An ample blood-price must be paid
For those who with Patroclus died
When, all too long, I nursed my pride.’
This speech enraged the River-god Xanthus. Already vexed that his waters were reddened by such ruthless butchery, he decided to stop Achilles from carrying out his threats. Meanwhile, Achilles had caught sight of Asteropaeus, son of Pelegon—and therefore grandson of the River-god Axius by Periboea, Acessamenus’ eldest daughter. When Xanthus gave Asteropaeus courage to stand in the ford brandishing two spears, Achilles addressed him: ‘Who are you? Where do you live? The parents of any man who opposes me deserve my commiseration!’
‘Bold son of Peleus,’ he replied. ‘Why ask these questions? My name is Asteropaeus, son of Pelegon, and eleven days ago I brought a company of spearmen here from the distant, fertile land of Paeonia. Pelegon, a well-known soldier, was son to the great River-god Axius. Now, fight!’
As Achilles poised his lance, Asteropaeus hurled both spears together, for he happened to be ambidextrous. One struck the divine shield and failed to penetrate beyond the central golden layer; the other grazed Achilles’ right elbow, drew a spurt of blood, then buried itself greedily in the earth. This scratch confused Achilles’ aim; his lance missed Asteropaeus and hit the high riverbank, entering so deep that only its butt protruded. Sword in hand, he leaped at his enemy, who was trying to get possession of the lance. Three times Asteropaeus tugged with all his might but, unable to dislodge it, would have snapped the haft in two, had not Achilles’ sword first plunged into his belly. Asteropaeus’ bowels gushed out, and he died gasping.
Achilles set a foot on his breast and stripped off the armour, crying: ‘Lie there, Paeonian! Even a river-god’s grandson should avoid challenging descendants of Almighty Zeus, of whom I am one—my father Peleus was son to Aeacus, King of the Myrmidons, and Aeacus had Zeus for father. Zeus being far stronger than all river-gods whose waters go murmuring seaward, his stock must naturally be far superior to any stock of theirs! Quite a large river flows beside you, but Scamander ranks low in the divine scale—he could never fight the Son of Cronus! Nor could Acheloïus himself, though unmatched in Greece; and even old Oceanus, renowned for his broad, deep, world-girdling stream, the source of every known river, sea, spring, or fountain, lives in terror of Zeus’ lightning and his roaring, rattling thunder!’
So saying, Achilles wrenched out the lance, and left Asteropaeus’ corpse awash on the sandy verge. Eels and fishes swarmed up, tearing at his exposed kidney-suet, while Achilles slaughtered the Paeonian chariotmen, huddling along Scamander’s banks and paralyzed by terror at their leader’s death: including Thersilochus, Mydon, Astypylus, Mnesus, Thrasius, Aenius, Ophelestes. He was continuing his savage task when Xanthus assumed human shape and roared angrily from an eddy.
‘Son of Peleus, you are the strongest of all living men and, secure in the Olympians’ patronage, you do more evil than any. If Zeus indeed sanctions this ruthless massacre of the entire Trojan army, have the courtesy at least to fight on the plain, not in my channel. You so clog this pleasant reach with corpses, that its waters are impeded as they journey to the sea. Leave me alone; your behaviour is outrageous!’
‘As you please, Immortal Xanthus,’ replied Achilles. ‘Yet my sword-play cannot cease before Hector meets me face to face in mortal combat, and all other Trojans are back behind their walls.’
When he set upon the enemy again, evincing divine rage, Xanthus asked Apollo: ‘Lord of the Silver Bow, why neglect the commands of your father Zeus? Were not you and I ordered to assist the Trojans and maintain their defence until dusk?’
This question offended Achilles. He sprang into the middle of the river and challenged Xanthus, who thereupon gathered up a great volume of water and, with a loud bellow, swept the corpses across the plain; but he arched protectively over such Trojans as survived, hiding them beneath his bright wave. Achilles’ shield proved powerless to stem the River-god’s rush; nor could he even keep his feet. A fine elm grew near by; though he braced himself by clutching at it, the current ran so fast that the entire tree came away in his grasp, tearing the bank down, and damming the river with its branches, trunk, and tangled roots. Somehow Achilles escaped the foaming whirlpool, clambered out of the stream, and fled. Xanthus, intent on saving Troy from such cruel vengeance, pursued him in the form of a tall, turbid wave. A spear-cast ahead of his pursuer, Achilles darted forward like a black eagle—no other bird of prey excels the black eagle in strength or swiftness—and his armour clanked terribly as he swerved to avoid the violent, noisy deluge.
At evening we release the flow
From a dark fountain, which
To fields and orchards far below
Is joined by a steep ditch.
Mattock in fist, a lad makes haste
To clear the water’s path,
But quickly finds himself outpaced
As off it roars in wrath,
Hurling bright gravel down the slope
With a huge hissing burst:
That mattock-lad can hardly hope
To reach the orchard first.
Achilles, despite his speed, was similarly outpaced—men have little chance against gods—and whenever he turned to see whether all the Olympians were coming in support of Xanthus, an enormous wave would slap his shoulders. He tried desperately to leap above the current, which tugged at his legs and pulled the soil from underneath his feet. Groaning aloud, and gazing up at the wide sky, he prayed:
‘O ZEUS Almighty,
Quick to show mercy,
Will no god pity
King Peleus’ son?
This cruel river,
Divine SCAMANDER,
Pursues me ever,
Though swift I run.
‘Long life I seek not,
Of death I reck not,
And therefore speak not,
Unless to blame
THETIS, my mother,
Who swore no other
Power could me conquer
But PHOEBUS’ aim.
‘If noble Hector
Might be my victor,
Of that poor honour
I should be fain;
For THETIS taught me
That death must take me
In gallant tourney
Upon Troy’s plain.
‘But now in anguish,
Alas, I perish—
Ah, ZEUS, how foolish
A fate is mine!
Like some imprudent,
Young mountain-peasant
Drowned by a torrent
While tending swine!’
On hearing this appeal, Poseidon and Athene hurried towards Achilles, disguised as mortals, took his hands in theirs, and pledged their assistance. Poseidon spoke first: ‘Courage, son of Peleus! Zeus has permitted Pallas Athene and myself to rescue you—because drowning is not your prescribed fate; and you shall soon enjoy seeing Xanthus retire in discomfiture. While I am about it, let me offer a piece of advice: fight on without fear until you have driven those fugitives back behind the celebrated walls which I once built! Then, after killing Hector—a glory we vouchsafe you—return at once to the naval camp and launch no further attacks on Troy.’
The Olympians vanished and, heartened by Poseidon’s words and given new strength by Athene, Achilles continued his difficult journey. The current whirled along valuable weapons, armour, and corpses, but he went skipping through it. Xanthus, still angrier, sent a prodigious crested wave curving against him, and called to his partner, the River-god Simöeis: ‘Help, dear brother! We must restrain this champion from routing the Trojans and sacking King Priam’s Citadel! Fill up your bed with spring-water, call out your torrents, form a deluge, roll down tree-stumps and boulders to overwhelm Achilles! Since he has challenged a god, he deserves a lesson. I swear that neither his vigour, nor his beauty, nor his glorious new armour shall be of any avail when I catch him in my sands, when I wrap him in slime, when I encase him in so much shingle that the G
reeks will neither know where to dig for his bones, nor need to heap a barrow above their hero—already buried alive!’
Xanthus advanced in the form of a mountainous dark flood—thundering, foaming, thick with corpses—and that would have been the end of Achilles, had not Hera uttered a shriek, and summoned her son Hephaestus. ‘To the rescue, lame son!’ she shouted. ‘You were the opponent chosen by Xanthus when this battle began. What I need is a blast of flame to scorch all yonder grass and brushwood; I shall raise a sudden strong wind from the south-west which will fan the flames into a magnificent blaze for consuming the dead Trojans and their armour. Then spread your fire to Xanthus’ banks, char his trees and make his very stream boil! But do not be coaxed or threatened into relaxing your efforts until I give the word.’
Hephaestus accordingly kindled a fierce fire on the plain; it soon consumed the thick heaps of corpses left in Achilles’ wake, and also checked Xanthus’ advancing flood.
Gardeners love the autumn wind
For doing what is wanted:
His cheerful toil dries out the soil,
Which can at last be planted.
Hephaestus’ blast similarly dried up the battlefield, much to Achilles’ relief, and then assailed the riverbanks: burning elms, willows, tamarisks, clover, rushes, and aromatic sedge growing there in profusion. Eels and fishes, darting through the water, were distressed by the heat, and Xanthus cried: ‘Have done, Hephaestus, your fire is unbearable! I resign all further concern in this battle: let Achilles expel the Trojans from their city as soon as he pleases—I will raise no finger to help him.’
A log-fire glows beneath the pot
Where fatted pork is frying,
And jets of grease supremely hot
Over the rim come flying!
The Scamander bubbled like that pot, powerless against Hephaestus’ scorching blast. Xanthus urgently appealed to Hera: ‘Queen, why has your champion singled me out for punishment, when I have hurt the Greeks less than any other god of the Trojan faction? If he calls off his attack, I will surrender, swearing never again to assist Troy, even though the Greeks set her roofs ablaze!’
Hera reproved Hephaestus. ‘Quench your fire, my son,’ she cried. ‘You should not have injured an Immortal so cruelly for the sake of a mere human!’
Hephaestus quenched his fire, and the Scamander once more rolled in peace along its familiar bed; and though Hera still felt bitter towards the Trojans, at least she kept the peace between these two fighters.
***
Meanwhile, the other gods had come to blows. Earth groaned under the shock of their terrific onset, and the Heavens rang as if with trumpets. Zeus, watching from Olympus, was much entertained by the family battle, which Ares began. Levelling his long spear at Athene, he taunted her: ‘Dog-fly, do you dare confront a male god? I wonder at such temerity; nor have I yet forgotten who prompted Diomedes, son of Tydeus, to wound me a few days ago; and who herself took a lance and unabashedly thrust it through my divine skin! Upon my word, I must be well avenged for that!’
The barbarous god lunged ineffectually at Athene’s fearful, tasselled Aegis, which Zeus’ thunderbolt itself cannot shatter. She stepped back, caught up an enormous black, ragged rock—anciently placed there as a landmark—and hurled it at him. Struck on the neck, Ares collapsed with a crash of armour, soiling his locks in dust and blood.
‘Poor fool!’ Athene laughed. ‘You never seem to learn that I am more than your match. This will cause Queen Hera great satisfaction, since she cursed you for deserting the Greeks in favour of the Trojans.’
Athene turned, and left Ares stretched supine over seven acres of ground; but Aphrodite helped him to his feet and led him off, groaning and half-dead. Hera saw them go. She shouted to Athene: ‘Invincible daughter of Zeus, look yonder! That creature Aphrodite is guiding my nasty, pugnacious son Ares out of the mělée. After her!’
Athene cheerfully attacked Aphrodite, knocking her down with a tremendous slap on the breasts. Ares lost his balance, too; and the pair of them sprawled hand in hand at Athene’s feet. ‘So may all gods tumble,’ she crowed, ‘who choose the wrong side—even though they are as courageous as Aphrodite! If I could so humble the rest of them, Troy would soon be sacked.’
Poseidon challenged Apollo. ‘Why do you and I not fight each other?’ he asked. ‘We shall be disgraced by standing aside when everyone else has entered the fray. Imagine my crossing the brazen threshold of Zeus’ Palace without having cast a single spear! Still, as the older and more experienced god, I should invite you to begin the combat. But what an imbecile you are to forget how badly we two were treated, long ago, in the reign of Priam’s father Laomedon! At Zeus’ orders, he employed us for a year as hired labourers. I built a huge, wide, impregnable wall around the city, while you tended his cattle on the woody spurs of Mount Ida; then, at the close of our engagement, he sent us away unpaid! Surely you recall Laomedon’s threats that, should we utter a word of protest, he would pinion our wrists, fetter our ankles, lop off our ears, and sell us as slaves overseas? We went home in deep resentment; and now you favour Laomedon’s stiff-necked people, instead of helping us to destroy them miserably—women, children, and all.’
Apollo answered: ‘Earth-Shaker, I may be an imbecile. I would, however, be a far greater one if I fought you for the sake of a few wretched mortals, who today eat, drink and are merry, but tomorrow fade like the foliage of a tree, drop to earth, and die. Let us break this quarrel short, leaving Greeks and Trojans to end the war themselves!’
As Apollo withdrew, ashamed at the notion of shooting an uncle, he was taunted by his sister Artemis, the Crescent-Crowned Huntress. ‘What, surrender without a single shot? Why carry a bow which you fear to use? May I never again hear you boast in our father’s Palace of being a match for Poseidon!’
Apollo kept silent, but Hera grew enraged. ‘Shameless bitch,’ she screamed at Artemis, ‘how dare you challenge me? Although empowered by Zeus to shoot down travailing women at your pleasure, you have taken on too strong an adversary this time! Go, climb the mountains and hunt mere lions or stags instead! Not that I mind first teaching you what war means.’
With her left hand Hera seized both of Artemis’ wrists, snatched the bow from her shoulders with the right, and then, as she struggled to escape, boxed her ears soundly. The pitiless arrows tumbled out of Artemis’ quiver; and she fled weeping.
Hermes, Conductor of Souls, the god who had conquered Hundred-Eyed Argus, stood pitted against the Goddess Leto. ‘Queen Leto,’ he said, ‘it would ill become me to exchange blows with a former wife of Zeus. I decline this combat. You may claim a resounding victory.’
Leto silently picked up her daughter Artemis’ curved bow and arrows, which lay scattered on the dusty plain, and disappeared.
Artemis flew back to Olympus, as a dove makes good its escape from a falcon by darting into a rock-cleft, and bounded across the brazen threshold of the divine Palace. There she sprang on Zeus’ knees, sobbing so piteously that her tunic shook.
Zeus hugged his daughter, and asked chuckling: ‘What? One of the Immortals boxed your ears as though you were guilty of a public misdemeanour? Who was it?’
Artemis replied: ‘Father, it was your own wife, Queen Hera, who started these quarrels in Heaven.’
Soon all the other Olympians, except Apollo, trooped into the Palace, some angry, some exultant, and sat down in Zeus’ presence; but Apollo visited Holy Troy, fearing that the Greeks might break in and sack the Citadel before their appointed hour.
***
Achilles continued his carnage; while he was busy at the ford, Hera had used an impenetrable mist to baffle those Trojans who were already heading for the Scaean Gate.
The gods have cursed a city
And set its roofs on fire;
They glower and show no pity
But make the smoke rise higher;
The scorched inhabitants in grief,
Must fight the flames without relief!
A
chilles’ massacre of Trojans caused equal misery and confusion. Old King Priam, posted on the watch-tower, saw his terror-stricken people streaming towards him. With a shout of alarm, he descended to the battlements. ‘Sentries,’ he cried, ‘unbar both wings of the Gate, and keep them wide open to admit your hard-pressed comrades! This is a disaster! But when all are safely home and recovering their breaths, shut the Gate again in the face of that bloodthirsty prince!’
As the sentries drew the bars and flung open both wings, Apollo leaped out to organize a rear-guard action which would assist the Trojans’ entry. Parched and grimy, they came pelting along, harried by the great lance of triumphant Achilles, Sacker of Cities. Troy would then assuredly have fallen, had Apollo not encouraged Agenor, son of Antenor, a vigorous and noblehearted fighter, to oppose Achilles. The god wrapped himself in thick mist and leaned against Zeus’ oak, prepared to intervene should his champion’s life be threatened.
When Agenor saw Achilles making for him, he soliloquized: ‘If I run from Prince Achilles like the rest of this demoralized horde, he will catch and kill me; and I shall die a coward. But suppose that I abandoned my men, escaped across the Ilian Plain to the foot-hills of Mount Ida, and hid among the bushes there? I could refresh myself by a bathe in the river, then slip back to Troy at dusk. On second thoughts, no! Achilles, the swiftest as well as the strongest hero alive, would soon head me off and kill me. My best course is to stay and challenge him. His skin is not weapon-proof nor, despite Zeus’ favouritism, can he have more than a single life, and that presumably a mortal one.’
A leopardess dares to confront
The savage leader of a hunt
Whose hounds about him bay,
And, though pierced through with thrust or cast,
She keeps her courage to the last,
Scorning a break-away!
So Agenor scorned to run before he had tested Achilles’ mortality. Brandishing his shield and spear, he shouted: ‘My lord, do not expect to sack Troy! More blood must first be shed around its walls. We are bold, proud, and numerous; we also have parents, wives and children to protect. This is where you die, however redoubtable a hero!’