I
The scene of our story is laid in the north-western corner of Asia
Minor, where the blue waters of the Hellespont mingle with the waves of
the Ægæan. The whole coast is lined with a multitude of war galleys,
drawn up, row behind row, for a space of several miles; and behind them
are thousands and thousands of wooden huts, affording shelter to a
whole nation of warriors, with their slaves and followers. For nine
years the Greeks have lain here encamped, striving in vain to sack the
ancient city of Troy, whose towers and battlements, some five miles
distant, can be seen from the elevated parts of the camp. The whole
surrounding country has been laid waste, and town after town has been
visited by all the horrors of war; but the walls of Troy still stand
firm against all assault, and the end seems as far off as ever.
The chiefs are assembled in council, and in their midst sits Agamemnon,
the mightiest prince in Greece, whose nod a hundred thousand warriors
obey. Suddenly, a voice is heard on the outskirts of the crowd which
surrounds the circle of elders, and an aged man, clad in the long
flowing robes of a priest, is led into the royal presence. In his hand
he carries a rod, adorned with studs of gold, and wreathed with olive
leaves. "A boon, great king, a boon!" he cries, lifting the rod on
high. "Speak," answers Agamemnon. "What wouldst thou have of me?"
"Give me back my child, my daughter Chryseis," answers the priest.
"Thou hast sacked my city, thou hast burnt my home; restore unto me my
child, and leave me not altogether desolate in mine old age."
Dark was the brow of Agamemnon when he heard these words, and short and
stern was his answer. "Let me not find thee," he said, "lingering here
in the camp, and come not hither again on such an errand. Thy daughter
thou shall not see again; she is mine, the captive of my bow and of my
spear, and shall be my slave until the day of her death." In vain the
old man urged him with entreaty, and offered a rich ransom to redeem
his child from bondage. "Talk not to me of ransom," answered
Agamemnon: "not all the gold of thy temple shall purchase liberty for
the maiden, for she hath found favour in my sight. Get thee gone at
once, and provoke me no further."
Then the priest, whose name was Chryses, feared for his own life, and
fled from the angry face of the King. Down to the margin of the sea he
went, and gazing with tear-dimmed eyes over the heaving waters, thus he
prayed to Apollo, his protector and lord: "Hear me, god of the silver
bow, whose altar steams day and night with offerings from the choicest
of the flock. Remember my faithful service, and let thine arrows
avenge my tears on the Greeks."
So he prayed, and Apollo heard him, and down from the peaks of Olympus
he sped. In his hand he bare his mighty bow, and the arrows in his
quiver made an angry rattling as he swooped down on the Grecian camp,
swift and sudden as the southern night. He took his stand on a hill,
and loosed an arrow from the string; and dire was the twang of the
silver bow. First, he sent his shafts among the dogs and mules; then
he changed his aim, and rained destruction among the men; and the whole
place was filled with the smoke of funeral pyres.
For nine days the deadly shower fell without ceasing; but on the tenth,
Achilles summoned a general gathering of the host, to inquire into the
causes of the calamity which had fallen on his countrymen. The chiefs
met in full conclave, and about them were gathered the meaner sort in
their tens of thousands. When the clamorous cries of the multitude
were stilled, Achilles rose in his place, and addressing himself
directly to Agamemnon said: "Son of Atreus, how long wilt thou suffer
thy people to perish? Is it not enough that our blood is poured forth
every day in battle with thy foes, but must pestilence also make havoc
among our ranks? This is Apollo's work, and it is time to ask some
priest or soothsayer how we have offended the god, that we may appease
his anger with the fat of goats and lambs, and save ourselves from
further harm."
Among the elders sat Calchas, the chief seer of the Greeks; who knew
all things--what was, and had been, and was to come--and was the chosen
leader of the army in matters of religion. Seeing all eyes turned upon
him he stood up and answered the challenge of Achilles, though with
manifest reluctance and constraint.
"Illustrious chieftain," he said, "thou hast asked the cause of
Apollo's anger, and I know that thou lookest to me for an answer. But
swear unto me first that thou wilt defend me in word and in deed; for I
fear that, by revealing the counsels of the god whom I serve, I shall
offend one who is the greatest and mightiest among us."
"Tell us what thou knowest, and fear nothing," answered Achilles;
"while I live no one shall lift his hand against thee, no, not
Agamemnon himself."
Thus encouraged, Calchas spoke out, and declared that the only means of
staying the pestilence was by sending back Chryseis to her father,
without price or ransom, and offering a costly sacrifice of atonement
to Apollo in his temple at Chrysa. It was not without reason that the
prudent seer had appealed to Achilles for protection; for no sooner had
his words been uttered than Agamemnon sprang from his seat, with fury
in his looks, and overwhelmed the prophet with a torrent of reproaches.
"Ill fare thy prophecies, thou prophet of ill!" he cried. "Not one
good word have I ever heard from thy lips; but this is the worst that
ever thou hast spoken. Hard and bitter is the charge which thou hast
laid upon me, bidding me restore this maiden, fairer and dearer to me
than Clytæmnestra, my wedded wife. Nevertheless I will send her back,
if I cannot save my people otherwise; but look ye to it, princes and
councillors of Greece, that I find fit recompense for my loss; for she
was a choice prize of war, set apart for me as a gift of privilege and
honour."
"And thinkest thou," said Achilles, roused at once to opposition by
this unwarrantable claim, "that it befits thine honour as a king to be
covetous of thy people's goods? Be generous; let thy prize go, and
when next we divide the spoil of a captured town we will repay thee
threefold and fourfold for thy loss."
"Payment I will have, and that right speedily," answered Agamemnon,
with darkening brow. "See that ye find means to fill the place of this
maiden, or one of you shall yield up his prize to me, whether it be
Ajax, or Odysseus, or thou Achilles, who art so bold of speech, that
thou mayest learn that I am king indeed. But concerning this we can
speak again hereafter; our present task is to restore Chryseis to her
father, and appease the god with sacrifice."
Agamemnon thought perhaps by his last words to avert the anger of the
fiery young prince, whose eyes flashed fire when he heard the King's
threat. But if such was his purpose it failed altogether. No sooner
had he ended than the full tempest of Achilles' wrath fell upon his
head. "Thou soul of avarice!" he cried, "clad in shamelessness as with
a garment, was it for thee that we crossed all those weary leagues of
water to make war on the men of Troy? I have no quarrel with the
Trojans; they have not lifted my cattle, or driven off my horses, for
my home is far beyond their reach, divided from Asia by shadowy
mountains and sounding seas. For thee, thou dog, and for thy brother
have I toiled, and in the division of the spoil 'tis but little that I
win as the price of my sweat and my blood; and thou seekest to rob me
of that little, to add to thine own monstrous hoard. I will go back
forthwith to my native land of Phthia, for I have no mind to abide here
in dishonour and heap up treasure for thee."
"Go when thou wilt," answered Agamemnon, in scornful tones. "Heaven
forbid that I should hinder thee! Most hateful to me art thou of all
the chivalry of Greece, for thou hast a heart full of hatred and
malice. Go and lord it over thine own tribe; I am the master here, and
as sure as I am a crowned and anointed king I will take thy prize, even
the maiden Briseis, and lead her to my tent, that thou mayest learn to
curb thy saucy tongue in the presence of thy lord."
Thus publicly insulted and defied, Achilles sat speechless with rage,
fighting against the passion which shook his mighty frame. At last it
seemed that he had resolved to let his fury have full scope; slowly he
drew his sword from its scabbard, his mouth was opened for the battle
cry, and in another moment the haughty King would have lain weltering
in his blood; but in the very act of springing on his foe he felt
himself restrained from behind, and turning to confront this new
assailant he stood face to face with the goddess Athene. Unseen and
unheard by the rest, the grey-eyed goddess spoke, bidding him to desist
from his murderous purpose. "Put up thy sword," she said; "speak
daggers to him, if thou wilt, but use none. Thine honour is safe in
the hands of Zeus, and the day of reckoning shall come, when that proud
head shall be humbled to the very dust before thee."
To those who were looking on it seemed that Achilles had fallen into a
sudden trance of thought, from which he started abruptly, and,
thrusting back his sword into its sheath, resumed the war of words with
Agamemnon. "Thou drunkard," he cried, "with eye of dog and heart of
deer, foremost in the revel and last in the fray! Thou of the itching
palm, who lovest the chink of stolen gold, but turnest pale at the
clash of steel! False shepherd, that devourest thy flock! Cowardly
master of cowardly sheep! Now by this sceptre I swear, by this symbol
of justice which the elders hold in their hands when they give judgment
before the people, the day is not far distant when all this host shall
be filled with longing for me, to save them from Hector's destroying
arm, when their bravest and their strongest are falling beneath his
spear. Then shalt thou learn thy folly too late, and drink to the
dregs the bitter cup which thou hast filled for me."
With that he flung the sceptre at Agamemnon's feet, and sat down again
in his place. Then arose Nestor, the clear-voiced orator of Pylos,
from whose lips flowed eloquence sweeter than honey. Two generations
of men had lived and died since his birth, and he still dwelt in kingly
honour among the third. And thus he spake, striving to make peace
between the two angry chieftains: "Alas! what sorrow has come upon the
sons of Greece!--sorrow to us, but joy unto Priam and the sons of
Priam, when they hear of the feud which hath arisen between ye twain.
Be guided by me; I am older than ye, and before ye were born I moved as
an equal among heroes mightier than ye, and was second to none in
council and in fight. Hearken therefore to me, even as they did. Seek
not, Agamemnon, to take from Achilles his prize of honour; and thou,
Achilles, provoke not the King to anger by thy bitter words, for as
thou art our bulwark in war, so he sits higher than thou in sceptred
majesty."
"Thou sayest well," answered Agamemnon, "but this man's insolence is
not to be borne. Because he is a stout spearman he thinks that he can
lord it over us all. But there are some here who will not brook his
tyranny."
"There is one here," retorted Achilles, "who refuses to be thy slave.
But enough of this--I will waste no more words on thee. Come and take
away my prize, if those who stand here suffer thee to do this wrong;
but touch not aught else of my possessions, or thy blood shall pay the
price."
With these words the stormy debate, so fruitful in disaster to the
Greeks, came to an end.