In the meantime, the Argives, to their great surprise, saw the Trojans whom they had come to regard as cowards rush forward like beasts of prey who run from the mountains to throw themselves on the herds grazing in the valley. Full of astonishment one said to the other: “Who can have rallied the Trojans? Since Hector’s death they seemed to have lost all heart to fight us. It must be a god who had pity on them! But we too have gods on our side; we have kept the enemy at bay up to now, and we shall fend them off today as well.” With this they seized their arms and swept from the ships to the battlefield. And now with clang and clatter of shields and spears the fight began, and soon there was blood underfoot. Penthesilea and her women raged among the Argive warriors. She herself slew Molion and seven others. But when the Amazon Clonia felled Menippus, the friend of mighty Podarces, he became infuriated and pierced her hip with his lance. Penthesilea slashed at his hand with her sword, but she was too late to save her friend. And now Fortune favored the Argives. Idomeneus dealt a death blow to Bremusa, Meriones slew Euandra and Thermodoa. Derione died from a wound inflicted by Ajax, son of Oileus. The son of Tydeus killed Alcibia and Derimachia at the same instant, for his sweeping swordstroke cut both their heads from their shoulders. When they had done with the women, they turned to the Trojans. Sthenelus slew Cabirus of Sestos, but himself escaped death, for the arrow Paris aimed at him missed. The ruthless Fates guided its flight to a fellow Argive, to Euenor of Dulichium. His death roused Meges, the leader of the Dulichians, son of King Phyleus, to grief and fury. Like a lion he sprang at the Trojans and slew two of their bravest allies, Itymoneus and Agelaus of Miletus, and as many others as his spear could reach.
But Penthesilea was still unhurt and fought so fiercely that the Argives retreated before her thrusts. Drunk with success she called to them: “Today, you dogs, you shall atone for the suffering you have inflicted on Priam! Beasts and birds shall feed on your rotting flesh. Not one of you shall ever see his wife and child again, and no burial mound will be heaped above your bones. Where is Diomedes? Where is Ajax, son of Telamon? And where is the son of Peleus, where is Achilles? The best in your host do not dare measure their strength against mine! And why? Because they know that I should make corpses of them!” When she had spoken these arrogant words, she went on fighting, full of contempt for her foes. Now she wielded the axe, now the lance, or she reached for her quiver full of arrows, which her swift horse carried for her. In her wake came the sons of Priam and the best among the Trojans. At first the Danai could not stand against this massed attack. They fell like leaves in the wind or drops of rain; the field was covered with their bodies, and the horses of the Trojan war chariots trod them underfoot as if they were threshing grain. The Trojans felt as though an immortal had come from heaven to help them curb their foes, and they gave themselves up to foolish joy, to the belief that they had already vanquished the Argives.
But the clash and cry of battle had not yet reached mighty Ajax or Achilles, the son of a goddess. Both were far away, at the grave of Patroclus, and were letting their thoughts dwell on their slain friend. For such was the will of Fate who had appointed a few hours of brilliant victory for the Amazon queen, so that she might die wreathed in glory. The women of Troy stood on the walls of their city and acclaimed the deeds of Penthesilea. One of them, Hippodamia, the wife of Tisiphonus, was suddenly infected with the desire to fight. “My sisters,” she cried to those about her, “why do we not fight like our men? Why do we not defend our city and our children? We are not so much weaker than the youths of Troy. Our eyes are just as keen, our knees as supple as theirs. Light and air and food we share with them. Why should we not share their battles as well? Look at that woman in the field! She looms above all the men. And she does not even belong to our line, but is fighting for a king not her own, for a city which is not her home. Yet see how savagely she mows down her opponents! Now, if we fought, it would be for our own welfare and to avenge the wrong done to our own people. Is there a single one of us who has not lost a father, a husband, a child, a brother, or a near kinsman? And if our men are defeated, what awaits us but serfdom? So let us not loiter here a moment longer. Rather die than be carried off as spoils with our little children, when our husbands are killed and the city has gone up in flames!”
Thus spoke Hippodamia, and at her words all the women burned with the zeal to fight. They tossed aside their wools and their weaving, scattered like a swarm of bees, and girded themselves with whatever weapons they found in their houses. And all would have died, victims of ill-considered enthusiasm, had not Hecuba’s sister, Theano, the wife of Antenor, she who was wiser than the rest, opposed their headstrong ardor. She tried to reason with them: “What folly!” she cried as they prepared to stream through the gates. “You think you can fight the Achaeans, fight men practiced in the use of weapons, in the art of war? How can you even dream of competing with them! You have not been trained to fight like the Amazons! You have not learned to handle horses and to excel in the other occupations of men. And besides, Penthesilea is the daughter of the war-god, and you the children of ordinary mortals. That is why you must keep to the life of woman, shun the battlefield, stay in your houses, and ply the spindle. Leave war to our men. They are still unconquered! They are still defending Troy. Things have not come to such a pass that they need help from their womenfolk.”
With her wise words, aged Theano gradually succeeded in calming the excited women. Reluctantly they returned to their lookout on the wall and contented themselves with watching the battle from afar. Penthesilea fought untiringly, and the Argives fled from her and scattered here and there, some fully armed, while others had thrown their weapons to the ground. Horses and chariots, deprived of their charioteers, blundered in all directions. The groans of the wounded and the screams of the dying resounded over the field, for the spear of the Amazon queen dealt death wherever she appeared.
Nearer and nearer the Trojans came to the Argive camp. They had reached the ships and were about to burn them when Ajax, son of Telamon, at last heard the roar of battle. He raised his head from the burial mound of Patroclus and said to Achilles: “I hear the clash of arms and a confused din as if a battle were being waged nearby. Let us go to fend off the Trojans, for we want to keep them from our camp and from burning the ships!” Achilles roused himself at his words and listened, and now he too heard the clatter and the cries. Quickly the two girt on their shining armor and hurried toward the sounds.
A tremor of hope quickened the broken ranks of the Argives when they saw the bravest of their heroes running toward them. Ajax and Achilles threw themselves wholeheartedly into the battle. They divided the work between them: Ajax slew the Trojan leaders, while Achilles set upon the Amazons. Four of these quickly fell before his onslaught. Then both stormed against the bulk of the enemy army with united strength; soon the ranks of the foe showed great gaps, and those who remained were thrown into confusion.
When Penthesilea saw this, she ran to meet Ajax and Achilles as furiously as a panther rushes at the hunters. But they only stretched until their brazen armor creaked, and brandished their lances. The Amazon chose Achilles as her first target and hurled her spear at him, but it rebounded from his shield and splintered. And now she aimed her second lance at Ajax and called to both: “Even though I missed at the first throw, my second shall drain strength and life from the two of you who boast of being the strongest in the Argive host. Soon you will discover that a woman can do more than both of you put together!” Her words did little more than amuse the heroes, but her lance grazed the silver greaves of Ajax. Much as she would have liked to revel in his blood, she had not even scratched the skin, for the metal repelled her weapon, and it glanced off. Ajax did not deign to notice the Amazon, but rushed at the Trojans, leaving Penthesilea to Achilles, for he never doubted that his friend could slay her unaided, as easily as a hawk kills a dove.
When Penthesilea saw that her second throw had also failed, she heaved a great sigh, but Achilles measured her with
his glance and called to her: “Tell me, woman, how did you summon courage to confront us, the most powerful heroes on earth, sprung from the blood of the Thunderer himself, us, before whom Hector trembled and fell? You must be mad to threaten us with death, for your own last hour is come.” With these words he cast the lance which Chiron, his teacher, had made for Peleus, the lance which never missed its mark. It struck the Amazon above the right breast; the dark blood gushed from the wound, and her strength failed her. The axe fell from her hand, and her eyes dimmed. But with a great effort she retained consciousness and looked straight at her enemy, running toward her to drag her from her horse. For a moment she hesitated whether to draw her sword and defend herself, or dismount and buy her life from the victor with gold and bronze. But Achilles left her no time to decide one way or the other. In his blind rage at her pride, he pierced horse and rider with one mighty thrust. And she slipped down in the dust, impaled on the spear, quivering and leaning back against her horse which also lay dying. She was like a slender pine which the north wind has broken.
When the Trojans saw that she had fallen, they retreated to their city, lamenting her death as if she had been one of their own kinswomen. But the son of Peleus cried exultantly: “Lie there, poor creature, where dogs and birds can feed on your flesh! Who set you on to fight with me? Priam probably promised you priceless gifts as a reward for slaying Argives. But your reward was quite different from what you expected!” So he said and drew the spear from her body and the horse’s, and one last shudder ran through both. Then he took off her helmet and looked at the face of the foe he had slain. Although it was stained with dust and blood, her features were noble and lovely even in death, and the Achaeans who stood around the body marvelled at her great beauty; she looked like Artemis, sleeping after the heat of the chase over the wooded mountain slopes. Achilles could not take his eyes from her lips and brow. He grew more and more sorrowful, for he was struck by the thought that, instead of slaying, he should have taken her to wife and brought her back with him to Phthia.
But Ares, Penthesilea’s father, was more than all others saddened by her death. Swift as lightning and with the roar of thunder he descended from Olympus fully armed and strode across the peaks and chasms of Mount Ida. The heights and valleys shook beneath his tread. And he would have brought sure destruction to the Argives had not Zeus warned him off by unleashing a tempest over his head. Through the howl of the gale and the booming in the clouds, Ares recognized the voice of the father of gods, the friend of the Danai, and stopped halfway to the battlefield. He stood here irresolute, not knowing whether to return to Olympus, or, in defiance of Zeus, to stain his hands with the blood of Achilles. But he remembered how many of his sons Zeus had killed for rebelling against his command, and how even he, the war-god, had not been able to save them from death. So he thought better of it, for he had no wish to be silenced forever by lightning and hurled down to the underworld to bear the Titans company.
In the meantime, many Achaeans had crowded around the body of Penthesilea and began to strip her of her arms. But Achilles stood by silently, he who had been willing to leave her exposed to dogs and birds only a short time ago. With aching grief he looked down at her, and the anguish in his heart was as bitter as his mourning for Patroclus, his friend.
Among the Argives who had thronged to the spot was ugly Thersites who now began to taunt the son of Peleus. “What a fool you are,” he exclaimed. “A fool to regret the death of this woman who pursued us and brought misfortune with her. You are a weakling, a lover of women, to stand there filled with regret and longing for her beauty. It should have been her lance that slew you in battle, you who never have enough, who think that all women must fall to your share!” When Achilles heard such words from the lips of so wretched a man, he was filled with uncontrollable fury. With his bare fist he struck Thersites on the cheek so hard that his teeth flew out of his mouth, a stream of blood gushed from his throat, and he doubled up on the ground and breathed his last. Not one of all those who watched was sorry for him, for his only business had been to make mock of others, though both in the field and in council he had proved himself a coward and a fool, over and again. Achilles voiced the feeling of all when he said: “Here you shall lie, here in the dust, and forget your folly. For it is folly for a base man to place himself on a level with his betters. Just as you sneered at me now, you sneered at Odysseus before me, only that he was too generous to punish you. But now you have learned that the son of Peleus cannot be taunted with impunity. Go now, and mock the shadows in Hades.”
In the entire Argive army there was only one who was galled at the death of Thersites: Diomedes, son of Tydeus, and he was angry because the dead man was of his own blood, for his grandfather Oeneus and the father of Thersites had been brothers. This was why Diomedes blazed with wrath at the son of Peleus. He would have raised his sword against him, had not some of the noblest among the Achaeans intervened.
Out of pity and admiration for the slain Amazon queen, the sons of Atreus granted Priam’s request to surrender her body to him, so that he might bury her bones with all honors in the tomb of King Laomedon. Before the city the king of Troy had a great pyre heaped for her and laid the corpse on it, and many splendid gifts besides. Then he lit the pile of wood, and the flames darted up. When the body was consumed, the Trojans quenched the fire with fragrant wine. Then they collected her bones, put them in a precious chest, and in solemn procession bore this to the tomb of King Laomedon which was situated near one of the towers of the city. With her they buried her twelve women who had fallen in battle.
The Argives also buried their dead and mourned them, above all Podarces who had now followed his brother Protesilaus whom Hector had slain. His burial mound was heaped apart from the rest; it loomed so high that it was a landmark visible far and wide. Last of all they buried Thersites and then returned to their ships, full of gratitude to mighty Achilles who again had proved himself the rescuer of his people. When night came the noblest of the heroes banqueted in the house of the sons of Atreus, and the other Argives too feasted in the camp and then slept until dawn reddened the sky.
MEMNON
When the sun rose over Troy it shone on a troubled city. On the ramparts were the Trojans, keeping anxious watch, for they feared that at any moment the victor might come, set ladders against the walls, and burn up the town. Then an old man by the name of Thymoetes rose in the council and said: “Friends! In vain have I tried to think of some way to ward off destruction. Now that Hector has died at the hands of indomitable Achilles, I believe that even if a god fought on our side he would fall in the fight. Did not the son of Peleus kill the Amazon, before whom the other Argives trembled? And this in spite of the fact that she was so strong and gallant that all of us took her for a goddess and rejoiced at the mere sight of her! And so we must consider whether it might not be best for us to leave this unfortunate city, which is doomed to destruction, and settle elsewhere, in some safe place which the vengeful Danai could not reach.”
So said Thymoetes. Then Priam rose in the assembly and answered him. “You, my friend,” he said, “and all you Trojans and allies: let us not give up our beloved city and face even greater dangers than here by trying to fight our way through the foes who surround us on all sides. At least let us wait until Memnon comes, Memnon the Ethiopian, from the land of black men. He is already on his way to bring us help with a countless host. Much time has passed since I dispatched a messenger to him. Wait just a little longer. For even if we all should die in the battle for our city that would be better than leading a poor and inglorious life among strangers.”
And now Polydamas intervened between these two who held such opposing views. He was both shrewd and deliberate and expressed his opinion in well-chosen words. “I shall be glad to see Memnon. But I fear that he and all the men he brings with him will fall in our behalf and only plunge us into still greater distress. All the same, I do not believe we should leave the land of our fathers. My suggestion i
s that even at this late day we surrender the cause of the whole war—Helen and everything she brought with her from Sparta! Let us give her back to the Argives before they divide all our possessions between them and set fire to our city.”
In their hearts the Trojans agreed with these words and applauded them, but they did not dare contradict their king openly. Paris however, Helen’s husband, accused Polydamas, the well-wisher of the Argives as he called him, of rank cowardice. “The man who gives such counsel,” he said, “would be the first to flee in battle. Think well, Trojans, if it is really wise to follow the counsel of such as he.”
Polydamas knew very well that Paris would not relinquish Helen and would rather rouse the army to revolt, rather die than renounce her. So he said nothing in reply, and all the assembly sat in silence. While they were still sunk in thought, news came that Memnon was approaching. The Trojans felt like sailors when, after a storm which promised sure death, they see the stars shining in the sky once more. But King Priam was gladdest of all, for he did not doubt that with the aid of the Ethiopians, the Trojans would succeed in burning the Argive fleet.
Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece Page 55
