TOLD TO THE CHILDREN SERIES

Edited by Louey Chisholm

STORIES
FROM THE ILIAD

NOTE

I have to acknowledge my indebtedness to Mr. Ernest Myers, Mr. Walter Leaf, and Mr. Andrew Lang for their translation of The Iliad, of which free use has been made in this little book.

J. L. L.

Into the sleeping heart of Helen there came remembrance (page [33])

STORIES FROM
THE ILIAD

OR

The Siege of Troy

TOLD TO THE CHILDREN BY

JEANIE LANG

WITH PICTURES BY

W. HEATH ROBINSON

LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.

TO
HUGO MEYNELL CYRIL IONIDES
AND
INGRAM AMYAS IONIDES

ABOUT THIS BOOK

For two Greek boys have I made this little book, which tells them in English some of the stories that they soon will read for themselves in the tongue of their forefathers.

But the stories are not only for boys whose fatherland lies near the sunny sea through which ships, red-prowed and black, fared in the long-ago days.

Of such great deeds, by such brave men, do they tell, that they must make the hearts of all English boys, and of boys of every nation under the sun, grow big within them.

And when, in the gallant-sounding music of the Greek tongue in which the tales first were told, these boys read the story of the Siege of Troy, they must surely long to fight as fought the Greeks in days of old, and long to be heroes such as those who fought and who died without fear for the land that they loved.

JEANIE LANG.

CONTENTS

LIST OF PICTURES

THE STORY OF WHAT LED TO
THE SIEGE OF TROY

In the deep forest that clothes Mount Ida, not far from the strong city of Troy, Paris, son of King Priam, watched his father’s flocks by night.

Suddenly through the dim woods he saw a light, as if the golden sun and silver moon shone both together.

And, lo! in the radiance of this light there stood before him the three fairest of the goddesses—queenly Hera, wise Athene, and lovely Aphrodite.

Like music stealing through the trees came the soft voice of Hera:

‘Of all mortal men art thou the most beautiful, Paris, and to thee do we come for judgment. Tell us which of us is the fairest of all, and to that one whom thou so deemest, give this golden apple.’

So spake Hera, and placed in the hand of Paris an apple of purest gold.

Again she spake: ‘If to me, Hera, queen of goddesses, and wife of mighty Zeus, king of all the gods, thou dost grant the prize of loveliness, Power immeasurable shall be thine. King shalt thou be of the lands where the grey dawn rises, and king even to where the red sun goes down. A hundred peoples shall call thee lord.’

She was silent, and the voice of Athene, fair and pure as a silver moonbeam, broke the stillness of the starless night.

‘To me award the prize,’ she said, ‘and wise as the gods shalt thou be. With me as thy friend and guide, all things will be possible to thee.’

Last of all, standing in a rosy light, as of the dawning sunlight in the spring, spoke Aphrodite.

‘What are Power and Wisdom, fair Paris?’ she pled. ‘Wisdom and Power bring no joy at last. I will give thee Love, and for thy wife thou shalt have the fairest woman in all the world.’

And Paris, the melody of her voice still in his ears, as he gazed spellbound on her face of wondrous beauty, handed to Aphrodite the golden prize.

So was it that the wrath of the gods came upon Paris, son of Priam. For Hera and Athene, filled with rage, vowed to be revenged upon Paris and all his race, and made all the gods pledge themselves to aid them in their vengeance.

Across far seas sailed Paris, with Aphrodite as his guide, to Sparta, where Menelaus was king.

A brave king was Menelaus, and happily he lived in his kingdom with Helen, his queen, fairest of all women. One child they had, a little maid, Hermione.

When to Sparta there came Paris, with eyes blue as the sea, and hair that gleamed like gold on his purple robe, gallant and brave, and more beautiful than any mortal man, glad was the welcome that he had from Menelaus.

And when Paris gazed on Helen’s face, he knew that in all the world there was no woman half so fair as the wife of Menelaus.

Then did Aphrodite cast her magic upon Helen.

No longer did she love her husband, nor did she remember little Hermione, her own dear child.

When Paris spoke to her words of love, and begged her to flee with him, and to be his wife, she knew only that she loved Paris more than all else. Gladly she went with him, and in his red-prowed ship together they sailed across the green waves to Troyland, where Mount Ida showed her snowy crown high above the forests.

An angry man was Menelaus when he found that Paris had stolen from him the fair wife who was to him as his own heart.

To his elder brother Agamemnon, overlord of all the Greeks, he went and told his grievous tale.

And from far and wide did the Greek hosts gather, until a hundred thousand men and eleven hundred fourscore and six ships were ready to cross the seas to Troyland.

Many were the heroes who sailed away from Greece (page [ 5])

Many were the heroes who sailed away from Greece to punish Paris and his kin, and to bring back fair Helen to her own land.

Few there were who came home, for ten long years of woe and of spilling of blood came to the men of Greece and of Troy from the fatal beauty of Helen the queen.

CHAPTER I
HOW ACHILLES AND AGAMEMNON
FELL OUT

Before the walls of Troy the Greeks set their camp, and day by day and night by night did they besiege it.

One day would the Greeks win the fight, and the next day the Trojans would be victors in the battle.

And so passed nine long years away. To the city of Chryse one day went part of the Greek host, sacked it, and brought back to their camp rich spoils and many prisoners.

Among the prisoners was a beautiful maiden, Chryseïs, daughter of the old priest of the Temple of Apollo. Her did Agamemnon choose as his part of the spoil, to be his slave.

From Chryse, seeking his daughter, came the old priest. With him he brought a rich ransom to buy the freedom of Chryseïs, and in his hands he bore a golden staff wrapped round with the garland worn by Apollo, to show that the god whose priest he was, was with him in craving a boon from Agamemnon, overlord of the Greeks.

‘Take this ransom, I pray you, and set ye my dear child free,’ pled Chryses, ‘and the gods will grant you to lay waste the city of Troy, and to fare happily homeward.’

Then the Greeks gladly agreed that Chryseïs should go home with her father, and that the goodly ransom should be theirs. But Agamemnon, in great wrath, drove the old man away.

‘Let me not find thee, old man, lingering here beside the ships, lest the golden staff and garland of the god help thee naught!’ he cried. ‘Your daughter shall grow old as my slave, and never more return to thy land. Get ye gone!’

Silently along the shore of the sounding sea walked Chryses the priest.

Alone he knelt down and prayed to Apollo, his god.

‘Hear me, god of the silver bow!’ he cried. ‘If I have built thee a temple that is fair in thine eyes, and have offered unto thee there the flesh of bulls and goats, hear me! Let the Greeks be paid by thine arrows for my tears!’

High up amongst the peaks of Olympus Apollo heard the prayer of his priest, and great anger filled his heart.

As dark night falls upon the earth, so did the god come to where Agamemnon and his armies lay. A little apart from the ships he sat down, and drew back with a dreadful clang the string of his silver bow.

Mules and dogs fell at first before his arrows of death. Then he smote men.

For nine days did the Greeks fall dead at the will of the avenging god. For nine days did the black smoke from the funeral pyres of the Greek warriors roll out to sea.

On the tenth day Achilles, son of a mortal warrior and a goddess, fleetest of foot and bravest of all Greek heroes, called an assembly of the Greeks.

Achilles, fleetest of foot, and bravest of all Greek heroes (page [ 8])

‘War and pestilence ravage us,’ he said. ‘Surely it is time to inquire of a priest or soothsayer why it is that Apollo is so wroth.’

Then Chalcas, wisest of soothsayers, arose and spoke.

‘These woes have come upon us,’ said he, ‘for the wrong that Agamemnon hath done to Chryses, priest of Apollo. With his arrows of pestilence Apollo will not cease to slay until we have given the bright-eyed Chryseïs back to her father, unbought and unransomed, and have taken a hundred beasts and offered them up at Chryse as a sacrifice to the angry god.’

So spake Chalcas, and sate him down.

There uprose then from his seat the great Agamemnon, black anger in his heart, and with eyes flashing fire.

‘Ill prophet art thou indeed, Chalcas!’ he cried. ‘Naught but evil hast thou ever foretold to me! I would not take a goodly ransom for Chryseïs, because I love her even more than I love my own wedded wife. Yet will I give her back, rather than that my people should perish. But another prize must I have! Why should I alone, of all the Greeks, have my prize taken from me? It is not seemly that it should be so.’

‘Nay, nay! most noble Agamemnon,’ said Achilles. ‘Too greedy art thou for gain. We have no common store of treasure with which to repay thee for that thou hast lost. What spoil we got from the cities we have taken hath already been divided. Nay, give back Chryseïs to her father, and when next we sack a city, thine shall be the richest spoil of all.’

‘Dost seek to cheat me, Achilles?’ answered the angry Agamemnon. ‘Wouldst thou rob me of my prize and give me naught instead? If thou wilt not give me the reward my honour seeks, then will I seize it for myself—be it thine, or that of Odysseus, or the spoil of any other; wroth will be he to whomsoever I come. But of this hereafter. Now let us launch a black ship on the sea, and in it embark Chryseïs of the fair cheeks, and with her send an offering of beasts, that Apollo the Far-Darter may have his sacrifice.’

Then Achilles, with black brows, looked at Agamemnon.

‘Shameless art thou!’ he cried, ‘shameless and crafty. For thy sake and that of Menelaus thy brother left I my home and fared across the seas to fight in Troyland. And now thou, dog-face! dost threaten to steal from me the spoil that I have won for myself by weary toil and by hard fighting. Home will I go, for I have no mind to fight for one who is greedy for riches and wealth, and cares not if I am dishonoured.’

‘Flee, then, if thou wilt,’ answered Agamemnon. ‘Others I have as brave as thee, and ready to do me honour. Most hateful art thou to me, Achilles. Ever thou lovest strife and wars and fightings. I care not for thee and thy wrath; and this I tell thee: to thy hut I myself will go and take from thee Briseis, fairest of all thy slaves, that thou may’st know that I, Agamemnon, am thy lord and ruler.’

Mad with anger was Achilles at these words. His hand gripped his sword, and he would have slain Agamemnon, had not the goddess Athene stayed his hand.

‘Why art thou come hither?’ angrily asked Achilles, as he looked round and beheld the goddess at his side. ‘Art thou come to see the insolence of Agamemnon? Yea, I tell thee, through pride shall he lose his life.’

Gently then did Athene speak to him.

‘To stay thine anger I came from far Olympus,’ said she. ‘Goodly gifts shall come to thee hereafter, Achilles. Only stay thine hand and listen to me.’

Then said Achilles:

‘Goddess, a man must needs listen to thee and do thy bidding, for the man who obeys the immortal gods will also be heard of them.’

Therewith did he grip his sword by its silver hilt and thrust it back into its sheath; yet again he spoke in wrath to Agamemnon.

‘Thou with face of a dog and heart of a deer,’ he said, ‘never hast thou fought as men should fight for the spoil! Rather dost thou seize the booty for which thy men have risked their lives. Surely these thy warriors are weaklings, else this should have been thy last wrong. But this I swear by my sceptre which was once a tree, but never more shall put forth leaf or twig; as surely as that sceptre shall never again be green, so surely shall the Greeks one day long for Achilles when they fall in heaps dying before the manslaying Hector. Then shalt thou tear thy heart for anger, for that thou didst not honour the bravest of thy warriors.’

So spake Achilles, and dashed on earth his sceptre, studded with golden nails, while near him sat Agamemnon, in furious anger.

With gentle words then spoke Nestor, an old warrior of a hundred years and more, longing to make peace.

But of peace Agamemnon and Achilles would have none.

‘Ye may take back my slave, the fair Briseis,’ said Achilles. ‘The Greeks gave her to me; let the Greeks take her from me again. Yet that moment that thou dost dare to lay hand on aught else of mine, thy dark blood shall gush about my spear.’

Then was the assembly at an end, and on a fleet ship Chryseïs of the fair cheeks was placed, and with her were sent a hundred beasts for a sacrifice to Apollo. With them went Odysseus and a goodly company, and they sailed across the sea to Chryse, to bring back to Chryses the priest his fair daughter, and to offer a worthy sacrifice to the angry god.

Then did Agamemnon call his heralds to him.

‘Go ye to the tent of Achilles,’ said he, ‘and bring me Briseis, his fair slave.’

Unwillingly they walked along the beach to where the tent of Achilles was pitched. By it he sat, and well, and with a heavy heart, he knew when he saw them what their errand was.

‘Welcome, ye heralds,’ he said. ‘Ye are not guilty in my sight. Guilty only is Agamemnon who sent you to rob me of the fair Briseis. Lead her away, yet be witnesses that when Agamemnon hath sore need of me to save his host from shameful wreck, no help from me shall he have.’

Unwillingly Briseis was led away, and Achilles watched her go.

Then sitting alone on the beach of the grey sea, Achilles wept.

With eager gaze his eyes swept across the waste of water, and holding out his hands in supplication he cried to his mother, Thetis the silver-footed, daughter of the King of the Sea.

Like a mist Thetis rose from the depths of the green sea-waves, and came to her sorrowing son.

Gently she stroked his hand, and spoke to him soothing words.

‘Why dost thou weep, my child?’ she said. ‘Tell me all the sorrow that is in thy heart.’

To his goddess-mother Achilles told the tale of the grievous dishonour that Agamemnon had done to him, and for rage and for grief Thetis wept with her son.

‘Short is to be thy life, my son,’ she said. ‘Would that I had never borne thee, rather than that it should also be full of grief.’

Then did she leave him, but at dawn next day she rose from the sea and mounted up to Olympus.

‘Father Zeus,’ she said to the king of the gods, ‘if ever I have given thee aid amid gods or men, fulfil now my desire. Do honour to my son, whose life on earth is to be so short. Grant victory to the Trojans while Achilles does not draw his sword. Grant that at last the Greeks may do honour to him to whom Agamemnon hath brought such bitter shame.’

Then did Zeus bow his head and grant her prayer.

And Thetis the silver-footed darted like a diving bird down from Olympus, and cleft the green waves as she went back to her father in his kingdom under the sea.

CHAPTER II
THE COUNCIL

That night both gods and men slept long; only Zeus, king of the gods, lay wakeful, pondering in his heart how best he might do honour to Achilles. ‘I shall send a Dream to beguile Agamemnon,’ at length he resolved.

Then did he call to a Dream, for by Dreams the gods sent their messages to mortal men.

‘Go now, thou evil Dream,’ said Zeus, ‘go to where Agamemnon sleeps in his tent near to his fleet ships, and tell him every word as I shall tell it thee. Bid him call to arms with speed his warriors, for now he shall take the strong city of Troy.’

To the tent of Agamemnon sped the Dream. Taking the form of the old warrior who had striven to make peace between Agamemnon and Achilles, the Dream stooped over the sleeping warrior, and thus to him it spoke:

‘Sleepest thou, Agamemnon? Ill fits it for the overlord of so mighty a host to sleep all through the night. From Zeus I come, and to thee he sends this message: Call to arms with speed thy warriors, Agamemnon, for now shalt thou take the strong city of Troy.’

Off then sped the Dream, winging its way like a strip of grey mist aloft to Mount Olympus.

Then Agamemnon awoke from sleep, and the voice of the Dream still rang in his ears.

Speedily he arose from his bed, donned his fair tunic, cast around him his great cloak, and bound his sandals on his feet. Then over his shoulder he cast his silver-studded sword, and with the sceptre of his house, token of his overlordship, in his hand, he went down to where the Greek ships lay, and called a council together.

To his lords he told what had befallen him as they slept.

‘Call to arms!’ had been the message from Zeus. ‘Call to arms! for victory shall be thine.’

Then said the old warrior in whose likeness the Dream had come:

‘My friends, had any other told us this dream we might deem it false; but to our overlord the Dream hath come. Let us then call our men to arms.’

So did all the lords follow his counsel, and quickly did the Greeks obey their summons. Like bees that pour from out their nests in some hollow rock, and fly to where the spring flowers grow most sweet, even so did the warriors pour forth from their ships and their huts by the sea. Loudly they shouted as they came, till all the earth echoed. Nine heralds sought to quiet them, but it was long before they would cease their noise, and sit silent to listen to the voice of Agamemnon their lord.

Then did Agamemnon prove his people. ‘Ill hath Zeus dealt with us, my friends,’ he said. ‘To us he promised ere we sailed hither that victory should be ours. But nine years have passed away, and our ships’ timbers have rotted, and the rigging is worn. In our halls our wives and children still sit awaiting us, yet are we no nearer victory than we were on the day that we came hither. Come then, let us flee with our ships to our dear native land, for never shall Troy be ours.’

So spake Agamemnon, and stirred the hearts of all that had not heard his secret council.

As the high sea-waves are swayed by the winds that rush upon them from the east and from the south, even so the Greek host was swayed. And even as the west wind sweeps over a cornfield and all the ears bow down before the blast, so were the warriors stirred.

Shouting, they hastened down to their ships. And the dust rose up in clouds from under their hurrying feet.

Quickly did they prepare their ships, and gladly did they make them ready to sail homeward across the bright salt sea.

Then would the Greeks have returned, even though fate willed it not. But Hera spoke to Athene.

‘Shall we indeed allow the Greeks thus to flee homeward?’ she cried. ‘Shame it will be to us if Helen is left in Troy, and Paris goes unpunished. Haste, then, and with thy gentle words hold back the men from setting forth in their ships for their own homeland.’

Down from the peaks of Olympus darted the bright-eyed Athene, down to where the dark ships were being dragged to the launching ways.

By his ship stood Odysseus of the many devices, and heavy of heart was he.

As one who speaks aloud the thoughts of another, so then to Odysseus spake the fair goddess who was ever his guide.

‘Will ye indeed fling yourselves upon your ships and flee homeward to your own land?’ she said. ‘Will brave Odysseus leave Helen, for whose sake so many Greeks have died, to be the boast of the men of Troy? Hasten, then, and suffer not the Greeks to drag their ships down to the sea.’

At the sound of the voice of Athene, Odysseus cast away his mantle and ran to meet Agamemnon. From him he received the sceptre of overlordship, and bearing it he went among the ships.

Whenever he saw a chief, he would say to him with gentle words:

‘Good sir, it fits thee ill to be a coward. Stay, now, for thou knowest not what is the will of Agamemnon. He is only making trial of thee. Hold back then thy people, and anger him not.’

But when Odysseus met a common man hasting to the ships, with his sceptre he smote him, saying:

‘Sit still, sir, and listen to the words of thy betters. No warrior art thou, but a weakling. One king only hath Zeus given to us. Hearken then to the will of Agamemnon!’

Thus did Odysseus rule the people, driving them back from the ships to where sat Agamemnon.

And the noise they made in returning was as the noise of mighty waves of the sea, when they crash upon the beach and drive their roaring echoes far abroad.

Silence came upon them as they sate themselves down before Agamemnon and their lords. Upon all but one did silence fall. Thersites, bandy-legged, round-shouldered, lame of one foot, with ugly head covered with scanty stubble, most ill-favoured of all men in the host, would not hold his peace.

Shrilly he poured his upbraidings upon Agamemnon.

‘What lackest thou now?’ he cried. ‘Surely thy huts are full of the spoils we have brought to thee each time we have taken a town. What more dost thou want? Soft fools, women, not men, are ye Greeks, else would ye return home now with the ships, and leave this fellow here in Troyland gorging himself on the spoils for which he himself hath never fought. To brave Achilles hath he done dishonour, a far better man than he!’

Straight to the side of Thersites came the goodly Odysseus.

‘Hold thy peace,’ he sternly said. ‘Plainly I tell thee that if ever again I find thee raving as thou hast raved now, I myself will strip off thy mantle and tunic, with shameful blows beat thee out of the assembly, and send thee back weeping to the ships.’

So spake Odysseus, and with his sceptre smote Thersites on his back and shoulders. And Thersites bowed down, and big tears fell from his eyes, and a bloody weal from the golden sceptre stood up from his back. Amazed he sat down, and in pain and amazement he wiped away a tear. The others, though they were sorry, laughed at his bewilderment.

‘Many are the good deeds of Odysseus,’ said they, ‘but never did he do a better deed than when he stopped the tongue of this prating railer.’

Then spake Odysseus, sceptre in hand.

‘Surely it is the wish of the Greeks to make thee the most despised of all kings, great Agamemnon,’ he said, ‘for like young children or mourning women do they wail that they must go home. Nine years have we stayed in this land, and small wonder is it that we long for our homes again. Yet shameful would it be to wait so long and to return with empty hands. Be of good heart, my friends, and wait a little, for surely Troy shall be ours. Do ye forget, on the day that we set sail for Troyland, the mighty portent that we saw? As we offered sacrifices to the gods beneath a fair plane-tree whence flowed clear water, a snake, blood-red on the back and dreadful to look upon, glided from beneath the altar and darted to the tree. On the tree’s topmost bough was a sparrow’s nest, and in it eight tender nestlings, over which the mother-bird spread her wings. Pitifully did the little ones cheep as the snake swallowed them all, and pitifully cried the mother as she fluttered over her nestlings. But of her, too, did the snake lay hold, coiling himself round her and crushing her life out. Then did the god who sent this sign show us that a sign from the gods in truth it was, for he turned the snake into stone. And Chalcas, our soothsayer, told us then the meaning of the sign. “Nine years,” said he—for nine birds did the snake slay—“shall ye fight in Troyland, but in the tenth year the city shall fall before you.” So then, let us abide here, until we have taken the great city!’

When Odysseus had ceased to speak, the Greeks shouted aloud, until the ships echoed the praises of the goodly Odysseus.

Then said Agamemnon:

‘Go now, all of you, and eat, that ye may be ready for battle. Let each man sharpen well his spear and see to his shield, and see to it that the horses are well fed and the chariots prepared. And whomsoever I see minded to stay far away from the fight, beside the ships here by the sea, for him shall there be no hope hereafter, but he shall be food for dogs and for birds of prey.’

And when Agamemnon had spoken, the shouts of the Greeks were as the thunder of mighty breakers on a reef when the winds blow high.

Quickly then they scattered, and kindled fires, and made their evening meal, and offered sacrifices to the gods, praying for escape from death in the coming battle.

To Zeus did Agamemnon offer his sacrifice, and to the mighty god he prayed:

‘Great Zeus, god of the storm-cloud, let not the sun set nor the darkness fall until I have laid low the palaces of Troy and burned down its walls with fire.’

So he prayed, but as yet Zeus heeded not his prayer. Then did the Greeks gather themselves together to battle, and amongst them went the bright-eyed Athene, urging on each one, and rousing in each man’s heart the joy of strength and of battle.

As the red and golden blaze of a fire that devours a mighty forest is seen from afar, so was seen from afar the dazzling gleam of their bronze armour as they marched.

Like wild geese and cranes and swans that in long-drawn strings fly tirelessly onward, so poured they forth, while the earth echoed terribly under the tread of men and horses.

As flies that swarm in the spring when the herdsmen’s milk-pails are full, so did the Greeks throng to battle, unnumbered as the leaves and the flowers upon which they trod in the flowery plain by the banks of the river Scamander.

CHAPTER III
THE FIGHT BETWEEN PARIS
AND MENELAUS

To meet the great Greek host came the men of Troy. With loud shouting and clamour they came, noisy as the flocks of cranes that fly to far-off seas before the coming of winter and sudden rain.

But in silence marched the Greeks, shoulder to shoulder, their hearts full of courage.

Like the mist that rolls from the crest of the mountains until no man can see in front of him further than the cast of a stone, so did the dust rise in clouds under the tread of the warriors’ feet as they marched across the plain.

Front to front did the two armies stand at last, and from the Trojan ranks strode forth Paris the godlike, he who robbed Menelaus of her who was to him most dear.

From the shoulders of Paris swung a panther’s skin. He bore a curved bow and sword, and, brandishing two bronze-headed spears, he challenged all the chieftains of the Greek host to fight him, man to man, in mortal fight.

As a hungry lion rejoices to see a great-horned stag coming to be his prey, even so did Menelaus rejoice when he saw Paris, the golden-haired and blue-eyed, stride proudly forth.

Straightway, in his armour, did Menelaus leap from his chariot to the ground.

But when Paris saw him to whom he had done so sore a wrong, his heart was smitten.

As a man who, in a mountain glen, suddenly sees a deadly snake and shrinks away from it with shaking limbs, even so did Paris shrink back amongst his comrades.

Scornfully did Hector his brother behold him.

‘Fair in face thou art!’ said Hector, ‘but shamed I am by thee! I ween these long-haired Greeks make sport of us because we have for champion one whose face and form are beautiful, but in whose heart is neither strength nor courage. Art thou a coward? and yet thou daredst to sail across the sea and steal from her husband the fair woman who hath brought us so much harm. Thou shalt see what sort of warrior is he whose lovely wife thou hast taken. Thy harp and thy golden locks and fair face, and all the graces given to thee by Aphrodite, shall count for little when thou liest in the dust! Cowards must we Trojans be, else thou hadst been stoned to death ere this, for all the evil thou hast wrought.’

Then answered Paris:

‘No word hast thou said that I do not deserve, brave Hector. Yet scorn not the gifts of golden Aphrodite, for by his own desire can no man win the love and beauty that the goddess gives. But let me now do battle with Menelaus. Make the Trojans and the men of Greece sit down, while Menelaus and I fight for Helen. Let him who is conqueror have her and all that is hers for his own, and let the others take an oath of friendship so that the Greeks may depart in peace to their own land, and in peace the Trojans dwell in Troy.’

Greatly did Hector rejoice at his brother’s word. His spear grasped by the middle, he went through the Trojan ranks and bid the warriors hold back.

But as he went, the Greeks shot arrows at brave Hector and cast stones.

‘Hold! hold! ye Greeks,’ called Agamemnon. ‘Hector of the glancing helm hath somewhat to say to us.’

In silence, then, the two armies stood, while Hector told them the words of Paris his brother.

When they had heard him, Menelaus spoke.

‘Many ills have ye endured,’ he said, ‘for my sake and because of the sins of Paris. Yet now, I think, the end of this long war hath come. Let us fight, then, and death and fate shall decide which of us shall die. Let us offer sacrifice now to Zeus, and call hither Priam, King of Troy. I fear for the faith of his sons, Paris and Hector, but Priam is an old man and will not break faith.’

Then were the Greeks and the Trojans glad. They came down from their chariots, and took off their arms, and laid them on the ground, while heralds went to tell Priam and to fetch lambs and a ram for the sacrifice.

While they went, Hera sent to Troy Iris, her messenger, in the guise of the fairest daughter of Priam.

To the hall where Helen sat came lovely Iris. And there she found Helen, fairest of women, her white arms swiftly moving back and forward as she wove a great purple web of double wool, and wrought thereon pictures of many battles of the Greeks and the men of Troy.

‘Come hither, dear lady,’ said Iris, ‘and see a wondrous thing. For they that so fiercely fought with each other, now sit in silence. The battle is stayed; they lean upon their shields, and their tall spears are thrust in the earth by their sides. But for thee are Menelaus and Paris now going to fight, and thou shalt be the wife of the conqueror.’

So spake lovely Iris, and into the sleeping heart of Helen there came remembrance, and a hungry longing for her old home, and for Menelaus, and her father and mother, and for little Hermione, her child.

The tears rolled down her cheeks, but quickly she hid her face with a veil of fair linen, and hastened out, with her two handmaidens, to the place where the two armies lay.

At the Skaian gates sat Priam and other old warriors.

As Helen, in her fair white robes, drew near, the old men marvelled at her loveliness.

‘Small wonder is it,’ said they, ‘that Trojans and Greeks should suffer hardships and lay down their lives for one so beautiful. Yet well would it be for her to sail away upon the Greek ships rather than stay here to bring trouble upon us now, and upon our children hereafter.’

Then Priam called to Helen:

‘Come hither, dear child, and sit beside me, that thou may’st see the man who once was thy husband, and thy kinsmen, and thy friends. No blame do I give to thee for all our woes, but only to the gods who have chosen thee to be the cause of all this bloodshed.’

Then did Priam ask her the names of the mighty heroes who stood by their spears in the Grecian ranks, and Helen, making answer to him, said:

‘Dear father of Paris, my lord, would that I had died ere I left my own land and my little child, and all those that I loved, and followed thy son hither. Agamemnon, a goodly king and a mighty spearsman, is the Greek warrior whose name thou dost ask. Brother of him who was my husband is he. Ah! shameless me, who did leave mine own.’

Of Odysseus also, and of many another warrior of great stature and brave looks, did Priam make inquiry. And Helen told him all she knew, while tears of longing stood in her eyes.

‘My two brethren, Castor, tamer of horses, and Polydeuces, the skilful boxer, I do not see,’ she said; ‘mayhap they have not crossed the sea.’ For she knew not that her two brothers lay dead in her own beautiful land.

Then was the sacrifice to Zeus offered, and the vows made between Agamemnon and Priam, King of Troy.

When the sacrifice and vows were accomplished, Priam in haste mounted his chariot and drove away.

‘Verily will I return to windy Ilios,’ said the old man, ‘for I cannot bear to watch the fight between Menelaus and my own dear son. But only Zeus and the gods know which one of them is to fall.’

Then Hector and Odysseus marked out a space for the fight, and into a bronze helmet Hector placed two pebbles and shook them in the helmet, looking behind him. And the pebble of Paris leapt out the first, so that to him fell the lot to cast first his spear of bronze.

Then did Paris arm himself. Greaves of beauteous fashioning he placed upon his legs, and fastened them with silver ankle-clasps. Over his shoulders he put his silver-studded sword of bronze and his great shield. On his head he placed a helmet with nodding crest of horse-hair, and in his hand he grasped his strong spear. In like manner did Menelaus arm himself.

One moment did they stand face to face, wrath and hatred in their hearts, their spears gripped firm in their hands.

Then did Paris hurl his spear and smite the shield of Menelaus. But the shield was strong and the spear could not pierce it.

His hand lifted up for the cast, Menelaus looked upwards and called to Zeus.

‘Grant me revenge, great Zeus!’ he cried. ‘On him that hath done me grievous wrong, grant me vengeance, so that all men hereafter may shudder to wrong one who hath treated him as his honoured guest.’

Then hurled he his mighty spear. Through the bright shield it went, and through the shining breastplate, tearing the tunic of Paris on his thigh. But Paris swerved aside, and so escaped death.

Then Menelaus drew his silver-studded sword and drove it crashing down upon the helmet of Paris. But in four pieces was the sword shattered, and fell from the hand of Menelaus.

‘Surely art thou the most cruel of all the gods, Zeus!’ angrily he cried. ‘My spear is cast in vain, and my sword shattered, and my vengeance is still to come!’

So saying, he leapt upon Paris. By the crest on his helmet he seized him, and, swinging him round, he dragged him towards the Greek host. The embroidered strap beneath the helmet of Paris strangled him, and so he would have shamefully died, had not Aphrodite marked his plight. Swiftly did she burst the leather strap, and the helmet was left empty in the grasp of Menelaus.

Casting the empty helmet, with a swing, to his comrades, Menelaus sprang back, ready, with another spear, to slay his enemy.

But Aphrodite snatched Paris up, and in thick mist she hid him, and bore him away to his own home. Like a wild beast Menelaus strode through the host, searching for him. But no Trojan would have hidden him, for with a bitter hatred did the men of Troy hate Paris, most beautiful of mortal men.

Then said Agamemnon:

‘Hearken to me, ye Trojans. Now hath Menelaus gained the victory. Give us back Helen, and all that is hers, and pay me the recompense that ye owe me for all the evil days that are gone.’

So spake he, and glad were the shouts of the Greeks as they heard the words of their king.

CHAPTER IV
HOW MENELAUS WAS WOUNDED; AND
THE BRAVE DEEDS OF DIOMEDES

While Menelaus made search for Paris, Hera and Athene plotted together, wrathfully planning how best to bring harm upon Paris and the men of Troy.

No wish had they that the grievous war should be ended, and Paris, whom they hated, allowed to go unpunished.

Like a shooting-star that flashes through the sky, even so did Athene haste down to the earth from Olympus.

In the guise of a man she sought Pandarus, a gallant warrior and a mighty archer.

‘Hearken to me, wise Pandarus,’ said the goddess. ‘Shoot now a swift arrow at Menelaus, that thou may’st slay him. So shalt thou win fame and glory before all the Trojans, and gain from Paris kingly gifts.’

And to her words foolish Pandarus lent willing ears.

He unsheathed his polished bow, made from the horn of a wild ibex that he himself had shot in the mountains. Sixteen palms long were its horns, and these a skilled workman had polished well and joined cunningly together, and tipped with gold. Well did Pandarus string his bow, and from his quiver he chose an arrow, sharp and new. Then did he pull back the bowstring to his breast until the great bow was bent into a round. The horn twanged and the bowstring sang, and the keen arrow sped fiercely on its way. Straight to the heart of Menelaus would it have sped, but Athene made it glance aside, so that it smote against the golden buckles of the belt of his breastplate. Yet even then did it graze his flesh, and the black blood gushed forth from the wound.

When Agamemnon saw the blood flowing, sorely grieved was he.

But Menelaus said:

‘Be of good courage. The wound is not deep, for my glistering belt in front and my kirtle of mail beneath stayed the deadly arrow.’

Then did they send for a skilled physician. And he, when he was come, drew forth the arrow, and sucked the blood and spread healing drugs upon the wound.

While the physician tended Menelaus, throughout the Greek host went Agamemnon.

‘To arms!’ he said to his men. ‘The men of Troy have broken the oath of peace that they took, and for us it is to punish them. No helper of liars is Zeus, and so shall they fall before us and their flesh be given to the vultures for their food!’

All those of his men that he found preparing eagerly for the battle, he praised. But to those that he found shrinking from battle he gave angry words, whether they were common soldiers or great chiefs.

To Diomedes he came at last.

‘Dost thou hold back from battle, Diomedes?’ he cried. ‘Such was not thy father’s way. Ever in battle was he the first. But his son is not a fighter such as he, though in speech he may be more skilled.’

No answer did Diomedes make, for he reverenced Agamemnon the king.

But a comrade who stood by him cried out in anger at the injustice of his words.

‘Falsely dost thou speak, Agamemnon!’ he said. ‘Better men than our fathers are we! Did we not, with fewer men and against a stronger wall, take the great city of Thebes which they strove to take in vain!’

But brave Diomedes sternly rebuked him. ‘Be silent, brother,’ he said, ‘for right and just it is that Agamemnon should urge his warriors on to the fight. His will be the glory if we overcome the men of Troy and take their city, and his will be the great sorrow if by the Trojans we Greeks are laid low. Come! let us to arms!’

From his chariot Diomedes leapt to the ground, and his armour clanged as he moved.

And as the great sea-billows raise their heads before the driving of the gale, and crash themselves in fury against the shore, casting afar their briny spray and foam, even as mightily did the Greeks move onward to battle. Horse after horse, and man after man, went as the waves of the sea.

But like bleating sheep were the Trojans as they awaited the coming of their foes.

And amongst the men of Troy fought Mars, god of war, and for the Greeks fought Athene, and with her were Terror and Rout, and Strife that never wearies.

So did the armies meet. Like wolves they fought. Man lashed at man; with blood the earth grew red, and the clamour of their fighting was as the noise of the meeting of the mountain streams when they rush in furious spate into the valleys in the winter floods.

Like trees that the woodmen cut and send crashing to the ground, so fell first one hero, then another. First fell a man of Troy, then a Greek. On that day many a Trojan and many a Greek side by side in the dust lay dead.

Now was it that to Diomedes Athene came and gave fresh strength and courage. From his helmet she made a light to shine, burning brightly as a star in summer.

Amongst the Trojans were two brothers, rich and noble, and well-skilled warriors.

One of them from their chariot cast his spear at Diomedes, who was on foot, but missed his aim. And Diomedes then cast his spear and smote his enemy in the breast, so that from his chariot he fell dead on the ground, while his brother fled, lest he, too, should be slain. He left his beautiful chariot behind, and Diomedes drove away the horses and gave them to his men to keep for him.

And Athene, watching the fray, took the god Mars by the hand and led him aside.

‘Let us leave the Greeks and Trojans to fight,’ said she, ‘and let Zeus give the victory to whom he will.’

Then did Mars sit him down by the river Scamander, and again Greeks and Trojans fought without aid from the gods.

Like heroes they fought. Like heroes they slew and died. But none fought as did Diomedes. Like a winter torrent in full flood did he charge across the plain, driving all before him.

But when Pandarus the archer saw him coming against him in triumph, he bent his bow and drove an arrow in haste to meet him. And in one moment the corslet of Diomedes was dabbled with blood.

Then loudly shouted Pandarus:

‘Bestir you, brave Trojans! The best man of the Greeks is wounded, and soon shall he die from the arrow that I sped against him!’

So boasted Pandarus, but Diomedes leapt down from his chariot, and to his charioteer he spoke:

‘Haste thee, and draw from my shoulder this bitter arrow.’

Speedily the charioteer drew the arrow forth, and from the wound the blood spurted upward.

Then cried Diomedes:

‘Hear me, Athene! If ever thou didst stand by my father in heat of battle, stand now by me. Bring me within a spear’s thrust of this man who hath wounded me, and grant that I may slay him.’

So he prayed, and Athene heard him.

‘Be of good courage, Diomedes,’ she said. ‘Thy prayer is granted. But if thou shouldst meet any of the gods in battle, smite none of them save golden Aphrodite.’

Then did Diomedes turn back to the battle, and threefold courage came upon him, so that he fought as fights an angry lion.

Ten warriors, brave and gallant, fell before him, and the horses of these he took and gave to his men to drive to the ships.

Then said Aeneas, captain of the Trojan host, son of a mortal warrior and of the goddess Aphrodite:

‘Where are thy bows and arrows, Pandarus? Canst thou not slay this man who makes havoc of the host?’

‘Methinks this man is Diomedes,’ answered Pandarus. ‘Already have I smitten him, but without avail. Surely he is no man, but a wrathful god. Behind me in my own dear land left I eleven fair chariots, each with its yoke of horses, for I feared that my good horses might not find fodder in the camp. So now have I no chariot but only my bow, and now is my bow of no help to me, for Menelaus and Diomedes have I smitten, yet they have not died.’

Then said Aeneas:

‘Talk not thus, but mount in my chariot and take the reins and whip, and I myself will stand upon the car and fight with Diomedes.’

‘Nay,’ said Pandarus, ‘take thou thyself the reins. Should thy horses be driven by one they know not, and hear a strange voice from him who drives them, mad might they go with fear. So drive thine own horses, Aeneas, and with my spear will I go against Diomedes.’

In the chariot then mounted Aeneas and Pandarus, and swiftly galloped the horses against Diomedes. His charioteer saw them coming and to Diomedes he said:

‘Pandarus and Aeneas come against us, Diomedes—mighty warriors both. Let us haste back to our chariot.’

‘Speak not of flight!’ answered Diomedes. ‘It is not in my blood to skulk or cower down. As for these, both shall not escape me. But if Athene grant that I slay them both, then stay my chariot where it is, binding the reins to the chariot rim, and leap upon the horses of Aeneas and drive them forth into the host of the Greeks. For truly there are no better horses under the sun than these horses of Aeneas.’

When Pandarus and Aeneas drew near, fiercely Pandarus hurled his bronze-shod spear. Through the shield of Diomedes it passed, and reached his breastplate.

‘Thou art hit in the loin!’ cried Pandarus; ‘now, methinks, thou soon shalt die.’

But Diomedes, unafraid, replied:

‘Nay! thou hast missed and not hit.’

With that he hurled his spear. Through the nose and teeth and tongue of Pandarus it passed, and from the chariot he fell, his gleaming armour clanging on the ground. And it was from a dead man that the horses swerved aside.

Then Aeneas leapt from his chariot and stood astride the lifeless body, like a lion at bay, fearful lest the Greeks should take from him the body of his friend.

In his hand Diomedes seized a mighty stone, and with it smote Aeneas on the thigh, crushing the bone, and tearing the skin. On his knees fell the great Aeneas, and soon must he have perished, but Aphrodite saw the peril of her son and wound her white arms about him, and would have borne him safely away. But Diomedes, leaping in his chariot, pursued her, and with his spear he wounded her sorely on the wrist. With a great cry Aphrodite let fall her son, but another of the gods was near and bore him away in the covering of a cloud.

‘Away with thee, Aphrodite!’ called Diomedes. ‘It is surely enough for thee to beguile feeble women and to keep away from battle!’

Then upon Aeneas he leapt, not knowing that it was a god whose arms held him. Three times did he seek fiercely to slay Aeneas, and three times did the god beat him back.

‘Thou warrest with the gods! Have a care, Diomedes!’ shouted the god in a terrible voice, and Diomedes for a little shrank back.

Then truly did the gods come to war against Greeks and Trojans, for Mars and Athene and Hera in fury fought amongst the hosts.

‘Shame on ye! men of Greece,’ cried Athene. ‘While noble Achilles went forth to war, the Trojans dared scarcely pass without their gates, but now they bring their fighting close to the ships on the beach!’ So she roused the Greeks to further fury.

To Diomedes then she went. Him she found beside his chariot, wiping away the blood from the wound dealt him by Pandarus.

‘An unworthy son of thy brave father art thou, Diomedes,’ she said. ‘Alone would thy father fight; but though I stand by thy side to guard thee, either weariness or fear hath taken hold on thee.’

‘I have no fear, neither am I weary,’ answered Diomedes, ‘but thou hast told me to smite none of the gods save Aphrodite, and now see I the god Mars leading the men of Troy. So have I stayed my hand and called back my men from the battle.’

Then answered bright-eyed Athene:

‘Diomedes, joy of mine heart, fear not Mars nor any other of the gods, for I am thy helper. Go now, guide thy chariot against Mars and smite him hand to hand. This day did he promise me to fight for the Greeks, and now he fights against them.’

So saying, she made the charioteer of Diomedes give her his place, and herself, with whip and reins, did she guide the fiery horses.

And Mars, seeing the chariot of Diomedes draw near, leaving many dead behind him, eagerly came to meet it. With furious thrust did he drive his spear at Diomedes, but Athene seized it in her hand and turned it aside. Then did Diomedes thrust at Mars with his spear of bronze, and it Athene guided so that it pierced the thigh of the god of war. Loud as nine thousand or ten thousand warriors cry in battle, did Mars bellow with rage and pain, and like a thunder-cloud he swept upwards through the sky to Olympus.

And still the fight went on, and sorrow came to many from the slaying of that day.

Mars, like a thunder-cloud, swept upwards through the sky to Olympus
(page [ 52])

CHAPTER V
HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE

From where the battle still raged went Hector, son of Priam. At the oak tree by the gates of Troy there came running to meet him wives and daughters of those who fought. For eagerly did they long for tidings of many a warrior who now lay dead on the field.