To
each man on earth comes "the wicked day of destiny," as Malory
unconsciously translates it, and each man must face it as hardily as
he may.
Homer encourages them by all the maxims of chivalry and honour. His
heart is with the brave of either side--with Glaucus and Sarpedon of
Lycia no less than with Achilles and Patroclus. "Ah, friend," cries
Sarpedon, "if once escaped from this battle we were for ever to be
ageless and immortal, neither would I myself fight now in the
foremost ranks, nor would I urge thee into the wars that give
renown; but now--for assuredly ten thousand fates of death on every
side beset us, and these may no man shun, nor none avoid--forward
now let us go, whether we are to give glory or to win it!" And
forth they go, to give and take renown and death, all the shields
and helms of Lycia shining behind them, through the dust of battle,
the singing of the arrows, the hurtling of spears, the rain of
stones from the Locrian slings. And shields are smitten, and
chariot-horses run wild with no man to drive them, and Sarpedon
drags down a portion of the Achaean battlement, and Aias leaps into
the trench with his deadly spear, and the whole battle shifts and
shines beneath the sun. Yet he who sings of the war, and sees it
with his sightless eyes, sees also the Trojan women working at the
loom, cheating their anxious hearts with broidery work of gold and
scarlet, or raising the song to Athene, or heating the bath for
Hector, who never again may pass within the gates of Troy.
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