#3 Death of Priam

Episode #3:  Aeneas Tells the Story of the Death of King Priam

Vergil Aeneid Book 2 (lines 438-558)

[summarized in ‘Search for a Homeland’ pp. 11-12]

Here’s a great battle indeed, as if the rest of the war were nothing,

as if others were not dying throughout the whole city,

so we see wild War and the Greeks rushing to the palace,

and the entrance filled with a press of shields.

Ladders cling to the walls: men climb the stairs under the very

doorposts, with their left hands holding defensive shields

against the spears, grasping the sloping stone with their right.

In turn, the Trojans pull down the turrets and roof-tiles

of the halls, prepared to defend themselves even in death,

seeing the end near them, with these as weapons:

and send the gilded roof-beams down, the glory

of their ancient fathers. Others with naked swords block

the inner doors: these they defend in massed ranks.

I was inspired to fight, to bring help to the king’s palace,

to relieve our warriors with our aid, and add power to the beaten.

I climbed up to the topmost heights of the palace roof from which

the wretched Trojans were hurling their missiles in vain.

A turret standing on the sloping edge, and rising from the roof

to the sky, was one from which all Troy could be seen,

the Danaan ships, and the Greek camp: and attacking its edges

with our swords, where the upper levels offered weaker mortar,

we wrenched it from its high place, and sent it flying:

falling suddenly it dragged all to ruin with a roar,

and shattered far and wide over the Greek ranks.

But more arrived, and meanwhile neither the stones

nor any of the various missiles ceased to fly.

In front of the courtyard itself, in the very doorway of the palace,

Pyrrhus exults, glittering with the sheen of bronze:

like a snake, fed on poisonous herbs, in the light,

that cold winter has held, swollen, under the ground,

and now, gleaming with youth, its skin sloughed,

ripples its slimy back, lifts its front high towards the sun,

and darts its triple-forked tongue from its jaws.

Huge Periphas, and Automedon the armour-bearer,

driver of Achilles’s team, and all the Scyrian youths,

advance on the palace together and hurl firebrands onto the roof.

Pyrrhus himself among the front ranks, clutching a double-axe,

breaks through the stubborn gate, and pulls the bronze doors

from their hinges: and now, hewing out the timber, he breaches

the solid oak and opens a huge window with a gaping mouth.

The palace within appears, and the long halls are revealed:

the inner sanctums of Priam, and the ancient kings, appear,

and armed men are seen standing on the very threshold.

But, inside the palace, groans mingle with sad confusion,

and, deep within, the hollow halls howl

with women’s cries: the clamour strikes the golden stars.

Trembling mothers wander the vast building, clasping

the doorposts, and placing kisses on them. Pyrrhus drives forward,

with his father Achilles’s strength, no barricades nor the guards

themselves can stop him: the door collapses under the ram’s blows,

and the posts collapse, wrenched from their sockets.

Strength makes a road: the Greeks, pour through, force a passage,

slaughter the front ranks, and fill the wide space with their men.

A foaming river is not so furious, when it floods,

bursting its banks, overwhelms the barriers against it,

and rages in a mass through the fields, sweeping cattle and stables

across the whole plain. I saw Pyrrhus myself, on the threshold,

mad with slaughter, and the two sons of Atreus:

I saw Hecuba, her hundred women, and Priam at the altars,

polluting with blood the flames that he himself had sanctified.

Those fifty chambers, the promise of so many offspring,

the doorposts, rich with spoils of barbarian gold,

crash down: the Greeks possess what the fire spares.

And maybe you ask, what was Priam’s fate.

When he saw the end of the captive city, the palace doors

wrenched away, and the enemy among the inner rooms,

the aged man clasped his long-neglected armour

on his old, trembling shoulders, and fastened on his useless sword,

and hurried into the thick of the enemy seeking death.

In the centre of the halls, and under the sky’s naked arch,

was a large altar, with an ancient laurel nearby, that leant

on the altar, and clothed the household gods with shade.

Here Hecuba, and her daughters, like doves driven

by a dark storm, crouched uselessly by the shrines,

huddled together, clutching at the statues of the gods.

And when she saw Priam himself dressed in youthful armour

she cried: “What mad thought, poor husband, urges you

to fasten on these weapons? Where do you run?

The hour demands no such help, nor defences such as these,

not if my own Hector were here himself. Here, I beg you,

this altar will protect us all or we’ll die together.”

So she spoke and drew the old man towards her,

and set him down on the sacred steps.

See, Polites, one of Priam’s sons, escaping Pyrrhus’s slaughter,

runs down the long hallways, through enemies and spears,

and, wounded, crosses the empty courts.

Pyrrhus chases after him, eager to strike him,

and grasps at him now, and now, with his hand, at spear-point.

When finally he reached the eyes and gaze of his parents,

he fell, and poured out his life in a river of blood.

Priam, though even now in death’s clutches,

did not spare his voice at this, or hold back his anger:

“If there is any justice in heaven, that cares about such things,

may the gods repay you with fit thanks, and due reward

for your wickedness, for such acts, you who have

made me see my own son’s death in front of my face,

and defiled a father’s sight with murder.

Yet Achilles, whose son you falsely claim to be, was no

such enemy to Priam: he respected the suppliant’s rights,

and honour, and returned Hector’s bloodless corpse

to its sepulchre, and sent me home to my kingdom.”

So the old man spoke, and threw his ineffectual spear

without strength, which immediately spun from the clanging bronze

and hung uselessly from the centre of the shield’s boss.

Pyrrhus spoke to him: “Then you can be messenger, carry

the news to my father, to Peleus’s son: remember to tell him

of degenerate Pyrrhus, and of my sad actions:

now die.” Saying this he dragged him, trembling,

and slithering in the pool of his son’s blood,  to the very altar,

and twined his left hand in his hair, raised the glittering sword

in his right, and buried it to the hilt in his side.

This was the end of Priam’s life: this was the death that fell to him

by lot, seeing Troy ablaze and its citadel toppled, he who was

once the magnificent ruler of so many Asian lands and peoples.

A once mighty body lies on the shore, the head

shorn from its shoulders, a corpse without a name.