The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  Athena luring him on with all her immortal cunning—

  and now, at last, as the two came closing for the kill

  it was tall Hector, helmet flashing, who led off:

  “No more running from you in fear, Achilles!

  Not as before. Three times I fled around

  the great city of Priam—I lacked courage then

  to stand your onslaught. Now my spirit stirs me

  to meet you face-to-face. Now kill or be killed!

  Come, we’ll swear to the gods, the highest witnesses—

  the gods will oversee our binding pacts. I swear

  I will never mutilate you—merciless as you are—

  if Zeus allows me to last it out and tear your life away.

  But once I’ve stripped your glorious armor, Achilles,

  I will give your body back to your loyal comrades.

  Swear you’ll do the same.”

  A swift dark glance

  and the headstrong runner answered, “Hector, stop!

  You unforgivable, you ... don’t talk to me of pacts.

  There are no binding oaths between men and lions—

  wolves and lambs can enjoy no meeting of the minds—

  they are all bent on hating each other to the death.

  So with you and me. No love between us. No truce

  till one or the other falls and gluts with blood

  Ares who hacks at men behind his rawhide shield.

  Come, call up whatever courage you can muster.

  Life or death—now prove yourself a spearman,

  a daring man of war! No more escape for you—

  Athena will kill you with my spear in just a moment.

  Now you’ll pay at a stroke for all my comrades’ grief,

  all you killed in the fury of your spear!”

  With that,

  shaft poised, he hurled and his spear’s long shadow flew

  but seeing it coming glorious Hector ducked away,

  crouching down, watching the bronze tip fly past

  and stab the earth—but Athena snatched it up

  and passed it back to Achilles

  and Hector the gallant captain never saw her.

  He sounded out a challenge to Peleus’ princely son:

  “You missed, look—the great godlike Achilles!

  So you knew nothing at all from Zeus about my death—

  and yet how sure you were! All bluff, cunning with words,

  that’s all you are—trying to make me fear you,

  lose my nerve, forget my fighting strength.

  Well, you’ll never plant your lance in my back

  as I flee you in fear—plunge it through my chest

  as I come charging in, if a god gives you the chance!

  But now it’s for you to dodge my brazen spear—

  I wish you’d bury it in your body to the hilt.

  How much lighter the war would be for Trojans then

  if you, their greatest scourge, were dead and gone!”

  Shaft poised, he hurled and his spear’s long shadow flew

  and it struck Achilles’ shield—a dead-center hit—

  but off and away it glanced and Hector seethed,

  his hurtling spear, his whole arm’s power poured

  in a wasted shot. He stood there, cast down ...

  he had no spear in reserve. So Hector shouted out

  to Deiphobus bearing his white shield—with a ringing shout

  he called for a heavy lance—

  but the man was nowhere near him,

  vanished—

  yes and Hector knew the truth in his heart

  and the fighter cried aloud, “My time has come!

  At last the gods have called me down to death.

  I thought he was at my side, the hero Deiphobus—

  he’s safe inside the walls, Athena’s tricked me blind.

  And now death, grim death is looming up beside me,

  no longer far away. No way to escape it now. This,

  this was their pleasure after all, sealed long ago—

  Zeus and the son of Zeus, the distant deadly Archer—

  though often before now they rushed to my defense.

  So now I meet my doom. Well let me die—

  but not without struggle, not without glory, no,

  in some great clash of arms that even men to come

  will hear of down the years!”

  And on that resolve

  he drew the whetted sword that hung at his side,

  tempered, massive, and gathering all his force

  he swooped like a soaring eagle

  launching down from the dark clouds to earth

  to snatch some helpless lamb or trembling hare.

  So Hector swooped now, swinging his whetted sword

  and Achilles charged too, bursting with rage, barbaric,

  guarding his chest with the well-wrought blazoned shield,

  head tossing his gleaming helmet, four horns strong

  and the golden plumes shook that the god of fire

  drove in bristling thick along its ridge.

  Bright as that star amid the stars in the night sky,

  star of the evening, brightest star that rides the heavens,

  so fire flared from the sharp point of the spear Achilles

  brandished high in his right hand, bent on Hector’s death,

  scanning his splendid body—where to pierce it best?

  The rest of his flesh seemed all encased in armor,

  burnished, brazen—Achilles’ armor that Hector stripped

  from strong Patroclus when he killed him—true,

  but one spot lay exposed,

  where collarbones lift the neckbone off the shoulders,

  the open throat, where the end of life comes quickest—there

  as Hector charged in fury brilliant Achilles drove his spear

  and the point went stabbing clean through the tender neck

  but the heavy bronze weapon failed to slash the windpipe—

  Hector could still gasp out some words, some last reply ...

  he crashed in the dust—

  godlike Achilles gloried over him:

  “Hector—surely you thought when you stripped Patroclus’ armor

  that you, you would be safe! Never a fear of me—

  far from the fighting as I was—you fool!

  Left behind there, down by the beaked ships

  his great avenger waited, a greater man by far—

  that man was I. and I smashed your strength! And you—

  the dogs and birds will maul you, shame your corpse

  while Achaeans bury my dear friend in glory!”

  Struggling for breath, Hector, his helmet flashing,

  said, “I beg you, beg you by your life, your parents—

  don’t let the dogs devour me by the Argive ships!

  Wait, take the princely ransom of bronze and gold,

  the gifts my father and noble mother will give you—

  but give my body to friends to carry home again,

  so Trojan men and Trojan women can do me honor

  with fitting rites of fire once I am dead.”

  Staring grimly, the proud runner Achilles answered,

  “Beg no more, you fawning dog—begging me by my parents!

  Would to god my rage, my fury would drive me now

  to hack your flesh away and eat you raw—

  such agonies you have caused me! Ransom?

  No man alive could keep the dog-packs off you,

  not if they haul in ten, twenty times that ransom

  and pile it here before me and promise fortunes more—

  no, not even if Dardan Priam should offer to weigh out

  your bulk in gold! Not even then will your noble mother

  lay you on your deathbed, mourn the son she bore ...

  The dogs and birds will rend you—blood and bone!”

  At the point of death, Hector, his helm
et flashing,

  said, “I know you well—I see my fate before me.

  Never a chance that I could win you over ...

  Iron inside your chest, that heart of yours.

  But now beware, or my curse will draw god’s wrath

  upon your head, that day when Paris and lord Apollo—

  for all your fighting heart—destroy you at the Scaean Gates!”

  Death cut him short. The end closed in around him.

  Flying free of his limbs

  his soul went winging down to the House of Death,

  wailing his fate, leaving his manhood far behind,

  his young and supple strength. But brilliant Achilles

  taunted Hector’s body, dead as he was, “Die, die!

  For my own death, I’ll meet it freely—whenever Zeus

  and the other deathless gods would like to bring it on!”

  With that he wrenched his bronze spear from the corpse,

  laid it aside and ripped the bloody armor off the back.

  And the other sons of Achaea, running up around him,

  crowded closer, all of them gazing wonder-struck

  at the build and marvelous, lithe beauty of Hector.

  And not a man came forward who did not stab his body,

  glancing toward a comrade, laughing: “Ah, look here—

  how much softer he is to handle now, this Hector,

  than when he gutted our ships with roaring fire!”

  Standing over him, so they’d gloat and stab his body.

  But once he had stripped the corpse the proud runner Achilles

  took his stand in the midst of all the Argive troops

  and urged them on with a flight of winging orders:

  “Friends—lords of the Argives, O my captains!

  Now that the gods have let me kill this man

  who caused us agonies, loss on crushing loss—

  more than the rest of all their men combined—

  come, let us ring their walls in armor, test them,

  see what recourse the Trojans still may have in mind.

  Will they abandon the city heights with this man fallen?

  Or brace for a last, dying stand though Hector’s gone?

  But wait—what am I saying? Why this deep debate?

  Down by the ships a body lies unwept, unburied—

  Patroclus ... I will never forget him,

  not as long as I’m still among the living

  and my springing knees will lift and drive me on.

  Though the dead forget their dead in the House of Death,

  I will remember, even there, my dear companion.

  Now,

  come, you sons of Achaea, raise a song of triumph!

  Down to the ships we march and bear this corpse on high—

  we have won ourselves great glory. We have brought

  magnificent Hector down, that man the Trojans

  glorified in their city like a god!”

  So he triumphed

  and now he was bent on outrage, on shaming noble Hector.

  Piercing the tendons, ankle to heel behind both feet,

  he knotted straps of rawhide through them both,

  lashed them to his chariot, left the head to drag

  and mounting the car, hoisting the famous arms aboard,

  he whipped his team to a run and breakneck on they flew,

  holding nothing back. And a thick cloud of dust rose up

  from the man they dragged, his dark hair swirling round

  that head so handsome once, all tumbled low in the dust—

  since Zeus had given him over to his enemies now

  to be defiled in the land of his own fathers.

  So his whole head was dragged down in the dust.

  And now his mother began to tear her hair ...

  she flung her shining veil to the ground and raised

  a high, shattering scream, looking down at her son.

  Pitifully his loving father groaned and round the king

  his people cried with grief and wailing seized the city—

  for all the world as if all Troy were torched and smoldering

  down from the looming brows of the citadel to her roots.

  Priam’s people could hardly hold the old man back,

  frantic, mad to go rushing out the Dardan Gates.

  He begged them all, groveling in the filth,

  crying out to them, calling each man by name,

  “Let go, my friends! Much as you care for me,

  let me hurry out of the city, make my way,

  all on my own, to Achaea’s waiting ships!

  I must implore that terrible, violent man ...

  Perhaps—who knows?—he may respect my age,

  may pity an old man. He has a father too,

  as old as I am—Peieus sired him once,

  Peleus reared him to be the scourge of Troy

  but most of all to me—he made my life a hell.

  So many sons he slaughtered, just coming into bloom ...

  but grieving for all the rest, one breaks my heart the most

  and stabbing grief for him will take me down to Death—

  my Hector—would to god he had perished in my arms!

  Then his mother who bore him—oh so doomed,

  she and I could glut ourselves with grief.”

  So the voice of the king rang out in tears,

  the citizens wailed in answer, and noble Hecuba

  led the wives of Troy in a throbbing chant of sorrow:

  “O my child—my desolation! How can I go on living?

  What agonies must I suffer now, now you are dead and gone?

  You were my pride throughout the city night and day—

  a blessing to us all, the men and women of Troy:

  throughout the city they saluted you like a god.

  You, you were their greatest glory while you lived—

  now death and fate have seized you, dragged you down!”

  Her voice rang out in tears, but the wife of Hector

  had not heard a thing. No messenger brought the truth

  of how her husband made his stand outside the gates.

  She was weaving at her loom, deep in the high halls,

  working flowered braiding into a dark red folding robe.

  And she called her well-kempt women through the house

  to set a large three-legged cauldron over the fire

  so Hector could have his steaming hot bath

  when he came home from battte—poor woman,

  she never dreamed how far he was from bathing,

  struck down at Achilles’ hands by blazing-eyed Athena.

  But she heard the groans and wails of grief from the rampart now

  and her body shook, her shuttle dropped to the ground,

  she called out to her lovely waiting women, “Quickly—

  two of you follow me—I must see what’s happened.

  That cry—that was Hector’s honored mother I heard!

  My heart’s pounding, leaping up in my throat,

  the knees beneath me paralyzed—Oh I know it ...

  something terrible’s coming down on Priam’s children.