Book XXII: The Death of Hector

Thus were they driven within the city wallsLike frighted fawns, and there dispersing cooledTheir sweaty limbs, and quenched their eager thirst,And rested on the battlements. The Greeks,Bearing their shields upon their shoulders, cameClose to the ramparts. Hector’s adverse fateDetained him still without the walls of Troy,And near the Scaean gates. Meantime the godApollo to the son of Peleus said:—

“O son of Peleus! Why pursue me thusWith thy swift feet—a mortal man in chaseOf an immortal? That I am a godThou seest not yet, but turnest all thy rageOn me, and, having put the host of TroyTo rout, dost think of them no more. They findA refuge in their town, while far astrayThou wanderest hither. Thou hast not the powerTo slay me; I am not of mortal birth.”

The swift Achilles angrily replied:“O archer-god, thou most unjust of allThe immortals! Thou hast wronged me, luring meAside; since many a warrior I had forcedTo bite the dust before they reached the gatesOf Ilium but for thee, who from my graspHast snatched the glory and hast rescued them.Thou didst not fear my vengeance; yet if powerWere given me, I would punish thee for this.”

He spake, and with heroic purpose turnedToward Ilium. As a steed that wins the raceFlies at his utmost speed across the plain,And whirls along the chariot, with such speedThe son of Peleus moved his rapid feet.

The aged monarch Priam was the firstTo see him as he scoured the plain, and shoneLike to the star which in the autumn timeRises and glows among the lights of heavenWith eminent lustre at the dead of night—Orion’s Hound they call it—bright indeed,And yet of baleful omen, for it bringsDistressing heat to miserable men.So shone the brass upon the warrior’s breastAs on he flew. The aged Priam groaned,And smote his head with lifted hands, and calledAloud, imploring his beloved son,Who eagerly before the city gateWaited his foe Achilles. Priam thus,With outstretched hands, besought him piteously:—

“O wait not, Hector, my beloved son,To combat with Pelides, thus aloneAnd far from succor, lest thou meet thy death,Slain by his hand, for he is mightier farThan thou art. Would that he, the cruel one,Were but as much the favorite of the godsAs he is mine! Then should the birds of preyAnd dogs devour his carcass, and the griefThat weighs upon my spirit would depart.I have been robbed by him of many sons—Brave youths, whom he has slain or sold as slavesIn distant isles; and now I see no moreAmong our host on whom the gates are closedMy Polydorus and Lycaon, whomThe peerless dame Laothoe bore to me.If yet they are within the Grecian camp,I will redeem their lives with brass and gold;For I have store, which Altes, the renownedAnd aged, gave his daughter. If they liveNo longer, but have passed to the abodeOf Hades, bitter will our sorrow be—Mine and their mother’s—but the popular griefWill sooner be consoled if thou fall not,Slain by Achilles. Come within the walls,My son, that thou mayst still be the defenceOf Ilium’s sons and daughters, nor increaseThe glory of Pelides with the lossOf thine own life. Have pity upon me,Who only live to suffer—whom the sonOf Saturn, on the threshold of my age,Hath destined to endure a thousand griefs,And then to be destroyed—to see my sonsSlain by the sword, my daughters dragged awayInto captivity, their chambers madeA spoil, our infants dashed against the groundBy cruel hands, the consorts of my sonsBorne off by the ferocious Greeks; and last,Perchance the very dogs which I have fedHere in my palaces and at my board,The guardians of my doors, when, by the spearOr sword, some enemy shall take my life,And at my threshold leave me stretched a corpse,Will rend me, and, with savage greediness,Will lap my blood, and in the porch lie down.When one in prime of youth lies slain in war,Gashed with the spear, his wounds become him well,And honor him in all men’s eyes; but whenAn aged man is slain, and his white headAnd his white beard and limbs are foully tornBy ravening dogs, there is no sadder sight.”

So the old monarch spake, and with his handsTore his gray hair, but moved not Hector thus.Then came, with lamentations and in tears,The warrior’s mother forward. One hand laidHer bosom bare; she pressed the other handBeneath it, sobbed, and spake these wingèd words:—

“Revere this bosom, Hector, and on meHave pity. If when thou wert but a babeI ever on this bosom stilled thy cries,Think of it now, beloved child; avoidThat dreadful chief; withdraw within the walls,Nor madly think to encounter him alone,Son of my love and of my womb! If heShould slay thee, I shall not lament thy deathAbove thy bier—I, nor thy noble wife—But far from us the greedy dogs will throngTo mangle thee beside the Grecian fleet.”

Thus, weeping bitterly, the aged pairEntreated their dear son, yet moved him not.He stood and waited for his mighty foeAchilles, as a serpent at his den,Fed on the poisons of the wild, awaitsThe traveller, and, fierce with hate of man,And glaring fearfully, lies coiled within.So waited Hector with a resolute heart,And kept his ground, and, leaning his bright shieldAgainst a tower that jutted from the walls,Conferred with his great soul impatiently:—

“Ah me! If I should pass within the walls,Then will Polydamas be first to castReproach upon me; for he counselled meTo lead the Trojans back into the townThat fatal night which saw Achilles riseTo join the war again. I yielded notTo his advice; far better if I had.Now, since my fatal stubbornness has broughtThis ruin on my people, I most dreadThe censure of the men and long-robed damesOf Ilium. Men less brave than I will say,‘Foolhardy Hector in his pride has thrownHis people’s lives away.’ So will they speak,And better were it for me to return,Achilles slain, or, slain myself by him,To perish for my country gloriously.But should I lay aside this bossy shieldAnd this stout helm, and lean against the wallThis spear, and go to meet the gallant sonOf Peleus, with a promise to restoreHelen and all the treasure brought with herTo Troy by Paris, in his roomy ships—All that the war was waged for—that the sonsOf Atreus may convey it hence, besidesWealth drawn from all the hoards within the town,And to be shared among the Greeks; for IWould bind the Trojans by a solemn oathTo keep back nothing, but divide the whole—Whate’er of riches this fair town contains—Into two parts—But why should I waste thoughtOn plans like these? I must not act the partOf suppliant to a man who may not showRegard or mercy, but may hew me downDefenceless, with my armor laid asideAs if I were a woman. Not with himMay I hold parley from a tree or rock,As youths and maidens with each other holdLight converse. Better ’twere to rush at onceTo combat, and the sooner learn to whomOlympian Jove decrees the victory.”

Such were his thoughts. Achilles now drew near.Like crested Mars, the warrior-god, he came.On his right shoulder quivered fearfullyThe Pelian ash, and from his burnished mailThere streamed a light as of a blazing fire,Or of the rising sun. When Hector saw,He trembled, nor could venture to remain,But left the gates and fled away in fear.Pelides, trusting to his rapid feet,Pursued him. As, among the mountain wilds,A falcon, fleetest of the birds of air,Darts toward a timid dove that wheels awayTo shun him by a sidelong flight, while heSprings after her again and yet again,And screaming follows, certain of his prey—Thus onward flew Achilles, while as fastFled Hector in dismay, with hurrying feet,Beside the wall. They passed the Mount of View,And the wind-beaten fig-tree, and they ranAlong the public way by which the wallWas skirted, till they came where from the groundThe two fair springs of eddying Xanthus rise—One pouring a warm stream from which ascendsAnd spreads a vapor like a smoke from fire;The other, even in summer, sending forthA current cold as hail, or snow, or ice.And there were broad stone basins, fairly wrought,At which, in time of peace, before the GreeksHad landed on the plain, the Trojan damesAnd their fair daughters washed their sumptuous robes.Past these they swept; one fled, and one pursued—A brave man fled, a braver followed close,And swiftly both. Not for a common prize,A victim from the herd, a bullock’s hide,Such as reward the fleet of foot, they ran—The race was for the knightly Hector’s life.As firm-paced coursers, that are wont to win,Fly toward the goal, when some magnificent prize,A tripod or a damsel, is proposedIn honor of some hero’s obsequies,So these flew thrice on rapid feet aroundThe city of Priam. All the gods of heavenLooked on, and thus the Almighty Father spake:—

“Alas! I see a hero dear to mePursued around the wall. My heart is grievedFor Hector, who has brought so many thighsOf bullocks to my altar on the sideOf Ida ploughed with glens, or on the heightsOf Ilium. The renowned Achilles nowIs chasing him with rapid feet aroundThe city of Priam. Now bethink yourselves,And answer. Shall we rescue him from death?Or shall we doom him, valiant as he is,To perish by the hand of Peleus’ son?”

Minerva, blue-eyed goddess, answered thus:“O Father, who dost hurl the thunderbolt,And hide the sky in clouds, what hast thou said?Wouldst thou reprieve from death a mortal man,Whose doom is fixed? Then do it; but know this,That all the other gods will not approve.”

Then spake again the Cloud-compeller Jove:“Tritonia, my dear child, be calm. I spakeOf no design. I would be kind to thee.Do as thou wilt, and be there no delay.”

He spake; and Pallas from the Olympian peaks,Encouraged by his words in what her thoughtHad planned already, downward shot to earth.Still, with quick steps, the fleet Achilles pressedOn Hector’s flight. As when a hound has rousedA fawn from its retreat among the hills,And chases it through glen and forest ground.And to close thickets, where it skulks in fearUntil he overtake it, Hector thusSought vainly to elude the fleet pursuitOf Peleus’ son. As often as he thought,By springing toward the gates of Troy, to gainAid from the weapons of his friends who stoodOn the tall towers, so often was the GreekBefore him, forcing him to turn awayFrom Ilium toward the plain. Achilles thusKept nearest to the city. As in dreamsThe fleet pursuer cannot overtake,Nor the pursued escape, so was it now;One followed but in vain, the other fledAs fruitlessly. But how could Hector thusHave put aside the imminent doom of death,Had not Apollo met him once again,For the last time, and given him strength and speed?

The great Achilles nodded to his hostA sign that no man should presume to strikeAt Hector with his weapon, lest perchanceAnother, wounding him, should bear awayThe glory, and Pelides only wearThe second honors. When the twain had comeFor the fourth time beside Scamander’s springs,The All-Father raised the golden balance high,And, placing in the scales two lots which bringDeath’s long dark sleep—one lot for Peleus’ son,And one for knightly Hector—by the midstHe poised the balance. Hector’s fate sank downTo Hades, and Apollo left the field.

The blue-eyed goddess Pallas then approachedThe son of Peleus with these wingèd words:—

“Renowned Achilles, dear to Jupiter!Now may we, as I hope, at last returnTo the Achaian army and the fleetWith glory, Hector slain, the terribleIn war. Escape he cannot, even thoughThe archer-god Apollo fling himselfWith passionate entreaty at the feetOf Jove the Aegis-bearer. Stay thou hereAnd breathe a moment, while I go to himAnd lure him hither to encounter thee.”

She spake, and he obeyed, and gladly stoodPropped on the ashen stem of his keen spear;While, passing on, Minerva overtookThe noble Hector. In the outward form,And with the strong voice of Deïphobus,She stood by him and spake these wingèd words:

“Hard pressed I find thee, brother, by the swiftAchilles, who, with feet that never rest,Pursues thee round the walls of Priam’s town.But let us make a stand and beat him back.”

And then the crested Hector spake in turn:“Deïphobus, thou ever hast been dearTo me beyond my other brethren, sonsOf Hecuba and Priam. Now still moreI honor thee, since thou hast seen my plight,And for my sake hast ventured forth withoutThe gates, while all the rest remain within.”

And then the blue-eyed Pallas spake again:“Brother! ’tis true, my father, and the queen,My mother, and my comrades, clasped my kneesIn turn, and earnestly entreated meThat I would not go forth, such fear had fallenOn all of them; but I was grieved for thee.Now let us combat valiantly, nor spareThe weapons that we bear, and we shall learnWhether Achilles, having slain us both,Will carry to the fleet our bloody spoil,Or die himself, the victim of thy spear.”

The treacherous goddess spake, and led the way;And when the advancing chiefs stood face to face,The crested hero, Hector, thus began:—

“No longer I avoid thee as of late,O son of Peleus! Thrice around the wallsOf Priam’s mighty city have I fled,Nor dared to wait thy coming. Now my heartBids me encounter thee; my time is comeTo slay or to be slain. Now let us callThe gods to witness, who attest and guardThe covenants of men. Should Jove bestowOn me the victory, and I take thy life,Thou shalt meet no dishonor at my hands;But, stripping off the armor, I will sendThe Greeks thy body. Do the like by me.”

The swift Achilles answered with a frown:“Accursed Hector, never talk to meOf covenants. Men and lions plight no faith,Nor wolves agree with lambs, but each must planEvil against the other. So betweenThyself and me no compact can exist,Or understood intent. First, one of usMust fall and yield his life-blood to the godOf battles. Summon all thy valor now.A skilful spearman thou hast need to be,And a bold warrior. There is no escape,For now doth Pallas doom thee to be slainBy my good spear. Thou shalt repay to meThe evil thou hast done my countrymen—My friends whom thou hast slaughtered in thy rage.”

He spake, and, brandishing his massive spear,Hurled it at Hector, who beheld its aimFrom where he stood. He stooped, and over himThe brazen weapon passed, and plunged to earth.Unseen by royal Hector, Pallas wentAnd plucked it from the ground, and brought it backAnd gave it to the hands of Peleus’ son,While Hector said to his illustrious foe:—

“Godlike Achilles, thou hast missed thy mark;Nor hast thou learned my doom from Jupiter,As thou pretendest. Thou art glib of tongue.And cunningly thou orderest thy speech,In hope that I who hear thee may forgetMy might and valor. Think not I shall flee,That thou mayst pierce my back; for thou shalt sendThy spear, if God permit thee, through my breastAs I rush on thee. Now avoid in turnMy brazen weapon. Would that it might passClean through thee, all its length! The tasks of warFor us of Troy were lighter for thy death,Thou pest and deadly foe of all our race!”

He spake, and brandishing his massive spear,Hurled it, nor missed, but in the centre smoteThe buckler of Pelides. Far awayIt bounded from the brass, and he was vexedTo see that the swift weapon from his handHad flown in vain. He stood perplexed and sad;No second spear had he. He called aloudOn the white-bucklered chief, Deïphobus,To bring another; but that chief was far,And Hector saw that it was so, and said:—

“Ah me! The gods have summoned me to die.I thought my warrior-friend, Deïphobus,Was by my side; but he is still in Troy,And Pallas has deceived me. Now my deathCannot be far—is near; there is no hopeOf my escape, for so it pleases JoveAnd Jove’s great archer-son, who have till nowDelivered me. My hour at last is come;Yet not ingloriously or passivelyI die, but first will do some valiant deed,Of which mankind shall hear in after time.”

He spake, and drew the keen-edged sword that hung,Massive and finely tempered, at his side,And sprang—as when an eagle high in heaven,Through the thick cloud, darts downward to the plainTo clutch some tender lamb or timid hare,So Hector, brandishing that keen-edged sword,Sprang forward, while Achilles oppositeLeaped toward him, all on fire with savage hate,And holding his bright buckler, nobly wrought,Before him. On his shining helmet wavedThe fourfold crest; there tossed the golden tuftsWith which the hand of Vulcan lavishlyHad decked it. As in the still hours of nightHesper goes forth among the host of stars,The fairest light of heaven, so brightly shone,Brandished in the right hand of Peleus’ son,The spear’s keen blade, as, confident to slayThe noble Hector, o’er his glorious formHis quick eye ran, exploring where to plantThe surest wound. The glittering mail of brassWon from the slain Patroclus guarded wellEach part, save only where the collar-bonesDivide the shoulder from the neck, and thereAppeared the throat, the spot where life is mostIn peril. Through that part the noble sonOf Peleus drave his spear; it went quite throughThe tender neck, and yet the brazen bladeCleft not the windpipe, and the power to speakRemained. The Trojan fell amid the dust,And thus Achilles boasted o’er his fall:—

“Hector, when from the slain Patroclus thouDidst strip his armor, little didst thou thinkOf danger. Thou hadst then no fear of me,Who was not near thee to avenge his death.Fool! There was left within the roomy shipsA mightier one than he, who should come forth,The avenger of his blood, to take thy life.Foul dogs and birds of prey shall tear thy flesh;The Greeks shall honor him with funeral rites.”

And then the crested Hector faintly said:“I pray thee by thy life, and by thy knees,And by thy parents, suffer not the dogsTo tear me at the galleys of the Greeks.Accept abundant store of brass and gold,Which gladly will my father and the queen,My mother, give in ransom. Send to themMy body, that the warriors and the damesOf Troy may light for me the funeral pile.”

The swift Achilles answered with a frown:“Nay, by my knees entreat me not, thou cur,Nor by my parents. I could even wishMy fury prompted me to cut thy fleshIn fragments, and devour it, such the wrongThat I have had from thee. There will be noneTo drive away the dogs about thy head,Not though thy Trojan friends should bring to meTenfold and twenty-fold the offered gifts,And promise others—not though Priam, sprungFrom Dardanus, should send thy weight in gold.Thy mother shall not lay thee on thy bier,To sorrow over thee whom she brought forth;But dogs and birds of prey shall mangle thee.”

And then the crested Hector, dying, said:“I know thee, and too clearly I foresawI should not move thee, for thou hast a heartOf iron. Yet reflect that for my sakeThe anger of the gods may fall on thee,When Paris and Apollo strike thee down,Strong as thou art, before the Scaean gates.”Thus Hector spake, and straightway o’er him closedThe night of death; the soul forsook his limbs,And flew to Hades, grieving for its fate—So soon divorced from youth and youthful might.Then said the great Achilles to the dead:—

“Die thou; and I, whenever it shall pleaseJove and the other gods, will meet my fate.”

He spake, and, plucking forth his brazen lance,He laid it by, and from the body strippedThe bloody mail. The thronging Greeks beheldWith wonder Hector’s tall and stately form,And no one came who did not add a wound;And, looking to each other, thus they said:—

“How much more tamely Hector now enduresOur touch than when he set the fleet on fire!”

Such were the words of those who smote the dead;But now, when swift Achilles from the corpseHad stripped the armor, he stood forth amongThe Achaian host, and spake these wingèd words:—

“Leaders and princes of the Grecian host!Since we, my friends, by favor of the gods,Have overcome the chief who wrought more harmTo us than all the rest, let us assaultThe town, and learn what they of Troy intend—Whether their troops will leave the citadelSince he is slain, or hold it with strong hand,Though Hector is no more. But why give thoughtTo plans like these while yet Patroclus liesA corse unwept, unburied, at the fleet?I never will forget him while I liveAnd while these limbs have motion. Though belowIn Hades they forget the dead, yet IWill there remember my beloved friend.Now then, ye youths of Greece, move on and chantA paean, while, returning to the fleet,We bring great glory with us; we have slainThe noble Hector, whom, throughout their town,The Trojans ever worshipped like a god.”

He spake, and, planning in his mind to treatThe noble Hector shamefully, he boredThe sinews of his feet between the heelAnd ankle; drawing through them leathern thongsHe bound them to the car, but left the headTo trail in dust. And then he climbed the car,Took in the shining mail, and lashed to speedThe coursers. Not unwillingly they flew.Around the dead, as he was dragged along,The dust arose; his dark locks swept the groundThat head, of late so noble in men’s eyes,Lay deep amid the dust, for Jove that daySuffered the foes of Hector to insultHis corse in his own land. His mother saw,And tore her hair, and flung her lustrous veilAway, and uttered piercing shrieks. No lessHis father, who so loved him, piteouslyBewailed him; and in all the streets of TroyThe people wept aloud, with such lamentAs if the towery Ilium were in flamesEven to its loftiest roofs. They scarce could keepThe aged king within, who, wild with grief,Struggled to rush through the Dardanian gates,And, rolling in the dust, entreated allWho stood around him, calling them by name:—

“Refrain, my friends, though kind be your intent.Let me go forth alone, and at the fleetOf Greece will I entreat this man of bloodAnd violence. He may perchance be movedWith reverence for my age, and pity meIn my gray hairs; for such a one as IIs Peleus, his own father, by whose careThis Greek was reared to be a scourge to Troy,And, more than all, a cause of grief to me,So many sons of mine in life’s fresh primeHave fallen by his hand. I mourn for them,But not with such keen anguish as I mournFor Hector. Sorrow for his death will bringMy soul to Hades. Would that he had diedHere in my arms! This solace had been ours—His most unhappy mother and myselfHad stooped to shed these tears upon his bier.”

He spake, and wept, and all the citizensWept with him. Hecuba among the damesTook up the lamentation, and began:—

“Why do I live, my son, when thou art dead,And I so wretched?—thou who wert my boastEver, by night and day, where’er I went,And whom the Trojan men and matrons calledTheir bulwark, honoring thee as if thou wertA god. They glory in thy might no more,Since Fate and Death have overtaken thee.”

Weeping she spake. Meantime AndromacheHad heard no tidings of her husband yet.No messenger had even come to sayThat he was still without the gates. She satIn a recess of those magnificent halls,And wove a twofold web of brilliant hues,On which were scattered flowers of rare device;And she had given her bright-haired maidens chargeTo place an ample cauldron on the fire,That Hector, coming from the battle-field,Might find the warm bath ready. Thoughtless one!She knew not that the blue-eyed archer-queen,Far from the bath prepared for him, had slainHer husband by the hand of Peleus’ son.She heard the shrieks, the wail upon the tower,Trembled in every limb, and quickly droppedThe shuttle, saying to her bright-haired maids:—

“Come with me, two of you, that I may learnWhat now has happened. ’Tis my mother’s voiceThat I have heard. My heart leaps to my mouth;My limbs fail under me. Some deadly harmHangs over Priam’s sons; far be the hourWhen I shall hear of it. And yet I fearLest that Achilles, having got betweenThe daring Hector and the city gates,May drive him to the plain alone, and quellThe desperate valor that was ever his;For never would he keep the ranks, but rangedBeyond them, and gave way to no man’s might.”

She spake, and from the royal mansion rushedDistractedly, and with a beating heart.Her maids went with her. When she reached the towerAnd throng of men, and, standing on the wall,Looked forth, she saw her husband dragged awayBefore the city. Toward the Grecian fleetThe swift steeds drew him. Sudden darkness cameOver her eyes, and in a breathless swoonShe sank away and fell. The ornamentsDropped from her brow—the wreath, the woven band,The net, the veil which golden Venus gaveThat day when crested Hector wedded her,Dowered with large gifts, and led her from her home,Eëtion’s palace. Round her in a throngHer sisters of the house of Priam pressed,And gently raised her in that deathlike swoon.But when she breathed again, and to its seatThe conscious mind returned, as in their armsShe lay, with sobs and broken speech she said:—

“Hector—O wretched me!—we both were bornTo sorrow; thou at Troy, in Priam’s house,And I at Thebé in Eëtion’s halls,By woody Placos. From a little childHe reared me there—unhappy he, and IUnhappy! O that I had ne’er been born!Thou goest down to Hades and the depthsOf earth, and leavest me in thine abode,Widowed, and never to be comforted.Thy son, a speechless babe, to whom we twoGave being—hapless parents!—cannot haveThy loving guardianship now thou art dead,Nor be a joy to thee. Though he surviveThe cruel warfare which the sons of GreeceAre waging, hard and evil yet will beHis lot hereafter; others will removeHis landmarks and will make his fields their own.The day in which a boy is fatherlessMakes him companionless; with downcast eyesHe wanders, and his cheeks are stained with tears.Unfed he goes where sit his father’s friends,And plucks one by the cloak, and by the robeAnother. One who pities him shall giveA scanty draught, which only wets his lips,But not his palate; while another boy,Whose parents both are living, thrusts him thenceWith blows and vulgar clamor: ‘Get thee gone!Thy father is not with us at the feast.’Then to his widowed mother shall returnAstyanax in tears, who not long sinceWas fed, while sitting in his father’s lap,On marrow and the delicate fat of lambs.And ever when his childish sports had tiredThe boy, and sleep came stealing over him,He slumbered, softly cushioned, on a couchAnd in his nurse’s arms, his heart at easeAnd satiate with delights. But now thy sonAstyanax—whom so the Trojans nameBecause thy valor guarded gate and tower—Thy care withdrawn, shall suffer many things.While far from those who gave thee birth, besideThe roomy ships of Greece, the restless wormsShall make thy flesh their banquet when the dogsHave gorged themselves. Thy garments yet remainWithin the palace, delicately wroughtAnd graceful, woven by the women’s hands;And these, since thou shalt put them on no more,Nor wear them in thy death, I burn with fireBefore the Trojan men and dames; and allShall see how gloriously thou wert arrayed.”

Weeping she spake, and with her wept her maid.