The Greeks and Trojans were thus left by the gods to their own unaided devices. Spears hummed between the two armies as the tide of battle ebbed and flowed across the plain bounded by the Rivers Simöeis and Scamander. Great Ajax, the Greek champion, saved his Salaminians on one occasion when, single-handed, he broke a Thracian battalion and killed its handsome commander Acamas, son of Eussorus. Swinging his sword against Acamas’ helmet-ridge, which was topped by a thick plume, Ajax drove the sharp bronze edge through his brain.
Axylus, son of Teuthranus, died next. This very popular nobleman lived in the town of Arisbe on the road from Troy to the Black Sea, and had kept open house there. Yet none of his former guests ran forward now to protect him and his charioteer Calysius from the onslaught of Diomedes, who dispatched them both. Diomedes’ lieutenant, Euryalus, son of Mecisteus, having already killed the Trojans Dresus and Opheltius, went in pursuit of Aesepus and Pedasus, Bucolion’s twin sons by the River-nymph Abarbarea—this Bucolion being King Laomedon of Troy’s eldest son, a bastard who had been tending the royal flocks when the nymph fell in love with him. Euryalus took Aesepus and Pedasus’ lives, and their armour as well.
Stubborn Polypoetes the Thessalian laid Astyalus low; as Odysseus also did Pidytes of Percote; and Teucrus, the magnificent Aretaon. Nestor’s son Antilochus speared Ablerus; the High King Agamemnon speared Elatus of Pedasus, a town perched above the lovely Satniöeis River; Leïtus the Boeotian caught Phylacus as he fled; and Eurypylus the Thessalian accounted for Melanthius.
Adrestus of Percote, King Merops’ son, lost control of his team: they bolted, stumbled on a low tamarisk-bough, snapping the chariot-pole at its base, and sent him sprawling beside a wheel; then off they galloped citywards among the rest of the chariotry. Menelaus rushed up, brandishing a spear, but Adrestus clasped his knees in suppliant fashion, pleading: ‘Have mercy! My father King Merops will pay you an enormous ransom as soon as he hears that I am alive and your prisoner. His palace is crammed with bronze, gold and valuable iron.’
Menelaus nodded agreement, and would at once have sent Adrestus down to the camp under armed escort, had not Agamemnon come along and protested: ‘My dear brother, why this tenderness towards the enemy? Have they treated you and your relatives well enough to deserve such compassion? In my view we should not spare a single male Trojan, not even a child still in his mother’s womb; but make it our duty to extirpate the whole cursed brood, and leave their dead bodies unwept and unhonoured.’
This righteous argument convinced Menelaus, who thrust Adrestus away. Agamemnon murdered him, with a sharp stab in his side, placed a heel on the prostrate body, and tugged out the spear-blade.
Nestor’s shrill voice now echoed across the battlefield. ‘Come, my lads and brothers-in-arms! Press on the rout, and kill as many Trojans as you can. Why compete with one another in collecting loads of booty? Wait until all is done, and strip the corpses at your leisure.’
The Greeks cheered Nestor, and would have chased the beaten and dispirited mob of Trojans back into their city, but for Priam’s son Prince Helenus, a most reliable prophet. He approached Hector and Aeneas, saying: ‘My lords, since you are acting as joint commanders-in-chief, I beg you to rally your troops in defence of the gate before they stream through and fall exhausted on the laps of their wives. This is no time for delay! My lord Hector, while Aeneas helps us to beat off the Greek attack, weary though we may be you should briefly visit the city—I see no other alternative—and tell our mother what to do. She should assemble all the old noblewomen there in Athene’s temple on the Citadel, unlock the holy inner shrine, cover the knees of the divine image with the largest, grandest robe she possesses—the one she herself prizes most—and vow Athene the Bright-Haired Spoil-Winner a sacrifice of twelve oxen that have never known yoke or goad, if she consents to save the city, its women, and its little children. The goddess will perhaps restrain Diomedes, whose terrible spear has been the main instrument of our defeat. His performances today prove him the best man on the Greek side. Achilles may have a divine mother, but did he ever scare our people so? Nobody can match Diomedes when that divine battle-fury overcomes him.’
Hector took Helenus’ advice. He leaped from his chariot in full armour, and ran through the ranks shaking two spears and rallying the disorderly mass of Trojans; until, with a shout of defiance, they turned about. The Greeks, taken aback, discontinued their slaughter and gave ground, believing that some Olympian had darted down from Heaven to check the fugitives. ‘Brave Trojans, glorious allies,’ Hector yelled, ‘fight like the heroes that you are, while I hurriedly return to Troy! I am telling King Priam’s Councillors, and our wives too, that they must pray for our safety and offer the gods hundred-beast sacrifices.’ As Hector hastened off, the enormous black bull’s hide shield drummed against his neck and ankles.
***
Two heroes now advanced towards each other over the no-man’s-land which separated the armies. They were Glaucus, son of Hippolochus, and Diomedes, son of Tydeus. Diomedes cried: ‘May I inquire your name, sir? We have not met hitherto, and your courage is remarkable. Any Trojan father whose son challenges me to single combat deserves my pity. So pray reassure me that you are not an Olympian in disguise; I am fighting no more Olympians today—warned by the case of proud Lycurgus, son of Dryas, who was King of the Edonians. This Lycurgus, you may remember, armed only with an ox-goad, drove the Maenads of Dionysus’ army from the rich land of Nysa. They flung away their ivy-wands in terror, and even Dionysus plunged trembling to the sea bottom, where the Goddess Thetis opened her arms and comforted him. The Blessed Gods, however, enraged by this disrespect to one of their number, blinded Lycurgus and cut short his life. Myself, I want to avoid their hate; but come forward and fight me, if you are a mortal who eats and drinks just as I do; for then I shall be happy to end your military career.’
Glaucus answered:
‘Why noble son of Tydeus, why
Must you inquire my name?
All forest leaves are born to die;
All mortal men the same.
‘Though Spring’s gay branches burgeon out,
Their leaves continue not,
Cold autumn scatters them to rout,
And in cold earth they rot.
‘Next year, another host of leaves
Is born, grows green and dies;
Old MOTHER EARTH their fall receives—
The fall of man likewise.
‘Still,’ he said, ‘if you insist on it, I will give an account of myself, which many soldiers here will be glad to confirm. In the centre of Greece stands a city called Ephyra, where Sisyphus, son of Aeolus, once reigned. He was the craftiest man of his day, and through his son Glaucus became grandfather to Bellerophon. The gods endowed Bellerophon with such strength and manly beauty, that Anteia, wife of King Proetus the Argive, his powerful overlord, tried to seduce him. When the prudent and honest Bellerophon rejected her advances, she secretly approached Proetus, and said: “If you value your life, husband, kill Bellerophon! He nearly succeeded in raping me.” Proetus believed this lie but, despite his anger, could not bring himself to murder a guest. Instead, he sent him across the sea with a sealed package for Iobates the King of Lycia; it contained engraved tablets requesting vengeance on the bearer, who had insulted Iobates’ daughter—this same Anteia.
‘The Olympians brought Bellerophon safe to the mouth of the Lycian River Xanthus, where Iobates received him splendidly: the feasting lasted nine days, and every day they slaughtered a fresh ox. At dawn, on the tenth day, the time came for Iobates to inquire: “My lord, what news do you bring from my esteemed son-in-law Proetus?” Bellerophon innocently produced the sealed package, and Iobates, having read the tablets, ordered him to kill the Chimaera. She was no ordinary beast, but a monstrous sister of the Dog Cerberus: her goat’s body had the fire-breathing head of a lioness at one end, and the tail of a serpent at the other. Nevertheless, by dutiful obedience to the dictates of Heaven, Bellerophon, with Athene’s help, destroyed her. Sent against the Solymians next, Bellerophon defeated them in what he afterwards described as the fiercest combat he remembered. Iobates then told him to crush the Amazons, each of them a match for any man at fighting. Finally, on his homeward journey, the task accomplished, he fell into an ambush laid by Iobates and, though his assailants were the boldest in the wide land of Lycia, killed every one. Iobates realized at last that Bellerophon must be under divine protection, and handed him Proetus’ letter, demanding exact particulars of his alleged attempt on Anteia’s virtue. Convinced by Bellerophon’s frank reply that she had lied, Iobates married him to his other daughter Philonoë, and gave him the co-sovereignity of Lycia. The Lycians further presented Bellerophon with a freehold estate of their best vineyards and corn-land. Philonoë bore Bellerophon two sons, named Isander and Hippolochus; also a daughter, named Laodameia, on whom Zeus the Lord of Counsel fathered the famous Sarpedon yonder.
‘Bellerophon’s life ended dismally. He offended the gods by visiting Olympus uninvited, on the back of his winged horse Pegasus, and they condemned him to wander, a lonely and miserable outcast, over the Aleian Plain, shunning human society. Of his two sons, Isander was killed when Ares the Bloodthirsty came to the aid of the Solymians; and Laodameia while seated at her loom by angry Artemis of the Golden Reins. Hippolochus survives; he is my own father and sent me here under strict orders not to disgrace our family, which combines the noblest blood of Ephyra with the noblest of Lycia, but to outdo all my fellows in skill and courage. This, then, is who I am.’
The delighted Diomedes planted his spear upright in the soil, and returned a most gracious answer: ‘Prince Glaucus,’ he cried, ‘you and I are bound together by inherited ties of friendship; my grandfather, King Oeneus, once entertained your grandfather, Bellerophon, in his palace for no less than twenty days, and they exchanged gifts at parting. Bellerophon got a belt of Tyrian purple, and Oeneus a two-handled gold goblet, which I still have at home. Unfortunately, I cannot remember my father Tydeus; he died while I was an infant, during the Achaean attack on Thebes; but, the fact is that you in your Lycian, and I in my Peloponnesian city, are guest-cousins and entitled to lavish hospitality whenever we visit each other. It therefore behoves us to avoid personal combat in future. After all, there are as many Trojans and Trojan allies for me to kill as Heaven permits, and there are as many Greeks for you to kill! Let us exchange arms in public acknowledgement of our guest-cousinship.’
Glaucus leaped from his chariot and advanced to meet Diomedes. They shook hands in token of friendship. Yet Zeus, Son of Cronus, must have addled Glaucus’ wits: imagine exchanging a golden suit of armour worth at least a hundred cows, against a bronze suit hardly worth nine!
***
As Hector the Bright-Helmed reached the oak-tree just outside the Scaean Gate, a crowd of Trojan women ran up, pestering him with inquiries about husbands, brothers, sons and friends. His sole reply, ‘Pray to the Gods!’, gave them little comfort. He strode on towards the polished stone colonnades of the Royal Palace, and the two rows of bedrooms facing each other across a wide central courtyard—fifty for Priam’s sons and their wives, twelve more for his daughters and sons-in-law. The bedrooms were also built of polished stone, and had separate roofs.
Hector’s mother, Hecuba the Beautiful, met him, accompanied by Laodice, his loveliest sister. ‘My son,’ cried Hecuba, seizing him by the hand, ‘why have you deserted the battlefield? To invoke Zeus from the Citadel? The accursed Greeks must be pressing us hard if that is your mission! Wait while I fetch you some sweet wine—first for a libation to Zeus and his family, and then for your own refreshment. Wine is an excellent restorative when one is as jaded as you look.’
Hector answered: ‘I appreciate your kindness, Mother; but wine would cripple my courage and rob me of strength. Besides, I should be ashamed to pour libations with such filthy, blood-stained hands as these—nobody should ever do so before washing himself! Now, please assemble the old noblewomen of Troy in Pallas Athene’s temple on the Citadel; then unlock the holy inner shrine, cover the knees of the divine image with the largest, loveliest, grandest robe you possess—the one you prize most—and vow Athene the Bright-Haired Spoil-Winner a sacrifice of twelve oxen which have never known yoke or goad, if she consents to save the city, its women, and its little children. The goddess will perhaps restrain Diomedes, whose terrible spear has been the main instrument of our defeat.
‘Do this without delay, while I persuade Paris to resume the battle. O that the earth would open and swallow that brother of mine! The tender protection afforded him by Aphrodite has brought nothing but grief on our noble father and on all his sons and subjects. A glimpse of Paris’ ghost descending to the gates of Hell would, I confess, make me happy indeed.’
Hecuba called her maids of honour from the Palace hall, and together they summoned every old noblewoman in Troy. Then she descended to her fragrant store-room, where she kept the embroidered robes which Prince Paris had looted at Sidon on his return voyage from Sparta with Helen—Sidonian women are famous for embroidering. Hecuba chose the largest and most beautiful robe of the whole pile—it lay at the very bottom, twinkling like a star. She took this up to the Citadel, followed by her flock of aged dames.
There Athene’s priestess, pretty Theano, who was Cisseus’ daughter and Prince Antenor’s wife, unlocked the inner shrine, and the company raised their hands in lamentation to Athene; while Theano, taking the robe from Hecuba, spread it on the knees of the divine image, and prayed as follows:
‘ATHENE, guard this Citadel!
ATHENE, fair beyond compare,
I pray you, guard it well!
‘Snap Diomedes’ lance, let Fate
Cause him to fall, in sight of all,
Dead at the Scaean Gate!
‘Twelve oxen which have never yet
Suffered the goad, to you are owed—
Think not we shall forget!
‘But when Troy’s soldiers call on you,
Guard well their lives, guard well their wives,
Their tiny children, too!’
Athene, however, stubbornly disregarded Theano’s prayer.
Hector stopped at the fine mansion which the best masons and carpenters in Troy had built for Paris, to his own design. It adjoined the Royal Palace and Hector’s own house, and consisted of a courtyard, a hall, and a large bedroom above. Hector hurried up the stairs, proceeded by his bronze spear-point with its gold socket-band—the spear measured nearly fourteen feet in length—and entered the bedroom. He found Paris furbishing his handsome breast-plate, arms and shield. Helen sat not far off, superintending her maids as they wove or embroidered linen cloth.
Hector said bitterly: ‘I cannot regard your grudge against Troy as being a very decent one. It is for you alone that our people are dying in defence of these walls—their shouts must surely have reached your ears? Yet you often scold a friend who shirks battle.’
Paris, now busily testing his bow, answered: ‘Sharp words, though not unreasonably so. Allow me to explain that I bear no particular grudge against Troy; but, feeling a little sad, I wanted to enjoy a good cry on a chair in this bedroom. My wife has just suggested that I should fight again, and I am taking her advice; because one never knows who will win the next round, does one? Wait, while I re-arm; or else go ahead, if you prefer—I will soon overtake you.’
When Hector remained silent, Helen said sweetly: ‘Brother-in-law—if a bitch like myself may venture to claim kinship with you—pray listen to my complaint:
‘Had burst and carried me
To some far, rocky steep,
Or in a grave of sea
Buried me fathoms deep!
‘Ah, if I had never grown to womanhood, none of these dreadful events would have taken place! But, since the gods planned things as they did, I wish at least that I had eloped with a better man—someone sufficiently honourable not to make light of the general contempt which he earns. Paris is, I fear, incorrigibly shameless: all your troubles have been caused through my being a bitch, and Paris being rotten to the marrow! Zeus, of course, will punish us both severely; and long after we are dead, bards will compose derisive songs about our failings. But do sit down and rest on this settle!’
Hector answered: ‘I am sorry that I have to decline your friendly invitation, Helen. My heart is set on getting back as soon as possible; the troops miss me. Make your husband hurry, if he will not do so himself, and see whether he can overtake me this side of the Gate. I must first visit my own home for a brief goodbye to my beloved wife and our little son; we three may never meet again.’
Hector left the house, but on reaching his own hall, could not find Andromache. He shouted to the staff: ‘Tell me, where has your mistress gone? Visiting one of my sisters or sisters-in-law? Or to the Citadel, where my mother is propitiating Athene? I want the truth, not guesses!’ A maid-servant looked up and said: ‘My lord Hector, if you want the truth, she has not gone visiting any sister or sister-in-law of yours; nor is she at the temple. She ran out to the Ilian Tower in a fit of distraction, having heard that our men were being severely handled by the Greeks. The nurse-maid took your little boy along, too.’
Hector thereupon retraced his steps, down the well-paved street leading to the Scaean Gate and the plain beyond. Fortunately, Andromache intercepted him before he passed through. (Her father, the magnanimous King Eëtion of Cilicia, who lived in the city of Thebe, under the wooded slopes of Mount Placus, had demanded a large dowry when she married Hector.) Behind Andromache came the nurse-maid, carrying Scamandrius, Hector’s son, a child of star-like loveliness and universally nicknamed Astyanax—‘King of the City’—because Hector, on whose shoulders rested the defence of Troy, felt such affection for him. As Hector stood gazing at Scamandrius with a quiet smile, Andromache clung to his hand, and sobbed: ‘Dear husband, this reckless courage will be your undoing! Have pity on Scamandrius and on me! What if the Greeks make a concerted rush at you? I would rather die than become your widow! Once you are gone, nothing but sorrow awaits me. It is not as though I still had parents: Achilles killed my father in the sack of Cilician Thebe—he showed proper respect, I admit, by burning his corpse without removing the fine inlaid armour, and raised a royal barrow over the ashes; after which Zeus’ daughters, the Mountain-nymphs of Placus, planted an elm-grove to mark the site. In the same raid, however, Achilles had slaughtered all my seven brothers, out in the fields among their cows and sheep; and captured my mother, the Queen, whom he brought to the Greek camp with the rest of his booty. Later he accepted a prodigal ransom for her, and she returned to my grandfather’s palace; but soon died of some disease sent by Artemis the Archer.
‘So, dear Hector, you are now not merely my husband—you are father, mother, and brother, tool Be merciful, stay here on the Tower; do not orphan this darling, do not widow me! And, another thing, I beg you to draw up your men beside the fig-tree over there, where the wall is weakest and more easily scaled. Three attempts on it have already been made by Great and Little Ajax, and Idomeneus of Crete; also by Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Diomedes. I wonder whether a prophet revealed the weakness of that wall to them, or whether they noticed it themselves?’
Hector answered: ‘Your forebodings weigh heavily on my heart, yet I should lose my self-respect if the Trojan nobles and their womenfolk caught me malingering. I could not bring myself to do so, in any case; I have always fought courageously with the vanguard for my father’s glory and my own. But let me tell you this: it is my conviction that our holy city must soon fall, and that every man in Troy must die around King Priam. What agony awaits my mother, my father, my brothers, and the many hundreds of brave Trojans doomed to lie in the dust at our enemies’ feet! I confess, though, that all this troubles me little when I brood on the agony that awaits you—led weeping into slavery by some mail-clad conqueror! In Greece you will have to work the loom under the eye of a harsh mistress, and draw water at her orders from the spring of Messeis or of Hypereia, suffering ill-treatment and perpetual restraint. As your tears flow, fingers will point, and it will be said: “Look, she was once the wife of Hector, the Trojan Commander-in-Chief during the recent war!” Then fresh grief will stab your heart for the loss of a husband who so long postponed the dreadful hour of your captivity. May I lie deep beneath a barrow before you are rudely carried off—may I be spared the sound of your heart-broken shrieks!’
He stretched out a hand towards little Scamandrius, who shrank away, hugging his pretty nurse-maid; the bronze armour terrified him, and so did the tall horsehair plume that nodded fiercely from his father’s helmet-top. Andromache smiled; Hector smiled too. He removed the helmet, laid it shining on the ground, took Scamandrius in his arms, kissing and dandling him, and then prayed:
‘O ZEUS, Sole Ruler of the Sky,
And all you other gods on high,
Grant that my infant son may live
To gather fame superlative.
Reserve, I beg you, for this boy
A bold, strong heart to govern Troy
And shine as once his father shone.
May the whole city muse upon
His feats, as often as the car
Brings him spoil-laden home from war
(Spoil reddened with the owner’s gore)
To cheer his mother’s heart once more;
Then let all say, if say they can:
“His father was the lesser man!”’
The prayer done, he handed Scamandrius to Andromache. As she embraced him, half-laughing, half-crying, Hector stroked her shoulders pityingly. ‘Dearest Andromache,’ he whispered, ‘control your grief! No Greek will kill me, unless Heaven permits him; and what mortal, whether he be courageous or a coward, can evade his destiny? Go home now, attend to your spinning and weaving, keep your women hard at work; but war is a man’s task, and especially mine as the Trojans’ leader. You must leave it to me!’ With that, Hector fell silent, picked up the plumed helmet, set it on his head again, and made for the gate.
As Andromache ascended the hill, glancing frequently over her shoulder, great tears rolled down her cheeks. Arrived at the house, she raised a lament, in anticipation of Hector’s death, and all the womenfolk wept with her—none of them expecting him to survive his furious stand against the Greeks.
Paris did not, as it proved, stay much longer in his bedroom. Though fully armed, like a run-away horse he galloped along the streets:
A stallion on pearl-barley fed,
A nimble horse of noble breed,
Has burst the halter-rope and fled
From his full manger at full speed.
He runs in pride with streaming mane,
Towards waters that will cool his rage,
And whinnies at the mares again
In their accustomed pasturage…
So Paris ran, with exultant laughter, and overtook Hector as he turned from his farewell to Andromache. Paris said grinning: ‘I apologize for delaying so busy a man—I should have come directly you ordered me.’
Hector replied: ‘Nobody in his senses would under-rate your fighting qualities, brother; you are strong enough. But I find it painful to hear our people complaining of the distress that your wilful irresponsibility and carelessness have brought on us all. Well, we shall put everything right one day perhaps, if Zeus ever lets us chase the Greeks from our country and dedicate a thanks-giving bowl at the Palace to himself and his fellow-Immortals.’