The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  Zeus is a harsh, cruel god. He vowed to me long ago,

  he bowed his head that I should never embark for home

  till I had brought the walls of Ilium crashing down.

  But now, I see, he only plotted brutal treachery:

  now he commands me back to Argos in disgrace,

  whole regiments of my men destroyed in battle.

  So it must please his overweening heart, who knows?

  Father Zeus has lopped the crowns of a thousand cities,

  true, and Zeus will lop still more—his power is too great.

  So come, follow my orders. Obey me, all you Argives.

  Cut and run! Sail home to the fatherland we love!

  We’ll never take the broad streets of Troy.”

  Silence held them all, struck dumb by his orders.

  A long while they said nothing, spirits dashed.

  Finally Diomedes lord of the war cry broke forth:

  “Atrides—I will be first to oppose you in your folly,

  here in assembly, King, where it’s the custom.

  Spare me your anger. My courage—

  mine was the first you mocked among the Argives,

  branding me a coward, a poor soldier. Yes, well,

  they know all about that, the Argives young and old.

  But you—the son of Cronus with Cronus’ twisting ways

  gave you gifts by halves: with that royal scepter

  the Father gave you honor beyond all other men alive

  but he never gave you courage, the greatest power of all.

  Desperate man! So certain, are you, the sons of Achaea

  are cowards, poor soldiers, just because you say so?

  Desert—if your spirit drives you to sail home,

  then sail away, my King! The sea-lanes are clear,

  there are your ships of war, crowded down the surf,

  those that followed you from Mycenae, your own proud armada.

  But the rest of the long-haired Achaeans will hold out,

  right here, until we’ve plundered Troy. And they,

  if they go running home to the land they love,

  then the two of us, I and Sthenelus here

  will fight our way to the fixed doom of Troy.

  Never forget—we all sailed here with god.”

  And all the Achaeans shouted their assent,

  stirred by the stallion-breaking Diomedes’ challenge.

  But Nestor the old driver rose and spoke at once:

  “Few can match your power in battle, Diomedes,

  and in council you excel all men your age.

  So no one could make light of your proposals,

  not the whole army—who could contradict you?

  But you don’t press on and reach a useful end.

  How young you are . . . why, you could be my son,

  my youngest-born at that, though you urge our kings

  with cool clear sense: what you’ve said is right.

  But it’s my turn now, Diomedes.

  I think I can claim to have some years on you.

  So I must speak up and drive the matter home.

  And no one will heap contempt on what I say,

  not even mighty Agamemnon. Lost to the clan,

  lost to the hearth, lost to the old ways, that one

  who lusts for all the horrors of war with his own people.

  But now, I say, let us give way to the dark night,

  set out the evening meal. Sentries take up posts,

  squads fronting the trench we dug outside the rampart.

  That’s the command I give the younger fighters.

  Then,

  Atrides, lead the way—you are the greatest king—

  spread out a feast for all your senior chiefs.

  That is your duty, a service that becomes you.

  Your shelters overflow with the wine Achaean ships

  bring in from Thrace, daily, down the sea’s broad back.

  Grand hospitality is yours, you rule so many men.

  Come, gather us all and we will heed that man

  who gives the best advice. That’s what they need,

  I tell you—all the Achaeans—good sound advice,

  now our enemies, camping hard against the ships,

  kindle their watchfires round us by the thousands.

  What soldier could warm to that? Tonight’s the night

  that rips our ranks to shreds or pulls us through.“

  The troops hung on his words and took his orders.

  Out they rushed, the sentries in armor, forming

  under the son of Nestor, captain Thrasymedes,

  under Ascalaphus, Ialmenus, sons of Ares,

  under Meriones, Aphareus and Deipyrus,

  under the son of Creon, trusty Lycomedes.

  Seven chiefs of the guard, a hundred under each,

  fighters marching, grasping long spears in their hands,

  took up new positions between the trench and rampart.

  There they lit their fires, each man made his meal.

  Meanwhile marshal Agamemnon led his commanders,

  a file of senior chiefs, toward his own lodge

  and set before them a feast to please their hearts.

  They reached out for the good things that lay at hand

  but when they had put aside desire for food and drink

  the old man began to weave his counsel among them:

  Nestor was first to speak—from the early days

  his plans and tactics always seemed the best.

  With good will to the chiefs he rose and spoke,

  “Great marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon . . .

  with you I will end, my King, with you I will begin,

  since you hold sway over many warriors, vast armies,

  and Zeus has placed in your hands the royal scepter

  and time-honored laws, so you will advise them well.

  So you above all must speak your mind, and listen,

  and carry out the next man’s counsel too,

  whenever his spirit leads him on to speak

  for the public good. Credit will go to you

  for whatever he proposes.

  Now I will tell you what seems best to me.

  No one will offer a better plan than this . . .

  the plan I still retain, and I’ve been forming,

  well, for a good long while now, from the very day

  that you, my illustrious King, infuriated Achilles—

  you went and took from his tents the girl Briseis,

  and not with any applause from us, far from it:

  I for one, I urged you against it, strenuously.

  But you, you gave way to your overbearing anger,

  disgraced a great man the gods themselves esteem—

  you seized his gift of honor and keep her still.

  But even so, late as it is, let us contrive

  to set all this to rights, to bring him round

  with gifts of friendship and warm, winning words.”

  And Agamemnon the lord of men consented quickly:

  “That’s no lie, old man—a full account you give

  of all my acts of madness. Mad, blind I was!

  Not even I would deny it.

  Why look, that man is worth an entire army,

  the fighter Zeus holds dear with all his heart—

  how he exalts him now and mauls Achaea’s forces!

  But since I was blinded, lost in my own inhuman rage,

  now, at last, I am bent on setting things to rights:

  I’ll give a priceless ransom paid for friendship.

  Here,

  before you all, I’ll name in full the splendid gifts I offer.

  Seven tripods never touched by fire, ten bars of gold,

  twenty burnished cauldrons, a dozen massive stallions,

  racers who earned me trophies with their speed.

  He is no poor man who owns what they have won,

  not st
rapped for goods with all that lovely gold—

  what trophies those high-strung horses carried off for me!

  Seven women I’ll give him, flawless, skilled in crafts,

  women of Lesbos—the ones I chose, my privilege,

  that day he captured the Lesbos citadel himself:

  they outclassed the tribes of women in their beauty.

  These I will give, and along with them will go

  the one I took away at first, Briseus’ daughter,

  and I will swear a solemn, binding oath in the bargain:

  I never mounted her bed, never once made love with her—

  the natural thing for mankind, men and women joined.

  Now all these gifts will be handed him at once.

  But if, later, the gods allow us to plunder

  the great city of Priam, let him enter in

  when we share the spoils, load the holds of his ship

  with gold and bronze—as much as his heart desires—

  and choose for his pleasure twenty Trojan women

  second only to Argive Helen in their glory.

  And then, if we can journey home to Achaean Argos,

  pride of the breasting earth, he’ll be my son-by-marriage!

  I will even honor him on a par with my Orestes,

  full-grown by now, reared in the lap of luxury.

  Three daughters are mine in my well-built halls—

  Chrysothemis and Laodice and Iphianassa—

  and he may lead away whichever one he likes,

  with no bride-price asked, home to Peleus’ house.

  And I will add a dowry, yes, a magnificent treasure

  the likes of which no man has ever offered with his daughter!

  Seven citadels I will give him, filled with people,

  Cardamyle, Enope, and the grassy slopes of Hire,

  Pherae the sacrosanct, Anthea deep in meadows,

  rolling Aepea and Pedasus green with vineyards.

  All face the sea at the far edge of sandy Pylos

  and the men who live within them, rich in sheep-flocks,

  rich in shambling cattle, will honor him like a god

  with hoards of gifts and beneath his scepter’s sway

  live out his laws in sleek and shining peace.

  All this—

  I would extend to him if he will end his anger.

  Let him submit to me! Only the god of death

  is so relentless, Death submits to no one—

  so mortals hate him most of all the gods.

  Let him bow down to me! I am the greater king,

  I am the elder-born, I claim-the greater man.“

  Nestor the noble charioteer embraced his offer:

  “Generous marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon!

  No one could underrate these gifts of yours, not now,

  the treasure trove you offer Prince Achilles.

  Come—we’ll send a detail of picked men.

  They’ll go to Achilles’ tent with all good speed.

  Quick, whomever my eye will light on in review,

  the mission’s theirs. And old Phoenix first—

  Zeus loves the man, so let him lead the way.

  Then giant Ajax and tactful royal Odysseus.

  Heralds? Odius and Eurybates, you escort them.

  Water for their hands! A reverent silence now . . .

  a prayer to Zeus. Perhaps he’ll show us mercy.”

  The brisk commands he issued pleased them all.

  Heralds brought the water at once and rinsed their hands,

  and the young men brimmed the mixing bowls with wine

  and tipping first drops for the god in every cup

  they poured full rounds for all. Libations finished,

  each envoy having drunk to his heart’s content,

  the party moved out from Atrides’ shelters.

  Nestor the old driver gave them marching orders—

  a sharp glance at each, Odysseus most of all:

  “Try hard now, bring him round—invincible Achilles!”

  So Ajax and Odysseus made their way at once

  where the battle lines of breakers crash and drag,

  praying hard to the god who moves and shakes the earth

  that they might bring the proud heart of Achilles

  round with speed and ease.

  Reaching the Myrmidon shelters and their ships,

  they found him there, delighting his heart now,

  plucking strong and clear on the fine lyre—

  beautifully carved, its silver bridge set firm—

  he won from the spoils when he razed Eetion’s city.

  Achilles was lifting his spirits with it now,

  singing the famous deeds of fighting heroes . . .

  Across from him Patroclus sat alone, in silence,

  waiting for Aeacus’ son to finish with his song.

  And on they came, with good Odysseus in the lead,

  and the envoys stood before him. Achilles, startled,

  sprang to his feet, the lyre still in his hands,

  leaving the seat where he had sat in peace.

  And seeing the men, Patroclus rose up too

  as the famous runner called and waved them on:

  “Welcome! Look, dear friends have come our way—

  I must be sorely needed now—my dearest friends

  in all the Achaean armies, even in my anger.”

  So Prince Achilles hailed and led them in,

  sat them down on settles with purple carpets

  and quickly told Patroclus standing by, “Come,

  a bigger winebowl, son of Menoetius, set it here.

  Mix stronger wine. A cup for the hands of each guest—

  here beneath my roof are the men I love the most.”

  He paused. Patroclus obeyed his great friend,

  who put down a heavy chopping block in the firelight

  and across it laid a sheep’s chine, a fat goat’s

  and the long back cut of a full-grown pig,

  marbled with lard. Automedon held the meats

  while lordly Achilles carved them into quarters,

  cut them well into pieces, pierced them with spits

  and Patroclus raked the hearth, a man like a god

  making the fire blaze. Once it had burned down

  and the flames died away, he scattered the coals

  and stretching the spitted meats across the embers,

  raised them onto supports and sprinkled clean pure salt.

  As soon as the roasts were done and spread on platters,

  Patroclus brought the bread, set it out on the board

  in ample wicker baskets. Achilles served the meat.

  Then face-to-face with his noble guest Odysseus

  he took his seat along the farther wall,

  he told his friend to sacrifice to the gods

  and Patroclus threw the first cuts in the fire.

  They reached out for the good things that lay at hand

  and when they had put aside desire for food and drink,

  Ajax nodded to Phoenix. Odysseus caught the signal,