The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  “Hector, now you’ll learn, once and for all,

  in combat man-to-man, what kind of champions

  range the Argive ranks, even besides Achilles,

  that lionheart who mauls battalions wholesale.

  Off in his beaked seagoing ships Achilles lies,

  raging away at Agamemnon, marshal of armies—

  but here we are, strong enough to engage you,

  and plenty of us too. Come—

  lead off, if you can, with all your fighting power!”

  A flash of his helmet as rangy Hector shook his head:

  “Ajax, royal son of Telamon, captain of armies,

  don’t toy with me like a puny, weak-kneed boy

  or a woman never trained in works of war!

  War—I know it well, and the butchery of men.

  Well I know, shift to the left, shift to the right

  my tough tanned shield. That’s what the real drill,

  defensive fighting means to me. I know it all,

  how to charge in the rush of plunging horses—

  I know how to stand and fight to the finish,

  twist and lunge in the War-god’s deadly dance.

  On guard!

  Big and bluff as you are, I’ve no desire to hit you

  sniping in on the sly—

  I’d strike you out in the open, strike you now!”

  He hurled—

  his spear’s long shadow flew and it struck Ajax’ shield,

  that awesome seven-layered buckler, right on the eighth,

  the outside layer of bronze that topped it off,

  through six hides it tore but the seventh stopped

  the relentless brazen point.

  But Great Ajax next—

  dear to the gods he hurled and his spear’s shadow flew

  and the shaft hit Hector’s round shield, hit full center—

  straight through the gleaming hide the heavy weapon drove,

  ripping down and in through the breastplate finely worked,

  tearing the war-shirt, close by Hector’s flank it jabbed

  but the Trojan swerved aside and dodged black death.

  Both seized their lances, wrenched them from the shields

  and went for each other now like lions rending flesh

  or a pair of wild boars whose power never flags.

  Hector stabbed at the buckler, full center too,

  not smashing through, the brazen point bent back—

  and Ajax lunged at him, thrusting hard at his shield

  and the shaft punched through, rammed him back in his fury

  and grazed his neck and the dark blood gushed forth.

  But not even then did Hector quit the battle . . .

  backing, helmet flashing, his strong hand hefting

  a rock from the field, dark, jagged, a ton weight—

  he hurled it at Ajax, struck the gigantic shield,

  seven oxhides thick, struck right on the jutting boss

  and the bronze clanged, echoing round and round as Ajax

  hoisting a boulder—far larger—wheeled and heaved it,

  putting his weight behind it, tremendous force—

  and the rock crashed home, Hector’s shield burst in,

  hit by a millstone—and Hector’s fine knees buckled,

  flat on his back he went, his shield crushing down on him

  swept him off his feet. But Apollo quickly pulled him up—

  and now they’d have closed with swords, hacked each other

  if heralds of Zeus and men had not come rushing in,

  one from the Trojans, one from the armed Achaeans,

  Talthybius and Idaeus, both with good clear heads.

  Parting them, holding their staffs between both men,

  the herald Idaeus, cool, skilled in tactics, urged,

  “No more, my sons—don’t kill yourselves in combat!

  Zeus who marshals the storm cloud loves you both.

  You’re both great fighters—we all know that full well.

  The night comes on at last. Best to yield to night.”

  But the giant Ajax answered briskly, “Wait,

  Idaeus, tell Hector here to call the truce.

  Mad for a fight, he challenged all our bravest.

  Let him lead off. I’ll take his lead, you’ll see.”

  His helmet flashed as Hector nodded: “Yes, Ajax,

  since god has given you power, build and sense

  and you are the strongest spearman of Achaea,

  let us break off this dueling to the death,

  at least for today. We’ll fight again tomorrow,

  until some fatal power decides between our armies,

  handing victory down to one side or another. Look,

  the night comes at last. Best to yield to night.

  So you will bring some joy to Achaea’s forces

  camped beside their ships, and most of all

  to your own troops, the comrades you command.

  But I’ll go back to the great city of King Priam

  and bring some joy to the men of Troy and Trojan women

  trailing their long robes. Thankful for my return

  they’ll go to meet the gods and sing their praises.

  Come,

  let us give each other gifts, unforgettable gifts,

  so any man may say, Trojan soldier or Argive,

  ‘First they fought with heart-devouring hatred,

  then they parted, bound by pacts of friendship.’ “

  With that he gave him his silver-studded sword,

  slung in its sheath on a supple, well-cut sword-strap,

  and Ajax gave his war-belt, glistening purple.

  So both men parted, Ajax back to Achaea’s armies,

  Hector back to his thronging Trojans—overjoyed

  to see him still alive, unharmed, striding back,

  free of the rage and hands of Ajax still unconquered.

  They escorted him home to Troy—saved, past all their hopes—

  while far across the field the Achaean men-at-arms

  escorted Ajax, thrilled with victory, back to Agamemnon.

  Soon as they had gathered within the warlord’s tents

  he sacrificed an ox in their midst, a full-grown ox,

  five years old, to the towering son of Cronus, Zeus.

  They skinned the animal quickly, butchered the carcass,

  expertly cut the meat into pieces, pierced them with spits,

  roasted them to a turn and pulled them off the fire.

  The work done, the feast laid out, they ate well

  and no man’s hunger lacked a share of the banquet.

  But the lord of far-flung kingdoms, hero Agamemnon,

  honored giant Telamonian Ajax first and last

  with the long savory cuts that line the backbone.

  And when they had put aside desire for food and drink

  the old man began to weave his counsel among them:

  Nestor was first to speak—from the early days

  his plans and tactics always seemed the best.

  With good will to the lords he rose and spoke:

  “King Agamemnon, chiefs of all the Argives—

  how many long-haired Achaeans lie here dead!

  And now Ares the slashing god of war has swirled

  their dark blood in Scamander’s deep clear stream

  and their souls have drifted down to the House of Death.

  So at dawn you must call a halt to fighting by Achaeans,

  form your units, bring on wagons, gather up the dead

  and wheel the corpses back with mules and oxen. Then,

  at a decent distance from the ships, we bum the bodies,

  so every soldier here can carry back the bones

  to a dead man’s sons when he sails home again.

  And let us heap a single great barrow over the pyre,

  one great communal grave stretched out across the plain

  and front
ing it throw up looming ramparts quickly,

  a landward wall for ships and troops themselves.

  And amidst the wall build gateways fitted strong

  to open a clear path for driving chariots through.

  And just outside the wall we must dig a trench,

  a deep ditch in a broad sweeping ring

  to block their horse and men and break their charge—

  then these headlong Trojans can never rush our armies.”

  So he advised. All the warlords sounded their assent.

  And now the Trojans collected high on the crest of Troy.

  They were shaken, distracted men at Priam’s gates

  but the clearheaded Antenor opened up among them:

  “Hear me, Trojans, Dardans, all our loyal allies,

  I must speak out what the heart inside me urges.

  On with it—give Argive Helen and all her treasures

  back to Atreus’ sons to take away at last.

  We broke our sworn truce. We fight as outlaws.

  True, and what profit for us in the long run?

  Nothing—unless we do exactly as I say.”

  So he pressed the point, then took his seat.

  But among them stood magnificent Paris now,

  fair-haired Helen’s lord, and he came back

  with a winging burst in answer: “Stop, Antenor!

  No more of your hot insistence—it repels me.

  You must have something better than this to say.

  But if you are serious, speaking from the heart,

  the gods themselves have blotted out your senses.

  Now I say this to our stallion-breaking Trojans,

  I say No, straight out—I won’t give up the woman!

  But those treasures I once hauled home from Argos,

  I’ll return them all and add from my own stores.”

  With that concession the prince sat down again.

  Then Priam the son of Dardanus rose among them,

  a man who could match the gods for strong advice,

  and with good will toward all he swayed his people:

  “Hear me, Trojans, Dardans, all our loyal allies—

  I must speak out what the heart inside me urges.

  Now take your evening meal throughout the city,

  just as you always have, and stand your watches,

  each man wide awake. And then, at first light,

  let the herald Idaeus go to the beaked ships

  and tell the Atridae, Agamemnon and Menelaus,

  the offer of Paris who caused our long hard campaign.

  Let Idaeus add this too, a good sound proposal:

  see if they are willing to halt the brutal war

  until we can burn the bodies of our dead.

  We’ll fight again tomorrow ...

  until some fatal power decides between us both,

  handing victory down to our side—or the other.”

  His people hung on his words and all obeyed the king.

  They took their meal by ranks throughout the army.

  At first light Idaeus went to the beaked ships

  and out on the meeting grounds he found the Argives,

  veterans close by the stem of Agamemnon’s ship.

  Taking his stand, right in the milling troops,

  the herald called out in a high, firm voice,

  “Son of Atreus! Captains of all Achaeans!

  Priam and noble Trojans command me to report,

  if it proves acceptable, pleasing to one and all,

  the offer of Paris who caused our long hard campaign.

  All the treasures that filled his hollow ships

  and the prince hauled home to Troy—

  would to god he’d drowned before that day!—

  he’ll return them all and add from his own stores.

  But the lawful wife of Menelaus, renowned Menelaus,

  he will not give her up, Paris makes that clear,

  though all Troy commands him to do precisely that.

  They tell me to add this too, a good sound proposal:

  if you are willing, come, we’ll halt the brutal war

  until we can bum the bodies of our dead.

  We’ll fight again tomorrow—

  until some fatal power decides between us both,

  handing victory down to one side or the other.”

  So he spoke

  and a hushed silence went through all the ranks.

  Finally Diomedes lord of the war cry shouted out,

  “No one touch the treasures of Paris, Helen either!

  It’s obvious—any fool can see it. Now, at last,

  the neck of Troy’s in the noose—her doom is sealed.”

  All the Achaean soldiers roared out their assent,

  stirred by the stallion-breaking lord’s reply,

  and King Agamemnon rounded on Idaeus: “There,

  there’s the Achaeans’ answer, Idaeus—a declaration—

  you can hear for yourself. It is my pleasure too.

  But about the dead, I’d never grudge their burning.

  No holding back for the bodies of the fallen:

  once they are gone, let fire soothe them quickly.

  That is my sworn pledge. Zeus my witness now,

  Hera’s lord whose thunder drums the sky!”

  With that oath

  he raised his scepter high in the eyes of all the gods

  and Idaeus turned, trailing back to sacred Troy.

  There they sat in assembly, Trojans, Dardans,

  all collected together, waiting long and tense

  for the herald to return. And home Idaeus came,

  delivered his message standing in their midst

  and they fell to making hurried preparations,

  dividing the labors quickly—two detachments,

  one to gather the bodies, one the timber.

  And far on the other side Achaean troops

  came streaming out of the well-benched ships,

  some to gather the bodies, some the timber.

  Just as the sun began to strike the plowlands,

  rising out of the deep calm flow of the Ocean River

  to climb the vaulting sky, the opposing armies met.

  And hard as it was to recognize each man, each body,

  with clear water they washed the clotted blood away

  and lifted them onto wagons, weeping warm tears.

  Priam forbade his people to wail aloud. In silence

  they piled the corpses on the pyre, their hearts breaking,

  burned them down to ash and returned to sacred Troy.

  And just so on the other side Achaean men-at-arms

  piled the corpses on the pyre, their hearts breaking,

  burned them down to ash and returned to the hollow ships.

  Then with the daybreak not quite risen into dawn,

  the night and day still deadlocked, round the pyre

  a work brigade of picked Achaeans grouped.

  They heaped a single great barrow over the corpse-fire,

  one great communal grave stretched out across the plain

  and fronting it threw up looming ramparts quickly,