The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  or the death of my dear son, reared for me in Scyros,

  if Prince Neoptolemus is still among the living.

  Till now I’d hoped, hoped with all my heart

  that I alone would die

  far from the stallion-land of Argos, here in Troy,

  but you, Patroclus, would journey back to Phthia

  and then you’d ferry Neoptolemus home from Scyros,

  fast in your black ship, and show him all my wealth,

  my servingmen, my great house with the high vaulting roof.

  For father, I fear—if he’s not dead and buried yet—

  just clings, perhaps, to his last breath of life,

  ground down now by the hateful siege of years,

  waiting, day after day, for painful news of me—

  until he learns his only son is dead.”

  His voice rang out in tears and the warlords mourned in answer,

  each remembering those he had left behind at home.

  Seeing their grief the Father, filled with pity,

  quickly turned to Athena with winging words:

  “My child, have you abandoned him forever?

  Your favorite man of war. Is it all lost now?—

  no more care for Achilles left inside your heart?

  There he huddles before his curving, beaked ships,

  racked with grief for his dear friend while others scatter,

  settling down to their meal. He’s fasting, never fed.

  Go. Run and instill some nectar and sweet ambrosia

  deep within his chest. Stave off his hunger now.”

  So he urged Athena already poised for action.

  Down the sky she swooped through the clear bright air

  like a shrieking, sharp-winged hawk, and while Achaeans

  quickly armed throughout the encampment, she instilled

  some nectar and sweet ambrosia deep in Achilles’ chest

  so the stabbing pangs of hunger could not sap his knees.

  Then back to her mighty Father’s sturdy halls she went

  as troops moved out, pouring out of the fast trim ships.

  Thick-and-fast as the snow comes swirling down from Zeus,

  frozen sharp when the North Wind born in heaven blasts it on—

  so massed, so dense the glistening burnished helmets shone,

  streaming out of the ships, and shields with jutting bosses,

  breastplates welded front and back and the long ashen spears.

  The glory of armor lit the skies and the whole earth laughed,

  rippling under the glitter of bronze, thunder resounding

  under trampling feet of armies. And in their midst

  the brilliant Achilles began to arm for battle...

  A sound of grinding came from the fighter’s teeth,

  his eyes blazed forth in searing points of fire,

  unbearable grief came surging through his heart

  and now, bursting with rage against the men of Troy,

  he donned Hephaestus’ gifts—magnificent armor

  the god of fire forged with all his labor.

  First he wrapped his legs with well-made greaves,

  fastened behind his heels with silver ankle-clasps,

  next he strapped the breastplate round his chest

  then over his shoulder Achilles slung his sword,

  the fine bronze blade with its silver-studded hilt,

  then hoisted the massive shield flashing far and wide

  like a full round moon—and gleaming bright as the light

  that reaches sailors out at sea, the flare of a watchfire

  burning strong in a lonely sheepfold up some mountain slope

  when the gale-winds hurl the crew that fights against them

  far over the fish-swarming sea, far from loved ones—

  so the gleam from Achilles’ well-wrought blazoned shield

  shot up and hit the skies. Then lifting his rugged helmet

  he set it down on his brows, and the horsehair crest

  shone like a star and the waving golden plumes shook

  that Hephaestus drove in bristling thick along its ridge.

  And brilliant Achilles tested himself in all his gear,

  Achilles spun on his heels to see if it fitted tightly,

  see if his shining limbs ran free within it, yes,

  and it felt like buoyant wings lifting the great captain.

  And then, last, Achilles drew his father’s spear

  from its socket-stand—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—

  Alcimus and Automedon worked to yoke them quickly.

  They cinched the supple breast-straps round their chests

  and driving the bridle irons home between their jaws,

  pulled the reins back taut to the bolted chariot.

  Seizing a glinting whip, his fist on the handgrip,

  Automedon leapt aboard behind the team and behind him

  Achilles struck his stance, helmed for battle now,

  glittering in his armor like the sun astride the skies,

  his ringing, daunting voice commanding his father’s horses:

  “Roan Beauty and Charger, illustrious foals of Lightfoot!

  Try hard, do better this time—bring your charioteer

  back home alive to his waiting Argive comrades

  once we’re through with fighting. Don’t leave Achilles

  there on the battlefield as you left Patroclus—dead!”

  And Roan Beauty the horse with flashing hoofs

  spoke up from under the yoke, bowing his head low

  so his full mane came streaming down the yoke-pads,

  down along the yoke to sweep the ground ...

  The white-armed goddess Hera gave him voice:

  “Yes! we will save your life—this time too—

  master, mighty Achilles! But the day of death

  already hovers near, and we are not to blame

  but a great god is and the strong force of fate.

  Not through our want of speed or any lack of care

  did the Trojans strip the armor off Patroclus’ back.

  It was all that matchless god, sleek-haired Leto’s son—

  he killed him among the champions and handed Hector glory.

  Our team could race with the rush of the West Wind,

  the strongest, swiftest blast on earth, men say—

  still you are doomed to die by force, Achilles,

  cut down by a deathless god and mortal man!”

  He said no more. The Furies struck him dumb.

  But the fiery runner Achilles burst out in anger,

  “Why, Roan Beauty—why prophesy my doom?

  Don’t waste your breath. I know, well I know—

  I am destined to die here, far from my dear father,

  far from mother. But all the same I will never stop

  till I drive the Trojans to their bloody fill of war!”

  A high stabbing cry—

  and out in the front ranks he drove his plunging stallions.

  BOOK TWENTY

  Olympian Gods in Arms

  So by the beaked ships the Argives formed for battle,

  arming round you, Achilles—Achilles starved for war—

  and faced by the Trojan ranks along the plain’s high ground.

  At the same time, from the peak of rugged ridged Olympus

  Zeus commanded Themis to call the gods to council.

  Themis made her rounds, ranging far and wide

  and summoned all to march to Father’s halls.

  Not a single river failed to come, none apart

  from the Ocean stream that holds the earth in place,

&n
bsp; nor a single nymph who haunts the rustling groves

  and the river springs and the lush, grassy meadows.

  All flocked to the halls of Zeus who gathers storms

  and found their seats in the colonnades of polished stone

  Hephaestus built for Father Zeus with all his craft and cunning.

  And so the powers assembled deep in Zeus’s halls.

  Nor did the god of earthquakes fail to hear the goddess.

  Surging up from the sea he came to join their ranks,

  took a seat in their midst and probed Zeus’s plans:

  “Why now, great king of the lightning,

  why summon the gods to council once again?

  Still some concern for Troy’s and Achaea’s armies?—

  now that battle is set to burst in flames between them!”

  But Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied,

  “God of the earthquake, well you know my plans,

  the strategy in my mind, and why I call you here

  These mortals do concern me, dying as they are.

  Still, here I stay on Olympus throned aloft,

  here in my steep mountain cleft, to feast my eyes

  and delight my heart. The rest of you: down you go,

  go to Trojans, go to Achaeans. Help either side

  as the fixed desire drives each god to act.

  If Achilles fights the Trojans—unopposed by us—

  not for a moment will they hold his breakneck force.

  Even before now they’d shake to see him coming.

  Now, with his rage inflamed for his friend’s death,

  I fear he’ll raze the walls against the will of fate.”

  And with that command Zeus roused incessant battle.

  Down the immortals launched to the field of action—

  their warring spirits split the gods two ways.

  Hera went to the massed ships with Pallas Athena,

  Poseidon who grips the earth, and Hermes god of luck

  who excels them all at subtle twists and tactics—

  and the god of fire flanked them, seething power,

  hobbling along but his shrunken legs moved nimbly.

  But Ares swept down to the Trojans, helmet flashing,

  and pacing him went Phoebus with long hair streaming

  and Artemis showering arrows, Leto and River Xanthus

  and goddess Aphrodite strong with eternal laughter.

  Now, while the gods had still kept clear of mortal men,

  the Achaeans kept on gaining glory—great Achilles

  who held back from the brutal fighting so long

  had just come blazing forth. Chilling tremors

  shook the Trojans’ knees, down to the last man,

  terrified at the sight: the headlong runner coming,

  gleaming in all his gear, afire like man-destroying Ares.

  But once the Olympians merged with mortal fighters,

  Strife the mighty driver of armies rose in strength

  and Athena bellowed her stunning war cry—standing now

  at the edge of the deep-dug trench outside the rampart,

  now at thundering cliffs she loosed her vibrant cry.

  And Ares bellowed his cry from far across the lines,

  churning black as a whirlwind, roaring down now

  from the city’s crest, commanding Trojans on and now

  rushing along the Simois banks and scaling Sunlight Hill.

  So the blissful gods were rousing both opposing armies,

  clashing front to front but then, in their own ranks,

  their overpowering strife broke out in massive war.

  Down from the high skies the father of men and gods

  let loose tremendous thunder—from down below Poseidon

  shook the boundless earth and towering heads of mountains.

  The whole world quaked, the slopes of Ida with all her springs

  and all her peaks and the walls of Troy and all Achaea’s ships.

  And terror-struck in the underworld, Hades lord of the dead

  cringed and sprang from his throne and screamed shrill,

  fearing the god who rocks the ground above his realm,

  giant Poseidon, would burst the earth wide open now

  and lay bare to mortal men and immortal gods at last

  the houses of the dead—the dank, moldering horrors

  that fill the deathless gods themselves with loathing.

  So immense the clash as the war of gods erupted.

  There, look, rearing against the lord Poseidon

  Phoebus Apollo loomed, bristling winged arrows,

  rearing against Ares, blazing-eyed Athena,

  rearing against Hera, Artemis with arrow of gold

  and cry that halloos the hunt, the goddess raining shafts,

  Huntress sister of Phoebus the distant deadly Archer—

  rearing against Leto, Hermes the running god of luck

  and against the Fire-god rose the great deep-swirling river

  immortals call the Xanthus, mankind calls Scamander.

  So god went up against god. But blazing Achilles

  strained to engage Prince Hector, plunge in battle

  with him beyond all others—Achilles yearning now

  to glut with Hector’s blood, his, no other,

  Ares who hacks at men behind his rawhide shield.

  But Aeneas it was whom Phoebus, urger of armies,

  filled with power now and drove against Achilles.

  Phoebus, masking his voice like Priam’s son Lycaon,

  like him to the life the son of Zeus called out,

  “Captain of Trojan councils—where have they gone,

  those threats you made in your cups before the kings?

  Boasting you’d face Achilles man-to-man in battle!”

  But Aeneas turned and gave the god an answer:

  “Son of Priam, why press me to go against Achilles?

  It’s much against my will—his fury is overwhelming.

  Nor would it be the first time I have had to face

  the matchless, headlong runner. Once before

  he chased me hard with his spear, down from Ida

  the day he raided our flocks and sacked Lymessus,

  Pedasus fort as well. But Zeus saved me then,

  put force in my heart, spring in my racing knees.

  Else I’d gone down at Achilles’ hands, Athena’s too—

  the goddess sweeping before him lent the light of safety,

  calling Achilles on that day with his bronze spear

  to slaughter Leleges and Trojans. That is why

  no mortal can fight Achilles head-to-head:

  at every foray one of the gods goes with him,

  beating back his death. Even without that power

  his spear flies straight to the mark, never stops,

  not till it bores clean through some fighter’s flesh.

  But if only Zeus would stretch the ropes of war dead even

  the man would have no easy victory then, believe me—

  not though he claims he’s built of solid bronze!”

  Apollo son of Zeus encouraged him still more: