The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

with much to command Meriones and the Aeantes:

  “Ajax and Ajax, captains of Achaea, Meriones too,

  remember Patroclus now, our stricken comrade!

  That gentle man, the soul of kindness to all

  while the man was still alive ...

  Now death and fate have got him in their grip.”

  And with that the red-haired captain moved ahead

  like an eagle scanning left and right, the bird men say

  has the sharpest eyes of all that fly the heavens:

  high as he soars he’ll never miss the racing hare

  cowering down low in the dense, shaggy brush—

  down on its head he swoops

  and pins it fast and rips its life away. So now,

  Menelaus O my King, you turned your shining eyes,

  scanning the crowds of comrades front and rear,

  trying to see if Nestor’s son was still alive.

  He marked him quickly, out on the left flank

  and rousing cohorts, driving them back to war,

  and the red-haired captain halted near and called,

  “Turn this way, Antilochus, Prince, and hear the news,

  dreadful news—would to god it had never happened!

  You see for yourself, I know, how Father Zeus

  sends waves of ruin breaking down our lines—

  victory goes to Troy. Our best Achaean’s dead—

  Patroclus, a stunning loss to all our armies!

  Quick, run to Achilles’ moorings up the beach

  and tell him all. Perhaps—but he must be fast—

  he can bring the body safely back to his ship,

  stripped as Patroclus is—

  Hector with that flashing helmet has his armor.”

  Antilochus listened closely, hating every word.

  He stood there speechless a while, struck dumb ...

  tears filling his eyes, his strong voice choked.

  But he still would not neglect Atrides’ order.

  So handing his gear to a loyal aide Laodocus,

  who maneuvered his pawing horses close by,

  he set off at a run.

  But he wept freely now

  as his feet swept him clear of the close fighting,

  bearing the dreadful news to Peleus’ son Achilles.

  But you, Menelaus O my King, you had no heart

  to defend the Pylians, hard-pressed as they were,

  once their leader left, a heavy blow to his troops.

  And putting the veteran Thrasymedes in command,

  he ran back to bestride Patroclus’ corpse again

  and flanking the two Aeantes now, reported briskly,

  “I sent Antilochus. He’s off to the fast ships

  to tell the swift Achilles. But I’ve little hope

  he’ll come at all—for all his rage at Hector.

  How can he fight the Trojans without armor?

  So come, alone as we are, find the best way out:

  how do we pull the body clear and save ourselves

  from the Trojan uproar, flee our death, our fate?”

  The Great Telamonian Ajax answered firmly,

  “All true, straight to the point, Lord Menelaus.

  Quickly, you and Meriones shoulder up the body,

  carry it off the lines. We’re right behind you,

  fighting the Trojans, fighting this Prince Hector.

  The two Aeantes bearing the same fury, the same name—

  and no strangers at standing up to slashing Ares,

  each defending the other side-by-side.”

  So he urged

  and up from the earth they caught the body in their arms,

  hoisting it high above their heads with a great heave—

  and Trojan forces crowding behind them shouted out

  when they saw the Argive fighters lift the corpse.

  They swept in like hounds that fling themselves

  at a wounded boar before young hunters reach him,

  darting in for a moment, keen to rip the boar apart

  till he wheels at bay, ramping into the pack with all his power

  and the hounds cringe and bolt and scatter left and right.

  And so the Trojans kept on pressing, squad on squad,

  stabbing away with swords and two-edged spears

  till the two called Ajax wheeled against them hard

  to make a stand—and they turned white, none had nerve

  to charge forth now and fight it out for the corpse.

  So they labored to haul Patroclus from the war,

  back to the beaked ships as fighting flared behind them

  wild as a flash fire, sprung out of nowhere, storming down

  on a teeming city, houses caving in to the big blaze

  as gale-winds whip it into a roaring conflagration.

  So rose the relentless din of horse and fighting men

  breaking against them now as they struggled back to shore.

  Dead set as mules who put their backs in the labor ...

  dragging down from the cliffs along a stony trail

  some roof-beam or a heavy ship timber, slogging on

  till they nearly burst their hearts with sweat and labor—

  so they strained to carry off the corpse. Right behind them

  the two Aeantes held the Trojans off as a wooded rocky ridge

  stretched out across an entire plain holds back a flood,

  fighting off the killer-tides of the mounting rivers,

  beating them all back to swamp the lowland flats—

  none of their pounding waves can make a breakthrough.

  So the two Aeantes kept on beating the Trojans off

  but on they came, assaulting the rear, two in the lead,

  Aeneas the son of Anchises flanking glorious Hector.

  Flying before them now like clouds of crows or starlings

  screaming murder, seeing a falcon dive in for the kill,

  the hawk that wings grim death at smaller birds—

  so pursued by Aeneas and Hector Argive fighters

  raced, screaming death-cries, lust for battle lost

  and masses of fine armor littered both sides of the trench

  as the Argives fled in fear, no halt in the fighting, not now—

  BOOK EIGHTEEN

  The Shield of Achilles

  So the men fought on like a mass of whirling fire

  as swift Antilochus raced the message toward Achilles.

  Sheltered under his curving, beaked ships he found him,

  foreboding, deep down, all that had come to pass.

  Agonizing now he probed his own great heart:

  “Why, why? Our long-haired Achaeans routed again,

  driven in terror off the plain to crowd the ships, but why?

  Dear gods, don’t bring to pass the grief that haunts my heart—

  the prophecy that mother revealed to me one time ...

  she said the best of the Myrmidons—while I lived—

  would fall at Trojan hands and leave the light of day.

  And now he’s dead, I know it. Menoetius’ gallant son,

  my headstrong friend! And I told Patroclus clearly,

  ‘Once you have beaten off the lethal fire, quick,

  come back to the ships—you must not battle Hector!’ ”

  As such fears went churning through his mind

  the warlord Nestor’s son drew near him now,

  streaming warm tears, to give the dreaded message:

  “Ah son of royal Peleus, what you must hear from me!

  What painful news—would to god it had never happened!

  Patroclus has fallen. They’re fighting over his corpse.

  He’s stripped, naked—Hector with that flashing helmet,

  Hector has your arms!”

  So the captain reported.

  A black cloud of grief came shrouding over Achilles.

  Both hands clawing the ground for soot and filth,

 
he poured it over his head, fouled his handsome face

  and black ashes settled onto his fresh clean war-shirt.

  Overpowered in all his power, sprawled in the dust,

  Achilles lay there, fallen ...

  tearing his hair, defiling it with his own hands.

  And the women he and Patroclus carried off as captives

  caught the grief in their hearts and keened and wailed,

  out of the tents they ran to ring the great Achilles,

  all of them beat their breasts with clenched fists,

  sank to the ground, each woman’s knees gave way.

  Antilochus kneeling near, weeping uncontrollably,

  clutched Achilles’ hands as he wept his proud heart out—

  for fear he would slash his throat with an iron blade.

  Achilles suddenly loosed a terrible, wrenching cry

  and his noble mother heard him, seated near her father,

  the Old Man of the Sea in the salt green depths,

  and she cried out in turn. And immortal sea-nymphs

  gathered round their sister, all the Nereids dwelling

  down the sounding depths, they all came rushing now—

  Glitter, blossoming Spray and the swells’ Embrace,

  Fair-Isle and shadowy Cavern, Mist and Spindrift,

  ocean nymphs of the glances pooling deep and dark,

  Race-with-the-Waves and Headlands’ Hope and Safe Haven,

  Glimmer of Honey, Suave-and-Soothing, Whirlpool, Brilliance,

  Bounty and First Light and Speeder of Ships and buoyant Power,

  Welcome Home and Bather of Meadows and Master’s Lovely

  Consort,

  Gift of the Sea, Eyes of the World and the famous milk-white Calm

  and Truth and Never-Wrong and the queen who rules the tides

  in beauty

  and in rushed Glory and Healer of Men and the one who rescues

  kings

  and Sparkler, Down-from-the-Cliffs, sleek-haired Strands of Sand

  and all the rest of the Nereids dwelling down the depths.

  The silver cave was shimmering full of sea-nymphs,

  all in one mounting chorus beating their breasts

  as Thetis launched the dirge: “Hear me, sisters,

  daughters of Nereus, so you all will know it well—

  listen to all the sorrows welling in my heart!

  I am agony—

  mother of grief and greatness—O my child!

  Yes, I gave birth to a flawless, mighty son ...

  the splendor of heroes, and he shot up like a young branch,

  like a fine tree I reared him—the orchard’s crowning glory—

  but only to send him off in the beaked ships to Troy

  to battle Trojans! Never again will I embrace him

  striding home through the doors of Peleus’ house.

  And long as I have him with me, still alive,

  looking into the sunlight, he is racked with anguish.

  And I, I go to his side—nothing I do can help him.

  Nothing. But go I shall, to see my darling boy,

  to hear what grief has come to break his heart

  while he holds back from battle.”

  So Thetis cried

  as she left the cave and her sisters swam up with her,

  all in a tide of tears, and billowing round them now

  the ground swell heaved open. And once they reached

  the fertile land of Troy they all streamed ashore,

  row on row in a long cortege, the sea-nymphs

  filing up where the Myrmidon ships lay hauled,

  clustered closely round the great runner Achilles ...

  As he groaned from the depths his mother rose before him

  and sobbing a sharp cry, cradled her son’s head in her hands

  and her words were all compassion, winging pity: “My child—

  why in tears? What sorrow has touched your heart?

  Tell me, please. Don’t harbor it deep inside you.

  Zeus has accomplished everything you wanted,

  just as you raised your hands and prayed that day.

  All the sons of Achaea are pinned against the ships

  and all for want of you—they suffer shattering losses.”

  And groaning deeply the matchless runner answered,

  “O dear mother, true! All those burning desires

  Olympian Zeus has brought to pass for me—

  but what joy to me now? My dear comrade’s dead—

  Patrocius—the man I loved beyond all other comrades,

  loved as my own life-I’ve lost him—Hector’s killed him,

  stripped the gigantic armor off his back, a marvel to behold—

  my burnished gear! Radiant gifts the gods presented Peleus

  that day they drove you into a mortal’s marriage bed ...

  I wish you’d lingered deep with the deathless sea-nymphs,

  lived at ease, and Peleus carried home a mortal bride.

  But now, as it is, sorrows, unending sorrows must surge

  within your heart as well—for your own son’s death.

  Never again will you embrace him striding home.

  My spirit rebels—I’ve lost the will to live,

  to take my stand in the world of men—unless,

  before all else, Hector’s battered down by my spear

  and gasps away his life, the blood-price for Patroclus,

  Menoetius’ gallant son he’s killed and stripped!”

  But Thetis answered, warning through her tears,

  “You’re doomed to a short life, my son, from all you say!

  For hard on the heels of Hector’s death your death

  must come at once—”

  “Then let me die at once”—

  Achilles burst out, despairing—“since it was not my fate

  to save my dearest comrade from his death! Look,

  a world away from his fatherland he’s perished,

  lacking me, my fighting strength, to defend him.

  But now, since I shall not return to my fatherland ...

  nor did I bring one ray of hope to my Patroclus,

  nor to the rest of all my steadfast comrades,

  countless ranks struck down by mighty Hector—

  No, no, here I sit by the ships ...

  a useless, dead weight on the good green earth—

  I. no man my equal among the bronze-armed Achaeans,

  not in battle, only in wars of words that others win.

  If only strife could die from the lives of gods and men

  and anger that drives the sanest man to flare in outrage—

  bitter gall, sweeter than dripping streams of honey,

  that swarms in people’s chests and blinds like smoke—

  just like the anger Agamemnon king of men

  has roused within me now ...

  Enough.

  Let bygones be bygones. Done is done.

  Despite my anguish I will beat it down,

  the fury mounting inside me, down by force.

  But now I’ll go and meet that murderer head-on,

  that Hector who destroyed the dearest life I know.