The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  they rolled in bed, they locked and surged in love.

  He rose before her now, he savored her name:

  “Hera—where are you rushing?

  What wild desire brings you here from Olympus?

  Where are the team and car you always ride?”

  And filled with guile the noble Hera answered,

  “I am off to the ends of the fruitful, teeming earth

  to visit Ocean, fountainhead of the gods, and Mother Tethys

  who nourished me in their halls and reared me well ...

  I go to visit them and dissolve their endless feud—

  how long they have held back from each other now,

  from making love, since anger struck their hearts.

  My team stands at the foot of Ida with all her springs,

  they wait to bear me over the good dry land and sea.

  But now it is you, you I have come to visit, Zeus—

  speeding here from the heights of Mount Olympus,

  afraid you’ll flare in anger against me later

  if I should go in secret toward the halls

  of the deep, flowing Ocean.”

  “Why hurry, Hera?”—

  Zeus who gathers the breasting clouds replied,

  “that is a journey you can make tomorrow. Now—

  come, let’s go to bed, let’s lose ourselves in love!

  Never has such a lust for goddess or mortal woman

  flooded my pounding heart and overwhelmed me so.

  Not even then, when I made love to Ixion’s wife

  who bore me Pirithous, rival to all the gods in wisdom ...

  not when I loved Acrisius’ daughter Danaë—marvelous ankles—

  and Perseus sprang to life and excelled all men alive ...

  not when I stormed Europa, far-famed Phoenix’ daughter

  who bore me Minos and Rhadamanthys grand as gods ...

  not even Semele, not even Alcmena queen of Thebes

  who bore me a son, that lionheart, that Heracles,

  and Semele bore Dionysus, ecstasy, joy to mankind—

  not when I loved Demeter, queen of the lustrous braids—

  not when I bedded Leto ripe for glory—

  Not even you!

  That was nothing to how I hunger for you now—

  irresistible longing lays me low!“

  Teeming with treachery noble Hera led him on:

  “Dread majesty, son of Cronus, what are you saying?

  You are eager for bed now, burning to make love,

  here on Ida’s heights for all the world to see?

  What if one of the deathless gods observes us,

  sleeping together, yes—

  and runs off to the rest and points us out to all?

  I have no desire to rise from a bed like that

  and steal back home to your own high halls—

  think of the shocking scandal there would be!

  But if you’re on fire, overflowing with passion,

  there’s always your own bedroom. Hephaestus built it,

  your own dear son, and the doors fit snug and tight ...

  There we can go to bed at once—since love is now your pleasure!”

  And Zeus who gathers the breasting clouds assured her,

  “Hera—nothing to fear, no god or man will see us—

  I will wrap us round in a golden cloud so dense

  not even the Sun’s rays, the sharpest eyes in the world,

  will pierce the mist and glimpse us making love!”

  With that the son of Cronus caught his wife in his arms

  and under them now the holy earth burst with fresh green grass,

  crocus and hyacinth, clover soaked with dew, so thick and soft

  it lifted their bodies off the hard, packed ground ...

  Folded deep in that bed they lay and round them wrapped

  a marvelous cloud of gold, and glistening showers of dew

  rained down around them both.

  And so, deep in peace,

  the Father slept on Gargaron peak, conquered by Sleep

  and strong assaults of Love, his wife locked in his arms.

  Soothing Sleep went rushing off to the ships at once,

  running a message to Poseidon. Approaching the god

  who shakes the earth, Sleep sent a winged urging:

  “Fight for the Argives now with all your might!

  Now give them glory, if only a moment’s glory—

  long as Zeus still slumbers. I’ve covered him over,

  sent him into a deep, soothing sleep as soon as Hera

  seduced great Zeus to lose himself in love.”

  With that

  Sleep went drifting off to the famous tribes of men,

  stirring Poseidon even more to defend the Argives.

  He suddenly sprang forward, into the front ranks,

  the god’s voice rippling strong: “Again, you Argives?

  You’re handing victory over to Hector, Priam’s son,

  so he can seize the ships and reap the glory?

  That’s his hope, his prayer, thanks to Achilles,

  ironbound by the ships and filled with anger still.

  But Achilles won’t be missed so sorely, not a bit,

  if the rest of us can rouse and defend each other.

  So come, follow my orders. All obey me now.

  Gear up with the best and biggest shields in camp

  and encase our heads in helmets, burnished, fire-bright

  and take in hand the longest javelins we can find—

  then in for attack! And I, I will lead the way

  and the son of Priam won’t stand up against us,

  not for long, I tell you, not for all his fury.

  Let any rugged fighter who shoulders a small buckler

  pass it on to a weaker man—put on the bigger shield.”

  The men hung on his words and they obeyed at once.

  And the kings themselves, overcoming their wounds,

  arrayed them all in proper battle-order.

  Diomedes, Odysseus, Atreus’ son Agamemnon

  ranged the ranks, made them exchange their armor.

  The best men donned the best, the worst the worst

  and soon as they strapped the bronze around their bodies,

  out they moved and the god of earthquakes led them on,

  grasping his terrible long sword in his massive hand,

  the grip of power, the blade like a lightning flash.

  There is no way in the world a man can meet its edge

  and still survive the slashing—fear holds all men back.

  But over against them glorious Hector ranged his Trojans ...

  and now they stretched the line of battle strangling tight,

  the blue-haired god of the sea and Hector fired in arms,

  he driving the Trojans, the god driving the Argives—

  and a wild surf pounded the ships and shelters,

  squadrons clashed with shattering war cries rising.

  Not so loud the breakers bellowing out against the shore,

  driven in from open sea by the North Wind’s brutal blast,

  not so loud the roar of fire whipped to a crackling blaze

  rampaging into a mountain gorge, raging up through timber,

  not so loud the gale that howls in the leafy crowns of oaks

  when it hits its pitch of fury tearing branches down—

  Nothing so loud as cries of Trojans, cries of Achaeans,

  terrible war cries, armies storming against each other.

  And shining Hector was first to hurl his spear—

  at the giant Ajax veering into him, full face—

  a direct hit! where two straps crossed his chest,

  one for the shield, one for the silver-studded sword

  but both flexed taut to guard his glistening skin.

  Hector seethed in anger—his hurtling spear

  and his whole arm’s power poured in a wasted shot—


  and back in his massing ranks he shrank, dodging death.

  But as Hector backed away Great Ajax seized a rock—

  countless holding-stones for the fast trim ships

  were rolling round among the fighters’ feet—

  he hoisted one and heaved it at Hector’s chest

  and struck him over the shield-rim, close to his throat

  and the blow sent Hector whirling off like a whipping-top,

  reeling round and round. As a huge oak goes down

  at a stroke from Father Zeus, ripped up by the roots

  and a grim reek of sulphur bursts forth from the trunk

  and a passerby too close, looking on, loses courage—

  the bolt of mighty Zeus is hell on earth—so in a flash,

  for all his fighting power, Hector plunged in the dust,

  his spear dropped from his fist, shield and helmet

  crushing in on him, bronze gear clashing round him.

  And shouting squads of Achaeans raced in for the kill,

  hoping to drag him off and hurling showers of spears

  but none could stab or strike the lord of armies now.

  Too fast for them, here was a ring of Trojan chiefs:

  Aeneas, Polydamas and the royal prince Agenor,

  Sarpedon the Lycians’ captain, valiant Glaucus—

  and all their troops spared nothing, pitching in,

  bracing their thick bulging shields to cover Hector.

  Comrades heaved him up and swept him clear of the fighting,

  far downfield till they gained his team of racers

  standing behind the rear lines and rush of battle,

  their driver and blazoned chariot held in tow ...

  Then back to Troy they bore him, groaning hard.

  But once they reached the ford where the river runs clear,

  the strong, whirling Xanthus sprung of immortal Zeus,

  they lifted him off his car and laid him down

  on the level bank, splashing water over him.

  Hector caught his breath and his eyes cleared,

  he crouched down on his knees to vomit dark clots

  then slumped back down, stretched on the ground again

  and the world went black as night across his eyes.

  The force of the blow still overwhelmed his senses.

  But Argive units, spotting Hector in full retreat,

  charged the Trojans harder, their lust for battle rising.

  And first by far was Oileus’ son, quick Little Ajax—

  he lunged out and his spearhead skewered Satnius,

  Enops’ son the lithe nymph of the ford once bore

  to Enops tending his flocks by Satniois’ banks ...

  Now the renowned spearman Ajax rushed against him,

  slashing him down the flank, knocking him backward—

  Trojans and Argives swarming over him, out for blood.

  Shaking a spear Polydamas moved in fast to the rescue,

  Panthous’ son lancing the right shoulder of Prothoënor,

  Arielycus’ son, and the heavy shaft impaled his upper arm—

  he pitched in the dust, clawing the earth with both hands

  and Polydamas shouted over him, wild with glory now:

  “Here is another spear that leaps from my strong arm,

  from Panthous’ brave son, and hits its mark, by god!

  It’s found its home in an Argive’s waiting flesh—

  a crutch in his grip, I’d say,

  as he trudges down now to the House of Death!”

  The Argives rose in horror to hear that boast,

  veteran Ajax most of all, the anger leapt inside him—

  Prothoenor had dropped at the feet of Telamon’s son.

  Ajax suddenly spun a glinting spear at Polydamas,

  fast, but the Trojan dodged black fate himself

  with a quick spring to the side—

  but Antenor’s son Archelochus caught the shaft

  for the gods had doomed that fighting man to death.

  Ajax struck him right where the head and neckbone join,

  the last link in the spine, he cut both tendons through

  so the mouth and brow and nostrils hit the ground

  before the shins and knees as the man dropped dead.

  And now it was Ajax’ turn to shout at brave Polydamas,

  “Think it over, Polydamas, tell the truth, my friend—

  a decent bargain, no? This man’s body for Prothoënor’r!

  No coward, to judge by his looks, no coward’s stock,

  no doubt some brother of stallion-breaking Antenor,

  that or his own son—the blood-likeness is striking!”

  So Ajax vaunted, knowing his victim full well,

  and a raw revulsion seized the Trojans’ hearts.

  Straddling his brother, Acamas thrust and speared

  Boeotian Promachus, trying to drag the corpse by the feet,

  and Acamas loosed his cry of exultation, “Argives—

  glorious braggarts, you, insatiate with your threats!

  Don’t think struggle and pain will be ours alone—

  your day will come to die in blood like him.

  Think how Promachus sleeps at your feet now,

  beaten down by my spear—with no long wait

  to pay the price for my brother dead and gone.

  That’s why a fighter prays for kin in his halls,

  blood kin to survive and avenge his death in battle!”

  But the Argives rose in grief to avenge that boast—

  skilled Peneleos most of all, anger blazed inside him.

  He charged Acamas—Acamas could not stand the attack,

  he ran—and Peneleos stabbed at Ilioneus instead,

  a son of the herdsman Phorbas rich in flocks,

  Hermes’ favorite Trojan: Hermes gave him wealth

  but ilioneus’ mother gave him just one son ...

  the one Peneleos lanced beneath the brows,

  down to the eyes’ roots and scooped an eyeball out—

  the spear cut clean through the socket, out behind the nape

  and backward down he sat, both hands stretched wide

  as Peneleos, quickly drawing his whetted sword,

  hacked him square in the neck and lopped his head

  and down on the ground it tumbled, helmet and all.

  But the big spear’s point still stuck in the eye socket—

  hoisting the head high like a poppy-head on the shaft

  he flourished it in the eyes of all the Trojans now,

  yelling out his boast: “Go tell them from me,

  you Trojans, tell the loving father and mother

  of lofty Ilioneus to start the dirges in the halls!

  The wife of Promachus, Alegenor’s son, will never thrill

  to her dear husband striding home from the wars

  that day the sons of Achaea sail from Troy!”

  And the knees of every Trojan shook with fear,

  each veteran frantic, glancing left and right—

  how to escape his sudden, plunging death?

  Sing to me now, you Muses who hold the halls of Olympus,

  who was the first Achaean to drag off bloody spoils