“He has not,” said Hermes. “Hector still lies in the house of Achilles, and no decay has touched his flesh, though this is the twelfth morning and though the son of Peleus drags him around the grave of his friend at every dawn. You would be amazed if you saw him, for his body looks as fresh as if he were alive. All his wounds are closed and there is not a bloodstain on him! Even in his death, the gods cherish and tend him.”
Joyfully Priam reached for the priceless cup which he had in the chariot. “Take it,” he said. “In return, give me your protection and take me to your master’s house.” Hermes refused the cup, as though he hesitated to accept gifts without the knowledge of Achilles. But he mounted the chariot beside Priam, took reins and goad, and soon they reached the trench and the wall. The guards were just having their evening meal, but the god lifted his hand, and they sank into deep sleep. A mere touch of his fingers and the bolts opened. In this way Priam came safely and quickly to the house of Achilles.
It loomed high, built of timbers and roofed over with reeds. A spacious court was all around it, and this in turn was protected by a close-set palisade. A single bolt of pine wood closed the door, but it was so heavy that only three strong men could push it back or forward. No one but Achilles could handle it alone. But Hermes opened the door effortlessly, dismounted, and revealed himself as a god after he had advised the old man to clasp the hero’s knees and beseech him by his father and mother. Now Priam too dismounted and left the horses and mules in the care of Idaeus. He himself went straight into the house and found Achilles sitting apart from his comrades. He was resting after the meal. The board still stood before him, and only Automedon and Alcimus were close by.
No one noticed the entrance of Priam. He hastened to Achilles, clasped his knees, kissed his hands, those terrible hands which had slain so many of his sons, and gazed into his face. The son of Peleus and his friends regarded him with amazement. And then the old man began to plead. “Godlike Achilles,” he said, “think of your father, who is as old as I. Perhaps hostile neighbors are threatening him and he is as frightened and helpless as I myself. Still, day after day, he lives in the hope of seeing his dear son once more. But I, who had fifty sons when the Argives came to this coast, nineteen of them from one and the same wife, have lost most of them in this war, and now you have killed the only one who could have saved our city and all our people. That is why I have travelled to the ships. I have come to buy the body of Hector from you, and I bring immeasurable ransom. Fear the gods, son of Peleus, have pity on me, and remember your own father! I am worthier of compassion than he, for I have suffered what no mortal has suffered, and I press to my lips the hand which has slain my children.” So he spoke and aroused in the hero longing and sorrow for his father. He gently loosened the old man’s clasp; then Priam, prostrate at Achilles’ feet, shed bitter tears for Hector, and Achilles also wept for his father and for his friend. The house resounded with lament.
At last the son of Peleus rose from his seat and raised the old man, filled with pity for his gray hair and beard, and said: “How much you have suffered, and now, what courage to come alone to the Argive ships and into the presence of the man who has killed so many of your sons! You must have an iron heart! But come, sit down, and let us quiet our grief, though it gnaws at the soul. This is the fate decreed by the gods for mortal men, while they themselves are free from care. At the door of Zeus stand two great urns. One is filled with disaster, the other with good fortune. He to whom the god gives a little of both alternates between unhappiness and joy. But he to whom Zeus deals nothing but anguish is pursued over all the earth by grief that eats at his heart. To Peleus the gods did, indeed, give marvellous gifts, power and possessions, and even an immortal to wife. But he was also allotted a share of distress, for he has an only son who is destined to die young, so that he will not be able to tend his father in his old age. And here I am, far from home, fighting before the gates of Troy and grieving you and yours, old man. You too were famed through the world for the fortune attending your house, you and your many sons, but now the Olympians have sent war and death to your city. Endure your lot and do not mourn incessantly, for even years of lament will not give you back your glorious son.”
Priam replied: “Favorite of Zeus, do not bid me be seated while Hector lies in your house unburied. Let me have him quickly, for I long to see him. Accept the rich ransom I have brought you, spare me, and return to your native land.”
Achilles frowned at his words and said: “Do not press me, old man. I myself wish to give Hector to you, for my mother brought me the message of Zeus. Besides, I know quite well that a god must have led you to our ships. For how could a mortal, were he ever so young and brave, get by the guards or draw back the bolt from the gate? But do not trouble my sad heart still more, or I might forget the command of Zeus and fail to spare you, no matter how humbly you plead.”
Priam trembled and was silent. But Achilles leaped from the house like a lion, and after him his comrades. They unyoked the mules and admitted the herald. Then they took the ransom from the wagon, but they left in it two mantles and a tunic, so that the body of Hector might be fittingly covered. After this Achilles had the corpse washed, anointed, clothed, and laid on a bier. As his companions lifted it on the wagon, he called the name of his friend and said: “If, in the night of the underworld, you should hear that I gave Hector’s body to his father, do not be angry with me, Patroclus. He brought no mean ransom, and you shall have your share of it.”
He re-entered the house, seated himself opposite Priam, and said: “Your son has been ransomed, as you desired. He lies properly clad, and as soon as the sky reddens with dawn, you may see him and take him away with you. But now let us eat the evening meal. You will have time enough to lament your son when you return to Troy, and he well deserves all the tears you will shed for him.” So saying, the hero rose from his seat, hastened out, and slaughtered a sheep. His friends flayed it, cut the meat into pieces, and roasted them on a spit. Then they sat down at the board. Automedon passed each his share of bread in a basket skillfully plaited; Achilles dispensed the meat, and all satisfied their hunger and thirst. Priam watched his host wonderingly, for in beauty and strength he was like the immortals. But Achilles too marvelled whenever he looked at Priam’s face, full of majesty and command, or heard the wise words he uttered. When the meal was over, Priam said: “Now assign me a couch, noble Achilles, that I may refresh myself with sleep, for since my son died, my lids have not closed, and this is the first time I have tasted meat and wine.”
Instantly Achilles bade his handmaids prepare a couch with crimson mats and spread it with soft coverlets. The herald had a couch of his own. Then Achilles said: “And now lie down and sleep, old man. For if you went to your couch later in the evening, one of the Argive princes who have the custom of assembling in my house might see you prowling through the dark and report it to Agamemnon. And he might question my right to dispose of Hector’s body as I wish. But tell me one thing more: how many days will you spend on the burial of your son? I ask because during all that time I shall keep my people from attacking your city.”
“If you permit me to bury my son with all honors,” Priam replied, “then allow me eleven days. You know that we live in a city and must fetch wood for his pyre from the mountains, and that is a long way. We shall need nine days for our preparations. On the tenth we shall bury him and hold the funeral feast and on the eleventh heap the burial mound. On the twelfth—if it must be so—we shall be ready to fight again.”
“It shall be as you say,” answered Achilles. “I shall restrain my warriors for the number of days you ask.” As he spoke he clasped his hand around the old man’s right wrist, in order to take from him all fear. Then Priam went to his couch, and Achilles lay down in the innermost room of his house.
All were asleep except Hermes, and he pondered in his mind how he could lead the king of Troy back from the ships unseen. At last he went to Priam where he lay asleep, stood at the head of h
is couch, and said: “Old man, is not your sleep among hostile men a little too untroubled? They have spared you, it is true. They took your rich ransom and consented to give you the body of your son. But if Agamemnon and the other Argives knew of it, your sons at home would have to ransom you, the living, with three times as much.” The old man sat up in alarm and woke the herald. Hermes himself yoked the horses and mules and mounted the chariot with the king. Idaeus drove the wagon on which the body lay. Unnoticed they rode through their enemies, and soon the camp of the Achaeans lay behind them.
HECTOR’S BODY IN TROY
Hermes accompanied the king as far as the ford of the Scamander. There he left the chariot and soared to the peak of Olympus. Priam and the herald went on alone, sighing and groaning with grief. It was early morning when they reached the city. All were asleep, and no one saw them coming except Cassandra. She had climbed to the ramparts of the palace and, from afar, saw her father standing in the chariot, saw the herald with the wagon drawn by mules, and on it the body of Hector. At the sight which met her eyes she began to weep and cried so loudly that the silent city rang with her lament: “Come, you Trojan men and women! Here is Hector—alas! only the body of Hector! If ever you rejoiced in him while he was alive and returned victorious from the battlefield, then greet him now too, now that he is dead!”
At her call, every man and woman in the city came from his house, and the hearts of all were bursting with grief. At the gates the people of Troy, Hector’s mother and wife in their van, met the herald. Hecuba and Andromache tore their hair and rushed toward the wagon to clasp Hector’s head. Weeping throngs surrounded them, and they would have held the wagon there until evening, had not Priam spoken to them from his chariot. “Make way and let the mules pass. When the body lies in my palace, you may weep your fill.” The people reverently fell to the right and left and let the wagon proceed.
When it reached the palace of Priam, the body was laid on a couch, richly adorned. Singers were called to chant dirges, and the women wailed in chorus. Andromache uttered the bitterest lament. In the flower of life she stood before the corpse and touched his head with her hands. “My husband,” she mourned, “you have lost your life and left me behind, a widow with a little son, who, I fear, will never grow into a youth. For now that you, the defender of our city, the protector of women and children, are gone, Troy will be destroyed! All will be taken captive and led to the ships, and I among them. And you, my darling Astyanax, will share the disgrace of your mother. Both of us will have to work under a harsh lord. Or perhaps an Argive will take you by the arm and hurl you from the tower, because your father slew his father or brother or son. For Hector did not spare his foes in battle! You have caused your parents bitter grief, and bitterest of all to me. I could not hold your hand as you lay dying. You did not give me a single word of farewell, a word of wisdom which night and day I might have treasured in my heart with fond memories and tears.”
After Andromache, Hecuba spoke. “Hector,” she lamented, “my cherished son! The gods too loved you, for they did not forget you in the cruel death you suffered. You were slain with the sword and dragged over the ground, and yet you look unharmed, as if an arrow from Apollo’s silver bow had struck you, swiftly and mercifully.” So she spoke, comforting herself and shedding many tears.
Then Helen spoke. “Hector,” she cried, “you were dearest to me of all my husband’s brothers. Twenty years have passed since Paris took me from my native land, and in all that time I never heard a harsh word from your lips. It is true that King Priam was also gentle with me, but when anyone else in the house, a brother or sister of my husband, his mother or the wife of one of his brothers reproached me, it was you who calmed their anger, you who always smoothed my way. In you I have lost a helper and a friend. Now everyone will turn from me in disgust.”
So she spoke weeping, and all the countless people about her sighed. But now Priam raised his voice above the throng of mourners. “Fetch wood for the pyre, Trojans,” he ordered. “And be careful not to fall into an ambush, for Achaeans may be lurking in wait for you, even though the son of Peleus promised me that no harm would come to us for eleven days.”
The people quickly obeyed. They harnessed oxen and mules to their wagons, and all assembled before the city. For nine days they fetched wood from the forested mountain slopes. On the tenth morning Hector’s body was carried out with loud lament. They laid it on the pyre and set it aflame. And all the people stood about and watched it burn to the ground. Then they quenched the glowing ashes with wine, and the brothers and comrades-in-arms of the dead gathered his white bones from among the ashes, wrapped them in cloths of soft crimson stuff, put them in a golden chest, and lowered this into a grave. Blocks of stone were laid on it, and a burial mound heaped over these. All the while men kept watch, for fear the Argives might suddenly attack and disturb the rites. When the earth was piled high over the grave, the people returned to the city, and a solemn feast for the dead was held in Priam’s palace.
PENTHESILEA
When Hector’s burial was over, the Trojans again stayed behind their walls, for they feared the impetuous strength of the son of Peleus and shrank from going anywhere near him, like oxen that balk and shy away from the den of a mountain lion. The city still resounded with lament for the hero who was dead, and the anguish of the people was as great as though Troy itself were already burning with the firebrands of the conqueror.
In the midst of all this grief and terror, help came to the besieged from an unexpected quarter. From the region around the river Thermodon in Pontus, Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, arrived with a small group of her warrior women to aid the Trojans in their war. She had embarked on this enterprise partly because she had that love of danger and battles peculiar to the Amazons, and partly because she was guilty of a crime she had committed unknowingly, and which had lessened the esteem she commanded among her people. For once, on a hunt, when she had aimed her spear at a stag, she had killed her own beloved sister Hippolyte. And now the Furies pursued her wherever she went, and no offering she had made so far had appeased them. She hoped that an expedition pleasing to the gods would end her disgrace, and so she had left for Troy with twelve chosen companions, all of whom shared her thirst for strife and danger. But compared with Penthesilea these companions of hers, lovely though they were, seemed like slaves. As the radiance of the moon dims the light of the stars, so greatly did she outshine her maidens in beauty and splendor. She was glorious as the goddess of dawn when, with the Hours about her, she leaves the heights of Olympus and floats to the rim of the earth.
When the Trojans looked down from their walls and saw Penthesilea, strong and yet delicately made, clad in brazen armor and gleaming greaves, approaching at the head of her women, they streamed together from all sides. And when the little train drew nearer, they marvelled at the beauty of the queen, for in her face majesty and charm were curiously blended. Her lips smiled, and under her long lashes her eyes were shining and young. Her rosy cheeks looked girlish, but her features were more spirited than a girl’s, lively and afire for action. At sight of her, the Trojans forgot their despair and shouted with delight. Even Priam’s heart was gladdened when he saw Penthesilea, and he felt like one who has been in darkness for a long time and now sees the longed-for light. But his joy was dulled by the memory of the many sons he had lost. He conducted the queen to his palace, honored her as though she were his own daughter, and received her as a cherished guest. At his command priceless gifts were spread out before her, and he promised her even more, should she succeed in saving Troy.
Then the Amazon queen rose from the seat of honor to which the king had bidden her and dared swear an oath which no other mortal would have dreamed of taking. She pledged the king the death of godlike Achilles. She and her women, she said, would destroy the Argives; their firebrands would eat their way through all the enemy ships. In ignorance and folly Penthesilea swore this oath, for she did not yet know the terrible arm of peerless Achill
es. When Andromache, Hector’s widow, heard her words, she thought to herself: “Poor creature! You do not know what you have said, or what, in your pride, you are venturing upon. How could you have the strength to overcome that hero? You are out of your mind! You do not even see Death who already confronts you. Hector, my husband, was honored by his people as though he were a god, and yet the son of Peleus pierced his neck with the spear. Oh, that earth would open to devour me!”
These things Andromache said to herself. Meantime the day was drawing to a close. Penthesilea and her retinue were served with food and drink and shown to the couches prepared for them. The Amazon queen soon fell fast asleep. And then, at Athene’s command, she had a dream sent to hasten her destruction. Ares, her father, appeared to her and urged her to battle with Achilles as soon as possible. At his words her heart leaped in her breast, and she thought that on that very day she would accomplish what she had sworn to Priam. She woke, sprang from her couch, and girt on the shining armor Ares himself had given her. She fastened the golden greaves to her legs and donned the glittering cuirass. Across her shoulder she slung her sword in its scabbard of silver and ivory. Then she took her shield, bright as the moon when it rises from the mirror of the sea, and set on her head her helmet with its crest of yellow gold. In her left hand she held two spears and in her right a double axe which she had received from the goddess of discord. When she stormed out of the palace, slender and dazzling in all her array, she looked like a flash of lightning flung to earth from Olympus.
Jubilant and eager she ran to the wall and urged the Trojans to fight and win glory for themselves and their city. At her call, men who had not dared face dread Achilles quickened with new courage and prepared for battle. But Penthesilea herself, impatient for the onslaught, leaped on her beautiful horse, fleet as the harpies. The wife of Boreas, king of Thrace, had made her a gift of it. Her women also mounted their horses and followed her to the field. Many battalions of Trojan warriors accompanied them. King Priam, who had remained behind in the palace, raised his hands to heaven and prayed to Zeus: “Today, O father Zeus, let the Achaeans roll in the dust before the daughter of Ares, but guide Penthesilea herself safely back to my city. Do this in honor of Ares, your mighty son! Do it for love of her who sprang from a god and is herself so like an immortal. And do it for my sake too, for I have suffered much and lost so many of my sons to the Argives. Do it while some are left of the noble line of Dardanus, while the ancient city of Troy still stands!” But hardly had he finished when an eagle screamed at his left. With powerful strokes of his mighty pinions he cut the air, holding in his talons a mangled dove. At this evil omen the old man shuddered and gave himself up to despair.
Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece Page 54