The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  overpowered, look, by a pelting rain of spears.

  He can’t escape, I tell you, not this wrenching battle.

  Stand up to them—ring Great Ajax, Telamon’s son.”

  So wounded Eurypylus pleaded, friends around him

  crowding, bracing shields against their shoulders,

  spears brandished high

  and back to the bulking front came giant Ajax now.

  The fighter turned on his heels and took his stand,

  once he reached that wedge of Argive comrades.

  So on they fought like a mass of swirling fire

  as Neleus’ foaming mares bore Nestor clear of battle

  and bore Machaon the expert healer too ...

  But now

  the brilliant runner Achilles watched and marked him—

  there he stood on the stern of his looming hollow hull,

  looking out over the uphill work and heartsick rout of war.

  He called at once to his friend-in-arms Patroclus,

  shouting down from the decks. Hearing Achilles,

  forth he came from his shelter,

  striding up like the deathless god of war

  but from that moment on his doom was sealed.

  The brave son of Menoetius spoke out first:

  “Why do you call, Achilles? Do you need me?”

  And the swift runner Achilles answered quickly,

  “Son of Menoetius, soldier after my own heart,

  now I think they will grovel at my knees,

  our Achaean comrades begging for their lives.

  The need has reached them—a need too much to bear.

  Go now, Patroclus dear to Zeus, and question Nestor.

  Who’s that wounded man he’s bringing in from the fighting?

  He looks to me like Machaon from behind, clearly,

  Machaon head to foot, Asclepius’ only son.

  But I never saw his eyes—the team sped by me,

  tearing on full tilt.”

  Patroclus obeyed his great friend

  and off at a run he went along the ships and shelters.

  Now, as soon as the others reached Nestor’s tent

  they climbed down on the earth that feeds us all.

  The driver Eurymedon freed the old man’s team.

  The men themselves dried off their sweat-soaked shirts,

  standing against the wind that whipped along the surf,

  then entered the tent and took their seats on settles.

  And well-kempt Hecamede mixed them a bracing drink,

  the woman that old King Nestor won from Tenedos

  when Achilles stormed it, proud Arsinous’ daughter,

  the prize the Achaeans chose to give to Nestor

  because he excelled them all at battle-tactics.

  First Hecamede pushed a table up toward them,

  handsome, sanded smooth, with blue enamel legs,

  and on it she set a basket, braided in bronze

  with onions in it, a relish for the drink,

  and pale gold honey along with barley meal,

  the grain’s blessed yield. And there in the midst

  the grand, glowing cup the old king brought from home,

  studded with golden nails, fitted with handles,

  four all told and two doves perched on each,

  heads bending to drink and made of solid gold

  and twin supports ran down to form the base.

  An average man would strain to lift it off the table

  when it was full, but Nestor, old as he was,

  could hoist it up with ease.

  In this cup the woman skilled as a goddess

  mixed them a strong drink with Pramnian wine,

  over it shredded goat cheese with a bronze grater

  and scattered barley into it, glistening pure white,

  then invited them to drink when she had mulled it all.

  Now as the two men drank their parching thirst away

  and had just begun to please themselves with talk,

  confiding back and forth—there stood Patroclus

  tall at the threshold, vivid as a god ...

  Old Nestor saw him at once and started up

  from his polished chair, warmly grasped his hand

  and led Patroclus in, pressing him to sit.

  But standing off to the side his guest declined:

  “No time to sit, old soldier dear to the gods.

  You won’t persuade me. Awesome and quick to anger,

  the man who sent me here to find out who’s been wounded,

  the one you’ve just brought in. But I can see him—

  I recognize Machaon myself, the expert healer.

  So back I go to give Achilles the message.

  Well you know, old soldier loved by the gods,

  what sort of man he is—that great and terrible man.

  Why, he’d leap to accuse a friend without a fault.”

  But Nestor the noble charioteer replied at length,

  “Now why is Achilles so cast down with grief

  for this or that Achaean winged by a stray shaft?

  He has no idea of the anguish risen through the army!

  Look—our finest champions laid up in the ships,

  all hit by arrows or run through by spears ...

  there’s powerful Diomedes brought down by an archer,

  Odysseus wounded, and Agamemnon too, the famous spearman,

  and Eurypylus took a shaft in the thigh, and here,

  Machaon—I just brought him in from the fighting,

  struck down by an arrow whizzing off the string.

  But Achilles, brave as he is, he has no care,

  no pity for our Achaeans. How long will he wait?

  Till our ships that line the shore go up in flames,

  gutted, despite a last-ditch stand? And we ourselves

  are mowed down in droves?

  And I, what good am I?

  My limbs are gnarled now, the old power’s gone.

  Oh make me young again,

  and the strength inside me steady as a rock!

  As fresh as I was that time the feud broke out ...

  fighting Epeans over a cattle-raid I killed Itymoneus.

  Hypirochus’ gallant son who used to live in Elis.

  I was rustling their cattle in reprisal, you see,

  and he defending his herds, when a spear I hurled

  caught him right in the front ranks of herdsmen—

  down he went and round him his yokel drovers

  scattered home in panic. And what a lovely haul,

  what plunder we rounded up and herded off the plain!

  Fifty herds of cattle, as many head of sheep,

  as many droves of pigs and as many goat-flocks

  ranging free, a hundred and fifty horses too,

  strong and tawny, broodmares every one

  and under the flanks of many, nursing foals.

  The whole tot—

  we drove them all into Pylos then, that very night,

  corraling them all inside the walls of Neleus.

  And father beamed, seeing how much I’d won,

  a young soldier out on his first campaign.

  And the heralds cried out at the break of day,

  ‘Pylians—come collect your debts from wealthy Elis!’

  And a troop of Pylian chiefs turned out in force

  to carve up the spoils. The Epeans owed us all,

  few as we were in Pylos, hard-pressed as well.

  For mighty Heracles came against us years before,

  he ground our lives out, killing off our best.

  Twelve sons we were of the noble old Neleus

  and I alone was left ...

  the rest of my brothers perished in that rout.

  Riding high on our loss the Epeans rose in arms,

  lording over us, harassing us with outrage after outrage.

  So now, out of Epean spoils, the old king chose

  a he
rd of cattle and handsome flock of sheep,

  three hundred head he picked, the herdsmen too.

  For wealthy Elis owed my father a heavy debt:

  four prizewinning thoroughbreds, chariot and all.

  They’d gone to the games, primed to race for the tripod,

  but Augeas the warlord commandeered them on the spot

  and sent the driver packing, sick for his team.

  So now old Neleus, still enraged at it all—

  the threats to his man, the naked treachery—

  helped himself to a priceless treasure trove

  but gave the rest to his people to divide,

  so none would go deprived of his fair share.

  But just as we were parceling out the plunder

  and offering victims to the gods around the city,

  right on the third day they came, the Epeans massed

  in a swarm of men and plunging battle-stallions struck

  at the border, full force—and square in their midst

  the two Moliones armed to the hilt, and still boys,

  not quite masters yet in the ways of combat.

  Now then,

  there’s a frontier fortress, Thryoëssa perched on cliffs,

  far off above the Alpheus, at the edge of sandy Pylos.

  The Epeans ringed that fort, keen to raze its walls,

  but once their troops had swept the entire plain,

  down Athena rushed to us in the night, a herald

  down from Olympus crying out, ‘To arms! to arms!’

  Nor did Pallas muster a slow, unwilling army

  there in Pylos, all of us spoiling for a fight.

  But Neleus would not let me arm for action—

  he’d hidden away my horses,

  thought his boy still green at the work of war.

  So I had to reach the front lines on foot

  but I shone among our horsemen all the same—

  that’s how Athena called the turns of battle.

  Listen. There is a river, the Minyeos

  emptying into the sea beside Arene’s walls,

  and there we waited for Goddess Dawn to rise,

  the Pylian horse in lines while squads of infantry

  came streaming up behind. Then, from that point on,

  harnessed in battle-arrttor, moving at forced march

  our army reached the Alpheus’ holy ford at noon.

  There we slaughtered fine victims to mighty Zeus,

  a bull to Alpheus River, a bull to lord Poseidon

  and an unyoked cow to blazing-eyed Athena.

  And then through camp we took our evening meal

  by rank and file, and caught what sleep we could,

  each in his gear along the river rapids.

  And all the while

  those vaunting Epeans were closing round the fortress,

  burning to tear it down. But before they got the chance

  a great work of the War-god flashed before their eyes!

  Soon as the sun came up in flames above the earth

  we joined battle, lifting a prayer to Zeus and Pallas.

  And just as our two opposing armies clashed

  I was the first to kill a man and seize his team,

  the spearman Mulius, son-in-law to their king

  and wed to his eldest daughter, blond Agamede,

  skilled with as many drugs as the wide world grows.

  Just as he lunged I speared the man with a bronze lance

  and Mulius pitched in the dust as I, I swung aboard his car

  and I took my place in our front ranks of champions.

  How those hot-blooded Epeans scattered in terror!

  Scuttling left and right when they saw him down,

  their chariot captain who’d outfought them all.

  Now I charged their lines like a black tornado,

  I captured fifty chariots there, and each time

  two men bit the dust, crushed beneath my spear.

  Now I would have destroyed the young Moliones,

  Actor’s sons—if their real father, Poseidon,

  lord god of the open sea who shakes the earth,

  had not snatched them out of the fighting then,

  shrouded them round in clouds.

  But now Zeus gave our Pylians stunning triumph!

  Pushing Epeans north on the spreading plain we went,

  killing their troops, gathering up their burnished gear,

  far as Buprasion rich in wheat our chariots rolled,

  all the way to Olenian Rock and the high ground

  they call Alesion Hill—but there, at last,

  Pallas Athena turned our forces back.

  I killed my last man there, I left him dead.

  There our Achaeans swung round from Buprasion,

  heading their high-strung horses back to Pylos

  where all gave glory to Zeus among the gods

  and among all men to Nestor.

  So, such was I

  in the ranks of men ... or was it all a dream?

  This Achilles—

  he’ll reap the rewards of that great courage of his

  alone, I tell you—weep his heart out far too late,

  when our troops are dead and gone.

  My friend, remember your father’s last commands?

  That day he sent you out of Phthia to Agamemnon.

  We were both there inside, I and Prince Odysseus

  heard it all in the halls, all your father told you.

  We’d come to the strong and storied house of Peleus,

  out for recruits across Achaea’s good green land.

  There inside we found the old soldier Menoetius,

  found you too, and Achilles close beside you,

  and the old horseman Peleus tending, burning

  the fat thighs of an ox to thundering Zeus,

  deep in the walled enclosure of his court.

  He was lifting a golden cup and pouring wine,

  glistening wine to go with the glowing victim.

  You two were busy over the carcass, carving meat

  when we both appeared and stood at the broad doors.

  Achilles sprang to his feet, he seemed startled,

  clasped the two of us by the hand and led us in—

  he pressed us to take a seat and set before us

  sumptuous stranger’s fare, the stranger’s right.

  And once we’d had our fill of food and drink,

  I led off with our plan, inviting the two of you

  to come campaign with us. How willing you were!

  And your fathers filled your ears with marching orders.

  The old horseman Peleus urging his son Achilles,

  ‘Now always be the best, my boy, the bravest,

  and hold your head up high above the others.’

  And Actor’s son Menoetius urging you, ‘My child,

  Achilles is nobler than you with his immortal blood

  but you are older. He has more power than you, by far,

  but give him sound advice, guide him, even in battle.

  Achilles will listen to you—for his own good.’

  So the old man told you. You’ve forgotten.