The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  Zeus who strikes fear in even the bravest man of war

  and tears away his triumph, all in a lightning flash,

  and at other times he will spur a man to battle,

  just as he urged Patroclus’ fury now.

  Patroclus—

  who was the first you slaughtered, who the last

  when the great gods called you down to death?

  First Adrestus, then Autonous, then Echeclus,

  then Perimus, Megas’ son, Epistor and Melanippus,

  then in a flurry Elasus, Mulius and Pylartes—

  he killed them all but the rest were bent on flight.

  And then and there the Achaeans might have taken Troy,

  her towering gates toppling under Patroclus’ power

  heading the vanguard, storming on with his spear.

  But Apollo took his stand on the massive rampart,

  his mind blazing with death for him but help for Troy.

  Three times Patroclus charged the jut of the high wall,

  three times Apollo battered the man and hurled him back,

  the god’s immortal hands beating down on the gleaming shield.

  Then at Patroclus’ fourth assault like something superhuman,

  the god shrieked down his winging words of terror: “Back—

  Patroclus, Prince, go back! It is not the will of fate

  that the proud Trojans’ citadel fall before your spear,

  not even before Achilles—far greater man than you!”

  And Patroclus gave ground, backing a good way off,

  clear of the deadly Archer’s wrath.

  But now Hector,

  reining his high-strung team at the Scaean Gates,

  debated a moment, waiting ...

  should he drive back to the rout and soldier on?

  Or call his armies now to rally within the ramparts?

  As he turned things over, Apollo stood beside him,

  taking the shape of that lusty rugged fighter

  Asius, an uncle of stallion-breaking Hector,

  a blood brother of Hecuba, son of Dymas

  who lived in Phrygia near Sangarius’ rapids.

  Like him, Apollo the son of Zeus incited Hector:

  “Hector, why stop fighting? Neglecting your duty!

  If only I outfought you as you can outfight me,

  I’d soon teach you to shirk your work in war—

  you’d pay the price, I swear. Up with you—fast!

  Lash those pounding stallions straight at Patroclus—

  you might kill him still-Apollo might give you glory!”

  And back Apollo strode, a god in the wars of men

  while glorious Hector ordered skilled Cebriones,

  “Flog the team to battle!” Apollo pressed on,

  wading into the ruck, hurling Argives back in chaos

  and handing glory to Hector and all the Trojan forces.

  But Hector ignored the Argive masses, killing none,

  he lashed his pounding stallions straight at Patroclus.

  Patroclus, over against him, leapt down from his car

  and hit the ground, his left hand shaking a spear

  and seized with his right a jagged, glittering stone

  his hand could just cover—Patroclus flung it hard,

  leaning into the heave, not backing away from Hector,

  no, and no wasted shot. But he hit his driver—

  a bastard son of famed King Priam, Cebriones

  yanking the reins back taut—right between the eyes.

  The sharp stone crushed both brows, the skull caved in

  and both eyes burst from their sockets, dropping down

  in the dust before his feet as the reinsman vaulted,

  plunging off his well-wrought car like a diver—

  Cebriones’ life breath left his bones behind

  and you taunted his corpse, Patroclus O my rider:

  “Look what a springy man, a nimble, flashy tumbler!

  Just think what he’d do at sea where the fish swarm—

  why, the man could glut a fleet, diving for oysters!

  Plunging overboard, even in choppy, heaving seas,

  just as he dives to ground from his war-car now.

  Even these Trojans have their tumblers—what a leap!”

  And he leapt himself at the fighting driver’s corpse

  with the rushing lunge of a lion struck in the chest

  as he lays waste pens of cattle—

  his own lordly courage about to be his death.

  So you sprang at Cebriones, full fury, Patroclus,

  as Hector sprang down from his chariot just across

  and the two went tussling over the corpse as lions

  up on the mountain ridges over a fresh-killed stag—

  both ravenous, proud and savage—fight it out to the death.

  So over the driver here and both claw-mad for battle,

  Patroclus son of Menoetius, Hector ablaze for glory

  strained to slash each other with ruthless bronze.

  Hector seized the corpse’s head, would not let go—

  Patroclus clung to a foot and other fighters clashed,

  Trojans, Argives, all in a grueling, maiming onset.

  As the East and South Winds fight in killer-squalls

  deep in a mountain valley thrashing stands of timber,

  oak and ash and cornel with bark stretched taut and hard

  and they whip their long sharp branches against each other,

  a deafening roar goes up, the splintered timber crashing—

  so Achaeans and Trojans crashed,

  hacking into each other, and neither side now

  had a thought of flight that would have meant disaster.

  Showers of whetted spears stuck fast around Cebriones,

  bristling winged arrows whipped from the bowstrings,

  huge rocks by the salvo battering shields on shields

  as they struggled round the corpse. And there he lay

  in the whirling dust, overpowered in all his power

  and wiped from memory all his horseman’s skills.

  So till the sun bestrode the sky at high noon

  the weapons hurtled side-to-side and men kept falling.

  But once the sun wheeled past the hour for unyoking oxen,

  then the Argives mounted a fiercer new attack,

  fighting beyond their fates ...

  They dragged the hero Cebriones out from under

  the pelting shafts and Trojans’ piercing cries

  and they tore the handsome war-gear off his back

  and Patroclus charged the enemy, fired for the kill.

  Three times he charged with the headlong speed of Ares,

  screaming his savage cry, three times he killed nine men.

  Then at the fourth assault Patroclus like something superhuman—

  then, Patroclus, the end of life came blazing up before you,

  yes, the lord Apollo met you there in the heart of battle,

  the god, the terror! Patroclus never saw him coming,

  moving across the deadly rout, shrouded in thick mist

  and on he came against him and looming up behind him now—

  slammed his broad shoulders and back with the god’s flat hand

  and his eyes spun as Apollo knocked the helmet off his head

  and under his horses’ hoofs it tumbled, clattering on

  with its four forged horns and its hollow blank eyes

  and its plumes were all smeared in the bloody dust.

  Forbidden before this to defile its crest in dust,

  it guarded the head and handsome brow of a god,

  a man like a god, Achilles. But now the Father

  gave it over to Hector to guard his head in war

  since Hector’s death was closing on him quickly.

  Patroclus though—the spear in his grip was shattered,

  the whole of its rugged bronze-shod shadow-casting l
ength

  and his shield with straps and tassels dropped from his shoulders,

  flung down on the ground—and lord Apollo the son of Zeus

  wrenched his breastplate off. Disaster seized him—

  his fine legs buckling—

  he stood there, senseless—

  And now,

  right at his back, close-up, a Dardan fighter speared him

  squarely between the shoulder blades with a sharp lance.

  Panthous’ son Euphorbus, the best of his own age

  at spears and a horseman’s skill and speed of foot,

  and even in this, his first attack in chariots—

  just learning the arts of war—

  he’d brought down twenty drivers off their cars.

  He was the first to launch a spear against you,

  Patroclus O my rider, but did not bring you down.

  Yanking out his ashen shaft from your body,

  back he dashed and lost himself in the crowds—

  the man would not stand up to Patroclus here

  in mortal combat, stripped, defenseless as he was.

  Patroclus stunned by the spear and the god’s crushing blow

  was weaving back to his own thronging comrades,

  trying to escape death ...

  Hector waiting, watching

  the greathearted Patroclus trying to stagger free,

  seeing him wounded there with the sharp bronze

  came rushing into him right across the lines

  and rammed his spearshaft home,

  stabbing deep in the bowels, and the brazen point

  went jutting straight out through Patroclus’ back.

  Down he crashed—horror gripped the Achaean armies.

  As when some lion overpowers a tireless wild boar

  up on a mountain summit, battling in all their fury

  over a little spring of water, both beasts craving

  to slake their thirst, but the lion beats him down

  with sheer brute force as the boar fights for breath—

  so now with a close thrust Hector the son of Priam

  tore the life from the fighting son of Menoetius,

  from Patroclus who had killed so many men in war,

  and gloried over him, wild winging words: “Patroclus—

  surely you must have thought you’d storm my city down,

  you’d wrest from the wives of Troy their day of freedom,

  drag them off in ships to your own dear fatherland—

  you fool! Rearing in their defense my war-team,

  Hector’s horses were charging out to battle,

  galloping, full stretch. And I with my spear,

  Hector, shining among my combat-loving comrades,

  I fight away from them the fatal day—but you,

  the vultures will eat your body raw!

  Poor, doomed ...

  not for all his power could Achilles save you now—

  and how he must have filled your ears with orders

  as you went marching out and the hero stayed behind:

  ‘Now don’t come back to the hollow ships, you hear?—

  Patroclus, master horseman—

  not till you’ve slashed the shirt around his chest

  and soaked it red in the blood of man-killing Hector!’

  So he must have commanded—you maniac, you obeyed.”

  Struggling for breath, you answered, Patroclus O my rider,

  “Hector! Now is your time to glory to the skies ...

  now the victory is yours.

  A gift of the son of Cronus, Zeus—Apollo too—

  they brought me down with all their deathless ease,

  they are the ones who tore the armor off my back.

  Even if twenty Hectors had charged against me—

  they’d all have died here, laid low by my spear.

  No, deadly fate in league with Apollo killed me.

  From the ranks of men, Euphorbus. You came third,

  and all you could do was finish off my life ...

  One more thing—take it to heart, I urge you—

  you too, you won’t live long yourself, I swear.

  Already I see them looming up beside you—death

  and the strong force of fate, to bring you down

  at the hands of Aeacus’ great royal son ...

  Achilles!“

  Death cut him short. The end closed in around him.

  Flying free of his limbs

  his soul went winging down to the House of Death,

  wailing his fate, leaving his manhood far behind,

  his young and supple strength. But glorious Hector

  taunted Patroclus’ body, dead as he was, “Why, Patroclus—

  why prophesy my doom, my sudden death? Who knows?—

  Achilles the son of sleek-haired Thetis may outrace me—

  struck by my spear first—and gasp away his life!”

  With that he planted a heel against Patroclus’ chest,

  wrenched his brazen spear from the wound, kicked him over,

  flat on his back, free and clear of the weapon.

  At once he went for Automedon with that spear—

  quick as a god, the aide of swift Achilles—

  keen to cut him down but his veering horses

  swept him well away—magnificent racing stallions,

  gifts of the gods to Peleus, shining immortal gifts.

  BOOK SEVENTEEN

  Menelaus’ Finest Hour

  But Atreus’ son the fighting Menelaus marked it all—

  the Trojans killing Patroclus there in the brutal carnage—

  and crested now in his gleaming bronze gear Atrides

  plowed through the front to stand astride the body,

  braced like a mother cow lowing over a calf,

  her first-born, first labor-pangs she’d felt.

  So the red-haired captain bestrode Patroclus now,

  shielding his corpse with spear and round buckler,

  burning to kill off any man who met him face-to-face.

  But Euphorbus who hurled the lethal ashen spear

  would not neglect his kill, Patroclus’ handsome body.

  Halting close beside it, he taunted fighting Menelaus:

  “Back, high and mighty Atrides, captain of armies—

  back from the corpse, and leave the bloody gear!

  I was the first Trojan, first of the famous allies

  to spear Patroclus down in the last rough charge.

  So let me seize my glory among the Trojans now—

  or I’ll spear you too, I’ll rip your own sweet life away!”

  But the red-haired captain flared back in anger:

  “Father Zeus—listen to this indecent, reckless bluster!

  Not even the leopard’s fury makes the beast so proud,

  not even the lion‘s, not the murderous wild boar’s,

  the greatest pride of all, bursting the boar’s chest—

  they’re nothing next to the pride of Panthous’ sons

  with their strong ashen spears. But no, no joy

  did even powerful Hyperenor, breaker of horses,