The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  Go home with your ships and comrades, lord it over

  your Myrmidons!

  You are nothing to me—you and your overweening anger!

  But let this be my warning on your way:

  since Apollo insists on taking my Chryseis,

  I’ll send her back in my own ships with my crew.

  But I, I will be there in person at your tents

  to take Briseis in all her beauty, your own prize—

  so you can learn just how much greater I am than you

  and the next man up may shrink from matching words with me,

  from hoping to rival Agamemnon strength for strength!”

  He broke off and anguish gripped Achilles.

  The heart in his rugged chest was pounding, torn ...

  Should he draw the long sharp sword slung at his hip,

  thrust through the ranks and kill Agamemnon now?—

  or check his rage and beat his fury down?

  As his racing spirit veered back and forth,

  just as he drew his huge blade from its sheath,

  down from the vaulting heavens swept Athena,

  the white-armed goddess Hera sped her down:

  Hera loved both men and cared for both alike.

  Rearing behind him Pallas seized his fiery hair—

  only Achilles saw her, none of the other fighters—

  struck with wonder he spun around, he knew her at once,

  Pallas Athena! the terrible blazing of those eyes,

  and his winged words went flying: “Why, why now?

  Child of Zeus with the shield of thunder, why come now?

  To witness the outrage Agamemnon just committed?

  I tell you this, and so help me it’s the truth—

  he’ll soon pay for his arrogance with his life!”

  Her gray eyes clear, the goddess Athena answered,

  “Down from the skies I come to check your rage

  if only you will yield.

  The white-armed goddess Hera sped me down:

  she loves you both, she cares for you both alike.

  Stop this fighting, now. Don’t lay hand to sword.

  Lash him with threats of the price that he will face.

  And I tell you this—and I know it is the truth—

  one day glittering gifts will lie before you,

  three times over to pay for all his outrage.

  Hold back now. Obey us both.”

  So she urged

  and the swift runner complied at once: “I must—

  when the two of you hand down commands, Goddess,

  a man submits though his heart breaks with fury.

  Better for him by far. If a man obeys the gods

  they’re quick to hear his prayers.”

  And with that

  Achilles stayed his burly hand on the silver hilt

  and slid the huge blade back in its sheath.

  He would not fight the orders of Athena.

  Soaring home to Olympus, she rejoined the gods

  aloft in the halls of Zeus whose shield is thunder.

  But Achilles rounded on Agamemnon once again,

  lashing out at him, not relaxing his anger for a moment:

  “Staggering drunk, with your dog’s eyes, your fawn’s heart!

  Never once did you arm with the troops and go to battle

  or risk an ambush packed with Achaea’s picked men—

  you lack the courage, you can see death coming.

  Safer by far, you find, to foray all through camp,

  commandeering the prize of any man who speaks against you.

  King who devours his people! Worthless husks, the men you rule—

  if not, Atrides, this outrage would have been your last.

  I tell you this, and I swear a mighty oath upon it ...

  by this, this scepter, look,

  that never again will put forth crown and branches,

  now it’s left its stump on the mountain ridge forever,

  nor will it sprout new green again, now the brazen ax

  has stripped its bark and leaves, and now the sons of Achaea

  pass it back and forth as they hand their judgments down,

  upholding the honored customs whenever Zeus commands—

  This scepter will be the mighty force behind my oath:

  someday, I swear, a yearning for Achilles will strike

  Achaea’s sons and all your armies! But then, Atrides,

  harrowed as you will be, nothing you do can save you—

  not when your hordes of fighters drop and die,

  cut down by the hands of man-killing Hector! Then—

  then you will tear your heart out, desperate, raging

  that you disgraced the best of the Achaeans!”

  Down on the ground

  he dashed the scepter studded bright with golden nails,

  then took his seat again. The son of Atreus smoldered,

  glaring across at him, but Nestor rose between them,

  the man of winning words, the clear speaker of Pylos ...

  Sweeter than honey from his tongue the voice flowed on and on.

  Two generations of mortal men he had seen go down by now,

  those who were born and bred with him in the old days,

  in Pylos’ holy realm, and now he ruled the third.

  He pleaded with both kings, with clear good will,

  “No more—or enormous sorrow comes to all Achaea!

  How they would exult, Priam and Priam’s sons

  and all the Trojans. Oh they’d leap for joy

  to hear the two of you battling on this way,

  you who excel us all, first in Achaean councils,

  first in the ways of war.

  Stop. Please.

  Listen to Nestor. You are both younger than I,

  and in my time I struck up with better men than you,

  even you, but never once did they make light of me.

  I’ve never seen such men, I never will again ...

  men like Pirithous, Dryas, that fine captain,

  Caeneus and Exadius, and Polyphemus, royal prince,

  and Theseus, Aegeus’ boy, a match for the immortals.

  They were the strongest mortals ever bred on earth,

  the strongest, and they fought against the strongest too,

  shaggy Centaurs, wild brutes of the mountains—

  they hacked them down, terrible, deadly work.

  And I was in their ranks, fresh out of Pylos,

  far away from home—they enlisted me themselves

  and I fought on my own, a free lance, single-handed.

  And none of the men who walk the earth these days

  could battle with those fighters, none, but they,

  they took to heart my counsels, marked my words.

  So now you listen too. Yielding is far better ...

  Don’t seize the girl, Agamemnon, powerful as you are—

  leave her, just as the sons of Achaea gave her,

  his prize from the very first.

  And you, Achilles, never hope to fight it out

  with your king, pitting force against his force:

  no one can match the honors dealt a king, you know,

  a sceptered king to whom great Zeus gives glory.

  Strong as you are—a goddess was your mother—

  he has more power because he rules more men.

  Atrides, end your anger—look, it’s Nestor!

  I beg you, cool your fury against Achilles.

  Here the man stands over all Achaea’s armies,

  our rugged bulwark braced for shocks of war.“

  But King Agamemnon answered him in haste,

  “True, old man—all you say is fit and proper—

  but this soldier wants to tower over the armies,

  he wants to rule over all, to lord it over all,

  give out orders to every man in sight. Well,

  there’s one, I trust, who will never yield to
him!

  What if the everlasting gods have made a spearman of him?

  Have they entitled him to hurl abuse at me?”

  “Yes!”—blazing Achilles broke in quickly—

  “What a worthless, burnt-out coward I’d be called

  if I would submit to you and all your orders,

  whatever you blurt out. Fling them at others,

  don’t give me commands!

  Never again, I trust, will Achilles yield to you.

  And I tell you this—take it to heart, I warn you—

  my hands will never do battle for that girl,

  neither with you, King, nor any man alive.

  You Achaeans gave her, now you’ve snatched her back.

  But all the rest I possess beside my fast black ship—

  not one bit of it can you seize against my will, Atrides.

  Come, try it! So the men can see, that instant,

  your black blood gush and spurt around my spear!”

  Once the two had fought it out with words,

  battling face-to-face, both sprang to their feet

  and broke up the muster beside the Argive squadrons.

  Achilles strode off to his trim ships and shelters,

  back to his friend Patroclus and their comrades.

  Agamemnon had a vessel hauled down to the sea,

  he picked out twenty oarsmen to man her locks,

  put aboard the cattle for sacrifice to the god

  and led Chryseis in all her beauty amidships.

  Versatile Odysseus took the helm as captain.

  All embarked,

  the party launched out on the sea’s foaming lanes

  while the son of Atreus told his troops to wash,

  to purify themselves from the filth of plague.

  They scoured it off, threw scourings in the surf

  and sacrificed to Apollo full-grown bulls and goats

  along the beaten shore of the fallow barren sea

  and savory smoke went swirling up the skies.

  So the men were engaged throughout the camp.

  But King Agamemnon would not stop the quarrel,

  the first threat he hurled against Achilles.

  He called Talthybius and Eurybates briskly,

  his two heralds, ready, willing aides:

  “Go to Achilles’ lodge. Take Briseis at once,

  his beauty Briseis by the hand and bring her here.

  But if he will not surrender her, I’ll go myself,

  I’ll seize her myself, with an army at my back—

  and all the worse for him!”

  He sent them off

  with the strict order ringing in their ears.

  Against their will the two men made their way

  along the breaking surf of the barren salt sea

  and reached the Myrmidon shelters and their ships.

  They found him beside his lodge and black hull,

  seated grimly—and Achilles took no joy

  when he saw the two approaching.

  They were afraid, they held the king in awe

  and stood there, silent. Not a word to Achilles,

  not a question. But he sensed it all in his heart,

  their fear, their charge, and broke the silence for them:

  “Welcome, couriers! Good heralds of Zeus and men,

  here, come closer. You have done nothing to me.

  You are not to blame. No one but Agamemnon—

  he is the one who sent you for Briseis.

  Go, Patroclus, Prince, bring out the girl

  and hand her to them so they can take her back.

  But let them both bear witness to my loss ...

  in the face of blissful gods and mortal men,

  in the face of that unbending, ruthless king—

  if the day should come when the armies need me

  to save their ranks from ignominious, stark defeat.

  The man is raving—with all the murderous fury in his heart.

  He lacks the sense to see a day behind, a day ahead,

  and safeguard the Achaeans battling by the ships.”

  Patroclus obeyed his great friend’s command.

  He led Briseis in all her beauty from the lodge

  and handed her over to the men to take away.

  And the two walked back along the Argive ships

  while she trailed on behind, reluctant, every step.

  But Achilles wept, and slipping away from his companions,

  far apart, sat down on the beach of the heaving gray sea

  and scanned the endless ocean. Reaching out his arms,

  again and again he prayed to his dear mother: “Mother!

  You gave me life, short as that life will be,

  so at least Olympian Zeus, thundering up on high,

  should give me honor—but now he gives me nothing.

  Atreus’ son Agamemnon, for all his far-flung kingdoms—

  the man disgraces me, seizes and keeps my prize,

  he tears her away himself!”

  So he wept and prayed

  and his noble mother heard him, seated near her father,

  the Old Man of the Sea in the salt green depths.

  Suddenly up she rose from the churning surf

  like mist and settling down beside him as he wept,

  stroked Achilles gently, whispering his name, “My child—

  why in tears? What sorrow has touched your heart?

  Tell me, please. Don’t harbor it deep inside you.

  We must share it all.”

  And now from his depths

  the proud runner groaned: “You know, you know,

  why labor through it all? You know it all so well ...

  We raided Thebe once, Eetion’s sacred citadel,

  we ravaged the place, hauled all the plunder here

  and the armies passed it round, share and share alike,

  and they chose the beauty Chryseis for Agamemnon.

  But soon her father, the holy priest of Apollo

  the distant deadly Archer, Chryses approached

  the fast trim ships of the Argives armed in bronze

  to win his daughter back, bringing a priceless ransom

  and bearing high in hand, wound on a golden staff,

  the wreaths of the god who strikes from worlds away.

  He begged the whole Achaean army but most of all

  the two supreme commanders, Atreus’ two sons,

  and all ranks of Achaeans cried out their assent,

  ‘Respect the priest, accept the shining ransom!’

  But it brought no joy to the heart of Agamemnon,

  our high and mighty king dismissed the priest

  with a brutal order ringing in his ears.

  And shattered with anger, the old man withdrew

  but Apollo heard his prayer—he loved him, deeply—

  he loosed his shaft at the Argives, withering plague,

  and now the troops began to drop and die in droves,

  the arrows of god went showering left and right,

  whipping through the Achaeans’ vast encampment.