A lion, leading out his cub
Quietly through the mountain scrub,
Narrows his eyes in fury when
He hears the loud approach of men,
Lashes his tail and dares confront
The noisy onset of our hunt.
What lion was ever so protective of his cub, as Ajax of Patroclus’ corpse? He spread his shield above it; and beside him, in rage and grief, stood Menelaus the Warrior.
Glaucus, son of Hippolochus, now sole commander of the Lycians, frowned contemptuously at Hector. ‘You look like a brave man,’ he scoffed, ‘and claim to be a hero; yet when battle is joined, you turn tail! Tell me, how long could your people hold Troy without our aid? The question will shortly have to be considered, because, upon my word, none of us Lycians enjoy this ungrateful warfare. Can we count on your respecting the corpse of any lesser soldier, when you allow King Sarpedon—your guest, your intimate friend, your loyal ally—to be stripped naked and left for the dogs? Yes, if these men obey me, I shall repudiate our treaty and march home! Why do you Trojans not show gallantry of the sort that brings all honest citizens hurrying out in defence of their homes? Then we should help to drag the corpse behind your walls. Since Patroclus was squire to the Greeks’ greatest champion, they would gladly buy it at the price of Sarpedon’s armour. But you are frightened of Ajax, and expect us to undertake this task ourselves.’
Hector returned Glaucus’ frown. ‘Having hitherto thought you the most level-headed of all Lycians,’ he said, ‘I am astounded that so noble a prince can speak so foolishly! Frightened of Ajax? It is a falsehood! Nothing ever daunts me; only, I dare not oppose the will of Zeus the Shield-Bearer, who often overawes even the bravest veteran, and then suddenly encourages him to draw sword again. Come, stand by me, friend Glaucus! You shall soon see whether I am a coward, or still soldier enough to rid the corpse of Greeks.
‘Trojans, Lycians, and hard-fighting Dardanians!’ Hector bawled. ‘Be men, be heroes! Hold your ground while I briefly absent myself and put on the armour—Achilles’ armour—which Patroclus was wearing when I killed him.’
Away hurried Hector, retrieved his famous spoils from the messengers who were taking them to Troy, and made a quick change; so they went off with his own armour instead. The borrowed suit had been the Olympians’ wedding gift to King Peleus, who passed it on to Achilles when too old for battle himself—though Fate would not let Achilles grow old in it.
Zeus, watching Hector, shook his head sadly and muttered: ‘Poor wretch! Unaware of the doom that follows him so closely, he dares buckle on that armour: a divine suit, and stripped from brave, gentle Patroclus, brother-in-arms to the most formidable of these Greeks! I shall reward his effrontery with another short burst of triumph; but he must not leave the field alive and present those spoils to Andromache.’ Zeus nodded emphatically, and nothing could now annul his verdict.
The armour was a perfect fit; a martial spirit again strengthened Hector’s limbs and braced his heart. He ran shouting among the allies, who wondered when they saw how closely he resembled Achilles. Mesthles, Glaucus, Medon, Thersilochus, Asteropaeus, Deisenor, Hippothous, Phorcys, Chromius, and Ennomus the Augur—Hector addressed them all. ‘Loyal allies!’ he cried in urgent tones. ‘You were not invited here for a vain parade of numbers; it was to save our wives and children. But the expense of supporting you worthily has strained the city’s resources both in treasure and food; so why not fulfil your treaty obligations at once? Charge full butt against these rapacious Greeks, and either conquer or die! Whoever drives Great Ajax from Patroclus’ corpse and hauls it back to Troy may share with me half of whatever ransom Achilles may offer; and therefore half the glory of killing Patroclus.’
Hector’s allies levelled their spears and went resolutely for Ajax and Menelaus, yet failed to capture the corpse. How few of these unfortunates escaped death! Nevertheless, Ajax confided in Menelaus: ‘My dear lord, we can hardly hope to survive such a storm of missiles without reinforcements. In fact, the question is not whether we will save this corpse from decapitation and outrage, but whether we will keep our own heads on our shoulders. Summon help! Some true friends may hear you.’
Menelaus cried at the top of his voice. ‘Princes of the Supreme Council, messmates of my brother Agamemnon and myself, you who owe your honour and fame to Zeus! In the murk of battle I cannot distinguish faces sufficiently well to summon you by name; but Patroclus, son of Menoetius, has fallen, and his corpse will glut the dogs of Troy unless you assist me!’
Little Ajax heard the summons and was the first to arrive; after him came Idomeneus the Cretan with his brother-in-arms Meriones—and I refrain from listing the other champions who crowded up.
The Trojans did not succeed in killing any defenders of the corpse, but forced them back; however, Great Ajax, always the bravest and stoutest fighter in the Greek army—Achilles alone excepted—returned to the attack like a wild boar:
The fierce wild boar at bay
Evinces no dismay:
His rush sends hounds and men hurtling away!
A Trojan ally, Hippothous, son of the famous Pelasgian King Lethus of Larissa, had fastened a strap around Patroclus’ ankle, and was dragging him off, as Hector wished; but nobody could stand against Ajax when he charged through the mělée and lunged, piercing Hippothous’ bronze cheek-piece. Blood and brains oozed from the wound; he dropped the strap, and tumbled beside the corpse… His parents had little to show for the trouble of rearing him, so young he died!
Ajax managed to dodge the spear which Hector flung. It caught Schedius—son of King Iphitus the Phocian, who ruled at famous Panopeus—on his collarbone and emerged under the shoulderblade; he fell with a clang of armour. When Phorcys, the prudent son of Phaenops, bestrode Hippothous’ corpse, Ajax speared him in the belly, breaking the corslet-plate. Down he went, clutching at the dust, and his intestines poured out.
Hector and the Lycians did not prevent the Greeks from seizing these bodies, and seemed ready to flee behind their city walls, yielding the Greeks more glory than Zeus intended for them. But Apollo, disguised as Aeneas’ friend Periphas, the old herald—his father was the still older herald Epytus—spoke to Aeneas. ‘Troy,’ he said, ‘could never have resisted so long, had the gods disapproved! I find it strange that whereas the Greek princes trust in their own strength and valour, even at the risk of Zeus’ displeasure, you Trojans are reluctant to fight even when he offers you victory.’
Aeneas knew Apollo, and shouted to Hector and his companions: ‘All is well! A god has just assured me that Almighty Zeus favours our cause. Let us make one decisive charge! We must not allow the Greeks to rescue Patroclus’ corpse too easily, or drive us behind the walls in disgrace.’
He sprang forward and killed Leiocritus, son of Arisbas. This encouraged the Trojans—although, indeed, bold Lycomedes, son of Creon, ran up immediately and avenged Leiocritus, by spearing Prince Apisaon, son of Hippasus, in the liver. Apisaon had come to Troy from fertile Paeonia and, after Asteropaeus, was the most skilful fighter of his contingent. Asteropaeus now tried to take a Greek life in exchange, but found a solid fence of shields and hedge of spears surrounding Patroclus’ corpse; for Great Ajax forbade anyone either to retreat or to thrust himself ahead: they must stand shoulder to shoulder, he urged. The earth was red with blood and strewn with corpses. Yet fewer Greeks fell than Trojans—they were more careful to protect one another.
In this fiery combat even strong champions felt choked by the dust, and oppressed by the weight of their armour. So thick was the gloom, that sun and moon might neither have existed—a strange contrast to the rest of the battlefield, where the benign sun shone from a cloudless blue sky, and the two armies fought in desultory fashion, often moving out of spear-range.
Nestor’s sons, Antilochus and Thrasymedes, had not heard that Patroclus was dead: and imagined him to be still in the front-line. Obeying their father’s instructions, they kept on the flank, ready to enter the main battle only at sign
s of a Greek retreat.
When the bull is flayed, our lord
Soaks the hide in fat,
‘Lads,’ he tells us, ‘form a ring,
Take a hold of that!
‘Grip it, stretch it, supple it,
Tug from every side,
Watch it lapping up the grease,
Tug until it’s dried!’
No bull’s hide was ever so roughly handled as Patroclus’ corpse; the Trojans hauling it towards Troy, the Greeks towards their camp. Ares himself or Athene, Goddess of Battle, for all their annoyance, could hardly have been indifferent to this furious conflict. Sweat ran down every leg from thigh to foot, down every arm from shoulder to hand, and into all eyes.
Achilles also knew nothing of Patroclus’ fate, because the battle had been fought far away, under the walls of Troy. He expected his friend to reach the Scaean Gate, touch it, and return in safety; the notion that he could be either making a single-handed attempt on Troy, or lying dead, had not yet occurred to him.
Relentlessly the struggle proceeded, both sides suffering heavy losses. Sometimes a Greek would exclaim: ‘Comrades, we cannot retreat! May the earth open and swallow us, if the Trojans take this corpse to their city!’ Or a Trojan would exclaim: ‘Comrades, we cannot retreat, even if we are all fated to die for its possession!’ The iron clamour ascended through the upper air until it rang against the brazen vault of Heaven.
Meanwhile Achilles’ horses, having escaped from the mělée, stood weeping beside the river—they had wept ever since they saw Hector kill Patroclus. Automedon, son of Diores, tried to rouse them with blows of the whip, shouts, words of endearment; but they would not budge.
Staunch as a head-stone on the tomb
Of man or woman dead,
Each creature stood oppressed by gloom:
In anguish at Patroclus’ doom,
Abasing his proud head.
Large mournful tears from every eye
Trickled without a sound;
Their golden manes, once flaunted high
Above the yoke, drooped dismally
Upon the marshy ground.
Zeus pitied Xanthus and Balius when he observed those tears. Shaking his locks sadly, he muttered: ‘Poor immortal team-mates, why did we Olympians present you to King Peleus, in the first place? You were not meant to share Man’s sorrows; and, upon my word, I can think of no more miserable creature that draws breath and crawls on the face of this earth! Still, I promise one thing: Hector, son of Priam, shall never mount Achilles’ beautiful chariot and become your master! That he should preen himself in Achilles’ armour is bad enough! So be it: I will renew your strength and courage, letting you carry Automedon out of the danger which threatens the Greeks; for by sunset, Hector must slaughter so many of them that the rest have no alternative but retreat.’
Zeus comforted Xanthus and Balius: they raised their muzzles, shook the dust from their manes, and galloped off—though towards the battle, rather than the camp. Automedon, despite his grief, amused himself by scaring Trojans: he would swoop at them in the divine chariot, like a griffin-vulture harrying a flock of wild geese, then sheer away and swoop again. Since he lacked a companion, however, he could not handle a spear at the same time as whip and reins. Soon Alcimedon, son of Laerces, son of Haemon, hailed him: ‘Automedon, has some god destroyed your wits? Why are you driving aimlessly about, when Hector is flaunting Achilles’ armour?’
Automedon answered that the horses would allow no one to fight from their chariot, except Patroclus or Achilles. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘climb up and take the reins, while I attack the Trojans on foot!’
Alcimedon did so, and Hector remarked to Aeneas, son of Anchises: ‘My lord, look yonder at Achilles’ team! The men in charge do not greatly impress me. Let us capture their equipage. I hardly think that they will offer much opposition.’
Aeneas and Hector advanced under cover of huge, tough, bronze-plated bull’s hide shields. Chromius and Prince Aretus followed, eager to kill the two Greeks and seize their wonderful horses; not foreseeing what the attempt would cost them. Automedon prayed to Zeus, and felt immediate benefit; yet he asked Alcimedon: ‘Pray, keep the horses so close behind me that their breaths warm my neck! Hector seems determined either to cause general dismay by killing us both and seizing the chariot, or to fall dead himself.’ Then he shouted: ‘Help, Great Ajax, Little Ajax! King Menelaus, help! Leave Patroclus’ corpse, and defend us instead! We are threatened by Hector and Aeneas. Yet whether you come or stay, I shall fight and commend my soul to Zeus. The issue lies in the lap of Destiny.’
Automedon cast a spear, exerting his full strength; it struck Aretus’ shield, and hurtled through belt, corslet and belly:
The sturdy farmer swung an axe
That caught the bull on its pax-wax
Beneath the horns; forward it sprang
And hit the pavement with a bang!
Aretus made a similar convulsive leap, and the spear quivered in his guts where he lay. Then Hector aimed at Automedon, but he bent his head and the weapon flashed past, to bury itself in the earth beyond. A brisk sword fight would have ensued, had not Little Ajax run up at Menelaus’ call and saved Automedon by chasing away his enemies. Automedon stripped the mortally wounded Aretus of his armour, exulting: ‘This is some solace for Patroclus’ death, though Aretus was nothing like so accomplished a spearman!’
He took the spoils, stowed them in the chariot, and drove off. His feet and hands were as blood-stained as the paws of a lion after it has devoured a bull.
On second thoughts, Zeus sent Athene flying down from Olympus, to save the Greeks who were protecting Patroclus’ corpse.
‘Look, a rainbow in the sky!
What can that portend?’
‘War,’ you say; ‘Storm,’ say I,
‘Causing work to end
In the woods, on the farm,
Threatening flocks and herds with harm!’
Athene’s arrival in a rainbow-coloured cloud portended trouble for the Trojans. Disguised as old Phoenix, Achilles’ tutor, she said to Menelaus in piping tones: ‘My lord King, it will be a lasting stain on your reputation if the body of Achilles’ faithful friend is torn by dogs beneath the walls of Troy! Come, exert yourself, and make everyone else do likewise.’
Menelaus answered: ‘Ah, Phoenix, veteran of half-forgotten wars! Patroclus’ death has affected me deeply; but when Hector plies his fiery spear and Zeus supports him, I need Athene to renew my strength and parry blows.’
Athene, glad that Menelaus had named her first, put new strength into his shoulders and knees, and inspired him with the bold persistence of a horse-fly:
Greedy fly, stinging fly,
Is my blood so sweet?
Twenty times at least have I
Forced you to retreat.
Back you flit, I know not why,
To the self-same seat!
Back went Menelaus to Patroclus’ corpse; and once more his spear drank sweet human blood, transfixing Podes, son of Eëtion, Hector’s brother-in-law and one of his closest friends, who had turned to run. Menelaus sprang forward and dragged Podes’ fallen body from under his comrades’ feet.
Then Apollo, disguising himself as Phaenops the Abydian, son of Asius, an even closer friend of Hector’s, said: ‘If you shrink from Menelaus, Prince Hector, the Greeks will cease to shrink from you! Though he never ranked highly among their champions, he has now killed your loyal brother-in-law Podes—a fine soldier, always on the offensive—and removed his body for despoilment.’
This reproach stung Hector to the quick. He strode about in his suit of flashing armour and, as he did so, Zeus shrouded Mount Ida with sudden cloud, conjured up a violent thunderstorm, and shook his bright, tasselled Aegis at the dismayed Greeks. The Trojans then began to score fresh successes. Polydamas cast at short range, and seriously wounded Peneleos the courageous Boeotian: the spear grazed his shoulder-bone. Hector stabbed Leïtus, son of Prince Alectryon, in the wrist: Leït
us, no longer able to grip a weapon, glanced wildly around him and withdrew, pursued by Hector; whereupon King Idomeneus of Crete hurled a spear which struck Hector’s right breast. The Trojans shouted for relief when it broke off at the socket against his mail corslet; and Hector would have dispatched Idomeneus, who had entered the battle on foot, but Coeranus, Meriones’ charioteer and friend, from the Cretan fortress of Lyctus, rescued him. This service cost Coeranus his own life, because Hector’s spear, aimed at Idomeneus, caught him just below the ear. The blade sliced his tongue and dashed out his teeth; he tumbled dead over the chariot-rail. Meriones was standing near; he stooped, gathered up the fallen reins, and said to Idomeneus: ‘Take these, and make for camp! Use the whip! You know as well as I that we are beaten.’
Glad to escape, Idomeneus lashed at the horses and drove off in terror. Great Ajax and Menelaus shared Meriones’ forebodings. ‘Alas,’ complained Ajax, ‘not even a fool could deny that Father Zeus has deserted us! Every Trojan spear finds its mark now, however unskilful the spearman, whereas every Greek spear lodges in the ground. We had better decide on some means of getting safely back with Patroclus’ corpse. Our friends are anxiously looking this way, wondering when Hector will break through and attack the camp again. If only someone responsible would run and tell Achilles of Patroclus’ death—I am sure the news has not yet reached him! But this cursed gloom prevents me from recognizing men’s faces; and the teams are equally indistinct.’
Then Ajax prayed, weeping for vexation:
‘ZEUS, Almighty and All-wise,
Remove the cloud that cloaks our eyes!
Grant us at least, if we must fall,
A sunny sky to be our pall!’
Zeus, pitying him, scattered the dark, misty cloud, so that the whole battlefield became clearly visible in the sunshine. Ajax then said: ‘Pray glance about you, King Menelaus! See whether Antilochus is still alive. He would be a most suitable messenger.’