party of happy maidens came through the courtyard, and stopped in the
garden to pluck the fruits and flowers. Then on the open lawn, they
fell to playing ball; and one among them sang a lightsome song as they
tossed the missile to and fro, or danced with happy feet upon the
smooth-mown sward. When they saw Odysseus standing in the path, they
stopped their game, and stood silent in their places, scarce knowing
whether to advance and greet the stranger kindly, or in girlish
timidness to flee into the palace. The hero opened then his peddler's
pack, and held up to their delighted gaze a golden necklace set with
amber beads. No further thought of flight had the maidens now. With
eager yet hesitating feet, they came crowding around him, anxious to see
what other thing of beauty he had brought with him. One by one, he
showed them all his treasures,--ear-rings, bracelets of finest
workmanship, clasps, buckles, headbands, and golden hair-pins. These
they took in their hands, and, passing them from one to another, eagerly
debated the price. One only of the company, taller and nobler than the
others, stood aloof, and seemed to care nothing for the rich and
handsome ornaments. Odysseus noticed this, but shrewdly kept his
counsels to himself.
"A merchant like myself," said he, "must needs have goods for all,--for
the young as well as for the old, for the grave as well as for the gay,
for the hero as well as for the lady. It is his duty no less than his
delight to please."
With these words he laid before the maidens a sword with hilt most
deftly carved, a dagger with long keen blade, and a helmet thickly
inlaid with precious gems. The one who had not cared to look at the
trinkets now started quickly as if a trumpet had blown; she took up the
sword, and handled it like a warrior long used to weapons; she tested
the edge of the dagger, and sounded the strength of the helmet.
Odysseus had learned all that he wished to know. He thought no more of
the ornaments,--the bracelets, the clasps, and the hair-pins,--but gave
them to the maidens for any price that they chose to offer. When all
were pleased and satisfied, he turned to that one still toying with the
sword, and said sharply,--
"Achilles!"
Had an earthquake shaken the isle of Scyros at that moment, Achilles
would not have been more startled. For the tall, fair body, clad in a
maiden's robes, was none other than that long-sought hero.
"Achilles," again said Odysseus, "I know thee, and it is useless to
struggle longer against thy destiny. Put off that unbecoming garb, and
come with me. Thy countrymen need thee to aid them in waging bitter war
against Troy."
Then he told to the listening hero the story of the great wrong which
Paris had done,--the unbearable insult which he had put upon the folk of
Hellas. No man ever used words more persuasive. When he had ended,
Achilles took him by the hand, and said, "Odysseus, truly do I know the
destiny which is mine, and it behooves no man to struggle long against
the doom which has been allotted to him. For the gods ordain that man
should live in pain, while they themselves are sorrowless. You have
heard it said, how on the threshold of Zeus there stand two caskets full
of gifts to men. One casket holds the evil, and one the good; and to
whomsoever is dealt a mingled lot, upon him misfortunes sometimes fall,
and sometimes blessings. So it is with me and with my father's house.
For upon Peleus were bestowed rich gifts, even from his birth, and he
excelled all other men in good fortune and in wealth; and he was king
over the Myrmidons; and to him was given a sea-nymph for a wife, even
Thetis, my goddess-mother. Yet, with all the good, sorrow has come upon
him in his old age; for in his halls there are no kingly sons to gladden
his heart and hold up his hands.[2] I am his only son, and of me it has
been written that I am doomed to an untimely death; and it was for this
that silver-footed Thetis brought me hither across the sea, and,
clothing me in maidenly attire, left me to serve in Lycomedes' pleasant
halls. But I tire of life like this. I would rather die to-morrow, a
hero in some grand struggle, than live a hundred years among these soft
delights. I will sail with you at once for Phthia, where my father
sits, already bereaved, in his spacious halls. There I will summon my
Myrmidons, and my best-loved friend Patroclus; and then with eager
hearts we will hasten to join our countrymen in war against the Trojan
power."
[2] See Note 15 at the end of this volume.
* * * * *
Thus, then, did Odysseus perform his quest, and thus the last and
greatest ally was won to the Hellenic cause. And yet the war was long
delayed. Many times did the moon wax and wane; and seed-time and
harvest, and fruit-gathering, and the storms of winter, came again and
again in their turn,--and still the heroes were unready to join their
forces and enter upon the mighty struggle.
At length, however, after nearly ten years had passed, all the princes
and warriors of Hellas gathered their ships and men together at Aulis,
and along the shores of the Euripus. A thousand dark-hulled vessels
were moored in the strait; and a hundred thousand brave men were on
board, ready to follow their leaders whithersoever they should order.
Chief of all that host was mighty Agamemnon, king of men, bearing the
sceptre of Mycenae, which Hephaestus, long before, had wrought most
wondrously. He was clad in flashing armor, and his mind was filled with
overweening pride when he thought how high he stood among the warriors,
and that his men were the goodliest and bravest of all that host.
Next to him was Menelaus, silent and discreet, by no means skilled above
his fellows, and yet, by reason of his noble heart, beloved and honored
by all the Greeks; and it was to avenge his wrongs that this mighty
array of men and ships had been gathered together.
Odysseus came next, shrewd in counsels, and no longer an unwilling hero;
but, earnest and active, he moved among the men and ships, inspiring all
with zeal and courage. He wore upon his shoulders a thick purple
mantle, clasped with a golden brooch of curious workmanship, which
Penelope had given to him as a parting gift. Around his waist was a
shining tunic, soft and smooth, and bright as the sunshine. With him,
wherever he went, was his herald and armor-bearer, Eurybates,--a
hunchbacked, brown-skinned, curly-haired man, whom Odysseus held in high
esteem because of his rare good sense.
There, also, was young Achilles, tall and handsome, and swift of foot.
His long hair fell about his shoulders like a shower of gold, and his
gray eyes gleamed like those of the mountain eagle. By the shore lay
his trim ships--fifty in all--with thousands of gallant Myrmidons on
board. And ever at his side was his bosom friend and comrade,
Patroclus, the son of Menoitios. He it was to whom old Peleus had said
when they were about embarking for Aulis, "Thou art older than my child
Achilles, but he is nobler born and mightier far in warlike deeds. But
thou art wise and prudent; therefore, do thou speak gentle words of
warning to him, and show him what is best to do: he will hearken to thy
words spoken for his good."
There also was Ajax, the valiant son of Telamon, huge in body and slow
in speech, but, next to Achilles, the bravest of all the host. And the
other Ajax, clad in his linen corslet, and master of forty ships from
Locris, moved also among the mightiest of the heroes. There, too, was
Nestor, the aged king of Pylos, rich in wisdom and experience, and
skilled in persuasive speech. With him was his son Antilochus, the
quondam suitor of fair Helen, a warrior worthy of such a sire.
And there was Idomeneus, the stalwart chief who ruled the hundred cities
of Crete, and was the sworn friend of Menelaus. And there was
Philoctetes, the cunning archer, carrying the great bow which had been
given him for his last sad act of friendship to his master, Heracles.
And there was Diomede, of the loud war-cry, wearing the skin of a great
fiery lion round his shoulders, and marshalling the warriors who had
come with him from Argos, and Tiryns of the mighty walls. And there,
too, among so many others of far greater worth, was Nireus of Syma, his
well-oiled locks as neatly curled, and his linen as spotlessly white, as
when in youth he had sued for Helen's hand in the court of old
Tyndareus.
Now when the day had come for the fleet to sail, the chiefs stood upon
the shore, and offered solemn sacrifices to Poseidon, and prayed the
gods to prosper them in their undertaking and bring them safe again to
their loved homes in Hellas. While they were burning the choicest bits
of fat and flesh, behold, a strange thing happened! From a crevice in
the rocks a shining serpent, with glittering cold eyes and forked
tongue, came creeping silently into the sunlight. The heroes gazed upon
it with wonder in their faces, for they knew that it was sent as a sign
to them. Not far away stood a plane-tree, green with foliage, in which
a bird had built her nest; and in the nest were nine tiny fledglings,
tenderly cared for by the mother bird. Straight to this tree the
serpent crept; it twined around the trunk, and stealthily climbed to the
nest; it seized the helpless little ones in its fangs and devoured them;
then it darted upon the distressed mother bird, and destroyed her most
pitilessly. But now a gleam of lightning flashed across the sky, and a
peal of thunder shook the earth and sea. When the astonished chiefs
looked up again, behold, the serpent had been turned into stone.
"Call Calchas the seer, and let him tell us what this portends!" they
cried.
Then Calchas, his long hair streaming in the wind, his wild eyes rolling
in awe, his gaunt arms waving to and fro above his head, came and looked
upon the wonder.
"Ye men of Hellas!" he cried, "I will tell you what this portends. As
there were nine birds in the nest, ye shall war nine years against Troy,
and shall not prevail; but, even as the serpent destroyed the mother
bird, so in the tenth year shall the city and its god-built walls fall
into your hands."
_*ADVENTURE XX.*_
*BECALMED AT AULIS.*
A pleasant wind from the west sprang up, and drove the great fleet out
into the sea. Not a single one of the thousand ships was lost or left
behind; and after a quick and happy voyage, they came in sight of a
fruitful land and a great city with high towers and pleasant dwellings.
"The gods have favored us, even beyond what we asked!" cried the
Hellenes.
Achilles and his Myrmidons landed first, and without waiting for the
other ships to come up, they rushed across the plain, and began an
assault upon the town. Like a swarm of locusts lighting down upon a
field of grain, and consuming every thing before them, so came the
destroying Hellenes. The gates were broken down; the astonished people
fled in dismay, and sought safety among the hills and in the forest on
the other side of the town. Not until many houses had been burned, and
many people slain, did Odysseus and Menelaus, whose ships had been
delayed, reach the place.
"Men of Hellas!" they cried, hastening into the midst of the carnage.
"What is this you are doing? This is not Troy. It is the peaceful city
of Teuthrania in Mysia. Cease your slaughter, and return at once to
your vessels, lest the wrath of the gods fall upon you."
The word was carried from mouth to mouth; and the hasty heroes,
crestfallen and ashamed, stopped their bloody work, and turned their
faces back towards the shore where their ships lay beached. None too
soon did they retreat; for the king of Mysia, one Telephus a son of
Heracles, having quickly called his warriors together, fell upon their
rear, and slew great numbers of them, following them even to the sloping
beach. As the last ship was pushing out, an arrow from the bow of King
Telephus struck Patroclus, wounding him sorely. Then Achilles, poising
his long spear, threw it with deadly aim among the Mysians; it struck
King Telephus, and laid him senseless though not slain upon the sandy
plain.
No sooner had the fleet set sail again upon the sea, than Poseidon
stirred up the waves in anger, and loosed the winds upon them. Great
was the terror, and great indeed was the destruction. Some of the ships
were sunk in mid-sea, and some were driven upon the rocks and wrecked.
But the greater number of them, after days and weeks of buffeting with
the waves, made their way back to Aulis.
When the heroes stood again on the shores of the Euripus, they began to
think that doubtless there was some truth in the omen of the snake and
the birds; and the most hopeful among them ceased to dream of taking
Troy in a day. While waiting for stragglers to come in, and for the
shattered vessels to be repaired, they found enough to do to keep the
time from dragging heavily; and when not engaged in some kind of labor
they amused themselves with various games, and great sport had they with
quoits and javelins, with bows and arrows, and in wrestling and running.
And now and then they went out into the woods of Euboea, and hunted the
wild deer which roamed there in abundance.
One day it chanced that Agamemnon, while hunting, started a fine stag,
and gave it a long chase among the hills and through the wooded dells,
until it sought safety in a grove sacred to Artemis the huntress queen.
The proud king knew that this was a holy place where beasts and birds
might rest secure from harm; yet he cared naught for what Artemis had
ordained, and with his swift arrows he slew the panting deer. Then was
the huntress queen moved with anger, and she declared that the ships of
the Hellenes should not sail from Aulis until the king had atoned for
his crime. And a great calm rested upon the sea, and not a breath of air
stirred the sails at the mast-heads of the ships. Day after day and
week after week went by, and not a speck of cloud was seen in the sky
above, and not a ripple on the glassy face of the deep. All the ships
had been put in order, new vessels had been built, the warriors had
burnished their armor and overhauled their arms a thousand times; and
yet no breeze arose to waft them across the sea. And they began to
murmur, and to talk bitterly against Agamemnon and the chiefs.
In the mean while, a small vessel driven by rowers came up the Euripus,
and stopped among the ships at Aulis. On board of it was King Telephus
of Mysia, sorely suffering from the wound which Achilles had given him
on the Teuthranian beach. He had come to seek the hero who had wounded
him, for an oracle had told him that he only could heal the grievous
hurt. Achilles carried the sufferer to his tent, and skilfully dressed
the wound, and bound it up with healing herbs; for in his boyhood he had
learned from wise old Cheiron how to treat such ailments, and now that
knowledge was of great use to him. And soon the king was whole and
strong again; and he vowed that he would not leave Achilles, but would
stay with the Hellenes, and pilot them across the sea to Troy. Yet the
wrath of Artemis continued, and not the slightest breeze arose to cool
the air, or fill the waiting sails of the ships.
At last Agamemnon sent for Calchas the soothsayer, and asked him in
secret how the anger of the huntress queen might be assuaged. And the
soothsayer with tears and lamentations answered that in no wise could it
be done save by the sacrifice to Artemis of his maiden daughter
Iphigenia. Then the king cried aloud in his grief, and declared that
though Troy might stand forever, he would not do that thing; and he bade
a herald go through the camp, and among the ships, and bid every man
depart as he chose to his own country. But before the herald had gone
from his tent, behold his brother Menelaus, the wronged husband of fair
Helen, stood before him with downcast eyes and saddest of hearts.
"After ten years of labor and hope," said he to Agamemnon, "wouldst thou
give up this enterprise, and lose all?"
Then Odysseus came also into the tent, and added his persuasions to
those of Menelaus. And the king hearkened to him, for no man was more
crafty in counsel; and the three recalled the herald, and formed a plan
whereby they might please Artemis by doing as she desired. And
Agamemnon, in his weakness, wrote a letter to Clytemnestra his queen,
telling her to bring the maiden Iphigenia to Aulis, there to be wedded
to King Achilles. "_Fail not in this_," added he, "_for the godlike
hero will not sail with us unless my daughter be given to him in
marriage_." And when he had written the letter, he sealed it, and sent
it by a swift messenger to Clytemnestra at Mycenae.
[Illustration: ODYSSEUS AND MENELAUS PERSUADING AGAMEMNON TO SACRIFICE
IPHIGENIA.]
Nevertheless the king's heart was full of sorrow, and when he was alone
he planned how he might yet save his daughter. Night came, but he could
not sleep; he walked the floor of his tent; he wept and lamented like
one bereft of reason. At length he sat down, and wrote another letter:
"_Daughter of Leda, send not thy child to Aulis, for I will give her in
marriage at another time_." Then he called another messenger, an old
and trusted servant of the household, and put this letter into his
hands.
"Take this with all haste to my queen, who, perchance, is even now on
her way to Aulis. Stop not by any cool spring in the groves, and let
not thine eyes close for sleep. And see that the chariot bearing the
queen and Iphigenia pass thee not unnoticed."
The messenger took the letter, and hasted away. But hardly had he passed
the line of the tents when Menelaus saw him, and took the letter from
him. And when he had read it, he went before his brother, and
reproached him with bitter words.
"Before you were chosen captain of the host," said he, "you were kind
and gentle, and the friend of every man. There was nothing that you
would not do to aid your fellows. Now you are puffed up with pride and
vain conceit, and care nothing even for those who are your equals in
power. Yet, for all, you are not rid of your well-known cowardice; and
when you saw that your leadership was likely to be taken away from you
unless you obeyed the commands of Artemis, you agreed to do this thing.
Now you are trying to break your word, sending secretly to your wife,
and bidding her not to bring her daughter to Aulis."
Then Agamemnon answered, "Why should I destroy my daughter in order to
win back thy wife? Let the suitors who swore an oath to King Tyndareus
go with thee. In what way am I bound to serve thee?"
"Do as you will," said Menelaus, going away in wrath.
Soon after this, there came a herald to the king, saying, "Behold, your
daughter Iphigenia has come as you directed, and with her mother and her
little brother Orestes she rests by the spring close to the outer line
of tents. And the warriors have gathered around them, and are praising
her loveliness, and asking many questions; and some say, 'The king is
sick to see his daughter whom he loves so deeply, and he has made up
some excuse to bring her to the camp.' But I know why you have brought
her here; for I have been told about the wedding, and the noble groom
who is to lead her in marriage; and we will rejoice and be glad, because
this is a happy day for the maiden."
Then the king was sorely distressed, and knew not what to do. "Sad, sad
indeed," said he, "is the wedding to which the maiden cometh. For the
name of the bridegroom is Death."
At the same time Menelaus came back, sorrowful and repentant. "You were
right, my brother," said he. "What, indeed, has Iphigenia to do with
Helen, and why should the maiden die for me? Send the Hellenes to their
homes, and let not this great wrong be done."
"But how can I do that now?" asked Agamemnon. "The warriors, urged on by
Odysseus and Calchas, will force me to do the deed. Or, if I flee to
Mycenae, they will follow me, and slay me, and destroy my city. Oh, woe
am I, that such a day should ever dawn upon my sight!"
Even while they spoke together, the queen's chariot drove up to the tent
door, and the queen and Iphigenia and the little Orestes alighted
quickly, and merrily greeted the king.
"It is well that you have sent for me, my father," said Iphigenia,
caressing him.
"It may be well, and yet it may not," said Agamemnon. "I am exceeding
glad to see thee alive and happy."
"If you are glad, why then do you weep?"
"I am sad because thou wilt be so long time away from me."
"Are you going on a very long voyage, father?"
"A long voyage and a sad one, my child. And thou, also, hast a journey
to make."
"Must I make it alone, or will my mother go with me?"
"Thou must make it alone. Neither father nor mother nor any friend can
go with thee, my child."
"But when shall it be? I pray that you will hasten this matter with
Troy, and return home ere then."
"It may be so. But I must offer a sacrifice to the gods, before we sail
from Aulis."
"That is well. And may I be present?"
"Yes, and thou shalt be very close to the altar."
"Shall I lead in the dances, father?"
Then the king could say no more, for reason of the great sorrow within
him; and he kissed the maiden, and sent her into the tent. A little
while afterward, the queen came and spoke to him, and asked him about
the man to whom their daughter was to be wedded; and Agamemnon, still
dissembling, told her that the hero's name was Achilles, and that he was
the son of old Peleus and the sea-nymph Thetis.
"And when and where is the marriage to be?" asked the queen.
"On the first lucky day in the present moon, and here in our camp at
Aulis," answered Agamemnon.
"Shall I stay here with thee until then?"
"Nay, thou must go back to Mycenae without delay."
"But may I not come again? If I am not here, who will hold up the torch
for the bride?"
"I will attend to all such matters," answered Agamemnon.
But Clytemnestra was not well pleased, neither could the king persuade
her at all that she should return to Mycenae. While yet they were
talking, Achilles himself came to the tent door, and said aloud to the
servant who kept it, "Tell thy master that Achilles, the son of Peleus,
would be pleased to see him."
When Clytemnestra overheard these words, she hastened to the door, and
offered the hero her hand. But he was ashamed and drew back, for it was
deemed an unseemly thing for men to speak thus with women. Then
Clytemnestra said, "Why, indeed, should you, who are about to marry my
daughter, be ashamed to give me your hand?"
Achilles was struck with wonder, and asked her what she meant; and when
she had explained the matter, he said,--
"Truly I have never been a suitor for thy daughter, neither has
Agamemnon or Menelaus spoken a word to me regarding her."
And now the queen was astonished in her turn, and cried out with shame
that she had been so cruelly deceived. Then the keeper of the door, who
was the same that had been sent with the letter, came forward and told
the truth regarding the whole matter. And Clytemnestra cried to
Achilles, "O son of the silver-footed Thetis! Help me and help my
daughter Iphigenia, in this time of sorest need! For we have no friend
in all this host, and none in whom we can confide but thee."
Achilles answered, "Long time ago I was a pupil of old Cheiron the most
righteous of men, and from him I learned to be honest and true. If
Agamemnon rule according to right, then I will obey him; but not
otherwise. And now since thy daughter was brought to this place under
pretence of giving her to me as my bride, I will see that she shall not
be slain, neither shall any one dare take her from me."
On the following day, while Agamemnon sat grief-stricken in his tent,
the maiden came before him carrying the babe Orestes in her arms; and
she cast herself upon her knees at his feet, and caressing his hands,
she thus besought him: "Would, dear father, that I had the voice of
Orpheus, to whom even the rocks did listen! then I would persuade thee.
O father! I am thy child. I was the first to call thee 'Father,' and
the first to whom thou saidst 'My child.'"
The father turned his face away, and wept; he could not speak for
sadness. Then the maiden went on: "O, father, hear me! thou to whom my
voice was once so sweet that thou wouldst waken me to hear my prattle
amid the songs of birds when it was meaningless as theirs. And when I
was older grown, then thou wouldst say to me, 'Some day, my birdling,
thou shalt have a nest of thy own, a home of which thou shalt be the
mistress.' And I did answer, 'Yes, dear father, and when thou art old I
will care for thee, and pay thee with all my heart for the kindness thou
dost show me.' But now thou hast forgotten it all, and art ready to
slay my young life."
A deep groan burst from the lips of the mighty king, but he spoke not a
word. Then after a death-like silence broken only by the deep
breathings of father and child, Iphigenia spoke again: "My father, can
there be any prayer more pure and more persuasive than that of a maiden
for her father's welfare? and when the cruel knife shall strike me down,
thou wilt have one daughter less to pray for thee." A shudder shook the
frame of Agamemnon, but he answered not a word.