So when Memnon, the son of Eos, arrived, the king honored him and his men with precious gifts and festive banquets. And the hearts of the Trojans grew lighter as they talked of the deeds of their fallen heroes. Memnon, on his part, told them about his immortal parents, Tithonus and Eos, about the boundless sea and the ends of the earth, the rising of the sun and the long, long way he had journeyed from the shores of the ocean to the peaks of Ida and the city of King Priam, and all the adventures of travel which he had met boldly and well. It cheered Priam to listen to him. Full of friendly warmth he seized his hand and said: “Memnon, how I thank the gods for having let me, an old man, live to see you and your army, and to entertain you in my palace! You, more than any other mortal, are like the gods, and that is why I am confident that you will slaughter our foes.” And the king lifted his golden cup and drank to his new ally.
Memnon marvelled at the beautiful cup, the work of Hephaestus, an heirloom passed from one Trojan king to his son. Then he replied: “It would not be proper for me to boast at the feast and to make too-confident promises. So I shall not give you my answer now but enjoy this banquet in peace and think over the preparations which are necessary for our enterprise. It is in battle that a man must show his valor. Let us retire early and sleep, for too much wine and a giddy night would be an ill beginning for the fight which awaits us.” With this he rose from the board, and Priam was careful not to urge him to stay. The other guests followed Memnon’s example.
Now, while mortal men were asleep, the gods were still feasting in the palace of Zeus and discussing the war of Troy. Zeus, son of Cronus, who saw the future as clearly as the present, was the last to speak. “It is useless to concern yourselves, some for the Argives, others for the Trojans! For you will see countless men and horses fall on both sides. And though one or the other of you may have the welfare of this or that hero at heart, do not dream of coming to me and pleading for a son or a friend, for the goddesses of fate are just as implacable toward me as toward you!”
Not one of the immortals dared contradict the father of gods. Silently they left the feast. Each went to his own house and threw himself sadly on his couch until at last Sleep had pity on the gods as well as on men.
The next morning Eos rose in the sky reluctantly, for she too had heard the words of Zeus and divined the fate in store for her son. Memnon had wakened early. The stars were just paling when he shook sleep—his last on earth—from his lashes and leaped from his couch impatient to fight the Argives. Trojans and Ethiopians girt on their armor, and like a train of dark clouds driven by the wind the battalions streamed out of the gates and into the field. The whole road was jammed with a moving throng, and their feet stirred up the dust.
The Achaeans saw them coming and were amazed. In great haste they too seized their weapons and came forward from the ships, Achilles, in whom they placed their trust, in the center. Erect and proud he stood in his chariot, like the thunderbolt in the hand of Zeus. But in the middle of the Trojan army, no less proud and menacing than Achilles, came Memnon, and he resembled Ares himself. Round about him were his many men, all of them obedient to his word and eager to begin the fight. The hosts were like two seas which rolled toward each other and clashed wave on wave. Swords hissed through the air, spears whirred, and battle cries mingled with the moans of the dying. Trojan after Trojan fell from the thrusts of Achilles who raged like a tempest which tears up trees by the roots and topples houses and walls. But Memnon also sowed destruction among the Achaeans. He slew two comrades-in-arms of Nestor, and now he was close to the old man from Pylos himself and would have slain him, for one of his horses had been wounded by an arrow from the bow of Paris; this slowed the chariot just as Memnon came running with lifted lance. In alarm Nestor called to his son Antilochus, and his cry was heard. Quickly Antilochus came, placed himself in front of his father, and cast his spear at the Ethiopian. He sprang to one side, and the missile hit Ethops, his friend, the son of Pyrrhasus. At that, Memnon rushed at Antilochus like a lion at a boar. The youth hurled a stone at his assailant, but it bounded back from his helmet. And now Memnon’s lance pierced him to the heart, and Antilochus bought his father’s rescue at the cost of his own life.
When the Achaeans saw him fall, they were deeply distressed, but his father grieved most bitterly because it was for his sake that his son had been killed before his very eyes. But he had enough presence of mind to call Thrasymedes, one of his other sons, to drive the murderer away from his brother’s body. Above the din of battle he heard the call, and Phereus went with him. Memnon was so sure of himself that he let them come quite close. All the spears they hurled at him flew past his armor, on which his mother Eos had laid a spell. They did, indeed, reach a target, but never that at which they were aimed. While they were striking down other enemy warriors, Memnon began to strip Antilochus of his armor, and the Argives circled their slain companion, just as howling jackals prowl about the stag which the lion is tearing. When Nestor saw that their efforts were in vain, he groaned aloud, called to other friends, and even dismounted from his chariot in a desperate attempt to save the body of his son. But when Memnon saw him, he met him reverently, as though he were his own father. “Old man,” he said, “for me to fight you would not be fitting. From a distance I took you for a young warrior, and that is why I aimed my lance at you. Now I see that you are far older than I thought. Leave the battlefield, for my heart rebels against striking you down into the dust beside your son. As for you, men would call you a fool for daring so unequal a combat.”
But Nestor replied: “What you have just said, Memnon, is untrue. No one in the world would say ‘fool!’ to the man who fights for the body of his son, who tries to drive the cruel slayer from it. Oh, had you only known me when I was young! Now, to be sure, I am like an old lion which every dog can keep from the herd. But you will see that I can still hold my own with many a man, that my old age forces me to yield only to the hardiest.” Thus said Nestor and retreated, leaving his son on the ground. Thrasymedes and Phereus went with him, and now Memnon and his Ethiopians forged ahead unhindered, and the Argives fled before their thrusts.
Nestor turned to Achilles. “Protector of the Argives!” he addressed him. “See, there lies my son—dead. Memnon has taken his weapons. Soon the dogs will tear his flesh. Come and help! For the only true friend is he who defends the body of his slain comrade.” Achilles listened intently, and profound sadness weighed his spirit when he saw the Ethiopians felling the Danai in droves. Up to this moment the son of Peleus had been fighting the Trojans, many of whom he had slain. Now he abandoned them and turned his attention to Memnon alone. When the son of Eos saw him coming, he grasped a huge stone and flung it at the shield of his foe, but the stone rebounded and Achilles, who had left his chariot behind the lines, had at Memnon on foot and wounded his right shoulder with his spear. The Ethiopian ignored the thrust and ran forward and lunged at Achilles with his mighty lance. It struck the hero’s arm, and the blood flowed from the wound. At that Memnon exulted and cried: “You wretch! You slew the Trojans without mercy, but now you are face to face with the son of a goddess, with a foe you are not equal to, for Eos, my mother, who dwells on Olympus, is more powerful than Thetis, your mother, who lives in the sea with fish and monsters.”
But Achilles only smiled and said: “The outcome will show which of us is descended from better parents. For now I shall avenge the death of young Antilochus as once I took vengeance on Hector for the death of Patroclus, my friend.”
With that he gripped his long spear in both hands, and Memnon did the same with his. They rushed at each other, and Zeus made them taller and stronger and more tireless than ordinary mortals, so that neither could down the other. They came so close that the crests of their helmets touched. In vain they tried to wound each other above the greaves or below the cuirass. Their armor clanged. Ethiopians, Trojans, and Argives sounded their battle cries to heaven. The dust danced under their feet, and while their leaders fought, the men too flung ab
out in fierce battle. The Olympians watched from their lofty lookout and took pleasure in the undecided struggle. Some rejoiced in the strength of the son of Peleus, others in Memnon’s steadfast resistance, according to whether they were friends or kinsmen of one or the other of the two heroes. And a quarrel would have broken out among the gods, had not Zeus summoned two of the Fates and ordered the dark goddess to go to Memnon, the shining one to Achilles. At this command loud cries rang out on Olympus, cries of delight and of despair.
But the two fought on unaware of the presence of the goddesses of Fate. They used swords, lances, and stones. Neither yielded. Both stood solid as rock. And the combat of their men was just as stubborn. Blood and sweat streamed from their bodies, and the earth was littered with the slain. But in the end the Fates swayed the issue. Achilles thrust his lance into Memnon’s breast, thrust so deeply that the point came out at his back and he crashed to the ground in a pool of blood.
And now the Trojans fled, and Achilles pursued them like a tempest while his friends stripped his fallen foe of his arms. Up in heaven Eos uttered a mournful sigh. She veiled herself in heavy cloud, and the earth was covered with darkness. At her command her children, the winds, flew down to the field, seized the body of her son from under the hands of his enemies, and bore it away through the air. All that was left of him on earth were the drops of blood which fell from him as he was carried through space. These merged to a crimson river which every year, on the day of Memnon’s death, lapped the base of Mount Ida and flowed through the plain with a stench of decay. The winds carried their burden low over the earth, and the Ethiopians, who could not bear to part from their dead king, followed along the ground groaning with sorrow, until the corpse vanished from the sight of both Trojans and Argives. The winds set it down on the bank of the Aesepus, and the lovely daughters of the river-god prepared a burial place in a quiet grove. Then Eos descended from heaven, and she and the nymphs buried Memnon and heaped the mound, weeping and sighing. The Trojans, who had returned to their city, also mourned the Ethiopian king with true sorrow. Even the Argives could not take unalloyed pleasure in their victory. They praised Achilles for his prowess and called him the pride of their host, but they wept with Nestor for his dear son Antilochus. And so that night the battlefield resounded with cries of triumph and grief.
THE DEATH OF ACHILLES
In the morning the Pylians carried the body of Antilochus, the son of their king, to the ships and buried him on the shore of the Hellespont. Old Nestor curbed his anguish, and his spirit remained steadfast and calm. But Achilles found no peace. At crack of dawn his fury over the death of his friend drove him toward the Trojans who had already left the shelter of their walls. They too were eager for the fight, even though they trembled at the thought of godlike Achilles. And again the two hosts joined in battle. The son of Peleus slew countless foes and pursued the Trojans to their very gates. There, conscious that his powers were more than human, he prepared to Uft the gates from their hinges, break the bolts, and lay the city of Priam open to the Argives.
But Phoebus Apollo, looking down on the plain strewn with corpses, felt anger rise within him. Like a beast of prey intent on its quarry he descended from Olympus and slung over his shoulder was his quiver jangling with deadly arrows. Thus he faced the son of Peleus. His eyes darted flame, and the earth quaked under his tread. And now he raised his voice and thundered at Achilles: “Let the Trojans be, son of Peleus! Make an end of this slaughter! Beware, lest one of the immortals destroy you!”
Achilles recognized the voice of the god perfectly, but he did not recoil in fear. Ignoring the warning he replied: “Why do you spur me on to fight with gods, by always favoring the Trojans? Once before you roused me to fury by snatching Hector out of my hands. Now I advise you to go back to the other gods, for if you do not, my spear will surely strike you, even though you are immortal!”
With these words he turned from Apollo and back to the Trojans. But Phoebus, in grim resentment, shrouded himself in cloud, fitted an arrow to his string, and through the impenetrable mist shot the son of Peleus in his vulnerable heel. A stinging pain darted from his foot to the heart of Achilles, and he toppled like a tower from under which men have dug the foundation. Lying on the ground he glared angrily in all directions and shouted: “Who was it shot that arrow at me from far away? Oh, if only he faced me in open combat, I should drag out his entrails and spill his cursed blood until his spirit fled to the underworld! But cowards always kill the brave from ambush! Let him hear that—even if he be a god! For alas! I fear it was Apollo. Thetis, my mother, once told me that I should die from the shaft of Phoebus, and I fear that now her words have come true.”
Thus moaning, Achilles drew the arrow from the wound which could not be healed. When he saw the black blood spurt from it, he flung the dart furiously from him. Apollo picked it up and took it back to Olympus, and a cloud hung about him as he went. When he reached the heights of heaven, he shed his garment of mist and mingled with the other gods. Hera, the friend of the Argives, noticed his presence and began to upbraid him for what he had done. “That was an evil deed,” she said. “Did you not feast at the wedding of Peleus like the rest of the gods? Did you not sing and raise your cup and drink to the children he would have? But in spite of it all you have just killed his only son. And you slew him because you envied him! Foolish Apollo! How, after this, can you face the daughter of Nereus?”
Apollo was silent. He seated himself a little apart from the other gods and bowed his head. Some of the Olympians were indignant at what he had done, others thanked him in their heart of hearts. But down on earth the dark blood of Achilles still seethed in his mighty limbs. He burned with the lust to fight, and not a Trojan dared approach him, even though he was wounded. Once more he leaped from the ground, brandished his spear, and rushed at his foes. He struck Orythaon, the friend of his old enemy Hector. The point pierced the left temple and went through to the brain. Then he thrust his spear into the eye of Hipponous, gored the cheek of Alcathous, and slew many more besides. Suddenly he felt a coldness creeping through his limbs. He stood still and leaned on his lance. But the Trojans kept on fleeing before him, for his voice pursued them even after his feet could not. “Run for all you are worth!” he roared. “It won’t help you any. My weapons will reach you just the same, for when I am dead the gods of vengeance will punish you!” And they trembled as they ran, for they thought he was still whole and sound. But now his limbs stiffened. He fell among the other dead. The earth shook, and his armor clanged upon him.
The first to see him down was Paris, his deadly enemy. With a shout of joy he told the Trojans, and instantly many who had only just been trying to avoid his lance and sword gathered about him to take his armor. But Ajax circled the body and with spear raised high drove off all who approached; anyone who defied him he dealt the deathblow. Soon Ajax was no longer content with merely fending off the Trojans. He plunged into offensive action. Glaucus, the Lycian, fell at his hands, and Aeneas was wounded. Side by side with Ajax Odysseus fought and other Achaeans. But the Trojans staunchly resisted, and Paris even dared aim his spear at Ajax himself. He, however, always on the watch, saw the attack coming, took a stone, and hurled it with such force that it smashed the helmet of Paris and threw him to earth; the arrows dropped out of his quiver and scattered over the ground. He was still breathing, though very faintly. His friends barely had time to lift him into the chariot drawn by Hector’s horses and take him back to Troy. Now when Ajax had driven all the Trojans back to their city, he strode to the ships, and his feet trod over corpses and weapons. From the walls of Troy to the shore of the Hellespont the field was littered with bodies.
Meantime the kings had carried slain Achilles to the ships, and his people surrounded his bier, pouring out grief too great to bear. Ajax joined them, and his plaint was loudest as he mourned the fallen hero, the son of his uncle. Old Phoenix too broke into wails of sorrow and clasped the strong body of Achilles in his arms. He thought of th
e day when Peleus had put the child into his hands and entrusted him with his rearing and teaching. He also recalled the hour he and his pupil had set out for Troy. And now both father and teacher were destined to survive the child!
At last Nestor, mindful of his own son, put an end to their lamentations. He reminded them to wash the corpse and give it the honors due to the dead. This was done. The body of the son of Peleus was washed with warm water and attired in the rich robes his mother Thetis had given him for this expedition. And when he lay in the house ready for the pyre, Athene looked down at him from Olympus, and her heart filled with pity for her favorite. Quickly she sprinkled on his head a few drops of ambrosia, the balm of the gods which is said to guard the dead from disfigurement and decay. Hardly had they touched him when he looked like one alive. The anguish and rage which had distorted his features ever since Patroclus, his friend, had been slain were smoothed away. All the Argives who came to look at him were amazed when they saw him lying on the bier in all his lordly length, his face beautiful and serene as though he were sleeping and would soon waken.
The loud lament the Argives had raised at the death of the greatest among them was carried to the depths of the sea, where Thetis, his mother, lived with the other daughters of Nereus. Sorrow swelled their hearts to bursting, and they moaned so despairingly that the Hellespont echoed with their cries. By night they set out in a great company. The tide parted before them, and they went ashore where the Argive fleet was beached. In their wake the sea monsters groaned and sighed in sympathy with their sorrow. They approached the corpse, and Thetis put her arms around her child, kissed him, and wept until the ground was wet with her tears. Reverently the Danai withdrew at the coming of the goddesses who had risen from the sea, and they did not return to the body until, at the first pale light of dawn, Thetis and her sisters vanished in the waves.
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