The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  truest of Zeus’s signs that fly the skies—

  the dark marauder that mankind calls the Black-wing.

  Broad as the door of a rich man’s vaulted treasure-chamber,

  well-fitted with sturdy bars, so broad each wing of the bird

  spread out on either side as it swept in through the city

  flashing clear on the right before the king and queen.

  All looked up, overjoyed—the people’s spirits lifted.

  And the old man, rushing to climb aboard his chariot,

  drove out through the gates and echoing colonnades.

  The mules in the lead hauled out the four-wheeled wagon,

  driven on by seasoned Idaeus. The horses came behind

  as the old man cracked the lash and urged them fast

  throughout the city with all his kinsmen trailing ...

  weeping their hearts out, as if he went to his death.

  But once the two passed down through crowded streets

  and out into open country, Priam’s kin turned back,

  his sons and in-laws straggling home to Troy.

  But Zeus who beholds the world could hardly fail

  to see the two men striking out across the plain.

  As he watched the old man he filled with pity

  and quickly summoned Hermes, his own dear son:

  “Hermes—escorting men is your greatest joy,

  you above all the gods,

  and you listen to the wish of those you favor.

  So down you go. Down and conduct King Priam there

  through Achaea’s beaked ships, so none will see him,

  none of the Argive fighters recognize him now,

  not till he reaches Peleus’ royal son.”

  So he decreed

  and Hermes the giant-killing guide obeyed at once.

  Under his feet he fastened the supple sandals,

  never-dying gold, that wing him over the waves

  and boundless earth with the rush of gusting winds.

  He seized the wand that enchants the eyes of men

  whenever Hermes wants, or wakes them up from sleep.

  That wand in his grip he flew, the mighty giant-killer

  touching down on Troy and the Hellespont in no time

  and from there he went on foot, for all the world

  like a young prince, sporting his first beard,

  just in the prime and fresh warm pride of youth.

  And now,

  as soon as the two drove past the great tomb of Ilus

  they drew rein at the ford to water mules and team.

  A sudden darkness had swept across the earth

  and Hermes was all but on them when the herald

  looked up, saw him, shouted at once to Priam,

  “Danger, my king—think fast! I see a man—

  I’m afraid we’ll both be butchered on the spot—

  into the chariot, hurry! Run for our lives

  or fling ourselves at his knees and beg for mercy!”

  The old man was stunned, in a swirl of terror,

  the hairs stood bristling all over his gnarled body—

  he stood there, staring dumbly. Not waiting for welcome

  the running god of luck went straight up to Priam,

  clasped the old king’s hands and asked him warmly,

  “Father—where do you drive these mules and team

  through the godsent night while other mortals sleep?

  Have you no fear of the Argives breathing hate and fury?

  Here are your deadly enemies, camping close at hand.

  Now what if one of them saw you, rolling blithely on

  through the rushing night with so much tempting treasure—

  how would you feel then? You’re not so young yourself,

  and the man who attends you here is far too old

  to drive off an attacker spoiling for a fight.

  But I would never hurt you—and what’s more,

  I’d beat off any man who’d do you harm:

  you remind me of my dear father, to the life.”

  And the old and noble Priam said at once,

  “Our straits are hard, dear child, as you say.

  But a god still holds his hands above me, even me.

  Sending such a traveler here to meet me—

  what a lucky omen! Look at your build ...

  your handsome face—a wonder. And such good sense—

  your parents must be blissful as the gods!”

  The guide and giant-killer answered quickly,

  “You’re right, old man, all straight to the mark.

  But come, tell me the truth now, point by point:

  this treasure—a king’s ransom—do you send it off

  to distant, outland men, to keep it safe for you?

  Or now do you all abandon sacred Troy,

  all in panic—such was the man who died,

  your finest, bravest man ... your own son

  who never failed in a fight against the Argives.”

  But the old majestic Priam countered quickly,

  “Who are you, my fine friend?—who are your parents?

  How can you speak so well of my doomed son’s fate?”

  And the guide and giant-killer answered staunchly,

  “You’re testing me, old man—asking of noble Hector.

  Ah, how often I watched him battling on the lines

  where men win glory, saw the man with my own eyes!

  And saw him drive Achaeans against the ships that day

  he kept on killing, cutting them down with slashing bro

  while we stood by and marveled—Achilles reined us in:

  no fighting for us while he raged on at Agamemnon.

  I am Achilles’ aide, you see,

  one and the same good warship brought us here.

  I am a Myrmidon, and my father is Polyctor,

  and a wealthy man he is, about as old as you ...

  He has six sons—I’m the seventh—we all shook lots

  and it fell to me to join the armies here at Troy.

  I’ve just come up from the ships to scout the plain—

  at dawn the fiery-eyed Achaeans fight around the city.

  They chafe, sitting in camp, so bent on battle now

  the kings of Achaea cannot hold them back.”

  And the old and noble Priam asked at once,

  “If you really are the royal Achilles’ aide,

  please, tell me the whole truth, point by point.

  My son—does he still lie by the beached ships,

  or by now has the great Achilles hacked him

  limb from limb and served him to his dogs?”

  The guide and giant-killer reassured him:

  “So far, old man, no birds or dogs have eaten him.

  No, there he lies—still there at Achilles’ ship,

  still intact in his shelters.

  This is the twelfth day he’s lain there, too,

  but his body has not decayed, not in the least,

  nor have the worms begun to gnaw his corpse,

  the swarms that devour men who fall in battle.

  True, dawn on fiery dawn he drags him round

  his beloved comrade’s tomb, drags him ruthlessly

  but he cannot mutilate his body. It’s marvetous—

  go see for yourself how he lies there fresh as dew,

  the blood washed away, and no sign of corruption.

  All his wounds sealed shut, wherever they struck ...

  and many drove their bronze blades through his body.

  Such pains the blissful gods are lavishing on your son,

  dead man though he is—the gods love him dearly!”

  And the old man rejoiced at that, bursting out,

  “O my child, how good it is to give the immortals

  fit and proper gifts! Now take my son—

  or was he all a dream? Never once in his halls

  did he forget the gods who hold Oly
mpus, never,

  so now they remember him ... if only after death.

  Come, this handsome cup: accept it from me, I beg you!

  Protect me, escort me now—if the gods will it so—

  all the way till I reach Achilles’ shelter.”

  The guide and giant-killer refused him firmly,

  “You test me again, old man, since I am young,

  but you will not persuade me,

  tempting me with a gift behind Achilles’ back.

  I fear the man, I’d die of shame to rob him—

  just think of the trouble I might suffer later.

  But I’d escort you with all the kindness in my heart,

  all the way till I reached the shining hills of Argos

  bound in a scudding ship or pacing you on foot—

  and no marauder on earth, scorning your escort,

  would dare attack you then.”

  And the god of luck,

  leaping onto the chariot right behind the team,

  quickly grasped the whip and reins in his hands

  and breathed fresh spirit into the mules and horses.

  As they reached the trench and rampart round the fleet,

  the sentries had just begun to set out supper there

  but the giant-killer plunged them all in sleep ...

  he spread the gates at once, slid back the bars

  and ushered Priam in with his wagon-load of treasure.

  Now, at last, they approached royal Achilles’ shelter,

  the tall, imposing lodge the Myrmidons built their king,

  hewing planks of pine, and roofed it high with thatch,

  gathering thick shaggy reeds from the meadow banks,

  and round it built their king a spacious courtyard

  fenced with close-set stakes. A single pine beam

  held the gates, and it took three men to ram it home,

  three to shoot the immense bolt back and spread the doors—

  three average men. Achilles alone could ram it home himself.

  But the god of luck now spread the gates for the old man,

  drove in the glinting gifts for Peleus’ swift son,

  climbed down from behind the team and said to Priam,

  “Old man, look, I am a god come down to you,

  I am immortal Hermes—

  my Father sent me here to be your escort.

  But now I will hasten back. I will not venture

  into Achilles’ presence: it would offend us all

  for a mortal man to host an immortal face-to-face.

  But you go in yourself and clasp Achilles’ knees,

  implore him by his father, his mother with lovely hair,

  by his own son—so you can stir his heart!”

  With that urging

  Hermes went his way to the steep heights of Olympus.

  But Priam swung down to earth from the battle-car

  and leaving Idaeus there to rein in mules and team,

  the old king went straight up to the lodge

  where Achilles dear to Zeus would always sit.

  Priam found the warrior there inside ...

  many captains sitting some way off, but two,

  veteran Automedon and the fine fighter Alcimus

  were busy serving him. He had just finished dinner,

  eating, drinking, and the table still stood near.

  The majestic king of Troy slipped past the rest

  and kneeling down beside Achilles, clasped his knees

  and kissed his hands, those terrible, man-killing hands

  that had slaughtered Priam’s many sons in battle.

  Awesome—as when the grip of madness seizes one

  who murders a man in his own fatherland and flees

  abroad to foreign shores, to a wealthy, noble host,

  and a sense of marvel runs through all who see him—

  so Achilles marveled, beholding majestic Priam.

  His men marveled too, trading startled glances.

  But Priam prayed his heart out to Achilles:

  “Remember your own father, great godlike Achilles—

  as old as I am, past the threshold of deadly old age!

  No doubt the countrymen round about him plague him now,

  with no one there to defend him, beat away disaster.

  No one—but at least he hears you’re still alive

  and his old heart rejoices, hopes rising, day by day,

  to see his beloved son come sailing home from Troy.

  But I—dear god, my life so cursed by fate ...

  I fathered hero sons in the wide realm of Troy

  and now not a single one is left, I tell you.

  Fifty sons I had when the sons of Achaea came,

  nineteen born to me from a single mother’s womb

  and the rest by other women in the palace. Many,

  most of them violent Ares cut the knees from under.

  But one, one was left me, to guard my walls, my people—

  the one you killed the other day, defending his fatherland,

  my Hector! It’s all for him I’ve come to the ships now,

  to win him back from you—I bring a priceless ransom.

  Revere the gods, Achilles! Pity me in my own right,

  remember your own father! I deserve more pity ...

  I have endured what no one on earth has ever done before—

  I put to my lips the hands of the man who killed my son.”

  Those words stirred within Achilles a deep desire

  to grieve for his own father. Taking the old man’s hand

  he gently moved him back. And overpowered by memory

  both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely

  for man-killing Hector, throbbing, crouching

  before Achilles’ feet as Achilles wept himself,

  now for his father, now for Patroclus once again,

  and their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.

  Then, when brilliant Achilles had had his fill of tears

  and the longing for it had left his mind and body,

  he rose from his seat, raised the old man by the hand

  and filled with pity now for his gray head and gray beard,

  he spoke out winging words, flying straight to the heart:

  “Poor man, how much you’ve borne—pain to break the spirit!

  What daring brought you down to the ships, all alone,

  to face the glance of the man who killed your sons,

  so many fine brave boys? You have a heart of iron.

  Come, please, sit down on this chair here...

  Let us put our griefs to rest in our own hearts,

  rake them up no more, raw as we are with mourning.

  What good’s to be won from tears that chill the spirit?

  So the immortals spun our lives that we, we wretched men

  live on to bear such torments—the gods live free of sorrows.

  There are two great jars that stand on the floor of Zeus’s halls

  and hold his gifts, our miseries one, the other blessings.

  When Zeus who loves the lightning mixes gifts for a man,

  now he meets with misfortune, now good times in turn.