The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

Now he’d have hauled him off and won undying glory

  but Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter quick to the mark,

  snapped the rawhide strap, cut from a bludgeoned ox,

  and the helmet came off empty in Menelaus’ fist.

  Whirling it round the fighter sent it flying

  into his Argives scrambling fast to retrieve it—

  back at his man he sprang, enraged with brazen spear,

  mad for the kill but Aphrodite snatched Paris away,

  easy work for a god, wrapped him in swirls of mist

  and set him down in his bedroom filled with scent.

  Then off she went herself to summon Helen

  and found her there on the steep, jutting tower

  with a troop of Trojan women clustered round her.

  The goddess reached and tugged at her fragrant robe,

  whispering low, for all the world like an old crone,

  the old weaver who, when they lived in Lacedaemon,

  wove her fine woolens and Helen held her dear.

  Like her to the life, immortal Love invited,

  “Quickly—Paris is calling for you, come back home! There he is in the bedroom, the bed with inlaid rings—

  he’s glistening in all his beauty and his robes!

  You’d never dream he’s come from fighting a man,

  you’d think he’s off to a dance or slipped away

  from the dancing, stretching out at ease.”

  Enticing so

  that the heart in Helen’s breast began to race.

  She knew the goddess at once, the long lithe neck,

  the smooth full breasts and the fire in those eyes—

  and she was amazed, she burst out with her name:

  “Maddening one, my Goddess, oh what now?

  Lusting to lure me to my ruin yet again?

  Where will you drive me next?

  Off and away to other grand, luxurious cities,

  out to Phrygia, out to Maeonia’s tempting country?

  Have you a favorite mortal man there too?

  But why now?—

  because Menelaus has beaten your handsome Paris

  and hateful as I am, he longs to take me home?

  Is that why you beckon here beside me now

  with all the immortal cunning in your heart?

  Well, go to him yourself—you hover beside him!

  Abandon the gods’ high road and be a mortal!

  Never set foot again on Mount Olympus, never!—

  suffer for Paris, protect Paris, for eternity...

  until he makes you his wedded wife—that or his slave.

  Not I, I’ll never go back again. It would be wrong,

  disgraceful to share that coward’s bed once more.

  The women of Troy would scorn me down the years.

  Oh the torment—never-ending heartbreak!“

  But Aphrodite rounded on her in fury:

  “Don’t provoke me—wretched, headstrong girl!

  Or in my immortal rage I may just toss you over,

  hate you as I adore you now—with a vengeance.

  I might make you the butt of hard, withering hate

  from both sides at once, Trojans and Achaeans—

  then your fate can tread you down to dust!”

  So she threatened

  and Helen the daughter of mighty Zeus was terrified.

  Shrouding herself in her glinting silver robes

  she went along, in silence. None of her women

  saw her go ... The goddess led the way.

  And once they arrived at Paris’ sumptuous halls

  the attendants briskly turned to their own work

  as Helen in all her radiance climbed the steps

  to the bedroom under the high, vaulting roof.

  There Aphrodite quickly brought her a chair,

  the goddess herself with her everlasting smile,

  and set it down, face-to-face with Paris.

  And there Helen sat, Helen the child of Zeus

  whose shield is storm and lightning, glancing away,

  lashing out at her husband: “So, home from the wars!

  Oh would to god you’d died there, brought down

  by that great soldier, my husband long ago.

  And how you used to boast, year in, year out,

  that you were the better man than fighting Menelaus

  in power, arm and spear! So why not go back now,

  hurl your challenge at Menelaus dear to Ares,

  fight it out together, man-to-man again?

  Wait,

  take my advice and call a halt right here:

  no more battling with fiery-haired Menelaus,

  pitting strength against strength in single combat—

  madness. He just might impale you on his spear!“

  But Paris replied at once to Helen’s challenge:

  “No more, dear one—don’t rake me with your taunts,

  myself and all my courage. This time, true,

  Menelaus has won the day, thanks to Athena.

  I’ll bring him down tomorrow.

  Even we have gods who battle on our side.

  But come—

  let’s go to bed, let’s lose ourselves in love!

  Never has longing for you overwhelmed me so,

  no, not even then, I tell you, that first time

  when I swept you up from the lovely hills of Lacedaemon,

  sailed you off and away in the racing deep-sea ships

  and we went and locked in love on Rocky Island ...

  That was nothing to how I hunger for you now—

  irresistible longing lays me low!“

  He led the way to bed. His wife went with him.

  And now, while the two made love in the large carved bed,

  Menelaus stalked like a wild beast, up and down the lines—

  where could he catch a glimpse of magnificent Paris?

  Not a single Trojan, none of their famous allies

  could point out Paris to battle-hungry Menelaus.

  Not that they would hide him out of friendship,

  even if someone saw him—

  all of them hated him like death, black death.

  But marshal Agamemnon called out to the armies,

  “Hear me now, you Trojans, Dardans, Trojan allies!

  Clearly victory goes to Menelaus dear to Ares.

  You must surrender Helen and all her treasure with her.

  At once—and pay us reparations fair and fitting,

  a price to inspire generations still to come!”

  So Atrides demanded. His armies roared assent.

  BOOK FOUR

  The Truce Erupts in War

  Now aloft by the side of Zeus the gods sat in council,

  conferring across Olympus’ golden floor as noble Hebe

  poured them rounds of nectar. They lifted golden beakers,

  pledging each other warmly, gazing down on Troy ...

  But abruptly Zeus was set on infuriating Hera,

  courting her fire with cunning, mocking taunts: “So,

  those two goddesses there are Menelaus’ best defense,

  Hera of Argos, Boeotian Athena, guard of armies.

  Look at them—sitting apart, watching the dueling.

  So they take their pleasure. But Aphrodite here

  with her everlasting laughter always stands by Paris

  and drives the deadly spirits from her man. Why,

  just now she plucked him away, she saved his life

  when he thought his end had come. Nevertheless—

  clearly victory goes to Menelaus dear to Ares.

  So now we plan how the war will all work out:

  do we rouse the pain and grisly fighting once again

  or hand down pacts of peace between both armies?

  Ah if only it might prove well and good to all,

  to every immortal god, men might still live on

  in royal Priam’s citadel. And Helen of Argos?<
br />
  Menelaus just might lead her home again.”

  So he mocked

  as Athena and Queen Hera muttered between themselves,

  huddled together, plotting Troy’s destruction.

  True, Athena held her peace and said nothing ...

  smoldering at the Father, seized with wild resentment.

  But Hera could hold the anger in her breast no longer,

  suddenly bursting out, “Dread majesty, son of Cronus,

  what are you saying? How can you think of making

  all my labor worthless, all gone for nothing?

  Mortal labor—the sweat I poured, my horses panting,

  spent from launching Achaea’s armies, heaping pains

  on Priam and Priam’s sons.

  Do as you please—

  but none of the deathless gods will ever praise you.“

  Rising in anger, Zeus who drives the storm clouds

  thundered, “Insatiable Hera! How great are the pains

  that Priam and Priam’s sons have heaped on you

  that you rage on, relentless, forever bent on razing

  the well-built heights of Troy? Only if you could breach

  their gates and their long walls and devour Priam

  and Priam’s sons and the Trojan armies raw—

  then you just might cure your rage at last.

  Well, do as you please. But in days to come

  don’t let this quarrel breed some towering clash

  between us both, pitting you and me in conflict.

  One more thing—take it to heart, I urge you.

  Whenever I am bent on tearing down some city

  filled with men you love—to please myself—

  never attempt to thwart my fury, Hera,

  give me my way. For I, I gave you this,

  all of my own free will but hardly willing. No,

  of all the cities under the sun and starry skies,

  wherever men who walk the earth have dwelled,

  I honor sacred Ilium most with my immortal heart:

  Priam and men of Priam who hurls the strong ash spear.

  Never once did my altar lack its share of victims,

  winecups tipped and the deep smoky savor. These,

  these are the gifts we claim—they are our rights.”

  And Hera the Queen, her eyes wide, answered,

  “Excellent! The three cities that I love best of all

  are Argos and Sparta, Mycenae with streets as broad as Troy’s.

  Raze them—whenever they stir the hatred in your heart.

  My cities ... I will never rise in their defense,

  not against you—I’d never grudge your pleasure.

  What if I did protest, forbid you to raze their walls?

  What good would protest do? You are far stronger than I.

  Still, you must not make my labor come to nothing.

  I am a god too. My descent the same as yours—

  crooked-minded Cronus fathered me as well,

  the first of all his daughters, first both ways:

  both by birth and since I am called your consort

  and you in turn rule all the immortal gods.

  So come, let us yield to each other now

  on this one point, I to you and you to me,

  and the other deathless powers will fall in line.

  But quickly, order Athena down to battle now,

  into the killing-ground of Trojans and Achaeans—

  and see that the Trojans break the sworn truce first

  and trample on the Argives in their triumph!”

  The father of men and gods complied at once.

  He winged Athena on with a flight of orders: “Quickly!

  Down you go to Troy’s and Achaea’s armies now—

  and see that the Trojans break the sworn truce first

  and trample on the Argives in their triumph.”

  So he launched Athena already poised for action.

  Down the goddess swept from Olympus’ craggy peaks

  and dove like a star the son of Cronus flings.

  Cronus with all his turning, twisting ways—

  a sign to men at sea or a massive army marching,

  blazing on with a stream of sparks showering in its wake.

  Like a shooting star Athena flashed across the earth,

  plunging down in the midst of both camped forces.

  Terror gripped the fighters looking on,

  stallion-breaking Trojans, Argive men-at-arms.

  One would glance at a comrade, groaning, “What next—

  battle again, more pain and grisly fighting?

  Or pacts between both armies? Peace from Zeus,

  the great steward on high who rules our mortal wars?”

  As Achaeans and Trojans wondered what was coming,

  Athena merged in the Trojan columns like a fighter,

  like Antenor’s son the rugged spearman Laodocus,

  hunting for Pandarus, hoping to find the archer.

  Find him she did, Lycaon’s skilled, fearless son,

  standing by, flanked by the bands of shielded men

  who’d trooped with him from Aesepus’ dark rapids.

  Athena halted beside him, let her challenge fly:

  “Here’s glory, son of Lycaon—let me tempt you,

  you with your archer’s skill! Have you the daring

  to wing an arrow at Menelaus? Just think what thanks,

  what fame you’d win in the eyes of all the Trojans,

  Prince Paris most of all. The first among all,

  you’d bear off shining, priceless gifts from him.

  Just let him see Menelaus, Atreus’ fighting son

  brought down by your shaft and hoisted onto his pyre,

  mourned with grief and tears! Come, up with you,

  whip an arrow at this invincible Menetaus—now!

  But swear to Apollo, Wolf-god, glorious Archer,

  you’ll slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs

  when you march home to Zelea’s sacred city.”

  So Athena fired the fool’s heart inside him.

  Then and there he unstrapped his polished bow,

  the horn of a wild goat he’d shot in the chest

  one day as the springy ibex clambered down a cliff.

  Lurking there under cover, he hit it in the heart

  and the fine kill went sprawling down the rocks.

  The horns on its head ran sixteen hands in length

  and a bowyer good with goat-horn worked them up,

  fitted, clasped them tight, sanded them smooth

  and set the golden notch-rings at the tips.

  Superb equipment—bending it back hard

  the archer strung his bow . . .

  propping an end against the ground as cohorts

  braced their shields in a tight wedge to hide him,

  fearing bands of Argives might just leap to their feet

  before he could hit Menelaus, Atreus’ fighting son.

  He flipped the lid of his quiver, plucked an arrow

  fletched and never shot, a shaft of black pain.

  Quickly notching the sharp arrow on the string