The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  No spear rages now in the hand of Diomedes,

  keen to save the Argives from disaster ...

  I can’t even hear the battle cry of Agamemnon

  break from his hated skull. But it’s man-killing Hector

  calling his Trojans on, his war cries crashing round me,

  savage cries of his Trojans sweeping the whole plain,

  victors bringing the Argive armies to their knees.

  Even so, Patroclus, fight disaster off the ships,

  fling yourself at the Trojans full force—

  before they gut our hulls with leaping fire

  and tear away the beloved day of our return.

  But take this command to heart—obey it to the end.

  So you can win great honor, great glory for me

  in the eyes of all the Argive ranks, and they,

  they’ll send her back, my lithe and lovely girl,

  and top it off with troves of glittering gifts.

  Once you have whipped the enemy from the fleet

  you must come back, Patroclus. Even if Zeus

  the thundering lord of Hera lets you seize your glory,

  you must not bum for war against these Trojans,

  madmen lusting for battle—not without me—

  you will only make my glory that much less ...

  You must not, lost in the flush and fire of triumph,

  slaughtering Trojans outright, drive your troops to Troy—

  what if one of the gods who never die comes down

  from Olympus heights to intervene in battle?

  The deadly Archer loves his Trojans dearly.

  No, you must turn back—

  soon as you bring the light of victory to the ships.

  Let the rest of them cut themselves to pieces on the plain!

  Oh would to god—Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo—

  not one of all these Trojans could flee his death, not one,

  no Argive either, but we could stride from the slaughter

  so we could bring Troy’s hallowed crown of towers

  toppling down around us—you and I alone!”

  And so the comrades roused each other now.

  But Ajax could hold his post on the decks no longer.

  He was overwhelmed by the latest salvos, driven back

  by the will of Zeus and the fearless Trojan spearmen

  hurling blows nonstop—a terrific din at his temples,

  his shining helmet clashing under repeated blows,

  relentless blows beating his forged cheek-irons.

  And the joint of his left shoulder ached with labor,

  forever bracing his huge burnished shield rock-steady,

  but they could not wrench it loose from round his body

  for all their pelting weapons. Again and again

  he fought for breath, gasping, bathed in sweat

  rivering down his body, his limbs soaked and sleek ...

  where could he find some breathing room in battle?

  Wherever he looked, pains heaped on pains.

  Sing to me now,

  you Muses, you who hold Olympus’ vaulting halls,

  how fire was first pitched on Achaea’s ships!

  Hector lunged at Ajax toe-to-toe,

  hacked his ash-wood pike with a heavy sword

  and striking the socket just behind the point

  he slashed the head clean off, leaving the shaft,

  the lopped stump dangling in Ajax’ fist, useless,

  bronze head bounding away, clanging along the ground.

  And deep in his heart brave Ajax knew and shuddered—

  here was work of the gods, thundering Zeus on high,

  cutting him off from battle, dashing all his plans,

  Zeus, determined to grant the Trojans triumph now.

  So Ajax drew back, out of range, and then—

  they flung their tireless fire at a fast trim ship.

  She was up in flames at once, engulfed in quenchless fire,

  in a flash the blaze went swirling round the stem

  and Achilles slapped his thighs and urged Patroclus,

  “To arms—Patroclus, prince and master horseman!

  I can see the blaze go roaring up the ships.

  They must not destroy them. No escape-route then.

  Quick, strap on my gear—I’ll rouse the troops.”

  That was all,

  and Patroclus armed himself in Achilles’ gleaming bronze.

  First he wrapped his legs with the well-made greaves,

  fastened behind the heels with silver ankle-clasps,

  next he strapped the breastplate round his chest,

  blazoned with stars—swift Achilles’ own—

  then over his shoulder Patroclus slung the sword,

  the fine bronze blade with its silver-studded hilt,

  and then the shield-strap and the sturdy, massive shield

  and over his powerful head he set the well-forged helmet,

  the horsehair crest atop it tossing, bristling terror,

  and he took two rugged spears that fit his grip.

  And Achilles’ only weapon Patroclus did not take

  was the great man’s spear, weighted, heavy, tough.

  No other Achaean fighter could heft that shaft,

  only Achilles had the skill to wield it well:

  Pelian ash it was, a gift to his father Peleus

  presented by Chiron once, hewn on Pelion’s crest

  to be the death of heroes.

  Now the war-team.

  Patroclus ordered Automedon to yoke them quickly—

  a man he honored next to Achilles breaker of men,

  always firmest in battle, nerved to wait the call.

  So at his command Automedon yoked the horses,

  the rapid stallions Roan Beauty and Dapple,

  the team that raced the gales, magnificent team

  the storm-wind filly Lightfoot foaled for the West Wind,

  grazing the lush green grass along the Ocean’s tides.

  And into the traces he ran the purebred Bold Dancer—

  Achilles seized him once when he stormed Eetion’s city,

  a mortal war-horse pacing immortal horses now.

  Prince Achilles, ranging his ranks of Myrmidons,

  arrayed them along the shelters, all in armor.

  Hungry as wolves that rend and bolt raw flesh,

  hearts filled with battle-frenzy that never dies—

  off on the cliffs, ripping apart some big antlered stag

  they gorge on the kill till all their jaws drip red with blood,

  then down in a pack they lope to a pooling, dark spring,

  their lean sharp tongues lapping the water’s surface,

  belching bloody meat, but the fury, never shaken,

  builds inside their chests though their glutted bellies burst—

  so wild the Myrmidon captains, Myrmidon field commanders

  swarming round Achilles’ dauntless friend-in-arms.

  And there in the midst Achilles stood like the god of war,

  urging his charioteers and fighters bracing shields..

  There were fifty fast black ships that bore his troops

  when Achilles dear to Zeus sailed east for Troy.

  Fifty fighters aboard each, manning the oarlocks,

  five captains he named, entrusted with command,

  but he himself in his martial power ruled them all ...

  The first battalion was led by Menesthius bright in bronze,

  son of Spercheus River swelled by the rains of Zeus

  and born by the lovely Polydora, Peleus’ daughter,

  when a girl and the god of a tireless river bedded down.

  But they called him the son of Borus, Perieres’ son

  who showered the girl with countless bridal gifts,

  his wedded bride in the sight of all the world.

  The next battalion was led by fighting Eudorus,

  b
om out of wedlock too. Phylas’ daughter,

  Polymela the gorgeous dancer bore the man

  when irresistible Hermes, Hermes the giant-killer

  lusted for her once—she ravished the god’s bright eyes,

  swaying among the dancers singing goddess Artemis

  with arrow of gold and cry that halloos the hunt.

  And straightway up to her chamber Hermes climbed,

  the Healer, in secret, lay in her arms in love

  and the woman bore the god a radiant son, Eudorus—

  lightning on his feet and a crack man of war.

  But soon as the Lady of Labor’s birthing pangs

  brought him to light and he saw the blaze of day,

  Actor’s majestic son the powerful lord Echecles

  led her home to his house with troves of bridal gifts

  while old King Phylas reared the boy with kindness,

  tending, embracing the young Eudorus like a son.

  The third battalion was led by brave Pisander,

  Maemalus’ son, who outfought them all with spears,

  all the Myrmidons after Achilles’ friend Patroclus.

  The fourth was led by the old horseman Phoenix,

  Alcimedon led the fifth, Laerces’ gallant son.

  But soon as Achilles mustered all battalions,

  positioned in battle-order led by captains,

  he imposed this stem command on all his troops:

  “Myrmidons! Not one of you dare forget those threats

  you hurled from the fast trim ships against the Trojans

  all the while I raged, and I was the one you blamed,

  down to the last fighter: ‘Brutal son of Peleus—

  your mother nursed you on gall! Merciless, iron man—

  confining your own men to the ships against their will!

  So home we go in those ships and cut the seas again,

  since now such deadly anger strikes our captain.’

  Denouncing me—

  my comrades, clustered together, always grumbling.

  Well, here’s a tremendous work of battle, look,

  blazing before your eyes

  and just the sort you longed for all those days.

  So each man tense with courage—fight the Trojans down!“

  That was the cry that fired each soldier’s heart.

  Hearing the king’s command the ranks pulled closer,

  tight as a mason packs a good stone wall,

  blocks on granite blocks for a storied house

  that fights the ripping winds—crammed so close

  the crested helmets, the war-shields bulging, jutting,

  buckler-to-buckler, helm-to-helm, man-to-man massed tight

  and the horsehair crests on glittering helmet horns brushed

  as they tossed their heads, the battalions bulked so dense.

  And out before them all, two men took battle-stations,

  Patroclus and Automedon, seized with a single fury

  to fight in the comrades’ vanguard, far in front.

  But Achilles strode back to his shelter now

  and opened the lid of the princely inlaid sea chest

  that glistening-footed Thetis stowed in his ship to carry,

  filled to the brim with war-shirts, windproof cloaks

  and heavy fleecy rugs. And there it rested ...

  his handsome, well-wrought cup. No other man

  would drink the shining wine from its glowing depths,

  nor would Achilles pour the wine to any other god,

  none but Father Zeus. Lifting it from the chest

  he purified it with sulphur crystals first

  then rinsed it out with water running clear,

  washed his hands and filled it bright with wine.

  And then, taking a stand before his lodge, he prayed,

  pouring the wine to earth and scanning the high skies

  and the god who loves the lightning never missed a word:

  “King Zeus—Pelasgian Zeus, lord of Dodona’s holy shrine,

  dwelling far away, brooding over Dodona’s bitter winters!

  Your prophets dwelling round you, Zeus, the Selli

  sleeping along the ground with unwashed feet ...

  If you honored me last time and heard my prayer

  and rained destruction down on all Achaea’s ranks,

  now, once more, I beg you, bring my prayer to pass!

  I myself hold out on shore with the beached ships here

  but I send my comrade forth to war with troops of Myrmidons—

  Launch glory along with him, high lord of thunder, Zeus!

  Fill his heart with courage—so even Hector learns

  if Patroclus has the skill to fight his wars alone,

  my friend-in-arms, or his hands can rage unvanquished

  only when I go wading in and face the grind of battle.

  But once he repels the roaring onslaught from the ships

  let him come back to me and our fast fleet—unharmed—

  with all my armor round him, all our comrades

  fighting round my friend!”

  So Achilles prayed

  and Zeus in all his wisdom heard those prayers.

  One prayer the Father granted, the other he denied:

  Patroclus would drive the onslaught off the ships—

  that much Zeus granted, true,

  but denied him safe and sound return from battle.

  Once Achilles had poured the wine and prayed to Zeus,

  he returned to his shelter, stowed the cup in the chest

  then took his stand outside, his spirit yearning still

  to watch Achaeans and Trojans struggle to the death.

  Myrmidons,

  battalions ranged in armor with greathearted Patroclus,

  moving out now, the fury bursting inside them,

  suddenly charged the Trojans—

  they swarmed forth like wasps from a roadside nest

  when boys have made it their sport to set them seething,

  day after day tormenting them round their wayside hive—

  idiot boys! they make a menace for every man in sight.

  Any innocent traveler passing them on that road

  can stir them accidentally—up in arms in a flash,

  all in a swarm come pouring, each one raging down

  to fight for home and children—

  Such frenzy seized their hearts,

  Myrmidons pouring out of the ships, ceaseless shouts rising

  and over them all Patroclus’ war cries rousing comrades:

  “Myrmidons! Brothers-in-arms of Peleus’ son Achilles!

  Fight like men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!

  Now we must win high honor for Peleus’ royal son,

  far the greatest fighter among the Argive fleet,

  and we who fight beside him the bravest troops—

  so even mighty Atrides can see how mad he was

  to disgrace Achilles, the best of the Achaeans!”

  He closed with a shout and fired each fighter’s heart

  and down in a mass they launched against the Trojans,

  ships around them echoing back their shattering cries.