‘It occurs to me that Achilles may be abstaining from warfare because of some oracle, or because Zeus has given his mother Thetis some dissuasive message… Nevertheless, why does he not send you out at the head of his Myrmidons, to encourage the other allies? And even let you borrow his own splendid suit of armour? The Trojans would probably mistake you for Achilles, and withdraw; thus affording our people the rest which they so badly need. Once a battle is joined, who finds any opportunity to relax? Besides, such fresh and vigorous troops as yours should have no trouble in driving Hector’s exhausted army behind the walls of Troy.’
This speech excited Patroclus. He took his leave and ran towards Achilles’ ship, but paused in an open space by the station of the Western Islanders, where Odysseus always paraded his contingent, did justice, and offered sacrifices. Here he met the undaunted Eurypylus, son of Euaemon, limping painfully along; sweat streamed from his neck, blood oozed from his ugly thigh-wound.
Patroclus cried in deep compassion: ‘Alas, poor heroes, sentenced to die on a distant shore, and glut the hunger of Trojan hounds with your plump white bodies! Tell me, Prince Eurypylus, foster-son of Zeus, have the Greeks any hope of repelling Hector’s assault, or will he butcher everyone in the camp?’
Eurypylus answered: ‘My lord Patroclus, descendant of Zeus, the fleet is doomed! All our best men are wounded, and Trojan attacks are growing more violent than ever. But pray assist me to my hut, remove the arrow, bathe the wound in warm water, and apply soothing ointments! It is said that Cheiron, the virtuous Centaur, taught you the use of vulneraries. We possess only two other skilled surgeons: Machaon, and his brother Podaleirius. Machaon has, I believe, come back wounded to the camp, and needs attention as much as I do. Podaleirius must still be fighting on the plain.’
‘You cannot know what you are asking, heroic Eurypylus!’ exclaimed Patroclus. ‘I am in a dilemma. Nestor has just sent me with an urgent appeal to my friend Achilles. Yet how can I refuse to dress your wound?’
He grasped Eurypylus by the waist and helped him slowly towards his hut. There, Eurypylus’ charioteer prepared a couch by spreading hides on the floor. Patroclus borrowed a sharp knife, knelt down, extracted the arrow, washed the wound in warm water; then, taking from his pouch a bitter root, which had both analgesic and styptic properties, crumbled it over the raw flesh. Eurypylus’ pain presently ceased; and so did the flow of blood.
Book Twelve:
The Trojans Attack the Creek Camp
So Patroclus, son of Menoetius, successfully treated Eurypylus’ wound, and the battle went raging on. It seemed clear that the defence system, built by the Greeks to protect their fleet and treasure, would not long fulfil this purpose, since work on it had begun without the Olympians being offered a large propitiatory sacrifice. True, while Hector lived and Achilles nursed his grudge, the rampart still stood, however irreligious its origin: Poseidon and Phoebus Apollo did not remove every trace of it until Troy and all her bravest defenders had fallen (later in that tenth year) and the surviving Greeks sailed away. Poseidon then ordered a confluence of the eight rivers which rose on Mount Ida—the Rhesus, the Heptaporus, the Caresus, the Rhodius, the Grenicus, the Aesepus, the noble Scamander, and the Simöeis, beside whose banks so many shields, helmets, and semi-divine heroes had lain in the dust. Apollo led their streams into a single channel which he directed at the rampart; Father Zeus provided nine days of continuous rain; and Poseidon, trident in hand, helped the sea to swamp the whole defence system—including laboriously laid revetments of stone and timber. Afterwards, Poseidon turned the Hellespontine currents against the ruins, spread sand over the entire area, and brought those eight rivers back to their proper beds.
Now, the rampart and its towers echoed the din of war as the Greeks were driven behind them by Hector’s whirlwind advance and the crack of Zeus’ whip.
Lion or boar
With sullen roar
Or angry grant
Attacks the hunt,
And proud of heart
Displays his art
By ravening
Around our ring.
Hunter and hound
Courage have found
Here to stand fast;
Javelins are cast
From every side,
But are cast wide;
Friends, when he wheels—
Take to your heels!
Though such courage usually proves fatal to a wild beast, Hector routed the Greeks, who had almost cut him off earlier in the day. Yet his chariot-teams baulked, whinnying, when they came to the fosse, terrified by the sheer drop and the formidable palisade of huge, sharp stakes, set close together, which lined the opposite side.
Prince Polydamas approached the allied leaders. ‘My lords’, he said, ‘you will agree on the folly of bringing our chariots any farther. That palisade makes it impassable, and once down there, we would have no room for manoeuvre. If Zeus the Thunderer really means to destroy these Greeks, nothing would please me more; but let them catch our massed chariots in the fosse and I doubt whether a single Trojan will escape to tell the tale. Why not leave our teams here, while we assault the rampart on foot under Prince Hector’s leadership?’
Hector agreed. He sprang from his chariot, and the allied leaders did the same, their charioteers taking charge of the horses. An assault force of five companies was organized. Hector led the largest, boldest and most enterprising company in person; his lieutenants being Polydamas and Cebriones. (Since Cebriones seemed too valuable a soldier to guard Hector’s chariot, a weaker man acted as his substitute.)
The remaining companies were officered thus:
SECOND COMPANY
Commander: Paris
Lieutenants: Alcathous (Aeneas’ brother-in-law); Agenor.
THIRD COMPANY
Commander: Helenus, son of Priam
Lieutenants: Deiphobus, son of Priam; Asius, son of Hyrtacus, from Arisbe.
FOURTH COMPANY
Commander: Aeneas the Dardanian
Lieutenants: Archelochus and Acamas, the sons of Antenor, both experienced fighters.
FIFTH COMPANY
Commander: Sarpedon the Lycian
Lieutenants: Glaucus the Lycian; Asteropaeus the Paeonian—chosen by Sarpedon as the two leading allied champions, after himself.
***
One Trojan who would not take part in this enterprise was Prince Asius, son of Hyrtacus. Loth to abandon his chariot, as the others did, he drove towards the sally-port, on the left flank, through which the routed Greeks had been streaming. Here Asius made an error of judgement, because Fate ruled that he would never return from his adventure, but be speared to death by King Idomeneus of Crete, the proud son of Deucalion. When Asius found that the gates were being held open to admit Greek stragglers, he headed for them, across the bridge; his exultant retinue fondly believing that the battle had ended and that they would soon be burning the fleet. The sally-port was, however, defended by two brave Lapiths—Polypoetes, son of Peirithous, and Leonteus, a grandson and rival of Ares.
On a hill two noble oaks
Stubbornly resist the strokes
Of winter weather;
Rooted deep and rooted strong,
They for generations long
Stand fast together.
Polypoetes and Leonteus stood equally fast. Asius’ people—among them his son Adamas, Iamenus, Orestes, Thoön, and Oenomaus—advanced shouting and flourishing their leather shields. ‘Save the fleet!’ bawled Polypoetes and Leonteus to their Lapith friends.
Wild boars that on the mountain
Defy our hunting crew,
From either flank come charging;
We raise the view halloo!
Tremendous tushes clatter,
Young trees are tumbled flat,
But hounds and spears and javelins
Soon put an end to that!
The din of a boar hunt was nothing compared to the sound of blows raining on the bronze corslets of Polypoetes and Leonteus. The
y fought in front of the gateway, all the more hopefully because their friends had manned the rampart and were pelting the Trojans from above.
Wind, how fierce you blow!
Clouds look dark as night,
Heavy flakes of snow
Flutter from a height.
Stones flew thick and fast as snowflakes, though by no means so quietly: the hollow boom when they struck Trojan helmets and shields made Asius groan. ‘Father Zeus’, he exclaimed, slapping his thighs, ‘how you love trickery! You let us believe that the Greeks had already yielded to our unconquerable arms. But now:
‘Like wasps of nimble body
Or angry bumble-bees,
That nest beside the cart-track
All among rocks and trees,
‘Guarding their grubs with fury
When hunters pass that way,
So these two reckless heroes
Defend their camp today!’
Zeus the Shield-Bearer paid no heed whatever to Asius’ protest; he would soon grant Hector the glory of forcing the gates.
Polypoetes ran at a vigorous Trojan, Damasus by name, who was wearing a bronze helmet with cheek-pieces; pierced it, scattered his brains, and proceeded, further, to fell Pylon and Ormenus. Leontus did no worse: he drew sword and rushed through the mělée at Antiphates, whom he cut down; then killed Menon, Iamenus, and Orestes, one after the other.
While these two Greek heroes bent to harvest their spoils, Hector’s company paused in doubt beside the fosse. They had been on the point of entering it and scaling the palisades, when a portent occurred. They saw an eagle soaring high on their left hand, a large, blood-red serpent clutched in his talons. But the serpent was still unsubdued: writhing, it darted its fangs into the eagle’s breast. The bird gave a scream of anguish, released his prey, and sailed away on a current of wind. A cry of horror arose from the Trojans among whom this bright reptile fell, for they recognized it as a sign sent them by Zeus. Prince Polydamas said to Hector: ‘You always silence me if I oppose you in debate: on the ground, perhaps, that we who are not members of the Trojan royal house must applaud your views. However, I will risk another rebuke by begging you to call off the attack! This prodigy is a manifest warning to us. An eagle flies high on the left hand, clutching a large, live, blood-red serpent, which he releases before the eaglets in his eyrie can feed on it! What reputable augur could misread the divine message? He would announce: “Even if you force the Greeks to take refuge behind their rampart, the battle must continue. On reaching the fleet, your troops will be driven off with heavy losses, and rolled back across the plain.”’
Hector scowled. ‘Polydamas,’ he said, ‘your new proposal displeases me. Unless it is humorously intended, the gods must have turned your wits. Imagine asking me to forget Zeus’ promises, which his famous nod has confirmed! So I am expected to study the habits of carrion-birds, am I? Well, they mean nothing to me, whether they fly east towards the dawn, or west towards the mist and darkness. I would rather trust the word of Almighty Zeus, the King both of gods and men. A divine message? The best divine message is: “Defend your country!” Are you scared? One thing stands to reason: that, though all the rest of us die among the enemy ships, you at least need have no fear—cowards always elude danger! Yet hang back from this assault, or try to talk your comrades over, and I will use my spear on you!’
Then Hector signalled the attack, and Zeus sent a great wind from Ida which blew dispiriting clouds of dust into the Greeks’ faces. Hector’s excited company had soon scaled the rampart, demolished the parapet, and begun to strip a tower of its large supporting buttresses. However, the Greeks made their shields into a new parapet, and went on pelting the Trojans still massed below.
Great and Little Ajax went from tower to tower, urging the troops to fiercer efforts. Some they encouraged with gay shouts, others, who had lost heart and were slinking off, they reprimanded sternly. The gist of their harangue was: ‘Friends, despite differences in rank, there is work for everyone—princes, junior officers, and common soldiers—as you know well! Disregard those Trojan boasts! To your posts, and cheer your comrades on! Olympian Zeus may yet send Hector’s men scampering behind their city walls.’
Mercilessly falls the snow!
Missiles cast on earth below
From the fist of ZEUS. He stills
Every breeze, and swaddles hills
Headlands, ploughlands, grassy plain
In a glistering counterpane:
Harbours, bays, and broad sea-strand
Blanch like death on either hand!
Yet the sea, our dark grey sea,
Of this wintry change goes free.
Stones were falling as thick as snowflakes, and the rampart echoed like a cliff struck by heavy waves.
The Trojan allies would never have broken into the naval camp, had not Zeus roused his foster-son Sarpedon to battle-fury. He ran forward under cover of a magnificent round shield—wrought bronze, and several thicknesses of bull’s hide secured to the rim by numerous gold rivets—and shook his two spears.
The mountain lion
Has nothing eaten
These many days,
And thinks to havoc
Inside the paddock
Where fat sheep graze.
It does not matter
To this proud raider
That men are there,
Or hounds are watchful;
His need is fearful—
Why should he care?
No spear appals him
When nature calls him
To drag down sheep.
A death from hunger
Holds no less danger;
He leaps his leap!
Sarpedon, with equal disregard of the consequences, had resolved to gain a lodgement on the rampart, and shouted to his comrade Glaucus, son of Hippolochus: ‘Cousin, why do the Lycians pay us semi-divine honours? Why do we get the most honourable seats at banquets, the finest cuts of meat, the fullest goblets, and great estates of orchard and wheat-land beside our River Xanthus? Surely it is because we lead their forces to war? Let us show ourselves worthy of such generous confidence! I want to hear the troops exclaim: “Our princes feast on fat mutton and sweet wine, but they are great champions, always in the thick of the fighting…” Dear Glaucus, if only this battle were over, and we could become Immortals—never growing old! I would no longer need to risk my life, or ask you to risk yours. But ten thousand unavoidable hazards menace us. Up with you! We must either win glory by dealing death, or fall ourselves and yield the glory to our victors!’
Glaucus shared Sarpedon’s sentiments; so they advanced together at the head of the fifth company.
Menestheus son of Peteus, the Athenian King, aware that his tower had been chosen for the assault, glanced anxiously along the rampart, in search of Greek champions who might help him; and saw Great and Little Ajax, bellicose as ever, and Teucrus, just approaching them from his hut. Unable to make himself heard above the clash of weapons on armour, and noisy Trojan attempts at battering down the gates, Menestheus beckoned Thoötes, a herald, and said: ‘Pray, my lord Thoötes, ask Great Ajax to reinforce us—and Little Ajax, too; their assistance would be a godsend, since utter disaster threatens this command. Two Lycian princes are attacking the tower—these Lycians were always formidable fighters. But should Little Ajax have too much on his hands, at least fetch Great Ajax, and Teucrus the Archer!’
Thoötes darted away and delivered the message in Menestheus’ exact words.
Great Ajax said urgently to Little Ajax: ‘I wish you and Lycomedes to stay here! I shall help Menestheus, and return as soon as the Lycians are beaten back.’
He and his half-brother Teucrus went off, skirting the rampart; also Pandion, Teucrus’ squire. When they reached Menestheus’ tower—and very welcome he made them—the Lycians had already arrived. Great Ajax yelled his war-cry, and seizing a jagged stone of a weight that the strongest young man today could not easily lift, he hurled it at Epicles, Sarpedon?
??s stalwart brother-in-arms, who was scaling the parapet. It crushed his four-crested helmet, splintering the skull; Epicles fell as if he were diving from a cliff. At the same time Teucrus—whose broken collarbone had by now knit together again—shot Glaucus, son of Hippolochus, in the right shoulder; which put an end to his pugnacious mood. Glaucus slid down the rampart and quietly disappeared, to forestall any Greek jeers. Sarpedon missed Glaucus, but kept his courage: he lunged at Alcmaon, son of Thestor, drew out the spear, and watched him crash on his face. Then he gripped the parapet and heaved, until a whole length of it collapsed, thus making his comrades’ ascent much easier.
Ajax and Teucrus now attacked Sarpedon with spear and bow. Teucrus’ arrow glanced off his plated baldric—Zeus saw to that—and Ajax’s spear rang ineffectually against his shield. Sarpedon, somewhat sobered though still eager for glory, retired a few paces. ‘Lycians,’ he shouted, ‘where are you? Though I am no weakling, do not expect me to carve my way to the ships single-handed! Forward again! More men spells better work.’
The Lycians spared themselves another reprimand by supporting their prince energetically; but Menestheus brought fresh forces into action, and a desperate struggle ensued on the rampart. It recalled stubborn peasants disputing the ownership of tillage strips on a common: