When the Danai heard of his death they came in throngs, threw themselves on the ground, lamented, and strewed dust over their heads. Teucer, whom Telamon had forbidden to return from Troy without Ajax, wanted to kill himself and would have done so had not his friends taken his sword from him. So he only threw himself over the corpse and wept with more abandon than a fatherless child on the day which has taken his mother from him. But with a great effort he composed his soul and turned to Tecmessa who sat beside Ajax in numb despair, holding to her breast the child the servant had put back in her arms. He promised to protect her and care for the boy like a father, even though he could not accompany them to Salamis for fear of Telamon’s anger.
Then he prepared to bury the body of his beloved half brother. But Menelaus, son of Atreus, interfered. “Do not dare bury this man,” he said, “who has proved worse than our enemies, the Trojans. By his wicked plan to do murder he has forfeited honorable burial.” Agamemnon, who had just joined them, sided with his brother and in the course of their heated discussion called Teucer the son of a slave. It was in vain that Teucer reminded them of all the benefits the Argives owed to Ajax, of how he had saved the host when the firebrand flung by the Trojans was setting the ships aflame and Hector leaped to the decks. “And why do you call me a slave?” he cried. “My father Telamon is one of the most glorious heroes of Greece, and my mother’s father was King Laomedon! I am descended from the noblest parents and have nothing to be ashamed of! If you dishonor this fallen hero, you will also disgrace his wife, his son, and his brother. Would such a deed win you fame among men and blessing from the gods?”
In the midst of this quarrel came crafty Odysseus, turned to Agamemnon, and asked: “May a loyal friend tell you the truth without bringing ill will on himself?”
“Say what you wish,” Agamemnon replied, looking at him in surprise. “I do, indeed, regard you as my best friend in all the Argive host.”
“Then listen,” said Odysseus. “By all the gods I beg you not to leave this man unburied. Do not let your power blind you so that you hate unjustly. If you dishonor a hero such as this, you will not degrade him, but make mock of the law and will of the gods.”
The sons of Atreus listened, and for a long time they were speechless. At last Agamemnon cried: “Are you, Odysseus, willing to quarrel with me for the sake of Ajax? Have you forgotten that he was your deadly enemy too?”
“He was my enemy,” Odysseus replied. “I hated him while he was alive. Now that he is dead, I can no longer cherish bitterness against him. We must mourn the loss of so noble a man. I myself am ready to help his brother fulfill the sacred duty of burying him.”
When Teucer, who had turned away at the coming of Odysseus, heard these words, he went up to him and held out his hand. “You, his grimmest enemy,” he exclaimed, “are the only defender of the dead! And still I do not dare let you handle the corpse, for the spirit of Ajax, which left his body while you and he were unreconciled, might resent your touch. But in all other things you shall be my helper, for there is enough to be done!” And he pointed to Tecmessa who was still mute with grief. Odysseus spoke to her kindly. “You shall not be the slave of another,” he said. “As long as Teucer and I live, you and your child shall be safe and cared for, as though Ajax himself were at your side.”
The sons of Atreus did not venture to object to the fair decision of Odysseus. It took the combined strength of many warriors to lift the great body of Ajax. They carried him to the ships, cleansed him of blood and dust, and burned him on a pyre as stately as that of Achilles, who by his death had caused the loss of a second Argive hero whom no one could replace.
MACHAON AND PODALIRIUS
The next day the Danai thronged to a council called by Menelaus. When all were assembled, he rose. “Princes of the people,” he said, “my heart bleeds when I see our men falling in droves. They embarked on this war because of me, and now it looks as if no one will be alive to return to his home and greet his kin. It shall not come to this! Let us leave these shores. Let those who have survived sail to their own country. Now that Achilles and Ajax are dead, our undertaking is hopeless. I, for my part, am less troubled about Helen, my wife, who has proved herself unworthy of me, than about you. Let her remain with Paris, for all I care.”
This was what Menelaus said, but he was only trying the Argives, for in his heart of hearts he still longed to destroy the Trojans. But Diomedes, son of Tydeus, who did not perceive his ruse, started up impatiently and said: “I do not understand you! What shameful fears have taken hold of you that you propose so cowardly a course? But I am not at all disturbed! Never will the brave sons of Greece follow you before they have razed Troy to the ground. And should there be one who did, this sword of mine would sever his head from his trunk!”
Hardly had Diomedes seated himself again when Calchas, the soothsayer, rose and gave wise counsel to calm the apparent difference between the two. “Do you remember,” he asked, “that many years ago, when we first sailed to these shores to lay siege to this cursed city, we abandoned Philoctetes, the friend of Heracles, on the waste island of Lemnos? We did so because we could not endure his constant cries of pain and the stench from his poisoned wound. Nevertheless, it was unjust and pitiless on our part to leave him there helpless. Now one of our captives, a seer, has told me that Troy cannot be vanquished without Philoctetes and the aid of the unerring arrows he got from Heracles, nor without Pyrrhus, the young son of Achilles. Perhaps the Trojan only said this because he was sure the conditions could not be fulfilled. For he must consider it out of the question for Philoctetes, who probably loathes us for deserting him, to join us and use his unfailing arrows against the Trojans. Now my advice is to send Diomedes, the strongest of our heroes, and Odysseus, the most eloquent, to Scyros without a moment’s delay to fetch the son of Achilles who is being reared there by his grand-father. With his help we shall then persuade Philoctetes to come to us and bring with him the weapons of Heracles by which Troy shall fall.”
The Argives shouted their approval, and the two heroes at once left in their ships. Meantime the army again prepared for battle. Eurypylus of Mysia, son of Telephus, had come to the aid of the Trojans, bringing many warriors with him, and the Dardanians quickened with fresh courage. The Argives, on the other hand, had been deprived of two of their mightiest heroes. And so it was inevitable that they suffered grave losses in the fight. Nireus, the most beautiful of the Danai, fell beneath the thrust of Eurypylus and lay in the dust like a young olive tree which a river has torn up by the roots and washed ashore, and there it lies covered with buds. But Eurypylus only mocked him and bent down to strip off his shining cuirass. Then Machaon, brother of Podalirius, who had seen Nireus die, fended off the robber. Into his massive shoulder he plunged his spear, and the blood gushed out in a stream. Like a wounded boar Eurypylus ran at Machaon. He tried to keep him at a distance by hurling a stone, but it rebounded from his brazen helmet. Then the son of Telephus stabbed the Argive through the breast with his spear. The bloodstained point came out at the spine, and Machaon doubled up on the ground. Eurypylus drew his lance from the body and looked about for another victim.
Teucer, who had seen the two Argive heroes fall, called for aid to protect their bodies. But in the end the Trojans captured them. After Aeneas wounded Ajax of Locris with a pointed stone, his friends carried him off, gasping for breath, and the other Achaeans flew toward the ships hotly pursued by the Trojans. They would have set the fleet afire, had not night fallen. As it was, the victor from Mysia withdrew to the mouth of the Simois where he pitched camp in the gathering darkness. But the Danai lay on the sandy shore close to their ships and moaned with the pain of their wounds and sorrow for the countless companions they had lost in the fight.
Scarcely had dawn shed a glow over the heavens when they started up, burning with eagerness to take revenge on Eurypylus. But first they buried beautiful Nireus and Machaon, the wise physician and great warrior. While the din of battle sounded in the distanc
e, Podalirius, the brother of Machaon and like him a skilled physician, had thrown himself in the dust beside his grave and would taste neither food nor drink. Now he laid his hand on his sword, now he reached for a strong poison he always had with him, for he wanted to kill himself. His friends took hold of his hands and spoke words of comfort, but he would have carried out his resolve, had not old Nestor approached. He saw Podalirius strew dust over his head, beat his breast, and cry aloud the name of his cherished brother, while his companions and servants stood by in helpless distress. Then Nestor spoke to him lovingly: “Put an end to this bitter grief! A man should not weep for the dead unrestrainedly, like a woman. Your moans will not bring him to life again. His flesh has been consumed by flame, and his bones rest in the earth. He went as he came. But you must bear your great sorrow as I bore mine when the son of Eos killed my son, killed the dearest of my children, who loved his father more than all the others. Nevertheless, when he died, I ate and drank just as before. I endured the light of day, for I remembered that all of us must travel the same way to Hades.”
Podalirius listened to the old man, and the tears ran down his cheeks. “Father,” he said, “I cannot help grieving for my brother. For when our father Aesculapius died and was welcomed on Olympus, Machaon took care of me, though I was the older. We shared everything, our food, our couch, our possessions, and he instructed me in his wonderful art, the art of healing. Now that he is dead I do not wish to see the lovely light of earth any longer.”
But the old man insisted. “Remember,” he continued earnestly, “that our lot, whether good or bad, comes from the gods. Dark Destiny governs all and deals out her judgment blindly. That is why great misfortune often descends on good and forthright men, and no one at all is secure. Life changes incessantly. At times it is somber, and then again it is radiant. People say that the souls of the brave rise to heaven while those of men who could not cope with life descend to darkness. Your brother was dear to mortals and immortals alike. He was, moreover, the son of a god. And so I believe he has joined the gods.” With such words Nestor raised Podalirius from the dust and led him away from the burial mound. But as he went, he looked back at it over his shoulder many times.
In the meantime Eurypylus of Mysia raged on the battlefield. The Danai fled to their camp and fought back from behind the shelter of the wall.
NEOPTOLEMUS
While this was taking place in Troy, Odysseus and Diomedes, the envoys for the Argives, arrived safely on the island of Scyros. Here, in front of his grandfather’s house, they met Pyrrhus, the young son of Achilles, whom the Argives later called Neoptolemus, which means “the young warrior.” He was practicing shooting with the bow, casting the spear, and riding the chariot with its swift horses. They watched him a while and noticed signs of grief in his face, for he had already been told of his father’s death. As they came closer they were amazed to see how greatly the youth resembled Achilles in stature and face. Pyrrhus hailed them first. “Welcome, strangers,” he said. “Who are you and where have you come from? What is it you want of me?”
Odysseus replied: “We are friends of Achilles, your father, and have no doubt that we are speaking to his son. You are so like him! I am Odysseus of Ithaca, the son of Laertes, and this is Diomedes, son of immortal Tydeus. We have come because Calchas, the soothsayer, told us that the war of Troy would end in our favor, provided we brought you to the battlefield. The Achaeans will give you splendid gifts, and I myself the weapons which Hephaestus made for your father and which were awarded to me.”
Joyfully Pyrrhus answered: “If the Achaeans have called me because a god commanded them to do so, then let us put to sea tomorrow morning! But now come with me and refresh yourselves at my grandfather’s board.” When they reached the palace, they found Deidamia, the widow of Achilles, brooding in sorrow with tearful eyes. Her son went up to her, but though he told her who the strangers were, he concealed the reason for their coming, for he did not want to add to her grief. The heroes satisfied their hunger and thirst and then lay down to sleep. But Deidamia did not close her eyes. She could not forget that the very men she was forced to lodge as guests under her roof were those who had persuaded Achilles to go to war, and that it was because of them she was now widowed and lonely. She divined that her son would be taken from her too, and that they had come to fetch him. At break of day she rose, went to him, pressed her head against his breast, and broke into lament. “O my child,” she cried, “I know without your telling me! You want to accompany these strangers to Troy, where so many heroes have fallen, where your father met his death. But you are so young and inexperienced in warfare! Listen to your mother! Stay at home with me, for otherwise I shall surely hear one day that my son has fallen in battle, just like his father.”
But Pyrrhus replied: “Mother, do not bewail what has not yet happened. And besides, no man falls in battle against the will of Fate. If death is allotted to me, what better thing could I do than to die a death worthy of my ancestors, to die for the people of Greece?”
Then Lycomedes, his grandfather, rising from his couch, confronted his grandson and said: “I know that you are just as gallant as your father was. But even should you survive the battle of Troy, who knows what dangers may lurk on your homeward journey, for the sea is never safe!” Then he kissed the boy, but he did not try to dissuade him from his purpose. And Pyrrhus smiled, a young and happy smile. He gently disengaged himself from his mother’s embrace and left the palace behind him. Striding ahead on his strong slender legs, he looked as radiant as a star. After him came Odysseus and Diomedes and twenty of Deidamia’s trusted servants. When they reached the shore they at once boarded the ships.
Poseidon granted them a good voyage, and soon, in the first faint light of dawn, they saw the peaks of Ida, then the city of Chrysa, the promontory of Sigeum, and the grave of Achilles. But Odysseus did not tell the boy whose burial mound they were passing. Silently they sailed by the island of Tenedos and on toward Troy. They neared the coast just as the fight for the wall which protected the ships was fiercest, and Eurypylus would have torn it down, had not Diomedes leaped ashore and called to the others to follow him.
They hurried to the nearest house, that of Odysseus, and armed themselves with his own weapons and with the arms he had captured. Neoptolemus girt on the armor of Achilles, his father, which was too large for the other Achaeans. But the cuirass and the helmet fitted him as though they had been made for his body and head. He handled the heavy spear, the sword and the shield with the utmost ease and stormed to the field, the rest in his wake. And now the Trojans were forced to retreat from the wall. Like children who have been frightened by thunder and flee to their father, they crowded around the son of Telephus. But every missile Neoptolemus hurled brought death to a Trojan, and in their despair they though they saw Achilles risen from the grave. And surely his father’s spirit was with Neoptolemus, and Athene, who had always helped Achilles, now protected his son as well. As snowflakes sift around a cliff, so the enemy missiles rained about him without so much as scratching his skin. One victim after another he slew to avenge his father. The two sons of rich Meges, twin brothers, born in the same hour, now died within the same hour, for Neoptolemus thrust his spear into the heart of one of them and threw a stone at the other with such force that his heavy helmet was crushed and the brains spurted through his shattered skull. He slew so many Trojans that Eurypylus finally ordered the retreat, and toward evening the son of Achilles put his foes utterly to rout.
While Neoptolemus was resting from the furious fight, old Phoenix, the friend of his grandfather Peleus and his father’s teacher, visited the young hero, and he too was astonished at the likeness between him and Achilles. He was torn between sadness and joy, for his delight in this strong young man was clouded by the memory of his father’s death. With tears in his eyes he threw his arms around Neoptolemus and kissed his forehead and breast. “O son!” he exclaimed. “I feel as if your father were again among us, alive and well. But do
not let me dampen your high spirits with sad thoughts of him who is gone. I want your heart to overflow with anger. You must help the Argives and kill the son of Telephus who has done us such immeasurable harm. For you are as much his better in strength as your father surpassed his father!” Modestly the youth replied: “The fight will decide who is bravest!” With these words he turned back to the ships, for night had fallen, and the warriors went to their huts to rest for the coming battle.
At daybreak the fight began anew. Spear touched spear, sword clashed on sword. For a long time the battle was undecided. Eurypylus saw one of his friends fall, and his fury doubled. He felled the Achaeans as a man hews trees on a densely wooded slope, hews so many that the trunks fill a whole gully. Last of all he came on Neoptolemus, and the two brandished their lances at each other. “Who are you?” Eurypylus asked. “Where have you come from to fight with me? Fate has driven you here to sure destruction, for I kill every Achaean who ventures to resist me!”
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