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BOOK V
The Book of Achilles
Meanwhile grey from the Trojan gates Talthybius journeyed Spurred by the secret thought of the Fates who change not nor falter. Simois sighed round his wheels and Xanthus roared at his passing, Troas’ god like a lion wroth and afraid; to meet him Whistling the ocean breezes came and Ida regarded. So with his haste in the wheels the herald oceanward driving Came through the gold of the morn, o’er the trampled green of the pastures Back to the ships and the roar of the sea and the iron-hooped leaguer. Wide to the left his circle he wrote where the tents of Achilles Trooped like a flock of the sea-fowl pensive and still on the margin. He past the outposts rapidly coursed to the fosse of the Argives. In with a quavering cry to the encampment over the causeway Bridging the moat of the ships Talthybius drove in his chariot Out of the wide plains azure-roofed and the silence of Nature Passing in to the murmur of men and the thick of the leaguer. There to a thrall of the Hellene he cast his reins and with labour Down from the high seat climbed of the war-car framed for the mighty. Then betwixt tent-doors endless, vistaed streets of the canvas, Slowly the old man toiled with his eager heart, and to meet him Sauntering forth from his tent at the sound of the driving car-wheels Strong Automedon came who was charioteer of Achilles. “Grey Talthybius, whence art thou coming? From Troya the ancient? Or from a distant tent was thy speed and the King Agamemnon? What in their armoured assembly counsel the kings of the Argives?” “Not from the host but from Troy, Automedon, come I with tidings, Nor have I mixed with the Greeks in their cohorts ranked by the Ocean, Nor have I stood in their tents who are kings in sceptred Achaia, But from Achilles sent to Achilles I bring back the message. Tell me, then, what does Pelides, whether his strength he reposes Soothed by the lyre or hearing the chanted deeds of the mighty Or does he walk as he loves by the shore of the far-sounding waters?” And to the Argive herald grey Automedon answered: “Now from the meal he rests and Briseis lyres to him singing One of the Ilian chants of old in the tongue of the Trojans.”
Page – 411 “Early, then, he has eaten, Automedon, early reposes?” “Early the meat was broached on the spits, Talthybius, early High on the sands or under the tents we have eaten and rested. None knows the hour of the hunt, red, fierce, nor the prey he shall leap on, All are like straining hounds; for Achilles shares not his counsels, But on the ships, in the tents the talk has run like Peneus; These upon Troy to be loosed and the hard-fighting wolf-brood of Priam, These hope starkly with Argos embraced to have done with the Spartan, Ending his brilliance in blood or to sport on the sands of the margent Playing at bowls with the heads of the Cretan and crafty Odysseus. Welcome were either or both; we shall move in the dances of Ares, Quicken heart-beats dulled and limbs that are numb with reposing. War we desire and no longer this ease by the drone of the waters.” So as they spoke, they beheld far-off the tent of Achilles Splendid and spacious even as the hall of a high-crested chieftain, Lofty, held by a hundred stakes to the Phrygian meadow. Hung were its sides with memories bronze and trophies of armour, Sword and spear and helmet and cuirass of fallen heroes Slain by the hand of the mighty Achilles warring with Troya. Teemed in its canvas rooms the plundered riches of Troas, Craftsman’s work and the wood well-carved and the ivory painted, Work of bronze and work of gold and the dreams of the artist. And in those tents of his pride, in the dreadful guard of the Hellene, Noble boys and daughters of high-born Phrygians captive, Borne from the joyless ruins that now were the sites of their childhood, Served in the land of their sires the will of the Phthian Achilles. There on a couch reclined in his beauty mighty and golden, Loved by the Fates and doomed by them, spear of their will against Troya, Peleus’ hero son by the foam-white child of the waters Dreaming reposed and his death-giving hand hung lax o’er the couch-side. Near him dark-eyed Briseis, the fatal and beautiful captive, Sang to the Grecian victor chants of the land of her fathers, Sang the chant of Ilus, the tale of the glories of Troya. Trojan boys and maidens sat near the singer and listened Heart-delighted if with some tears; for easy are mortal Hearts to be bent by Fate and soon we consent to our fortunes. But in the doorway Automedon stood with the shadowy Argive
Page – 412 And at the ominous coming the voice of the singer faltered, Faltering hushed like a thought melodious ceasing in heaven. But from his couch the Peleid sprang and he cried to the herald. “Long hast thou lingered in Ilion, envoy, mute in the chambers Golden of Priam old, while around thee darkened the counsels Wavering blindly and fiercely of minds that revolt from compulsion, Natures at war with the gods and their fortunes. Fain would I fathom What were the thoughts of Deiphobus locked in that nature of iron Now that he stands confronting his fate in the town of his fathers. Peace dwells not in thy aspect. Sowst thou a seed then of ruin Cast from the inflexible heart and the faltering tongue of Aeneas, Or with the golden laugh of the tameless bright Alexander?” Grey Talthybius answered, “Surely their doom has embraced them Wrapping her locks round their ears and their eyes, lest they see and escape her, Kissing their tongue with her fatal lips and dictating its answers. Dire is the hope of their chiefs and fierce is the will of their commons. Son of the Aeacids, spurned is thy offer. The pride of thy challenge Rather we choose; it is nearer to Dardanus, King of the Hellenes. Neither shall Helen captive be dragged to the feet of her husband, Nor down the paths of peace revisit her fathers’ Eurotas. Death and the fire may prevail on us, never our wills shall surrender Lowering Priam’s heights and darkening Ilion’s splendours; Not of such sires were we born, but of kings and of gods. Larissan, Not with her gold Troy purchases safety but with her spear-point. Stand with thy oath in the war-front, Achilles, call on thy helpers Armed to descend from the calm of Olympian heights to thy succour Hedging thy fame from defeat; for we all desire thee in battle, Mighty to end thee or tame at last by the floods of the Xanthus.’ So they reply; they are true to their death, they are constant for ruin. Humbler answer hope not, O hero, from Penthesilea; Insolent, warlike, regal and swift as herself is her message. Sea of renown and of valour that fillest the world with thy rumour, Speed of the battle incarnate, mortal image of Ares! Terror and tawny delight like a lion one hunts or is hunted! Dread of the world and my target, swift-footed glorious hero! Thus have I imaged thee, son of Peleus, dreaming in countries
Page – 413 Far from thy knowledge, in mountains that never have rung to thy war-cry. O, I have longed for thee, warrior! Therefore today by thy message So was I seized with delight that my heart was hurt with its rapture, Knowing today I shall gaze with my eyes on that which I imaged Only in air of the mind or met in the paths of my dreaming. Thus have I praised thee first with my speech; with my spear I would answer. Yet for thy haughty scorn who deeming of me as some Hellene Or as a woman weak of these plains fit but for the distaff, Promisest capture in war and fame as thy slavegirl in Phthia, — Surely I think that death today will reply to that promise, — Now I will give thee my answer and warn thee ere we encounter. Know me queen of a race that never was conquered in battle! Know me armed with a spear that never has missed in the combat! There where my car-wheels run, good fruit gets the husbandman after. This thou knowest. Ajax has told thee, thy friend, in his dying. Has not Meriones’ spirit come in thy dreams then to warn thee? Didst thou not number the Argives once ere I came to the battle? Number them now and measure the warrior Penthesilea. Such am I then whom thy dreams have seen meek-browed in Larissa, And in the battle behind me thunder the heroes Eoan, Ranks whose feeblest can match with the vaunted chiefs of the Argives. Never yet from the shock have they fled; if they turn from the foeman, Always ’tis to return like death recircling on mortals. Yet being such, having such for my armies, this do I promise: I on the left of the Trojans war with my bright-armed numbers, Thou on the Argive right come forth, Achilles, and meet me! If thou canst drive us with rout into Troy, I will own thee for master, Do thy utmost will and make thee more glorious than gods are Serving thy couch in Phthia and drawing the jar from thy rivers. Nay, if thou hast that strength, then hunt me, O hunter, and seize me, If ’tis thy hope indeed that the sun can turn back from the Orient, But if thou canst not, death of myself or thyself thou shalt capture.’” Musing heard and was silent awhile the strength of Achilles, Musing of Fate and the wills of men and the purpose of Heaven, Then from his thoughts he broke and turned in his soul towards battle. “Well did I know what reply would come winged from the princes of Troya. Prone are the hearts of heroes to wrath and to God-given blindness
Page – 414 When from their will they are thrust and harried by Fate and disaster: Fierceness then is the armour of strength against grief and its yieldings. So have the gods made man for their purpose, cunningly fashioned. Once had defiance waked from my depths a far-striding fury, Flaming for justice and vengeance, nor had it, satisfied, rested, Sunk to its lair, till the insulter died torn or was kneeling for pardon. Fierce was my heart in my youth and exulted in triumph and slaughter. Now as I grow in my spirit like to my kin the immortals, Joy more I find in saving and cherishing than in the carnage. Greater it seems to my mind to be king over men than their slayer, Nobler to build and to govern than what the ages have laboured Putting their godhead forth to create or the high gods have fashioned, That to destroy in our wrath of a moment. Ripened, more widely Opens my heart to the valour of man and the beauty of woman, Works of the world and delight; the cup of my victory sweetens Not with the joys of hate, but the human pride of the triumph. Yet was the battle decreed for the means supreme of the mortal Placed in a world where all things strive from the worm to the Titan. So will I seize by the onset what peace from my soul would sequester, So will I woo with the sword and with love the delight of my foeman, Troy and Polyxena, beauty of Paris and glory of Priam. This was the ancient wrestling, this was the spirit of warfare Fit for the demigods. Soon in the city of gold and of marble, There where Ilus sat and Tros, where Laomedon triumphed, Peleus’ house shall reign, the Hellene sit where the Trojan Thought himself deathless. Arise, Automedon! Out to the people! Send forth the cry through the ships and the tents of the Myrmidon nation. Let not a man be found then lingering when o’er the causeway Thunder my chariot-wheels, nor let any give back in the battle, Good if he wills from me, till through the conquered gates of the foeman Storming we herd in their remnants and press into Troy as with evening Helios rushing sinks to the sea. But thou, Briseis, Put by thy lyre, O girl; it shall gladden my heart in my triumph Victor returned from Troy to listen pleased to thy singing, Bearing a captive bound to my car-wheels Penthesilea, Bearing my valour’s reward, Polyxena, daughter of Priam, Won in despite of her city and brothers and spears of her kindred.
Page – 415 So by force it is best to take one’s will and be mighty.” Joyful, Automedon ran through the drowsy camp of the Hellenes Changing the hum of the tents as he raced into shoutings of battle; For with the giant din of a nation triumphant arising Hellas sprang from her irksome ease and mounted her war-car; Donning her armour bright she rejoiced in the trumpets of battle. But to the herald grey the Peleid turned and the old man Shuddered under his gaze and shrank from the voice of the hero: “Thou to the tents of thy Kings, Talthybius, herald of Argos! Stand in the Argive assembly, voice of the strength of Achilles. Care not at all though the greatest and fiercest be wroth with thy message. Deem not thyself, old man, as a body and flesh that is mortal, Rather as living speech from the iron breast of the Hellene. Thus shalt thou cry to the vanquished chiefs who fled from a woman, Thus shalt thou speak my will to the brittle and fugitive legions: Now Achilles turns towards Troya and fast-flowing Xanthus, Now he leaps at the iron zone, the impregnable city. Two were the forms of the Gods that o’erhung the sails of Pelides When with a doubtful word in his soul he came wind-helped from Hellas Cleaving the Aegean deep towards the pine-crested vision of Ida. Two are the Fates that stride with the hero counting his exploits. Over all earthly things the soul that is fearless is master, Only on death he can reckon not whether it comes in the midnight Treading the couch of Kings in their pride or speeds in the spear-shaft. Now will I weigh down that double beam of the Olympian balance Claiming one of the equal Fates that stand robed for the fighter, For to my last dire wrestle I go with the Archer of heaven, And ere the morning gleam have awakened the eagles on Ida, Troy shall lie prone or the earth shall be empty of Phthian Achilles. But for whatever Fate I accept from the ageless Immortals, Whether cold Hades dim or Indus waits for my coming Pouring down vast to the sea with the noise of his numberless waters, I with Zeus am enough. Your mortal aid I desire not, Rushing to Troy like the eagle of Zeus when he flies towards the thunders, — Winged with might, the bird of the spaces, upbuoying his pinions. Nor shall my spirit look back for the surge of your Danaan fighters, Tramp of the Argive multitudes helping my lonely courage,
Page – 416 Neither the transient swell of the cry Achaian behind me Seek, nor the far-speeding voice of Atrides guiding his legions. Need has he none for a leader who himself is the soul of his action. Zeus and his fate and his spear are enough for the Phthian Achilles. Rest, O wearied hosts; my arm shall win for you Troya, Quelled when the stern Eoans break and Penthesilea Lies like a flower in the dust at my feet. Yet if Ares desire you, Come then and meet him once more mid the cry and the trampling! Assemble Round the accustomed chiefs, round the old victorious wrestlers Wearied strengths Deiphobus leaves you or sternest Aeneas. But when my arm and my Fate have vanquished their gods and Apollo, Brilliant with blood when we stand amid Ilion’s marble splendours, Then let none seat deaf flame on the glory of Phrygia’s marbles Or with his barbarous rapine shatter the chambers of sweetness Slaying the work of the gods and the beauty the ages have lived for. For he shall moan in the night remote from the earth and her greenness, Spurred like a steed to its goal by my spear dug deep in his bosom; Fast he shall fleet to the waters of wailing, the pleasureless pastures. Touch not the city Apollo built, where Poseidon has laboured. Seized and dishelmed and disgirdled of Apollonian ramparts, Empty of wide-rolling wheels and the tramp of a turbulent people Troy with her marble domes shall live for our nations in beauty Hushed mid the trees and the corn and the pictured halls of the ancients, Watching her image of dreams in the gliding waves of Scamander, Sacred and still, a city of memory spared by the Grecians.’ So shalt thou warn the arrogant hearts of Achaia’s chieftains Lest upon Greece an evil should fall and her princes should perish. Herald, beware how thou soften my speech in the ears of thy nation Sparing their pride and their hearts but dooming their lives to the death-stroke. Even thy time-touched snows shall not shield thy days from my sword-edge.” Wroth the old man’s heart, but he feared Achilles and slowly Over the margin grey on the shore of the far-sounding ocean Silent paced to the tents of the Greeks and the Argive assembly. There on the sands while the scream of the tide as it dragged at the pebbles Strove in vain with their droning roar, awaiting their chieftains Each in his tribe and his people far down the margin Aegean
Page – 417 Argolis’ sons and Epirote spears and the isles and the southron, Locris’ swarms and Messene’s pikes and the strength of the Theban, Hosts bright-armed, bright-eyed, bright-haired, time-hardened to Ares, Stretched in harsh and brilliant lines with a glitter of spear-points Far as the eye could toil. All Europe helmeted, armoured Swarmed upon Asia’s coasts disgorged from her ships in their hundreds. There in the wide-winged tent of the council that peered o’er the margin, High where the grass and the meadow-bloom failed on the sand-rifted sward-edge, Pouring his argent voice Epeus spoke to the princes, Rapid in battle and speech; and even as a boy in a courtyard Tosses his ball in the air and changes his hands for the seizing So he played with counsel and thought and rejoiced in his swiftness. But now a nearing Fate he felt and his impulse was silenced. Stilled were his thoughts by the message that speeds twixt our minds in their shadows Dumb, unthought, unphrased, to us dark, but the caverns of Nature Hear its cry when God’s moment changing our fate comes visored Silently into our lives and the spirit too knows, for it watches. Quiet he fell and all men turned to the face of the herald. Mute and alone through the ranks of the seated and silent princes Old Talthybius paced, nor paused till he stood at the midmost Fronting that council of Kings and nearest to Locrian Ajax And where Sthenelus sat and where sat the great Diomedes, Chiefs of the South, but their love was small for the Kings of the Spartans. There like one close to a refuge he lifted his high-chanting accents. High was his voice like the wind’s when it whistles shrill o’er a forest Sole of all sounds at night, for the kite is at rest and the tiger Sleeps from the hunt returned in the deepest hush of the jungle. “Hearken, O Kings of the world, to the lonely will of the Phthian! One is the roar of the lion heard by the jungle’s hundreds, One is the voice of the great and the many shall hear it inclining. Lo, he has shaken his mane for the last great leap upon Troya And when the eagle’s scream shall arise in the dawn over Ida, Troy shall have fallen or earth shall be empty of Phthian Achilles. But by whatever Fate he is claimed that waits for the mortal, Whether the fast-closed hands above have kept for his morrows
Page – 418 Chill of the joyless shades or earth and her wooings of sunlight Still shall detain his days with the doubtful meed of our virtues, He and Zeus shall provide, not mortals. Chaff are men’s armies Threshed by the flails of Fate; ’tis the soul of the hero that conquers. Not on the tramp of the multitudes, not on the cry of the legions Founds the strong man his strength but the god that he carries within him. Zeus and his Fate and his spear are enough for the Phthian Achilles. Prudence of men shall curb no more his god-given impulse. He has no need of thy voice, O Atrides, guiding the legions, He is the leader, his is the soul of magnificent emprise. Rest, O ye sons of the Greeks, the Phthian shall conquer for Hellas! Rest! expose not your hearts to the war-cry of Penthesilea. Yet if the strength in you thirsts for the war-din, if Ares is hungry, Meet him stark in the mellay urging Deiphobus’ coursers, Guiding Aeneas’ spear; recover the souls of your fathers. Bronze must his heart be who looks in the eyes of the implacable war-god! But when his Fate has conquered their gods and slaughtered their heroes, And in this marble Ilion forced to the tread of her foemen Watched by the ancient domes you stand, by the timeless turrets, Then let no chieftain garbed for the sacrifice lift against Troya, Counselled of Ate, torch of the burning, hand of the plunder Groping for gold but finding death in her opulent chambers. For he shall moan in the night regretting the earth and her greenness, Spurred by the spear in his arrogant breast like a steed to the gorges: Fast he shall fleet to the flowerless meadows, the sorrowful pastures. Touch not the city Apollo built, where Poseidon has laboured, Slay not the work of the gods and the glory the ages have lived for. Mute of the voice of her children, void of the roll of her war-cars Timeless Troy leave solitary dreaming by ancient Scamander Sacred and still, a city of memory spared by the Phthian.” So Talthybius spoke and anger silenced the Argives. Mute was the warlike assembly, silent Achaia’s princes. Wrath and counsel strove in the hush for the voice of the speakers.
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