Menelaus did as Ajax asked:
All night long we countrymen,
Guarding cattle in their pen
(Aided by our dogs that growl
Fiercely when marauders prowl),
At a neighbouring thicket stare.
Ay, a fulvous lion’s there,
Empty-bellied, watching for
A chance to leap with sudden roar
On the neck of a plump cow…
‘Look, my lads, he’s coming now!’
In a volley from strong hands
Spears are cast and burning brands!
Be his anger what it may,
We have baulked him of his prey;
Off he slinks before the day.
Menelaus quitted his post no less reluctantly, fearing that the Greeks would give ground while he was absent and allow Hector to capture the corpse. He enjoined Meriones, Great Ajax and Little Ajax: ‘Hold fast, my friends! Patroclus was always loving and gentle in his life, and now in death he deserves your gratitude.’
The eagle has a sharper eye
Than any bird that haunts the sky—
An eye no creature can evade.
The hare finds refuge in a glade
Under some thick and leafy bush;
Down swoops the eagle with a rush,
Five hundred feet or more, to tear
The guts of that unhappy hare!
Menelaus’ eagle-eyes searched the plain, and soon recognized Antilochus on the extreme left flank. Running towards him, he gasped: ‘Prince, I bring bad news! The Trojans are being assisted by Zeus, and I deeply regret to announce that our greatest champion has been killed—Patroclus, son of Menoetius—doubtless you guessed what had happened when they counter-attacked? We are all heart-broken. Pray inform Achilles at the camp! He may be prevailed upon to help us rescue his friend’s corpse—though Hector is already wearing the spoils.’
Antilochus listened in horror, his eyes filled with tears, and he choked for grief. Wordlessly he undertook the painful task imposed on him: removing his armour and handing it to a noble comrade, named Laodocus, who drove up at that moment, he started sorrowfully off. Menelaus would not stand by Antilochus’ weary Pylians, thus left leaderless; but placed Prince Thrasymedes in command of them, and hurried away to straddle Patroclus’ corpse again. He told Great and Little Ajax, who were still there: ‘Antilochus will take the message; yet I shall be surprised if Achilles appears at once, however angry he may feel—Hector is wearing his armour, and he cannot fight without. As you say, we had better decide on some means of removing this corpse and getting safely back ourselves.’
Ajax answered: ‘Very well, my lord Menelaus! Let you and Meriones shoulder the corpse and carry it off the field; Little Ajax and I will act as your rearguard. We are one in heart, as in name, and always fight side by side.’
Menelaus and Meriones stooped; they heaved the corpse on their shoulders.
The boar was speared, and yelping hounds
Ran forward with great leaps and bounds
To seize their prey.
But when, too proud a beast for flight,
He charged them, trusting in his might,
They shrank away!
Much the same happened here. The exasperated Trojans saw the corpse carried off, and noisily pressed the attack; but as soon as Great and Little Ajax turned to charge them, blenched and shrank away.
Our whole town is on fire,
Its glare turns night to day,
The flames leap always higher;
Which fills us with dismay.
So furiously the north wind blows
That houses crumble in long rows!
No roar of flames, no screams of terrified townsfolk, could have been louder than the din of this battle: chariots rattled, hooves clattered, armour rang, men yelled!
The mules put out enormous strength
When down the mountainside,
Some massive tree-trunk, or huge length
Of timber, they make slide.
And though their bodies gleam with sweat,
Their spirit is not broken yet.
No mules ever worked so hard as did Menelaus and Meriones in carrying that corpse!
Behind them strode Great and Little Ajax:
A wooded ridge defends the plain,
And in a season of much rain
Though rivers growl, though torrents roar
(As often they have done before)
And high their lurid waters lift,
Here is a shield they cannot shift!
The shields of Great and Little Ajax resisted the Trojan flood with equal stolidity. Yet when:
Flocks of starlings and jackdaws
Scatter through the sky,
They themselves announce the cause:
‘Hawk, ’ware hawk!’ they cry.
And when Hector and Aeneas led a charge, the Greeks scattered too. Before regaining their fosse, they were being slaughtered in droves. Hector gave them no respite.
Book Eighteen:
Hephaestus Forges Arms
Achilles the Swift-Footed, with a gloomy presentiment of bad news, asked himself: ‘Why are our troops streaming back across the plain?’ He thought: ‘I pray that the gods have not done what I most feared! Before I die, according to my mother Thetis, the Trojans must kill the best of my Myrmidons. Does she mean Patroclus? Oh, why has he been so reckless? Surely I warned him to rejoin me as soon as the Trojans had been driven across the rampart, and to avoid meeting Hector?’
Achilles’ anxiety deepened when Antilochus, son of Nestor, approached at a run, the tears streaming from his eyes. ‘Alas, Prince Achilles,’ he choked out. ‘Here is a message which I loathe delivering. Patroclus, son of Menoetius has been killed, and we are fighting for his corpse—his naked corpse, despoiled by Hector the Bright-Helmed!’
Achilles seized handfuls of black ashes, which he poured over his head, rubbed on his face, and let fall on his tunic. Slave-girls saw him tumble groaning to the ground in an excess of grief. They rushed from the hut and gathered about him, their knees trembling; beat their breasts, and wailed aloud. Antilochus likewise lamented and shed further tears, but was careful to hold the hero’s hands for fear he might cut his own throat. Achilles’ groans were so deep and dismal that Thetis heard them far off at the bottom of the sea, where she sat next to her old father Nereus, surrounded by numerous sisters—Actaea, Agave, Amathyia, Amphinome, Amphithoe, Apseudes, Callianassa, Callianeira, Clymene, Cymodoce, Cymothoe, Dexamene, Dynamene, Doris, Doto, Galateia, Glauce, Halie, Iaera, Ianassa, Ianeira, Limnoreia, Maera, Melite, Nemertes, Nesaea, Oreithyia, Panope, Pherusa, Proto, Speio, Thaleia and Thoë—all of whom lived down there in a bright cavern, and who simultaneously began beating their soft breasts.
Thetis led the lament, singing:
‘Nereids of the dark blue Sea
Listen to me—
Listen and sympathize
With dewy eyes!
‘It was a glad day when
I bore the best of men,
Achilles young and strong,
The subject of this song.
It was a joy to see
Him sprout like a young tree
Planted in fertile soil,
Yet FATE had cursed my toil
Of tender motherhood:
FATE had decreed he should,
While yet a beardless boy,
Sail with his ships to Troy
And come not home again
From the Scamandrian Plain
To Peleus, Phthia’s king.
Now he lies sorrowing,
And groans without relief,
Nor can I cure his grief
Or lighten his distress.
Poor child! Nevertheless,
To Troy I must needs go
And learn why his tears flow.’
Thetis then swam from the cave, and her sisters followed in sympathy through the salt water, until the long procession landed on the shore of the Hellespont, where Achilles’ s
hips lay beached, gunwale to gunwale. Kneeling beside her recumbent son, Thetis clasped his head in both arms, and cried desperately: ‘Why do you weep, child? Tell me what ails you! Instead of hiding your sorrow, share it with me! Did not Zeus at last grant your plea, by crowding the Greeks back among their ships and allowing them to be slaughtered in droves?’
Achilles moaned: ‘Alas, Almighty Zeus certainly granted my plea, and it has brought me nothing but pain! Patroclus, whom I loved as myself, is dead! Today, Hector killed him and despoiled his corpse of my splendid suit of armour, the Immortals’ joint wedding-gift to King Peleus. Ah, Mother, you should have stayed with the Nereids, and let my father marry a mortal bride! New sorrows must now invade your heart by the thousandfold! No, you shall never welcome me home! Rejecting the inglorious old age which the Fates offered me, I have decided to stay and avenge Patroclus.’
‘Then, dear son,’ Thetis sobbed, ‘your death cannot be delayed many days. The Fates rule that it shall immediately succeed Hector’s.’
‘Whenever Heaven pleases!’ stormed Achilles. ‘My beloved friend died far from his native land, and I failed him in his hour of need, as I failed my other comrades. Here I sat, a useless encumbrance to the earth, while Hector slaughtered them, though nobody fights better than I! Ah, if I could also claim that nobody is wiser than I! And if anger could cease utterly, both among Immortals and among mortals—even righteous anger! (How delightedly I nursed my grudge against the High King Agamemnon! It smouldered in my heart, and was as sweet to me as trickling honey.) But bygones must be bygones! I will forget my injury and exact vengeance on Hector; then Zeus and his Olympians may destroy me at their pleasure. After all, not Heracles himself, Zeus’ favourite son, escaped death; Fate and Hera’s persecutions laid him low. Death shall lay me low, too! Yet before he strikes, I am resolved upon great deeds: I will make some lovely, full-breasted Trojan woman weep and lament as I have wept and lamented—vainly trying to stanch the tears that furrow her cheeks. The Trojans must know to their cost that I am fighting once more! Mother, in your deep love, please do not dissuade me, or I shall stop my ears.’
Thetis replied: ‘Child, who can blame you for rallying to the aid of your distressed comrades? Hector, however, is flaunting your own fine armour; and, even if his days are numbered, I beg that you will wait until tomorrow before challenging him! At sunrise, I promise to bring you a suit newly forged by none other than the God Hephaestus the Master Smith.’
Turning from Achilles, she addressed the Nereids: ‘Be good enough, sisters, to tell our old father what has been decided! Explain that I am visiting Olympus, where Hephaestus will, I hope, forge a glorious suit of armour for my son.’
They nodded and swam off towards their cavern.
Meanwhile, the routed Greeks were unable to carry Patroclus’ corpse out of spear-range. Hector and Aeneas overtook the gallant group who had charge of it, and their attack was like a spurt of flame; but though Hector three times caught at the corpse’s feet, Great and Little Ajax always drove him away. He persisted in his efforts, urging his comrades forwards, and charged time after time.
‘Begone, have done!’ the shepherds shout
As the fierce lion mauls his prey,
A fine fat cow; yet fail to rout
The hungry beast resolved to stay.
Nor could Great and Little Ajax rout Hector, who would have captured the corpse, and thus earned deathless fame, had Hera not sent Iris the Golden-Winged in haste from Olympus, with a private message for Achilles.
Iris appeared beside his ship, crying excitedly: ‘Rouse yourself, redoubtable son of Peleus! A fearful combat is in progress around your friend Patroclus’ corpse. The Greeks are struggling to carry it back here; whereas Hector wants to fix the decapitated head on the palisade above his city walls. Up with you! Show a decent respect for the dead! You could surely never allow your dead friend’s body to be devoured by the dogs of Troy? If his ghost went underground headless and mangled, the disgrace would be yours!’
Achilles asked: ‘Goddess, who gave you this message?’
Iris answered: ‘Wise Queen Hera gave it me; but neither her husband nor any lesser Olympian knows that she did.’
Achilles asked again: ‘How can I fight without armour? Hector is wearing my suit, and I have been forbidden by my mother Thetis to enter the battle until she fetches me a new one from Hephaestus’ smithy. And where could I borrow armour? I know nobody of the same height and bulk as myself, except Great Ajax, who seems to be already using his tower-like shield and lance in stubborn defence of Patroclus’ corpse.’
And again Iris answered: ‘We are fully aware that your divine armour is not available. But visit the fosse just as you are, and show yourself to the Trojans! They may well recoil in terror, thus giving the Greeks a brief respite.’
Iris vanished, and when Achilles rose up, Athene threw her tasselled Aegis over his strong shoulders, and ringed his head with a halo of golden, flame-tipped cloud.
Smoke signals from an island tell
Of danger to the citadel,
Of pirate ships come swooping down
To raid the wharves and burn the town.
All day those islanders defend
Their walls and the same message send,
But when night supervenes, the glow
Of urgent beacons in a row
Calls loyal allies, far and near,
To man their ships and show no fear.
The warning glow of beacons in the night sky shone no brighter than Achilles’ halo, as he scaled the rampart and paused at the brink of the fosse. Though his mother’s advice restrained him from fighting, he roared a challenge—shrill and terrible, like trumpets blowing the assault on a city—to which Athene added distant echoes. The Trojan chariot-teams baulked and tried to bolt, while their awe-struck drivers wondered at the fiery blaze above Achilles’ head. Three times he repeated his challenge, and each time caused such confusion that, in all, twelve Trojan soldiers were accidentally killed: either run through by one another’s spears, or crushed under the wheels of chariots. This interlude enabled the Greeks to fetch Patroclus’ corpse clear away at last, and lay it on a litter. His bereaved comrades gathered around. Achilles shed scalding tears when he saw the torn and naked body of his dearest friend—whom he had himself equipped and sent into action.
Hera now made the unwilling Sun plunge into the Ocean Stream beyond the horizon: darkness fell, and the Trojans withdrew. On reaching their former bivouacs and unharnessing their teams, they did not think of supper but called a council-of-war. Achilles’ reappearance had scared them so badly that they were even afraid to sit down.
Prince Polydamas son of Panthous, the only nobleman present who could foresee future events by a careful study of the past, spoke first. He might be called Hector’s twin, having been born on the same night; and excelled him in debate as much as he was excelled in battle. His honest and wise address went as follows: ‘Comrades, pray march home at once! This spot is too near the Greek camp and too far from the city. While Achilles still bore a grudge against King Agamemnon, the Greeks could easily be routed; in fact, yesterday I approved your choice of bivouacs, and hoped that we should seize their fleet. Tonight, however, the situation has altered. Achilles, I fear, is so exceedingly angry that, scorning to fight in the plain, as usual, he will make an attempt on Troy. We must therefore retire behind the walls and guard our women. Pray silence, my lords! Listen attentively!
‘Dusk checked Achilles’ furious spirit, but let him catch us here tomorrow, and nobody need doubt his identity! Any soldier who has seen that divine chariot approaching will be fortunate if he finds himself safely in Troy again. Unpalatable advice, perhaps, yet the dogs and vultures may turn your refusal to good account. Come, march off, bivouac on the Assembly Ground, and trust in Troy’s towers and closely barred gates! At dawn, we must defend the walls; and the bold hero who tries to scale them can feed the dogs. When the Greek charioteers have exhausted their teams by driving this w
ay and that way across the plain, or round and round our walls, back they must go. Troy is impregnable!’
Hector gazed sternly at Polydamas. ‘Your change of tone displeases me,’ he said. ‘Do you really enjoy being penned up behind those walls? In the old days, Troy was renowned for its treasures of gold and bronze; but since Zeus first brought these misfortunes on us, we are constantly stripping out houses of valuables to pay war-debts in Phrygia and Maeonia. Now that he has kindly let us raid the enemy camp and besiege the besiegers, I will not tolerate such foolish advice as yours; nor will any other right-minded Trojan! My lords, be persuaded by me! I suggest that we post sentries and eat supper here, without breaking formation. Whoever feels anxious about the fate of his household goods may distribute them among the common soldiery; better that they, rather than the Greeks, should profit. At dawn, we will attack the naval camp. Achilles has reappeared—what of that? If he ventures against us, so much the worse for him! I undertake to meet his challenge calmly, and we shall see who wins. Impartial Ares does not mind a famous killer being killed in his turn.’
Robbed of their usual sagacity by Athene, the Trojans were foolish enough to applaud Hector’s boastful speech and reject Polydamas’ prudent one. Thus the council-of-war ended, and they ate supper.
All that night the Greeks bewailed Patroclus. Achilles, as chief mourner, laid his powerful hands on the corpse’s breast and howled horribly, like a bereaved lion.
A hunter, stalking venison,
By merest chance has lighted on
The lion’s undefended lair:
Two infant cubs are lying there.
Each by its furry scruff he catches
And hauls them off, in spite of scratches.
The father lion coming back,
Sees red, and bounds along the track.
Death to that rascal who dared touch
The whelps on which he dotes so much!
‘Alas,’ sobbed Achilles, ‘for my rash words at Opus: I promised Menoetius to bring his son home in glory from the sack of Troy, first making sure that he received his due share of the spoils! Man proposes, Zeus disposes! Patroclus was doomed to redden this earth with his life blood: and now my parents will never welcome me home, either!’