So the bronze-armored
Achaeans massed at the foot of their ships
Awaiting the command of Achilles to send them into
battle again,
Shining divine under the rosy halo of the morning
sun,
Writhing impatiently like the Hellespont behind them.
And there stood swift-footed Achilles,
Son of Peleus, he called out to every Achaean –
“Comrades come!
Their time is up!
Brothers-in-arms, call up your fury once more,
We must win high glory; glory to be sung of for years
to come.
Let no one say they saw a single Achaean fall back
from battle,
Fearing to loose their lives. Come forth and lock together,
Let Troy see their fault in rousing the lion-hearted
Achaeans!”
And hearing the command of high-hearted Achilles,
Each man rose up and surged towards the chariots with
fire in their hearts.
A mass of bronze and horsehair crests, eager and
ready for the assault on Troy itself.
Chariots stood wheel to wheel, positioned as their
captains had decreed
Horses tossing their heads,
men shouting
Ready to repay the Trojans for the theft of
white-armed Helen, Menelaus’ queen.
And Achilles lord of men again took the lead,
Standing on the hill of the
encampment he let loose a war cry
Echoed by every shining Achaean sweeping like a flood
towards the walls of Troy.
As the chariots drew closer to the walls of Troy,
The embodiment of man-slaughtering Ares
The Trojans massed on the walls, afraid to leave
their unconquerable citadel
Men and women alike looking
down upon the dazzling Achaeans
Afraid for the fate that awaited them.
The women, running from the walls to hide themselves
from some stray Achaean arrow,
Ran into the streets crying out for the children to
bring their husband’s and father’s armor,
Hoping that the Trojan bronze would spare them the
fate that awaited every Trojan man.
Priests and men rushed to pour out cups to Zeus,
father of gods and men,
Noble women gathered the most valuable treasures and
brought them to the temple of Pallas Athena.
Every man prayed to the distant deadly Archer to save
his beloved Troy from its fate.
Among the clamor the call rang out, the longhaired
Achaeans had arrived.
So many men, all thirsty for blood and war,
Eager to send the Trojan men down to the House of Death.
Their war cries rang out against the strong, high
walls of Troy,
Taunting the Trojans to fire
the first shot from their stronghold
From the well-built walls that had protected them for
so long.
Surely they thought, no man would be foolish enough
to try to take the walls
Called unconquerable for so
long by so many men
Odysseus, great glory of the Achaeans, drew his bow
and let loose the first shot
Hitting it’s mark, piercing straight though the
breastplate of Pedasus, son of Bucolion.
Blood gushed forth from his heart as he fell from the
great walls of his city
His head, bashed open inside his crested helmet when
he hit the ground
His blood soaking into the
dust at the foot of the wall
Running like a river past the feet of the horses,
planting their feet in the now muddy earth.
The horses immediately trampled each body that fell
at the point of an Achaean arrow,
Blood flowing in rivers through the earth, covering
the Achaean chariots and horses
Enticing the vultures circling overhead.
And here was Aesepus, drawing his bow from the top of
the walls,
Raining down arrows on the
horsehair crests of the Achaeans
One piercing the heel of Aeacides, his comrades
watched him fall from his chariot
As that same chariot which had conveyed him into
battle for these ten years
Rolled over his head, dashing his brains across the
earth.
Achilles, too watched
Aeacides fall, aiming an arrow at Aesepus
Sending him falling to his death at the feet of the
Achaean horses.
Ajax here, hefted his great spear at Ormenus watching
it pierce his bowels as they spilled forth
He fell too, over the walls
of troy, raining blood upon the Achaeans
In turn, raining arrows and spears upon the Trojans
As if to be the specter of Ares, sacker of cities,
curse of men.
And here was Odysseus, covered head to toe in the
blood of the Trojans he had killed
A wild force, god-like, he loosed arrows from his
great bow that no other man could draw
First fell Pammon, son of Priam, with a great cry he
fell from the city walls like a tree
Recently felled for his brother’s funeral pyre.
Then Epistrophus, his Halizonians crying out for
their leader as he fell to meet his fate.
And here was Achilles, son of Peleus, breaker of
horses, high commander of the Myrmidons.
Each arrow he shot met its mark, embedded in the
chest of a Trojan.
No man was safe from him, his spears too sending men
over the edge,
Sending them crashing down to the hooves of the
Achaean horses,
Tempting the vultures and the dogs waiting at the
edge of the Trojan plain for their feast.
Here fell Epicles, great Lycian second only to the
dead Sarpedon.
Here fell Polites, son of
Priam, backwards into Troy itself
Saving him the fate of so many of his comrades,
To be mangled and trampled at the hands and wheels of
the Achaeans.
And Phoebus Apollo, standing
on, watched man-killing Achilles
Slaughtering his beloved Trojans, knowing he could
not save them from their fate.
Watching Achilles, the glow of his divine armor
dulled by the splatter of blood from below.
Watching the Trojans running from the walls like
frightened deer,
Trying to hide themselves
from the deadly arrows of the Achaeans
Praying in vain to gods that would not allow
themselves to hear.
Watching Ucalegon running through the palace, seeking
out the private rooms of Paris,
Running through the halls of Priam’s great palace,
past the noble women,
Pouring out cups to Zeus and pleading him to take
mercy on their city
Desperate for some divine intervention they pleaded
as though mourning the death of their city not yet dead.
And so he found Paris and pleaded supplicant before
Paris –
“O Paris! Dear
prince, don’t hide yourself in here!
We all shall meet our doom at once, desecrated at the
hands of the Achaeans!
We shall be overcome by swift-footed Achilles,
gigantic Ajax, and Odysseus, the great glory of the Achaeans.
If only we were as beloved of the gods as the
Achaeans! Our prayers might not fall on
deaf ears!
These men have robbed our women of so many sons and
fathers!
Repay their
women, safe at home, in kind!
Join our men on the ramparts; send your own arrows
down into the Achaean forces!
Avenge your brothers!
They were not afraid to join the men, Polites, Pammon, Hector, and
countless others have died for Troy!
And yet you continue to hide in your rooms, here with
Helen.
You are a curse upon your city, sending so many men
to the House of Death
Rescue the men and women of Troy!
Don’t let all the glory fall into the hands of the
great, strong-greaved Achaeans!”
So Paris went to his window and looked out upon his
people, a mass of grief and all marked for death,
Seeing women tearing their hair, in grieving for
their dead sons and husbands
Watched priests on their
knees, the smoke of sacrifice filling the air
As they tried to bring some blessing from the gods
and Fate towards Troy.
And Ucalegon burst out genuflected and grief-stricken
–
“Paris, pity your father! Look at him, among the people!
He has lost yet more sons today, and still may lose
others!
Go forth!
Avenge the death of your brave brothers!
Merciless, unyielding prince, join the men!
How can you yet stay here in your rooms?
If you do not join the troops, no one will mourn you
on your pyre!
No one will remain to say ‘that was Paris, breaker of
horses, prince of Troy’!
We will all have been lost!
O Paris, Go forth and beat back these savage men from
our walls!
Be the hope of Troy!
Or forever be known as the man whose cowardice killed Her.”
So Paris seeing the people
weep, drew Ucalegon to his feet
And left Helen in their rooms to weep for both her
loves.
Running now through the palace
he gathered his armor
of shining bronze and readied himself for battle.
And Apollo watched him as he donned the heavy bronze
armor,
Wrapping his legs in heavy greaves, strapping on the
shining breastplate,
Setting on his head his
powerful helmet, the shine of the bronze
A halo around his head in the afternoon sun,
The horsehair crest bristling as he shook his head to
ensure it was secure.
He took his bow down from its place holding it in his
hands as if to weigh it
A gift from Lycia, made of strong cedar native to
that land,
Made to be the strongest, surest bow in Troy.
Paris walked from the palace through the streets of
Troy,
The mourners parted to let him pass; looking at the
man they had had to convince to fight,
The man who now was supposed to be their great hero.
Women with tears running down their faces looked at
him through their hands and hair
Clawing at their faces and scalps, begging of the
gods to tell them,
Why had it been their man who died at the hands of
the Achaeans?
Men too, covered in dust and sweat looked at Paris,
Knowing that they would now follow him into battle
instead of man-killing Hector.
And Paris turned to them, his cry rousing the men
once again for battle –
“Trojans!
Brothers-in-arms of Priam’s sons!
Call once more upon your battle fury!
Rise and defend our Scaean gates!
We must once again defend the city of Tros, our home!
We must win high honor for Priam and his royal sons!
Let the Achaeans see how mad they are to attack the
great city of Troy!”
He ended his cry and each swift Trojan once again put
on his armor,
Their own battle cries adding to the ringing tumult
of voices within the Trojan walls.
Apollo, as soon as he saw Paris rallying, took on the
character of high-hearted Dius,
Son of Priam and brother of Paris, armed like Paris,
Apollo joined him at the front of the lines:
“Paris, beloved of Apollo, hope of the Trojans,
Lay hand to bow.
Beat back the Achaeans from our walls.
You know the truth to be this. You must kill swift-footed Achilles,
Look at him!
How he lays waste to our people.
Our mother and father have implored you to take aim
at the son of Peleus.
It will give heart to our comrades and strike such a
blow to the Achaeans
That no man thinks they will
return to battle
Lacking he who is called the Best of the Achaeans.”
Paris, turning on his brother, helmet flashing,
replied:
“Dius, what you say is true. Achilles must die.
He has killed brilliant, man-killing Hector,
And we have seen how the Achaean ranks fall when he
leaves the field of battle.
But still, he is the greatest fighter of the
Achaeans.
His spear has felled many of my brothers and
brothers-in-arms.
Each arrow he shoots follows a straight course into
the chest of a Trojan,
Sending him instantly to the House of Death.
I cannot kill this man!”
Apollo, beguiling Paris masterfully as he had tricked
many men, pled –
“Paris put away your
fear! The distant deadly Archer has
Long shown his preference for Troy.
You yourself poured out a
cup to him before you entered battle
Ask him now to guide your arrow swift and true.
Stir your spirit.
Now fight! Fight and kill for
Troy!”
With that Apollo left Paris’ side and ran
swift-footed to the halls of Olympus
Where his father, Zeus, sat,
enthroned in his great hall
Watching the Trojans once again mounting their
defense,
And once again meeting the
points of the Achaean arrows head on
Falling in great numbers from the walls, meeting
their doom at the foot of the walls
Of Troy, meant to protect them from harm,
Once again mudding the earth
of the Trojan plains
Watched as Achilles, once again losing arrows,
breaking through men, leaving
In his wake, the sons and husbands of Troy, left to
await Hermes the conductor of men.
Each arrow meeting its mark with deadly accuracy,
Spilling the blood from the heart of every man they
hit,
Sending them to meet their fate under the horses and
chariot wheels of the Achaeans.
And Achilles, taking aim, let loose an arrow,
Speeding towards the breastplate of Dius, son of
Priam,
It hit, taking Dius to his knees, clutching the arrow
whose sharp point
Pierced his heart, clouding his eyes with the black
haze of death,
Sending him pitching downward, head first to meet the
blood-muddy earth surrounding the walls of Troy.
Falling, regal, like a bull
meant for sacrifice to Apollo himself
Giving out a last bellow as Paris turned to see his
brother meet his fate
Crashing to the ground, his
blood spilled out from his armor
His head dashed open before Achilles’ chariot,
spraying the horses with blood.
And Zeus, the father of men and gods, spoke out –
“Alas! His
fate is sealed now! Achilles, son of
Thetis with the glistening feet,
He shall meet his doom at the hands of Paris.
My heart grieves for her son, he who never failed to
pour out a cup to we immortal gods,
Now on the bloody plain of Troy he shall meet his
fate,
So far from his home, the halls of Peleus.
Look now, Paris sees the death of his brother and is
enraged.
Immortals all, gather, shall I spare him, Achilles
son of Thetis?
His mother is dear to me, she who saved me, she who
protected Dionysus,
She with the glistening feet, should I save the man
for her sake?
Or let him meet his fate?
But
Phoebus Apollo,
Protested, eyes wide:
“Father, lord of men and gods,
How can you say such things? The fates have long decreed that this
Man will die on the plains of
Troy, and you think to
Defy them?
You’d let him return to Peleus’ halls?
Not one of the deathless gods would deny what you owe
to Thetis,
But not one of us will ever praise you if you choose
to save Achilles.”
And wide-seeing Zeus, son of Kronos, replied:
“Fear not, Apollo, divine twin, forever young,
I do not mean to save the man, though his mother is
so dear to me.
Believe me, I would never cross the wills of the
Fates.
Now, go. Urge
Paris to fulfill his fate.
Guide his arrow straight and sure. Hold back no more.”
And so Apollo, the distant deadly Archer, leapt to
his feet,
And rushed down from the
hallowed halls of Olympus
To the walls of Priam’s great city.
And Paris ran towards the
sight of his brother’s death
The blood already dry in the afternoon sun.
Looking down towards the body, crushed under the
hooves of Achilles’ horses.
Lamenting he called out: “O
Dius! Now you
Go down to the House of Death. Like so many of our
brothers,
Now you join them in the Halls of Hades!
Tell me, how will our mother and father lament your
death!
They have lost so many, the best, of the strongest
hearts and god-like characters!
Mestor, Lycaon, Hippodamas, Hipponous,
Hector of the glinting helmet, breaker of horses,
And now you!
All felled by the Achilles, son of Peleus!
How many more must they lose to this man?
Look how he charges across the corpses of our men!
Has he no sense to avoid them?
What glee does he take in killing Trojans, in
desecrating their corpses
As he did to my dear brother Hector,
Immortal gods be praised for preserving his body and
returning him home.
And now one more falls from our walls!
No, no more!
By this arrow, and with the distant deadly archer’s blessing,
I will put aside my fears.”
And Paris drew back his powerful bow and let lose the
single arrow,
Its sharp point piercing the air as it sped on its
course,
Indeed guided by Phoebus
Apollo, towards Achilles
Its course straight and true, meeting its mark in
Achilles’ throat.
As a hunter fells a deer, that
animal graceful until its last moments
It falls to the ground eyes cast up as if to ask the
gods to spare it –
So now as Achilles fell to the ground before the
Scaean Gates,
Pitching his head towards the
skies, begging Zeus
Or his mother Thetis to save him once again.
Poor doomed man, doomed by
fate to win his glory and to die
Far from the land of his father, to fall on a hostile
plain,
His life cut short by his glory and his wrath.
O sing muses!
Sing how this man died, calling out to his comrades:
“Odysseus, Ajax, comrades, brothers-in-arms!
Hear me now! I
have known well the fate I see before me now.
I was always to die on this field of battle, far from
home,
From my mother’s embrace and from my father’s
hallowed halls.
Never could I have cheated fate by returning home so
many weeks ago.
No my homecoming was denied to me at birth.
A burial in the lands of my forefathers was never to
be mine.
And I meet my death freely, it is now my time.
The divine scales have tipped against me at last.
Hector spoke the truth when he
said I would fall at the hands of
Paris and Apollo at the feet of the Scaean Gates.
But comrades, know this! My death is not in vain. Persist!
Continue to fight, and you shall reap great rewards.
Troy shall fall at the command of greathearted
Odysseus, sacker-of-cities.
For all their fight and
Apollo’s blessing, nothing, no one
Can save them from the hands of fate!”
And so Achilles fell before the Gates, his comrades
powerless to help him.
Flying free of his body,
The great soul of god-like Achilles flew down to the
House of Death,
Joining Patroclus and so many more Achaeans who fell
round the walls of Troy.
His fate sealed and fulfilled, his earthly body
lying,
Sprawled at the feet of his brothers-in-arms.
And the cry went up on all sides.
Tears and lamentations of the Achaeans, mourning
their lion-hearted champion.
Celebration on the side of the Trojans,
Hailing Paris as the man who had killed the
slaughterer of men,
Long-likened to Ares himself.
Though they had not long left, the Trojans rejoiced
in their one hope:
The Death of Achilles and the promise of Paris.
And, from the gods on high, silver-footed Thetis
cried out in woe:
“O my son!
Your fate has truly come to pass!
You who were greater than your father, who have
spurred the Achaeans on
To bring Troy their fate. Cursed from birth!
Granted the glory of the ages
for the price of your
Proper burial and longed for homecoming!
O why did I bear you?
My beloved son, taken from me too soon!
Achilles, breaker of horses, you are lost to me
forever!”
And the Achaeans surged around the body of Achilles,
saving it from
the dogs and from the Trojans. They carried it back to the ships.
This was the body of Achilles the best of
the Achaeans.
One who had led his Myrmidons,
nay the Achaeans, into battle
Fearlessly from the dawn of the Trojan
War.
Achilles, son of Peleus and Thetis,
demigod in his own right,
Buried in a land not his own, buried far
from the hallowed halls of his father,
On the plains of Troy the
Achaean army lighted his funeral pyre
On the same place where Patroclus had been
buried only days before.
Their cries rang out as his funeral games
were illuminated by the light of his own pyre.
And so buried was Achilles, breaker of
horses, lord of men, god-like warrior.
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