You, Phoebus, herded his shambling crook-homed cattle
along the spurs of Ida’s timbered ridges. Ah but then,
when the happy spring brought time for payment round,
that outrageous man Laomedon robbed us blind.
He stole our wages, cursed us, sent us packing—
he threatened to bind us both, hand and foot,
ship us off and away as slaves to distant islands—
he was all for lopping off our ears with a brazen ax!
So we made our way back home, hearts smoldering,
furious for the sum he swore but never paid—
and that, that is the one whose men you favor now.
No joining ranks with us as we fight to wipe them out,
these insolent Trojans, stretch them out in the dust
with all their sons and all their honored wives!”
But the distant deadly Archer volleyed back,
“God of the earthquake—you’d think me hardly sane
if I fought with you for the sake of wretched mortals ...
like leaves, no sooner flourishing, full of the sun’s fire,
feeding on earth’s gifts, than they waste away and die.
Stop. Call off this skirmish of ours at once—
let these mortals fight themselves to death.”
With that he turned and left, filled with shame
to grapple his own father’s brother hand-to-hand.
But his sister Artemis, Huntress, queen of beasts,
inveighed against him now with stinging insults:
“So, the deadly immortal Archer runs for dear life!—
turning over victory to Poseidon, total victory,
giving him all the glory here without a fight.
Why do you sport that bow, you spineless fool?—
it’s worthless as the wind!
Don’t let me hear you boast in Father’s halls,
ever again, as you bragged among the gods till now,
that you would fight Poseidon strength for strength.”
Not a word in reply to that from the Archer-god
but Zeus’s regal consort flew into rage at once
and her outburst raked the Huntress armed with arrows:
“How do you have the gall, you shameless bitch,
to stand and fight me here? You and your archery!
Zeus made you a lion against all women, true,
he lets you kill off mothers in their labor—
but you’ll find it painful, matching force with me.
Better to slaughter beasts on rocky mountain slopes
and young deer in the wild than fight a higher goddess!
But since you’d like a lesson in warfare, Artemis,
just to learn, to savor how much stronger I am
when you engage my power—”
She broke off,
her left hand seizing both wrists of the goddess,
right hand stripping the bow and quiver off her shoulders—
Hera boxed the Huntress’ ears with her own weapons,
smiling broadly now as her victim writhed away
and showering arrows scattered. Bursting into tears
the goddess slipped from under her clutch like a wild dove
that flies from a hawk’s attack to a hollow rocky cleft
for it’s not the quarry’s destiny to be caught—
so she fled in tears, her archery left on the spot.
But Hermes the guide of souls and giant-killer
reassured her mother, Leto, “Nothing to fear,
I’d never fight you, Leto. An uphill battle it is,
trading blows with the wives of Zeus who rules the clouds.
No, go boast to your heart’s content and tell the gods
you triumphed over me with your superhuman power!”
So Leto gathered the reflex bow and arrows
scattered left and right in the swirling dust,
and bearing her daughter’s archery in her arms
withdrew from the field of battle trailing Artemis.
By now the Huntress had reached Olympus heights
and made her way to the bronze-floored house of Zeus.
And down she sat on her Father’s lap, a young girl,
sobbing, her deathless robe quivering round her body.
But her Father, son of Cronus, hugged her tight
and giving a low warm laugh inquired gently,
“Who has abused you now, dear child, tell me,
who of the sons of heaven so unfeeling, cruel?
Why, it’s as if they had caught you in public,
doing something wrong . . .”
Wreathed in flowers
the one who halloos the hunt cried out at once,
“Your own wife, Father! The white-armed Hera beat me!
This strife, this warfare plaguing all the immortals—
Hera’s all to blame!”
And now as the powers wrangled back and forth
the lord god Apollo entered holy Troy,
filled with dread for the city’s sturdy walls:
what if the Argive forces stormed them down today—
against the will of fate? The rest of the gods
who live forever soon returned to Mount Olympus,
some enraged, some in their proud, new-won glory,
and sat beside the Father, king of the black cloud.
But Achilles slaughtered on and on, never pausing,
killing Trojans and skittish battle-teams at once.
As smoke goes towering into the broad vaulting sky
from a burning town and the gods’ wrath drives it on,
dealing struggle to all, to many searing grief—
so Achilles dealt the Trojans struggle, grief.
But there on the god-built heights stood aged Priam.
He saw the monstrous Achilles and racing on before him
Trojans whipped in headlong flight, all rescue gone.
The king cried out and clambered down to ground
from the high tower, issuing quick commands
to veteran gateway guards beside the walls:
“Spread the great gates wide—all hands now—
till our routed troops can straggle back to Troy!
Achilles swarms over them—they’re stampeding,
a terrible mauling’s coming ... I can see it now!
Once they’re packed in the walls and catch their breath,
close the thickset gates and bolt them tight again.
I dread this murderous man—he’ll burst right through our walls.”
They spread the gates and rammed the doorbars back
and the spreading gates made way for a ray of hope
as Phoebus Apollo hurtled forth to meet Achilles,
to fight disaster off the Trojan troops.
Heading straight for the city’s lofty ramparts,
ragged with thirst, choked with dust from the plain
they fled as Achilles stormed them, shaking his spear,
that wild rabid frenzy always gripping his heart,
blazing to seize his glory.
And then and there
the Achaeans would have taken the lofty gates of Troy
if Apollo had not driven Prince Agenor at them,
Antenor’s son, a courageous, rugged soldier.
He inspired his heart with daring, standing near—
in person, to beat away the dragging fates of death—
leaning against an oak, concealed in swirls of mist.
And now, as soon as Agenor saw Achilles coming,
there he stood, poised for the scourge of cities
while the heart inside him heaved like heavy seas.
Waiting, tense, he probed his own brave spirit:
“Ah dear god—if I run from Achilles’ onslaught,
taking the route the rest have fled, stampeding,
he’ll catch me even so and slash my coward’s throat.
But if I leave my comrades panicked before his charge,
this Prince Achilles—slip away from the wall on foot
and race the other way, out to Ilium’s plain and
reach the spurs of Ida, hide in the underbrush
and then, in the dying light ...
once I’ve washed my sweat away in the river,
yes, I just might make it back again to Troy—
but why debate, my friend, why thrash things out?
God forbid that Achilles sees me turning tail,
heading from town and out to open country—
he’ll come after me full tilt and run me down!
And then no way to escape my death, my certain doom—
Achilles is far too strong for any man on earth.
Wait ... what if I face him out before the walls?
Surely his body can be pierced by bronze, even his—
he has only one life, and people say he’s mortal:
it’s only the son of Cronus handing him the glory.”
Filled with resolve, he braced, waiting Achilles,
his warrior blood incensed. He’d fight to the death
as a panther springs forth from her thicket lair
to stand and face the huntsman: no fear in her heart,
no thought of flight when she hears the baying packs—
and even if he’s too quick with spear or lunging sword,
even if she’s run through, she never slacks her fury
until she’s charged him hard or gone down fighting.
And so the noble son of Antenor, brave Agenor
would never run until he’d tested Achilles.
He steadied his balanced shield before his chest,
aimed his spear at the man and flung this challenge:
“Surely you must have hoped with all your heart—
the great glorious Achilles—that you would raze
the proud Trojans’ city this very day! You foot—
you still have plenty of pain to suffer for her sake.
We have fighting men by the hundreds still inside her,
forming a wall before our loving parents, wives and sons
to defend Troy—where you rush on to meet your doom,
headlong man as you are, breakneck man of war!”
And he hurled his sharp spear from a strong hand—
a hard true hit on Achilles’ shin below the knee!
But the tin of the fire-new armor round his leg
let loose an unearthly ring—back the spear sprang
from the wondrous gear it struck, not punching through:
the gift of the god Hephaestus blocked its force.
Achilles next, he leapt at Prince Agenor—
but Phoebus refused to let him seize the glory—
he whisked Agenor off, wrapped in swirls of mist
and sped him out of the fighting safely on his way
and then with trickery kept Achilles off the Trojans.
True, just like Agenor head to foot the deadly Archer
stood in Achilles’ path and Achilles sprang in chase,
feet racing, coursing him far across the wheat-fields,
heading him out toward Scamander’s whirling depths
as the god led him a little, luring him on and on—
always hoping to catch the god with bursts of speed.
But all the while the rest of the Trojans fled en masse,
thrilled to reach the ramparts, crowding, swarming in,
no daring left to remain outside the city walls
and wait for each other, learn who made it through,
who died in battle—no, in a driving rout they came,
streaming into Troy,
any fighter whose racing legs could save his life.
BOOK TWENTY-TWO
The Death of Hector
So all through Troy the men who had fled like panicked fawns
were wiping off their sweat, drinking away their thirst,
leaning along the city’s massive ramparts now
while Achaean troops, sloping shields to shoulders,
closed against the walls. But there stood Hector,
shackled fast by his deadly fate, holding his ground,
exposed in front of Troy and the Scaean Gates.
And now Apollo turned to taunt Achilles:
“Why are you chasing me? Why waste your speed?—
son of Peleus, you a mortal and I a deathless god.
You still don’t know that I am immortal, do you?—
straining to catch me in your fury! Have you forgotten?
There’s a war to fight with the Trojans you stampeded,
look, they’re packed inside their city walls, but you,
you’ve slipped away out here. You can’t kill me—
I can never die—it’s not my fate!”
Enraged at that,
Achilles shouted in mid-stride, “You’ve blocked my way,
you distant, deadly Archer, deadliest god of all—
you made me swerve away from the rampart there.
Else what a mighty Trojan army had gnawed the dust
before they could ever straggle through their gates!
Now you’ve robbed me of great glory, saved their lives
with all your deathless ease. Nothing for you to fear,
no punishment to come. Oh I’d pay you back
if I only had the power at my command!”
No more words—he dashed toward the city,
heart racing for some great exploit, rushing on
like a champion stallion drawing a chariot full tilt,
sweeping across the plain in easy, tearing strides—
so Achilles hurtled on, driving legs and knees.
And old King Priam was first to see him coming,
surging over the plain, blazing like the star
that rears at harvest, flaming up in its brilliance,—
far outshining the countless stars in the night sky,
that star they call Orion’s Dog-brightest of all
but a fatal sign emblazoned on the heavens,
it brings such killing fever down on wretched men.
So the bronze flared on his chest as on he raced—
and the old man moaned, flinging both hands high,
beating his head and groaning deep he called,
begging his dear son who stood before the gates,
unshakable, furious to fight Achilles to the death.
The old man cried, pitifully, hands reaching out to him,
“Oh Hector! Don’t just stand there, don’t, dear child,
waiting that man’s attack—alone, cut off from friends!
You’ll meet your doom at once, beaten down by Achilles,
so much stronger than you—that hard, headlong man.
Oh if only the gods loved him as much as I do ...
dogs and vultures would eat his fallen corpse at once!—
with what a load of misery lifted from my spirit.
That man who robbed me of many sons, brave boys,
The Iliad Page 75