The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  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—