by Stephen Fry
Zeus watched in impotent horror as his son, the Lycian king Sarpedon – grandson of the hero Bellerophon and the most powerful and heroic of Hector’s allies – was speared through the chest by Patroclus.
‘Fight on, my beloved Lycians!’ cried the dying Sarpedon. ‘But don’t let the Greeks dishonour my body.’
A savage struggle now erupted over his corpse. The Myrmidons tried to strip it of its armour while desperate Trojans, led by their Lycian allies, swarmed in to retrieve it. Hector smashed the skull of Epigeus the Myrmidon and Patroclus killed Sthenelaus, one of Hector’s closest friends.fn36 The body of Sarpedon was heaped over with discarded armour, broken swords and other corpses as the battle raged around. Finally the pressure on the Trojans was too great and once again they streamed in panic for the city walls. The Greeks shook the armour of Sarpedon in the air and shouted their taunts at the distraught Lycians.
Patroclus, now at the height of his aristeia, roared with exultant, triumphant bloodlust. As far as everyone else knew, this was the great Achilles, roused at last and wading through blood to the victory that was somehow understood to be his birthright.
Now there was nothing between Patroclus and Troy except … the god Apollo. Enraged by the sight of this single ordinary mortal threatening the city and people he had sworn to protect, the god repulsed one, two and three waves of attack from Patroclus. At the fourth, swelling up in majestic fury the god warned him.
‘You are not destined to sack Troy. Not even your beloved Achilles is marked out for that honour. Stand back, Patroclus.’
As Patroclus gave ground, Apollo took the form of Hecuba’s brother Asius and urged Hector to charge forward and win the initiative. Hector mounted his chariot and drove against the Achaeans, scattering them from his path as he thundered forward.
Patroclus threw a rock at Cebriones, Hector’s driver, killing him instantly. There now followed a desperate duel for that body, a duel that descended into a gruesome tug of war between Hector and Patroclus. Patroclus and the Myrmidons won the corpse and stripped it of its armour. The Trojans came for him in three waves, and Patroclus killed nine in each wave. He seemed invincible – but it was now that Apollo lost patience and struck Patroclus, again and again. He knocked him off his feet, shattered his spear, stripped the shield from his arm, wrenched off his breastplate and struck the helmet off his head.
The helmet, the famous helmet of Achilles, rolled along the ground and Patroclus’s face was revealed.
For a second there was stunned silence, then a great roar arose from the Trojans. They knew it was not Achilles who had been butchering them like lambs, but Patroclus, and the knowledge stung them into action. Young EUPHORBUS launched a spear at Patroclus. It found its mark. With the spear buried in his side, Patroclus stumbled and wove his way back towards the Greek lines. Hector finished him off with a spear thrust that pierced his bowels and came out of his back.
‘You think you killed me, Hector,’ Patroclus gasped. ‘But it took the god Apollo to do that. Euphorbus was next. You, famous Hector, noble Hector, were just the third. All you did is finish me off. I die knowing that your fate will be settled by one greater than any … by my Achilles.’
Hector put a boot on the dead Patroclus’s chest, pulled the spear out and kicked the body over.
If the scrapping over the corpses of Sarpedon and Cebriones had seemed fierce, they were as a playground scuffle next to the frenzied animal savagery of the fight for possession of the body of Patroclus.
Menelaus rose to an aristeia of his own. He had fought bravely enough against Paris in the duel between them and in the skirmishes that had followed. How long ago those first engagements seemed. He was now fully recovered from the wound inflicted by the arrow of Pandarus, and he fought like a maddened tiger for possession of the corpse. He repaid Euphorbus for his first strike on Patroclus by spearing him through the throat; but when Hector came forward, he withdrew, calling on Ajax to help him out.
Hector began to strip Patroclus of his armour – the armour of Achilles – but GLAUCUS the Lycian, Sarpedon’s cousin and friend, stopped him.fn37
‘Take that body back to the Greeks and demand Sarpedon’s corpse in return.’
Hector shook his head. ‘The time for such courtesies are over. He killed too many of us. Our kinsmen. Your king. All Troy will want to take their revenge.’
‘Do it, prince, or I march every Lycian away from Troy and leave you to defend it on your own.’
It is worth stopping here to remind ourselves of just how important to each side it was that those who died on the field of battle be accorded proper funeral rites. The kleos – the fame and glory they earned with their valour and martial prowess – would ensure that their names lived for ever in history, for generation after generation. The honour of having the corpse cleansed and burned on a consecrated pyre with all due songs, prayers and obsequies constituted the first step to the realization of this kleos. It was believed too that there was no possibility of a soul departing life in peace and entering the underworld unless the corpse was covered by earth. Those who died of illness, or any cause other than the wounds of war, could not expect the cleansing and ceremony, no matter how important they had been in life, but they might at least be given the dignity of a handful of dirt over their body. Unseemly and uncivilized as the dogfights that erupted over a dead soldier’s mangled remains might appear to us, we should understand that to the Greeks and Trojans those dead bodies were living symbols of the imperishable reputation of the heroic souls that had inhabited them. As much as their companions fought to rescue, reclaim and honour the bodies of their fallen friends, their foes would fight to keep, mutilate and defile them, and to take their armour as a prize of war or as treasure to be ransomed from the fallen’s family and friends.
For Glaucus and his Lycians not to take back the body of Sarpedon, their kinsman and king, would constitute an unconscionable stain on their honour.fn38 So they needed to take possession of Patroclus’s corpse to use as a bargaining chip for the return of Sarpedon’s. They had made it clear to Hector that he must do everything he could to effect the exchange – Patroclus for Sarpedon. The Lycian alliance was too important to Troy to be put in jeopardy, so Hector agreed to give them Patroclus’s body. But the arms – the spear, helmet, breastplate, shield and greaves – they were a prize that Hector believed he deserved and might in all conscience keep back for himself. Accordingly, he took off his own armour and put on that of Patroclus – that of Achilles. The helmet he gave to one of his men for safe keeping. He could not risk wearing it, for he might be mistaken for Achilles and face attack from his own side.
The fight for the body of Patroclus that now ensued was amongst the bloodiest and most violent passages of arms of the entire ten-year war. Homer’s pitiless lingering on the savagery of this high noon of slaughter reveals how desperately important the issue was to each side. Had they known it was but a rehearsal, or at best a kind of gentle prologue to what was to come, they might all have given up in despair.
Aias and Idomeneus joined with Ajax and Menelaus and placed themselves at each corner of Patroclus’s corpse, like mourners at a catafalque, but what savage, relentless mourners! They repulsed wave after wave of wild and determined Trojans led by Hector, who like Death himself, threw himself at them time and time again. With all this violence raging above him, HIPPOTHOUS the Trojan managed to crawl in low down and tie a leather strap around Patroclus’s body. He was in the act of dragging it towards Troy when Ajax spotted him and speared him through the helmet. The brains burst from the entry wound, flooding his helmet like wine filling a copper bowl. His friend Phorcys stepped up to reclaim his body, but was instantly disembowelled by Ajax’s raking spearpoint. Hector on his part struck down as many Achaeans as he could, splintering skulls, slicing off arms, heads and legs like some great scything machine. More Greeks moved in to encircle the body, Ajax roaring at them not to yield an inch. The Trojans pressed in on a rolling tide of death, led by the implacable
Hector. All the banked-up tension, the disappointed hope, the losses, the betrayals, the fear and frustration exploded with such force and fury that the gods trembled to see it.
Peering through the fencing of the stockade, Achilles could see the clouds of dust and hear the clashing din, but he was not able to interpret what he saw and heard. Antilochus, son of Nestor, came running along the sand towards him in tears to break the news that Patroclus was dead and that it was his corpse that formed the focus of the fighting.
Achilles broke down completely. His despair overwhelmed him. He scrabbled at the ground for dirt and rubbed it all over his beautiful face. He tore his hair and howled with absolute and uncontrollable grief. Antilochus knelt beside him and grasped each hand – as much to stop Achilles harming himself as to show his sympathy and support.
Thetis heard the wild cries of her son and came up from the ocean to comfort him. But he was inconsolable.
‘I have lost the will to go on,’ he said. ‘Unless I can kill Hector in revenge for Patroclus I will have nothing to live for.’
‘Oh, but my son,’ said Thetis, ‘it is foretold that if Hector dies your death will come straight after.’
‘Then let me die straight after!’
‘And Agamemnon?’
‘Forget him. What is treasure, or Briseis, or honour, or anything next to the life of the one I loved best and dearest, my beloved, my only Patroclus? Patroclus, oh Patroclus!’
Achilles threw himself down and howled his despair into the dirt.
Meanwhile, the battle for the body of Patroclus continued to rage. Hector had been driven off three times by Ajax and Aias, but his fourth attack would have prevailed had not Hera sent IRIS, the rainbow messenger of the Olympians, to Achilles to urge him to give a sign that he was ready to fight once more. Although Achilles wore no armour, the mere sight of him, standing high on the embankment, bathed in an unearthly light and uttering the most piercing and monumental battle-cry was enough to scatter the Trojans. Three times Achilles yelled his terrible war cry. The Trojans and even their horses were filled with fear. In triumph the Achaeans bore the body of Patroclus back to their camp.
But Hector was by no means done and he tried to chase the Greeks down. His friend POLYDAMAS urged him to stay back.fn39
‘Achilles is back in the fight, my prince. We must secure ourselves behind the city walls.’
‘Never. We are winning, Polydamas! The time for being cramped like frightened prisoners inside the city is over. We’ll withdraw no further than the other side of the river. We camp on the plain and tomorrow we launch our final assault on the Greek ships. We have them on the run! I sense it.’
All night the Achaeans mourned the loss of Patroclus, with the distraught Achilles leading the funeral songs.
Meanwhile, on Olympus, Achilles’ mother Thetis visited Hephaestus and begged him to make new armour for her son.
‘He will fight tomorrow, come what may, so please, Hephaestus, as you love me, he needs the finest armour ever worn. Will you work all night in your forge? For me?’
Hephaestus was married to Aphrodite, of course, who was on the Trojan side, but like Zeus he adored Thetis and owed her much.fn40 When Hera had given birth to Hephaestus, her first son by Zeus, she had taken one look at him, dark, hairy and ugly – far from the radiant godlike child she had hope for – and hurled him down from Olympus.fn41 Immortal as he was, the infant Hephaestus might never have made it to full maturity and godhead had he not been rescued by Thetis and the sea nymph Eurynome and taken to the isle of Lemnos, where he was raised. It was here that he acquired his peerless skill as a metalworker and craftsman.
He embraced Thetis warmly and shuffled to his forge. Overnight he laboured at the furnace. Before the first flush of dawn he had created what many held to be his masterpiece – the Shield of Achilles. Five layers thick, two of bronze, two of tin and a central core of solid gold. On its glittering surface, rimmed with bronze, silver and gold, he portrayed the night sky – the constellations of the Pleiades and Hyades, Ursa Major and Orion the Hunter. He delicately beat out whole cities, complete with wedding feasts, marketplaces, music and dancing. In marvellous detail he depicted armies and wars; flocks, herds, vineyards and harvests. All human life beneath the heavens. By dawn he had finished and was able to present Thetis with not just the shield but a four-plated helmet with a crest of gold, a bright breastplate and – to protect the legs from the knee down – shining greaves of light, flexible tin. Nothing more beautiful had ever been made for mortal man.
That morning Achilles stood on the shore sounding his piercing and devastating war cry, to awaken the Myrmidons and all the warriors of the Achaean alliance.
It was here that he and Agamemnon finally faced off, watched by Odysseus and the other senior Greeks.
‘Was it worth it, great king?’ said Achilles. ‘All this death on account of our pride? Enough. I swallow my rage.’
Agamemnon, instead of bowing his head and embracing Achilles, let loose a long rambling speech of self-justification. Zeus sent him mad, took away his sense of judgement. It wasn’t his fault. He reiterated the offer that Achilles had already refused.
‘Please now, take Briseis, take all the treasure you want. When this is over, take one of my daughters as your wife.’
‘I want nothing but slaughter and revenge,’ said Achilles. ‘I have sworn not to eat or drink until my Patroclus’s death is avenged and Hector lies bleeding in the dust.’
‘Very commendable too,’ said Odysseus. ‘But don’t you think that, even if you won’t eat, your Myrmidons will fight all the better with a good meal inside them?’
Unromantic as it was, Achilles saw the justice in this very practical suggestion.
Briseis, released by Agamemnon, made her way towards Achilles’ enclosure. When she saw the lacerated body of Patroclus laid out there, she broke down and threw herself on him, sobbing.
‘No one else treated me so well. Oh, Patroclus. Sweet, sweet Patroclus. You protected me. Only you showed me respect and kindness.’
Odysseus, Nestor, Idomeneus and Phoenix all begged Achilles to eat and strengthen himself for what was to come, but he refused. His mind had turned to home. Had his father Peleus died by now, or would the old man have to bear the news of his nephew Patroclus’s death?
‘And of my death too, no doubt,’ he said. ‘And what of my son Pyrrhus on Skyros? Will I ever see him again?’
Such thoughts sent everyone’s mind to their families back home and a silence fell over the camp.
‘Enough of that,’ said Achilles. He strode into his tent to arm. Hephaestus’s armour awaited him.
When he emerged, the Achaean camp gave a cry of wonder. The marvellous shield glittered, the helmet flashed. This was the sight every Greek had longed to see. Achilles, with the great ash spear and silver-hilted sword of his father Peleus.fn42 Achilles, stepping into his chariot. Achilles, ringed in a halo of fire and ready to lead them to glory. A great cheer went up. The Achaean army shivered with anticipation. They could not lose now. Hector and Troy were doomed. This was not a man. Nor a god. This was their Achilles, something more than either.
The Myrmidon captains ALCIMUS and AUTOMEDON harnessed and yoked the snorting, prancing Balius and Xanthus, Poseidon’s wedding gifts to Peleus and Thetis. Standing in his chariot, fuelled by a rage such as could be quenched only by blood, Achilles gave one more great cry, cracked his whip and thundered towards Troy, the Achaean host surging like floodwater behind him.
THE ARISTEIA OF ACHILLES
Never had such fighting been seen. Never such glory won. Never such crazed and bloody slaughter.
The gods knew this was a day that would live for ever. Zeus cast thunder, Athena and Ares clashed, Poseidon shook the earth with powerful tremors.
Achilles hunted Hector, calling on him to come and fight. It was Aeneas who first emerged to face him.
‘You, Aeneas! Shepherd boy,’ sneered Achilles. ‘Do you think if you kill me, Priam will leave you th
e throne of Troy? He’s got sons. You’re a nobody.’
Aeneas was unafraid and launched his spear. The tip pierced the bronze and tin layers of Achilles’ great shield only for it to bury itself in the soft core of solid gold. Aeneas lifted a huge boulder and Achilles rushed in, sword drawn. One of them would surely have died there and then had not Aeneas vanished in a great swirl of dust. Poseidon, favouring the Greeks as he did, had nonetheless rescued Aeneas, whose destiny he knew to be momentous.
‘So,’ cried Achilles, staring around. ‘I’m not the only one the gods love. Never mind, there are plenty of Trojans left to kill.’
And indeed there were. Whirling about, Achilles charged into the Trojan ranks and swiftly killed Iphition, Hippodamas and Demoleon, a son of Antenor.
POLYDORUS, Priam’s youngest surviving son, although forbidden to fight by his father, had been unable to resist entering the fray. When the boy suddenly found himself face to face with the greatest of all the Greeks, he turned and fled. But he was too slow. Achilles speared him in the back.
Hector heard his younger brother’s shrill screams and hurled his own spear at Achilles, but a gust of wind caused it to fall short – or was it, as Homer suggests, blown back by Athena?
Finally! Hector was in his sights. Achilles closed on him with a terrible series of screams, but once more the gods intervened and Hector disappeared in a cloud of mist. This time it was Apollo who denied Achilles his kill.
The enraged Achilles cut down more Trojans. Homer is as merciless and implacable in his descriptions as Achilles was in his killing. Dryops: speared through the neck. Demuchus: knee smashed and cut into pieces. The brothers Laogonus and Dardanus: speared and chopped. Young Tros, son of Alastor: liver split open and butchered. Mulius: a spear through one ear and out the other. Echeclus, the son of Agenor: head split open, a curtain of blood running down his face. Deucalion: speared, spitted and decapitated.