The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

the son and the son’s son of Zeus who marshals storms,

  Tlepolemus opened up to taunt his enemy first:

  “Sarpedon, master strategist of the Lycians,

  what compels you to cringe and cower here?

  You raw recruit, green at the skills of battle!

  They lie when they say you’re born of storming Zeus.

  Look at yourself. How short you fall of the fighters

  sired by Zeus in the generations long before us!

  Why, think what they say of mighty Heracles—

  there was a man, my father,

  that dauntless, furious spirit, that lionheart.

  He once sailed here for Laomedon’s blooded horses,

  with just six ships and smaller crews than yours, true,

  but he razed the walls of Troy, he widowed all her streets.

  You with your coward’s heart, your men dying round youl

  You’re no bulwark come out of Lycia, I can tell you—

  no help to Trojans here. For all your power, soldier,

  crushed at my hands you’ll breach the gates of Death!”

  But Sarpedon the Lycian captain faced him down:

  “Right you are, Tlepolemus! Your great father

  destroyed the sacred heights of Troy, thanks,

  of course, to a man’s stupidity, proud Laomedon.

  That fool—he rewarded all his kindness with abuse,

  never gave him the mares he’d come so far to win.

  But the only thing you’ll win at my hands here,

  I promise you, is slaughter and black doom.

  Gouged by my spear you’ll give me glory now,

  you’ll give your life to the famous horseman Death!”

  In fast reply Tlepolemus raised his ashen spear

  and the same moment shafts flew from their hands

  and Sarpedon hit him square across the neck,

  the spear went ramming through—pure agony—

  black night came swirling down across his eyes.

  But Tlepolemus’ shaft had struck Sarpedon too,

  the honed tip of the weapon hitting his left thigh,

  ferocious, razoring into flesh and scraping bone

  but his Father beat off death a little longer.

  Heroic Sarpedon—

  his loyal comrades bore him out of the fighting quickly,

  weighed down by the heavy spearshaft dragging on.

  But hurrying so, no one noticed or even thought

  to wrench the ashen javelin from his thigh

  so the man could hobble upright. On they rushed,

  bent on the work of tending to his body.

  Tlepolemus—

  far across the lines the armed Achaeans hauled him

  out of the fight, and seasoned Odysseus saw it,

  his brave spirit steady, ablaze for action now.

  What should he do?—he racked his heart and soul—

  lunge at Prince Sarpedon, son of storming Zeus,

  or go at the Lycians’ mass and kill them all?

  But no, it was not the gallant Odysseus’ fate

  to finish Zeus’s rugged son with his sharp bronze,

  so Pallas swung his fury against the Lycian front.

  Whirling, killing Coeranus, Chromius and Alastor,

  killing Alcander and Halius, Prytanis and Noemon—

  and stalwart Odysseus would have killed still more

  but tall Hector, his helmet flashing, marked him quickly,

  plowed through the front, helmed in fiery bronze,

  filling the Argives’ hearts with sudden terror.

  And Zeus’s son Sarpedon rejoiced to see him

  striding past and begged him in his pain,

  “Son of Priam, don’t leave me lying here,

  such easy prey for the Danaans—protect me!

  Later I’ll bleed to death inside your walls.

  Clearly it’s not my fate

  to journey home again to the fatherland I love,

  to bring some joy to my dear wife, my baby son.”

  But Hector,

  his helmet flashing, answered nothing—he swept past him,

  Hector burning to thrust the Argives back at once

  and tear the life and soul out of whole battalions.

  But Sarpedon’s loyal comrades laid him down,

  a man like a god beneath a fine spreading oak

  sacred to Zeus whose shield is banked with clouds.

  The veteran Pelagon, one of his closest aides,

  pushed the shaft of ashwood out through his wound—

  his spirit left him—a mist poured down his eyes . . .

  but he caught his breath again. A gust of the North Wind

  blowing round him carried back the life breath

  he had gasped away in pain.

  But the Argive fighters?

  Facing Ares’ power and Hector helmed in bronze,

  they neither turned and ran for their black ships

  nor traded blows with enemies man-to-man.

  Backing over and over, the Argives gave ground,

  seeing the lord of battles lead the Trojan onset.

  Who was the first they slaughtered, who the last,

  the brazen god of war and Hector son of Priam?

  Teuthras first, Orestes lasher of stallions next,

  an Aetolian spearman Trechus, Oenomaus and Helenus,

  Oenops’ son, and Oresbius cinched with shining belt

  who had lived in Hyle hoarding his great wealth,

  his estate aslope the shores of Lake Cephisus,

  and round him Boeotians held the fertile plain.

  But soon as the white-armed goddess Hera saw them

  mauling Argive units caught in the bloody press,

  she winged her words at Pallas: “What disaster!

  Daughter of storming Zeus, tireless one, Athena—

  how hollow our vow to Menelaus that he would sack

  the mighty walls of Troy before he sailed for home—

  if we let murderous Ares rampage on this way. Up now,

  set our minds on our own fighting-fury!”

  Hera’s challenge—

  and goddess Athena, her eyes afire, could not resist.

  Hera queen of the gods, daughter of giant Cronus,

  launched the work, harnessed the golden-bridled team

  and Hebe quickly rolled the wheels to the chariot,

  paired wheels with their eight spokes all bronze,

  and bolted them on at both ends of the iron axle.

  Fine wheels with fellies of solid, deathless gold

  and round them running rims of bronze clamped fast—

  a marvel to behold! The silver hubs spin round

  on either side of the chariot’s woven body,

  gold and silver lashings strapping it tight,

  double rails sweeping along its deep full curves

  and the yoke-pole jutting forward, gleaming silver.

  There at the tip she bound the gorgeous golden yoke,

  she fastened the gorgeous golden breast straps next

  and under the yoke Queen Hera led the horses, racers

  blazing for war and the piercing shrieks of battle.

  Then Athena, child of Zeus whose shield is thunder,

  letting fall her supple robe at the Father’s threshold—

  rich brocade, stitched with her own hands’ labor—

  donned the battle-shirt of the lord of lightning,

  buckled her breastplate geared for wrenching war

  and over her shoulders slung her shield, all tassels

  flaring terror—Panic mounted high in a crown around it,

  Hate and Defense across it, Assault to freeze the blood

  and right in their midst the Gorgon’s monstrous head,

  that rippling dragon horror, sign of storming Zeus.

  Then over her brows Athena placed her golden helmet

  fronted with four knobs and forked with twin horns,

&nbs
p; engraved with the fighting men of a hundred towns.

  Then onto the flaming chariot Pallas set her feet

  and seized her spear—weighted, heavy, the massive shaft

  she wields to break the battle lines of heroes

  the mighty Father’s daughter storms against.

  A crack of the whip—

  the goddess Hera lashed the team, and all on their own force

  the gates of heaven thundered open, kept by the Seasons,

  guards of the vaulting sky and Olympus heights empowered

  to spread the massing clouds or close them round once more.

  Now straight through the great gates she drove the team,

  whipping them on full tilt until they came to Zeus

  the son of Cronus sitting far from the other gods,

  throned on the topmost crag of rugged ridged Olympus.

  And halting her horses near, the white-armed Hera

  called out at once to the powerful son of Cronus,

  pressing home her questions: “Father Zeus, look—

  aren’t you incensed at Ares and all his brutal work?

  Killing so many brave Achaeans for no good reason,

  not a shred of decency, just to wound my heart!

  While there they sit at their royal ease, exulting,

  the goddess of love and Apollo lord of the silver bow:

  they loosed this manic Ares—he has no sense of justice.

  Father Zeus . . . I wonder if you would fume at me

  if I hurled a stunning blow at the god of war

  and drove him from the fighting?”

  Zeus the Father

  who marshals ranks of storm clouds gave commands,

  “Leap to it then. Launch Athena against him—

  the queen of plunder, she’s the one—his match,

  a marvel at bringing Ares down in pain.”

  So he urged and the white-armed goddess Hera

  obeyed at once. And again she lashed her team

  and again the stallions flew, holding nothing back,

  careering between the earth and starry skies as far

  as a man’s glance can pierce the horizon’s misting haze,

  a scout on a watchtower who scans the wine-dark sea—

  so far do the soaring, thundering horses of the gods

  leap at a single stride. And once they reached

  the plains of Troy where the two rivers flow,

  where Simois and Scamander rush together,

  the white-armed goddess Hera reined her team,

  loosing them from the chariot-yoke and round them

  poured a dense shrouding mist and before their hoofs

  the Simois sprang ambrosial grass for them to graze.

  The two immortals stepped briskly as wild doves,

  quivering, keen to defend the fighting men of Argos.

  Once they gained the spot where the most and bravest stood,

  flanking strong Diomedes breaker of wild stallions—

  massed like a pride of lions tearing raw flesh

  or ramping boars whose fury never flags—

  the white-armed goddess Hera rose and shouted

  loud as the brazen voice of great-lunged Stentor

  who cries out with the blast of fifty other men,

  “Shame! Disgrace! You Argives, you degraded—

  splendid in battle dress, pure sham!

  As long as brilliant Achilles stalked the front

  no Trojan would ever venture beyond the Dardan Gates,

  they were so afraid of the man’s tremendous spear.

  Now they’re fighting far away from the city,

  right by your hollow ships!”

  So Hera trumpeted,

  lashing the nerve and fighting-fury in each man

  as Athena, her eyes blazing, made for Diomedes.

  Hard by his team and car she found the king,

  cooling the wound that Pandarus’ arrow dealt him.

  Sweat from under the heavy buckler’s flat strap

  had rubbed him raw, he was chafed and his arm ached

  from lifting up the strap, wiping off the blood

  and the dark clots. Laying hold of the yoke

  that bound his team, the goddess Pallas started,

  “So, Tydeus’ son is half the size of his father,

  and he was short and slight—but Tydeus was a fighter!

  Even then, when I forbade him to go to war

  or make a show of himself in others’ eyes . . .

  that time, alone, apart from his men, he marched

  the message into Thebes, filled with hordes of Thebans,

  I told him to banquet in their halls and eat in peace.

  But he always had that power, that courage from the first—

  and so he challenged the brave young blades of Thebes

  to tests of strength and beat them all with ease,

  I urged him on with so much winning force.

  But you, Tydides, I stand by you as well,

  I guard you too. And with all good will I say,

  fight it out with the Trojans here! But look at you—

  fatigue from too much charging has sapped your limbs,

  that or some lifeless fear has paralyzed you now.

  So you’re no offspring of Tydeus,

  the gallant, battle-hardened Oeneus’ son!”

  And powerful Diomedes bowed to her at once:

  “Well I know you, Goddess, daughter of storming Zeus,

  and so I will tell you all, gladly. I’ll hide nothing.

  It’s not some lifeless fear that paralyzes me now,

  no flinching from combat either.

  It’s your own command still ringing in my ears,

  forbidding me to fight the immortals head-on,

  all but one of the blessed gods, that is—

  if Aphrodite daughter of Zeus slips into battle,

  she’s the one to stab with my sharp bronze spear.

  So now, you see, I have given ground myself

  and told my comrades to mass around me here.

  Too well I know that Ares leads the charge.”

  But the goddess roused him on, her eyes blazing:

  “True son of Tydeus, Diomedes, joy of my heart!

  Forget the orders—nothing to fear, my friend,

  neither Ares nor any other god. You too,

  I’ll urge you on with so much winning force.

  Up now! Lash your racing horses at Ares first,

  strike him at close range, no shrinking away here

  before that headlong Ares! Just look at the maniac,

  born for disaster, double-dealing, lying two-faced god—

  just now he promised me and Hera, the War-god swore

  he’d fight the Trojans, stand behind the Argives.

  But now, look, he’s leading the Trojan rampage,

  his pledges thrown to the winds!”

  With that challenge

  Athena levered Sthenelus out the back of the car.

  A twist of her wrist and the man hit the ground,

  springing aside as the goddess climbed aboard,

  blazing to fight beside the shining Diomedes.