The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  then down in gulps he bolts its blood and guts.

  So King Agamemnon coursed his quarry, always cutting

  the straggler from the mass and they, they fled in terror,

  squads amok, spilling out of their chariots facefirst

  or slammed on their backs beneath Atrides’ hands—

  storming and thrusting his spear and lunging on.

  But just as he was about to reach the steep city,

  up under the walls, the father of men and gods,

  descending out of the heavens, took his throne

  on the high ridge of Ida with all her springs.

  Holding fast in his grip a lightning bolt

  he drove Iris down in a rush of golden wings

  to bear his message: “Away with you now, Iris—

  quick as the wind and speed this word to Hector.

  So long as he sees lord marshal Agamemnon storming

  among the champions, mowing columns down in blood,

  Hector must hold back, command the rest of his men

  to fight the enemy, stand their headlong charge.

  But soon as a spear or bowshot wounds the king

  and Atrides mounts his chariot once again,

  then I will hand Hector the power to kill and kill

  till he cuts his way to the benched ships and the sun sinks

  and the blessed darkness sweeps across the earth.”

  So he commanded. Wind-quick Iris obeyed at once

  and down from Ida’s peaks she dove to sacred Troy,

  found the son of wise King Priam, shining Hector

  standing amidst his teams and bolted cars,

  and swift as a breeze beside him Iris called,

  “Hector, son of Priam—a mastermind like Zeus!

  The Father has sped me down to tell you this:

  so long as you see lord marshal Agamemnon storming

  among the champions, mowing columns down in blood,

  you must hold back, command the rest of your men

  to fight the enemy, stand their headlong charge!

  But soon as a spear or bowshot wounds the king

  and Atrides mounts his chariot once again—

  then Zeus will hand you the power to kill and kill

  till you cut your way to the benched ships and the sun sinks

  and the blessed darkness sweeps across the earth!”

  And Iris racing the wind went veering off.

  Hector leapt to ground from his chariot fully armed

  and brandishing two sharp spears went striding down his lines,

  ranging flank to flank, driving his fighters into battle,

  rousing grisly war—and round the Trojans whirled,

  bracing to meet the Argives face-to-face:

  but against their mass the Argives closed ranks,

  the fighting about to break, the troops squaring off

  and Atrides, tense to outfight them all, charged first.

  Sing to me now, you Muses who hold the halls of Olympus,

  who was the first to go up against King Agamemnon,

  who of the Trojans or famous Trojan allies?

  Iphidamas, the rough and rangy son of Antenor

  bred in the fertile land of Thrace, mother of flocks.

  Cisseus reared him at home when he was little—

  his mother’s father who sired the fine beauty Theano—

  but once he hit the stride of his youth and ached for fame,

  Cisseus tried to hold him back, gave him a daughter’s hand

  but warm from the bridal chamber marched the groom,

  fired up by word that Achaea’s troops had landed.

  Twelve beaked ships sailed out in his command,

  trim vessels he left behind him in Percote,

  making his way to Troy to fight on foot

  and here he came now, up against Agamemnon,

  closer, closing ...

  Atrides hurled and missed,

  his spearshaft just slanting aside the man’s flank

  as Iphidamas went for the waist beneath the breastplate—

  he stabbed home, leaning into the blow full weight,

  trusting his heavy hand but failed to pierce

  the glittering belt, failed flat-out-the point,

  smashing against the silver, bent back like lead.

  And seizing the spearshaft powerful Agamemnon

  dragged it toward him, tussling like some lion

  and wrenching it free from Iphidamas’ slack grasp

  he hacked his neck with a sword and loosed his limbs.

  And there he dropped and slept the sleep of bronze,

  poor soldier, striving to help his fellow Trojans,

  far from his wedded wife, his new bride ...

  No joy had he known from her for all his gifts,

  the full hundred oxen he gave her on the spot

  then promised a thousand head of goats and sheep

  from the boundless herds he’d rounded up himself.

  Now the son of Atreus stripped him, robbed his corpse

  and strode back to his waiting Argive armies,

  hoisting the gleaming gear.

  But Coon marked him, Coon,

  Antenor’s eldest son, a distinguished man-at-arms,

  and stinging grief went misting down his eyes

  for his fallen brother. In from the blind side

  he came—

  Agamemnon never saw him—

  tensed with a spear

  and slashed him under the elbow, down the forearm—

  a glint of metal—the point ripped through his flesh

  and the lord of fighting men Atrides shuddered.

  Not that he quit the foray even then—

  he sprang at Coon, gripping his big spearshaft

  tough from the gusting wind that whipped its tree.

  Coon was just dragging his brother footfirst,

  wild now to retrieve his own father’s son,

  calling for help from all the bravest men—

  but as Coon hauled the body through the press

  Agamemnon lunged up, under his bossed shield,

  thrust home hard with the polished bronze point,

  unstrung his limbs and reared and lopped his head

  and the head tumbled onto his fallen brother’s corpse.

  So then and there under royal Agamemnon’s hands

  the two sons of Antenor filled out their fates

  and down they plunged to the strong House of Death.

  But the king kept ranging, battling ranks on ranks

  and thrusting his spear and sword and hurling heavy rocks

  so long as the blood came flowing warm from his wound.

  But soon as the gash dried and firm clots formed,

  sharp pain came bursting in on Atrides’ strength—

  spear-sharp as the labor-pangs that pierce a woman,

  agonies brought on by the harsh, birthing spirits,

  Hera’s daughters who hold the stabbing power of birth—

  so sharp the throes that burst on Atrides’ strength.

  And back he sprang in the car and told his driver

  to make for the hollow ships, racked with pain

  but he loosed a shrill cry to all his men:

  “Friends—lords of the Argives, 0 my captains!

  Your turn now—keep on shielding our fast ships

  from this latest mass attack. Zeus who rules the world

  forbids me to battle Trojans all day long.”

  A crack of the lash

  and his driver whipped the team with streaming manes

  straight for the curved ships, and on they flew,

  holding nothing back, their heaving chests foaming,

  bellies pelted with dust, rushing the wounded warlord

  free and clear of battle.

  There—Hector’s signal!

  Seeing Atrides hurt and speeding off the lines

  he gave a ringing shout to his troops and allies:


  “Trojans! Lycians! Dardan fighters hand-to-hand-

  now be men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!

  Their best man cuts and runs—

  Zeus is handing me glory, awesome glory.

  Drive your horses right at these mighty Argives,

  seize the higher triumph—seize it now!”

  Hector—

  whipping the fight and fire in each man like a huntsman

  crying on his hounds, their white fangs flashing,

  harrying savage game, some wild boar or lion—

  so at Achaea’s ranks he drove his fearless Trojans,

  Hector son of Priam, a match for murderous Ares.

  The prince himself went wading into the front lines,

  his hopes soaring, and down he hurled on the fray

  like a sudden killer-squall that blasts down

  on the dark blue sea to whip and chop its crests.

  Who was the first he slaughtered, who the last,

  Hector the son of Priam, now Zeus gave him glory?

  Asaeus first, Autonous next and then Opites,

  Dolops, Clytius’ son, and Opheltius, Agelaus,

  Aesymnus and Orus, Hipponous staunch in combat.

  These were the Argive captains Hector killed

  then went for the main mass

  like the West Wind battering soft shining clouds

  the South Wind wafts along—in deep explosive blasts

  it strikes and the great swelling waves roll on and on

  and the spray goes shooting up from under the wind’s hurl

  swerving, roaring down the sea—so wildly Hector routed

  the packed lines of fighters caught in his onslaught.

  Now there would have been havoc, irreversible chaos,

  fleeing bands of Achaeans flung back on their ships

  if Odysseus had not shouted out to Diomedes,

  “What’s wrong with us? Forgetting our battle-fury?

  Come here, old friend, stand by me! What humiliation—

  if Hector with that flashing helmet takes our ships!”

  Powerful Diomedes took his challenge quickly:

  “I’ll stand and fight, by god, and take the worst

  but little joy it will bring our comrades now.

  Zeus the king of the clouds has pitched on victory

  for the Trojans, not for us.”

  But all the same

  he hurled Thymbraeus down to ground from his car—

  Diomedes speared his left breast as Odysseus killed

  the warlord’s aide-in-arms Molion tall as a god

  and left them there for dead, their fighting finished.

  Then both went thrashing into the lines to make a slaughter

  as two wild boars bristling, ramping back for the kill,

  fling themselves on the yelping packs that hunt them—

  back they whirled on attack and laid the Trojans low

  while Achaeans just in flight from Hector’s onset

  leapt at the chance to gather second wind.

  At once

  they took two lords of the realm and seized their car,

  the two good sons of Merops out of Percote harbor,

  Merops adept beyond all men in the mantic arts.

  He refused to let his two boys march to war,

  this man-killing war, but the young ones fought him

  all the way—the forces of black death drove them on

  and Diomedes a marvel with a spear destroyed them both,

  stripped them of life breath and tore their gear away

  and Odysseus killed Hippodamus, killed Hypirochus.

  And there,

  gazing down from his ridge on Ida, the son of Cronus

  stretched the rope of battle tense and taut

  as the fighters kept on killing side-to-side.

  Diomedes hurled a spear that struck Agastrophus,

  Paeon’s warrior son, and smashed the joint of his hip

  but his team was not close by for fast escape—

  a big mistake, the fool.

  His driver held them reined off at the side

  while he advanced through the front ranks on foot,

  plowing on and on till he lost his own life ...

  But Hector quickly marked them across the lines—

  he charged them both full force with a savage shout

  and Trojan battalions churning in his wake.

  Diomedes shuddered to see him coming on,

  the lord of the war cry called out to Odysseus

  quickly, close beside him, “We’re in for shipwreck—

  a breaker rolling down on us, look, this massive Hector!

  Brace for him, stand our ground together—beat him back!”

  He aimed and hurled and his spear’s long shadow flew—

  a clean hit, no miss, trained at the head of Hector,

  his helmet ridge. But bronze glanced off bronze

  and never grazed firm flesh, the helmet blocked it,

  triple-ply with the great blank hollow eyes,

  a gift of Apollo. Sprinting a long way back,

  downfield and fast, Hector rejoined his men

  and sinking down onto one knee, propped himself

  with a strong hand planted against the earth—

  and the world went black as night across his eyes.

  But soon as Tydides followed up his spear,

  tracking its flight far down along the front

  where it stuck in sand, Hector caught his breath

  and boarding his car, drove for his own main force

  as he hurtled clear of the dark fates of death—

  Diomedes shouting after him, shaking his spear,

  “Now, again, you’ve escaped your death, you dog,

  but a good close brush with death it was, I’d say!

  Now, again, your Phoebus Apollo pulls you through,

  the one you pray to, wading into our storm of spears.

  We’ll fight again—I’ll finish you off next time

  if one of the gods will only urge me on as well.

  But now I’ll go for the others, anyone I can catch.”

  And he set to stripping his kill, Paeon’s spearman son.

  But at once Paris the lord of fair-haired Helen

  drew his bow at the rugged captain Diomedes ...

  the archer leaning firmly against a pillar

  raised on the man-made tomb of Dardan’s son,.

  Ilus an old lord of the realm in ancient days.

  As Diomedes was stripping strong Agastrophus bare,

  tearing the burnished breastplate off his victim’s chest,

  the shield from his shoulders and heavy crested helmet,

  Paris, clenching the grip and drawing back his bow,

  shot!—no wasted shot, it whizzed from his hand

  and punched the flat top of Tydides’ right foot,

  the shaft dug through and stuck fast in the ground.

  And loosing a heady laugh of triumph Paris leapt

  from his hiding-place and shouted out in glory,

  “Now you’re hit—no wasted shot, my winging arrow!

  But would to god I’d hit you deep in the guts