The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  and the two go slanting in on the charge, shattering timber

  round about them, shearing off the trunks at the roots

  and a grinding, screeching clatter of tusks goes up

  till a hunter spears them, tears their lives out—

  so the clatter screeched from the gleaming bronze

  that cased their chests as blows piled on blows.

  Deadly going, fighting now for all they were worth,

  staking all on their own strength and friends overhead

  as they ripped off rocks from the rampart’s sturdy ledge

  and hurled them down, defending themselves, their shelters,

  their fast ships—the rocks pelted the ground like snow

  that a sudden squall in fury, driving the dark clouds,

  heaps thick-and-fast on the earth that feeds us all.

  So the missiles showering from their hands—Achaeans,

  Trojans, helmets and bossed shields clashing, ringing

  shrilly under the blows of boulders big as millstones.

  And now with a deep groan and pounding both thighs

  Asius son of Hyrtacus cried in anguish, “Father Zeus—

  so even you are an outright liar after all!

  I never dreamed these heroic Argive ranks

  could hold back our charge, our invincible arms.

  Look, like wasps quick and pinched at the waist

  or bees who build their hives on a rocky path,

  they never give up their hollow house, they hold on,

  keep the honey-hunters at bay, fight for their young.

  So these men will never budge from the gates

  though they’re only two defenders—

  not till they kill us all or we kill them!”

  But his wailing failed to move the heart of Zeus:

  it was Zeus’s pleasure to hand the prize to Hector.

  Now squad on squad, gate to gate they fought—

  but how can I tell it all, sing it all like a god?

  The strain is far too great. Everywhere round the wall

  the surging inhuman blaze of war leapt up the rocks—

  the Argives, desperate, had no choice, they struggled now

  to defend the ships, and the gods were cast down in spirit,

  all who had urged the Argive soldiers on in battle ...

  But the Lapiths still kept fighting, slaughtering on.

  There—Pirithous’ son the rugged Polypoetes

  skewered Damasus, pierced his bronze-sided helmet.

  None of the bronze plate could hold it, boring through

  the metal and skull the brazen spearpoint pounded,

  Damasus’ brains splattered all inside his casque—

  Polypoetes beat him down despite the Trojan’s rage,

  then Pylon and Ormenus, killed and stripped them both.

  And the tested veteran Leonteus speared Hippomachus,

  gouged Antimachus’ offspring down across the belt,

  then drawing his long sharp sword from its sheath

  he rushed the front and took Antiphates first

  with a quick thrust, stabbing at close range—

  he slammed on his back, sprawled along the ground.

  Then Menon, Orestes, Iamenus—Leonteus killed the lot,

  crowding corpse on corpse on the earth that rears us all.

  While the Lapiths stripped their kills of gleaming gear

  the fighters trooping behind Polydamas and Hector,

  the greatest force, the best and bravest, grim set

  above all to breach the wall and torch the ships,

  still halted up at the trench, torn with doubt.

  For suddenly, just as the men tried to cross,

  a fatal bird-sign flashed before their eyes,

  an eagle flying high on the left across their front

  and clutching a monstrous bloody serpent in both talons,

  still alive, still struggling—it had not lost its fight,

  writhing back to strike it fanged the chest of its captor

  right beside the throat—and agonized by the bites

  the eagle flung it away to earth, dashed it down

  amidst the milling fighters, loosed a shriek

  and the bird veered off along the gusting wind.

  The Trojans shuddered to see the serpent glistening,

  wriggling at their feet, a sign from storming Zeus.

  And Polydamas stood by headstrong Hector, saying,

  “Hector, you always seem to attack me in assembly,

  despite my good advice. Never right, is it,

  for a common man to speak against you, King,

  never in open council, and god forbid in war.

  Our part is always to magnify your power. Well,

  once again I am bound to say what I think best.

  Stop the attack, don’t fight them at their ships!

  All will end as the omen says, I do believe,

  if the bird-sign really came to us, the Trojans,

  just as our fighters tried to cross the trench.

  That eagle flying high on the left across our front,

  clutching this bloody serpent in both its talons,

  still alive—but he let the monster drop at once,

  before he could sweep it back to his own home ...

  he never fed his nestlings in the end.

  Nor will we.

  Even if we can breach the Argives’ gates and wall,

  assaulting in force, and the Argives give ground,

  back from the ships we’ll come,

  back the way we went but our battle-order ruined,

  whole battalions of Trojans left behind and killed—

  the Achaeans will cut us down with bronze to save their fleet!

  So a knowing seer of the gods would read this omen,

  someone clear in his mind and skilled with signs,

  a man the Trojan armies would obey.“

  His helmet flashing,

  Hector wheeled with a dark glance: “Enough, Polydamas!

  Your pleading repels me now—

  you must have something better than this to say.

  But if you are serious, speaking from the heart,

  the gods themselves have blotted out your senses.

  You tell me to forget the plans of storming Zeus,

  all he promised me when he nodded in assent?

  You tell me to put my trust in birds,

  flying off on their long wild wings? Never.

  I would never give them a glance, a second thought,

  whether they fly on the right toward the dawn and sunrise

  or fly on the left toward the haze and coming dark!

  No, no, put our trust in the will of mighty Zeus,

  king of the deathless gods and men who die.

  Bird-signs!

  Fight for your country—that is the best, the only omen!

  You, why are you so afraid of war and slaughter?

  Even if all the rest of us drop and die around you,

  grappling for the ships, you’d run no risk of death:

  you lack the heart to last it out in combat—coward!

  But if you hold back from the bloody foray here

  or turn some other soldier back from battle,

  winning him over—you with your soft appeals—

  at one quick stroke my spear will beat you down,

  you’ll breathe your last!“

  Shouting he led the charge

  and his armies swarmed behind with blood-chilling cries.

  And above their onset Zeus who loves the lightning

  launched from Ida’s summits a sudden howling gale

  that whipped a dust storm hard against the ships,

  spellbinding Achaean units in their tracks,

  handing glory to Hector and Hector’s Trojans.

  Inspired by the signs and their own raw power

  all pitched in to smash the Achaeans’ massive wall.

 
; They tore at the towers’ outworks, pulled at battlements,

  heaving, trying to pry loose with levers the buttress stakes

  Achaeans first drove in the earth to shore the rampart up—

  they struggled to root these out, hoping to break down

  the Achaean wall itself. But not yet did the Argives

  give way to assault—no, they stopped the breaches up

  with oxhide shields and down from the breastwork heights

  they hurled rocks at the enemy coming on beneath the wall.

  And the two Aeantes ranged all points of the rampart,

  calling out commands to spur their comrades’ fury.

  Now cheering a soldier on, tongue-lashing the next

  if they marked a straggler hanging back from battle:

  “Friends—you in the highest ranks of Argives,

  you in the midst and you in rank and file,

  we cannot all be equal in battle, ever,

  but now the battle lies before us all—

  come, see for yourselves, look straight down.

  Now let no fighter be turned back to the ships,

  not with his captain’s orders ringing in his ears—

  keep pressing forward, shouting each other on!

  If only Olympian Zeus the lord of lightning

  grants us strength to repel this Trojan charge

  then carve a passage through to Troy’s high walls!”

  So their cries urged on the Achaeans’ war-lust.

  Thick-and-fast as the snows that fall on a winter dawn

  when Zeus who rules the world brings on a blizzard,

  displaying to all mankind his weaponry of war ...

  and he puts the winds to sleep, drifting on and on

  until he has shrouded over the mountains’ looming peaks

  and the headlands jutting sharp, the lowlands deep in grass

  and the rich plowed work of farming men, and the drifts fall

  on the gray salt surf and the harbors and down along the beaches

  and only breakers beating against the drifts can hold them off

  but all else on the earth they cover over, snows from the sky

  when Zeus comes storming down—now so thick-and-fast

  they volleyed rocks from both sides, some at the Trojans,

  some from Trojans against the Argives, salvos landing,

  the whole long rampart thundering under blows.

  But not even now would Trojans and Prince Hector

  have burst apart the rampart’s gates and huge bar

  if Zeus the Master Strategist had not driven

  his own son Sarpedon straight at the Argives,

  strong as a lion raiding crook-homed cattle.

  Quickly Sarpedon swung his shield before him—

  balanced and handsome beaten bronze a bronzesmith

  hammered out with layer on layer of hide inside

  and stitched with golden rivets round the rim.

  That splendid shield he gripped before his chest

  and shaking a pair of spears went stalking out

  like a mountain lion starved for meat too long

  and the lordly heart inside him fires him up

  to raid some stormproof fold, to go at the sheep,

  and even if he should light on herdsmen at the spot,

  guarding their flocks with dogs and bristling spears,

  the marauder has no mind to be driven off that steading,

  not without an attack. All or nothing—he charges flocks

  and hauls off bloody prey or he’s run through himself

  at the first assault with a fast spear driven home.

  So how the heart of Sarpedon stalwart as a god

  impelled him to charge the wall and break it down.

  He quickly called Hippolochus’ son: “Glaucus,

  why do they hold us both in honor, first by far

  with pride of place, choice meats and brimming cups,

  in Lycia where all our people look on us like gods?

  Why make us lords of estates along the Xanthus’ banks,

  rich in vineyards and plowland rolling wheat?

  So that now the duty’s ours—

  we are the ones to head our Lycian front,

  brace and fling ourselves in the blaze of war,

  so a comrade strapped in combat gear may say,

  ‘Not without fame, the men who rule in Lycia,

  these kings of ours who eat fat cuts of lamb

  and drink sweet wine, the finest stock we have.

  But they owe it all to their own fighting strength—

  our great men of war, they lead our way in battle!’

  Ah my friend, if you and I could escape this fray

  and live forever, never a trace of age, immortal,

  I would never fight on the front lines again

  or command you to the field where men win fame.

  But now, as it is, the fates of death await us,

  thousands poised to strike, and not a man alive

  can flee them or escape—so in we go for attack!

  Give our enemy glory or win it for ourselves!”

  Glaucus did not turn back or shun that call—

  on they charged, leading the Lycians’ main mass.

  And Peteos’ son Menestheus cringed to see them

  heading straight for his bastion, hurling ruin on ...

  He scanned the Achaean rampart: where could he find

  some chief, some captain to fight disaster off his men?

  He spotted the Great and Little Ajax, gluttons for battle,

  flanking Teucer fresh from his shelter, side-by-side.

  But Menestheus could not reach them with a shout—

  the din was deafening, war cries hitting the skies,

  spears battering shields and helmets’ horsehair crests

  and the huge gates all bolted shut, but against them there

  the Trojans tensed and heaved, trying to smash them down

  and force a passage through. At once Menestheus

  sped a herald to Ajax: “Run for it, quick one,

  call Great Ajax here—

  both of them, better yet, that’s best of all.

  Headlong ruin’s massing against us quickly.

  Lycia’s captains are bearing down too hard,

  fierce as they always were in past attacks.

  But if fighting’s flaring up in their own sector,

  at least let the rugged giant Ajax come alone

  with Teucer the master archer at his side.”

  A brisk command, and the runner snapped to it—

  he dashed along the wall of the Argive men-at-arms

  till he reached the two Aeantes, stopped and shouted,

  “Ajax—Ajax! Chiefs of the Argives armed in bronze,

  the favorite son of Peteos dear to immortals

  needs you at his strongpoint—hurry, come,

  just for a moment, meet the crisis there.

  Both of you, better yet, that’s best of all.

  Headlong ruin’s massing against us quickly.

  Lycia’s captains are bearing down too hard,

  fierce as they always were in past attacks.