The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

a landward wall for ships and troops themselves,

  and amidst the wall built gateways fitted strong

  to open a clear path for driving chariots through.

  And against the fortress, just outside the wall,

  the men dug an enormous trench, broad and deep,

  and drove sharp stakes to guard it.

  So they labored,

  the long-haired Achaeans, while the gods aloft,

  seated at ease beside the lord of lightning, Zeus,

  gazed down on the grand work of Argives armed in bronze.

  Poseidon the god whose breakers shake the land began,

  “Father Zeus, is there a man on the whole wide earth

  who still informs the gods of all his plans, his schemes?

  Don’t you see? Look there—the long-haired Achaeans

  have flung that rampart up against their ships,

  around it they have dug an enormous deep trench

  and never offered the gods a hundred splendid bulls,

  but its fame will spread as far as the light of dawn!

  And men will forget those ramparts I and Apollo

  reared for Troy in the old days—

  for the hero Laomedon—we broke our backs with labor.”

  But filled with anger, Zeus who marshals the thunderheads

  let loose now: “Unbelievable! God of the earthquake,

  you with your massive power, why are you moaning so?

  Another god might fear their wall—their idle whim—

  one far weaker than you in strength of hand and fury.

  Your own fame goes spreading far as the light of dawn.

  Come now, just wait till these long-haired Achaeans

  sail back in their ships to the fatherland they love,

  then batter their wall, sweep it into the salt breakers

  and pile over the endless beach your drifts of sand again,

  level it to your heart’s content—the Argives’ mighty wall.”

  So they conferred together, building their resolve.

  The sun went down. The Argives’ work was finished.

  They slew oxen beside the tents and took their meal.

  And the ships pulled in from Lemnos bringing wine,

  a big convoy sent across by Euneus, Jason’s son

  whom Hypsipyle bore the seasoned lord of armies.

  An outright gift to Atrides Agamemnon and Menelaus,

  Euneus gave a shipment of wine, a thousand measures full.

  From the rest Achaean soldiers bought their rations,

  some with bronze and some with gleaming iron,

  some with hides, some with whole live cattle,

  some with slaves, and they made a handsome feast.

  Then all that night the long-haired Achaeans feasted

  as Trojans and Trojan allies took their meal in Troy.

  Yes, but all night long the Master Strategist Zeus

  plotted fresh disaster for both opposing armies—

  his thunder striking terror—

  and blanching panic swept across the ranks.

  They flung wine from their cups and wet the earth

  and no fighter would dare drink until he’d poured

  an offering out to the overwhelming son of Cronus.

  Then down they lay at last and took the gift of sleep.

  BOOK EIGHT

  The Tide of Battle Turns

  Now as the Dawn flung out her golden robe across the earth

  Zeus who loves the lightning summoned all the gods

  to assembly on the topmost peak of ridged Olympus.

  He harangued the immortals hanging on his words:

  “Hear me, all you gods and all goddesses too,

  as I proclaim what the heart inside me urges.

  Let no lovely goddess—and no god either—

  try to fight against my strict decree.

  All submit to it now, so all the more quickly

  I can bring this violent business to an end.

  And any god I catch, breaking ranks with us,

  eager to go and help the Trojans or Achaeans—

  back he comes to Olympus, whipped by the lightning,

  eternally disgraced. Or I will snatch and hurl him

  down to the murk of Tartarus half the world away,

  the deepest gulf that yawns beneath the ground,

  there where the iron gates and brazen threshold loom,

  as far below the House of Death as the sky rides over earth—

  then he will know how far my power tops all other gods’

  Come, try me, immortals, so all of you can learn.

  Hang a great golden cable down from the heavens,

  lay hold of it, all you gods, all goddesses too:

  you can never drag me down from sky to earth,

  not Zeus, the highest, mightiest king of kings,

  not even if you worked yourselves to death.

  But whenever I’d set my mind to drag you up,

  in deadly earnest, I’d hoist you all with ease,

  you and the earth, you and the sea, all together,

  then loop that golden cable round a horn of Olympus,

  bind it fast and Leave the whole world dangling in mid-air—

  that is how far I tower over the gods, I tower over men.”

  A stunned silence seized them all, struck dumb—

  Zeus’s ringing pronouncements overwhelmed them so.

  But finally clear-eyed Athena rose and spoke:

  “Our Father, son of Cronus, high and mighty,

  we already know your power, far too well ...

  who can stand against you?

  Even so, we pity these Argive spearmen

  living out their grim fates, dying in blood.

  Yes, we’ll keep clear of the war as you command.

  We’ll simply offer the Argives tactics that may save them—

  so they won’t all fall beneath your blazing wrath.”

  Zeus who drives the storm clouds smiled and answered,

  “Courage, Athena, third-born of the gods, dear child.

  Nothing I said was meant in earnest—trust me,

  I mean you all the good will in the world.”

  With that,

  he harnessed his bronze-hoofed horses onto his battle-car,

  his pair that raced the wind with their golden manes

  streaming on behind them, and strapping golden armor

  around his body, Zeus himself took up his whip

  that coils lithe and gold and climbed aboard.

  A crack of the lash—the team plunged to a run

  and on the stallions flew, holding nothing back

  as they winged between the earth and starry skies

  and gaining the slopes of Ida with all her springs,

  the mother of wild beasts, they reached Gargaron peak

  where the grove of Zeus and Zeus’s smoking altar stand.

  There the father of men and gods reined in his team,

  set them free and around them poured a dense mist.

  And Zeus assumed his throne on the mountaintop,

  exulting in all his glory, gazing out over

  the city walls of Troy and the warships of Achaea.

  Quickly the long-haired Achaeans took their meal

  throughout the shelters, then they armed at once.

  And on their side the Trojans put on harness too,

  mustering throughout the city, a smaller force

  but nerved to engage in combat even so—

  necessity pressed them to fight for sons and wives.

  All the gates flung wide and the Trojan mass surged out,

  horses, chariots, men on foot—a tremendous roar went up.

  And now as the armies clashed at one strategic point

  they slammed their shields together, pike scraped pike

  with the grappling strength of fighters armed in bronze

  and their round shields’ bosses pounded hide-to-hide

 
; and the thunder of struggle roared and rocked the earth.

  Screams of men and cries of triumph breaking in one breath,

  fighters killing, fighters killed, and the ground streamed blood.

  As long as morning rose and the blessed day grew stronger,

  the weapons hurtled side-to-side and men kept falling.

  But once the sun stood striding at high noon, so

  then Father Zeus held out his sacred golden scales:

  in them he placed two fates of death that lays men low—

  one for the Trojan horsemen, one for Argives armed in bronze—

  and gripping the beam mid-haft the Father raised it high

  and down went Achaea’s day of doom, Achaea’s fate

  settling down on the earth that feeds us all

  as the fate of Troy went lifting toward the sky.

  And Zeus let loose a huge crash of thunder from Ida,

  hurling his bolts in a flash against Achaea’s armies.

  The men looked on in horror. White terror seized them all.

  Neither Idomeneus nor Agamemnon dared stand his ground,

  nor did the Great and Little Ajax, old campaigners,

  Nestor alone held out,

  the noble horseman, Achaea’s watch and ward,

  but not of his own will. One horse was finished,

  hit by a shaft that fair-haired Helen’s lord,

  magnificent Paris winged at its brow’s high peak

  where the forelock crowns the skull—most fatal spot.

  It reared in agony, arrow piercing its brain and flung

  the team in panic, writhing round the brazen point

  as the old horseman hewed the trace-horse clear,

  hacked away the straps—sudden strokes of his sword.

  But on came Hector’s team in the rush-and-buck of battle,

  sweeping their driver Hector on in fighting-fury

  and then and there old Nestor would have died

  if Diomedes had not marked him fast—

  the lord of the war cry gave a harrowing shout,

  trying to rouse Odysseus: “Where are you running,

  the royal son of Laertes, cool tactician?

  Turning your back in battle like some coward!

  Cutting and running so—take care that no one

  spears you in the back! Hold firm with me—

  we’ll fight this wild maniac off the old man here!”

  But long-enduring Odysseus never heard him—

  down he dashed to the hollow Argive ships.

  So all on his own Diomedes charged the front,

  lurched to a halt before old Nestor’s team

  and winged a flight of orders at the horseman:

  “Old soldier, these young fighters wear you down—

  your strength goes slack and old age dogs your steps,

  your driver’s worthless, your horses drag their weight.

  Come, up with you now, climb aboard my chariot!

  So you can see the breed of Tros’s team, their flair

  for their own terrain as they gallop back and forth,

  one moment in flight, the next in hot pursuit—

  I took them both from Aeneas, driving terrors.

  Your own good team? Our aides will handle them—

  we’ll steer these racers straight at the Trojans now,

  the great breakers of horses. We’ll let Hector see

  if the spear in my hand is mad for bloodshed too!”

  And the old charioteer rose to the challenge.

  Aides caught his team, Sthenelus, loyal Eurymedon,

  as the two commanders boarded Diomedes’ car.

  Nestor grasped the glistening reins in both fists,

  lashed the team and they charged straight at Hector

  charging straight at them as Tydides hurled a spear

  and missed his man but he picked the driver off,

  Eniopeus son of proud Thebaeus gripping the reins—

  he slashed him beside the nipple, stabbed his chest

  and off the car he pitched, his horses balking, rearing.

  There on the spot the man’s strength and life collapsed

  and blinding grief for his driver overpowered Hector,

  stunned for his friend but he left him lying there,

  dead, and swept on, out for another hardy driver.

  Nor did his team go long without a master,

  Hector found one quickly—Iphitus’ daring son,

  Archeptolemus—mounted him up behind his racers,

  thrust the reins in the fighting driver’s hands.

  Now there would have been havoc, irreversible chaos,

  the Trojans penned in the walls of Troy like sheep,

  but the father of men and gods was quick to the mark.

  A crash of thunder! Zeus let loose a terrific bolt

  and blazing white at the hoofs of Diomedes’ team

  it split the earth, a blinding smoking flash—

  molten sulphur exploding into the air,

  stallions shying, cringing against the car—

  and the shining reins flew free of Nestor’s grip.

  His heart quaking, he cried to Diomedes, “Quick, Tydides,

  swing these stallions round and fly! Can’t you see?

  Victory comes from Zeus but not for you.

  He hands the glory to Hector, today at least—

  tomorrow it’s ours, if he wants to give us glory.

  There’s not a man alive who can fight the will of Zeus,

  even a man of iron—Zeus is so much stronger!”

  But Diomedes lord of the war cry answered,

  “Right, old soldier—all you say is true.

  But here’s the grief that cuts me to the quick:

  one day this Hector will vaunt among his Trojans,

  ‘Diomedes ran for his ships—I drove him back!’

  So he’ll boast, I know—

  let the great earth gape and take me down that dayl”

  But the noble horseman Nestor shouted back,

  “Nonsense, steady Tydeus’ son—such loose talk!

  Let Hector call you a coward, scorn your courage—

  the Trojan and Dardan troops will never believe him,

  nor will the wives of the lusty Trojan shieldsmen, never—

  you flung their lords in the dust, laid them low in their prime!”

  And with that he swung their racers round, mid-flight,

  back again to the rout—Trojans and Hector after them,

  shouting their savage cries and pelting both men now

  with spears and painful arrows. Helmet flashing,

  rangy Hector hurled a resounding yell: “Diomedes—

  once the Danaan riders prized you first of men

  with pride of place, choice meats and brimming cups.

  Now they will disgrace you, a woman after all.

  Away with you, girl, glittering little puppet!

  I’ll never yield, you’ll never mount our towers,

  never drag our women back to your ships of war—

  I’ll pack you off to the god of darkness first!”

  Fighting words,