brought down in blood against the Argive ships!”
The white-armed goddess Hera could not resist.
Hera queen of the gods, daughter of giant Cronus
launched the work, harnessed the golden-bridled team
while Athena, child of Zeus whose shield is thunder,
letting fall her supple robe at the Father’s threshold—
rich brocade, stitched with her own hands’ labor—
donned the battle-shirt of the lord of lightning,
buckled her breastplate geared for wrenching war.
Then onto the flaming chariot Pallas set her feet
and seized her spear—weighted, heavy, the massive shaft
she wields to break the battle lines of heroes
the mighty Father’s daughter storms against.
A crack of the whip—
the goddess Hera lashed the team, and all on their own force
the gates of heaven thundered open, kept by the Seasons,
guards of the vaulting sky and Olympus heights empowered
to spread the massing clouds or close them round once more,
and straight through the great gates she drove the team.
But as Father Zeus caught sight of them from Ida
the god broke into a sudden rage and summoned Iris
to run a message on with a rush of golden wings:
“Quick on your way now, Iris, shear the wind!
Turn them back, don’t let them engage me here.
What an indignity for us to clash in arms.
I tell you this and I will fulfill it too:
I’ll maim their racers for them,
right beneath their yokes, and those two goddesses,
I’ll hurl them from their chariot, smash their car,
and not once in the course of ten slow wheeling years
will they heal the wounds my lightning bolt rips open.
So that gray-eyed girl of mine may learn what it means
to fight against her Father. But with Hera, though,
I am not so outraged, so irate—it’s always her way
to thwart my will, whatever I command.”
So he thundered
and Iris ran his message, racing with gale force
away from the peaks of Ida up to steep Olympus
cleft and craggy. There at the outer gates
she met them face-to-face and blocked their path,
sounding Zeus’s orders: “Where are you rushing now?
What is this madness blazing in your hearts?
Zeus forbids you to fight for Achaea’s armies!
Here is Father’s threat—he will fulfill it too:
he’ll maim your racers for you,
right beneath their yokes, and you two goddesses,
he’ll hurl you from your chariot, smash your car,
and not once in the course of ten slow wheeling years
will you heal the wounds his lightning bolt rips open!
So you, his gray-eyed girl, may learn what it means
to fight against your Father. But with Hera, though,
he is not so outraged, so irate—it’s always your way
to thwart his will, whatever Zeus commands. You,
you insolent brazen bitch—you really dare
to shake that monstrous spear in Father’s face?”
And Iris racing the wind went veering past
and Hera turned to Pallas, calling off the conflict:
“Enough. Daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder,
I cannot let us battle the Father any longer,
not for mortal men . . .
Men—let one of them die, another live,
however their luck may run. Let Zeus decide
the fates of the men of Troy and men of Argos both,
to his deathless heart’s content—that is only right.”
So she complied and turned their racers back.
The Seasons loosed the purebred sleek-maned team,
tethered them to their stalls, piled on ambrosia
and leaned the chariot up against the polished walls
that shimmered in the sun. The goddesses themselves
sat down on golden settles, mixing with the immortals,
Athena and Hera’s hearts within them dashed.
At the same time
Zeus the Father whipped his team and hurtling chariot
straight from Ida to Mount Olympus, soon to reach
the sessions of the gods. Quick at Zeus’s side
the famous lord of earthquakes freed the team,
canted the battle-chariot firmly on its base
and wrapped it well with a heavy canvas shroud.
Thundering Zeus himself assumed his golden throne
as the massive range of Olympus shook beneath his feet.
Those two alone, Athena and Hera, sat apart from Zeus—
not a word would they send his way, not a question.
But the Father knew their feelings deep within his heart
and mocked them harshly: “Why so crushed, Athena, Hera?
Not overly tired, I trust, from all your efforts
there in glorious battle, slaughtering Trojans,
the men you break with all your deathless rage.
But I with my courage, my hands, never conquered—
for all their force not all the gods on Olympus heights
could ever turn me back. Ah but the two of you—
long ago the trembling shook your glistening limbs
before you could glimpse the horrid works of war.
I tell you this, and it would have come to pass:
once my lightning had blasted you in your chariot,
you could never have returned to Mount Olympus
where the immortals make their home.”
So he mocked
as Athena and Queen Hera muttered between themselves,
huddled together, plotting Troy’s destruction.
True, Athena held her peace and said nothing . . .
smoldering at the Father, seized with wild resentment.
But Hera could hold the anger in her breast no longer,
suddenly bursting out, “Dread majesty, son of Cronus,
what are you saying? We already know your power,
far too well . . . who can stand against you?
Even so, we pity these Argive spearmen
living out their grim fates, dying in blood.
Yes, we’ll keep clear of the war as you command.
We’ll simply offer the Argives tactics that may save them—
so they won’t all fall beneath your blazing wrath.”
And Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied,
“Tomorrow at dawn’s your chance, my ox-eyed queen.
Look down then, if you have the taste for it, Hera,
and you will see the towering son of Cronus killing
still more hordes, whole armies of Argive soldiers.
This powerful Hector will never quit the fighting,
not till swift Achilles rises beside the ships
that day they battle against the high sterns,
pinned in the fatal straits
and grappling for the body of Patroclus.
So runs the doom of Zeus.
You and your anger—
rage away! I care nothing for that. Not even
if you go plunging down to the pit of earth and sea
where Cronus and Iapetus make their beds of pain,
where not a ray of the Sun can warm their hearts,
not a breeze, the depths of Tartarus wall them round.
Not if you ventured down as far as the black abyss Itself—
I care nothing for you, you and your snarling anger,
none in the world a meaner bitch than you.“
So he erupted
but the white-armed goddess Hera answered not a word . . .
Now down in the Ocean sank the fiery light of day,
drawing the dark night across the grain-giving earth.
For the men of Troy the day went down against their will
but not the Argives—what a blessing, how they prayed
for the nightfall coming on across their lines.
But again, still bent on glory, Hector mustered
his Trojan cohorts, pulled them back from the ships
toward the river rapids, to wide open ground
where they found a sector free and clear of corpses.
They swung down from their chariots onto earth
to hear what Hector dear to Zeus commanded now.
He clutched a thrusting-lance eleven forearms long;
the bronze tip of the weapon shone before him,
ringed with a golden hoop to grip the shaft.
Leaning on this, the prince addressed his men:
“Hear me, Trojans, Dardans, all our loyal allies!
I had hoped by now, once we destroyed them all—
all the Achaeans and all their hollow ships—
we might turn home to the windy heights of Troy.
But night came on too soon. That’s what saved them,
that alone, they and their ships along the churning surf.
Very well then, let us give way to the dark night,
set out our supper, unyoke our full-maned teams
and pile the fodder down before their hoofs.
Drive cattle out of the city, fat sheep too,
quickly, bring on rations of honeyed, mellow wine
and bread from the halls, and heap the firewood high.
Then all night long till the breaking light of day
we keep the watch fires blazing, hundreds of fires
and the rising glare can leap and hit the skies,
so the long-haired Achaeans stand no chance tonight
to cut and run on the sea’s broad back. Never,
not without a struggle, not at their royal ease
are they going to board those ships! No, no,
let every last man of them lick his wounds—
a memento at home—pierced by arrow or spear
as he vaults aboard his decks. So the next fool
will cringe at the thought of mounting hateful war
against our stallion-breaking Trojans.
Now let heralds
dear to Zeus cry out through the streets of Troy
that boys in their prime and old gray-headed men
must take up posts on the towers built by the gods,
in bivouac round the city. And as for our wives,
each in her own hall must set big fires burning.
The night watch too, it must be kept unbroken,
so no night raiders can slip inside the walls
with our armies camped afield.
That’s our battle-order,
my iron-hearted Trojans, just as I command.
Let the order I issue now stand firm and clear
and the stirring call to arms I sound tomorrow morning,
my stallion-breaking Trojans!
My hopes are rising now—
I pray to Zeus and the great array of deathless gods
that we will whip the Achaeans howling out of Troy
and drive them off to death, those dogs of war
the deadly fates drove here in their black ships!
So now, for the night, we guard our own positions,
but tomorrow at daybreak, armed to the hilt for battle,
waken slashing war against their hollow hulls.
I’ll soon see if the mighty Diomedes rams me
back from the ships and back against our walls
or I kill him with bronze and strip his bloody armor!
Tomorrow Tydeus’ son will learn his own strength—
if he has the spine to stand the onrush of my spear.
In the front ranks he’ll sprawl, I think, torn open,
a rout of his comrades down around their captain
just as the sun goes rising into dawn. If only
I were as sure of immortality, ageless all my days—
and I were prized as they prize Athena and Apollo
as surely as this day will bring the Argives death!“
So Hector urged his armies. The Trojans roared assent.
The fighters loosed their sweating teams from the yokes,
tethered them by the reins, each at his own chariot.
They herded cattle out of the city, fat sheep too,
quickly, brought on rations of honeyed, mellow wine
and bread from the halls, heaped the firewood high
and up from the plain the winds swept the smoke,
the sweetness and the savor swirling up the skies.
And so their spirits soared
as they took positions down the passageways of battle
all night long, and the watchfires blazed among them.
Hundreds strong, as stars in the night sky glittering
round the moon’s brilliance blaze in all their glory
when the air falls to a sudden, windless calm . . .
all the lookout peaks stand out and the jutting cliffs
and the steep ravines and down from the high heavens bursts
the boundless bright air and all the stars shine clear
and the shepherd’s heart exults—so many fires burned
between the ships and the Xanthus’ whirling rapids
set by the men of Troy, bright against their walls.
A thousand fires were burning there on the plain
and beside each fire sat fifty fighting men
poised in the leaping blaze, and champing oats
and glistening barley, stationed by their chariots,
stallions waited for Dawn to mount her glowing throne.
BOOK NINE
The Embassy to Achilles
So the Trojans held their watch that night but not the Achaeans—
godsent Panic seized them, comrade of bloodcurdling Rout:
all their best were struck by grief too much to bear.
As crosswinds chop the sea where the fish swarm,
the North Wind and the West Wind blasting out of Thrace
in sudden, lightning attack, wave on blacker wave, cresting,
heaving a tangled mass of seaweed out along the surf—
so the Achaeans’ hearts were torn inside their chests.
Distraught with the rising anguish, Atreus’ son
went ranging back and forth, commanding heralds
to sound out loud and clear and call the men to muster,
each by name, but no loud outcry now. The king himself
pitched in with the lead heralds, summoning troops.
They grouped on the meeting grounds, morale broken.
Lord marshal Agamemnon rose up in their midst,
streaming tears like a dark spring running down
some desolate rock face, its shaded currents flowing.
So, with a deep groan, the king addressed his armies:
“Friends ... lords of the Argives, all my captains!
Cronus’ son has entangled me in madness, blinding ruin—
The Iliad Page 34
