While this was happening on earth, the immortals veiled themselves in cloud and mourned the fall of Troy. The only ones to rejoice so greatly that they shouted with satisfaction were Hera, the deadly enemy of the Trojans, and Thetis, the mother of Achilles who had died in the flower of manhood. Pallas Athene could not restrain her tears, even though she had constantly worked for the fall of Troy, for she saw Ajax, the wild son of Oileus, enter her temple. There he seized Cassandra, her priestess, who had sought refuge in the sanctuary and was clasping her image, and dragged her away by the hair. The goddess did nothing to help the daughter of her foes, but her cheeks burned with anger, and her image gave forth a sound that shook the floor of the temple. Turning her eyes from this scene of crime, she swore to avenge the wrong done to Cassandra.
The conflagration and slaughter went on for a long time. Like a pillar the flames soared to heaven and announced the fall of the city to all those who lived on islands nearby, and to the ships which plied back and forth on the sea.
MENELAUS AND HELEN. POLYXENA
By morning, most of the inhabitants of the city were either dead or captured. The Danai could roam through Troy at will and take what they wanted of the boundless treasure stored in it. They carried their spoils to the ships: gold, silver, precious stones, many costly utensils, and captive women, girls, and children. In the midst of the throng was Menelaus, leading Helen out of the confusion. He was still a little ashamed and yet very happy to have her back. Beside him walked Agamemnon with Cassandra whom he had rescued from the rough grasp of Ajax. Neoptolemus guided Hector’s wife, Andromache, from the burning city. Queen Hecuba, who walked with difficulty and tore at her grey hair which she had strewn with ashes, was the prisoner of Odysseus. Countless other Trojan women followed, young and old, and behind them girls and children. Handmaids mingled with the daughters of kings, and all alike sobbed and wailed with anguish. Only Helen was silent. She kept her eyes on the ground, and a blush of shame flooded her face. Then she thought of the fate which awaited her on the ships, and she shivered and paled. Swiftly she drew her veil over her head and walked tremblingly at her husband’s side.
But when she reached the ships, the Achaeans were so dazzled by the flawless beauty of her face and the grace and loveliness of her body that they told themselves it had been well worth while to follow Menelaus to Troy for such a prize, and to endure dangers and hardships for ten long years. No one at all thought of hurting Helen in any way. They left her to Menelaus who, moved by Aphrodite, had forgiven her long ago.
And now the feasting began. All the heroes lay couched around the board, and in the middle was a bard who struck chords on his lyre and sang the deeds of Achilles, the greatest of all the Argives. Until nightfall they made merry.
Now when Helen was alone with Menelaus, she threw herself at his feet, clasped his knees, and said: “I know that you have the right to punish me, your faithless wife, with death. But remember that I did not leave the palace in Sparta of my own free will. Paris, that trickster, took me by force at the very time you were absent from home, and I had no husband to protect me. And when I wanted to kill myself, when I lifted the sword or laid the noose around my neck, my tirewomen held me back and begged me to think of you and of our little daughter. Do as you like with me. I lie at your feet as a penitent, as a suppliant.”
Menelaus raised her tenderly and answered: “Forget the past, Helen, and lay aside your fears. What was done is over. I shall never cherish a grudge against you for any fault you may have had.” With that he took her in his arms, and tears of sad and sweet emotion glistened in her eyes.
Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, was fast asleep. In his dream he saw his father, looking just as he had in life, the terror of the Trojans and the delight of the Danai. He kissed his son on the throat and eyes, and said: “Do not grieve that I am dead, dear son, for now I am in the company of the gods. Do not give yourself up to mourning! Do as I did while I lived. Always be first in battle, but in council do not hesitate to yield to the wisdom of men older than yourself. Strive for glory, enjoy the light of earth, and do not let misfortune rest too heavily on your spirit. My early death has taught you how near to the doors of Hades is every mortal. For men are like the flowers in spring: they bloom and they fade. And now, tell Agamemnon to sacrifice the most precious and noblest of all the spoils, that my heart may rejoice in the fall of Troy, and nothing be lacking to my content on the heights of Olympus.”
When he had given his son this command, Achilles vanished from Neoptolemus, lightly and fleetly as wind. He woke and felt as happy as if his father were still alive and had talked to him.
In the morning the Danai rose from their couches full of impatience to be off on their journey, for their longing for home had grown overgreat after the sack of Troy. They would have dragged their ships into the sea at once, had not the grandson of Peleus gone among them and detained them with his words. “Argives!” he called in his strong young voice. “Last night my immortal father came to me in a dream and bade me tell you to make him an offering of the best you carried off as spoils from Troy, so that he too might have his share of the prizes of war and sate his heart with joy at the fall of the hated city. You shall not leave these shores until you have fulfilled your duty toward dead Achilles, to whom you really owe your conquest. For had he not defeated Hector, we should never have reached our goal.”
Reverently the Argives resolved to obey their slain hero. Out of love for Achilles, Poseidon quickened the sea to a tempest, and the breakers rose so high that even had the Danai wished to leave, they would not have been able to. And when they saw the towering waters and heard the howl of the wind, they whispered to one another: “Yes, Achilles is indeed descended from Zeus himself. See how the elements are supporting his commands!” And they were all the more willing to do as he had bidden and thronged to his burial mound, looming high above the shores of the sea.
But now came the question, what to sacrifice? What was best and noblest among all the spoils taken from Troy? Of his own accord, every Argive brought his treasures and captives. When everything had been examined, gold and silver and precious stones, the glory of these as well as of all other possessions paled before the beauty of Polyxena, Priam’s daughter, and a cry rose up from the throng that it was she who was best and noblest of the spoils. The girl did not blanch when she saw all eyes fixed on herself. She remained steadfast even when Hecuba, her mother, pressed forward from the crowd of captives and wailed aloud. For Polyxena was willing to die for the sake of Achilles. She had seen him from the walls, and although he was the enemy of Troy, his beauty and strength had stirred her inmost being. There was even a rumor that once, when the battle had been carried to the very gates of the city, Achilles had seen Polyxena on the ramparts. His heart had quickened with love, and he had called to her: “Daughter of Priam, if you fell to my share, who knows if I should not try to make peace between your father and the Argives!” It seems that the hero regretted his words the moment they were spoken, for he remembered what he owed to Greece. But Polyxena—so they say—was deeply touched by them and from that day on had burned with secret love for the foe of her people.
Be that as it may, the girl did not falter when all eyes fastened on her and all lips proclaimed her the only offering fit for the greatest of heroes. An altar had been reared at the burial mound of Achilles, and the utensils for the sacrifice lay in readiness. And then, before anyone knew what was happening, the princess sprang forward from among the other captive women, seized a dagger, and, clinging to the altar like a victim, drove it into her heart. She fell to the ground without a word or a sigh.
A wave of lament ran through the Argive host. Old Queen Hecuba threw herself over her daughter’s body with many tears, and her women wailed with pity and sorrow.
The moment Polyxena sank to the earth and the crimson blood spurted from her breast, the sea grew as calm and smooth as a mirror. Overcome with compassion, Neoptolemus hurried to the altar, helped them carry Polyxena a
way, and saw to it that she was buried with the honors due a princess. But Nestor rose in the council of the Argives and said: “At last the hour for our journey home has come. The lord of the sea has bridled the breakers. As far as the eye can reach not a crest of foam is to be seen, not even a ripple. Achilles is content. He has accepted the sacrifice of Polyxena. Let us launch our ships and sail!”
DEPARTURE FROM TROY. AJAX OF LOCRIS DIES
At Nestor’s advice all this was done, and the men shouted lustily as they loaded the ships with stores and the many spoils of war. First the captives were put aboard, sobbing and wailing. Then the Argives themselves entered the ships. Calchas, the soothsayer, was the only one to remain ashore. His prophetic spirit had divined a terrible disaster lurking in wait for the Achaeans near the Capharean Rocks of the promontory of Euboea, which the Argive fleet had to pass on the journey home. He warned them not to sail, but no one paid any attention to his words because all hearts were overcome with longing for home. Only Amphilochus, son of Amphiaraus, the famed seer whom the earth of Thebes had swallowed, drew back the foot with which he was about to board his ship. For something of his father’s gift of prophecy stirred within him, and suddenly he had the same premonition as Calchas and decided to stay behind with him. Fate had decreed that neither Calchas nor Amphilochus were to return to Greece. They settled in the cities of Cilicia and Pamphylia, in Asia Minor.
But the other Achaeans loosed the ropes which bound the ships to the shore and weighed anchor. The wind bellied out the sails, and the open sea lapped the keels. The bows of the ships were laden with the weapons of slain foes. Countless trophies of victory hung from the masts. The ships were wreathed with flowers, and the victors had garlanded their shields, their helmets and lances. Joyful and triumphant, they poured libations of wine into the shining sea and begged the gods for a safe return. But their prayers never reached Olympus; the winds swept them from the decks and scattered them among the drifting clouds.
While the heroes were looking ahead full of hope and longing, the captive Trojan women and girls gazed back at Troy, where the smoke was still curling from the ruins. They tried to hide their sorrow by stifling the sobs which rose in their throats, and they eased their grief with silent tears. Some of the girls had clasped their hands around their knees, others covered their faces with their palms. The young women held children in their arms, but these thought of nothing but their mother’s breast and did not know the unhappiness in store for them. Cassandra stood among them, taller than the rest. Her eyes were tearless, and she was too proud to give way to sighs. What had happened was only what she had foretold long ago, and her fellow citizens had jeered at her for it. Now she spoke contemptuous words to her countrywomen, but though her lips mocked them, her heart bled for her city which had been sacked and burned.
The only people left in the ruins of Troy were the old and the wounded. Antenor urged them on to the mournful task of burying their dead. It was slow work, for there were so many corpses and so few living men. These built one gigantic pyre, laid the bodies on it side by side, and lit the wood with weeping and lament.
The Argives, in the meantime, had already left behind them the coast of Troy and the grave of Achilles. But their joy was tempered with grief at the thought of how many of their comrades had fallen, how many friends they were leaving in alien earth. Coast after coast, island after island slipped past: Tenedos, Chrysa, the temple of Apollo Smintheus, sacred Cilia, Lesbos, and the promontory of Lecton, where Mount Ida juts out into the sea. The wind filled the sails, and the surging sea was dark except for the trail of white foam in the wake of the ships.
The victors would have reached the coast of Hellas safely, had not Pallas Athene been angry with them because of what Ajax of Locris had done. So when they approached the stormy shores of Euboea, the goddess prepared a sad and cruel death for the son of Oileus. She had complained to Zeus that her priestess Cassandra had been dragged from the sanctuary of her temple, and she demanded the right to take vengeance on the perpetrator of the crime. And the father of gods not only gave her the permission she asked but lent his daughter thunderbolts which the Cyclopes had just forged, and let her stir up a deadly tempest for the Argive fleet. Then Athene girt on her armor. In the middle of her shimmering aegis was the Gorgon’s head in a tangle of serpents. She grasped one of her father’s thunderbolts, which no other god except Zeus could lift, filled Olympus with the crash of thunder, poured clouds about the mountains, and wrapped the sea and the land in darkness. Then she sent Iris, her messenger, to Aeolus, god of the winds. He kept them imprisoned in a cave in a rift of earth, next to his palace.
Iris found the lord of storms at home with his wife and his twelve sons. He at once set about obeying Athene’s command. With powerful hands he thrust his huge trident into the hill which covered the cave of the winds and tore it open. And out darted the winds like hounds eager for the hunt. He bade them unite to a single black tempest and fly to the surf which pounds the Capharean Rocks on the coast of Euboea. The words had scarcely left his lips before they were on their way. The sea groaned under their impact. The waves swelled to mountains, and the courage of the Argives sank when they saw towering walls of water rolling toward them. They could no longer ply their oars. The storm had torn their sails to tatters. At last even the helmsmen gave up. Night fell, the darkest night they had ever experienced, and with it the last shred of hope vanished.
Poseidon helped Pallas, his brother’s daughter, and unceasingly she tossed fresh lightning and thunder down from Olympus. Screams and groans sounded through the ships. The wood cracked with the force of the gale. The timbers were wrenched apart, and those who tried to escape the impact of the wrecks driving through the waters were sucked beneath the waves. Finally Athene hurled her mightiest thunderbolt into the ship of Ajax of Locris, and the next instant it was nothing but a mass of splinters. Earth and air rang with the tremendous crash, and the waves licked at the wreckage. The crew struggled and drowned, but Ajax himself was still alive. Now he clutched a timber, now he parted the tide with the strong strokes of an expert swimmer. Now he rode the crest of a wave, now he was dashed into the trough. All the while lightning blazed about him, but Athene did not want him to die just yet. Such a death would have been too merciful. Nor was his courage broken by all these terrors. He gripped an edge of rock protruding from the sea, clung to it stubbornly, and boasted he would save himself even if all the gods combined to destroy him.
Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker, who was close to Ajax, heard his vaunts with anger. Furiously he shook earth and sea at the same time. The crags of Caphareus trembled, and the shores quaked under the trident of the sea-god. And then the rock which Ajax was clutching with both bleeding hands was uprooted from the bottom of the sea, and he was thrust helpless into the swirling waters. His head and beard were white with foam. As he sank, Poseidon flung at him a cliff he had pried loose from the promontory, and it covered the king of Locris as Aetna had once covered Enceladus. And so Ajax perished, shattered both by the earth and the sea.
The ships of the other Danai tossed about on the waves. Some were in pieces, many had sunk. The storm raged on, and the rain poured in such torrents that it resembled the flood in the days of Pyrrha and Deucalion. And now the Argives had also to suffer vengeance for the stoning of Palamedes. For King Nauplius, the father of this hero, was still in Euboea. When he saw the Argive fleet battling with the tempest near the coast of his country, he thought of the malicious murder of his son whom he had been mourning so many years. The lust for revenge had never weakened within him, and here was a chance to satisfy it. He hurried to the shore and had his servants set up burning torches all along the promontory of Caphareus, opposite the most dangerous cliffs in the sea. The Achaeans, thinking that the torches were beacons of safety put up by the compassionate inhabitants of the island, made for those very cliffs with haste and hope. And here many more of their ships were wrecked.
While this was happening to the Danai on their homeward
journey, Poseidon commanded the sea to tear down the walls and towers they had put up around their camp near Troy. And so of all that great undertaking, nothing was left but the ashes of Troy and a small number of ships with returning heroes and captive Trojan women. The tempest had scattered them. It was only after terrible toil and many hardships that they reached the coast of Greece, and even there only a very few found the unalloyed happiness which all had yearned for during the long years of warfare.
THE LAST TANTALIDES
AGAMEMNON’S LINE AND HOUSE
TROY had fallen. A tempest had overtaken the homeward bound Argive fleet and destroyed more than half of it. The survivors continued their journey on a calm sea and steered for their native lands. Agamemnon, whom Hera had protected from the dangers of the sea, made for the coast of the Peloponnesus. But when he was quite close to the steep promontory of Malea in Laconia, a fresh tempest rose with dark fury and drove all his ships back to the open sea. He groaned and, lifting his hands, begged the gods not to let him drown within sight of home after all the hardships he had suffered to obey the wishes of the immortals. He did not know that this new storm had been sent to him as a warning from Olympus, for it would have been better for him to live as a castaway in a distant country, among barbarians, than set foot in his own palace in Mycenae.
There was a curse on Agamemnon’s house. It went back to the days of his ancestor Tantalus, and new crimes had strengthened its intensity. The ruthless violence inherent in his line had lifted some of his forebears to power and magnificence and had hurled others to their destruction. And now Agamemnon was to be the victim of a plot conceived in his own palace. His great-grandfather Tantalus had served the gods, who had come to dine with him, a horrible dish—his own son Pelops, whom he had killed and cooked. Only a miracle had restored the boy. Pelops, who was otherwise guiltless, murdered Myrtilus, the son of Hermes, and so did his share toward keeping alive the curse hanging over his house. The story of Myrtilus was this: he was the charioteer of King Oenomaus, whose daughter Hippodamia Pelops had won by carrying off the victory in a chariot race with her father. Now this had been possible only because Pelops induced Myrtilus to remove the brazen bolts from his master’s chariot and replace them with fastenings of wax. This caused the chariot to fall apart, and so Pelops won the race and the king’s daughter. But when Myrtilus came for the reward which he had been promised, Pelops cast him into the sea because he did not want the witness of his trickery to be alive to testify against him. It was in vain that he tried to placate angry Hermes by building him a temple and heaping a high burial mound for Myrtilus. The god swore to take revenge on him and his descendants.
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