The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  For my own death, I’ll meet it freely—whenever Zeus

  and the other deathless gods would like to bring it on!

  Not even Heracles fled his death, for all his power,

  favorite son as he was to Father Zeus the King.

  Fate crushed him, and Hera’s savage anger.

  And I too, if the same fate waits for me ...

  I’ll lie in peace, once I’ve gone down to death.

  But now, for the moment, let me seize great glory!—

  and drive some woman of Troy or deep-breasted Dardan

  to claw with both hands at her tender cheeks and wipe away

  her burning tears as the sobs come choking from her throat—

  they’ll learn that I refrained from war a good long time!

  Don’t try to hold me back from the fighting, mother,

  love me as you do. You can’t persuade me now.”

  The goddess of the glistening feet replied,

  “Yes, my son, you’re right. No coward’s work,

  to save your exhausted friends from headlong death.

  But your own handsome war-gear lies in Trojan hands,

  bronze and burnished—and Hector in that flashing helmet,

  Hector glories in your armor, strapped across his back.

  Not that he will glory in it long, I tell you:

  his own destruction hovers near him now. Wait—

  don’t fling yourself in the grind of battle yet,

  not till you see me coming back with your own eyes.

  Tomorrow I will return to you with the rising sun,

  bearing splendid arms from Hephaestus, god of fire!”

  With that vow she turned away from her son

  and faced and urged her sisters of the deep,

  “Now down you go in the Ocean’s folding gulfs

  to visit father’s halls—the Old Man of the Sea—

  and tell him all. I am on my way to Olympus heights,

  to the famous Smith Hephaestus—I pray he’ll give my son

  some fabulous armor full of the god’s great fire!”

  And under a foaming wave her sisters dove

  as glistening-footed Thetis soared toward Olympus

  to win her dear son an immortal set of arms.

  And now,

  as her feet swept her toward Olympus, ranks of Achaeans,

  fleeing man-killing Hector with grim, unearthly cries,

  reached the ships and the Hellespont’s long shore.

  As for Patroclus, there seemed no hope that Achaeans

  could drag the corpse of Achilles’ comrade out of range.

  Again the Trojan troops and teams overtook the body

  with Hector son of Priam storming fierce as fire.

  Three times illustrious Hector shouted for support,

  seized his feet from behind, wild to drag him off,

  three times the Aeantes, armored in battle-fury

  fought him off the corpse. But Hector held firm,

  staking all on his massive fighting strength—

  again and again he’d hurl himself at the melee,

  again and again stand fast with piercing cries

  but he never gave ground backward, not one inch.

  The helmed Aeantes could no more frighten Hector,

  the proud son of Priam, back from Patroclus’ corpse

  than shepherds out in the field can scare a tawny lion

  off his kill when the hunger drives the beast claw-mad.

  And now Hector would have hauled the body away

  and won undying glory ...

  if wind-swift Iris had not swept from Olympus

  bearing her message—Peleus’ son must arm—

  but all unknown to Zeus and the other gods

  since Hera spurred her on. Halting near

  she gave Achilles a flight of marching orders:

  “To arms—son of Peleus! Most terrifying man alive!

  Defend Patroclus! It’s all for him, this merciless battle

  pitched before the ships. They’re mauling each other now,

  Achaeans struggling to save the corpse from harm,

  Trojans charging to haul it back to windy Troy.

  Flashing Hector’s far in the lead, wild to drag it off,

  furious to lop the head from its soft, tender neck

  and stake it high on the city’s palisade.

  Up with you—

  no more lying low! Writhe with shame at the thought

  Patroclus may be sport for the dogs of Troy!

  Yours, the shame will be yours

  if your comrade’s corpse goes down to the dead defiled!“

  But the swift runner replied, “Immortal Iris—

  what god has sped you here to tell me this?”

  Quick as the wind the rushing Iris answered,

  “Hera winged me on, the illustrious wife of Zeus.

  But the son of Cronus throned on high knows nothing,

  nor does any other immortal housed on Olympus

  shrouded deep in snow.”

  Achilles broke in quickly—

  “How can I go to war? The Trojans have my gear.

  And my dear mother told me I must not arm for battle,

  not till I see her coming back with my own eyes—

  she vowed to bring me burnished arms from the god of fire.

  I know of no other armor. Whose gear could I wear?

  None but Telamonian Ajax’ giant shield.

  But he’s at the front, I’m sure, engaging Trojans,

  slashing his spear to save Patroclus’ body.”

  Quick as the wind the goddess had a plan:

  “We know—we too—they hold your famous armor.

  Still, just as you are, go out to the broad trench

  and show yourself to the Trojans. Struck with fear

  at the sight of you, they might hold off from attack

  and Achaea’s fighting sons get second wind,

  exhausted as they are ...

  Breathing room in war is all too brief.”

  And Iris racing the wind went veering off

  as Achilles, Zeus’s favorite fighter, rose up now

  and over his powerful shoulder Pallas slung the shield,

  the tremendous storm-shield with all its tassels flaring—

  and crowning his head the goddess swept a golden cloud

  and from it she lit a fire to blaze across the field.

  As smoke goes towering up the sky from out a town

  cut off on a distant island under siege ...

  enemies battling round it, defenders all day long

  trading desperate blows from their own city walls

  but soon as the sun goes down the signal fires flash,

  rows of beacons blazing into the air to alert their neighbors—

  if only they’ll come in ships to save them from disaster—

  so now from Achilles’ head the blaze shot up the sky.

  He strode from the rampart, took his stand at the trench

  but he would not mix with the milling Argive ranks.

  He stood in awe of his mother’s strict command.

  So there he rose and loosed an enormous cry

  and off in the distance Pallas shrieked out too

  and drove unearthly panic through the Trojans.

  Piercing loud as the trumpet’s battle cry that blasts

  from murderous raiding armies ringed around some city—

  so piercing now the cry that broke from Aeacides.

  And Trojans hearing the brazen voice of Aeacides,

  all their spirits quaked—even sleek-maned horses,

  sensing death in the wind, slewed their chariots round

  and charioteers were struck dumb when they saw that fire,

  relentless, terrible, burst from proud-hearted Achilles’ head,

  blazing as fiery-eyed Athena fueled the flames. Three times

  the brilliant Achilles gave his great war cry over the trench,r />
  three times the Trojans and famous allies whirled in panic—

  and twelve of their finest fighters died then and there,

  crushed by chariots, impaled on their own spears.

  And now the exultant Argives seized the chance

  to drag Patroclus’ body quickly out of range

  and laid him on a litter ...

  Standing round him, loving comrades mourned,

  and the swift runner Achilles joined them, grieving,

  weeping warm tears when he saw his steadfast comrade

  lying dead on the bier, mauled by tearing bronze,

  the man he sent to war with team and chariot

  but never welcomed home again alive.

  Now Hera the ox-eyed queen of heaven drove the sun,

  untired and all unwilling, to sink in the Ocean’s depths

  and the sun went down at last and brave Achaeans ceased

  the grueling clash of arms, the leveling rout of war.

  And the Trojans in turn, far across the field,

  pulling forces back from the last rough assault,

  freed their racing teams from under chariot yokes

  but before they thought of supper, grouped for council.

  They met on their feet. Not one of them dared to sit

  for terror seized them all—the great Achilles

  who held back from the brutal fray so long

  had just come blazing forth.

  Panthous’ son Polydamas led the debate,

  a good clear head, and the only man who saw

  what lay in the past and what the Trojans faced.

  He was Hector’s close comrade, born on the same night,

  but excelled at trading words as he at trading spear-thrusts.

  And now, with all good will, Polydamas rose and spoke:

  “Weigh both sides of the crisis well, my friends.

  What I urge is this: draw back to the city now.

  Don’t wait for the holy Dawn to find us here afield,

  ranged by the ships—we’re too far from our walls.

  As long as that man kept raging at royal Agamemnon

  the Argive troops were easier game to battle down.

  I too was glad to camp the night on the shipways,

  hopes soaring to seize their heavy rolling hulls.

  But now racing Achilles makes my blood run cold.

  So wild the man’s fury he will never rest content,

  holding out on the plain where Trojans and Argives

  met halfway, exchanging blows in the savage onset—

  never: he will fight for our wives, for Troy itself!

  So retreat to Troy. Trust me—we will face disaster.

  Now, for the moment, the bracing godsent night

  has stopped the swift Achilles in his tracks.

  But let him catch us lingering here tomorrow,

  just as he rises up in arms—there may be some

  who will sense his fighting spirit all too well.

  You’ll thank your stars to get back to sacred Troy,

  whoever escapes him. Dogs and birds will have their fill—

  of Trojan flesh, by heaven. Battalions of Trojans!

  Pray god such grief will never reach my ears.

  So follow my advice, hard as it may seem ...

  Tonight conserve our strength in the meeting place,

  and the great walls and gates and timbered doors we hung,

  well-planed, massive and bolted tight, will shield the city.

  But tomorrow at daybreak, armed to the hilt for battle,

  we man the towering ramparts. All the worse for him—

  if Achilles wants to venture forth from the fleet,

  fight us round our walls. Back to the ships he’ll go,

  once he’s lashed the power out of his rippling stallions,

  whipping them back and forth beneath our city walls.

  Not even his fury will let him crash our gates—

  he’ll never plunder Troy.

  Sooner the racing dogs will eat him raw!”

  Helmet flashing, Hector wheeled with a dark glance:

  “No more, Polydamas! Your pleading repels me now.

  You say go back again—be crammed inside the city.

  Aren’t you sick of being caged inside those walls?

  Time was when the world would talk of Priam’s Troy

  as the city rich in gold and rich in bronze—but now

  our houses are stripped of all their sumptuous treasures,

  troves sold off and shipped to Phrygia, lovely Maeonia,

  once great Zeus grew angry ...

  But now, the moment the son of crooked Cronus

  allows me to seize some glory here at the ships

  and pin these Argives back against the sea—

  you fool, enough! No more thoughts of retreat

  paraded before our people. Not that one Trojan

  will ever take your lead—I’ll never permit it.

  Come, follow my orders! All obey me now.

  Take supper now. Take your posts through camp.

  And no forgetting the watch, each man wide awake.

  And any Trojan so weighed down, so oppressed

  by his own possessions, let him collect the lot,

  pass them round to the people—a grand public feast.

  Far better for one of ours to reap the benefits

  than all the marauding Argives. Then, as you say,

  ‘tomorrow at daybreak, armed to the hilt for battle’—

  we slash to attack against their deep curved hulls!

  If it really was Achilles who reared beside the ships,

  all the worse for him—if he wants his fill of war.

  I for one, I’ll never run from his grim assault,

  I’ll stand up to the man—see if he bears off glory

  or I bear it off myself! The god of war is impartial:

  he hands out death to the man who hands out death.”

  So Hector finished. The Trojans roared assent,

  lost in folly. Athena had swept away their senses.

  They gave applause to Hector’s ruinous tactics,

  none to Polydamas, who gave them sound advice.

  And now their entire army settled down to supper

  but all night long the Argives raised Patroclus’ dirge.

  And Achilles led them now in a throbbing chant of sorrow,

  laying his man-killing hands on his great friend’s chest,

  convulsed with bursts of grief. Like a bearded lion

  whose pride of cubs a deer-hunter has snatched away,

  out of some thick woods, and back he comes, too late,

  and his heart breaks but he courses after the hunter,

  hot on his tracks down glen on twisting glen—

  where can he find him?—gripped by piercing rage ...

  so Achilles groaned, deeply, crying out to his Myrmidons,

  “O my captains! How empty the promise I let fall

  that day I reassured Menoetius in his house—

  I promised the king I’d bring him back his son,

  home to Opois, covered in glory, Troy sacked,

  hauling his rightful share of plunder home, home.