The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  at once the Olympian will turn kind to us again.”

  Pleading, springing up with a two-handled cup,

  he reached it toward his loving mother’s hands

  with his own winning words: “Patience, mother!

  Grieved as you are, bear up, or dear as you are,

  I have to see you beaten right before my eyes.

  I would be shattered—what could I do to save you?

  It’s hard to fight the Olympian strength for strength.

  You remember the last time I rushed to your defense?

  He seized my foot, he hurled me off the tremendous threshold

  and all day long I dropped, I was dead weight and then,

  when the sun went down, down I plunged on Lemnos,

  little breath left in me. But the mortals there

  soon nursed a fallen immortal back to life.”

  At that the white-armed goddess Hera smiled

  and smiling, took the cup from her child’s hands.

  Then dipping sweet nectar up from the mixing bowl

  he poured it round to all the immortals, left to right.

  And uncontrollable laughter broke from the happy gods

  as they watched the god of fire breathing hard

  and bustling through the halls.

  That hour then

  and all day long till the sun went down they feasted

  and no god’s hunger lacked a share of the handsome banquet

  or the gorgeous lyre Apollo struck or the Muses singing

  voice to voice in choirs, their vibrant music rising.

  At last, when the sun’s fiery light had set,

  each immortal went to rest in his own house,

  the splendid high halls Hephaestus built for each

  with all his craft and cunning, the famous crippled Smith.

  And Olympian Zeus the lord of lightning went to his own bed

  where he had always lain when welcome sleep came on him.

  There he climbed and there he slept and by his side

  lay Hera the Queen, the goddess of the golden throne.

  BOOK TWO

  The Great Gathering of Armies

  Now the great array of gods and chariot-driving men

  slept all night long, but the peaceful grip of sleep

  could not hold Zeus, turning it over in his mind ...

  how to exalt Achilles?—how to slaughter

  hordes of Achaeans pinned against their ships?

  As his spirit churned, at last one plan seemed best:

  he would send a murderous dream to Agamemnon.

  Calling out to the vision, Zeus winged it on:

  “Go, murderous Dream, to the fast Achaean ships

  and once you reach Agamemnon’s shelter rouse him,

  order him, word-for-word, exactly as I command.

  Tell Atrides to arm his long-haired Achaeans,

  to attack at once, full force—

  now he can take the broad streets of Troy.

  The immortal gods who hold Olympus clash no more,

  Hera’s appeals have brought them round and all agree:

  griefs are about to crush the men of Troy.”

  At that command

  the dream went winging off, and passing quickly

  along the fast trim ships, made for the king

  and found him soon, sound asleep in his tent

  with refreshing godsent slumber drifted round him.

  Hovering at his head the vision rose like Nestor,

  Neleus’ son, the chief Agamemnon honored most.

  Inspired with Nestor’s voice and sent by Zeus,

  the dream cried out, “Still asleep, Agamemnon?

  The son of Atreus, that skilled breaker of horses?

  How can you sleep all night, a man weighed down with duties?

  Your armies turning over their lives to your command—

  responsibilities so heavy. Listen to me, quickly!

  I bring you a message sent by Zeus, a world away

  but he has you in his heart, he pities you now ...

  Zeus commands you to arm your long-haired Achaeans,

  to attack at once, full force—

  now you can take the broad streets of Troy!

  The immortal gods who hold Olympus clash no more,

  Hera’s appeals have brought them round and all agree:

  griefs from Zeus are about to crush the men of Troy!

  But keep this message firmly in your mind.

  Remember—let no loss of memory overcome you

  when the sweet grip of slumber sets you free.”

  With that the dream departed, leaving him there,

  his heart racing with hopes that would not come to pass.

  He thought he would take the city of Priam then,

  that very day, the fool. How could he know

  what work the Father had in mind? The Father,

  still bent on plaguing the Argives and Trojans both

  with wounds and groans in the bloody press of battle.

  But rousing himself from sleep, the divine voice

  swirling round him, Atrides sat up, bolt awake,

  pulled on a soft tunic, linen never worn,

  and over it threw his flaring battle-cape,

  under his smooth feet he fastened supple sandals,

  across his shoulder slung his silver-studded sword.

  Then he seized the royal scepter of his fathers—

  its power can never die—and grasping it tightly

  off he strode to the ships of Argives armed in bronze.

  Now the goddess Dawn climbed up to Olympus heights,

  declaring the light of day to Zeus and the deathless gods

  as the king commanded heralds to cry out loud and clear

  and muster the long-haired Achaeans to full assembly.

  Their cries rang out. Battalions gathered quickly.

  But first he called his ranking chiefs to council

  beside the ship of Nestor, the warlord born in Pylos.

  Summoning them together there Atrides set forth

  his cunning, foolproof plan: “Hear me, friends—

  a dream sent by the gods has come to me in sleep.

  Down through the bracing godsent night it came

  like good Nestor in features, height and build,

  the old king himself, and hovering at my head

  the dream called me on: ‘Still asleep, Agamemnon?

  The son of Atreus, that skilled breaker of horses?

  How can you sleep all night, a man weighed down with duties?

  Your armies turning over their lives to your command—

  responsibilities so heavy. Listen to me, quickly!

  I bring you a message sent by Zeus, a world away

  but he has you in his heart, he pities you now ...

  Zeus commands you to arm your long-haired Achaeans,

  to attack at once, full force—

  now you can take the broad streets of Troy!

  The immortal gods who hold Olympus clash no more, so

  Hera’s appeals have brought them round and all agree:

  griefs from Zeus are about to crush the men of Troy!

  But keep this message firmly in your mind.’

  With that

  the dream went winging off and soothing sleep released me.

  Come—see if we can arm the Achaeans for assault.

  But first, according to time-honored custom,

  I will test the men with a challenge, tell them all

  to crowd the oarlocks, cut and run in their ships.

  But you take up your battle-stations at every point,

  command them, hold them back.“

  So much for his plan.

  Agamemnon took his seat and Nestor rose among them.

  Noble Nestor the king of Pylos’ sandy harbor

  spoke and urged them on with all good will:

  “Friends, lords of the Argives, 0 my captains!

  If any
other Achaean had told us of this dream

  we’d call it false and turn our backs upon it.

  But look, the man who saw it has every claim

  to be the best, the bravest Achaean we can field.

  Come—see if we can arm the Achaeans for assault.”

  And out he marched, leading the way from council. too

  The rest sprang to their feet, the sceptered kings

  obeyed the great field marshal. Rank and file

  streamed behind and rushed like swarms of bees

  pouring out of a rocky hollow, burst on endless burst,

  bunched in clusters seething over the first spring blooms,

  dark hordes swirling into the air, this way, that way—

  so the many armed platoons from the ships and tents

  came marching on, close-file, along the deep wide beach

  to crowd the meeting grounds, and Rumor, Zeus’s crier,

  like wildfire blazing among them, whipped them on.

  The troops assembled. The meeting grounds shook.

  The earth groaned and rumbled under the huge weight

  as soldiers took positions—the whole place in uproar.

  Nine heralds shouted out, trying to keep some order,

  “Quiet, battalions, silence! Hear your royal kings!”

  The men were forced to their seats, marshaled into ranks,

  the shouting died away ... silence.

  King Agamemnon

  rose to his feet, raising high in hand the scepter

  Hephaestus made with all his strength and skill.

  Hephaestus gave it to Cronus’ son, Father Zeus,

  and Zeus gave it to Hermes, the giant-killing Guide

  and Hermes gave it to Pelops, that fine charioteer,

  Pelops gave it to Atreus, marshal of fighting men,

  who died and passed it on to Thyestes rich in flocks

  and he in turn bestowed it on Agamemnon, to bear on high

  as he ruled his many islands and lorded mainland Argos.

  Now, leaning his weight upon that kingly scepter,

  Atrides declared his will to all Achaea’s armies:

  “Friends—fighting Danaans, aides-in-arms of Ares!

  Cronus’ son has trapped me in madness, blinding ruin—

  Zeus is a harsh, cruel god. He vowed to me long ago,

  he bowed his head that I should never embark for home

  till I had brought the walls of Ilium crashing down.

  But now, I see, he only plotted brutal treachery:

  now he commands me back to Argos in disgrace,

  whole regiments of my men destroyed in battle.

  So it must please his overweening heart, who knows?

  Father Zeus has lopped the crowns of a thousand cities,

  true, and Zeus will lop still more—his power is too great.

  What humiliation! Even for generations still to come,

  to learn that Achaean armies so strong, so vast,

  fought a futile war ... We are still fighting it,

  no end in sight, and battling forces we outnumber—

  by far. Say that Trojans and Argives both agreed

  to swear a truce, to seal their oaths in blood,

  and opposing sides were tallied out in full:

  count one by one the Trojans who live in Troy

  but count our Achaeans out by ten-man squads

  and each squad pick a Trojan to pour its wine—

  many Achaean tens would lack their steward then!

  That’s how far we outnumber them, I’d say—Achaeans

  to Trojans—the men who hail from Troy at least.

  But they have allies called from countless cities,

  fighters brandishing spears who block my way,

  who throw me far off course,

  thwarting my will to plunder Ilium’s rugged walls.

  And now nine years of almighty Zeus have marched by,

  our ship timbers rot and the cables snap and fray

  and across the sea our wives and helpless children

  wait in the halls, wait for our return ... And we?

  Our work drags on, unfinished as always, hopeless—

  the labor of war that brought us here to Troy.

  So come, follow my orders. All obey me now.

  Cut and run! Sail home to the fatherland we love!

  We’ll never take the broad streets of Troy.”

  Testing his men

  but he only made the spirit race inside their chests,

  all the rank and file who’d never heard his plan.

  And the whole assembly surged like big waves at sea,

  the Icarian Sea when East and South Winds drive it on,

  blasting down in force from the clouds of Father Zeus,

  or when the West Wind shakes the deep standing grain

  with hurricane gusts that flatten down the stalks—

  so the massed assembly of troops was shaken now.

  They cried in alarm and charged toward the ships

  and the dust went whirling up from under rushing feet

  as the men jostled back and forth, shouting orders—

  “Grapple the ships! Drag them down to the bright sea!

  Clean out the launching-channels!” Shrill shouts

  hitting the heavens, fighters racing for home,

  knocking the blocks out underneath the hulls.

  And now they might have won their journey home,

  the men of Argos fighting the will of fate, yes,

  if Hera had not alerted Athena: “Inconceivable!

  Child of Zeus whose battle-shield is thunder,

  tireless one, Athena—what, is this the way?

  All the Argives flying home to their fatherland,

  sailing over the sea’s broad back? Leaving Priam

  and all the men of Troy a trophy to glory over,

  Helen of Argos, Helen for whom so many Argives

  lost their lives in Troy, far from native land.

  Go, range the ranks of Achaeans armed in bronze.

  With your winning words hold back each man you find—

  don’t let them haul their rolling ships to sea!”

  The bright-eyed goddess Pallas lost no time.

  Down she flashed from the peaks of Mount Olympus,

  quickly reached the ships and found Odysseus first,

  a mastermind like Zeus, still standing fast.

  He had not laid a hand on his black benched hull,

  such anguish racked his heart and fighting spirit.

  Now close beside him the bright-eyed goddess stood

  and urged him on: “Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus,

  great tactician—what, is this the way?

  All you Argives flying home to your fatherland,

  tumbling into your oar-swept ships? Leaving Priam

  and all the men of Troy a trophy to glory over,

  Helen of Argos, Helen for whom so many Argives

  lost their lives in Troy, far from native land!

  No, don’t give up now. Range the Achaean ranks,

  with your winning words hold back each man you find—

  don’t let them haul their rolling ships to sea!”