(ZEUS closed his anguished eyes.)
Of all dire things
His death my heart most wrings!
‘Yet how may I go near
Who cannot grip my sword
Nor any help afford?
Physician dear,
Heal me, as I pray here!
‘Ay, in this hour of need
PHOEBUS, I turn to you,
As all good Lycians do.
Watch how I bleed!
O stanch the flow with speed!’
On hearing Glaucus’ prayer, Apollo at once stanched the flow of blood, eased the pain, and restored his courage. Glaucus felt the change and, after urging his Lycians to defend their dead King’s corpse, strode joyfully in search of Polydamas, son of Panthous, Prince Agenor, Aeneas and Hector. Finding them at last, he cried: ‘Hector, pray remember your allies! They marched far from their homes to fight for Troy, and are now being slaughtered. Would you leave them to their fate? King Sarpedon has been killed by Patroclus! Come, meet anger with anger: protect his corpse from despoilment! These Myrmidons are bent on avenging the Greeks who fell beside the ships.’
This news caused Hector and his companions bitter grief. Sarpedon, although no native of Troy, was the best fighter in the large allied force he led, and regarded as a mainstay of the city’s defence. Hector headed an immediate charge to where the dead man lay; and at the same time Patroclus summoned Great and Little Ajax.
‘Friends,’ he said, ‘I have speared King Sarpedon, the first Lycian to scale the rampart, and would be glad of your help. We must counter all attempts to rescue his corpse, and strip it naked ourselves. Be as brave as ever you were, or even braver!’
Great and Little Ajax needed no encouragement. The struggle for Sarpedon’s spoils became a full-scale battle between Glaucus and his Lycians strengthened by Hector’s Trojans, and Patroclus’ Myrmidons strengthened by the Locrians and Salaminians. Arms clashed, voices roared, and Zeus, to glorify his dead son, drew a cloak of darkness about this cruel combat.
The Trojans killed a leading Myrmidon: Epeigeus, son of Prince Agacles, formerly ruler of Magnesian Budeion. Epeigeus, having murdered a kinsman, had gone as a suppliant to King Peleus and his queen, the Goddess Thetis, who welcomed him at their court and later sent him off to war in the company of their son Achilles. As Epeigeus caught hold of Sarpedon’s feet, Hector struck his helmet with a boulder, crushing the skull, and tumbling him over the corpse that he coveted. Patroclus pressed forward to avenge Epeigeus:
Like a gier-falcon whose sharp beak and claws
Scatter a flight of starlings or jackdaws…
and hurled another boulder, which hit Sthenelaus, son of Ithae-menes, on the neck, killing him at once.
Hector and his Trojans then gave ground for the distance of a spear-cast—a long cast, such as might be made at an athletic contest, or in the desperation of battle. Glaucus, pursued by Bathycles, son of Chalcon, the wealthiest Myrmidon on the field, whirled about and lunged at his breast. Bathycles fell with a crash. The delighted Trojans rallied behind Glaucus and drove the unhappy Greeks back to their starting point. Meriones the Cretan went for Laogonus, whose father Onetor, High Priest to Idaean Zeus, was given semi-divine honours at Troy; his spear pierced Laogonus under the jawbone, and killed him instantly. Aeneas cast at Meriones, who was rushing up, but he ducked and the javelin whistled over his shield, to stick quivering in the soil. ‘Meriones,’ Aeneas cried angrily, ‘you may consider yourself lucky that I did not end your dancing days!’
‘Yes,’ Meriones replied, ‘though the son of a goddess, you are none the less human, and can hardly expect to destroy all your opponents. If ever I am granted the good fortune to push a spear into you, no skill nor courage will keep your soul from entering the kingdom of Hades; and your fame will be mine!’
Patroclus scolded Meriones. ‘Why bandy words with Trojans?’ he cried. ‘Insults cannot drive them off. You must first destroy more of their champions! Reserve your verbal thrusts for Council meetings, where they are in order, and try spear-thrusts instead!’
Patroclus charged again, followed by Meriones. The subsequent clash, clatter and roar recalled the noise that drifts down from the mountain when wood-cutters are excitedly felling timber. Soon, not even a keen-eyed man could have distinguished Sarpedon’s corpse, drenched in blood from head to foot, covered with dust and the wreckage of war.
Fierce warriors by the hundred shout
And tussle, knee to knee,
Like flies of spring that buzz about
The farmyard busily
When milk pours foaming into pails:
To number them no count avails.
That was how the Greeks and Trojans swarmed around the dead king.
Zeus, on Mount Ida, kept his bright eyes fixed on the scene. He wondered whether Patroclus should now be killed by Hector, and stripped of his armour; or whether he should first cause the enemy fresh losses. Deciding on the latter course, he weakened Hector’s courage and made him aware that the divine scales were tipped against him. Presently, Hector mounted his chariot, and gave the signal for withdrawal; the Lycians obeyed, abandoning Sarpedon’s corpse, by this time hidden beneath a pile of other corpses. Patroclus thereupon possessed himself of the disputed arms, and sent them back for safekeeping.
Zeus turned to Apollo: ‘Pray, dear Phoebus,’ he said, ‘rescue King Sarpedon from the mělée, wipe off the clotted blood, and carry him to a quiet spot beside the Scamander. When the body has been thoroughly washed in river water, anointed with ambrosia, and clothed in an everlasting pall, let Sleep and his twin-brother Death swiftly convey it to the rich, extensive land of Lycia. The royal family and their friends can then bury Sarpedon in a hero’s barrow under the customary pillar.’
Apollo at once flew down to the battlefield; rescued Sarpedon’s body from the mělée and carried it to the Scamander for a thorough washing in river water. Sleep and his twin-brother Death then swiftly conveyed their burden—now anointed with ambrosia, and clothed in an everlasting pall—to the rich, extensive land of Lycia.
Zeus, who can fool anyone, encouraged Patroclus to exploit the victory. Forgetful of Achilles’ instructions, which might have saved his life, he remounted the chariot at Automedon’s side. Here is a list of Patroclus’ new victims in the order of their death: first, Adrestus; next, Autonous, followed by Echeclus, Perimus, son of Megas, Epistor, Melanippus, Elasus, Mulius, and Pylartes. He would indeed have taken Troy single-handed, because the Trojans were impotent against his attacks from front and flank, had it not been that Apollo the Archer harboured most unfriendly feelings against him. Three times Patroclus tried to gain a lodgement on the bastions where Apollo stood; but each time his shield was pressed back by the god’s immortal palm. At the fourth attempt, Apollo yelled a warning: ‘Away with you, Patroclus! Though descended from Zeus, you are not fated to capture Troy; nor yet is Achilles—a far better soldier than yourself.’
Patroclus withdrew, prudently respecting his divine anger. Meanwhile, Hector halted his team at the Scaean Gate and considered whether to counter-attack once more, or whether to rally his forces in defence of the city walls. Before he could make up his mind, Apollo appeared, disguising himself as young Asius—the brother of Queen Hecuba, and the son of Dymas, who lived by the banks of the Phrygian river Sangarius. ‘Hector,’ cried Apollo, ‘why did you break off the fight? Such caution is shameful! If I were as much stronger than you, as you are stronger than me, I should insist on your re-entering the battle. Come, nephew, face Patroclus! Who knows but that Apollo may grant you the glory of killing him?’
When the god had vanished, Hector told his half-brother Cebriones to wheel the chariot about. Apollo helped them by spreading panic among the Greeks and, disregarding all other champions, Hector made straight for Patroclus. Patroclus leaped to the ground: a spear in his left hand and, in the right, a bright, jagged stone. Planting his feet wide apart, he let fly, and took so true an aim that the stone struck Cebriones on the fo
rehead. As Cebriones toppled from the chariot, with a broken skull and both eyes dripping on his cheeks, Patroclus taunted him: ‘What a graceful plunge! If that man were a sailor, his diving would soon be well known. Down he would go, below the vessel’s keel, even in stormy weather, and fetch up oysters! These Trojans are past masters at diving!’
The lion’s rage undid him when
We caught him by our cattle pen:
Wounded in breast and galled in side,
He fought it out, for foolish pride.
Although Patroclus had escaped being wounded, his pride undid him: he sprang to despoil Cebriones, as a lion might spring to feast upon a slaughtered heifer. Hector also dismounted, and now there were two lion-like heroes hungrily tussling over a carcase.
Hector seized Cebriones by the head, Patroclus seized him by the foot, each pulling hard. Other Greeks and Trojans joined in the tug-of-war:
East Wind and South a wager made
Who first could strip the mountain glade.
Then loudly did the branches clash
Of cornel-cherry, beech and ash.
Lumps of dead wood came tumbling down
And leafy twigs from the trees’ crown.
Dust whirled, spears flew, arrows leaped from bow-strings, and great boulders crashed against shields, above the corpse of Cebriones—nobly born, nobly fallen, and no longer concerned with the arts of chariot-fighting. It was only at sunset, the hour when oxen are unyoked and led to their stalls, that the Greeks gained a larger advantage than Heaven could allow. They drew Cebriones’ body out of the fight and despoiled it; after which Patroclus again sprang to the attack. Three times he charged—Ares himself could not have been fiercer!—and each time he killed nine men.
The fourth charge proved to be the last; he then received a divine chastisement for presuming on his mortality. Cloaked in mist, Apollo stepped behind Patroclus and struck him on the neck, using the edge of his palm. The borrowed helmet flew off and rattled away—Zeus’ destructive gift to Hector, who took it from under the horses’ hooves and set it on his own head. While that helmet framed Achilles’ handsome face, its horsehair plumes, nodding in their upright socket, had never touched the ground; but now they were befouled with blood and dust. Simultaneously, Patroclus’ sharp, stout spear shattered in his grasp, the baldric holding the tasseled shield slipped off his shoulder, and Apollo unbuckled his corslet. As he stood dazed, trembling, and at a loss, Euphorbus, son of Panthous—the finest young spearman, charioteer, and athlete of the whole Dardanian contingent—stabbed him between the shoulderblades. Euphorbus, whose first battle this was, could already claim to have accounted for twenty Greeks; nevertheless, he did not venture to dispatch Patroclus, though seeing him disarmed and at his mercy. He recovered the spear and hastily hid among his comrades. Patroclus staggered back, trying to avoid death, but Hector darted forward and speared him low in the belly. He crashed down, to the horror of the Greeks.
A lion sprang at a wild boar
When, crazed with cruel thirst,
Beside a mountain spring they met
And each would drink at first;
It was the stalwart lion’s luck
That panting boar to worst!
So Hector the Lion mortally wounded Patroclus the Wild Boar, who had ripped up many Trojans that afternoon. ‘Son of Menoetius,’ he cried, ‘why did you threaten to sack Troy, and enslave our women? You should have reckoned with Prince Hector, the champion and guardian of our city, standing here, spear in hand, his swift horses straining at the yoke! Now vultures shall devour your corpse, poor wretch. Achilles betrayed you when he said—of this I am sure—“Patroclus, do not show me your face again until you have carved holes in Prince Hector’s bloody corslet!” Only a fool would have listened to him!’
The dying hero replied faintly: ‘Boast of your triumph, son of Priam! It was given you by Zeus, Son of Cronus, and by Apollo, who had no difficulty in disarming me—they unbuckled my corslet! Otherwise I could have dealt with a score of champions as strong as yourself. Fate, in the person of Apollo, struck the first blow; Euphorbus struck the second; you, the third! But be warned, you cannot live much longer. I see Death and Fate hovering near; for Achilles the Aeacid will avenge me.’
‘Patroclus,’ asked Hector, ‘why prophesy my destruction? Are you sure that I will not spear Achilles before he spears me?’
Patroclus, however, was already dead, and his ghost descended to the kingdom of Hades, bewailing the cruel shortness of life.
Hector placed one foot on the supine body and drew out his spear. Then he rushed away, hoping to use it against Automedon; but too late: Xanthus and Balius, the Olympians’ wedding gift to Peleus, had carried him safely off the battlefield.
Book Seventeen:
Menelaus’ Day of Glory
When Menelaus the Fair-Haired heard that Patroclus had been killed, he hurried through the mělée and straddled over him, with spear and shield held ready for immediate combat.
The cow that never calved before
Stands lowing in surprise
At this new creature on the floor—
She seems to doubt her eyes!
But what cow was ever so protective of her first-born calf, as Menelaus of that corpse? Euphorbus, son of Panthous, shouted to him: ‘My lord Menelaus, though you are joint-commander of the Greeks, pray step back and let me despoil Patroclus! I was the first to drive a spear into him and, rather than forfeit the glory of taking his arms, I shall do the same to you.’
‘O Father Zeus!’ Menelaus cried indignantly. ‘Such rudeness is more than I can abide! Panthous’ sons remind me of leopards, or lions, or even wild boars—the most pugnacious of all wild beasts. Yet when this man’s brother, the famous Hyperenor, dared call me the feeblest fighter in our whole army, he never got home to his admiring wife and family, though a far younger man than I!’ He added: ‘My lord Euphorbus, unless you retire at once to the shelter of your comrades’ shields, I must kill you as I killed Hyperenor! Fools learn from their mistakes, but sometimes too late.’
Euphorbus brushed aside Menelaus’ warning. He answered in scorn: ‘Foster-son of Zeus, I will stop your boasts and make you pay dearly for the death of my brother! After widowing Hyperenor’s newly married bride, Phrontis, and afflicting our father Panthous with the deepest sorrow, you cannot, I am sure, expect me to refrain from vengeance. Your severed head and blood-stained armour may be a slight consolation to them.’
Euphorbus lunged at Menelaus’ shield, but the spear-point turned harmlessly on the metal plate. Breathing a short prayer to Zeus, Menelaus put his full strength behind a counter-stroke, which drove through Euphorbus’ neck. Down he clattered, the blood staining his exquisite hair, which was tied with gold and silver ribbons and worthy of the Graces themselves.
I cut a likely olive-shoot,
I planted it in a fine field
Where hidden water fed its root
Till spring the pale white bloom revealed.
But though my tree stood firm and stout
When with all lesser winds at play,
A fierce north-easter wrenched it out
And tossed it scornfully away.
Young Euphorbus lay prone on the ground, like that olive sapling.
A mountain lion in his might
Leaps at the herd, which takes to flight.
A single cow, the unlucky one,
Will never know tomorrow’s sun.
Her neckbone with his teeth he snaps
And gluttonously gulps and laps;
Neither the herdsmen nor their hounds
Venture to tread within his bounds.
Neither did any Trojan venture to oppose Menelaus, when he began despoiling Euphorbus. Phoebus Apollo, however, grudged him this success and, appearing as Mentis, the Ciconian commander, recalled Hector the Bright-Helmed from his vain pursuit of Automedon.
‘Hector,’ he cried, ‘let those divine horses be! They are not for you. Achilles can master them, because his mother
is a goddess; but they obey no other mortal. Meanwhile, Menelaus has killed one of your finest men—Euphorbus, son of Panthous.’
Apollo vanished, and Hector looked anxiously around. He saw Euphorbus lying dead in a pool of blood, and Menelaus bending over him. With a yell of rage he advanced—
Like a terrible flame
When HEPHAESTUS the Lame
Blows hard at the coals in his furnace…
‘Alas,’ Menelaus muttered in alarm, ‘having come here on an errand of vengeance, I ought not to abandon these spoils, nor ought I to desert Patroclus. Some Greek might accuse me of cowardice. Yet if I stand fast and Hector brings the entire Trojan army against me, what then? But enough! Once a man dares challenge a hero favoured by Zeus, he courts destruction. Nobody should blame me for retiring when all the gods support Hector. Still, Great Ajax and I—if I can find him—might risk the anger of Heaven and appease the anger of Achilles by conveying this corpse back to camp. Yes, that is my best course in a fearful predicament!’
The lion tosses his long mane,
Chased from the fold with spears and cries,
But loathes to leave: once and again
He turns, and the whole hunt defies,
Though there’s a chillness at his heart
That serves him notice to depart.
He withdrew, faced about as soon as he reached safety, and saw Great Ajax on the extreme left flank, rallying the terror-stricken Pylians. Menelaus ran to him and panted: ‘This way, dear Ajax! It is too late to save Patroclus’ armour, because Hector has despoiled him; but hurry, and we may rescue the corpse. Achilles will want that.’
Ajax followed Menelaus. They found Hector already dragging off the naked corpse for decapitation; he intended to keep the head as a trophy, but dogs would devour the trunk. On recognizing Ajax’s tower-like shield, however, he mounted his chariot and drove away hastily—sending the captured armour by messenger to Troy, where it would win him much applause.