper place. And while he worked, Charis, his wife, one of the Graces, took Thetis by the hand, led her to a silver chair, set a foot-stool beneath her feet, and fetched her husband Hephaestus. When he saw the goddess of the sea he called out joyfully: “How happy I am that the noblest among the immortals has come to my house, she who saved me from destruction when I was just born! For because I was lame, my mother cast me out, and I should have perished miserably, had not Eurynome and Thetis taken me and reared me in a cave in the sea until I was nine years old. There, in a vaulted grotto, I fashioned works, curious and cunning, clasps and rings, brooches and necklaces, and about me foamed the surging stream of the ocean. And now she who rescued me is visiting me in my own house! See to her entertainment, sweet Charis, while I clear away this welter of work and tools.”
Thus spoke the sooty god, and he rose limping from beside the anvil, took the bellows from the fire, locked his delicate implements in a silver chest, and with a sponge wiped his hands and face, his neck and shaggy chest. Then he put on his tunic and, helped by his handmaids, limped back into the room. These maids, however, were not living creatures born of women, but only the image of such. They were fashioned of gold and furnished with the charms of youth, with strength and skill, with reason and voice. Moving on swift feet they hastened from their master, who seated himself beside Thetis, clasped her hand, and said: “Dear and honored goddess, why have you come to my house today, you who visit me so rarely? Tell me what you desire, and whatever I am able to do, I shall surely do for you.”
Then Thetis told him all her sorrow and, clasping his knees, begged him to fashion for her son Achilles, destined to die so soon, a helmet and shield, a cuirass and greaves fitted with ankle pieces, since the armor which the immortals had given Peleus had been lost when Patroclus fell before Troy. “Be of good courage, and do not let this upset you, dear goddess,” said Hephaestus. “If only I could save your son from the power of Death as surely as I shall now make him armor so strong and so splendid that he will rejoice, and every mortal who looks at it will be filled with wonder!”
So saying he left Thetis and turned his bellows toward the fire. Twenty of these of their own accord blew upon the melting-vats, in which he placed bronze and tin, silver and gold. Next he set his anvil on the anvil block. With his right hand he seized his mighty hammer, and with his left gripped the tongs. First he made a shield, great and strong, in five layers, adorned with a triple gleaming rim and a shield strap of silver. On the shield he wrought the earth, the tiding sea, and heaven with the sun, the moon, and all the constellations; and further two fair cities, the one gay with bridal rites and torch-lit feasts, with an assembly of the people, citizens arguing about the blood price of a slain man, heralds and elders. The other city was besieged by two armies. Within the walls were women, young children, and old men with faltering feet. Outside were warriors lying in ambush where the herdsmen watered their cattle. On another side was the tumult of battle, with wounded men and the fight for bodies and armor. He also wrought a field with loosened clods and ploughers and oxen; waving barley and reapers cutting swathes with their sickles; and further a vineyard, the dark-golden clusters of swelling grapes hanging from stakes of silver, and round about a trench of bluish metal and a fence of tin. A path led to the vines, and the time of vintage had come: youths, sturdy and gay, and lovely maids bore the fruit away in fair baskets. Among them went a boy with a lyre, and some danced to his music. Furthermore he wrought cattle of gold and tin, pastured beside a flowing river by four gold shepherds and nine dogs. Two lions had fallen on the foremost in the herd and seized a bullock, and the herdsmen set on them their dogs who stood baying within springing distance of the beasts of prey. And further he devised a gentle valley with silver sheep scattered over the slopes, with folds and houses and the huts of the shepherds; and a dance of youths and maidens in shining array; the girl dancers wore wreaths and the boy dancers daggers of gold suspended from silver straps. Two tumblers whirled about to the sound of a harp, and many had come to watch the dance and the merriment. And around the uttermost rim of the shield, the river Oceanus twined like a glittering serpent.
When he had finished the shield, he forged a breastplate brighter than blazing fire; then the massive helmet, fitted well to the temples and topped with a crest of gold; then greaves of pliant tin. When all was complete, he laid it before the mother of Achilles. She seized the armor as a falcon its prey, thanked the smith, and in her slender hands bore away the shimmering pieces.
With the first glimmer of dawn she was back with her son who was still weeping over the body of Patroclus. She laid the arms down before him, and they ra
ng aloud in their splendor. The Myrmidons trembled at the sight, and no one dared look the goddess straight in the face. But under their wet lashes, Achilles’ eyes flashed with fierce joy. One after another he lifted the glittering gifts of Hephaestus and feasted his heart on them. Then he girt on his armor. “Look to it,” he told his friends in parting “that flies do not settle in the wounds of my fallen comrade-in arms and defile his beautiful body!”
“Let that be my care,” said Thetis, and through the half-open lips of Patroclus she poured ambrosia and nectar. The balm of the gods suffused his flesh, and he looked like one who was alive.
Achilles strode down to the seashore and with thunderous voice called to the Achaeans. Whoever could stand on his feet ran to his call, even the helmsmen who had never yet left their ships. And though they were wounded, Diomedes and Odysseus limped up to him, leaning on their lances, and after them came all the heroes, last of all Agamemnon, still faint from the wound he had suffered at the spear of Coon, son of Antenor.
Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece Page 49