The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

get from his young strength when he scorned me,

  stood up to me, reviling me as the weakest fighter

  in all Achaea’s armies. Home he went, I’d say,

  but not on his own two feet, and brought no cheer

  to his loyal, loving wife and devoted parents.

  And you, I’ll break your courage for you too

  if you try to take me on.

  Go back to your own rank and file, I tell you!

  Don’t stand up against me—or you will meet your death.

  Even a fool learns something once it hits him.”

  So he warned

  but failed to shake Euphorbus who shot right back,

  “Now, high and mighty Atrides, now by heaven

  you pay in blood for the brother you laid low!

  You glory over it too—making his wife a widow

  lost in the depths of their new bridal chamber,

  bringing his parents cursed tears and grief.

  But I could stop that wretched couple’s pain

  if only I brought your head and bloody armor home

  and laid them in Panthous’ arms, in lovely Phrontis’ arms!

  We’re wasting time. Our fight’s unfought, untested—

  we’ll see who stands his ground, who cuts and runs.”

  And he stabbed Menelaus’ round shield, full center,

  not battering through—the brazen point bent back

  in the tough armor.

  But his turn next, Menelaus

  rose with a bronze lance and a prayer to Father Zeus

  and lunging out at Euphorbus just dropping back,

  pierced the pit of his throat—leaning into it hard,

  his whole arm’s weight in the stroke to drive it home

  and the point went slicing through the tender neck.

  He fell with a crash, armor ringing against his ribs,

  his locks like the Graces’ locks splashed with blood,

  still braided tight with gold and silver clips,

  pinched in like a wasp’s waist. There he lay

  like an olive slip a farmer rears to strength

  on a lonely hilltop, drenching it down with water,

  a fine young stripling tree, and the winds stir it softly,

  rustling from every side, and it bursts with silver shoots—

  then suddenly out of nowhere a wind in gale force comes storming,

  rips it out of its trench, stretches it out on the earth—

  so Panthous’ stripling son lay sprawled in death,

  Euphorbus who hurled the strong ashen spear ...

  Menelaus cut him down, was stripping off his armor—

  Menelaus fierce as a mountain lion sure of his power,

  seizing the choicest head from a good grazing herd.

  First he cracks its neck, clamped in his huge jaws,

  mauling the kill then down in gulps he bolts it,

  blood and guts, and around him dogs and shepherds

  raise a fierce din but they keep their distance,

  lacking nerve to go in and take the lion on—

  the fear that grips their spirit makes them blanch.

  So now not a single Trojan fighter had the spine

  to go and face Atrides tensing in all his strength.

  Then and there Menelaus might have stripped Euphorbus

  and swept the Trojan’s glittering armor off with ease

  if Apollo had not grudged him all that glory,

  rousing Hector against him, swift as Ares.

  Taking a man’s shape, the Cicones’ captain Mentes,

  Apollo spurred him on with winged orders: “Hector—

  you’re chasing the wild wind, fiery Achilles’ team!

  They’re hard for mortal men to curb and drive,

  for all but Achilles—his mother is immortal.

  But all the while Menelaus, Atreus’ fighting son

  bestrides Patroclus—he’s killed the Trojans’ best,

  Panthous’ son Euphorbus, stopped his fury cold.”

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

  But grief bore down on Hector, packing his dark heart

  as he scanned the battle lines and saw the worst at once:

  the two men there, one stripping the gleaming armor,

  the other sprawled on the ground,

  blood still spurting warm from his slashed throat.

  Down the front he charged, crested in flashing bronze,

  Hector loosing a savage cry and flaring on like fire,

  like the god of fire, the blaze that never dies.

  And the cry pierced Menelaus, deeply torn now

  as he probed his own great heart: “What can I do?

  If I leave this splendid gear and desert Patroclus—

  who fell here fighting, all to redeem my honor—

  won’t any comrade curse me, seeing me break away?

  But if I should take on Hector and Hector’s Trojans

  alone, in single combat—trying to save my pride—

  won’t they encircle me, one against so many?

  This flashing Hector has all Troy at his back!

  But why debate, my friend, why thrash things out?

  When you fight a man against the will of the gods,

  a man they have sworn to honor—then look out,

  a heavy wave of ruin’s about to overwhelm you.

  Surely no Achaean will curse me, seeing me now,

  giving ground to Hector ...

  since fighting Hector’s flanked by god almighty.

  Ah if only I knew where Ajax could be found,

  that man with his ringing war cry—we two together

  would go back to the melee calling up our fury,

  even fight in the teeth of every god on high

  and haul the body back to Achilles-somehow.

  Things are bad, but that would be the best.”

  Working it out, his heart racing as on they came,

  waves of Trojan soldiers and Hector led them in.

  And Atrides gave ground, he left the corpse

  but kept on turning round to face an attack—

  like a great bearded lion the dogs and field hands

  drive back from the folds with spears and sharp cries

  and the brave, battling heart in his chest freezes tight

  and the big cat, all reluctance, pulls back from the sheds.

  So the red-haired captain backed away from Patroclus’ corpse

  but wheeled at bay when he reached his waiting allies,

  glancing round and round for Ajax’ massive hulk.

  All at once on the left flank he marked him,

  spurring companions, urging them to fight,

  for Phoebus had filled each man with quaking fear.

  Atrides went on the run and reached him, shouting, “Ajax!

  Hurry, my friend, this way—fight for dead Patroclus!

  At least we could bring his body back to Achilles,

  stripped as Patroclus is—but not Achilles’ armor:

  Hector with that flashing helmet has seized it all.”

  So he roused the fury in battling Ajax’ heart

  and down the front he stalked with the red-haired king.

  Hector, tearing the famous armor off Patroclus.

  tugged hard at the corpse,

  mad to hack the head from the neck with bronze

  and drag the trunk away to glut the dogs of Troy.

  But in charged Ajax, shield like a tower before him

  and Hector, falling back on a crowd of comrades,

  leapt to his chariot, flinging the burnished gear

  to his waiting troops to haul away to Troy—

  trophies to be his own enormous glory. But Ajax,

  shielding Patroclus round with his broad buckler,

  stood fast now like a lion cornered round his young

  when hunters cross him, leading his cubs through woods—

  he ramps in all the pride of his pow
er, bristling strength,

  the heavy folds of his forehead frowning down his eyes.

  So Ajax stood his ground over brave Patroclus now—

  the fighting Atrides right beside him, standing fast,

  his grief mounting, every waiting moment.

  But Glaucus,

  Hippolochus’ son and lord of Lycia’s forces now,

  scowled at Hector, lashing out at him: “Hector—

  our prince of beauty, in battle all a sham!

  That empty glory of yours a runner’s glory,

  a scurrying girl’s at that.

  Now you’d better plan how to save your city,

  you alone and your native troopers bom in Troy.

  Now not a single Lycian goes to fight the Argives,

  not to save your Troy. What lasting thanks for us,

  for warring with your enemies, on and on, no end?

  What hope has the common soldier in your ranks

  to be saved by you, Hector, you heart of iron?—

  if you could quit Sarpedon, your guest and friend-in-arms

  abandoned there as carrion fit for the Argive maws.

  Think what a staunch support Sarpedon was to you

  and to all Troy while the man was still alive!

  Now you lack the daring to save him from the dogs.

  So now, if any Lycian troops will obey my orders,

  home we go—and headlong death can come and topple Troy.

  If the Trojans had that courage, unswerving courage

  that fires men who fight for their own country,

  beating their enemies down in war and struggle,

  then we could drag Patroclus back to Troy at once.

  If we could haul him from battle, dead as he is,

  and lodge him behind King Priam’s looming walls,

  our enemies would release Sarpedon’s gear at once

  and then, then we could bring his body back to Troy.

  For the man we cut down here was the loyal friend

  of Prince Achilles-far the greatest among the Argive ships

  and at his command go rugged fighters hand-to-hand.

  But you—with enemy war cries ringing in your ears—

  you lacked the nerve to go up against Great Ajax,

  that fierce heart, to look him straight in the eye

  and fight the man head-on—he’s a better man than you!”

  With a dark glance from under his flashing helmet

  Hector lashed back, “Glaucus, such brazen insolence

  from a decent man like you, but why? Ah too bad,

  and I always thought you excelled the rest in sense,

  all who hale from Lycia’s fertile soil. But now—

  you fill me with contempt—what are you saying?

  You tell me that I can’t stand up to monstrous Ajax?

  I tell you I never cringe at war and thundering horses!

  But the will of Zeus will always overpower the will of men,

  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.

  Come on, my friend, stand by me, watch me work!

  See if I prove a coward dawn to dusk—your claim—

  or I stop some Argive, blazing in all his power,

  from fighting on to shield Patroclus’ corpse!”

  With that he loosed a shrill cry to his Trojans,

  “Trojans! Lycians! Dardan fighters hand-to-hand-

  now be men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!

  I’ll strap on the brave Achilles’ armor, burnished armor

  I stripped from strong Patroclus when I killed him!”

  So he cried and his own bronze helmet flashed

  as Hector veered away from the heavy fighting,

  running after his men and caught them quickly.

  They’d not gone far and he ran with eager strides

  as they bore Achilles’ famous arms toward Troy.

  Standing far from the war and all its heartbreak

  Hector exchanged his armor, handing his own gear

  to his battle-hungry troops to return to holy Troy,

  and donned the deathless arms of Peleus’ son Achilles,

  arms the gods of the sky once gave his loving father—

  and Peleus passed them on to his son when he grew old

  but the son would not grow old in his father’s armor.

  Now,

  when Zeus who arrays the clouds saw Hector from afar,

  strapping on the gear of Peleus’ godlike son,

  he shook his head and addressed his own deep heart:

  “Poor soldier. Never a thought of death weighs down

  your spirit now, yet death is right beside you ...

  You don the deathless arms of a great fighter—

  and all other fighters tremble before him, true,

  but you, you killed his comrade, gentle, strong,

  and against all rights you ripped the immortal armor

  off his head and shoulders. So great power for the moment

  I will grant you to compensate for all that is to come:

  never again will you return from battle, Hector,

  nor will Andromache take that famous armor,

  Achilles’ deathless armor, from your hands.”

  So he decreed

  and the son of Cronus bowed his craggy dark brows.

  Zeus fitted the armor tightly on Hector’s body

  and Ares surged in his heart with awesome force,

  filling his limbs with power and fighting strength.

  And on he strode amidst his illustrious Trojan allies—

  calling out with wild cries, now flashing before them all

  in the gleaming battle-gear of greathearted Achilles.

  He ranged their ranks, inspiriting every captain,

  commanding Mesthles, Glaucus, Medon, Thersilochus,

  Asteropaeus, Disenor, Hippothous, Phorcys, Chromius,

  Ennomus too, who could read the flight of birds.

  Hector drove them on with winging orders: “Hear me—

  numberless tribes of allies living round our borders—

  I neither sought nor needed enormous hordes of men

  that day I called you here, each from your own city.

  What I needed was men to shield our helpless children,

  fighting men to defend our Trojan women—all-out—

  against these savage Argives. That goal in mind,

  I bleed my own people for gifts and food

  so I can build your courage, each and every man.

  So now, each of you, turn straight for the enemy,

  live or die—that is the lovely give-and-take of war.

  That man who drags Patroclus back to Trojan charioteers,

  dead as Patroclus is, and makes Great Ajax yield—

  to him I will give one half the bloody spoils,

  keep half for myself—his glory will equal mine!”

  Strong vow—

  and they bore straight down on the Argives full force,

  shaking their spears, their hearts fired with hopes

  of dragging Patroclus’ body out from under Ajax—