The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  be king on a par with me, take half my honors!

  These men will carry their message back, but you,

  you stay here and spend the night in a soft bed.

  Then, tomorrow at first light, we will decide

  whether we sail home or hold out here.”

  With that,

  he gave Patroclus a sharp glance, a quiet nod

  to pile the bedding deep for Phoenix now,

  a sign to the rest to think of leaving quickly.

  Giant Ajax rose to his feet, the son of Telamon,

  tall as a god, turned and broke his silence:

  “Ready, Odysseus? Royal son of Laertes,

  great tactician—come, home we go now.

  There’s no achieving our mission here, I see,

  not with this approach. Best to return at once,

  give the Achaeans a full report, defeating as it is.

  They must be sitting there, waiting for us now.

  Achilles—

  he’s made his own proud spirit so wild in his chest,

  so savage, not a thought for his comrades’ love—

  we honored him past all others by the ships.

  Hard, ruthless man . . .

  Why, any man will accept the blood-price paid

  for a brother murdered, a child done to death.

  And the murderer lives on in his own country—

  the man has paid enough, and the injured kinsman

  curbs his pride, his smoldering, vengeful spirit,

  once he takes the price.

  You—the gods have planted

  a cruel, relentless fury in your chest! All for a girl,

  just one, and here we offer you seven—outstanding beauties—

  that, and a treasure trove besides. Achilles,

  put some human kindness in your heart.

  Show respect for your own house. Here we are,

  under your roof, sent from the whole Achaean force!

  Past all other men, all other Achaean comrades,

  we long to be your closest, dearest friends.“

  And the swift runner Achilles answered warmly,

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

  all well said, after my own heart, or mostly so.

  But my heart still heaves with rage

  whenever I call to mind that arrogance of his—

  how he mortified me, right in front of the Argives—

  that son of Atreus treating me like some vagabond,

  like some outcast stripped of all my rights!

  You go back to him and declare my message:

  I will not think of arming for bloody war again,

  not till the son of wise King Priam, dazzling Hector

  batters all the way to the Myrmidon ships and shelters,

  slaughtering Argives, gutting the hulls with fire.

  But round my own black ship and camp this Hector

  blazing for battle will be stopped, I trust—

  stopped dead in his tracks!”

  So he finished.

  Then each man, lifting his own two-handled cup,

  poured it out to the gods, and back they went

  along the ships, Odysseus in the lead.

  Patroclus told his friends and serving-women

  to pile a deep warm bed for Phoenix, quickly.

  They obeyed and spread the bed as he ordered,

  with fleeces, woolen throws and soft linen sheets.

  There the old man lay, awaiting shining Dawn.

  And deep in his well-built lodge Achilles slept

  with the woman he brought from Lesbos, Phorbas’ daughter,

  Diomede in all her beauty sleeping by his side.

  And over across from him Patroclus slept

  with the sashed and lovely Iphis by his side,

  whom Prince Achilles gave him the day he took

  the heights of Scyros, Enyeus’ rocky stronghold.

  But once the envoys reached Atrides’ shelters,

  comrades leapt to their feet, welcomed them back

  and clustering round them, lifted golden cups.

  One after another pressed them with questions,

  King Agamemnon most urgent of all: “Come—

  tell me, famous Odysseus, Achaea’s pride and glory—

  will he fight the fire off the ships? Or does he refuse,

  does rage still grip his proud, mighty spirit?”

  And the steady, long-enduring Odysseus replied,

  “Great marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon,

  that man has no intention of quenching his rage.

  He’s still bursting with anger, more than ever—

  he spurns you, spurns all your gifts. Work out

  your own defense, he says, you and your captains

  save the Argive armies and the ships. Himself?

  Achilles threatens, tomorrow at first light,

  to haul his well-benched warships out to sea.

  And what’s more, he advises all the rest,

  ‘Sail home now. You will never set your eyes

  on the day of doom that topples looming Troy.

  Thundering Zeus has spread his hands above her . . .

  her armies have taken heart.’

  That’s his answer.

  And here are men to confirm it, fellow envoys.

  Ajax and two heralds, both clear-headed men.

  But old Phoenix passes the night in camp

  as Achilles bids him, so he can voyage home,

  home in the ships with him to the fatherland they love.

  Tomorrow at dawn. But only if Phoenix wishes.

  He will never force the man to go.”

  So he reported.

  Silence held them all, struck dumb by his story,

  Odysseus’ words still ringing in their ears.

  A long while they said nothing, spirits dashed.

  Finally Diomedes lord of the war cry broke forth:

  “Great marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon—

  if only you’d never begged the dauntless son of Peleus,

  holding out to Achilles trove on trove of gifts!

  He’s a proud man at the best of times, and now

  you’ve only plunged him deeper in his pride.

  I say have done with the man—

  whether he sails for home or stays on here.

  He’ll fight again—in his own good time—whenever

  the courage in him flares and a god fires his blood.

  So come, follow my orders. And all of us unite.

  Go to sleep now, full to your heart’s content

  with food and wine, a soldier’s strength and nerve.

  Then when the Dawn’s red fingers shine in all their glory,

  quickly deploy your chariots and battalions, Agamemnon,

  out in front of the ships—you spur them on

  and you yourself, you fight in the front ranks!”

  And Achaea’s kings all shouted their assent,

  stirred by the stallion-breaking Diomedes’ challenge.

  Pouring cups to the gods, each warlord sought his shelter.

  There they spent the night and took the gift of sleep.

  BOOK TEN

  Marauding Through the Night

  So by the ships the other lords of Achaea’s armies

  slept all night long, overcome by gentle sleep . . .

  But not the great field marshal Agamemnon—

  the sweet embrace of sleep could not hold him:

  his mind kept churning, seething. Like Zeus’s bolts

  when the lord of bright-haired Hera flashes lightning,

  threatening to loose torrential rain or pelting hail

  or snow when a blizzard drifts on fields—or driving on,

  somewhere on earth, the giant jaws of rending war—

  so thick-and-fast the groans came from Atrides,

  wrenching his chest, heaving up from his heart

  and rocked his very spirit to the
core.

  Now as he scanned across the Trojan plain

  Agamemnon marveled in horror at those fires,

  a thousand fires blazing against the walls of Troy,

  and the shrill of pipes and flutes and low roar of men.

  And now as he glanced back at Achaea’s troops and ships

  he tore out his hair by the roots, he looked to Zeus on high,

  groaning from the depths of his proud, embattled heart.

  But soon this recourse struck his mind as best:

  he would go and approach the son of Neleus first

  and see if Nestor could work out something with him,

  some foolproof plan that just might ward disaster

  off the Achaean forces..

  He rose up quickly

  and over his chest he pulled a battle-shirt,

  under his smooth feet he fastened supple sandals,

  round him slung the glossy hide of a big tawny lion,

  swinging down to his heels, and grasped a spear.

  And the same anguish shook Menelaus too—

  no sleep could settle over his eyes, not now.

  He feared his men might meet the worst at last,

  comrades who crossed a waste of seas for him

  to raise Troy and mount their fierce assault.

  First he covered his broad back with leopard skin,

  a fine spotted hide, then lifting a round helmet

  of good sturdy bronze, he fitted it to his head,

  he took a spear in his grip and off he strode

  to rouse his brother, king of all the Argives,

  the armies that prized him in his power like a god.

  And Menelaus found him alongside his ship’s stern,

  strapping his handsome gear around his shoulders.

  Agamemnon warmed with pleasure as he came up

  but Menelaus lord of the war cry ventured first,

  “Why arming now, my brother? To spur a volunteer

  to spy on Trojan lines? Not a man in sight will take

  that mission on, I fear, and go against our enemies,

  scout them out alone in the bracing godsent night—

  it will take a daring man to do the job.”

  King Agamemnon answered crisply, “Tactics,

  my noble Menelaus. That’s what we need now,

  you and I both, and cunning tactics too.

  Something to shield and save our men and ships

  since Zeus’s heart has turned—his mighty heart

  is set on Hector’s offerings more than ours.

  I’ve never seen or heard tell of a single man

  wreaking so much havoc in one day as Hector,

  Zeus’s favorite, wreaks against our troops,

  and all on his own—no son of god or goddess.

  He’s made a slaughter, I tell you. Pain for Achaeans,

  enough to last us down the years to come ...

  what blows he’s dealt our men!

  Go now, call Ajax, Idomeneus, quickly,

  make a run for it down along the ships.

  I’ll go after Nestor, wake and rouse him,

  see if the good man wants to join the guard,

  that strong contingent, and give them orders.

  He’s the one they’ll obey. His own son commands

  the sentry-line, he and Idomeneus’ aide Meriones.

  They above all—we put those men in charge.”

  The lord of the war cry nodded, “Yes, fine,

  but what orders for me? Do I stay with them,

  waiting for you to come? Or follow you on the run,

  once I’ve given the captains your command?”

  The marshal made things clearer: “You stay there—

  so we don’t miss one another rushing back and forth

  in the endless maze of pathways up and down the camp.

  But shout wherever you go, tell them to stay awake.

  And call each man by his name and father’s line,

  show them all respect. Not too proud now.

  We are the ones who ought to do the work. so

  On our backs, from the day that we were bom,

  it seems that Zeus has piled his pack of hardships.”

  With his order clear, he sent his brother off

  while he went after Nestor, the old commander.

  He found him beside his black ship and shelter,

  stretched on a fleecy bed, his blazoned gear at hand,

  his shield and two long spears and burnished helmet.

  His war-belt lay beside him, gleaming in all its fire.

  The old man cinched it on whenever he’d harness up,

  marching his men to war where fighters die—

  Nestor gave no ground to withering old age.

  He propped himself on an elbow, craned his head

  and probed sharply, whispering through the dark,

  “Who goes there? Stalking along the ships,

  alone through camp in the very dead of night

  when other mortals try to catch some sleep.

  Tracking a stray mule or a lost companion? Speak!

  Don’t steal on me in silence—what do you want?”

  The lord of men Agamemnon reassured him:

  “Nestor, son of Neleus, glory of Achaea,

  don’t you recognize Agamemnon? The one man,

  past all others, Zeus has plunged in troubles,

  year in, year out, for as long as the life breath

  fills my lungs and the spring in my knees will lift me.

  I roam this way since sleep won’t close my eyes—

  war’s my worry, the agonies of our Achaeans.

  How I fear for our comrades, fear the worst!

  My mind is tom, I’m harried back and forth,

  the heart inside me pounding through my chest

  and the sturdy legs beneath me giving way.

  But if you want action now—

  sleeping is just as hard for you, it seems—

  come, let’s go down to the sentry-tine and see

  if numb with exhaustion, lack of sleep, they’ve nodded off,

  all duty wiped from their minds, the watch dissolved.

  Our blood enemies camp hard by. How do we know

  they’re not about to attack us in the night?”

  And the old charioteer warmed to his challenge:

  “Great marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon—

  Hector and Hector’s high hopes? Not a chance.

  The plans of Zeus will never bring them off,

  those dreams of glory inspiring Hector now.

  Oh I think he’ll have his troubles to shoulder,

  plenty of them too, if Achilles ever turns away

  from the heartbreaking anger deep inside him.

  Follow you? Surely. Let’s wake others also,

  Diomedes famed for his spear, Odysseus,

  quick Little Ajax and Phyleus’ brave son.

  And if only one would go and call the rest,

  giant Ajax strong as a god and King Idomeneus—

  they’re hardly close, their ships last on the line.