As Ovid reaches the end of Book Twelve of his Metamorphoses, Nestor is still telling stories to the feast in honour of Achilles’ victory over Cycnus in the Trojan War. He has just completed the long and colourful story of the battle between the Lapiths and the Centaurs at the wedding of Pirithous and Hippodame.

Tlepolemus, the son of Hercules (Heracles), is offended that Nestor hasn’t mentioned his father in his stories, to which Nestor points out his hatred for Hercules. Nestor says that he’s the only survivor of twelve sons of Neleus, Hercules having destroyed all the others. Nestor then goes on to tell of the strange death of his brother Periclymenus, who had been given the power of shape-shifting by Neptune. After Periclymenus had torn the face of Hercules and had flown away as an eagle, Hercules’ arrow severed the sinews of his wings. When he fell to earth, the arrow was driven into his neck, killing him.

Ovid then jumps to the closing months of the Trojan War, writing that Neptune’s hatred of Achilles has not gone away. Seeing the Greeks are about to conquer the city, Neptune speaks with Apollo, seeking a way to kill Achilles at last. As Neptune cannot face him in combat, Apollo agrees to use his skills as an archer to bring about the warrior’s death.

Apollo goes down to the walls of Troy, where he finds Paris (Alexander), whose abduction of Helen had started the war, shooting arrows almost at random. The god reveals himself and offers to help him make his shots more effective by aiming them at Achilles. Apollo assists Paris and his arrow, to ensure that it reaches its target; Achilles falls, mortally wounded, as a result.

Of those who have painted this, it was Peter Paul Rubens who has told the story most vividly, in a series on Achilles that he completed between 1630-35, towards the end of his own career and life. This painting of The Death of Achilles is an oil sketch on a smaller panel.

Achilles, an arrow piercing straight through his right foot, is shown in the centre foreground, overtly moribund. But Rubens doesn’t place Achilles in battle, as does Ovid: he has been standing at a small altar to the goddess Diana, with her strong association with archery. At the door to the left, Paris is still holding the bow that loosed the arrow, and behind him is Apollo aiding and abetting in the killing.

Rubens’ finished painting of The Death of Achilles adheres faithfully to that sketch. Achilles’ face is deathly white, and this brings to life the supporting detail, particularly the lioness attacking a horse at the lower edge of the canvas, symbolising Paris’s attack on Achilles.

Much later, Alexander Rothaug’s undated Death of Achilles is true to the original accounts, with the arrow passing through the Achilles tendon. Paris, still clutching his bow above, looks mortified, and Apollo stands behind him.

Henry Fuseli’s Thetis Lamenting the Death of Achilles (1780) is less straightforward to read. In the foreground, Achilles’ body lies like a fallen statue on his shield, his great spear by his left side. There is no sign of any wound, arrow, or injury. At the water’s edge, his mother Thetis is waving her arms in lament for her dead son. Another deity is flying past in the distance, and is seen white against the dark and funereal sea and sky.

Ovid is quite vague as to how Achilles died, other than telling us it was from an arrow shot by Paris. Since that account in his Metamorphoses, a new myth has flourished, giving a more familiar explanation. When Achilles was a young child, his mother Thetis immersed him in the water of the river Styx, to make him invulnerable. However, she had to hold him by part of his body, the left heel, which was therefore left as his only weakness, hence his Achilles Heel. This was first recorded in the poetry of Statius, in the first century CE.

Rubens included this oil sketch in his Achilles series, showing Thetis Dipping the Infant Achilles into the River Styx (1630-35). This is taking place in the foreground, while in the middle distance Charon is seen ferrying the dead across the River Styx into the Underworld. Rubens complies with Statius’ story in making Achilles’ left heel the one left vulnerable.

Nearly thirty years after Rubens’ death, Jan-Erasmus Quellinus painted his version of Thetis Dips Achilles in a Vase with Water from the Styx (1668). It’s set not on the bank of the River Styx, but at a temple, where Achilles undergoes a baptismal procedure in a a huge pot, at the lower left. Thetis appears to be holding the infant, who is almost completely immersed, by his left foot, again in compliance with Statius. Quellinus has engaged in a little intentional Christianisation of this myth, which may also have made it seem more familiar to those who saw it.

Antoine Borel’s more traditional account of Thetis Immerses Her Son Achilles in Water of the River Styx was painted at least a hundred years later, in the late eighteenth century, and again has Thetis hold Achilles by his left foot.

Unusually for Rubens, though, his paintings of the death of Achilles show the arrow transfixing his right foot, not the left. That was a necessity by virtue of its composition, although Rubens could just as easily have reversed his drawing to achieve consistency with this detail.

With Achilles on his funeral pyre, Ovid closes the book as King Agamemnon calls his warriors to meet, to decide who should be awarded Achilles’ shield and arms, in the opening of book thirteen.

Borne on the fair winds brought by the near-sacrifice of Agamemnon’s daughter Iphigenia, the thousand Greek ships sail for the shores of Troy. The Trojans had already become aware that they were on their way, and were ready guarding its shores. Protesilaus, the first of the Greek forces to land, is quickly killed by Hector.

Achilles then flies off in his chariot, in pursuit of Hector or Cycnus to redress the balance for the invading force. Finding Cycnus, Achilles drives his chariot at him and implants his spear in Cycnus’ shield, but that makes little impression. Cycnus responds by throwing his lance at Achilles, but he too fails to make any impact. After a second attempt, Achilles is still thwarted, and becomes angry with his enemy.

To test his weapon, Achilles throws his spear at Menoetes, pierces his armour, and kills him instantly. He tries the same combination of spear and throwing arm against Cycnus’ shoulder, but the projectile just bounces off. For a moment, Achilles thinks he may have drawn blood, but realises it’s that of Menoetes, not Cycnus.

Achilles grows even angrier, so draws his sword and attacks Cycnus at close quarters, but that only blunts the sword. As Cycnus is forced to step back from Achilles’ assaults, he backs up against a large rock. Achilles throws his opponent to the ground and strangles him with the thongs of his own helmet. As Cycnus dies, he’s transformed into a white swan. Following that, there’s a pause in the fighting while Achilles sacrifices to Pallas Athene, and the Greeks feast his victory over Cycnus. During that, Nestor tells the story of Caeneus of Thessaly, who survived a thousand wounds in battle, but had been born a woman.

Caenis, as she was previously, had been the prettiest girl in Thessaly, although she remained unmarried. When walking on the beach one day, Neptune raped her, but offered to fulfil her request. She asked to be turned into a man, and Neptune not only granted that wish, but made Caeneus the warrior proof against all wounds inflicted by spear or sword.

Johann Ulrich Krauss tells a fragment of the story of Caenis and Neptune (before 1690), although he doesn’t make any allusion to the transformation to Caeneus. As is usual, the flying Cupid indicates entirely inappropriately the rape of Caenis, and Neptune’s horses are held ready for his return.

Virgil Solis’ Caenis and Neptune from about 1560, moves the story on to the rape itself. Neptune puts his arms around Caenis, who doesn’t reciprocate. The god’s trident has been dropped to the ground, and his horses are prancing in the waves. In the distance is a walled city, possibly a reference to Troy, although this rape took place in Thessaly, Greece, on the opposite shore of the Aegean Sea.

After that story, Nestor tells of the battle between the Lapiths and Centaurs, at which he claims to have been present. This is one of a pair of primaeval battles said to have established world order: that between the Titans and the Gods ended the heavenly Titanomachy, and that between the Lapiths and Centaurs ended the earthly Centauromachy.

When Pirithous married Hippodame, the couple invited centaurs to the feast. Unfortunately, passions of the centaur Eurytus became inflamed by drink and lust for the bride, and he carried Hippodame off by her hair. The other centaurs followed suit by each seizing a woman of their choice, turning the wedding feast into utter chaos, like a city being sacked.

Theseus castigated Eurytus and rescued the bride, so the centaur attacked him. Theseus responded by throwing a huge wine krater at Eurytus, killing him. The centaurs then started throwing goblets and crockery, and the battle escalated from there.

Nestor details a succession of grisly accounts of Lapiths and Centaurs killed. Gryneus the centaur ripped up the altar and crushed two Lapiths with its weight, only to have his eyballs gouged out by a Lapith using the prongs of some antlers. Not content with using the objects around them as weapons, they started using their own lances and swords.

When the centaur Petraeus was trying to uproot a whole oak tree, Pirithous, the groom, pinned the centaur to the tree-trunk with his lance. Nestor also tells of the success of Caeneus, formerly Caenis, in killing five centaurs. The centaur Latreus taunted Caeneus, so the latter wounded the centaur with his spear. Latreus thrust his lance in Caeneus’ face, but was unable to hurt him, so he tried with his sword, which broke against the invulnerable Caeneus, leaving him to finish the centaur off with thrusts of his own sword.

The centaurs then united to try to overwhelm Caeneus by crushing him under their combined weight. Just as they thought they had succeeded, Caeneus was transformed into a bird and flew out from underneath them. With that the survivors dispersed, the Lapiths having won the day.

Piero di Cosimo’s The Fight between Lapiths and Centaurs (1500-15) is my favourite among the earlier paintings, and remains one of its best-structured and complete accounts. In the centre foreground, Hylonome embraces and kisses the dying Cyllarus, a huge arrow-like spear resting underneath them. Immediately behind them, on large carpets laid out for the wedding feast, centaurs are still abducting women. All around are scenes of pitched and bloody battles, with eyes being gouged out, Lapiths and Centaurs wielding clubs and other weapons at one another.

Towards the end of his life, Peter Paul Rubens painted this brilliant oil sketch of The Rape of Hippodame (c 1637-38). At the right, Eurytus is trying to carry off the bride, with Theseus just about to rescue her from the centaur’s back. At the left, Lapiths are attacking with their weapons, and behind them another centaur is trying to abduct a woman.

That became the finished painting, The Rape of Hippodame (Lapiths and Centaurs) (1636-38), which remains faithful to Rubens’ sketch and its composition. Facial expressions, particularly that of the Lapith at the left bearing a sword, are particularly powerful.

Luca Giordano’s later painting of the Battle of Lapiths and Centaurs from 1688 lacks the narrative structure of Piero di Cosimo’s, and covers later action than Rubens’. As a result, its story has become a little lost in the mêlée of battle.

Sebastiano Ricci’s The Battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs from about 1705 has similar problems, although it does use multiplex narrative to help. In the left background, Hippodame is seen being carried away by Eurytus, and to the right there are scenes of abduction at the wedding feast.

Francesco Solimena’s Battle between Lapiths and Centaurs (1735-40) puts multiple abductions in the foreground, with pitched battles taking place behind.

There’s a moral, of course: never invite centaurs to your wedding feast, as they’ll go way beyond smashing the crockery.

If there’s one thing sure to put the fear of God into someone it’s a nearby bolt of lightning. One of the most understandable associations of lightning is thus with deities, particularly those who are as swift to anger and avenge as a sudden thunderstorm. In the myths of classical Greece and Rome, that could only mean Zeus or Jupiter, whose bundle of thunderbolts has even survived into computer technology.

Jan Cossiers’ impressive Jupiter and Lycaon from about 1640 shows Jupiter’s eagle vomiting thunderbolts at Lycaon, who is hurrying away as he is being transformed into a wolf, becoming the prototype for the werewolf of the future. These thunderbolts resemble arrows with shafts that zigzag like lightning in the sky, and are preserved today in the symbol used for Thunderbolt.

Tintoretto’s Jupiter and Semele (1545) shows an early moment in the myth of the mortal woman who was raped by the god, then destroyed by his thunderbolts when in late pregnancy. She reclines naked under a red tent. Jupiter has evidently just revealed himself, and rolls of cloud are rushing out from him. There are thunderbolt flames licking at Semele’s tent, and around the clouds surrounding Jupiter, but no sign of them touching Semele yet.

The myth of Philemon and Baucis also revolves around Jupiter visiting mortals, this time in innocuous human form and in company with Mercury. After the elderly couple have entertained the two gods, they go outside and ascend a mountain while the land below becomes flooded.

Peter Paul Rubens’ Stormy Landscape with Philemon and Baucis (c 1625?) is a dramatic landscape with storm-clouds building over the hills, bolts of lightning, a raging torrent pouring down the mountainside, and the four figures on a track at the right. Philemon and Baucis are struggling up the track with their sticks, as they’re being taken to safety from the rising flood by Jupiter and Mercury.

Richard Wilson’s Destruction of Niobe’s Children from 1760 is a classical history-in-landscape, with a bolt of lightning in the centre far distance, a chiaroscuro sky, and rough sea below. Wilson shows this myth when Apollo is still killing Niobe’s sons. The god is at the top of a steep bank on the left, with Niobe among her children down below.

Nicolas Poussin’s setting of a Landscape during a Thunderstorm with Pyramus and Thisbe (1651) shows the city of Babylon in the distance, along a picturesque and pastoral valley. But the peacefulness of this landscape has been transformed by the sudden arrival of a thunderstorm: the gusty wind is already bending the trees, and near the centre of the view a large branch has broken with its force. Two bolts of lightning make their way to the hills below.

There’s frantic activity in response not only to the storm, but to a lioness attacking a horse, whose rider has fallen. An adjacent horseman is about to thrust his spear into the back of the lioness, while another, further ahead, is driving cattle away from the scene. Others on foot, and a fourth horseman, are scurrying away, driven by the combination of the lioness and the imminent storm.

In the foreground, Pyramus lies dying, his sword at his side, and his blood flowing freely on the ground, down to a small pond. Thisbe has just emerged from sheltering in the cave, has run past the bloodied shawl at the right, and is about to reach the body of her lover. She is clearly distraught.

The apocalyptic British painter John Martin told the semi-historical story of The Destruction of Tyre in this relatively small painting of 1840. Tyre was the great Phoenician port on the Mediterranean coast, claimed to have been the origin of navigation and sea trade. The prophet Ezekiel (chapter 26) foretold that one day, many nations would come against Tyre, would put the city under siege, break her walls down, that the fabric of the city would be cast into the sea, and it would never be rebuilt. Martin brings the forces of nature in to help destroy the port, with a storm great enough to sink many vessels, leaving their prows floating like sea monsters. In the distance is his standard lightning bolt.

Poussin used the great flood in Genesis as the underlying narrative in his late painting of Winter (c 1660-64), from his series of the four seasons. Lightning crackles through the sky as a few survivors try to escape the rising waters.

In Norse mythology it’s the god Thor who wields the thunderbolts. Mårten Eskil Winge’s painting of Thor’s Fight with the Giants (1872) shows this lesser-known battle in rich detail, including the two goats drawing the god’s chariot, and lightning bolts playing around his mighty hammer, the cause of thunder.

In Dante’s Inferno, when the author visits Hell with Virgil as his guide, there’s a lightning strike where souls are being ferried across to eternal torment. As the pair are trying to convince the ferryman Charon to take them both across, there is a violent gust of wind, a red bolt of lightning, and Dante becomes unconscious. This is shown in Alexander Litovchenko’s painting of Charon Carrying Souls Across the River Styx from 1861.

In John Martin’s 1820 painting of the witches scene from William Shakespeare’s tragedy Macbeth, three witches materialise from a swirl of mist and lightning bolts on the left, and Macbeth and Banquo appear surprised at their sudden arrival. Winding around the shores of the distant lake is the huge army, and Martin has turned the Scottish Highlands into rugged Alpine scenery as an indication of the much greater outcome of this meeting.

Tomorrow I’ll show a range of landscape paintings featuring lightning.