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.