Through the long night the Achaians wept over Patroclus; but deeper than
their grief was the sorrow of Achilles, for he had promised Menoetius to
bring back his son in honor, laden with spoils, and now the barren coast
of Troy would hold the ashes of both. Then Achilles made a solemn vow not
to celebrate the funeral rites of Patroclus until he brought to him the
head and arms of Hector, and had captured on the field twelve Trojan
youths to slaughter on his funeral pile. The hated Hector slain and
Patroclus's funeral rites celebrated, he cared not for the future. The
fate his mother had foretold did not daunt him. Since, by his own folly,
his dearest friend had been taken from him, the sooner their ashes rested
together the better. If he was not to see the rich fields of Phthia, his
was to be, at least, a deathless renown.
To take the place of the arms which Hector had taken from Patroclus,
Vulcan, at Thetis's request, had fashioned for Achilles the most beautiful
armor ever worn by man. Brass, tin, silver, and gold composed the bright
corselet, the solid helm, and the wondrous shield, adorned with such
pictures as no mortal artist ever wrought.
After having feasted his eyes on this beautiful armor, whose clanking
struck terror even to the hearts of the Myrmidons, Achilles sought out the
Greeks and Agamemnon, and in the assembly acknowledged his fault.
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