The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

The Trojans, soon as they saw Menoetius’ gallant son,

  himself and his loyal driver flare in brazen gear—

  all their courage quaked, their columns buckled,

  thinking swift Achilles had tossed to the winds

  his hard rage that held him back by the ships

  and chosen friendship toward the Argives now.

  Each Trojan soldier glancing left and right—

  how could he run from sudden, plunging death?

  Patroclus was first to hurl his glinting spear,

  right at the center mass—the fighters milling

  round the stern of Protesilaus’ blazing ship—

  and hit Pyraechmes, firebrand who led the Paeonians,

  the master riders from Amydon, from Axius’ broad currents.

  Patroclus slashed his right shoulder and down he went,

  his back slamming the dust with a jolting groan

  as companions panicked round him—brave Paeonians—

  Patroclus whipped the terror in all their hearts

  when he killed the chief who topped them all in battle.

  He rode them off the ships, he quenched the leaping fire,

  leaving Protesilaus’ hulk half-burnt but upright still

  and the Trojans scattered back with high, shrill cries.

  The Argives poured against them, back by the hollow hulls,

  the din of battle incessant—

  an Argive breakthrough—

  bright as the moment Zeus the lord of lightning moves

  from a craggy mountain ridge a storm cloud massing dense

  and all the lookout peaks stand out and the jutting cliffs

  and the steep ravines and down from the high heavens bursts

  the boundless bright air ... So now the Argives

  drove the ravening fire clear of the warships,

  winning a little breathing room, not much,

  no real halt to the buck-and-rush of battle.

  For despite the surge of the Argives primed for war

  the Trojans were still not wheeling round in headlong rout

  away from the black hulls. Forced back from them, true,

  they braced for battle still and made a stand.

  Deadlock:

  there man killed man in the pell-mell clash of battle,

  captains going at captains. Brave Patroclus first—

  just as Areilycus swerved in sudden flight

  he gored him in the hip with a slashing spear

  and the bronze lancehead hammered through his flesh,

  the shaft splintering bone as he pitched face-first,

  pounding the ground—

  And veteran Menelaus wounded Thoas,

  raking his chest where the shield-rim left it bare,

  and loosed his limbs—

  And Amphiclus went for Meges

  but Meges saw him coming and got in first by far,

  spearing him up the thigh where it joins the body,

  the spot where a man’s muscle bunches thickest:

  the tough sinews shredded around the weapon’s point

  as the dark swirled down his eyes—

  Nestor’s sons on attack!

  Antilochus struck Atymnius hard with a whetted spear,

  the bronze ripping into his flank and clean through—

  he crashed at his feet—

  But Maris charged Antilochus,

  sweeping in with his lance, enraged for his brother,

  planted himself before his corpse but Thrasymedes,

  quick as a god, beat him to it—he stabbed

  before Maris stabbed—no miss! right in the shoulder,

  the Argive’s spearpoint cracked through the bony socket,

  shearing away the tendons, wrenched the whole arm out

  and down he thundered, darkness blanked his eyes.

  So these two brothers, laid low by the two brothers,

  dropped to the world of night: Sarpedon’s stalwart cohorts,

  spearmen sons of Amisodarus—he who bred the Chimaera,

  the grim monster that sent so many men to death.

  There—quick Oilean Ajax rushed Cleobulus,

  took him alive, stumbling blind in the rout

  but took his life at once, snapped his strength

  with a sword that hewed his neckbone—up to the hilt

  so the whole blade ran hot with blood, and red death

  came flooding down his eyes, and the strong force of fate.

  And now in a breakneck charge Peneleos closed with Lycon—

  they’d missed each other with spears, two wasted casts,

  so now both clashed with swords. Lycon, flailing,

  chopped the horn of Peneleos’ horsehair-crested helmet

  but round the socket the sword-blade smashed to bits-

  just as Peneleos hacked his neck below the ear

  and the blade sank clean through, nothing held

  but a flap of skin, the head swung loose to the side

  as Lycon slumped down to the ground ... There—

  at a dead run Meriones ran down Acamas, Acamas

  mounting behind his team, and gouged his right shoulder—

  he pitched from the car and the mist whirled down his eyes.

  Idomeneus skewered Erymas straight through the mouth,

  the merciless brazen spearpoint raking through,

  up under the brain to split his glistening skull—

  teeth shattered out, both eyes brimmed to the lids

  mouth gaping, blowing convulsive sprays of blood

  and death’s dark cloud closed down around his corpse.

  So in a rush each Argive captain killed his man.

  As ravenous wolves come swooping down on lambs or kids

  to snatch them away from right amidst their flock—all lost

  when a careless shepherd leaves them straggling down the hills

  and quickly spotting a chance the wolf pack picks them off,

  no heart for the fight—so the Achaeans mauled the Trojans.

  Shrieking flight the one thing on the Trojans’ minds,

  they forgot their fighting-fury ...

  Great Ajax now—forever aiming at Hector,

  trying to strike his helmet flashing bronze

  but Hector was far too seasoned, combat-tested,

  broad shoulders hunching under his bull‘s-hide shield,

  his eyes peeled for a whistling shaft or thudding spear.

  Hector knew full well the tide of battle had turned

  but still stood firm, defending die-hard comrades.

  Wild as a storm cloud moving off Olympus into heaven

  out of a clear blue sky when Zeus brings cyclones on—

  so wild the rout, the cries that came from the ships

  as back through the trench they ran, formations wrecked.

  And Hector? Hector’s speeding horses swept him away,

  armor and all, leaving his men to face their fate,

  Trojans trapped but struggling on in the deep trench.

  Hundreds of plunging war-teams dragging chariots down,

  snapping the yoke-poles, ditched their masters’ cars

  and Patroclus charged them, heart afire for the kill,

  shouting his Argives forward—“Slaughter Trojans!”

  Cries of terror breaking as Trojans choked all roads,

  their lines ripped to pieces, up from under the hoofs

  a dust storm swirling into the clouds as rearing horses

  broke into stride again and galloped back to Troy,

  leaving ships and shelters in their wake. Patroclus—

  wherever he saw the biggest masses dashing before him,

  there he steered, plowing ahead with savage cries

  and fighters tumbled out of their chariots headfirst,

  crushed under their axles, war-cars crashing over, yes,

  but straight across the trench went his own careering team

  at a superhuman bound. Magnificent r
acing stallions,

  gifts of the gods to Peleus, shining immortal gifts,

  straining breakneck on as Patroclus’ high courage

  urged him against Prince Hector, keen for the kill

  but Hector’s veering horses swept him clear.

  And all in an onrush dark as autumn days

  when the whole earth flattens black beneath a gale,

  when Zeus flings down his pelting, punishing rains—

  up in arms, furious, storming against those men

  who brawl in the courts and render crooked judgments,

  men who throw all rights to the winds with no regard

  for the vengeful eyes of the gods—so all their rivers

  crest into flood spate, ravines overflowing cut the hilltops

  off into lonely islands, the roaring flood tide rolling down

  to the storm-torn sea, headlong down from the foothills

  washes away the good plowed work of men—

  Rampaging so,

  the gasping Trojan war-teams hurtled on.

  Patroclus—

  soon as the fighter cut their front battalions off

  he swerved back to pin them against the warships,

  never letting the Trojans stream back up to Troy

  as they struggled madly on—but there mid-field

  between the ships, the river and beetling wall

  Patroclus kept on sweeping in, hacking them down,

  making them pay the price for Argives slaughtered.

  There, Pronous first to fall—a glint of the spear

  and Patroclus tore his chest left bare by the shield-rim,

  loosed his knees and the man went crashing down.

  And next he went for Thestor the son of Enops

  cowering, crouched in his fine polished chariot,

  crazed with fear, and the reins flew from his grip—

  Patroclus rising beside him stabbed his right jawbone,

  ramming the spearhead square between his teeth so hard

  he hooked him by that spearhead over the chariot-rail,

  hoisted, dragged the Trojan out as an angler perched

  on a jutting rock ledge drags some fish from the sea,

  some noble catch, with line and glittering bronze hook.

  So with the spear Patroclus gaffed him off his car,

  his mouth gaping round the glittering point

  and flipped him down facefirst,

  dead as he fell, his life breath blown away.

  And next he caught Erylaus closing, lunging in—

  he flung a rock and it struck between his eyes

  and the man’s whole skull split in his heavy helmet,

  down the Trojan slammed on the ground, head-down

  and courage-shattering Death engulfed his corpse.

  Then in a blur of kills, Amphoterus, Erymas, Epaltes,

  Tlepolemus son of Damastor, and Echius and Pyris,

  Ipheus and Euippus and Polymelus the son of Argeas—

  he crowded corpse on corpse on the earth that rears us all.

  But now Sarpedon, watching his comrades drop and die,

  war-shirts billowing free as Patroclus killed them,

  dressed his godlike Lycians down with a harsh shout:

  “Lycians, where’s your pride? Where are you running?

  Now be fast to attack! I’ll take him on myself,

  see who he is who routs us, wreaking havoc against us—

  cutting the legs from under squads of good brave men.”

  With that he leapt from his chariot fully armed

  and hit the ground and Patroclus straight across,

  as soon as he saw him, leapt from his car too.

  As a pair of crook-clawed, hook-beaked vultures

  swoop to fight, screaming above some jagged rock—

  so with their battle cries they rushed each other there.

  And Zeus the son of Cronus with Cronus’ twisting ways,

  filling with pity now to see the two great fighters,

  said to Hera, his sister and his wife, “My cruel fate ...

  my Sarpedon, the man I love the most, my own son—

  doomed to die at the hands of Menoetius’ son Patroclus.

  My heart is torn in two as I try to weigh all this.

  Shall I pluck him up, now, while he’s still alive

  and set him down in the rich green land of Lycia,

  far from the war at Troy and all its tears?

  Or beat him down at Patroclus’ hands at last?”

  But Queen Hera, her eyes wide, protested strongly:

  “Dread majesty, son of Cronus—what are you saying?

  A man, a mere mortal, his doom sealed long ago?

  You’d set him free from all the pains of death?

  Do as you please, Zeus ...

  but none of the deathless gods will ever praise you.

  And I tell you this—take it to heart, I urge you—

  if you send Sarpedon home, living still, beware!

  Then surely some other god will want to sweep

  his own son clear of the heavy fighting too.

  Look down. Many who battle round King Priam’s

  mighty walls are sons of the deathless gods—

  you will inspire lethal anger in them all.

  No,

  dear as he is to you, and your heart grieves for him,

  leave Sarpedon there to die in the brutal onslaught,

  beaten down at the hands of Menoetius’ son Patroclus.

  But once his soul and the life force have left him,

  send Death to carry him home, send soothing Sleep,

  all the way till they reach the broad land of Lycia.

  There his brothers and countrymen will bury the prince

  with full royal rites, with mounded tomb and pillar.

  These are the solemn honors owed the dead.”

  So she pressed

  and Zeus the father of men and gods complied at once.

  But he showered tears of blood that drenched the earth,

  showers in praise of him, his own dear son,

  the man Patroclus was just about to kill

  on Troy’s fertile soil, far from his fatherland.

  Now as the two came closing on each other

  Patroclus suddenly picked off Thrasymelus

  the famous driver, the aide who flanked Sarpedon—

  he speared him down the guts and loosed his limbs.

  But Sarpedon hurled next with a flashing lance

  and missed his man but he hit the horse Bold Dancer,

  stabbing his right shoulder and down the stallion went,

  screaming his life out, shrieking down in the dust

  as his life breath winged away. And the paired horses

  reared apart—a raspy creak of the yoke, the reins flying,

  fouled as the trace horse thrashed the dust in death-throes.

  But the fine spearman Automedon found a cure for that—

  drawing his long sharp sword from his sturdy thigh

  he leapt with a stroke to cut the trace horse free—

  it worked. The team righted, pulled at the reins

  and again both fighters closed with savage frenzy,