The entire Court vented their tears in a shower, and Hecuba led the women’s dirge:
‘Dead, Hector, dead? My lovely son!
So sharp this pain to me
That loth I am to linger on
Robbed of his company.
‘From dawn to dawn he was my boast
In every house of Troy,
By all I met beloved the most:
Their miracle, their joy.
‘Godlike to them his gracious tread,
His glories were their own.
Now cruel FATE has shorn the thread
And each must mourn alone!’
Andromache knew nothing of Hector’s death; no reliable message, even of his decision to stay outside the city walls had reached the house. She sat at her loom, weaving a floral design into the purple cloth of double width. Presently she ordered the maid-servants to place a huge, three-legged cauldron on the fire: Hector would be glad of a hot bath when he returned. Poor woman: she little guessed that he would never bathe again—that Athene had helped Achilles to murder him. Then, at the sound of distant shrieks and groans, she started—so violently that the shuttle fell from her hands—and called to a couple of servants: ‘Follow me! We must hear the worst! My heart leaped into my mouth when I recognized Queen Hecuba’s voice. I feel dizzy. Some terrible misfortune has surely overtaken one of Priam’s children—I wish I did not need to know whom! What if Achilles has cut Hector off, holding the Gate against him? Or chased him across the plain and finally humbled his stubborn pride? That may well be: Hector will not stay in the ranks, but always charges ahead. He hates to yield the palm of courage to another.’
Frantically Andromache rushed from the house, her breast heaving and the two servants hurrying after her. On arrival at the battlements, now thronged with soldiers, the women looked down; and all went black before Andromache’s eyes. A group of princesses caught her as she fainted, distraught by the sight of Hector’s corpse dragged behind Achilles’ chariot. She had already thrown off the gay headdress, consisting of a frontlet, a net, a woven band and a veil—Aphrodite’s present on the day she married Hector, to whom King Eëtion paid an enormous dowry.
When Andromache regained consciousness, great sobs racked her and she wailed aloud: ‘Ah, Hector, I am undone! We were born to share the same wretched fate: you in Troy, I at Thebe, my luckless father Eëtion’s city, shaded by the pleasant woods of Mount Placus. I wish he had never begotten me! You, too, my love, have descended to the hidden kingdom of Hades, leaving me a grief-tormented widow, and Scamandrius an orphan. Heir to our ruin, the poor infant cannot ever profit from your love, nor you from his. Though perhaps destined to escape the clutches of those cruel Greeks, ill-luck and penury must always plague him.
‘An orphan is an outcast; he hangs his head, his cheeks are wet with tears. Let him approach his dead father’s friends, in search of consolation, plucking this man by the cloak, that by the tunic, and one of them may compassionately set a wine-cup to his little lips and moisten them, but will not tilt it for a drink. Then I can see some rough lad, whose father still lives, bustle Scamandrius from the table: “Off you go! Your father is no guest here!” And the boy slinks weeping back to his widowed mother…
‘Scamandrius would sit on Hector’s knee and nibble only beef-marrow or the tenderest morsels of mutton; and, when he felt tired after play, would snuggle in bed clasped by the soft arms of his nurse—no happier child alive! But Hector is gone, and the darkest future awaits Scamandrius—everyone nicknamed him Astyanax, because his father was the champion whom they trusted to defend our gates and walls. Oh, my Hector, you lie far away, stretched out for the dogs to feed upon—and when they have eaten their fill, the wriggling maggots shall devour what remains—stretched out naked, though there are clothes in plenty at home: fine, clean clothes, delicately woven by my servants! Since you cannot wear them, I must burn them all in your honour, as a tribute from the lords and ladies of Troy.’
A crowd of women gathered around Andromache, loudly taking up her lament.
Book Twenty-three:
Funeral Games for Patroclus
Back in their camp by the Hellespont the Greek army dispersed, every contingent to its own ships, except for the fighting Myrmidons, whom Achilles addressed as follows: ‘My lads, do not unharness your teams until we have honoured our dead comrade in proper fashion: he needs a cavalcade of chariots and the chanting of a dirge. Once this rite has been performed, you may fall out and prepare supper.’
A full-throated dirge arose, led by Achilles, as the Myrmidons drove slowly three times around Patroclus’ bier. Thetis the Silver-Footed made everybody weep: the sand was wet with tears that dripped from their corslets and seeped through the floor-boards—so tremendous a hero were they mourning! Achilles laid his murderous hands on the corpse’s breast and sang a threnody:
‘Hail, Patroclus, hear my call
Echoing through King HADES’ hall!
All that I have sworn to do
Shall be done, I warrant you:
Hector dragged by his dead feet
Naked for the dogs to eat,
And twelve young Trojans at your pyre
Slaughtered to appease my ire.’
As a further outrage, he stretched Hector’s corpse, buttocks upward, in the dust beside the bier. Then the troops disarmed, stabled their whinnying horses, and sat down to a splendid funeral feast near Achilles’ ship. A herd of fat oxen, one flock of sheep, and another of goats had been sacrificed; and slices of pork from several large, plump, tusky boars hissed on spits over glowing embers. Blood by the gobletful was spilled about dead Patroclus.
The Greek leaders found difficulty in persuading Achilles, still crazed by his loss, to present himself before King Agamemnon; and when he arrived at headquarters, they asked the royal heralds to heat an immense cauldron of water, so that he might first wash the gore from his face, arms and legs. This he refused to do, pronouncing a solemn oath in Zeus’ name:
‘I swear by ZEUS, Greatest and Best,
That water shall not flow
Over these hands until they rest
From what to love they owe.
‘O, I must heap a funeral pyre
To lay my friend thereon,
And, weeping, cleanse his corpse with fire
Till all the flesh be gone,
‘Then must I shave my head, and heap
A barrow on the plain;
For never sorrow half so deep
Shall pierce my heart again!’
Turning to Agamemnon, he said: ‘Now I will eat, however mournfully; and at daybreak, my lord King, pray send out axe-men to fetch fuel and make suitable provision for Patroclus’ journey below. A huge, swift-burning pyre is needed; the troops can then resume their military duties.’
Agamemnon humoured his wishes. Supper was soon served, nor could any man complain of meagre portions. When they had all eaten and drunk their fill, the Councillors went off to bed. Achilles alone lay awake on the shore among his Myrmidons, groaning and listening to the melancholy hiss of waves. At last, wearied by his previous night’s vigil, the struggle with Xanthus, and the pursuit of Hector, he fell asleep.
Patroclus’ ghost visited him in a dream, exactly as he had looked while alive: the same tall figure, handsome eyes, gentle voice, fine clothes. He bent over Achilles accusingly: ‘Asleep, and careless of my plight? You never used to neglect me, not for a moment. Bury my body without more ado, so that I can win admittance to the Underworld. Infernal demons and ghosts of men long dead are waving me away. Excluded from their ranks, I knock at every gate in Hades’ kingdom, but to no avail. Have compassion, dear brother; supply the requisite funeral fire! As soon as it has purified my flesh, I will cease to trouble you.
‘Alas: we two shall never again draw apart from our comrades and sit talking quietly together! I was fated to die young. You too, Achilles, despite your prodigious feats, must perish under the walls of Troy. Oh, grant me a final favour: that your own calcin
ed bones shall be buried beside mine, in memory of our boyhood friendship! You remember how Menoetius hurried me to Phthia because, though still a child, I had committed manslaughter at Opöeis—by striking young Clysonomus, son of Amphidamas, in a quarrel about dice, and misjudging my strength. King Peleus, as Menoetius’ first cousin, welcomed us at his palace, and treated me generously; so I became your squire. Our bones should lie together in one urn—the two-handled golden urn which your mother Thetis gave you.’
‘Brother,’ Achilles answered, ‘why come and remind me of my obligations? I will do everything according to your wishes. Yet since you are here, let us briefly embrace and weep upon each other’s necks.’
He stretched out both arms, but the phantom evaded his clutch, turning to vapour and sinking through the earth with a shriek. Achilles leaped up, horror-stricken: ‘Then it is true!’ he exclaimed. ‘There are spirits of the dead in Hades’ kingdom: active minds, though unsubstantial and lifeless! Yet how marvellously Patroclus’ ghost resembled his living self when it stood lamenting and pleading with me!’
He roused the weary Myrmidons, who were forced to resume their mournful howling. The red streaks of dawn discovered them still at the bier; and then King Agamemnon ordered all the contingents in camp to detail men for fuel-gathering. Meriones, lieutenant to Idomeneus the Cretan, supervised the task. Carrying axes and stout ropes, they drove a herd of mules before them: up hill, down dale, along winding tracks, across open country, towards the foothills of Mount Ida. There Meriones set them to fell a copse of tall, leafy oaks. When this had been done, they split the timber with wedges, and presently mules’ hooves poached the soft earth as their trailing load flattened shrubs and bushes. Meriones also made everyone drag away lopped branches. Home again, they spread out their spoils in a single row, ready for heaping into a pyre, and sat awaiting Achilles.
His Myrmidons paraded under arms; chariots leading, infantry behind. In the middle, Patroclus’ corpse was carried on his comrades’ shoulders: feet foremost, and lolling head supported by Achilles himself. Locks of Myrmidon hair, shorn off as tributes of grief, strewed the pall.
Achilles directed the building of the pyre. He had a long, well-combed, golden curl, once dedicated to the Thessalian River-god Spercheius. Gazing over the western sea, he spoke in tones of deep regret:
‘To you, SPERCHEIUS, I must make address,
Whose silver ripples lovingly caress
My native fields. Dear god, remember how,
Nine years ago, King Peleus vowed a vow:
That if, by your good graces, I, his son,
Should voyage home, my dangerous duties done,
That same day he would reverently bring
Fifty fat rams to your high sacred spring
Where at a rural altar raised for you
(Smoking with incense of the East), we two
Would sacrifice those champions of our flocks;
Moreover, I should shear my flowing locks
And cast them on the flame. Alas, but now
Your negligence annuls my father’s vow.
I am not destined to win home again
And therefore, at a pyre upon Troy’s plain,
In dead Patroclus’ hand this curl I set—
Proof of a love that never can forget.’
He cut the curl and placed it between the dead fingers, which excited loud sobs from all who stood by. They would have wept until nightfall, had Achilles not addressed Agamemnon: ‘My lord King, though the troops do well to mourn, please dismiss them. It is their supper hour. My Myrmidons and I, who feel Patroclus’ loss most keenly, will burn the corpse: your Council’s attendance at the rite would, however, gratify us.’
Agamemnon accordingly dismissed his troops; but the Myrmidons, assisted by Patroclus’ noble friends, built a tall pyre one hundred feet square, upon which, with anguish at their hearts, they reverently placed the bier. Next, they flayed a whole flock of sheep and a herd of cattle. Achilles took the carcases, stripped off the fat, swathed Patroclus in it from head to foot, then spread the flesh about him. He also leaned a row of two-handled jars containing honey and oil against the bier; sacrificed four gallant horses (groaning aloud as he did so), two of Patroclus’ nine hounds, and lastly the twelve Trojan prisoners reserved for this occasion, adding their bodies to the holocaust.
This done, he invoked the dead man’s ghost:
‘Hail, Patroclus, hear my call
Echoing through King HADES’ hall!
True to the promise that I made,
Twelve Trojans on your pyre are laid;
Then rest assured I will not pay
Like honour to mad Hector’s clay:
In vengeance of his impious deed
No flames, but dogs on him shall feed!’
Nevertheless, despite his threats, all dogs were kept away. The Goddess Aphrodite guarded dead Hector day and night, after anointing him with ambrosia, which smelled as fragrant as roses and would protect his flesh from injury, should Achilles meditate further violence. Apollo helped her by drawing down a dark cloud to cover the corpse and prevent its shrivelling beneath the sun’s rays.
Patroclus’ pyre did not catch alight when the Myrmidons set torches to the green wood; but Achilles knew what was required. He took a golden cup and invoked Boreas the North Wind, and Zephyr the West Wind, pouring them a libation of wine, at the same time promising them a rich reward if they would puff on the lazy flames. Iris, Messenger of the Gods, overheard his prayer. She flew to Windy Island, and paused on the threshold of Zephyr’s house, where the company of winds were feasting. They sprang up, and each begged her to sit beside him. Iris politely declined. ‘No seat for me, thank you!’ she answered. ‘I must be back with my fellow-Immortals on the banks of the Ocean Stream—the Ethiopians are offering us another banquet of hundred-beast sacrifices. But I have brought a message from Achilles. He desires you, Boreas, and you, blustering Zephyr, to puff on the lazy flames under a pyre raised for Patroclus, whom the Greek besiegers of Troy are lamenting. A rich reward is promised.’
As Iris flew off, the boisterous winds rushed out of the house and skimmed the sea, driving clouds along and raising huge waves. At Troy, they not only attacked the pyre so forcefully that the flames raged and roared, but persisted at their game all night. Achilles tramped about the pyre, emptying on the earth a two-handled goblet which he constantly replenished from a golden wine-bowl: moaning, howling, and crying farewell to Patroclus’ ghost. He might have been a father at the funeral of his newly-married son, whose death has ruined the family. At last:
PHOSPHORUS, herald of daylight,
Shone clear as clear could be;
Soon DAWN in saffron robes bedight,
Would brighten the broad sea.
By this time, lack of fuel had made the fire burn low. Boreas and Zephyr hurried home across the Thracian Gulf, which they stirred to a lusty swell. When Achilles turned exhausted from his labours, Sweet Sleep leaped upon him; but did not hold him long. The High King and his Councillors approached in a body, their clatter and clash awakening Achilles, who sat bolt upright.
‘My lord Agamemnon, princes and Councillors,’ he said, ‘I have a task to impose on you. Pray quench those glowing embers with wine, then help me recover Patroclus’ bones—they are easily found, because I placed him in the middle of the pyre, whereas horses, hounds, Trojans and so forth were flung at random along its edges. Fold two layers of fat around the precious relics and store them in a golden urn until my own may join them; but raise no huge barrow for him yet—a modest one will suffice. When I am dead and the urn can be filled, I expect such of you as survive to heap the earth very broad and high over us both.’
Obediently the Councillors tossed quantities of wine on the hot ashes, quenching the live embers beneath. Next, they laid the foundations of a barrow, gathered earth and heaped it to a decent height.
They would then have dispersed, had not Achilles made the entire army sit down in a vast ring, while he sent to
his ships and store-huts for three-legged cauldrons, ordinary cauldrons, horses, mules, plough-oxen, handsome slave-women, and the like. These would be awarded the winners of events in Patroclus’ funeral games, which he had resolved to hold on the spot.
Achilles rose and announced prizes for the chariot-race:
‘First Prize: a woman-slave, well trained in handicrafts. Item a three-legged cauldron with handles; capacity sixty gallons.
‘Second Prize: an unbroken six-year-old mare; in foal of a mule.
‘Third Prize: a hitherto unused copper cauldron; capacity eleven gallons; perfect condition.
‘Fourth Prize: two ingots of gold.
‘Fifth Prize: a new two-handled bronze urn.’
He added: ‘My lord Agamemnon, princes and Councillors: the prizes are now on view! If these games honoured anyone but Patroclus, I should myself take part in the chariot-race and, of course, be victorious. It is well known that no team can match my immortal stallions: the Earth-Shaker’s wedding gift to King Peleus. However, I shall not run them, since they are still out of sorts. They miss their splendid driver—so kind to the poor beasts, he was!—why, he would wash their manes in spring water and anoint them with olive oil! Yes: you should see how Xanthus and Balius mourn him, muzzles lowered in dejection, manes trailing on the ground! But come, my lords, I invite all of you to race who flatter yourselves on possessing fast teams and strong chariots!’
Five competitors excitedly gathered at the starting-line: first, Eumelus, a skilful charioteer, the son and successor of Admetus, who ruled Thessalian Pherae. Next, Diomedes, son of Tydeus, driving the famous horses of Tros, owned until recently by Aeneas the Dardanian—whom he would have killed but for Apollo’s intervention. Then fair-haired King Menelaus, son of Atreus, behind a formidable team consisting of his brother’s mare Aethe, who seemed eager to run, and his own stallion Podargus. (Echepolus of Sicyon had bought himself off war-service at Troy by presenting Aethe to Agamemnon; and stayed comfortably at home, in his wide green pastures.)