Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece

by Gustav Schwab

  When Agamemnon heard him counselling his men thus, he cried: “Old man, may your knees obey you, and may the vigor of your body match the courage which still beats in your breast! If only another could take from you the burden of age, if only you were young again!”

  “How I should like to be as I once was!” Nestor replied. “But the gods do not give a man all things at all times. So now the young shall hurl the spear, while I do my part with the words of wise counsel age can give.”

  Agamemnon went on and found Menestheus, son of Peteus. Around him the Athenians clustered, and beside him were the Cephalonians under the command of Odysseus. Both battalions were waiting to let others storm on before. This vexed the king and he said to them gruffly: “Why do you huddle together, waiting for others to bear the brunt of danger? When we dine on roast meat and drink wine, you are always first, but now it would not displease you to see ten other Argive troops precede you into battle!”

  Odysseus scowled at him and said: “What is this you say, son of Atreus? You call us loiterers? Just wait until we break forth and you will see with what a vengeance we press the fury of the fight against the Trojans, and how I shall go ahead of all. So do not be so quick with ill-considered words!”

  When Agamemnon saw the hero roused against him, he answered smilingly: “Well I know, noble son of Laertes, that you need neither reproof nor counsel. And at heart you are as gentle as I, so let us not speak harsh words to one another.” And he left him and hastened on.

  Next he encountered the son of Tydeus, proud Diomedes, standing in his magnificent chariot next to Sthenelus, son of Capaneus, his friend and charioteer. To him too he expressed displeasure in order to test him. “It seems,” he said, “that the son of Tydeus is looking about in dismay. How different your father was when he fought against Thebes! He was always in the thick of battle!”

  Diomedes heard the reproof of his king in silence; his friend Sthenelus answered for him. “You know better, son of Atreus,” he said. “We can boast of greater prowess than our fathers, for we conquered that very Thebes before which they failed.” But Diomedes interrupted his friend and said sternly: “Say no more. I do not blame the king for urging the Danai on to battle. It is he who has the glory if we win; it is he who bears loss and grief if we fail. So let us keep off defeat!” With that Diomedes leaped down from the chariot, and his bronze breastplate rang.

  Troop after troop, like waves rushing in upon the shore, the Argives fared forth to battle. The leaders shouted commands; the men marched in silence. The Trojans, on the other hand, were as noisy as a flock of bleating sheep, and the tongues of many different peoples could be heard from their ranks. And through all that clamor rang the battle cry of the gods. Ares, the war-god, rallied the courage of the Trojans, and Pallas Athene fired the hearts of the Argives.

  THE BATTLE. DIOMEDES

  Soon the hosts, surging foward, met face to face. Shield clashed on shield; spear crossed spear, and everywhere was the clamor of voices: here lament and there jubilation. As in late spring two swollen streams fuse and plunge down the mountain side, so the shouts of the armies merged to a single roar. The first hero to fall was Echepolus of Troy, who ventured out too far, so that Nestor’s son Antilochus pierced his forehead, and he toppled over like a tower. Swiftly Elephenor, one of the princes of Greece, caught hold of the foot of the fallen warrior to pull him away from his comrades and strip him of his armor. But as he bent down to drag him over, his shield shifted a little, and Agenor, the Trojan, seeing his advantage, brandished his spear and pierced his side, so that the Argive sank dead in the dust. Over him raged the battle, and the warriors fell on one another fiercely as wolves.

  Simoisius, in the flower of youth, darted forward and was struck above his right breast by Ajax the Great. The spear came out through his shoulder, and he sprawled on the ground. Instantly Ajax threw himself upon him and took his breastplate. Straightway Antiphus of Troy threw his lance, but it missed Ajax and hit Leucus, the friend of Odysseus, just as he was dragging off the youthful dead. This filled Odysseus with fury and grief; looking about him cautiously, he hurled his javelin, but the Trojan recoiled from it. He struck Democoon, a bastard son of Priam; the pointed spear passed through each temple. He fell with a great thud, and the first row of Trojan fighters, Hector among them, retreated. At that the Danai shouted with joy, shoved aside the dead bodies, and penetrated farther into the ranks of the Dardanians.

  This angered Apollo, and he urged the Trojans on. “Do not give up the battlefield to the Argives,” he cried, and his voice rang out above the tumult. “They are not made of stone or iron, and Achilles, the best of them, is not even fighting! He remained behind near the fleet, where he is nursing his grudge.” On the other side, Athene was spurring the Danai to battle, and many heroes fell in both armies.

  Then Pallas gave Diomedes, son of Tydeus, such valor and strength that he stood out among the Achaeans and won undying glory. She made brighter his shield and helmet, so that they glittered like stars on an autumn night, and drove him into the thick of the foe. Now among the Trojans was Dares, a priest of Hephaestus, a rich and powerful man who had sent two sons, Phegeus and Idaeus, both dauntless warriors, into this war. These guided their chariot out from the ranks of their men and straight toward Diomedes, who fought on foot. First Phegeus cast his lance; it grazed the shoulder of the son of Tydeus but did not wound him. But Diomedes’ spear pierced the breast of Phegeus who fell from his chariot. When his brother Idaeus saw this, he did not dare stop to screen his brother’s body but leaped from his chariot and fled, while Hephaestus, his father’s protector, spread darkness about him, for he did not want his priest to lose both sons.

  And now Athene took her brother Ares, the war-god, by the hand, saying to him: “Brother, shall we not leave the Trojans and Argives to their own devices for a time, and see to whom our father will grant the victory?” So Ares let his sister take him from the battlefield, and the mortals were left to themselves. But Athene knew that Diomedes, her favorite, was fighting with the strength she had conferred upon him.

  Now the Achaeans pressed hard upon the foe, and a Trojan fell before the onslaught of every Argive commander. Agamemnon thrust his spear into the shoulder blade of Hodius; Idomeneus pierced Phaestus and plunged him headlong from his chariot; Scamandrius, the skillful hunter, was struck down by the sharp lance of Menelaus; Meriones slew Phereclus, who had built Paris the ships for his marauding expedition; and many other Trojans fell at the hands of the Danai.

  The son of Tydeus raged through the army of the foe like a mountain stream swollen with rains, and it was difficult to guess whether he belonged to the Argives or the Trojans, for he was now here and now there. While he was darting back and forth with the tide of battle, Pandarus, son of Lycaon, fixed him carefully with his eye, aimed his bow at him, and shot him in the shoulder, so that blood flowed over his armor. Pandarus, seeing this, exulted and called back to his comrades: “Come, Trojans, goad on your horses! I have hit the bravest among the Argives! Soon he will have raged his last and he in the dust, for Apollo himself called me from Lycia to do battle with this man!”

  But Diomedes was not fatally wounded. He rose, stood in front of his chariot, and called to Sthenelus, his friend and charioteer: “Come down from the chariot, dear comrade, and draw the arrow out of my shoulder.” Sthenelus hurried to do as he asked, and the clear red blood spurted from between the links of the armor. Then Diomedes prayed to Athene: “Blue-eyed daughter of Zeus! You were ever wont to protect my father; now be gracious to me as well! Guide my spear to that man over there who has wounded me and who would rejoice in my death. Let him not see the light of the sun for long!” And Athene heard his prayer and quickened his limbs. His body grew light as that of a bird, his wound no longer throbbed, and he raced back into battle.

  “Go!” she said to him. “I have healed you and taken the human darkness from your eyes, so that now you can see who on the field is mortal and who is immortal. Do not lift your hand
against a god should you see one coming toward you. But should Aphrodite approach—you may wound her with your spear.”

  Diomedes, hearing this, rushed to the forefront, fierce as a mountain lion, for his courage and strength were trebled. He felled Astynous by a thrust at the shoulderjoint; he pierced Hypiron with his lance and slew the two sons of Eurydamas and the two late-born sons of Phaenops, who now had nothing left in all the world but his grief. Then he hurled from their chariot Chromius and Echemmon, sons of Priam, and stripped them of their armor while his men seized the chariot and took it to the camp.

  Aeneas, King Priam’s bold son-in-law, saw the ranks of the Trojans thinning under the strokes and thrusts of the son of Tydeus. He hurried through the storm of missiles until he reached Pandarus. “Son of Lycaon,” he said to him, “where is your bow? Where are your arrows and that glory which, up to now, no one from Lycia and no one from Troy has equalled? Aim a shaft at that man who is making such havoc among the Trojans!—unless, of course, he is a deathless god in the guise of a mortal!”

  Pandarus replied: “If it is not a god, then it must be Diomedes, son of Tydeus, whom I thought I slew. But if it is Diomedes, then a god must have shielded him and is still giving him protection and aid. Alas for my ill luck in this war! I have shot at two Argive princes, wounded both without killing them, and only fanned their anger. It was in an evil hour that I took my quiver and bow and strode through the gates of Troy. If ever I return home, then let any stranger strike off my head, if I do not break my useless bow and arrows with these hands and toss them into the fire!”

  Aeneas tried to console him. “It were better for you to mount my chariot,” he said, “and learn how agile Trojan horses are in flight and pursuit. If Zeus is bent on honoring Diomedes by granting him the victory, they will carry us safely back to Troy. But I shall dismount and fight on foot.” Pandarus, however, begged him to drive the horses himself, since he was not practiced in this art. So he mounted the chariot, and the nimble horses bore them toward the son of Tydeus.

  Sthenelus saw them coming. “Look!” he called to his friend. “Two fearless men are making straight for you, Pandarus, and Aeneas, the demigod, son of Aphrodite! Against these all your rage and power will be of small avail. This time let us flee in the chariot!”

  But Diomedes frowned and said: “Talk not to me of fear! To shrink from battle—to yield—is not my way! My strength is still unbroken. To stand inactive in the chariot would only vex me. No, just as you see me here, on foot—that is how I shall go to meet them. If I succeed in slaying both, then stop our horses, tether the reins to the edge of the car, and take the steeds of Aeneas to our ships as our rightful booty.” While he was still speaking, the lance of Pandarus flew toward the son of Tydeus, pierced his shield, and rebounded from his breastplate.

  “Missed!” shouted Diomedes at the Trojan, exulting, and cast his spear. It sped through the air and straight into the face of his foe, under the eye, cutting through teeth and tongue; the point came out below the chin. Pandarus fell from his chariot with a clash of arms, doubled up on the ground in all his glittering array, and quivered in the throes of death. His horses shied, breaking away. But Aeneas leaped down from the chariot and paced around the dead body like an angry lion, holding out his shield and spear, ready to slay anyone who dared to touch his friend. Now Diomedes grasped a stone lying in the field, a stone so large that two ordinary men could not have lifted it. With this he struck the son of Anchises on the hip-joint, crushing it and tearing the sinews, so that the hero sank to the earth and lost consciousness. He would have died, had not Aphrodite wound her white arms around her cherished son, covered him with the silvery folds of her robe, and carried him from the field.

  In the meantime, Sthenelus, obedient to his friend’s command, had taken the horses and chariot of Aeneas to the ships, and now returned to Diomedes in his own chariot. With the clear vision Athene had given him, the son of Tydeus had recognized Aphrodite. He followed her through the din of battle and soon caught up with her as she bore away her son. The hero thrust at her with his lance, and the point pierced the skin of her soft hand, so that it began to bleed. The wounded goddess screamed and let Aeneas fall to the ground. Then she hurried to Ares, her brother, whom she found seated on the left of the battle, his chariot and horses hidden in cloud. “O brother!” she pleaded. “Take me away! Give me your horses, that I may quickly flee to Olympus. My hand hurts! Diomedes, a mortal, has wounded me. I believe he would fight against our father Zeus himself!”

  Ares let her have his chariot, and when Aphrodite reached Olympus, she threw herself weeping into the arms of Dione, her mother, who caressed and comforted her and guided her to the father of the gods. He received her with a smile. “Now you see, sweet daughter,” he said, “why the business of war was not entrusted to you. Let your work be to arrange weddings, and leave battles to Ares.” But her sister Pallas and Hera looked at her askance and taunted her. “What is it all about?” they asked maliciously. “That beautiful and false woman from Greece most probably lured our sister to Troy. There she must have passed her hand over Helen’s gown and scratched herself on a clasp.”

  Down on the battlefield, meanwhile, Diomedes had thrown himself upon Aeneas. Three times he lunged forward to deal him the deathblow, and three times wrathful Apollo, who had hurried to the spot after Aphrodite’s departure, held his shield over the wounded man. When Diomedes lifted his sword a fourth time, the god threatened him in a terrible voice: “Mortal, do not venture to vie with gods!” Abashed, Diomedes faltered and drew back.

  Apollo bore Aeneas out of the battle and carried him to his temple in Troy, where Leto, his mother, and Artemis, his sister, took him into their care. On the ground where the hero had lain the god shaped a phantom in his image, and Achaeans and Trojans alike began to fight for it with savage blows and thrusts. Then Apollo bade Ares try to remove from battle the insolent son of Tydeus who fought against the immortals themselves, and the war-god, in the shape of Thracian Acamas, mingled with the crowd of warriors and approached the sons of Priam to reprove them: “How much longer, O princes, will you permit that Argive to commit his murders? Will you wait until the fighting reaches the very gates of your city? Do you not know that Aeneas has fallen? Come! Let us save our comrade from the hands of our foe!”

  In this way Ares moved the hearts of the Trojans. And Sarpedon, king of the Lycians, went up to Hector. “What has become of that famous courage of yours?” he asked. “Only a little while ago you boasted that without allies, yes, even without an army, you with your brothers and brothers-in-law would be enough to defend Troy. Yet now I do not see a single one of them in the battle. They are all crouched like dogs before a lion, and we allies are forced to keep up the fight alone.” In his heart Hector felt that he deserved reproof. He sprang down from his chariot, brandished his lance, strode through the ranks, inciting all who crossed his path, and set the conflict blazing afresh. His brothers and the other Trojans again turned their faces toward the foe. And Apollo healed Aeneas, filled him with new strength, and sent him back to the field where he appeared among his men quite suddenly and wholly sound. They all rejoiced; no one took the time to ask questions but all rushed forward to battle.

  The Argives with Diomedes, the two Ajaces, and Odysseus in their van awaited the impact, calm and motionless as a bank of clouds, and Agamemnon hurried through the ranks calling: “Now, my friends, be men, and have faith in your own powers. When a people has faith in itself, more men stand than fall, but for him who flees there is neither help nor glory.” So he spoke and was the first to fling his spear at the Trojans. It struck the friend of Aeneas, Deicoon, who always fought in the forefront. But the mighty hand of Aeneas slew two of the bravest Achaeans: Crethon and Orsilochus, sons of Diocles, who in Pherae, in the Peloponnesus, had grown up together, sturdy as mountain lions. And Menelaus grieved for them as he raised his spear and flung himself into the fight. Ares spurred him onward, for he hoped Aeneas would fell him to the ground, b
ut Antilochus, son of Nestor, fearing for the life of the king, sprang to his side at the very moment the two were preparing to rush at each other with their lances. When Aeneas saw two heroes confronting him, he drew back. Menelaus and Antilochus saved the two bodies from the hands of their foes and put them in the care of friends. Then they returned to the onslaught. Menelaus stabbed Pylaemenes and Antilochus drove his sword into the temple of Mydon, his charioteer, so that he fell from the chariot and stood head first in the deep dust until his own horses, which Antilochus was driving toward the Argives, knocked him over and trampled him underfoot.

  Hector stormed forward with the bravest of the Trojan warriors, and the war-god accompanied him, going now before and now behind him. When Diomedes saw Ares coming he paused in wonder, as a traveller stops to marvel at a thundering waterfall, and called to the people: “Do not be amazed at Hector’s fearlessness, my friends. For a god is at his side, shielding him from harm. And so, if we are forced to retreat, we shall be retreating from the gods!” While he was speaking, the Trojans came nearer and nearer, and Hector slew two bold Achaeans, Anchialus and Menesthes, both in one chariot. Ajax, son of Telamon, wanted to avenge them. With his lance he struck Amphius, an ally of the Trojans, under the belt, and he crashed to the ground. Then he pressed his foot against the body and drew out his lance, but a hail of spears prevented him from stripping his victim of his armor.