The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  fools! Over the corpse he’d cut down crowds of men,

  though now, at this point, Ajax warned Menelaus,

  lord of the battle cry, “Old friend, my Prince,

  I lose hope that we alone, on our own power,

  can make it back from the fighting.

  I not only fear for our comrade’s body—

  Patroclus will glut the dogs and birds of Troy

  and all too soon—but I fear for my own head,

  for my own life. And yours too, Menelaus—

  look at this cloud of war that blots out all the field,

  this Hector, this headlong death that stares us in the face!

  Quick, call to the chiefs—if one can hear you now.”

  At that the prince of the battle cry complied

  with a high piercing shout that reached all troops:

  “Friends—lords of the Argives, O my captains!

  All who join the Atridae, Agamemnon and Menelaus,

  who drink wine at the king’s expense and hold command

  of your own troops, your rank and fame from Zeus!

  Impossible now to pick you out, my captains,

  man by man—the battle blazes up so wildly.

  Forward, each on his own! You’ll die of shame

  if the dogs of Ilium make Patroclus ripping sport.”

  And the quick Oilean Ajax heard him clearly,

  first on the run along the fighting front to meet him—

  Idomeneus after him and Idomeneus’ good aide,

  Meriones, a match for the butcher god of war.

  For the rest who followed, waking Achaea’s war-lust,

  what man has spirit strong enough to sing their names?

  Down in a mass the Trojans pounded—Hector led them in,

  charging in as a heavy surf roars in against the rip

  at a river’s mouth, swelled with rains from Zeus,

  and on either side the jutting headlands bellow back

  at the booming sea with matching thunder—in they came,

  the Trojans roaring in. But the Argives faced them,

  standing fast in a ring around Patroclus, one fury

  seizing their hearts, packing a wall of bronze shields

  and round about their glittering crested helmets now

  the son of Cronus spread a dense, deepening mist.

  He had never hated Menoetius’ son in the past,

  while he was alive and still Achilles’ aide,

  and now the Father loathed to see him prey

  to Troy’s marauders, the ravening dogs of Troy—

  so he drove his comrades on to shield his corpse.

  At first the Trojans could ram the Argives back

  and they abandoned the corpse, their fiery-eyed battalions

  fled away in panic. But still the breakneck Trojans,

  up in arms as they were,

  killed off none of the Argives with their spears—

  instead they began to drag away Patroclus’ corpse.

  But not for long would his comrades give him up:

  in a swift maneuver Ajax wheeled them round,

  Ajax, greatest in build, greatest in works of war

  of all the Argives after Peleus’ matchless son.

  Right through the front he plowed like a wild boar

  ramping in power up on the high mountain ridges,

  scattering dogs and reckless hunters at one charge

  when he wheels at bay and drives them down the glades.

  So now the son of noble Telamon, dauntless Ajax

  scattered the massing Trojan packs at a charge,

  all who bestrode Patroclus now, high with hopes

  of dragging him back to Troy to win the glory—

  Trying hardest,

  Hippothous out for fame ... Pelasgian Lethus’ son,

  lashing a shield-strap round the ankle tendons,

  was hauling Patroclus footfirst through the melee,

  hoping to please Prince Hector and all the Trojans,

  Hippothous rushing on but death came just as fast.

  No Trojans could save him now, strain as they might—

  Ajax son of Telamon charging quickly into the carnage

  speared him at close range through the bronze-cheeked helmet,

  the horsehair crest cracked wide open around the point,

  smashed by the massive spear and hand that drove it.

  His brains burst from the wound in sprays of blood,

  soaking the weapon’s socket—

  his strength dissolved on the spot, his grip loosed

  and he dropped the foot of brave Patroclus’ corpse.

  There on the ground it lay—he rushed to join it,

  pitching over the dead man’s body face-to-face,

  a world away from Larissa’s dark rich soil ...

  Never would he repay his loving parents now

  for the gift of rearing—his life cut short so soon,

  brought down by the spear of lionhearted Ajax.

  Hector hurled at him—a sudden glint of the spear—

  but Ajax saw it coming and dodged the bronze shaft,

  just by a hair, and the weapon caught Schedius,

  gallant Iphitus’ son and Phocia’s finest man,

  who made his home in the famous town of Panopeus,

  ruling tribes of men. Hector speared him now—

  the point split the collarbone, slashing through

  and out by the shoulder’s base, sticking out the back.

  He fell with a crash, his armor clanging round him.

  Ajax next—

  with a lunge he stabbed Phorcys, Phaenops’ warrior son

  bestriding Hippothous’ corpse—he ripped his belly,

  smashing the corslet just where the plates join

  and the bronze spearhead spilled his entrails out

  and down went Phorcys, grasping, clawing the dust.

  The Trojan front gave ground, glorious Hector too

  and the Argives yelled wildly, dragging the bodies,

  hauling Hippothous’ corpse along with Phorcys’ now

  and tearing the bloody armor off their backs.

  Then, once more,

  Trojan troops would have clambered back inside their walls,

  whipped weak with fear by the Argives primed for battle

  and they, they would have seized enormous glory—

  yes, defying even the great decree of Zeus—

  by dint of their own power and striking force.

  But god Apollo himself spurred on Aeneas,

  taking the build of Periphas, Summoner’s son

  who had grown old as herald to Aeneas’ father

  the aged king—a loving, loyal herald too ...

  Like him to the life, Apollo provoked Aeneas:

  “Aeneas—how could you and your men save Troy

  with the gods against you? As I’ve seen other men

  who trust to their own power and striking force,

  their own valor, their own troop-strength

  even badly outmanned—defend their country well.

  But Zeus is with us here! Decreeing triumph for us,

  not for the Argives now. But you, you’re all frightened

  out of your minds—you cannot fight.”

  The deadly Archer—

  Aeneas knew him at once, looking straight in his eyes

  and the fighter loosed a rousing shout at Hector:

  “Hector—all you captains of Trojans, Trojan allies—

  shame, what shame! Clambering back into Troy now,

  whipped weak with fear by the Argive forces? Look—

  one of the gods comes up beside me, tells me Zeus

  the supreme commander still impels us all in battle.

  So go for the Argives—head-on! Don’t let them bear

  Patroclus’ body back to their ships without a fight!”

  And springing out of the lines Aeneas took his stand

  as the rest sw
ung round and braced to meet the Argives.

  There—Aeneas lunged and speared Leocritus through,

  a son of Arisbas, Lycomedes’ die-hard friend.

  And veteran Lycomedes pitied him as he dropped,

  sweeping beside him, rearing—a flash of his lance

  and he hit a captain, Hippasus’ son Apisaon,

  slitting open his liver, up under the midriff...

  His knees went limp, a man who’d marched from Paeonia,

  good fertile soil where he excelled all fighters,

  all but Asteropaeus—

  Down to the ground he went

  but battling Asteropaeus pitied his comrade’s pain

  and charged the Argives hard, mad to fight it out—

  no use, too late. They’d packed behind their shields,

  ringing Patroclus round on all sides, spears jutting

  as Ajax ranged them all and shouted out commands:

  “No one back away from the body! No heroes either,

  bolting out of the Argive pack for single combat!

  Cluster round Patroclus, shoulder-to-shoulder,

  fight them at close range!” At the giant’s command

  the earth ran red with blood, slithering dark now

  and the soldiers’ corpses tumbling thick-and-fast,

  Trojans and breakneck allies piled alongside Argives—

  how could the Argives fight without some bloody losses?

  But far fewer of them went down, remembering always

  to fight in tight formation,

  friend defending friend from headlong slaughter.

  So on they fought like a swirl of living fire—

  you could not say if the sun and moon still stood secure,

  so dense the battle-haze that engulfed the brave

  who stood their ground around Patroclus’ body.

  But the other Trojans and Argive men-at-arms

  fought on at their ease beneath a clear blue sky—

  sharp brilliance of sunlight glittering round them,

  not a cloud in sight to shadow the earth and mountains.

  Men who fought at a distance worked with frequent breaks,

  dodging painful arrows that showered side-to-side.

  But men who held the center suffered agonies,

  thanks to the haze and carnage—

  ruthless bronze hacking their lines to pieces,

  there where the bravest fought. Yet two men there,

  famous fighters, Antilochus flanking Thrasymedes

  still had not caught word of Patroclus’ death:

  they thought the gallant soldier still alive,

  fighting Trojans up on the clashing front lines.

  But the two men kept their lookout, always alert

  to their comrades’ deaths or signs of instant flight

  as the two fought out on the flank—just as Nestor ordered,

  sending both sons forth from the black ships to battle.

  So all day long for the men of war the fighting raged,

  grim and grueling, relentless, drenching labor, nonstop,

  and the knees, shins and feet that upheld each fighter,

  their hands, their eyes, ran with the sweat of struggle

  over the great runner Achilles’ steadfast aide-in-arms-

  an enormous tug-of-war. As when some master tanner

  gives his crews the hide of a huge bull for stretching,

  the beast’s skin soaked in grease and the men grab hold,

  bracing round in a broad circle, tugging, stretching hard

  till the skin’s oils go dripping out as the grease sinks in,

  so many workers stretch the whole hide tough and taut—

  so back and forth in a cramped space they tugged,

  both sides dragging the corpse and hopes rising,

  Trojans hoping to drag Patroclus back to Troy,

  Achaeans to drag him back to the hollow ships

  and round him always the brutal struggle raging.

  Not even Ares, lasher of armies, not even Athena

  watching the battle here could scorn its fury,

  not even in their most savage lust for combat, no—

  so tense the work of war for the men and chariot-teams

  that Zeus stretched taut across Patroclus this one day ...

  But great Achilles knew nothing yet of Patroclus’ death.

  They were fighting far afield of the deep-sea ships,

  beneath the Trojan wall, so Achilles never feared

  his friend was dead—he must be still alive,

  pressing on to the very gates, but he’d come back.

  Achilles never dreamed Patroclus would storm all Troy

  without him, not even with him. No, time and again

  his mother Thetis told him this was not to be,

  she told him alone, in secret ...

  always bringing word of mighty Zeus’s plans,

  but not this time. One thing she never told him—

  his own mother—what a terrible thing had taken place:

  his dearest friend-in-arms on earth lay dead.

  Over his corpse

  no letup, the fighters kept on thrusting whetted spears,

  locked in endless struggle, cutting each other down.

  And an Argive armed in bronze would call out, “Friends!

  Our glory’s gone if we fall back now on the ships—

  let the black earth gape and take us all at once,

  here and now! Better for us that way, by far,

  if we yield his corpse to the stallion-breaking Trojans,

  all to drag him back to Troy and win the glory.”

  And a hardy Trojan would call on his side, “Friends!

  What if it’s fated for us to die beside this body—

  all dead in a mass? Let no man quit the battle!”

  So they would say, fueling comrades’ courage.

  And so they fought and the iron din went rising up

  to the bronze sky through the barren breathless air.

  But standing clear of the fray Achilles’ horses wept

  from the time they first had sensed their driver’s death,

  brought down in the dust by man-killing Hector.

  Diores’ rugged son Automedon did his best,

  lashed them over and over with stinging whip—

  coaxing them gently now, now shouting oath on oath.

  But both balked at returning now to the ships

  moored at the Hellespont’s far-reaching shore

  or galloping back to fight beside the Argives.

  Staunch as a pillar planted tall above a barrow,

  standing sentry over some lord or lady’s grave-site,

  so they stood, holding the blazoned chariot stock-still,

  their heads trailing along the ground, warm tears flowing

  down from their eyes to wet the earth ... the horses mourned,

  longing now for their driver, their luxurious manes soiled,

  streaming down from the yoke-pads, down along the yoke.

  And Zeus pitied them, watching their tears flow.

  He shook his head and addressed his own deep heart: