The Anger of Achilles

by Robert Graves

  ‘Having, however, no further quarrels with noble Hector, I shall sacrifice to Zeus and his divine family at sunrise tomorrow, before launching and leading the ships; those of you who are interested can watch my Myrmidons pulling lustily at the oars as we sail off across the Hellespont. If Poseidon the Earth-Shaker grants us a prosperous voyage, we should sight Phthia on the third day. I left great possessions behind me when I had the ill-luck to set out for Troy. They will soon be augmented with further gold, bronze, iron and beautiful captives—whatever fell to me by lot, since it was only of my prize of honour that Agamemnon spitefully deprived me.

  ‘I count on you to repeat these exact words, in open Assembly, so that my fellow-princes may express their indignation and be on guard against the High King’s greed and treachery. He has sent you here as his delegates because the shameless dog would not dare to meet my eyes! Make it plain that, after the wicked trick played on me, I will have no further dealings with him; nor join in any enterprise he sponsors; nor listen to any more of his flattering messages—one is quite sufficient. Zeus has robbed my lord Agamemnon of his wits; so let him go his way in peace, and I will go mine!

  ‘I reject the indemnity. I do not care a straw for him! Though he offered me ten or twenty times his entire present fortune, and all the wealth that may accrue to him in future—though he were to capture Boeotian Orchomenus, or sack the bulging treasure-houses of Egyptian Thebes—Thebes, where two hundred chariotmen stand always ready-armed at each of its hundred gates—though he offered me gifts as numerous as the grains of sand on the seashore, or the specks of dust on yonder plain, he could never soften my rage—without first making full amends for those outrageous insults!

  ‘Tell him that I would not marry any daughter of his, not even if she rivalled Aphrodite the Golden in beauty, and Athene the Owl-Eyed in arts and crafts! Let him match them with bridegrooms of his own rank, and of better blood than mine… If the gods accept my sacrifice and bring us safely across the sea, my father King Peleus will himself find me a wife. There are enough girls in Phthia and the rest of Greece to pick from, daughters of princes who rule fortified towns. While still at home, I often considered marrying a loyal and capable wife and settling down to enjoy my inheritance.

  ‘And another thing: I value life far more than I covet wealth—albeit such wealth as the Trojans amassed during the years of peace, or Apollo the Archer has heaped in the massive temple he raised at rocky Delphi. Herds and flocks may be won in forays; tripods and chestnut horses may be peacefully bought; but neither raiding nor trading can redeem a man’s soul once it has fled from his dying lips. My goddess-mother, Thetis the Silver-Footed, prophesied as follows:

  “Twin fates dispute your death, heroic son,

  Of which two fates you must, perforce, choose one:

  Either to stand fast on the Trojan shore

  Until you die, renowned for evermore,

  Or to retreat and from your Phthian town

  Rule long, nor hope for any high renown.”

  ‘You may as well warn Agamemnon to raise his siege. Troy shall never fall; everyone can see that Zeus protects her walls, nor do their defenders lack courage. Now, pray go and announce my reply! It will be the Council’s task to discuss some other means of saving the Greek army and fleet, since I cannot, for rage, accept the compensation offered on their advice. By your leave, I should like King Phoenix to spend the night here, in readiness for our homeward voyage. I shall not, of course, take him off against his will.’

  Achilles’ vehemence so astounded the delegates that it was some time before any man of the five ventured a word. The venerable Phoenix said with tears in his eyes: ‘Glorious Achilles, if you are really thinking of departure, and are too angry to care whether or not the fleet gets burned, what will become of me? How can I remain here, alone and unprotected, my dearest foster-son? When Peleus sent you to join Agamemnon’s army—do not forget that you were still a callow youth without battle experience or distinction in debate—he appointed me your tutor, to teach you the rudiments of warfare and oratory. So now I could not bear to be deserted by you, even if Zeus himself stripped my years away, making me as young and vigorous again as when I left the country where I was born!

  ‘I must at last reveal what drove me from Thessaly, land of lovely women… My father, Amyntor, son of Ormenus, had a beautiful slave named Clytia, whom he admired more than he did my mother. My mother, feeling wronged, ceaselessly implored me to anticipate him by seducing her rival. I yielded; but my father heard of the act, and laid a solemn curse on me, charging the dreadful Furies never to let any child of mine sit on his knees. Since the Lord of Hell and Persephone, his terrifying Queen, approved this curse, I drew sword and would have taken vengeance, had not some god or other restrained me, with a warning that I should be ever afterwards hated and shunned as a parricide by my subjects. None the less, I could not bring myself to stay in the palace, though numerous friends and relatives begged me to change my mind, and determined that I should not escape. Having made ready a great banquet of beef, mutton, fat pork, and wine galore from the royal cellar, they took turns to watch me for nine nights, keeping one fire continuously ablaze in the colonnade of the fenced courtyard, and another in the porch outside my bedroom. On the tenth night, when it was dark, I broke through the strongly barred door, vaulted over the courtyard fence, unseen by any watchmen or servant women, and fled across the green Thessalian meadows to the fertile sheep-lands of Phthia. There your father Peleus welcomed me as if I had been an only son, the young heir to all his riches, and appointed me King of the Dolopians, who live on the Phthian frontier.

  ‘Yes, glorious Achilles, I tutored you with unwavering care and affection. As a little boy, you would not enter the banqueting hall in any company but mine, nor eat and drink there unless I set you on my knee, gave you tit-bits from the trencher, and put the wine-cup to your lips. You were so helpless that often, on rising, I found my tunic was stained by the sputtered wine. Why I lavished such care on your upbringing and treated you as my foster-son, was that the gods had doomed me to impotence; and now, in return, I trust that your filial love will prove my salvation. Prince Achilles, curb your pride; this vindictive spirit does not become you! The Olympians themselves relent sometimes, though ineffably stronger and more majestic than you are. If a mortal has transgressed the divine law, he appeals to Heaven, burns incense, pours libations, sacrifices victims, utters vows, and counts on the gods to forgive him:

  ‘Penitential PRAYERS that go

  Withered, lame, with eyes askance,

  In a long unhappy row

  Following TRANSGRESSION’S dance,

  ‘Never hope to overtake

  Her quick-moving wanton feet:

  Queen TRANSGRESSION still shall make

  Mischief by her foul deceit,

  ‘Yet the man who dares reject

  Heaven’s commandments with abuse,

  In his downfall may expect,

  By the gracious leave of ZEUS,

  ‘This angelic company

  To come limping up pell-mell;

  Who, if handled reverently,

  Heal his hurt and use him well

  But, if scorned, ensure that he

  Suffers for their scorn in Hell!

  ‘Come, Achilles! Just as Zeus listens to the penitential prayers of transgressors, so every right-minded mortal will accept the apologies of whoever has wronged him. Had Agamemnon failed to offer you amends, with promises of additional treasure and honours at a later date, then I should certainly not have joined this delegation, nor begged you to swallow your grudge and save your desperate compatriots from massacre. But since his immediate offer is a very handsome one, and his further offers are even more so; and since his delegates were chosen out of the whole army as the three princes whom you love best, do not put yourself in the wrong by rebuffing us! Tradition teaches that whenever an ancient hero grew angry, he always yielded in the end. A story occurs to me that illustrates this point—the events
happened long before my day—and because we meet here as friends, I should like to tell it you:

  ***

  THE TALE OF MELEAGER’S ANGER

  A bloody war broke out between Thestias, King of the Curetians and his brother-in-law, Oeneus, King of the Aetolians; the Curetians trying to capture Oeneus’ fine city of Calydon. What caused this war was that at one harvest thanks-giving, Oeneus, whether deliberately or by inadvertence, failed to give Artemis of the Golden Throne the first-fruits of his rich demesne. The other eleven Olympians having received their hundred-beast sacrifices, Oeneus deeply offended her by the omission. She let loose a divine monster, a huge white-tusked boar, which did serious damage to the Calydonian orchards, even felling large apple-trees—root, blossom and all. Meleager, Oeneus’ son, gathered a great company of princes from several cities to hunt the boar—this being no task that two or three only could undertake—and was valiant enough to destroy it himself.

  Artemis then provoked a hot argument between the Aetolians and their Curetian allies when it came to awarding the prize of honour—the boar’s head and shaggy pelt. For, though it was Meleager’s spear that dispatched the monster, Atalanta, an Arcadian huntress, had already driven an arrow in behind its ear, thus saving the lives of your own father Peleus and of Telamon, Great Ajax’s father. Meleager flayed the carcase and, thereupon, waived his award in Atalanta’s favour, announcing that the beast would soon have succumbed to her arrow. Plexippus the Curetian took exception to such gallantry. Since Meleager declined the prize of honour, he said, it must not go to Atalanta but to himself, as the most important personage present. Meleager, now fallen in love with Atalanta, flew into a temper and murdered Plexippus, and another uncle who supported his contention.

  In the ensuing war Meleager, a favourite of Ares, won every battle he fought—so that after awhile the Curetians, although far outnumbering the Aetolians, kept inside their own city walls. But Althaea, Meleager’s mother, mourned for her two brothers; she would kneel weeping on the ground, belabouring the earth with her palms, as she supplicated the Rulers of Hell to destroy her son; and the pitiless Fury who walks in darkness heard this plea from the Pit below. Althaea’s curse roused an anger in Meleager’s heart such as other men, however wise, have been equally unable to subdue. He laid down his arms, and stayed at home, in the company of his wife Cleopatra… Cleopatra’s mother, I should mention, was Marpessa the Neat-Ankled, daughter of Evenus; and her father was Idas, the strongest hero alive, who had once even dared catch up a bow and challenge Apollo, his rival for Marpessa’s love… Everyone knew Cleopatra by her proper name at the time of my story, but later Marpessa and Idas nicknamed her ‘Alcyone’ because, when Apollo widowed her, she returned to their palace, mourning Meleager as loudly as the halcyon bird mourns her dead mate in the midwinter season.

  Meleager now used to lie beside Cleopatra, brooding angrily on his mother’s curses, and refusing to defend Calydon. At length, a huge din of battle rose from the gates, and the Curetians began battering at the towers; so the Council of Calydon delegated the leading priests to make Meleager change his mind and save their city. They offered him as much fertile land as it would take a yoke of oxen fifty days to plough—half of it already planted with vines—and he could choose the estate, they said, from whichever part of the plain he wished. Old Oeneus also implored his son to fight and, standing outside his fine bedroom, rattled desperately at the door. Meleager’s sisters and a group of his closest friends joined in the plea, and so did Althaea herself—an intrusion that made his refusal even sterner. He continued obdurate, until missiles came hurtling through the bedroom roof; by which time the Curetians had won a lodgement on the fortifications and were setting fire to the houses. Then Cleopatra wept, reminding her husband of the disasters that attend the sack of a city: men killed, buildings aflame, women of whatever rank forced into concubinage. Her tears finally roused Meleager. He sprang from bed, buckled on his glittering armour, and drove off the Curetians. But since he fought of his own free will, after declining the reward offered by the Calydonians, they were under no obligation to pay him. Nevertheless, he had saved Calydon.

  ***

  ‘Dear son, I can see how angry you are; yet do not withhold your help until the very last moment, as Meleager did; ships, once they catch fire, are more difficult to extinguish than stone houses! If you accept Agamemnon’s advances, you will be treated like a god; if you reject them and then fight, as Meleager did, the honour will be far less, however vigorous your intervention.’

  Achilles answered: ‘Dear foster-father, I want no honour from my enemies. It is enough that Zeus has agreed to justify my stand—a most encouraging sign, while I remain alive and well. But I cannot have you lamenting in my hut on behalf of Agamemnon, your obstinate love for whom must forfeit you mine. It would be more proper to cause him as much trouble as he has caused me. Show a royal independence—let us join forces—and allow your companions to take my message unassisted! Stay here on a soft bed, and by the light of dawn we shall decide whether to sail home.’

  Achilles nodded at Patroclus, as a sign that Phoenix should be given his bed; and also as a hint that the other guests should take their leave without further ado.

  Great Ajax, son of Telamon, then spoke: ‘My lord Odysseus, having clearly failed to fulfil the High King’s commission, we ought to be off. The Council awaits Prince Achilles’ answer, which must be delivered at once, though a downright unsatisfactory answer it is. I much regret that he has worked himself into such a proud, stubborn, furious rage as to spurn the friendship of comrades who consider him our leading champion. What a merciless fellow you are, Achilles! Any other man accepts blood-money even for the loss of a brother or a son; thus a homicide is able, at enormous cost, to appease the relatives of his victim and avoid exile. You are different, it seems. The gods have planted in you a proud and implacable grudge—and all because of a single girl captive! Now the High King offers seven others, the loveliest and most talented in his possession, with additional gifts of fabulous value. Why deny us the courtesy due from a host to his guests? We have come not only as the Council’s chosen delegates, but as your brothers-in-arms, and are hurt to find ourselves received like strangers.’

  Achilles answered: ‘Ajax, son of Telamon, descendant of Zeus himself, what you say very nearly makes me relent. Yet my blood boils when I think of Agamemnon’s abusive arrogance in the Assembly—I might have been some ignoble camp-follower! So here is my message: I will take no further part in the war unless Prince Hector attacks this station, killing my own men and attempting to burn my ships; I believe, however, that he will keep his distance, eager for battle though he may be.’

  No more was spoken. Each delegate in turn poured a libation from a two-handled cup; then all except Phoenix went back along the line of ships, led by Odysseus.

  At Patroclus’ orders, the valets and slave-women made up a comfortable couch, fetching rugs, fleeces, fine linen sheets; and Phoenix stretched out on it, prepared to sleep until sunrise. Achilles’ bed stood in a comer of the stoutly-built hut, and beside him now lay pretty Diomede, Phorbas’ daughter, one of the prisoners taken by him on Lesbos. Patroclus occupied the opposite corner in company with another captive—slim-waisted Iphis, a gift from Achilles after the sack of Scyrus, Enyeus’ city perched on a steep hill.

  When the delegates returned to the High King’s hut, the entire Assembly rose and drank their healths. Agamemnon was the first to question them. ‘Tell me at once, Odysseus, glory of Greece,’ he said. ‘Is Achilles ready to forget his grudge and save the fleet, or does pride prevent him?’

  ‘Most noble Agamemnon,’ Odysseus answered, ‘so far from forgetting his grudge, he seems angrier than ever and declines your gifts contemptuously. He recommends that you should call on us princes for advice, if you would save your fleet and your army. Achilles himself launches his flotilla at daybreak, and warns you to raise the siege—on the ground that Troy can never fall while Zeus the Far-Sighted protects her w
alls and their defenders do not lack courage. This was his message, as Prince Ajax and your two discreet heralds will testify. Old King Phoenix, at Achilles’ request, is spending the night in his hut. He has been asked, though not compelled, to sail away when his foster-son gives the word.’

  A miserable silence greeted Odysseus’ terse speech, for the news stunned everyone present. At last Diomedes spoke: ‘Most illustrious Agamemnon, it was a great mistake to offer Achilles bribes. You only flattered his immoderate pride. Nevertheless, let us wait and see whether he really means what he says: my view is that as soon as he feels inspired to fight, fight he will. My lords, I propose an adjournment. This noble banquet must have revived your strength and lent you courage for tomorrow’s ordeal, but you need sleep. King Agamemnon, we expect you to marshal us in defence of our fleet at the earliest flush of dawn, and head the counter-attack yourself.’

  The Councillors applauded Diomedes, then poured libations, and made off, hoping for a good night’s rest.

  Book Ten:

  The Dolon Incident

  All the Greek leaders slept sound, with the sole exception of King Agamemnon and his brother Menelaus; both of whom had far too much on their minds.

  ZEUS, lovely HERA’s husband,

  HERA the Golden-Tressed,

  Lets thunder loose, and lightning,

  Upon a land of rest.

  Portending rain in torrents

  Or sleet or driving snow

  To blast the joys of harvest—

  Or war with all its woe.

  Agamemnon’s thunderous, soul-shaking groans drawn from the very bottom of his heart seemed a storm in miniature; and whenever he glanced southward and saw the sky lit up by Trojan camp-fires, or heard the distant sound of flutes, pipes, and singing voices, further dismay seized him. It was worse when he looked at the huts and the fleet; he tore out his hair in handfuls, and invoked Zeus, Lord of Counsels, with pitiful sobs. At last he decided to rouse the noble-hearted Nestor, son of Neleus. Perhaps he might suggest some stratagem by which disaster could be averted? Rising, Agamemnon put on his tunic, an elegant pair of sandals, and a magnificent tawny-yellow lion-skin that hung right down to his feet. Then, spear in hand, he left the hut.