Then he pleadingly addressed his dead friend: ‘Patroclus, since I must soon follow you underground, allow me to delay the funeral until I have taken vengeance on Hector, fetching his armour and his head as a gift for you. In proof of my anger and sincere grief, I swear to cut the throats of twelve noble Trojan prisoners before your pyre. In the meantime, pray lie here patiently among the ships. The young Trojan and Dardanian women captives whom you and I won by hard fighting at the assault of their cities, shall bewail you, day and night.’
Achilles ordered his comrades to make preparations for laying out Patroclus’ corpse. They kindled fires beneath a large, three-legged cauldron, full of sweet water. Flames wrapped themselves around the belly of the cauldron, and it presently came to a boil. This hot water served to wash the gory corpse, which the layers-out then rubbed with olive oil. After pouring fresh unguents into the wounds, they placed Patroclus on a bier and threw over him a thin linen sheet and a white cloak. The assembled Myrmidons lamented loudly at Achilles’ side throughout the hours of darkness.
***
In Heaven, Zeus remarked to Queen Hera: ‘That is your doing, wife! It was you who finally roused Achilles. Anyone would think that yonder Greeks were your own bastards!’
‘Revered Son of Cronus,’ Hera protested, ‘what a thing to say! Even a man, a mere mortal lacking the divine wisdom which we gods possess, considers how he can best help or injure his fellow-men. Then why should I—the supreme goddess of Olympus, by birth as well as marriage—not punish the Trojans who have earned my anger?’
Their debate continued during Thetis’ visit to the palace of Lame Hephaestus. Built all of bronze, it twinkled like a star, and could be readily distinguished from the other palaces on Olympus at a great distance. Thetis had found Hephaestus, bathed in sweat, working on a marvellous array of twenty tripods which were to line the walls of his hall; each tripod stood on three golden wheels, designed to roll it automatically into Zeus’ Council Chamber and back again, as required. The task was not quite done when Thetis entered the smithy: he still needed to add elaborate handles, and weld certain necessary chains.
His wife, Charis the Bright-Wreathed, advanced to greet Thetis, exclaiming, as they shook hands: ‘This is a pleasant surprise, my dear! We have always loved and esteemed you, but your appearances are rare indeed! Has anything happened? Do please be seated, while I fetch refreshments.’
Charis offered her a silver-studded throne and foot-stool, both of exquisite workmanship, shouting: ‘Hephaestus, Thetis is here! Come at once!’
‘An honour and a pleasure!’ he shouted back. ‘I cannot forget how generously she ran to the rescue, long ago, when my shameless mother Hera had taken a dislike to my club-foot, and flung me from the summit of Olympus. Never could I have survived that terrible fall, but for her and Eurynome, daughter of Oceanus! Nine years I spent hidden in their underwater cave, working at my forge: making brooches, torques, cups and necklaces, as the foaming Ocean Stream circled perpetually past. Those two Immortals alone knew where I was. So Thetis has visited us, eh? How could I possibly refuse her any favour? Fetch refreshments, Charis! I must now see to my bellows and tools.’
Hephaestus heaved up his huge bulk, and moved busily about on his shrunken legs. A set of mechanical assistants, whom he had constructed in gold to resemble living women, helped him to snatch his bellows from the furnace and stow his tools in a silver coffer. (They could not only use their limbs and speak, but were endowed with human feelings, and displayed superlative skill.) Then he sponged himself clean—forehead, hands, powerful neck and shaggy chest—put on his tunic, grasped a stout staff and limped forward to greet the visitor.
Struggling into a throne beside Thetis, Hephaestus squeezed her fingers affectionately. ‘This is a pleasant surprise, my dear,’ he said. ‘We have always loved and esteemed you; but your appearances are rare indeed.’ He added: ‘Tell me what I can do, and I will gladly oblige you—if it is both possible and permissible.’
Thetis wept. ‘No goddess on Olympus, dear Hephaestus,’ she replied, ‘has ever suffered so much sorrow as I! Why did Zeus single me out from all my Nereid sisters for marriage to a mortal—Peleus the Aeacid—though well aware that I detested the idea? Today, of course, he lies bed-ridden, far too old to be my husband in any true sense of the word. Worse, I bore him a son!
‘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 still 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:
Though to his side I go,
His tears for ever flow!
‘Here is the story. King Agamemnon robbed Achilles of Briseis, a captive princess voted him as a prize of honour. He was vexed by that, and refused to fight; so the Trojans raided the naval camp. The Greeks soon thought better of their folly, and a deputation offered him wonderful gifts if he would save the fleet for them. These he rejected, but later lent his armour to Patroclus, who marched against the enemy at the head of a large force and drove them back as far as the Scaean Gate. Patroclus would, in effect, have sacked Troy, had not Phoebus Apollo halted his proud progress, and given Hector the glory of killing him. Look, I clasp your knees in suppliant fashion! Please, oh please forge my short-lived son a strong new shield and helmet, stout greaves fitted with ankle-pieces, and a tough corslet! Patroclus, you see, had borrowed my son’s armour, and its capture by the Trojans has made him unhappier than ever. He is rolling on the ground in utter misery.’
‘Enough, enough!’ replied Hephaestus. ‘I shall be delighted to oblige you… What a pity I cannot snatch Achilles from his doom, and hide him somewhere safe! But at least I can promise you so beautiful a suit of armour that it will be a universal wonder!’
Impulsively Hephaestus limped away, replaced the bellows beside the furnace—twenty pairs—and told them to blow on the crucibles. They obeyed, puffing wind from every direction, and making flames rise high where the most heat was needed. He put bronze, tin, gold and silver into the crucibles; then, having set a huge anvil on its stand, picked up his tongs and a heavy hammer.
Hephaestus went to work. He forged a broad, strong shield, five layers thick—bronze, tin, gold, tin, bronze, in that order—with a shining triple rim, and a silver baldric. The surface of the shield was elaborately ornamented: he began by engraving a design of earth, sea, sky, the Sun, a full Moon, and such nightly constellations as the Pleiads, the Hyads, Orion the Hunter, and the Great Bear. (This Great Bear—sometimes known as The Wain—turns slowly around the Pole Star, being the only one of these constellations never to dip into the Ocean Stream, and keeps a cautious eye on Orion across the vault of Heaven.)
He then engraved two prosperous towns. The first was mainly devoted to weddings and festivals. Brides were shown, escorted through the streets from their homes, with trains of attendants waving torches and chanting a loud bridal song. Young men, much admired by housewives, each posted at her own front-door, performed an intricate wedding dance to the sound of flutes and lyres. But citizens also thronged the market-place, to witness a bitter legal conflict. A man had been murdered, and though the murderer was volunteering to pay the highest blood-price sanctioned, the next-of-kin demanded his death. The crowd being by no means unanimous in its sympathies, heralds kept order, and provided white rods for the city elders, who sat on smooth marble benches in the holy circle of justice. Both litigants agreed to accept arbitration and would plead their cause alternately before these elders; at whose feet lay two talents of gold destined as a reward for whichever of them spoke most to the point.
The second town on the shield was
threatened by a pair of allied armies, and their leaders were arguing whether it should be plundered, or allowed to capitulate—whereupon its treasures could be fairly divided between them. So far from capitulating, however, the obstinate townsfolk—leaving women, boys, and old men to defend their walls—took the offensive. With the help of Ares and Athene, depicted as of more than mortal stature, and wearing golden armour—they laid an ambush near a river ford, which was the common watering-place for that district. Two careless cattlemen who approached the ford, playing on pipes, were enemies, as the townsfolk knew from scouts; they killed them, and drove off their herds and flocks. Meanwhile, the allied leaders, still busily discussing capitulation, heard a distant hubbub, and hurried to the ford. Some of their chariots had already sprung the ambush and become engaged.
On the battlefield, Hephaestus engraved the figures of Strife, Tumult, and Death. Strife, recognizable by her blood-stained tunic, grasped a freshly-wounded man; Tumult, an unwounded one; Death held a corpse by its ankles. The combatants were extraordinarily lifelike: they cast spears, lunged, struck, hauled away the dead for despoilment.
A further design showed numerous ox-teams ploughing, cross-ploughing, and re-ploughing a wide, rich fallow. One ploughman who had reached the edge of the field was proffered a goblet of wine when he turned about. His companions, eager to drink themselves, were goading their beasts on. The furrows ran dark behind each plough, just as nature ordains—an artistic triumph, because the scene had been executed entirely in gold!
Hephaestus also portrayed a royal demesne, including cornfields, vineyards, and pastures. Reapers swung sharp sickles and laid down armfuls of cut corn; which three sheaf-binders then secured with ropes of woven straw. The king, staff in hand, complacently supervised their work; a group of courtiers could be seen jointing a sacrificial ox for the harvest feast; and women were preparing to feed the reapers on generous portions of barley porridge.
Hephaestus made the vines of gold, their abundant clusters of obsidian, the vine-poles of silver. A ditch of lapis lazuli, and a fence of pure tin, surrounded the village; its single entrance was now used by many vintagers—girls and boys, carrying wicker baskets full of sweet grapes. A boy thrummed his lyre as he gently sang the Flax Lament; and every foot kept time to the melody.
Long-horned cows, in gold and pure tin, trotted lowing from their byre to graze by a reed-flanked river. Four golden cattlemen and nine hounds followed them; but a pair of terrible lions had dragged down the leader of the herd—a bull that bellowed agonizedly as they tore open its stomach and devoured its intestines. The hounds, though urged to the attack, stood barking at a safe distance. Beyond lay a peaceful valley, where flocks of sheep pastured beside the huts and sheep-cotes of a farm.
There was a dancing-floor, too, recalling the one built by Daedalus at Cnossus for the Princess Ariadne centuries ago. Young men and well-to-do girls formed a long chain, grasping wrists. The girls wore wreaths and fine linen gowns; the young men wore close-woven tunics, faintly stained with olive oil, and golden daggers hung from their silver baldrics. First, these dancers would circle around very prettily, whirling as fast as a potter’s wheel when the potter crouches to give it a trial spin; then they would form two lines, advancing towards each other, and retiring. A couple of acrobats tumbled about among them, and spectators grinned delightedly.
On the outermost rim an endless river coursed: the Ocean Stream.
Having finished this tremendous shield, Hephaestus forged Achilles a corslet brighter than flame; a massive, exquisitely engraved, golden-ridged bronze helmet, of the right size for his head; and greaves of pliant tin. All these he laid before Thetis. She gathered them up thankfully, and swooped like a falcon from the peak of Olympus.
Book Nineteen:
The Reconciliation
Rising from her bed-chamber
Where Ocean’s waters wind,
DAWN, saffron-robed, brought daylight
To gods and mankind—
at which early hour Thetis the Silver-Footed reached the Greek camp. Achilles still lay on the ground beside Patroclus’ corpse, lamenting hopelessly among a large crowd of Myrmidons. She took his hand in hers and cried: ‘Dear child! Leave him for a while, however profound your grief. Remember: the Immortals decided his fate from the very beginning. See what I have here: gifts to make you proud—the most glorious armour man ever wore!’
She laid down her burden with so rich a clank that the Myrmidons averted their awe-stricken eyes; but when Achilles raised his, the fires of pride, delight, and battle-fury shone beneath their lids. He admired every piece in turn, exclaiming: ‘Mother, they are worthy of the divine giver; what human smith could dare to forge anything so splendid? I would use them immediately and avenge Patroclus, were it not that flies might settle on his wounds during my absence, breed maggots, and cause decay.’
Thetis reassured him: ‘Those are idle fears! No fly shall approach Patroclus; and if he has to lie a twelvemonth, his flesh will, I promise, be as sound then as it is today—or sounder! Now, before fighting, you must summon a General Assembly and renounce your grudge against Agamemnon the High King.’ Having thus imbued her son with strength and courage, Thetis poured into the corpse’s nostrils a mixture of red nectar and ambrosia, which would preserve the flesh for ever, if need be.
Achilles strode along the shore, summoning all Greeks to the Assembly Ground. Nobody disobeyed his fierce shout, even helmsmen, stewards, and such, who never took part in a battle. Two famous champions, Diomedes, son of Tydeus, and King Odysseus the Crafty, limped painfully out of their huts, each leaning on a spear, and sat in the foremost row of the Assembly. Agamemnon arrived last, nursing his arm—the wound inflicted by Antenor’s son Coon troubled him.
When he too was seated, Achilles rose. ‘My lord Agamemnon, son of Atreus,’ he cried, ‘you will agree that neither of us has profited from our recent scandalous quarrel about a girl-captive. I heartily wish that Artemis the Huntress had shot her dead in Lymessus! No Greeks would then have been slaughtered because of losing her. Hector’s Trojans were the sole gainers, as our army will always recall. So, why not let bygones be bygones, forgiving each other the injuries we suffered and, henceforth, keep a close guard on our tongues? I am ready to forget my anger—a reputation for implacability sullies a prince’s honour—if you marshal your army at once and appoint me their leader. I must see whether the Trojans remain anxious to bed down in this camp. My prediction is that any of them fortunate enough to escape from me will be glad to rest their weary legs in whatever shelter offers.’
The Greeks applauded Prince Achilles’ change of front.
King Agamemnon’s wound prevented his rising. Still seated, he said: ‘Heroic comrades, pray show your courtesy by listening in silence, as though I were standing up! Even a practised orator finds it hard to ignore a buzz of interruptions; nor can his audience hear what he is saying. I shall address the son of Peleus, and call upon every man present to witness my words.
‘Prince Achilles, others beside yourself have often reproached my ill-considered utterances; yet Zeus, Fate, and the Fury who walks in darkness, are more to blame than I. They fooled me by suggesting that I should demand a possession of yours. Pray show forgiveness: we mortals are at the mercy of the Immortals—the very worst of whom is Mischief, Zeus’ eldest daughter. Everyone is beguiled by that goddess:
‘Delicate are her feet; they do not stalk
This earth, like yours and mine, but unseen walk
On air above our heads. It is her way
To trip us up, or send our wits astray.
‘Yes, even Zeus, whom we worship as the greatest and wisest of gods, was once hoodwinked by Queen Hera—at Mischief’s instigation! On the day that Alcmene of Thebes should have borne him his magnificent son Heracles, Zeus made a solemn speech before the assembled Immortals:
“‘Give ear, all gods and goddesses,
Who dwell in Heaven apart,
And I shall freely broach to you
/> The counsels of this heart:
“‘ARTEMIS, Goddess of Childbed,
Today shall bring to birth
One who shall rule my royal sons
Scattered about the earth!”
‘Hera slily interrupted: “But how can we trust you not to cheat us? Come, Lord of Olympus, swear a sure oath that the descendant of yours who is born today will rule Greece as High King!”
‘Zeus, unsuspectingly, took the oath. Hera darted off to Argos where, she knew, the wife of King Sthenelus, a descendant of Zeus, was seven months pregnant. She induced the premature birth of this child, while magically prolonging Alcmene’s travail, and brought the news to Zeus herself: “God of the Lightning Flash, a future High King of Greece has been born today—Eurystheus, son of Sthenelus. Being descended from your son Perseus, he is most worthy of the distinction.”
‘Startled into fury, Zeus seized Mischief by her bright locks and vowed that, for deceiving and blinding everyone, she should never again visit either Olympus or the starry Heavens. He whirled her round his head and let fly: Mischief sailed through the air, then crashed to earth. But Zeus still groaned and muttered against her, years later, because Eurystheus was imposing those cruel labours on Heracles.
‘I sympathized with Zeus, Prince Achilles, as I watched Hector’s slaughter among the ships; that is to say, I cursed Mischief for provoking my outrageous behaviour towards you. Yes, I fully admit the error, though not the responsibility, and am eager to make amends in the form of handsome damages. I ask no return but that you will lead my army; a commission which you have anticipated. If, therefore, you care to wait while the gifts mentioned by Odysseus are placed at your disposal, I will gladly keep my promise and give the necessary orders.’