The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  if Polydamas had not rushed to headstrong Hector:

  “Impossible man! Won’t you listen to reason?

  Just because some god exalts you in battle

  you think you can beat the rest at tactics too.

  How can you hope to gamer all the gifts at once?

  One man is a splendid fighter—a god has made him so—

  one’s a dancer, another skilled at lyre and song,

  and deep in the next man’s chest farseeing Zeus

  plants the gift of judgment, good clear sense.

  And many reap the benefits of that treasure:

  troops of men he saves, as he himself knows best.

  So now I will tell you what seems best to me. Look,

  the battle bums like a swirling crown around your head

  but our valiant Trojans, once they scaled the wall—

  some fall back from the front, idling in armor,

  others soldier on, squads against mass formations,

  scattering helter-skelter round the hulls.

  Draw back now!

  Call the best of our captains here, this safe ground.

  Then we can all fall in and plan our tactics well:

  whether we fling ourselves against the ships—

  if Zeus would care to hand us victory now—

  or beat retreat from the beach and cut our losses.

  I fear they’ll pay us back for yesterday’s triumph.

  He waits by the ships, a man never sated with battle ...

  I doubt he’ll keep from the fighting any longer,

  not with all his war-lust!“

  So he urged. His plan won Hector over—

  less danger, more success—and down he leapt

  from his chariot fully armed and hit the ground,

  calling out to Polydamas brisk, winged orders:

  “You stay here, hold back our captains here.

  I’m on my way over there to meet this new assault—

  I’ll soon be back, once I’ve given them clear commands.”

  And out like a flashing snowcapped peak he moved,

  shouting, sweeping on through his ranks and Trojan allies.

  Squads of others swarmed and rallied around Polydamas,

  Panthous’ friendly son—they’d heard Hector’s orders.

  But Hector ranged the front to find his leaders,

  hunting Deiphobus and the rugged warlord Helenus,

  Adamas, Asius’ son, and Asius son of Hyrtacus.

  Where could he find them now? Find them he did,

  no longer free of wounds, unhurt—not at all ...

  Adamas, Asius, both sprawled at Achaea’s stems,

  dead at the Argives’ hands. The others at home,

  behind the walls, were gouged by shaft or sword.

  But he quickly found one more, on the left flank

  of the heart-wrenching carnage—royal Paris,

  fair-haired Helen’s consort was rousing comrades,

  driving them back to battle. Once he gained his side

  Hector raked his brother with insults, stinging taunts:

  “Paris, appalling Paris! Our prince of beauty—

  mad for women, you lure them all to ruin!

  Where’s Deiphobus? Helenus, rugged warlord?

  Adamas, Asius’ son, and Asius son of Hyrtacus—

  where’s Othryoneus, tell me.

  Now all towering Troy is ruined top to bottom!

  Now one thing’s certain—your own headlong death!”

  And Paris, magnificent as a god, replied,

  “Hector, bent on faulting a man without a fault?

  At other times I might have shrunk from the fighting,

  true, but not today. Mother bore me—even me—

  not to be a coward through and through. Think,

  since you fired our comrades’ fury against the ships,

  from that hour we’ve held our ground right here,

  taking the Argives on, and nonstop, no rest.

  Our comrades are dead, Hector,

  those you inquire about with such concern ...

  Only Deiphobus and the rugged warlord Helenus

  have made it back alive, wounded with sturdy spears,

  both in the hand too, but Zeus beat off their deaths.

  Now lead the way, wherever your fighting spirit bids you.

  All of us right behind you, hearts intent on battle.

  Nor do I think you’ll find us short on courage,

  long as our strength will last. Past his strength

  no man can go, though he’s set on mortal combat.”

  That brought his brother’s warrior spirit round.

  On they went where the thickest fighting broke,

  churning round Cebriones, dauntless Polydamas,

  Phalces, Orthaeus and veteran Polyphetes,

  Palmys, Hippotion’s two sons—Ascanius, Morys—

  fresh reserves just come from Ascania’s fertile soil,

  just last morning, but now great Zeus incited all-out war.

  Down the Trojans came like a squall of brawling gale-winds

  blasting down with the Father’s thunder, loosed on earth

  and a superhuman uproar bursts as they pound the heavy seas,

  the giant breakers seething, battle lines of them roaring,

  shoulders rearing, exploding foam, waves in the vanguard,

  waves rolling in from the rear. So on the Trojans came,

  waves in the vanguard, waves from the rear, closing,

  bronze men glittering, following captains, closing

  and Hector led the way, a match for murderous Ares—

  Priam’s son holding his balanced shield before him,

  tough with oxhides, studded thick with bronze

  and round his temples the flashing helmet shook.

  He plowed forward, testing enemy lines at all points

  to see if they’d crack before him—charging under his shield

  but he could not overpower the Argives’ stiff resolve

  and Ajax hulking forward with big strides, the first

  to challenge Hector: “Madman! Here, come closer—

  trying to frighten Argives? Why waste your breath?

  No, no, it’s not that we lack the skill in battle,

  it’s just the brutal lash of Zeus that beats us down.

  Your hopes soar, I suppose, to gut and crush our ships?

  Well we have strong arms too, arms to defend those ships—

  and long before that your city packed with people

  will fall beneath our hands, plundered to rubble.

  And you, I say, the day draws near when off you run

  and pray to Father Zeus and the other deathless gods

  to make your full-maned horses swifter than hawks—

  whipping dust from the plain to sweep you back to Troy!”

  Clear on the right a bird winged past to seal those words,

  a soaring eagle swooping. Spirits high with the sign,

  the Argive armies cheered. But bent on glory

  Hector answered the giant Ajax taunt for taunt:

  “Enough of your blustering threats, you clumsy ox—

  what loose talk, what rant!

  I wish I were as surely the son of storming Zeus

  for all my days—and noble Hera gave me birth

  and I were prized as they prize Athena and Apollo-

  as surely as this day will bring your Argives death,

  down to the last man. And you will die with the rest.

  If you have the daring to stand against my heavy spear

  its point will rip your soft warm skin to shreds!

  Then, then you’ll glut the dogs and birds of Troy

  with your fat and flesh—cut down by the beaked ships!”

  And loosing a savage yell, Hector led the way

  and his captains followed close with unearthly cries

  and Trojan ranks behind them crying shrill.

  Bu
t facing them the Achaean ranks cried back,

  not forgetting their courage, braced hard for assault

  as the Trojans’ bravest charged and roars from both armies

  struck the high clear skies, the lightning world of Zeus.

  BOOK FOURTEEN

  Hera Outflanks Zeus

  But the mounting cries of war could not escape old Nestor,

  pausing over his wine. He turned to Asclepius’ son

  with an urgent, winged word:

  “Think, noble Machaon, what shall we do now?

  The cries are fiercer—fighters beside the ships!

  You sit here, keep drinking the shining wine now,

  till well-kempt Hecamede draws you a warm bath,

  steaming hot, and washes away that clotted blood.

  But I am off to a lookout point to learn the truth.”

  With that he seized the well-wrought shield of his son,

  Thrasymedes breaker of horses—it lay in a comer,

  all glowing bronze, while the boy used his father’s.

  Gripping a sturdy spear, bronze-edged and sharp,

  he no sooner left his tent than stopped at once—

  what a grim, degrading piece of work he saw.

  Friends routed, enemies harrying friends in panic,

  the Trojans riding high—the Argive wall in ruins.

  Nestor stood there, stunned.

  As a huge ground swell boils up on the open seas,

  soundless, foreboding a hurricane’s howling onslaught,

  rearing but never rolling back or forth ... all adrift

  till one steady, decisive blast comes down from Zeus—

  so the old man thrashed things out, torn two ways,

  to join his Argives fast with chariot-teams

  or go and find Agamemnon lord of armies.

  His mind in turmoil, this way seemed the best:

  he’d head for Atreus’ son. But other soldiers

  kept on flailing, cutting each other to pieces,

  the tough bronze casing their bodies clanging out,

  fighters stabbing with swords, flinging two-edged spears.

  And now the royal kings fell in with Nestor.

  Back they came, trailing along the shipways,

  all who had taken wounds from the sharp bronze,

  Diomedes, Odysseus, and Atreus’ son Agamemnon.

  Their ships were drawn up far away from the fighting,

  moored in a group along the gray churning surf—

  first ships ashore they’d hauled up on the plain

  then built a defense to landward off their stems.

  Not even the stretch of beach, broad as it was,

  could offer berths to all that massed armada,

  troops were crammed in a narrow strip of coast.

  So they had hauled their vessels inland, row on row,

  while the whole shoreline filled and the bay’s gaping mouth

  enclosed by the jaws of the two jutting headlands.

  Now up they came for a better view of the battle,

  a slow file of kings, leaning on their spears,

  hearts in their chests weighed down with anguish—

  and the sight of the old horseman coming toward them

  struck them all with a sharper sense of dread.

  The king of men Agamemnon hailed him quickly:

  “Nestor, son of Neleus, great pride of Achaea,

  why turn your back on the lines where men are dying?

  Why come back here to shore? I’m filled with fear

  that breakneck Hector will bring his word to pass—

  the threat he hurled against me once in a Trojan muster

  that he would never leave our ships and return to Troy

  till he’d torched our hulls and slaughtered all our men.

  That was the prince’s threat ...

  and now, look, by god, it all comes to pass!

  How shameful—and now the rest of our men-at-arms

  must harbor anger against me deep inside their hearts,

  just like Achilles. And they have no stomach left

  to fight to the end against the warships’ sterns,”

  The noble old horseman could only bear him out:

  “True, too true. A disaster’s right upon us.

  Not even thundering Zeus himself could turn the tide.

  The rampart’s down, there, the great wall we trusted,

  our impregnable shield for the ships and men themselves.

  The enemy storms down on the rolling hulls nonstop,

  desperate, life or death. Hard as you scan the lines,

  there’s no more telling from which side we’re harried—

  carnage left and right. Death-cries hit the skies!

  Put heads together—what shall we do now?—

  if strategy’s any use. Struggle’s clearly not.

  The last thing I’d urge is to throw ourselves into battle.

  How on earth can a wounded man make war?”

  So the lord of men Agamemnon staged the action:

  “Since they are fighting against the sterns, old friend,

  and the wall we built is useless, the trench a waste

  where our Argive forces took such heavy losses ... so

  always hoping against hope it was indestructible,

  our impregnable shield for ships and men themselves—

  so it must please the Father’s overweening heart

  to kill the Achaeans here, our memory blotted out

  a world away from Argos! I knew it then,

  even when Zeus defended us with all his might,

  and I know it now, when he glorifies these Trojans—

  he lifts them high as the blessed deathless gods

  but ties our hands and lames our fighting spirit.

  So come, follow my orders. All obey me now.

  All vessels beached on the front along the shore—

  haul them down and row them out on the bright sea,

  ride them over the anchor-stones in the offshore swell

  till the bracing godsent night comes down and then,

  if the Trojans will refrain from war at night,

  we haul down all the rest. No shame in running,

  fleeing disaster, even in pitch darkness.

  Better to flee from death than feel its grip.”

  With a dark glance the shrewd tactician. Odysseus

  wheeled on his commander: “What’s this, Atrides,

  this talk that slips from your clenched teeth?

  You are the disaster.

  Would to god you commanded another army,

  a ragtag crew of cowards, instead of ruling us,

  the men whom Zeus decrees, from youth to old age,

  must wind down our brutal wars to the bitter end

  until we drop and die, down to the last man.

  So this is how you’d bid farewell to Troy,

  yearning to kiss her broad streets good-bye—

  Troy that cost our comrades so much grief?

  Quiet!

  What if one of the men gets wind of your brave plan?

  No one should ever let such nonsense pass his lips,