Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece

by Gustav Schwab

  Neoptolemus replied: “Why do you, my enemy, wish to know who I am? But I shall tell you: I am the son of Achilles, who wounded your father in times gone by. The horses which draw my chariot are the swift children of Zephyrus and a harpy, and they can race even across the foaming sea. My lance comes from the peak of Pelion; it is my father’s lance, and now you shall feel its force!” So spoke the hero, and he leaped from his chariot with lifted spear. Eurypylus hurled a huge stone at his golden shield, but it did not so much as dent the metal. Like two beasts of prey the two ran at each other, and to the right and left of them the battle raged through the long rows. Eurypylus and Neoptolemus fought on and on, striking each other now on the greaves, now on the helmet, and their strength grew as they strove with each other, for both were descended from immortals. In the end Neoptolemus pierced the throat of his assailant, the crimson blood gushed from the fatal wound, and Eurypylus fell.

  And now the Trojans would have fled from Neoptolemus like calves from a lion, had not Ares, the terrible god of war, lent them his aid. Unobserved by the other gods, he had left Olympus and driven his chariot with its fire-breathing steeds down to the battlefield. Here he swung aloft his tremendous lance and called to the Trojans to down their foes. They were startled to hear his thundering voice, for he himself was invisible, veiled in mist. Helenus, the soothsayer, son of Priam, was the first to recognize the voice of a god. “Do not be afraid!” he cried to his people. “A friend is among us, the great war-god himself! Do you not hear the call of Ares?”

  This stiffened the backs of the Trojans, and the fight on both sides gained in momentum. Ares stirred his favorites to such feats of strength that the Argive ranks wavered. Neoptolemus was the only one who stood firm and undauntedly thrust right and left. The god fumed at his boldness and was about to emerge from his veil of mist and face the young hero in single combat when Athene, the patron of the Argives, descended from Olympus. The earth and the waves of the Xanthus trembled at her coming. Her weapons sparkled, and the snakes on her Gorgon shield flashed dazzling flames. Though the feet of the goddess stood solidly on earth, her helmet touched the sky; but no mortal could see her. And now the immortals would have lifted their hands against each other, had not Zeus warned them off with a clap of thunder. They understood their father’s wish. Ares withdrew to Thrace, while Athene turned to Athens. The Argives and Trojans were left to themselves once more, but now the great strength Ares had lent the Dardanians ebbed from them again. They retreated to their city, and the Achaeans pursued them to the very gates. And they would have broken them down, had Zeus not hidden Ilium in veils of cloud. At that, wise Nestor advised the Argives to return to the ships and bury their dead.

  The next morning the Danai were astonished to see the acropolis of Troy clearly limned against deep-blue sky. Then they knew that the heavy mists of the evening before had been a miracle wrought by the father of gods. This was a day of truce which the Trojans used to bury Eurypylus of Mysia. Neoptolemus, however, visited the burial mound of his father, kissed the tall pillar upon it, and said with sighs and tears of sorrow: “I shall never forget you, father! If only you had been alive when I joined the Argives! But you never saw your child, and I have never seen my father, though in my heart I longed for him. Still, you live within me, and you live on in your spear. For both I and your spear spread terror among the enemy, and the people of Greece look at me with joyful eyes and say that I resemble you in appearance and in deeds.”

  So saying, he returned to the ships of Achilles. The whole next day they fought for the walls of Troy, but the Argives did not succeed in invading the city, and on the shores of the Scamander, where Neoptolemus did not fight, they fell in droves. For there Deiphobus, Priam’s brave son, was harassing his foes. When Neoptolemus heard of this, he bade Automedon, his charioteer, guide his immortal horses to that place. The Trojan prince saw him coming and was uncertain whether to flee or face this terrible opponent. But Neoptolemus called to him from far off: “Son of Priam! What havoc you have made among the trembling Danai! No wonder you regard yourself the bravest hero on earth. Well, then, try your luck with me too!” As he spoke he rushed at him and would have slain him and his charioteer, had not Apollo hastened from Olympus in a drift of cloud and carried Deiphobus back to the city. The rest of the Trojans fled after him. When Neoptolemus felt his spear stabbing the empty air, he called out angrily: “Dog, you have escaped me! But it was not through your own power. A god stole you from me.” Then he threw himself into the fight again. But Apollo remained within the walls of Troy and protected the city. And Calchas, the soothsayer, guessed this and counselled the Danai to return to their ships and rest. There he addressed them: “It is useless for us to batter against the walls of Troy until the second part of the prophecy I told you of has been fulfilled. We must fetch Philoctetes and his unconquerable arrows from Lemnos.”

  After taking brief counsel with one another, the Argives decided to send wise Odysseus and fearless Neoptolemus to Lemnos, and they instantly boarded the ship which was to take them there.

  PHILOCTETES ON LEMNOS

  They landed on the uninhabited coast of the island of Lemnos. It was here that nine years ago, not long after the Argives had departed for Troy, Odysseus had abandoned Philoctetes, son of Poeas, who was suffering from an incurable wound. He had left him in a cave with two entrances. One part of it was warm in winter, the other afforded coolness from the hot summer sun. Close by was a spring of fresh water. The two heroes quickly located the place, and Odysseus found everything just as it had been. But the cave was deserted. A bed of leaves, pressed flat, as if someone had risen from it only a short time ago, a cup crudely carved of wood, and some tinder indicated that it was inhabited. And left to dry in the sun were rags bearing the stains of a wound, so that there was no doubt Philoctetes still lived there.

  Odysseus sent a servant out to watch for him, for he did not want to be surprised by a man who was bound to be his enemy. “Let us make the most of his absence,” he said to Achilles’ young son, “to think up some sort of plan, for we shall not be able to win him over to our cause unless we invent a good reason. I must not be here when you first meet him, for he hates me, and he is right! When he asks you who you are and where you come from, tell him the truth. But add what is not true: that you have turned from the Argives in anger and are bound for home. Complain to him that we fetched you from Scyros to help us win the war, and then refused you your father’s weapons. Say that they were given to me, to Odysseus. Malign me as much as you please—the more the better. It will not hurt me, and unless we do something of the sort, we shall not be able to win over this man and obtain his much-needed weapons. You must get hold of those arrows, in any case!”

  Neoptolemus interrupted him. “Son of Laertes,” he said, “the mere thought of doing this fills me with loathing. I could not possibly steal his arrows. Neither my father nor I were born to be crafty. I am willing to take Philoctetes captive by force, but do not try to persuade me to do it by guile. Besides, how could one man alone, and one who has only one sound foot, get the better of us?”

  “With those arrows of his!” Odysseus answered calmly. “I know very well that you were not born with the gift of trickery. I myself had an honest father, and in my youth I was slow and awkward in speech and swift and sure with my arm. But experience has taught me that words often succeed more readily than deeds. If you stop to think that only the bow and the shafts of Heracles can vanquish Troy, and that you will gain the reputation of wisdom in addition to that of courage by obtaining them, you will surely not refuse to use a little shrewdness.”

  Neoptolemus gave in to his older friend, and Odysseus left. Not long after, loud groans announced the coming of Philoctetes. From far off he had seen the ships riding at anchor near the coast which had no real harbor; he hurried toward Neoptolemus and those with him. “Who are you?” he cried. “Who are you who have come ashore on this barren island? I recognize the dress of fellow Argives, but I long to hear you
speak. Do not recoil from me because I look wild and unkempt. I am an unhappy man, deserted by my friends and tormented with pain. If you have not come here with hostile intent, speak!”

  Neoptolemus answered as Odysseus had prompted, and Philoctetes broke into cries of delight. “O beloved sound of the native tongue I have not heard for so long! O son of noble Achilles! O Lycomedes and fair Scyros! And you, his foster child, what was it you said? Evidently the Danai have treated you no better than me! I am Philoctetes, son of Poeas, whom Odysseus and the sons of Atreus abandoned when I was racked with pain. They landed me here while I slept and left me with a few beggar’s rags and a little food. Imagine my awakening! My fright when I found myself alone, the ships gone, no physician at hand, no help, nothing but solitude and pain! Days and years have passed since then, and I have had to see to my own needs. My bow here kept me fed. But though the arrows unerringly hit the quarry, I had to drag myself to the place where it fell. I had to fetch water from the spring, wood from the forest. And for a long time I had no fire. At last I found the right kind of stone—flint which gives out a spark when you strike it against iron. Once I had fire, I had all I needed for bare living, all except health! As for this island, it is the poorest bit of earth in the world. No seafarer comes here of his own free will. There are no good landing places. There are no men here with whom a merchant could barter his wares. Whoever lands here does so because he must. And there were a few such men. They pitied me and gave me food or clothing, but not one of them would consent to take me home. Ten years I have been leading this wretched lonely life, and this is the fault of Odysseus and the sons of Atreus. May the gods requite their evil deed with evil!”

  Neoptolemus was moved to great pity as he listened to the story of Philoctetes, but mindful of his friend’s warning he suppressed his emotion. Instead, he told Philoctetes of the death of Achilles and whatever else he wanted to hear about his countrymen. In the course of his tale, he wove in all the lies Odysseus had suggested. Philoctetes listened with rapt attention and now and then interrupted the story with expressions of sympathy. Then he took Neoptolemus by the hand, wept, and said: “I implore you by your father and mother! Do not leave me behind. I know that I am unwelcome cargo, but please take me just the same. You can stow me away wherever you wish, near the rudder, in the bow of the ship, or down in the hold where I should cause the least possible disturbance to your crew. Only take me out of this dreadful loneliness! Take me to your home. From there it is not far to Mount Oeta and the land where my father lives. I have sent messages to him through those who landed here, but have never had one in return. Perhaps he is dead. Well, I shall be content if I may see his grave and rest there.”

  With a heavy heart, Neoptolemus gave the man pleading at his feet a promise he did not mean to carry out. “We shall go to the ships whenever you like,” he said. “May a god permit us to leave this island quickly and reach our appointed destination.” Philoctetes jumped up as well as he could with his wounded foot. He clasped the young man’s hand in deep gratitude. At this moment the servant they had sent out appeared, disguised as an Argive sailor. With him was another sailor who belonged to their crew. Turning to Neoptolemus, the servant brought the fictitious news that Diomedes and Odysseus were on the way to take captive a man called Philoctetes, for Calchas, the soothsayer, had said that his presence was necessary if Troy was to fall. At these words Philoctetes put himself entirely at the mercy of Neoptolemus. Hastily he gathered up his immortal arrows, gave them to the youth for safekeeping, and went with him through the mouth of the cave. And then Neoptolemus could no longer restrain himself. Before they reached the shore he told Philoctetes the truth. “I cannot bear to conceal it from you,” he said. “You must come to Troy with me, to the sons of Atreus, to the Argives.” Philoctetes stopped. He trembled, he cursed, he prayed. But before Neoptolemus had time to yield, Odysseus left the cover of bushes where he had been hiding and ordered his servants to take the unhappy old hero prisoner. Philoctetes had recognized him at the first word he spoke. “Alas!” he exclaimed. “I am betrayed! This is the man who abandoned me nine years ago, and now his wiles have deprived me of my arrows!” Then he turned to Neoptolemus. “Son,” he said, “return them to me. Give me back the bow and the arrows which belong to me!”

  But Odysseus did not allow him to continue. “Never!” he shouted. “Not even if the boy wanted to! You must come with us, for there is much at stake—the welfare of the Argives, the fall of Troy!” With that Odysseus drew Neoptolemus away with him and left the old man in the hands of his servants. He stood outside his cave and bewailed the trick which had been played on him. He was just about to call on the gods to avenge him when he saw Odysseus and Neoptolemus coming back. They were quarrelling. He heard the younger cry out: “No, it was wrong! I got the better of him through shameful deceit. You shall not take this man to Troy against his will, not unless you kill me first!” They drew their swords. But Philoctetes intervened. He threw himself at the feet of the son of Achilles. “Promise to save me,” he cried, “and I, in turn, give my word that the arrows of my friend Heracles shall ward all attacks from your country.”

  “Follow me,” said Neoptolemus, raising the old man from the ground. “This very day we leave for Phthia, my native land.”

  Suddenly the blue air over their heads grew dark. They looked up, and Philoctetes was first to recognize his friend, immortal Heracles, floating above them in a heavy cloud. “You shall not go!” he called down from heaven in a voice that echoed across the earth. “My lips, friend Philoctetes, shall tell you the wish of Zeus, and you must obey. You know the labors I had to perform before I could attain to immortality. Fate has decreed that you too must suffer before you attain to glory. If you go to Troy with this youth, your sickness will leave you. Then, when you are whole and sound again, the gods will choose you to destroy Paris, the cause of this war. After that you will raze Troy to the ground. It is you who will have the most precious spoils. Laden with treasure you will return to Poeas, your father, who is still alive. And should you have something left over from your spoils, bring it as an offering to my burial mound. Farewell!” Philoctetes stretched out his arms to his friend as he disappeared in heights too great for human eyes to follow. “Very well, then,” he cried. “Let us board the ships. Give me your hand, noble son of Achilles. And you, Odysseus, walk beside me without misgivings, for what you wanted was, after all, the will of the gods.”

  THE DEATH OF PARIS

  When the Argives saw the eagerly awaited ship, which carried the heroes and Philoctetes, running into port in the Hellespont, they thronged to the coast with loud rejoicing. Philoctetes held out his thin arms, and his two companions lifted him ashore. Painfully he limped toward the Danai waiting to welcome him. They were full of pity when they saw him ill and suffering. But one of them sprang forward, gave a quick sharp glance at the wound, and promised that with the help of the gods he would heal Philoctetes. It was Podalirius, the physician, an old friend of Poeas. The immortals blessed the undertaking, the wound closed, and the old man’s limbs grew sound and strong. He revived like a field of barley which the rains have beaten down but which gentle summer winds raise once more. The sons of Atreus were amazed to see what seemed like a rebirth. When Philoctetes had refreshed his body with food and drink, Agamemnon went up to him, took him by the hand, and said: “My friend, it is true that we were blinded in spirit when we left you in Lemnos, but it was also the will of the gods. Do not bear us a grudge any longer. We have been pnnished enough for what we did. For the time being, accept these gifts we have set aside for you—seven Trojan girls, twenty horses, and twelve tripods. Feast your eyes on these and live in my own house with me. At the board, and in every other way as well, you shall have the honors due to a king.”

  “My friends,” Philoctetes replied kindly, “I cherish no grudge, neither against you, Agamemnon, nor against any other Argive who has wronged me. For I know that the spirit of a noble man must be flexible, gentle as well as
stern. But now let us sleep. For those who love the fight do better to sleep by night than feast.” So he said and went to his couch to rest until morning.

  The next day the Trojans were still burying their dead outside the walls when they saw the Argives coming toward them in full battle array. Polydamas, the wise friend of slain Hector, advised them to retreat into their city and fend off the foe from behind the walls. “Troy,” he said, “is the work of gods, and what they have made is not easy to destroy. We have enough food and drink, and King Priam, in the vast halls of his palace, has stores enough to feed three times as many people as live in our city for years to come.” But the Trojans rejected his counsel and acclaimed that of Aeneas who urged them to conquer or die on the battlefield.

  Soon the fight was raging with full fury. With his father’s spear Neoptolemus slew twelve Trojans, one after another. But Eurymenes, the comrade-in-arms of bold Aeneas, and Aeneas himself made great gaps in the Argive host, and Paris killed the friend of Menelaus, Demoleon of Sparta. Philoctetes raged among the Trojans like Ares himself or like a beating rain which floods the fields and pastures. If an enemy so much as saw him from afar he was already lost. The very armor he wore, the armor of Heracles, seemed to terrify the Trojans as if they saw a Gorgon’s head on his cuirass. Finally Paris dared approach him with lifted bow. Quickly he launched an arrow, but it whirred past Philoctetes and wounded Cleodorus, who stood beside him, in the shoulder. Cleodorus retreated, defending himself with his lance, but a second arrow shot by Paris killed him. And now Philoctetes took his bow in hand and cried in a voice like thunder: “You Trojan thief! You are the cause of all our woe. You shall mourn your insolent wish to measure your strength against mine. And once you are dead, destruction will come on swift feet, and your line and your city will fall.” So speaking, he drew the twisted string of his bow close to his breast and fitted the arrow so that the point projected only a little beyond the curved bow. The arrow hissed through the air and did not miss its mark. But it only scratched the tender skin of beautiful Paris at the wrist, and he aimed again. A second arrow from the bow of Philoctetes hit him in the groin; trembling from head to foot, he fled like the dog from the lion.