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’ ships 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 way 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!’
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.