He knew the goddess’ voice—he went on the run,
flinging off his cape as Eurybates picked it up,
the herald of Ithaca always at his side.
Coming face-to-face with Atrides Agamemnon,
he relieved him of his fathers’ royal scepter—
its power can never die—and grasping it tightly
off he strode to the ships of Argives armed in bronze.
Whenever Odysseus met some man of rank, a king,
he’d halt and hold him back with winning words:
“My friend—it’s wrong to threaten you like a coward,
but you stand fast, you keep your men in check!
It’s too soon to see Agamemnon’s purpose clearly.
Now he’s only testing us, soon he’ll bear down hard.
Didn’t we all hear his plan in secret council?
God forbid his anger destroy the army he commands.
The rage of kings is strong, they’re nursed by the gods,
their honor comes from Zeus—
they’re dear to Zeus, the god who rules the world.”
When he caught some common soldier shouting out,
he’d beat him with the scepter, dress him down:
“You fool—sit still! Obey the commands of others,
your superiors—you, you deserter, rank coward,
you count for nothing, neither in war nor council.
How can all Achaeans be masters here in Troy?
Too many kings can ruin an army—mob rule!
Let there be one commander, one master only,
endowed by the son of crooked-minded Cronus
with kingly scepter and royal rights of custom:
whatever one man needs to lead his people well.”
So he ranged the ranks, commanding men to order—
and back again they surged from ships and shelters,
back to the meeting grounds with a deep pounding din,
thundering out as battle lines of breakers crash and drag
along some endless beach, and the rough sea roars.
The armies took their seats, marshaled into ranks.
But one man, Thersites, still railed on, nonstop.
His head was full of obscenities, teeming with rant,
all for no good reason, insubordinate, baiting the kings—
anything to provoke some laughter from the troops.
Here was the ugliest man who ever came to Troy.
Bandy-legged he was, with one foot clubbed,
both shoulders humped together, curving over
his caved-in chest, and bobbing above them
his skull warped to a point,
sprouting clumps of scraggly, woolly hair.
Achilles despised him most, Odysseus too—
he was always abusing both chiefs, but now
he went for majestic Agamemnon, hollering out,
taunting the king with strings of cutting insults.
The Achaeans were furious with him, deeply offended.
But he kept shouting at Agamemnon, spewing his abuse:
“Still moaning and groaning, mighty Atrides—why now?
What are you panting after now? Your shelters packed
with the lion’s share of bronze, plenty of women too,
crowding your lodges. Best of the lot, the beauties
we hand you first, whenever we take some stronghold.
Or still more gold you’re wanting? More ransom a son
of the stallion-breaking Trojans might just fetch from Troy?—
though I or another hero drags him back in chains ...
Or a young woman, is it?—to spread and couple,
to bed down for yourself apart from all the troops?
How shameful for you, the high and mighty commander,
to lead the sons of Achaea into bloody slaughter!
Sons? No, my soft friends, wretched excuses—
women, not men of Achaea! Home we go in our ships!
Abandon him here in Troy to wallow in all his prizes—
he’ll see if the likes of us have propped him up or not.
Look—now it’s Achilles, a greater man he disgraces,
seizes and keeps his prize, tears her away himself.
But no gall in Achilles. Achilles lets it go.
If not, Atrides, that outrage would have been your last!”
So Thersites taunted the famous field marshal.
But Odysseus stepped in quickly, faced him down
with a dark glance and threats to break his nerve:
“What a flood of abuse, Thersites! Even for you,
fluent and flowing as you are. Keep quiet.
Who are you to wrangle with kings, you alone?
No one, I say—no one alive less soldierly than you,
none in the ranks that came to Troy with Agamemnon.
So stop your babbling, mouthing the names of kings,
flinging indecencies in their teeth, your eyes
peeled for a chance to cut and run for home.
We can have no idea, no clear idea at all
how the long campaign will end ...
whether Achaea’s sons will make it home unharmed
or slink back in disgrace.
But there you sit,
hurling abuse at the son of Atreus, Agamemnon,
marshal of armies, simply because our fighters
give Atrides the lion’s share of all our plunder.
You and your ranting slander—you’re the outrage.
I tell you this, so help me it’s the truth:
if I catch you again, blithering on this way,
let Odysseus’ head be wrenched off his shoulders,
never again call me the father of Telemachus
if I don’t grab you, strip the clothing off you,
cloak, tunic and rags that wrap your private parts,
and whip you howling naked back to the fast ships,
out of the armies’ muster—whip you like a cur!“
And he cracked the scepter across his back and shoulders.
The rascal doubled over, tears streaking his face
and a bloody welt bulged up between his blades,
under the stroke of the golden scepter’s studs.
He squatted low, cringing, stunned with pain,
blinking like some idiot ...
rubbing his tears off dumbly with a fist.
Their morale was low but the men laughed now,
good hearty laughter breaking over Thersites’ head—
glancing at neighbors they would shout, “A terrific stroke!
A thousand terrific strokes he’s carried off—Odysseus,
taking the lead in tactics, mapping battle-plans.
But here’s the best thing yet he’s done for the men—
he’s put a stop to this babbling, foulmouthed fool!
Never again, I’d say, will our gallant comrade
risk his skin to attack the kings with insults.”
So the soldiers bantered but not Odysseus.
The raider of cities stood there, scepter in hand,
and close beside him the great gray-eyed Athena
rose like a herald, ordering men to silence. All,
from the first to lowest ranks of Achaea’s troops,
should hear his words and mark his counsel well.
For the good of all he urged them: “Agamemnon!
Now, my king, the Achaeans are bent on making you
a disgrace in the eyes of every man alive. Yes,
they fail to fulfill their promise sworn that day
they sailed here from the stallion-land of Argos:
that not until you had razed the rugged walls of Troy
would they sail home again. But look at them now,
like green, defenseless boys or widowed women
whimpering to each other, wailing to journey back.
True, they’ve labored long—they’re desperate for home.
would chafe at the benches, moaning in his ship,
pinned down by gales and heavy, raging seas.
A month—but look at us.
This is the ninth year come round, the ninth
we’ve hung on here. Who could blame the Achaeans
for chafing, bridling beside the beaked ships?
Ah but still—what a humiliation it would be
to hold out so long, then sail home empty-handed.
Courage, my friends, hold out a little longer.
Till we see if Calchas divined the truth or not.
We all recall that moment—who could forget it?
We were all witnesses then. All, at least,
the deadly spirits have not dragged away ...
Why,
it seems like only yesterday or the day before
when our vast armada gathered, moored at Aulis,
freighted with slaughter bound for Priam’s Troy.
We were all busy then, milling round a spring
and offering victims up on the holy altars,
full sacrifice to the gods to guarantee success,
under a spreading plane tree where the water splashed,
glittering in the sun—when a great omen appeared.
A snake, and his back streaked red with blood,
a thing of terror! Olympian Zeus himself
had launched him into the clean light of day ...
He slid from under the altar, glided up the tree
and there the brood of a sparrow, helpless young ones,
teetered high on the topmost branch-tips, cowering
under the leaves there, eight they were all told
and the mother made the ninth, she’d borne them all—
chirping to break the heart but the snake gulped them down
and the mother cried out for her babies, fluttering over him ...
he coiled, struck, fanging her wing—a high thin shriek!
But once he’d swallowed down the sparrow with her brood,
the son of crooked Cronus who sent the serpent forth
turned him into a sign, a monument clear to see—
Zeus struck him to stone! And we stood by,
amazed that such a marvel came to light.
So then,
when those terrible, monstrous omens burst in
on the victims we were offering to the gods,
Calchas swiftly revealed the will of Zeus:
‘Why struck dumb now, my long-haired Achaeans?
Zeus who rules the world has shown us an awesome sign,
an event long in the future, late to come to birth
but the fame of that great work will never die.
As the snake devoured the sparrow with her brood,
eight and the mother made the ninth, she’d borne them all,
so we will fight in Troy that many years and then,
then in the tenth we’ll take her broad streets.’
So that day the prophet revealed the future—
and now, look, by god, it all comes to pass!
Up with you, all you Argives geared for combat,
stand your ground, right here,
until we take the mighty walls of Priam!“
He fired them so
the armies roared and the ships resounded round them,
shattering echoes ringing from their shouts
as Argives cried assent to King Odysseus’ words.
And Nestor the noble horseman spurred them more:
“What disgrace! Look at you, carrying on
in the armies’ muster just like boys—fools!
Not a thought in your heads for works of battle.
What becomes of them now, the pacts and oaths we swore?
Into the flames with councils, all the plans of men,
the vows sealed with the strong, unmixed wine,
the firm clasp of the right hand we trusted!
We battle on in words, as always, mere words,
and what’s the cure? We cannot find a thing.
No matter how many years we wrangle here.
Agamemnon—
never swerve, hold to your first plan of action,
lead your armies headlong into war!
The rest of them? Let them rot, the one or two
who hatch their plans apart from all the troops—
what good can they win from that? Nothing at all.
Why, they’d scuttle home before they can even learn
if the vows of Zeus with his dark cloudy shield
are false or not. Zeus the son of almighty Cronus,
I remind you, bowed his head that day we boarded ship,
all the Argives laden with blood and death for Troy—
his lightning bolts on the right, good omens blazing forth.
So now let no man hurry to sail for home, not yet ...
not till he beds down with a faithful Trojan wife,
payment in full for the groans and shocks of war
we have all borne for Helen.
But any soldier
wild with desire to reach his home at once—
just let him lay a hand on his black benched ship
and right in front of the rest he’ll reach his death!
But you, my King, be on your guard yourself. Come,
listen well to another man. Here’s some advice,
not to be tossed aside, and I will tell it clearly.
Range your men by tribes, even by clans, Agamemnon,
so clan fights by the side of clan, tribe by tribe.
Fight this way, if the Argives still obey you,
then you can see which captain is a coward,
which contingent too, and which is loyal, brave,
since they will fight in separate formations of their own.
Then, what’s more, if you fail to sack the city,
you will know if the will of god’s to blame
or the cowardice of your men—inept in battle.“
And King Agamemnon took his lead, saluting:
“Again, old man, you outfight the Argives in debate!
Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo, if only I had ten men
like Nestor to plan with me among Achaea’s armies—
then we could topple Priam’s citadel in a day,
throttle it in our hands and gut Troy to nothing.
But Cronus’ son, Zeus with his shield of storm
insists on embroiling me in painful struggles,
futile wars of words ...
Imagine—I and Achilles, wrangling over a girl,
battling man-to-man. And I, I was the first
to let my anger flare. Ah if the two of us
could ever think as one, Troy could delay
her day of death no longer, not one moment.
Go now, take your meal—the sooner to bring on war.
Quickly—let each fighter sharpen his spear well,
balance his shield well, feed his horses well
with plenty of grain to build their racing speed—
The Iliad Page 15