Fate
Fate
Is it not a comforting thought, that our destiny is ours to forge? There are, indeed, those who rail against God and king and all the world - blaming some great conspiracy against them, and perhaps misfortune, for their circumstance – and they might seem to be taking comfort in the idea that there were things beyond their control which made inevitable their failure. But do not those very same people say to themselves "But tomorrow you shall see me for what I'm worth, tomorrow I shall make my way in spite of you."? And is not the man who resigns himself before fate, like Job repenting meekly before the whirlwind, the most wretched of them all? Yes, for sure it is a comforting thought – but it is a lie none the less. For what will be true tomorrow is true now just as surely as what was true yesterday remains so today; how could this be any other way? Fate is born of necessity and what is necessary is unavoidable. The truly glorious individual, however, - the one who I shall call a hero, the one who I shall revere as divine (you are welcome to disagree) - is the one who does not tell this comforting lie to himself, but who rages against fate anyway. This is the story of a man who was destined to die. (As are all stories, with perhaps one exception)
Let us say it began the very moment the spear tore through the Trojan infantryman's torso: His armour afforded him no protection against such a blow and his lifeblood came pouring from him. He and his patrol had been ambushed not long ago and quickly overwhelmed; he had run - his last thoughts were a mixture of fear and shame – and sought refuge in what appeared to be an isolated temple dedicated to the archer God. Apollo had not protected on him – such was his fate. Patroklos walked slowly forward to recover his spear and, taking pity on the man lying prostate before him, drowning slowly in his own blood, ended the unfortunate soldier's life with a blow to the head. Achilleus was not far behind and called out
"How goes it Patroklos, is the foe dispatched?"
"Do you doubt me, friend? Patroklos replied with mock anger in his voice
"Of course not: I do not doubt you but your spear. After all those times you have assured me that it was thrown straight and true and yet somehow it flew far from the enemy, I am starting to think that some God bears a grudge against it."
They both laughed and Patroklos drew himself up as if to wrestle, but a noise from the alter silenced them both. The dead man's blood had flown to its base and now there were terrible sounds – like the groaning of some great wounded beast – coming from its direction. Neither man was scared, for any who had contended with the mighty Hektor in battle and lived to tell the tale, as both had, knew that there was nothing left to fear – but both readied their weapons as a precaution.
"We should leave" Patroklos said "For I saw the images as I came in, and this is a temple of the great Lord Apollo: I fear by that man's death we have angered him."
Achilleus snorted "Such is the response of a coward, and in any case, if Apollo is displeased with us then there is nowhere under the sun we could hide. Keep your spear high and stay behind me, I shall investigate this."
They advanced, Achilleus taking the lead with sword drawn, and Patroklos covering his back with spear raised above his head, ready to cast at anything which should appear. The moaning and wailing coming from the alter was only getting louder as they approached it, yet there didn't seem to be any obvious source of the dreadful sounds. Achilleus gripped his sword tightly as he reached the alter, expecting there to be something hidden behind it. Actually, it was behind him.
The beasts manifestation was sudden and caught Patroklos by surprise, he barely had time to shout warning to Achilleus before the beast struck – fortunately Achilleus' reactions were far too swift for it and his quick dive over the alter saved him. However, he struck his head against the wall on the other side and the last Patroklos saw of him the black night of unconsciousness seemed to have passed over him. Caught off balance the beast stumbled forward, and Patroklos had a chance to examine this monstrosity now before him while it recovered itself. It was large, about 7 feet tall, and seemed to be made entirely of gold. It appeared to have the body shape of a well-toned man, and carried in each hand an axe, which looked as though they were made of the same golden metal its body was constructed from. Its visage was something like that of the Lord Apollo, but this was no God – for nothing divine would wear the evil sneer Patroklos saw as it turned to face him. He cast his spear with all his heroic might into the belly of the beast but was dismayed as it simply bounced off, barely breaking its stride. Drawing his sword he readied himself for the encounter as the beast advanced purposefully towards him.
Achilleus, however, had recovered and saw to it that no such encounter was needed. Lifting the alter high above his head, for – let alone the additional strength found in swift footed God-born Achilleus - all the men those days had the strength of 10 men of now, he brought it down with all his might upon the head of the golden beast, crushing it completely. In triumph Achilleus roared, so loud that far across the plains Trojan guards cowered, fearing some sudden attack had come upon them, and Greek archers readied their bows fearing that mighty Hektor had come to burn their ships while Achilleus was away. If he or Patroklos had used that time to ensure the actual demise of the beast then perhaps this tale should never have been told – but such was not their fate.
For with the last of its strength and malignity the beast was uttering some horrid incantation – it did not have the power left in it to cast a killing spell, but it could do the next best thing, it could ensure the death of one of its assailants by other means. As he uttered the last ghastly syllable he let out his last breath, but it was enough – a pale light began to gather around Patroklos, who gasped and had time only to say
"Achilleus, I "
Before vanishing completely.
Achilleus wept bitter tears and struck his breast many times. He had searched all around, and it was clear that Patroklos had been taken far beyond his reach by some divine means – for only the Gods had power such as that. But what deity would do that to his beloved? What deity would be so cruel? Achilleus' sadness was already turning to anger, and it was in this frame of mind that he prayed
"Mother, you who bore me to short life upon this world, do you now seek to rob me of my beloved? Why do the divinities hide themselves now when I demand answer from them? Surely honour should have been granted me such that I could at least avenge his passing, but the mighty God who did this is surely beyond my reach." Achilleus wiped some of the tears from his eyes and continued, "Was it Olympian Zeus the high thunderer? For even if it was he, king of all Gods, I tell you now that I will contend with him in Patroklos' name, and even he shall know fear before I am through."
At that he fell to his knees and began to pound the earth in frustration – but his honoured mother, Thetis of the shining seas, heard his cries and came to him. She took his head gently in his lap and asked him
"What is it my child, why do you cry so? Tell me that we may both know."
With a heavy sigh swift-footed Achilleus said to her "Do not patronise me woman, for you know. You always know. Some God has taken Patroklos from me and I fear I shall never see him again. In your name I swear that I shall not rest until either my last breath is spent and the black earth swallows me up, or I find Patroklos and return him to my side. You must help me in this mother, for only with the aid of a God such as you do I have hope, with your power you must protect your own son."
Now with tears of her own falling gentle Thetis replied "Oh my son, my son whom I love so much, you ask too much of a mother – for where Patroklos is there I cannot go, it is beyond the power of I or any of the Gods you know. I have seen before the strands of his fate and they are weaved into the pattern of a strange land and a strange time, where none of my kind remain. For even the Gods too must obey fate, and ours is to be vanquished by the Carpenter long before the time Patroklos has been sent to. This is our fate and we cannot escape it just as you cannot escape yours, nor Patroklos his. Yes I can send you there to be with him, but you must know that then we shall never again be together, never again share the soft words of compassion a mother loves to share with her son."
She waited for the reply she knew wasn't coming.
"Your mind is made up and I shall aid you" she continued, resignation clear in her voice "wait here only for me to make appeal to thin-lipped Hephaestus: that he may forge for you an armour to withstand the battles you are to face."
When she returned neither Achilleus nor Thetis said anything to each other – for what words could be said that could possibly capture the feelings of a mother never to see her son again? And although looks were exchanged, I shall not presume to describe them, for how could I possibly hope to capture in words such moments of exquisite anguish? I ask the audience not to try and imagine such a scene either, for surely any attempts will only do the moment disrespect. Suffice it only to say that throughout the whole exchange silent tears were shed.
First Thetis gave Achilleus the new breastplate, shining gold and seemingly light, yet forged within the furnaces of the Gods, and so affording him protection far greater than any earthly steel. After he had put that on she gave him the greaves and vambraces, themselves a dull black which contrasted with the splendour of his breastplate; he slipped those on quickly. Next came the helmet, carved on to it the visage of a raging God and with a plume of the finest and most wonderful material known – of a sort only the Gods have access to. It was silver, with the represented facial features in that wondrous gold – designed in such a way that when the sun shone on the eyes they seemed to burn in anger at whoever was before them. Weapons were next, with a spear of such great size and power that only Achilleus of all the men on earth would be able to lift it, and a sword of such supple craftsmanship that Hephaestus had wept to give it up.
Finally came the shield, black as night on its outer rim, its centre was that same divine gold which so much of the rest of his armour had been forged out of. There was an image wrought onto the centrepiece: The sun rose majestically above two great mountains; it's light glittering as it reflected off their peaks. Atop one of the mountains stood a man staring defiantly into the sun, his arms outstretched as if trying to catch it in its flight, his back covered in scars. Atop the other stood a woman, as beautiful as the dawn itself, barely old enough to go by the name of woman: she looked down in sorrow as a single tear fell from her cheek. Flying through the air between them was a spear, although one could not tell from the image in which direction it went: neither figure seemed prepared for its arrival. Between the mountains in the deep valley stood a fair city, busy with the hum of men. A funeral procession snaked its way through the main street and there was much weeping and sadness within, yet all the while the citizens elsewhere were feasting and celebrating as if their fate was not exactly like the one now mourned.
Achilleus embraced his mother one last time, and then took up the shield. His mother whispered some final words into her son's ear, who nodded sadly in acknowledgement. With that she performed the miracle, which sent her son forever beyond her reach.