The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  as the famous god of earthquakes turned the tide?

  Telamonian Ajax first, Ajax brought down Hyrtius,

  Gyrtius’ son, a lord of the ironhearted Mysians.

  Next Antilochus slaughtered Phalces, Mermerus—

  Meriones killed off Morys, killed Hippotion,

  Teucer cut down Periphetes and Prothoon.

  Menelaus took the hardened captain Hyperenor,

  gouged his flank and the bronze ripped him open,

  spurting his entrails out—and his life, gushing forth

  through the raw, yawning wound, went pulsing fast

  and the dark came swirling down across his eyes.

  But Oileus’ son, quick Ajax killed the most—

  no one alive could run men down in flight like him

  once Zeus whipped enemy ranks in blinding, panic rout.

  BOOK FIFTEEN

  The Achaean Armies at Bay

  Back through jutting stakes and across the trench they fled,

  and hordes were cut down at the Argives’ hands—the rest,

  only after they reached the chariots, stood fast,

  blanched with fear, whipped in desperate flight.

  That moment Zeus awoke on the heights of Ida,

  stretched out by Hera, queen of the golden throne—

  he leapt to his feet, he saw the Trojans and Achaeans,

  one side routed, the other harrying them in panic,

  Achaeans attacking, and god Poseidon led the way.

  And Zeus saw Hector sprawled on the battlefield,

  his comrades kneeling round him as he panted,

  struggling hard for breath, his senses stunned,

  vomiting blood ... The man who’d struck him dowr

  was not the weakest Argive. At the sight of Hector

  the father of men and gods filled with pity now

  and shooting a terrible dark glance down at Hera,

  burst out at her, “What a disaster you create!

  Uncontrollable Hera—you and your treachery—

  halting Hector’s assault and routing Hector’s armies.

  I wouldn’t be surprised, my Queen, if you were the first

  to reap the pernicious whirlwind you have sown—

  I’ll whip you stroke on stroke.

  Don’t you recall the time I strung you in mid-air

  and slung those two massive anvils down from your feet

  and lashed both hands with a golden chain you could not break?

  There, there in the clouds and high clear sky you dangled.

  And the mighty gods on steep Olympus raged away,

  impotent—what could they do to set you free?

  Standing there, helpless. And any god I caught

  I’d seize and send him plunging over the ramparts,

  headfirst till he hit the earth, barely alive.

  Not even then would the stark grief for Heracles

  release my breaking heart—my own godlike son ...

  You with the North Wind’s help had coaxed the gales

  to send him scudding over the barren salt sea—

  you, always plotting miseries for my son,

  you bore him off to the crowded town of Cos.

  But there I saved him, whisked him away to safety,

  back to the stallion-land of Argos, worn with torment.

  I will help you remember—you’ll give up your treacheries,

  you will see if your warm embraces serve you then,

  your bed of lust where you sank me in your arms.

  Down from the gods you came to waylay me—

  you seduced me blind.”

  Her eyes wide,

  Queen Hera shuddered before his thunder,

  protesting, swearing a flight of winged oaths:

  “Earth be my witness now, the vaulting Sky above

  and the dark cascading waters of the Styx—I swear

  by the greatest, grimmest oath that binds the happy gods!

  By your sacred head, by the bed of our own marriage

  that I, at least, would never take in vain ...

  Never by will of mine did the god of earthquakes

  wreak havoc among the Trojan ranks and Hector

  and surge to help their foes!

  It must be his own great rage that drives him on—

  he pitied the sight of Argives pinned against their ships.

  Not I ... why, I’d be the first to counsel him

  to take your lead, Zeus, wherever you command,

  my king of the black cloud!”

  A rousing appeal,

  and the father of men and gods looked down and smiled

  and took command with a flight of winging orders:

  “Excellent, Hera. Now, if in the years to come

  you will accord with me, my wide-eyed Queen,

  throned with me in the gods’ decisive sessions,

  then Poseidon, bent as he is to go his own way,

  must change at once and wrench his will to ours,

  to yours and mine united.

  So then, Hera,

  if you mean what you say, down to the last word,

  go back now to the deathless tribes of gods

  and summon Iris to come before my presence,

  summon Apollo too, lord of the famous bow.

  Iris will fly to Achaea’s bronze-armed troops

  and direct the god who shakes the earth to stop,

  to quit the war and return to his own ocean halls.

  And let Apollo drive Prince Hector back to battle,

  breathe power back in his lungs, make him forget

  the pains that rack his heart. Let him whip the Achaeans

  in headlong panic rout and roll them back once more,

  tumbling back on the oar-swept ships of Peleus’ son Achilles.

  And he, he will launch his comrade Patroclus into action

  and glorious Hector will cut him down with a spear

  in front of Troy, once Patroclus has slaughtered

  whole battalions of strong young fighting men

  and among them all, my shining son Sarpedon.

  But then—enraged for Patroctus—

  brilliant Achilles will bring Prince Hector down.

  And then, from that day on, I’ll turn the tide of war:

  back the fighting goes, no stopping it, ever, all the way

  till Achaean armies seize the beetling heights of Troy

  through Athena’s grand design.

  But till that hour

  I will never cease my anger. Nor will I permit

  a single immortal god to save the Argive forces,

  not till Achilles’ prayer has been fulfilled.

  So I vowed at first. I bowed my head in assent

  that day the goddess Thetis clutched my knees,

  begging me to exalt Achilles scourge of cities.“

  And the white-armed goddess Hera obeyed at once—

  clearing Ida’s peaks she soared for sheer Olympus.

  Quick as a thought goes flashing through a man

  who’s traveled the world—“Ah to be there, or there!”—

  as his mind swarms with journeys, fresh desires—

  so quick in her eager flight flew noble Hera now

  and scaling steep Olympus went among the gods,

  the immortal powers thronging Zeus’s halls.

  They all sprang to their feet at sight of Hera,

  lifting cups to greet her, crowding round the queen.

  But she passed the rest and took a cup from Themis,

  flushed with beauty, who ran to meet her first

  and hailed her now with winged words of welcome:

  “Hera, what brings you back? You look so harried.

  Oh I know it, the son of Cronus has terrified you—

  your everlasting husband!”

  “Please, Themis,”

  the white-armed goddess Hera answered firmly,

  “don’t ask me to go through that ordeal again.r />
  You know his rage yourself. So rigid, unrelenting.

  But you keep on presiding over the gods, Themis,

  the feasting in the halls. You’ll hear it all,

  and with you all the immortals—

  what a chain of disasters Zeus brings to light!

  Nothing to lift all spirits alike, I warn you ...

  not among men, not among gods, if one’s still left

  who warms to feasts, his heart at peace, these days.”

  With those bleak words Queen Hera took her seat.

  The gods looked grim throughout the halls of Zeus:

  She smiled with her lips only,

  her forehead furrowed over her dark brows

  as her anguish rose and she addressed them all:

  “What fools we are, storming against Zeus—we’re mad!

  And still we engage him, trying to block his way

  with a word or show of force. But there he sits,

  off and away—with never a care or qualm for us—

  claiming that he among the deathless gods on high

  is first in strength and power, none in the world his rival.

  So each of you here must take what blows he sends.

  Why, Ares, I gather, has just received his share ...

  his son is dead in battle, his dearest son, Ascalaphus—

  doesn’t invincible Ares claim to be his father?”

  Fighting words, and Ares pounded his sturdy thighs

  with the flats of both hands and let loose in grief:

  “Now, you gods of Olympus—who could blame me now

  if I descend on Achaea’s ships to avenge my son,

  my butchered son? Even if fate will crush me,

  striking me down with the thunderbolt of Zeus—

  sprawled in the blood and dust with dead men’s corpsesl”

  With that he called his henchmen Rout and Terror

  to yoke his team as the god strapped on his shining gear.

  And now some greater disaster might have come from Zeus,

  some wrath, some harsher rage to break the gods on high—

  if Pallas Athena, fearing the worst for all immortals,

  had not leapt from her throne, bolted through the gates,

  torn the helmet off his head, the shield from his back

  and snatching the brazen spear from his burly grip,

  propped it against a pillar

  and dressed the War-god down in all his fury:

  “Maniac, out of your senses! You, you’re ruined!

  What are your ears for, Ares, can’t you hear the truth?

  Your wits are gone—where’s your respect for others?

  Can’t you grasp what the white-armed goddess tells us?—

  and she’s just returned from Olympian Zeus, just now.

  What’s your pleasure? To fill your own cup of pain

  then slink back to Olympus, whipped and fuming—forced?

  You’re planting the seeds of endless trouble for us all!

  He will leave those men in a flash, Achaeans, Trojans,

  overweening Trojans, and back great Zeus will come

  to batter us on Olympus, seize one after another—

  gods guilty and innocent routed all together.

  So now, I tell you, drop this anger for your son.

  By now some fighter better than he, a stronger hand

  has gone down in his own blood, or soon will go.

  It is no small labor to rescue all mankind,

  every mother’s son.”

  With that sharp warning

  Athena seated headlong Ares on his throne.

  But Queen Hera summoned Apollo from the halls

  and Iris too, the messenger of the immortals,

  and gave them both their winged marching orders:

  “Zeus directs you to Ida with all good speed!

  But once you arrive and meet great Zeus’s glance,

  do whatever the Father drives you on to do.”

  And with that command Queen Hera strode home

  and regained her throne. But the two launched out in flight

  and reaching Ida with all her springs, mother of flocks,

  they found the thundering son of Cronus seated high

  on Gargaron peak, crowned with a fragrant cloud.

  Coming before the lord of storm and lightning

  the two just stood there, waiting ...

  Nor was his heart displeased to see them both—

  how fast they’d obeyed his loving wife’s commands—

  and first he issued Iris winging orders: “Away, Iris!

  Quick as you can to the grand sea lord Poseidon.

  Go, give him my message, start to finish—

  and see that every word of it rings exactly so.

  Command Poseidon to quit the war and slaughter now,

  go back to the tribes of gods or down to his bright sea.

  But if he will not obey my orders, if he spurns them,

  let him beware, heart and soul—for all his power

  he can never muster the will to stand my onslaught.

  I claim I am far greater than he in striking force,

  I am the first-bom too. Yet the spirit inside him

  never shrinks from claiming to be my equal, never,

  though other gods will cringe from me in terror.”

  And Iris riding the wind obeyed his orders,

  swooping down from Ida’s peaks to sacred Troy.

  Like the snow or freezing hail that pelts from clouds

  when the North Wind born in the clear heaven blasts it on—

  so in an eager rush of speed the wind-swift Iris flew

  and stopped beside the famous god of earthquakes,

  calling out to him, “Here is a message for you,

  god of the sea-blue mane who grips the earth.

  I speed this word to you from storming Zeus.

  He commands you to quit the war and slaughter now,

  go back to the tribes of gods or down to your bright sea!

  But if you will not obey his orders, if you spurn them,

  he threatens to come here in person, fight you down,

  power against power. Avoid his grasp, he warns.

  He claims he is far greater than you in striking force,

  he is the first-born too! Yet the spirit inside you

  never shrinks from claiming to be his equal, never—

  though other gods will cringe from him in terror.”

  But the glorious god of earthquakes shook in anger:

  “What outrage! Great as he is, what overweening arrogance!

  So, force me, will he, to wrench my will to his?

  I with the same high honors?

  Three brothers we are, all sprung from Cronus,

  all of us brought to birth by Rhea—Zeus and I,

  Hades the third, lord of the dead beneath the earth.

  The world was split three ways. Each received his realm.

  When we shook the lots I drew the sea, my foaming eternal home,

  and Hades drew the land of the dead engulfed in haze and night

  and Zeus drew the heavens, the clouds and the high clear sky,