He flung his heavy spear, which flew straight at Achilles’ left shin. Yet though the newly-forged tin greave clanged fearfully, a spell laid upon it by Hephaestus made the weapon rebound.
Achilles’ cast also proved inconclusive, because Apollo whirled. Agenor off in a thick shroud of mist, setting him down safely at a great distance from Troy, there to enjoy a peaceful life for the remainder of the war. The god then impersonated Agenor and drew Achilles away from the main Trojan force, letting himself be chased towards the Scamander, and keeping only a few paces ahead—as a result of which manoeuvre the Trojans regained and held their city. None of these fugitives dared wait outside the Scaean Gate to enquire who had been killed, and who survived; but all poured impetuously through, as fast as their legs would take them.
Book Twenty-two:
Death of Hector
Safe back in Troy, but all a-tremble like frightened fawns, the Trojans leant on the battlements, slaking their thirst and cooling their sweaty limbs. The Greek army advanced with raised shields, but found no opponents still facing them on the plain: except Hector the Bright-Helmed alone, whom Destiny compelled to post himself in front of the Scaean Gate.
Thereupon Phoebus Apollo called over his shoulder to Achilles the Swift-Footed: ‘Why blindly neglect your task of harrying the Trojans, to pursue an Immortal? They have now retired behind their walls, while you wander along Xanthus’ riverbank. And your exertions are futile: I never die!’
Choking with anger, Achilles replied: ‘Archer Apollo, most mischievous of gods, what a mean trick to play! But for this, I should have rolled many Trojans in the dust before they hurtled through that Gate. You have light-heartedly robbed me of renown, safe in the knowledge that I cannot exact vengeance—as I should certainly do, had I the power.’
Achilles darted away at full speed, as if he were a proud, victorious chariot-horse. Old King Priam soon observed him: his armour blazing like Sirius, harbinger of fevers, the evil star (also called Orion’s Hound) which dominates the night sky in harvest time. Priam uttered a yell, drubbed on his head, and waved wildly to catch the attention of Hector, who stood below, prepared for stern combat.
‘Hector, sweet son,’ he cried, gesticulating, ‘I beg you not to remain there, alone and unsupported! Achilles is far stronger than you, and knows no mercy; he will cut your life short. Ah, that the gods felt as little love for him as I do! Then he would die on the spot, leaving dogs and vultures to ease my heart of its pain. He has robbed me of a dozen splendid sons, by killing them or selling them into slavery abroad. And now I miss two more among those who have just returned: Lycaon and Polydorus, my sons by Laothoë, pearl of women! They may of course be captured. In that case I could offer as ransom part of her dowry, which Altes paid me in bronze and gold. But if they are dead, she and I will be past consolation. Nevertheless, dear Hector, none of my subjects, whether men or women, will feel their loss deeply, so long as you survive.
‘Back, back! Inside! Protect us! Would you let Achilles triumph over your helpless and unfortunate old father, who can yet suffer agonies of grief before Zeus, Son of Cronus, brings him to a miserable end? Fearful horrors must first appal these eyes: sons butchered, daughters dragged into captivity, palace sacked, infant grandchildren dashed against stones, daughters-in-law outraged by the evil Greek soldiery. And last of all they will kill me: someone will hack or thrust me down in yonder palace gateway, and the hounds lying there will greedily tear my flesh—the very hounds that I fed at table and trained as watch-dogs. A young man fallen in battle undergoes no humiliation, even if his body be mangled, and left stark naked; but when a white-headed, white-bearded veteran has his secret parts ripped off by dogs, that is a shocking and pitiable sight indeed!’
Though Priam might pull his hair out by the roots, he could not weaken Hector’s resolution. Queen Hecuba also wept, undoing her upper garment and displaying a wrinkled breast. ‘Hector, my child,’ she wailed, ‘I charge you by this breast which once gave you suck, to do as your father orders! Achilles is ruthless, and if he kills you there, Andromache and I will be denied the poor solace of weeping over your dead body—carried off to the Greek camp for dogs to tear.’
The old couple continued their lamentations, imploring Hector to come back and organize the city’s resistance; but he calmly awaited Achilles, who was bounding towards him on his powerful legs.
A serpent, coiled in a dark den,
That has on noxious herbage supped
Conceives a hatred of all men
(Such poisons can the soul corrupt),
And, glowering rage, resolves to lie
In ambush for a passer-by.
With equal resolution, though less venomous feelings, Hector leaned his polished shield against a buttress of the tower. He thought unhappily: ‘If I do as my parents ask, Polydamas will blame me for having disregarded his advice. I should have listened when he begged me to lead the army home before Achilles could destroy it. But now that we are ruined by my obstinate folly, I am ashamed to face the lords and ladies of Troy. And some churl is bound to mutter: “Hector’s vainglory was our downfall.” That I could not bear; so I must either kill Achilles, or else die gloriously. Yet, another alternative offers: to remove my helmet, lay it on the ground, lean my spear beside this shield, and meet him with a peace proposal. I might say: “We will restore Helen and her entire fortune (Paris’ theft of which caused the war) to King Agamemnon and his brother Menelaus; we will, moreover, divide the city’s own treasures into halves, and give you one of them as a condition of your raising the siege.” Then I should have to make the Royal Council swear that no valuables would be concealed or withheld from the common stock. Impossible! If I went forward unarmed, Achilles would doubtless disregard the overture and fell me ruthlessly, as though I were a woman. This is no occasion for whispered agreements, such as a girl might exchange with a gallant from the shelter of a rock or an oak-tree. We must fight, and let Zeus choose between us.’
Achilles was almost upon Hector, brandishing the dreadful lance. He resembled the formidable God of War, and his bronze armour flashed like a bonfire, or a sunrise. Hector, aghast at the sight, turned and fled.
The mountain falcon, mighty-winged and swooping from above
With screams of rage, hotly pursues a terror-smitten dove.
Going at a great speed close under the walls, Hector flashed by Priam’s look-out tower and the wind-blown fig-tree which had taken root on the western curtain; then along a wagon track towards two neighbouring sources of the Scamander—one so hot that it smoked, as if heated by a furnace; the other as cold as snow, hail or ice, even in summer. Near them stood a pair of massive troughs used by Trojan housewives and girls when they washed their fine linen—in days of peace.
Hector ran past these troughs, with Achilles in fierce pursuit. A desperate struggle, since the runners were contending not for the carcase of a sacrificial beast, or an ox-hide, or any such ordinary prize; but for Hector’s life! Yet it did recall a chariot-race, where a tripod or a woman-slave is the prize and competing teams wheel rapidly at the stadium’s goal-posts; because Hector kept his lead and drew Achilles three times round the whole circuit of walls.
All the Olympians sat watching in a rapt silence, finally broken by Zeus himself. ‘Alas,’ he sighed, ‘how sad to see a man whom I love chased around his own city walls! Hector has burned me countless sacrifices on the spurs of Ida and at the Trojan Citadel—beautiful thighbones wrapped in prime fat. Come, friends, your advice! Is this brave fellow to be rescued from Achilles, or shall I let him die?’
‘Father Zeus, Lord of the Lightning and the Dark Storm Cloud,’ Athene the Owl-Eyed cried. ‘What is this? Would you dare rescue a mortal from the fate to which he has long ago been destined? Do as you please, of course, but without our approval.’
‘Dear child,’ Zeus answered, ‘you must not take me too seriously. I am very well disposed to you. There will be no interference with your schemes.’
So Athene flew d
own from Olympus and found the rival champions once more circling the walls.
A hound pursues a brocket stag
Through glen and glade, nor does he flag
But onward yelping goes;
For though his prey may halt beside
A bramble bush and seek to hide,
The hound can trust his nose.
Hector’s tactics were to make for the battlements covering the Dardanian Gate, where his comrades would send a volley of spears at Achilles; but whenever he approached it, Achilles always spurted, took the inside berth, and forced him towards the plain.
Often in dream I chase a fleeing man,
Eager to catch and kill him if I can;
Yet there’s no finish, struggle how we may:
I cannot reach him, nor he get away.
Here the case was similar, because Apollo so strengthened Hector’s lungs and legs that even the Swift-Footed failed to overhaul him. Nevertheless, Achilles tossed his head as a sign that no Greek must steal the triumph by aiming at Hector as he rushed past.
When they came to the troughs in their fourth circuit, Zeus grasped his golden balance and laid a lot in each of its pans—one for Achilles, one for Hector—and poised them carefully. Hector’s lot sank down; at which token of doom, Apollo abandoned him to his fate.
Athene thereupon revealed herself to Achilles, crying: ‘Glorious son of Peleus, Zeus’ favourite! Together we will kill Hector, despite his valour, and drag his corpse victoriously to your camp. This time he cannot escape us, even if Apollo should fall grovelling at the knees of Zeus the Shield-Bearer and plead his cause in desperation. So halt and recover your breath; I shall induce Hector to make a stand!’
Grateful for the respite, Achilles paused, leaning on his long lance; while Athene, disguised as Hector’s brother Deiphobus, ran on shouting in his familiar loud voice: ‘Dear brother, you are being roughly handled! Stop, and let us face Achilles, you and I; then he will be battling against odds.’
‘Deiphobus!’ exclaimed Hector. ‘Always the best of brothers to me—which is natural, because we have the same father and mother—and never more welcome than now! So you alone dared venture to my aid!’
‘Yes, brother,’ answered Athene, ‘although our parents and friends all begged me to remain on the battlements—they are terrified of Achilles—compassion and grief proved too strong, and here I come! We must fight like heroes; it will soon be seen whether Achilles can kill us and carry our blood-stained spoils back to his ship, or whether, contrariwise, you can destroy him.’
Tricked by Athene’s ruse, Hector strode towards Achilles. When within casting distance, he announced: ‘Son of Peleus, after three circuits of my father’s city I have resolved to stand fast, and engage you in mortal combat. Yet first we should swear an oath—solemnly calling on our gods to witness it—that whichever of us, by Zeus’ permission, kills and despoils the other, will abstain from maltreating the corpse and convey it to his own people for burial.’
Achilles replied grimly: ‘Dare you bargain with me, madman? If man meets lion, or wolf meets sheep, what chance of agreement can there be? We shall never clasp hands in friendship, nor even in ratification of a pledge. The sole feeling we share is pure hatred; and one of us two must surely fall, his lifeblood glutting the implacable God of War. Now summon all your skill to fight and die like a hero, since no escape is left. I am promised victory by Pallas Athene, and I will make you pay in full for the bitter grief that you have caused me and mine!’
Poising his great lance, Achilles hurled at Hector, who crouched low, letting it whizz over his head and plunge into the earth beyond.
‘A miss!’ Hector cried. ‘You are mistaken. Zeus cannot have told you of my doom! Nor will your smooth tongue and crooked speech scare me into turning about and exposing my kidneys. Should Heaven grant you the upper hand, I shall die from a thrust through the lungs as I charge. But beware! May my spear-blade skewer your flesh, and free Troy of the worst terror that this war has brought upon her!’
His hurtling spear struck the centre of Achilles’ shield, but rebounded harmlessly. Angered and discouraged by his ill-success, that being the only spear he carried, Hector cried: ‘Quick, Deiphobus, lend me yours!’ No answer came and, glancing behind him, he found that Deiphobus had vanished. Then he understood. ‘Alas,’ he thought, ‘Heaven has led me to the slaughter! That was Athene’s work. She disguised herself as Deiphobus, who is still watching from the battlements. I am trapped. Zeus and his son Apollo, though careful of my life until today, must have staged this scene long ago. Yet I will not die without first performing a feat of arms to stir the hearts of all posterity.’
He drew his huge, sharp, heavy broadsword, brandished it, gathered himself, and ran at Achilles as a soaring eagle swoops at a lamb or cowering hare on the plain beneath. How was he to know that Athene had covertly pulled the famous lance from the ground and restored it to the grasp of his opponent? In an ecstasy of rage, Achilles leaped to the encounter, shield lifted and golden plumes waving.
Darkly, darkly falls the night.
One fair star is burning bright:
HESPERUS his name, and he
Rivals all the stars that be.
Starlight flashed at Achilles’ lance-point, as he planned a mortal thrust against some vulnerable part of Hector’s body.
The suit of proof armour, however, won from the corpse of Patroclus, afforded him complete protection, except that it lacked a gorget. Achilles took aim at Hector’s bare neck, the most dangerous spot of all, drove the lance clean through, and sent him crashing to the dust.
‘Aha, Hector!’ Achilles exulted. ‘You thought yourself safe when you stole these arms from Patroclus! Did it never cross your mind that his brother-in-arms, a far doughtier antagonist, might be serving in the same camp? At last I am avenged! At last I can give Patroclus a splendid funeral, while leaving you to the dogs and carrion-birds.’
Hector whispered in reply—for the lance had not severed his windpipe: ‘Son of Peleus, I beseech you by everything that you hold dearest—your life, your strength, your parents—spare my corpse! King Priam and Queen Hecuba will ransom it at a noble price; grant me decent burial among my people!’
‘Scoundrel!’ was Achilles’ harsh answer. ‘I despise these idle appeals to life, strength and parents. If only my stomach did not revolt against such a diet, I would carve your raw flesh into gobbets and swallow them—a fitting punishment for the wrong you did me! Ransom? I should scorn ten or twenty times what your family might tender. Even if King Priam came out here himself, with a pair of scales, eager to pay me the weight of your body in gold, I should laugh at him. No: Queen Hecuba shall never have the solace of lamenting at the bier on which she has laid you! Nothing in the world can keep the carrion-birds from tearing at your belly, or the dogs from crunching your bones!’
Hector spoke his dying words: ‘Now I know you; now I see clearly! Fate forbids me to melt a heart of iron, yet beware: my ghost will draw down the wrath of Heaven on your head—when Paris, aided by Phoebus Apollo, destroys you at yonder Gate.’
The shadow of Death touched Hector, life left him, and a ghost fled to the kingdom of Hades, bewailing his lost youth and vigour.
‘Die, then!’ Achilles stormed. ‘And I am ready to meet my own doom as soon as Zeus and his fellow-Immortals give the order.’ He freed the lance, and stooped to unbuckle Hector’s blood-stained armour.
A crowd of Greeks ran up, noisily admiring the corpse’s muscular perfection. None failed to plunge a sword or spear into it, and the jest went round: ‘He is much easier to handle today than yesterday, when he fired our fleet!’
Achilles stripped Hector to the buff, rose, and began a speech: ‘Princes and Councillors, since by the gods’ help we are rid of a champion who did us more harm than all the rest of Priam’s brood together, we should probe the city’s defences without delay. Perhaps the loss of their commander-in-chief will induce these Trojans to capitulate…’
Suddenly Ach
illes broke off. ‘Alas!’ he exclaimed. ‘What am I saying? Patroclus’ corpse still lies stretched unburied on his bier, and so long as I breathe and move, I cannot forget him. No, no! Though every other ghost in Hades’ kingdom forgets his fallen comrades, yet I shall always be faithful to my love, even in the grave. Enough, friends! Sing me a paean of victory, while I haul this carrion to the camp. We have won great glory: we have slain Prince Hector, to whom the Trojans paid almost divine honours.’
Achilles set himself to outrage the corpse: having slit the tendon of each foot from heel to ankle, he looped a rawhide throng through the holes and bound both ends to his chariot-tail. Then he mounted, flung the spoils of battle beside him, lashed Xanthus and Balius to a gallop. Away they flew, and Hector’s corpse trailed after them, churning up the dust, his dark, flowing locks dishevelled, and his once glorious features begrimed with filth of the battlefield. Such was the fate ordained for him by Zeus: to have his body desecrated in full sight of his fellow-citizens.
Queen Hecuba screamed, tore her hair, and cast away her bright veil: King Priam moaned piteously, and his subjects wept and howled as though Troy were tumbling in blackened ruins about their ears. They could hardly restrain Priam from a mad escape by the Dardanian Gate. Throwing himself in the dirt, abasing himself to his Councillors, whom he called upon by name, he shrieked: ‘Friends, stand back, unhand me! If I still have your love, oh, let me pass through the Gate! Let me visit the Greek camp, and beard that accursed savage. I might perhaps shame him into showing me mercy. He has slaughtered many of my splendid young sons; yet this single grief for Hector outweighs all former griefs: it will kill me! Would that he had expired in my arms! Then his wretched mother and I could comfort ourselves by lamenting on and on.’