The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  swore a binding oath: “Now Zeus my witness,

  thundering lord of Hera—no other Trojan fighter

  will ride behind that team, none but you, I swear—

  they will be your glory all your life to come!”

  So Hector vowed—with an oath he swore in vain

  but it spurred the man to action. Dolon leapt to it,

  he quickly slung a reflex bow on his back,

  over it threw the pelt of a gray wolf

  and set on his head a cap of weasel skin

  and taking a sharp spear, moved out from camp,

  heading toward the fleet—but he was never to come back

  from the enemy’s beaked ships, bringing Hector news.

  Putting the mass of horse and men behind him

  Dolon picked up speed, hot for action now,

  but keen as a god Odysseus saw him coming

  and alerted Diomedes: “Who is this?

  A man heading out of the Trojan camp!

  Why? I can’t be sure—to spy on our ships

  or loot the fallen, one of the fighters’ corpses?

  Let him get past us first, into the clear a bit,

  then rush him and overtake him double-quick!

  If he outruns us, crowd him against the ships,

  cut him off from his lines, harry him with your spear

  and never stop—so he can’t bolt back to Troy.”

  No more words. Swerving off the trail

  they both lay facedown with the corpses now

  as Dolon sped by at a dead run, the fool.

  Soon as he got a furlong’s lead ahead,

  the plowing-range of a good team of mules—

  faster than draft oxen dragging a bolted plow

  through deep fallow ground—the two raced after

  and Dolon, hearing their tread, froze stock-still,

  his heart leaping—here were friends, yes,

  fellow Trojans coming to turn him back,

  yes, Hector had just called off the mission!

  But soon as they were a spear-cast off or less

  he saw them—enemies—

  quick as a flash he sprang,

  fleeing for dear life- they sprang in pursuit

  as a pair of rip-tooth hounds

  bred for the hunt and flushing fawn or hare

  through a woody glen keep closing for the kill,

  nonstop and the prey goes screaming on ahead—

  so Odysseus raider of cities and Diomedes

  cut him off from his own lines, coursing him,

  closing nonstop with the Trojan about to break in

  on the line of sentries, racing fast for the ships—

  when Athena poured fresh strength in Tydeus’ son

  so no Achaean could beat him out for the glory

  of hitting Dolon first, Diomedes come in second.

  Rushing him with his spear in a sudden surge

  Tydides shouted, “Stop or I’ll run you through!

  You’ll never escape my spear—headtong death—

  I swear I’ll send it hurling from my fist!”

  He flung his shaft, missing the man on purpose—

  over his right shoulder the sharp spearpoint winged

  and stabbed the earth. Dead in his tracks he stopped,

  terrified, stammering, teeth chattering in his mouth,

  bled white with fear as the two men overtook him

  and panting hard, yanked and pinned his arms.

  He burst into tears, pleading, “Take me alive!

  I’ll ransom myself! Treasures cram our house,

  bronze and gold and plenty of well-wrought iron—

  father would give you anything, gladly, priceless ransom—

  if only he learns I’m still alive in Argive ships!”

  Odysseus quick with tactics answered, “Courage.

  Death is your last worry. Put your mind at rest.

  Come, tell me the truth now, point by point.

  Why prowling among the ships, cut off from camp,

  alone in the dead of night when other men are sleeping?

  To loot the fallen, one of the fighters’ corpses?

  Or did Hector send you out to spy on our ships,

  reconnoiter them stem to stern?

  Or did your own itch for glory spur you on?”

  Dolon answered, his legs shaking under him,

  “Hector—he duped me so—so many mad, blind hopes!

  He swore he’d give me the great Achilles’ stallions,

  purebred racers, his burnished bronze chariot too!

  He told me to go through the rushing dark night,

  to patrol the enemy lines and learn at once

  if the fleet’s still guarded as before or now,

  battered down at our hands, huddling together,

  you plan a quick escape, your morale too low

  to mount the watch tonight-bone-weary from battle.”

  Breaking into a smile the cool tactician laughed,

  “By god, what heroic gifts you set your heart on—

  the great Achilles’ team!

  They’re hard for mortal men to curb or drive,

  for all but Achilles-his mother is immortal.

  Now out with it, point by point. Hector—

  where did you leave the captain when you came?

  Where’s his war-gear lying? where’s his chariot?

  How are the other Trojans posted—guards, sleepers?

  What plans are they mapping, what maneuvers next?

  Are they bent on holding tight by the ships, exposed?—

  or heading home to Troy, now they’ve trounced our armies?”

  And Dolon son of the herald blurted out, “Yes, yes,

  I’ll tell you everything, down to the last detail!

  Hector’s holding council with all his chiefs,

  mapping plans on old King Ilus’ barrow,

  clear of the crowds at camp. Guards, my lord?

  Nothing. No one’s picked to defend the army.

  Only our native Trojans hold their posts—

  many as those with hearth fires back in Troy—

  our men have no choice, shouting out to each other,

  ‘Stay awake! keep watch!’ But our far-flung friends,

  they’re fast asleep, they leave the watch to us—

  their wives and children are hardly camped nearby.”

  But the shrewd tactician kept on pressing: “Be precise.

  Where are they sleeping? Mixed in with the Trojans?

  Separate quarters? Tell me. I must know it all.”

  And Dolon son of the herald kept on blurting,

  “Everything—anything—whatever will satisfy you!

  To seaward, Carians, Paeonian men with bent bows,

  Leleges and Cauconians, crack Pelasgians—inland,

  toward Thymbra, camp the Lycians, swaggering Mysians,

  fighting Phrygian horsemen, Maeonian chariot-drivers

  but why interrogate me down to the last platoon?

  You really want to raid some enemy units?

  There are the Thracians, look, just arrived,

  exposed on the flank, apart from all the rest

  and right in their midst Eioneus’ son, King Rhesus.

  His are the best horses I ever saw, the biggest,

  whiter than snow, and speed to match the wind!

  His chariot’s finished off with gold and silver,

  the armor he’s brought in with him, gold too,

  tremendous equipment—what a marvelous sight.

  No gear for a mortal man to wear, I’d say,

  it’s fit for the deathless gods!

  There. Now will you take me to your ships

  or leave me here—bound and gagged right here?—

  till you can make your raid and test my story,

  see if I’ve told the truth or I’ve been lying.”

  But rugged Diomedes gave him a grim look:

  “Escape? Take my adv
ice and wipe it from your mind,

  good as your message is—you’re in my hands now.

  What if we set you free or you should slip away?

  Back you’ll slink to our fast ships tomorrow,

  playing the spy again or fighting face-to-face.

  But if I snuff your life out in my hands,

  you’ll never annoy our Argive lines again.”

  With that, just as Dolon reached up for his chin

  to cling with a frantic hand and beg for life,

  Diomedes struck him square across the neck—

  a flashing hack of the sword—both tendons snapped

  and the shrieking head went tumbling in the dust.

  They tore the weasel-cap from the head, stripped

  the wolf pelt, the reflex bow and long tough spear

  and swinging the trophies high to Pallas queen of plunder,

  exultant royal Odysseus shouted out this prayer:

  “Here, Goddess, rejoice in these, they’re yours!

  You are the first of all the gods we’ll call!

  Now guide us again, Athena, guide us against

  that Thracian camp and horses!”

  So Odysseus prayed

  and hoisting the spoils over his head, heaved them

  onto a tamarisk bush nearby and against it heaped

  a good clear landmark, clumping together reeds

  and fresh tamarisk boughs they’d never miss

  as they ran back through the rushing dark night.

  On they stalked through armor and black pools of blood

  and suddenly reached their goal, the Thracian outpost.

  The troops were sleeping, weary from pitching camp,

  their weapons piled‘beside them on the ground,

  three neat rows of the burnished well-kept arms

  and beside each man his pair of battle-horses.

  Right in the midst lay Rhesus dead asleep,

  his white racers beside him, strapped by thongs

  to his chariot’s outer rail. Spotting him first

  Odysseus quickly pointed him out to Diomedes:

  “Look, here’s our man, here are his horses.

  The ones marked out by the rascal we just killed.

  On with it now—show us your strength, full force.

  Don’t just stand there, useless with your weapons.

  Loose those horses—or you go kill the men

  and leave the team to me!”

  Athena, eyes blazing,

  breathed fury in Diomedes and he went whirling

  into the slaughter now, hacking left and right

  and hideous groans broke from the dying Thracians

  slashed by the sword—the ground ran red with blood.

  As a lion springs on flocks unguarded, shepherd gone,

  pouncing on goats or sheep and claw-mad for the kill,

  so Tydeus’ son went tearing into that Thracian camp

  until he’d butchered twelve. Each man he’d stand above

  and chop with the sword, the cool tactician Odysseus

  grappled from behind, grabbing the fighter’s heels,

  dragging him out of the way with one thought in mind:

  that team with their flowing manes must get through fast,

  not quake at heart and balk, trampling over the dead,

  those purebred horses still not used to corpses.

  But now the son of Tydeus came upon the king,

  the thirteenth man, and ripped away his life,

  his sweet life as he lay there breathing hard.

  A nightmare hovered above his head that night—

  Diomedes himself! sped by Athena’s battle-plan-

  while staunch Odysseus loosed the stamping horses,

  hitched them together tight with their own reins

  and drove them through the ruck,

  lashing them with his bow: he forgot to snatch

  the shining whip that lay in the well-wrought car.

  He whistled shrill, his signal to rugged Diomedes

  pausing, deep in thought ... what was the worst,

  most brazen thing he could do? Seize the car

  where the handsome armor lay and pull it out

  by the pole or prize it up, bodily, haul it off—

  or tear the life from still more Thracian troops?

  His mind swarming with all this, Pallas Athena

  swept to his side and cautioned Diomedes, “Back—

  think only of getting back, great son of Tydeus!

  Back to the ships, quick, or you’ll run for your life!

  Some other god—who knows?—may wake the Trojans.”

  The goddess’ voice—he knew it, mounted at once

  as Odysseus whacked the stallions smartly with his bow

  and they made a run for Achaea’s rapid ships.

  But Apollo lord of the silver bow kept watch.

  No blind man’s watch, no, Apollo saw Athena

  take Tydides in hand, and raging against her

  plunged into the main mass of Trojan fighters

  to rouse a Thracian captain called Hippocoon,

  a loyal kinsman of Rhesus. He woke with a jolt

  and seeing empty ground where the fast team had stood,

  men gasping out their lives, retching in all that carnage,

  he wailed out, sobbing, crying his dear companion’s name

  and piercing wails broke as the Trojans swirled in panic—

  a desperate rout of them rushing up to the bloodbath there

  stood staring down at the grisly work the marauders did

  before they made their dash for the beaked ships.

  Reaching the place where they’d killed Hector’s spy,

  Odysseus dear to Zeus reined in the headlong team

  and leaping down to the ground Tydides heaved

  the bloody spoils into his comrade’s arms.

  He mounted again and flogged the horses hard

  and on they flew to the ships, holding nothing back—

  that’s where their spirits drove them on to go.

  Nestor, the first to hear their thunder, shouted,

  “Friends—lords of the Argives, all our captains,

  right or wrong, what can I say? My heart tells me,

  my ears ring with the din of drumming hoofs ...

  If only Odysseus and rugged Diomedes were driving

  racers off the Trojan lines, here, here and fast!

  I’m cold with fear—what if they’ve met the worst,

  our ranking Argives killed in a Trojan charge?”

  Before he could say the last, the two raced in,

  leapt to the ground and comrades hugged them warmly,

  with handclasps all around and words of welcome.

  Nestor the noble horseman led with questions:

  “Tell me, Odysseus, Achaea’s pride and glory,

  famous Odysseus, how did you get these horses?

  How—stealing behind the Trojans’ main lines

  or meeting up with a god who gave them to you?

  What terrific sheen—silver afire like sunbeams!

  Day after day I’ve gone against the Trojans,