The Anger of Achilles Read online

  ‘God with the bow of silver,

  You that take your stand

  At Chryse and holy Cilia,

  Protector of our land,

  ‘Even as you plagued this people

  In answer to my plea,

  So now abate their torments,

  And prove your trust in me!’

  Apollo listened to this second prayer also. The Greeks now adored him and, first sprinkling barley-meal on the victims’ polls, pulled up their muzzles and slit their throats. Next, they flayed the carcases, stripped the thighbones and wrapped them in double folds of fat. When a few slices of flesh had been laid over these, Chryses burned each sacrifice on a wood fire, his acolytes assisting him with five-pronged forks, and tossed a libation of clear red wine into the blaze. Thus the thighbones were consumed and, after tasting the liver and kidneys, they jointed the carcases, spitted the meat, and roasted it. The banquet being ready, they set to, and when they could swallow no more, acolytes filled the bowls, from which a ration of wine was poured into every cup. All that afternoon, much to Apollo’s delight, the Greeks chanted the beautiful Victory Paean composed in his honour; but at sunset they lay down to sleep beside the mooring-ropes, and as soon as

  DAWN, DAY’s daughter bright,

  Drew back the curtain of NIGHT

  With her fingers of rosy light,

  prepared to sail on a following wind provided by Apollo. They stepped the mast, and the breeze bellied out the ship’s white canvas as they spread it. Off she sprang across the sea, and dark water slapped against her bows. Their voyage done, they beached the vessel high on the sand, fetched props to steady her, and then dispersed, each man to his own hut and ship.

  Achilles still idled by the seashore. He appeared neither at the Council (as his rank demanded), nor on the battlefield; but brooded miserably, yearning for war-cries and the clash of arms.

  Twelve days later, Zeus led the Immortals home; and Thetis, who had not forgotten Achilles’ plea, rose through the waves and flew to Olympus. There sat Zeus, Son of Cronus, Lord of the Echoing Thunder, in solitude on the topmost peak of that lofty, many-ridged mountain. Thetis knelt down, clasping his knees with her left hand, and placed the right caressingly beneath his chin.

  This was her prayer:

  ‘Great Father ZEUS, if ever THETIS

  Assisted you by word or deed,

  Alone among the Immortal Gods

  In ministration to your need,

  ‘Fulfil, I beg you, this petition:

  Honour Achilles, her dear son,

  Foredoomed by FATE to end his life

  Before its prime has well begun.

  ‘Now Agamemnon, King of Men,

  Has roughly robbed him of his prize,

  Lovely Briseis; by this act

  Dishonouring us in all Greek eyes.

  ‘If ZEUS, sage sovereign of Olympus,

  Rebuking such injustice, lends

  A brief support to Trojan arms,

  My son may hope for full amends.’

  Since Zeus listened but did not reply, Thetis continued, in the same suppliant posture: ‘I beg you either to give me a firm promise, sealed with your divine nod, or else dismiss my petition. Why shrink from offending me? I know well that I am the least esteemed of all the Immortals.’

  Zeus answered in troubled tones: ‘A serious matter, and bound to cause trouble between Queen Hera and myself. She has often accused me of breaking my neutrality and favouring the Trojans. Nevertheless, if she does not surprise us two together, I will grant your plea. Come, take heart, and observe my divine nod: the surest possible sign (as everyone knows) that this is a true, certain, and irrevocable promise.’ Zeus nodded his dark, immortal brow, shaking his scented locks, and the whole mountain quaked as he did so.

  The two deities thereupon parted: Thetis diving straight into the sea; and Zeus making for his Palace, where the throned Olympians rose in courteous welcome as he entered the hall. But Hera, aware that he had agreed to help Thetis, began her taunts as soon as he was seated: ‘Tell me, shifty husband, with what god or goddess have you been plotting? Am I always to be excluded from these secret conferences? Were you ever kind enough to inform me of your plans before they were set in motion?’

  Zeus replied: ‘Do not hope to be forewarned of all my decisions, Hera! They are sometimes too complex even for my wife to grasp. Whenever I can disclose any particular plan, no Immortal nor mortal will hear of it sooner than yourself; so, if I go apart to meditate, you must not badger me with questions afterwards.’

  Hera protested: ‘Revered Son of Cronus, what is this? You know that I never badger you with questions; but invariably leave you to reach your decisions in complete solitude. Today, however, I am much afraid that old Nereus’ daughter Thetis the Silver-Footed, who was seen crouched, clasping your knees, on the mountain-top at dawn, has persuaded you to retrieve Achilles’ honour. Did she not beg you to let the Greeks suffer a severe defeat in their naval camp, and did you not grant her your divine nod?’

  ‘My lady,’ cried Zeus, ‘you never cease imagining things; but this eternal meddlesomeness, from which I have no means of escape, cannot alter my plans. In fact, the more you meddle, the less I trust you. I always do exactly as I please, so keep silent and learn to obey; for if once I lay my omnipotent hands on your divine frame, no god in Olympus will dare intervene.’

  This threat alarmed Hera, who sat silently choking back her anger, amid general embarrassment, until Hephaestus the Smith-god ventured to pacify her. ‘It would be disastrous, Mother,’ he said, ‘if you and my father started wrangling about mortal affairs and drew us into the quarrel. Domestic troubles ruin the taste of our delightful banquets. My advice—though a goddess as learned as yourself can dispense with advice—is to let him be; otherwise he may shout at us again and cause further consternation. The Ruler of gods and men is quite capable of knocking us off our thrones with his thunderbolts; and then where should we be? Come, look pleasant for our sakes, and restore his good humour!’

  Hephaestus then rose and offered Hera a two-handled cup full of nectar. ‘Mother,’ he continued, ‘be brave and patient, however vexed you are. I could not bear to watch him man-handle a goddess whom I love so dearly, and without the least hope of saving her. Zeus is far too powerful to be challenged. I will never forget my last attempt at intervention, when he caught me by the foot and hurled me out of the front door. I flew through the air all day, landing on Lemnos only at sunset. The crash half-killed me; but fortunately the Sintian islanders came to my rescue.’

  Hera gave him a wan smile and accepted the cup. Then Hephaestus took a wine-bowl and filled every goblet, working from right to left; and what a shout of laughter arose at the sight of this lame god hobbling round and plying his ladle! The feast lasted until dusk. None could complain of the food, the drink, or the entertainment, because Apollo with his lyre, and the Muses with their clear voices, gave alternate performances. At nightfall, the Olympians scattered to their several homes—each cleverly designed for its owner by Hephaestus. Zeus himself retired to his bed-chamber and mounted the couch which he chose when he wished Sweet Sleep to visit him. There he rested awhile—and Hera of the Golden Throne rested at his side.

  Book Two:

  The False Dream: also ‘Catalogue of Ships’

  Not only every Greek of chariot-driving rank, but every Olympian too, Zeus alone excepted, slept the whole night through. He lay pondering how best to honour Achilles and arrange for a Greek defeat at their naval camp, until finally it occurred to him: why not send Agamemnon a false dream? Summoning one such to his bedside, he said: ‘False Dream, fly down to the Greek ships at Troy, seek out King Agamemnon, son of Atreus—you will find him in his hut—and give him this message, carefully using my exact words:

  ‘Know, King, that all Olympus

  Has yielded to the plea

  Brought before ZEUS by HERA

  With importunity.

  ‘So rouse your long-haired army

  And
march without delay

  In mass against the Trojans—

  Great Troy is yours today!’

  The False Dream hurried off as instructed, and found Agamemnon sound asleep. Disguising herself as King Nestor of Pylus, whose advice he valued more than any man’s, she cried: ‘What, are you asleep, son of Atreus? A commander-in-chief with so many vassals serving under him, and so many preoccupations, has no right to snore the whole night through. Here is an urgent message from Zeus. Though living far away, he feels a tender concern for your fortunes:

  “‘Know, King, that all Olympus

  Has yielded to the plea

  Brought before ZEUS by HERA

  With importunity.

  “‘So rouse your long-haired army

  And march without delay

  In mass against the Trojans—

  Great Troy is yours today!”

  ‘That was Zeus’ personal message; do not forget it on waking from your pleasant sleep!’

  Off flew the False Dream. Agamemnon awoke and sat up, the divine words still ringing in his ears. Quite unaware that Zeus planned to cause both armies painful losses, he fondly expected to capture Troy that same day. Rising, he put on a beautiful, soft, bright tunic, and a capacious cloak over it, shod his white feet with elegant sandals, shouldered the baldric supporting his silver-studded sword, took in hand his imperishable sceptre (an ancestral heirloom), and strolled out among the ships.

  As soon as Dawn touched high Olympus, notifying the Divine Family of Day’s approach, Agamemnon told heralds to summon an immediate Assembly. They did so, and the Greek soldiers hastily gathered in response. Before addressing them, however, Agamemnon called a Privy Council beside Nestor’s ship. ‘Pay attention, friends,’ he said. ‘I was sleeping pleasantly last night, when someone resembling you, my lord Nestor, in height, bulk and appearance, invaded my dreams. He stood near me, and I heard him say: “What, are you asleep, Agamemnon, son of wise Atreus the Chariot-Fighter? A commander-in-chief with so many vassals serving under him, and so many preoccupations, has no right to snore the whole night through. Here is an urgent message from Zeus. Though living far away, he feels a tender concern for your fortunes:

  “Know, King, that all Olympus

  Has yielded to the plea

  Brought before ZEUS by HERA

  With importunity.

  “So rouse your long-haired army

  And march without delay

  In mass against the Trojans—

  Great Troy is yours today!

  “‘This is Zeus’ personal message. Do not forget it on waking from your pleasant sleep.” So saying, the man in my dream vanished. With your leave, therefore, I shall sound a general call to arms. Yet it might be prudent to test the army’s courage first. When I suggest, in Assembly, that we break off the siege and sail home, you must shout protests from all sides and insist on a vigorous offensive.’

  Nestor then made a warm speech in support. ‘My lord King, Princes and Councillors! Had any other person told us of this vision, we might have either disregarded it or rejected it as false. Agamemnon, however, has every claim to be considered the greatest among us, so we should, I believe, accept the message as authentic, and sanction a general call to arms.’ Since nobody said anything else, all the members of the Council followed Nestor out, like sheep; and the men-at-arms came surging around them:

  Flights of bees, a thousand strong,

  From their caverned precipice

  Over flowery meadows throng,

  Some on that side, some on this.

  And like bees the various Greek contingents streamed from their ships and huts on the low, sandy shore, urged by the Goddess Rumour, a servant of Zeus; soon setting the Assembly Ground in such an uproar, as they sat down on the benches, that the nine heralds who implored them at least to let the Kings, Zeus’ foster-sons, make their voices heard, succeeded only by dint of considerable exertions.

  Agamemnon stood up and displayed his sceptre. Lame Hephaestus, the Smith-god, had originally presented this exquisite work of art to Zeus; but Zeus later gave it to Hermes, the swift-flying Helper; who passed it on to Pelops the Charioteer; from whom it went to Atreus, the High King. Atreus bequeathed the sceptre to his brother Thyestes the Sheep-Breeder; and he, in his turn, bequeathed it to Atreus’ son Agamemnon. Leaning on this emblem of his sovereignty over the entire Greek mainland, besides numerous adjacent islands, Agamemnon addressed the army:

  ‘Comrades, soldiers of Greece, devotees of the God Ares! Zeus, hard-hearted Son of Cronus, promised me once, in my innocence, even pledging me his famous nod, that I should not return to Argos before sacking yonder great city of Troy. This was a cruel deception, it now appears: he meant us to sail back in disgrace, after suffering severe casualties—or that, at any rate, reflects my present view—and nobody can contend with Zeus, who has humbled many a city and must, in time, humble yet more. It will be a tale to shame our posterity: how such powerful Greek forces fought so long and so useless a war against far weaker opponents. I shall enlarge on this point. Suppose that a solemn armistice were concluded by the two armies; and suppose that the Trojans invited us to enter their gates; and suppose, further, that we Greeks divided into companies of ten, each company engaging a Trojan householder to pour wine for it—why, then, I can assure you, there would not be nearly enough wine-pourers to go round! Such is the disproportion between their strength and ours. Of course, the Trojans possess fighting allies in plenty; and it is these who prevent us from sacking Troy. Nine long years have passed; the ships’ timbers are rotten and the tackle is perished; and though wives and children at home still await our return, we seem no nearer to success than we were at the start. Let us therefore do as I suggest: sail back to beloved Greece, in despair of ever forcing a way into the wide streets of Troy.’

  Agamemnon’s unexpected speech stirred the feelings of every man present, except his Privy Council, much as a tempestuous southeaster suddenly stirs the waters of the Icarian Gulf. Or, as when:

  After long days of summer heat

  A storm blows from the west,

  By which broad ranks of bearded wheat

  Are shaken and oppressed.

  The Assembly broke up in such excitement that the soldiers’ feet, scampering towards the ships, raised a tall cloud of dust. Down at the shore, men sang out to their comrades: ‘Lend a hand with this galley! Clear her launching track, knock away the props, and into the water she goes!’

  A confused noise rose to Heaven, and they would have raised the siege then and there, in defiance of Fate, had Hera not exclaimed: ‘Athene, you busy daughter of Zeus the Shield-Bearer, what do I hear? Are Agamemnon’s men really sailing back across the horizon? And will Priam and his Trojans make good their boast by keeping Queen Helen of Sparta—the woman for whose sake so many Greeks have died far from their native land? It is unthinkable! Hurry off, and prevent the launching of those ships!’

  Athene darted straight to where Odysseus, Sacker of Cities, stood lost in grief, not attempting to launch his fine vessel. She confronted him with: ‘Son of Laertes, what is this?’ Then, using Hera’s exact words, she went on: ‘Are Agamemnon’s men really sailing back across the horizon? And will Priam and his Trojans make good their boast by keeping Queen Helen of Sparta—the woman for whose sake so many Greeks have died far from their native land? It is unthinkable! Hurry off, and prevent the launching of those ships!’

  Odysseus knew Athene’s voice and, casting away his cloak—which Eurybates, the Ithacan herald, retrieved—ran through the camp, found Agamemnon, borrowed the aforesaid imperishable sceptre and, thus armed, walked around carrying out the goddess’ instructions. Whenever he met an officer in command of a ship, he would say politely: ‘My lord, it ill becomes you to catch this panic. Sit down, keep calm, and force your crew to do the same. You have entirely missed the drift of Agamemnon’s speech: he was just testing the army’s courage. And you had better take care that he does not punish you for this morning’s rebellion. The
foster-sons of Omniscient Zeus are proud of the divine honours bestowed on them; and he jealously protects them from affront.’

  But whenever Odysseus met a rowdy man-at-arms, he shook the sceptre at him. ‘Sit down,’ he would shout, ‘and await orders! You count for nothing, either as a soldier or a thinker. All Greeks cannot be kings. It is a bad army in which each soldier claims freedom of action: we need a united command, and our leader is Agamemnon, High King and representative of Zeus, Son of Cronus. Father Zeus, in his inscrutable wisdom, has conferred this sceptre on him, with the right to exact obedience from you.’

  Odysseus made his authority felt everywhere; and the men hurried back to their benches on the Assembly Ground, raising as much noise as when:

  A western wave rolls growling up the reach

  And thunderously breaks on the long beach…

  There they took their places again and everyone sat quiet—except a certain Thersites, who had no control over his tongue, and poured out an endless stream of abuse against his superiors, saying whatever came into his head that might raise a laugh. Thersites was by far the ugliest man in the Greek army: bandy-legged, lame, hump-backed, crook-necked and almost bald. His main butts were Achilles and Odysseus, who both detested him. On this occasion, careless of the annoyance his words might cause, he taunted Agamemnon. ‘Son of Atreus,’ he cried, ‘what more can you want of us? We have surely by now filled your huts with enough bronze vessels and slave-girls to satisfy your greed? When a city is sacked, you are always voted the pick of the loot. I daresay you hope to do even better soon: by squeezing the father of some Trojan prisoner whom I or my comrades may take, for a gold ransom. Or shall we capture yet another pretty little concubine to warm your bed? No commander-in-chief should treat his men so meanly!’

  Then he bellowed at the crowded benches: ‘Fools, rascals—women, not men—you should be ashamed of your softness! Go home, as you intended, and let this fellow Agamemnon gorge himself on his prizes of honour! That would soon teach him how much he needs us—especially after putting Achilles, a far finer soldier, to shame by robbing him of his award in that brutal fashion. Of course, Achilles has swallowed the insult; so he can hardly have felt much resentment, else Agamemnon would not still be alive and as presumptuous as ever.’