And noble eyes afire, he crouched to spring—
Resolved on this: either he must prevail
Or gloriously fail, as fits a king.
A short cast from his opponent, Achilles paused. ‘Son of Anchises,’ he cried, ‘what are you at? Trying to gain King Priam’s favour and be named as successor to the Trojan throne—is that it? Foolish fellow! Even if you killed me, your claim would fail—Priam still has his wits about him, and sons of his own. Or have the Trojans voted a rich estate of cornlands and orchards to my victor? It will be a hard prize to win. How fast you ran down the slopes of Mount Ida, once, when we met among your herds—never a backward glance! Following your trail to Lyrnessus, I sacked the town—assisted by Athene and Father Zeus—enslaved the women, and butchered all the men. Or all except you: for the Olympians furthered your escape. Yet their protection must not be counted upon again; so take my advice and retire while your skin is whole! Even a fool learns wisdom after the event.’
‘Son of Peleus,’ answered Aeneas, ‘I am no easily scared child. I know well how to bandy threats and insults, if need be. You have heard my lineage blazoned, and I have heard yours; although neither of us has set eyes on the other’s parents. People say that you are Thetis the Nereid’s son by King Peleus; my father is King Anchises, my mother the great Aphrodite. And since this combat cannot end, as it began, in idle words, one of these goddesses must mourn her son tonight. Let me present my pedigree. Zeus the Cloud-Gatherer had a son, Dardanus by name, who founded the city of Dardania on Mount Ida—long before Troy was built yonder. Dardanus’ son Erichthonius, the richest man alive, kept three thousand mares at grass in these water-meadows, foals frisking behind their heels; but Boreas, the North Wind, lusted after the lovely beasts and, assuming the form of a dark-maned stallion, covered twelve of them. They bore him an equal number of fillies, swift-footed enough to scud across the top of a ripe barley-field without crushing the grain, or across the crests of sea waves without wetting their hocks.
‘Erichthonius’ son Tros, the first King of Troy, begot Ilus, Assaracus and Ganymede. Ganymede being the handsomest boy ever born, the gods caught him up to Heaven, and appointed him Zeus’ deathless cup-bearer. Laomedon, son of Ilus, begot Dawn’s husband Tithonus; also Lampus, Clytius, and soldierly Hicetaon.
‘I am descended from Tros’ second son, Assaracus, through Capys and Anchises—Hector, son of Priam, comes of the elder line. This, then, is my pedigree; yet I shall lay no great claim to courage—a virtue that Almighty Zeus augments or decreases in a champion, just as he thinks fit.
‘But why do we stand arguing like little boys, when battle has already been joined? Tongues are so glib, words are so many and various, that we could both hurl insults at each other by the wagon-load—a two-hundred-oar galley would not serve to ship our cargo!
‘Once I saw two housewives meet
Wrangling fiercely in the street—
Some words false, and some words true.
Ah, how red their faces grew!
Anger’s a divinely sent
Means to make man eloquent.
‘No: mere talk will never dissuade me from challenging you; we must fight, blade against blade. Guard your head!’
So saying, Aeneas flung his heavy spear, and Achilles’ wonderful new shield rang loudly under the blow. Achilles had held it out to the full extent of his arm, fearing that Aeneas might breach all five layers; which was ungracious—he should have known that divine gifts are not easily destroyed. True, the point penetrated the first layer of bronze, and the second of tin, but stuck fast in the third, golden layer.
Aeneas ducked and protected himself with his own shield, as Achilles made a return cast. The great lance struck the edge where the bull’s hide was thinnest and covered only by a single sheet of bronze; cut through two of the rims, flew over Aeneas’ back, and buried itself in the earth. Terrified by so close a call, Aeneas gazed dumbly at Achilles but, on seeing him draw his sword and rush forward, picked up a boulder—of a weight that no pair of men today could lift between them, and prepared to hurl it. Had he done so, however, the boulder would have harmlessly rebounded from either the divine helmet or the divine shield—leaving Achilles free to hew him down.
Poseidon at once observed the danger. ‘Alas!’ he said. ‘I pity our courageous Aeneas, foolishly lured by Apollo the Archer into the power of King Hades. Why should this poor innocent, who is always burning splendid sacrifices in our honour, be wickedly sacrificed himself? Friends, rescue Aeneas! My brother Zeus will rage if a man dies whom he wished to spare. He had greater love for Aeneas’ ancestor Dardanus than for any other of his mortal sons and, though disliking Priam’s House, does not want the royal line to die out. He intends that Aeneas shall rule the surviving Trojan stock, and his children’s children after him.’
Hera answered: ‘Earth-Shaker, please yourself whether Aeneas lives or dies! Athene and I have sworn frequent and solemn oaths never on any account to aid the Trojans, not even when our brave Greeks burn their city.’
Poseidon darted among the fighters, shrouded Achilles’ eyes in a magical mist, disengaged his great lance from the broken shield and laid it at his feet; then seized Aeneas and swung him through the air, high over several battalions of infantry and squadrons of chariotry. Aeneas came to earth by the bivouacs and astonished the Cauconians, who were still mustering. ‘Aeneas,’ expostulated Poseidon, ‘what god gave you such inept advice? It was madness to challenge the furious son of Peleus, who is your master in battle, and also our favourite champion! Be warned! Not to withdraw at his approach is to court a premature death—although, once Achilles has gone, you may fight confidently at the head of your army, assured that no other Greek will take your life.’
Poseidon left Aeneas and hurried back to dispel the mist from Achilles’ eyes. Gazing wildly around him, Achilles cried: ‘A miracle! Here is my lance, but where is Aeneas, whom I tried to kill? Vanished! So his boasts were less idle than I thought! Evidently the Olympians love him too. Ah, enough of Aeneas: having escaped this second time, he will hardly risk a third combat. I shall call for support, and destroy other Trojans instead.’
He bounded along the front-line, appealing to his comrades by name. ‘Forward, noble Greeks!’ he shouted. ‘Let every man choose his opponent, and fight heart and soul. Strong as I am, do you expect me to brave an entire army? Neither Immortal Ares, nor even Pallas Athene, would dare plunge alone into such jaws of destruction. It is your duty to prevent them from closing behind me as I exert the full power of my arms and legs, pressing on until the Trojans break. Those who stand within reach of this lance will certainly have small cause for rejoicing.’
Hector, on his side, encouraged the Trojans: ‘Gallant comrades,’ he cried, ‘pay no heed to that wordy hero! With words I, too, could match myself against even the Olympians; but weapons are a very different matter! Achilles cannot make good all those boasts. He may achieve part of his design; what remains will shiver in pieces. Meanwhile, I am ready to meet him, though his hands be fire and his spirit flashing steel!’ He strode ahead of the line.
The Trojans grasped their spears firmly, and a fierce, ragged cheer arose. Apollo, alighting at Hector’s side, exclaimed: ‘Back to your comrades at once! Why offer Achilles an easy target? He will either spear you, or rush up and use his sword.’
Hector retired in surprise; but indomitable Achilles leaped among the Trojans, yelling horribly. His first victim was Iphition, son of Otrynteus the City-Sacker, by a Naiad who lived beneath snow-clad Mount Tmolus in the rich land of Hyde. As Iphition charged, Achilles hurled, split his head clean open and sent him crashing down. Achilles exulted: ‘There you lie, redoubtable son of Otrynteus! Born by Lake Gyges, between the turbulent Hermus River and Hyllus famous for its fishing; killed at Troy!’ Chariot wheels crushed Iphition’s corpse.
Next, Achilles lunged at Demoleon, son of Antenor, who faced him courageously. The lance burst through the cheek-piece of Demoleon’s helmet, broke open his skull,
scattered his brains. Hippodamas, the driver, sprang out of the chariot and scurried off; but Achilles pierced his spine as he ran. Hippodamas died with such a roar of anguish that he might have been a sacrificial bull being dragged to Poseidon’s altar at Helice. (He loves nothing better than bull’s blood.)
Achilles did not despoil his two victims. He had caught sight of quick-heeled Prince Polydorus, Priam’s youngest and favourite son, who despite his father’s frequent injunctions to keep away from the battlefield, was sportively dodging about between the front-rank fighters. As he darted by, Achilles threw a javelin and struck the gold belt-buckle where his corslet and taslets overlapped behind. The point emerged from Polydorus’ navel; he halted, fell groaning on one knee, pressed back the bowels as they gushed out, then sank in death.
Hector watched the scene. Tears filled his eyes, and he could no longer bear to obey Apollo, but ran up, vengefully brandishing a spear. In savage glee, Achilles shouted: ‘Here comes the Trojan who killed my best friend! Here comes the Trojan who hurt me more than I was ever yet hurt! We meet at last!’ He growled at Hector: ‘The closer you approach, the sooner you die!’
Hector answered calmly: ‘Son of Peleus, I am no easily scared child. I know well how to bandy threats and insults, if need be. You are a famous hero and, admittedly, my master in battle. The issue of our combat, however, lies with the gods. They will decide whether this spear, though not so powerful as your lance, is to rob you of life; indeed, its blade has proved sharp enough of late.’
He poised and let fly, but Athene gave a gentle puff that sent the weapon curving back, to fall at his feet. Achilles ran towards him, roaring vengeance, and Apollo intervened by shrouding Hector in a thick mist. Three times Achilles vainly charged his unseen adversary; then, pausing, he exclaimed: ‘Dog, once again you escape destruction, and by a narrow margin only! There is no doubt whom you invoke amid the spears: Phoebus Apollo, who now saved your life! Nevertheless, if any god deigns to assist me at a later meeting, I know which of us two will die… So be it, whom else can I destroy?’ He turned and speared Dryops in the neck, below the chin, tumbling him dead, but left his body undespoiled.
The lance next caught Philetor’s son Demuchus on the shin, and halted his charge. Having cut him down, Achilles sprang at Laogonus and Dardanus, the sons of Bias, hurling both of them from their chariot—Laogonus with a spear-cast, Dardanus with a sword-sweep. Tros, son of Alastor, clutched his knees. ‘I am young like you. Pity me!’ he pleaded, unaware how foolish it was to expect tenderness of that bloodthirsty hero. Achilles struck at the simpleton and sliced his liver; blood spurted on his breast, and he died. Achilles’ lance also transfixed Mulius’ head, going in at one ear, out at the other; and his sword shattered the skull of Echeclus, Agenor’s son—the blade reeked as he withdrew it. Again that long lance darted, piercing the crook of Deucalion’s elbow; thus disabled, the Lycian champion knew that he had lost all. Achilles’ sword swept off his head and helmet. The trunk fell supine, its severed backbone dripping marrow.
Then Achilles made for Rhigmus the Thracian, son of Peires, casting a javelin that breached his lungs and sent him flying over the chariot-tail. As Rhigmus’ driver Areithous wheeled the team about, he received a mortal lance-thrust between his shoulders. The masterless horses bolted in terror.
From the hillside parched with drought
Flames leap out.
Up deep valley-lands they go,
Wheresoever the winds blow,
Burning forests all about,
Laying tall trees low.
Achilles raged like a forest fire, killing Trojans wherever he went.
Goad the noisy ox-team round
Our well-littered threshing-ground;
Quickly will their hard hooves tread
Barley forth to give us bread.
So it was that Achilles circled the battlefield in his chariot drawn by Xanthus and Balius. They trod upon corpses and shields, until blood from their hooves and blood from the wheel-rims reddened the whole conveyance. Achilles’ irresistible hands were also stained with blood.
Book Twenty-one:
Achilles at the Ford
The routed Trojans made for the deep River Scamander, whose god Xanthus was Zeus the Thunderer’s son. Achilles cut their forces into two parts at the ford, chasing one of these across the plain where his comrades had been routed by Hector on the previous day. The other stumbled into Scamander’s silver eddies, their shouts echoing from bank to bank. The current tossed them hither and thither, like a half-drowned swarm of locusts.
By a scorching fire pursued,
Locusts make for water:
There they shiver in the river
To escape from slaughter!
Achilles, ablaze with anger, leaned his great lance against a thicket of tamarisk, and leaped splendidly into the river after the floundering fugitives, content to use his sword alone. They uttered dismal groans as he struck at them; their blood stained the stream.
Wide-mouthed the dolphin loves to swim.
The fishes go in fear of him,
And when they see this monster rove
Greedily towards their favourite cove,
All dart for shelter to rock pools—
Where he devours the pretty fools.
Many Trojans similarly crouched in shallows all along the steep riverbanks, and Achilles massacred them by the score. He paused awhile in his grim work to choose twelve young men for sacrifice at Patroclus’ pyre, drag them out of the stream, more like frightened fawns than soldiers, and pinion them with their own stout leather belts. Having ordered his Myrmidons to march the victims off, he rushed away, fiercely intent on further slaughter.
Suddenly he saw Prince Lycaon, a son of King Priam, emerging from the river—the same Lycaon whom once, during a night raid on Priam’s orchards, he had discovered chopping down wild-fig saplings to trim for chariot-rails. Captured, and shipped overseas as a slave, Lycaon became the property of the Lemnian King Euneus, Jason the Argonaut’s son. Later, King Eëtion of Imbros, a former guest of Lycaon’s, paid Euneus a heavy ransom for him. Since Eëtion dared not offend the Greeks by letting Lycaon fight again at Troy, he was sent under guard to the city of Arisbe, but escaped and made his way home. There he spent eleven days among the Trojan royal family in joyful celebration of this good fortune, before joining his brothers on the battlefield. Destiny now threw him back into Achilles’ hands.
Watching Lycaon struggle weakly ashore, without helmet, shield or spear, Achilles thought indignantly: ‘Surely I sold him to King Euneus? Most slaves on Lemnos find the sea an impassable barrier, but this one seems to have cheated his unkind fate! Soon, no doubt, even the Trojans I have killed will emerge from Hades’ murky kingdom. My lance shall be the test: whether Lycaon succumbs finally to a good thrust, or whether Mother Earth (who breeds heroes and clasps their bodies when they fall) fails to hold him.’
Achilles recovered his lance, and hurled it. The blade would have pierced Lycaon’s breast, had he not dived nimbly forward and caught his captor by the knees. Then, releasing one hand, he reached behind him and clutched at Achilles’ lance, which stood imbedded in the soil, but made no attempt to dislodge it.
‘Foster-son of Zeus,’ babbled Lycaon, ‘be merciful to your suppliant—who can claim guest-right, too; for when taken in my father’s orchard, I broke bread at your table. Besides, you benefited greatly: my purchase price was a hundred head of cattle! King Euneus, by the way, did not release me himself, but accepted a ransom—charging Eëtion of Imbros three hundred head—and I returned here just twelve days ago, after many sufferings.
‘So I am your prisoner a second time—how Father Zeus must hate me! I seem doomed to die young. My mother Laothoë, you may know, is a daughter of the venerable Altes, King of Lelegian Pedasus, a city commanding the Satniöeis River, and my father is King Priam. He has begotten children on many wives, but only two on Laothoë. Today you killed my brother, Prince Polydorus, in the front-line, and I despair of esc
aping the same fate. Yet please take one thing into consideration: that I was not born of the same mother as Prince Hector, the hero who killed your gentle and courageous comrade!’
Achilles answered implacably: ‘I reject this childish plea for mercy, and will accept no ransom. Until Patroclus died, I often spared suppliants, and sold them abroad; but now all Trojans whom I catch will die, especially all sons of King Priam! Yes, friend, including you. Why bemoan your lot? Patroclus, a far better fighter, is dead, too. And look at me! Did you ever see so strong or so handsome a man? Yet, though my father was a hero, and my mother a goddess, immediate death threatens me. Some day soon—whether it will be morning, noon, or nightfall, and whether by spear or arrow, nobody can foretell—I am doomed to fall in battle.’
Despair seized Lycaon, who let go Achilles’ lance, and crouched with arms outspread, awaiting the sword-sweep. Swiftly it descended, sheering through collarbone and lungs. Lycaon tumbled prostrate, and his lifeblood soaked the earth. Achilles took the corpse by a foot and tossed it downstream, crying exultantly:
‘Among the fish, Lycaon, lie!
Their dainty tongues your blood shall try;
Nor can Laothoë come near
To stretch your cold corpse on a bier,
With shrill lament; for there you go,
Borne on Scamander’s rippling flow
To the salt bosom of the deep
Where dogfish hungrily shall leap
Through turbid waters, quick to tear
Strips from your white flesh floating there.
‘So perish every man of Troy!
Whole squadrons now I will destroy,
Forcing the rest to flee pell-mell
Until I sack her Citadel.
Think not, my foes, that sacrifice
Of bulls, or other rich device—
Such as to toss a chariot-team
Alive into Scamander’s stream—
Shall curb my vengeance-hungry blade!