The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

Stepping back from the pyre he cut the red-gold lock

  he’d let grow long as a gift to the river god Spercheus—

  scanning the wine-dark sea he prayed in anguish, “Spercheus!

  All in vain my father Peleus vowed to you that there,

  once I had journeyed home to my own dear fatherland,

  I’d cut this lock for you and offer splendid victims,

  dedicate fifty young ungelded rams to your springs,

  there at the spot where your grove and smoking altar stand!

  So the old king vowed—but you’ve destroyed his hopes.

  Now, since I shall not return to my fatherland,

  I’d give my friend this lock ...

  and let the hero Patroclus bear it on his way.”

  With that,

  Achilles placed the lock in his dear comrade’s hands

  and stirred in the men again a deep desire to grieve.

  And now the sunlight would have set upon their tears

  if Achilles had not turned to Agamemnon quickly:

  “Atrides—you are the first the armies will obey.

  Even of sorrow men can have their fill. So now

  dismiss them from the pyre, have them prepare

  an evening meal. We are the closest to the dead,

  we’ll see to all things here.

  But I’d like the leading captains to remain.”

  Hearing his wish, the lord of men Agamemnon

  dismissed the troops at once to the balanced ships.

  But the chief mourners stayed in place, piled timber

  and built a pyre a hundred feet in length and breadth

  and aloft it laid the corpse with heavy, aching hearts.

  And droves of fat sheep and shambling crook-homed cattle

  they led before the pyre, skinned and dressed them well.

  And the greathearted Achilles, flensing fat from all,

  wrapped the corpse with folds of it, head to foot,

  then heaped the flayed carcasses round Patroclus.

  He set two-handled jars of honey and oil beside him,

  leaned them against the bier—and then with wild zeal

  slung the bodies of four massive stallions onto the pyre

  and gave a wrenching groan. And the dead lord Patroclus

  had fed nine dogs at table—he slit the throats of two,

  threw them onto the pyre and then a dozen brave sons

  of the proud Trojans he hacked to pieces with his bronze ...

  Achilles’ mighty heart was erupting now with slaughter—

  he loosed the iron rage of fire to consume them all

  and cried out, calling his dear friend by name,

  “Farewell, Patroclus, even there in the House of Death!

  All that I promised once I have performed at last.

  Here are twelve brave sons of the proud Trojans—

  all, the fire that feeds on you devours them all

  but not Hector the royal son of Priam, Hector

  I will never give to the hungry flames—

  wild dogs will bolt his flesh!”

  So he threatened

  but the dogs were not about to feed on Hector.

  Aphrodite daughter of Zeus beat off the packs,

  day and night, anointing Hector’s body with oil,

  ambrosial oil of roses, so Achilles could not rip

  the prince’s skin as he dragged him back and forth.

  And round him Phoebus Apollo brought a dark cloud down

  from high sky to the plain to shroud the entire space

  where Hector’s body lay, before the sun’s white fury

  could sear away his flesh, his limbs and sinews.

  But the pyre of dead Patroclus was not burning—

  and the swift runner Achilles thought of what to do.

  Stepping back from the pyre he prayed to the two winds—

  Zephyr and Boreas, West and North—promised splendid victims

  and pouring generous, brimming cups from a golden goblet,

  begged them to come, so the wood might burst in flame

  and the dead bum down to ash with all good speed.

  And Iris, hearing his prayers, rushed the message on

  to the winds that gathered now in stormy Zephyr’s halls

  to share his brawling banquet. Iris swept to a stop

  and once they saw her poised at the stone threshold

  all sprang up, each urged her to sit beside him

  but she refused, pressing on with her message:

  “No time for sitting now. No, I must return

  to the Ocean’s running stream, the Aethiopians’ land.

  They are making a splendid sacrifice to the gods—

  I must not miss my share of the sacred feast.

  But I bring Achilles’ prayers!

  He begs you to come at once, Boreas, blustering Zephyr,

  he promises splendid victims—come with a strong blast

  and light the pyre where Patroclus lies in state

  and all the Argive armies mourn around him!”

  Message delivered, off she sped as the winds rose

  with a superhuman roar, stampeding clouds before them.

  Suddenly reaching the open sea in gale force,

  whipping whitecaps under a shrilling killer-squall

  they raised the good rich soil of Troy and struck the pyre

  and a huge inhuman blaze went howling up the skies.

  All night long they hurled the flames—massed on the pyre,

  blast on screaming blast—and all night long the swift Achilles,

  lifting a two-handled cup, dipped wine from a golden bowl

  and poured it down on the ground and drenched the earth,

  calling out to the ghost of stricken, gaunt Patroclus.

  As a father weeps when he burns his son’s bones,

  dead on his wedding day,

  and his death has plunged his parents in despair ...

  so Achilles wept as he burned his dear friend’s bones,

  dragging himself around the pyre, choked with sobs.

  At that hour the morning star comes rising up

  to herald a new day on earth, and riding in its wake

  the Dawn flings out her golden robe across the sea,

  the funeral fires sank low, the flames died down.

  And the winds swung round and headed home again,

  over the Thracian Sea, and the heaving swells moaned.

  And at last Achilles, turning away from the corpse-fire,

  sank down, exhausted. Sweet sleep overwhelmed him.

  But Agamemnon’s followers grouped together now

  and as they approached Achilles

  the din and trampling of their feet awoke him.

  He sat up with a start and made his wishes known:

  “Atrides—chiefs of Achaea’s united forces—

  first put out the fires with glistening wine,

  wherever the flames still bum in all their fury.

  Then let us collect the bones of Menoetius’ son Patroclus,

  pick them out with care—but they cannot be mistaken:

  he lay amidst the pyre, apart from all the others

  burned at the edge, the ruck of men and horses.

  Then let us place his bones in a golden urn,

  sealed tight and dry with a double fold of fat,

  till I myself lie hid in the strong House of Death.

  For his barrow, build him nothing large, I ask you,

  something right for the moment. And then, later,

  Achaeans can work to make it broad and lofty,

  all who survive me here,

  alive in the benched ships when I am gone.”

  And the men obeyed the swift runner’s orders.

  They first put out the fires with glistening wine,

  far as the flames had spread and the ashes bedded deep.

  In tears they gathered their gentle comrade’s white bones,

  a
ll in a golden urn, sealed with a double fold of fat,

  and stowed the urn in his shelter, covered well

  with a light linen shroud, then laid his barrow out.

  Around the pyre they planted a ring of stone revetments,

  piled the loose earth high in a mound above the ring

  and once they’d heaped the barrow turned to leave.

  But Achilles held the armies on the spot.

  He had them sit in a great and growing circle—

  now for funeral games—and brought from his ships

  the trophies for the contests: cauldrons and tripods,

  stallions, mules and cattle with massive heads,

  women sashed and lovely, and gleaming gray iron.

  First,

  for the fastest charioteers he set out glittering prizes:

  a woman to lead away, flawless, skilled in crafts,

  and a two-eared tripod, twenty-two measures deep—

  all that for the first prize.

  Then for the runner-up he brought forth a mare,

  unbroken, six years old, with a mule foal in her womb.

  For the third he produced a fine four-measure cauldron

  never scorched by flames, its sheen as bright as new.

  For the fourth he set out two gold bars, for the fifth,

  untouched by fire as well, a good two-handled jar..

  And he rose up tall and challenged all the Argives:

  “Atrides—Achaeans-at-arms! Let the games begin!

  The trophies lie afield—they await the charioteers.

  If we held our games now in another hero’s honor,

  surely I’d walk off to my tent with first prize.

  You know how my team outstrips all others’ speed.

  Immortal horses they are, Poseidon gave them himself

  to my father Peleus, Peleus passed them on to me.

  But I and our fast stallions will not race today,

  so strong his fame, the charioteer they’ve lost,

  so kind—always washing them down with fresh water,

  sleeking their long manes with smooth olive oil.

  No wonder they stand here, mourning ...

  look, trailing those very manes along the ground.

  They both refuse to move, saddled down with grief.

  But all the rest of you, come, all Achaeans in camp

  who trust to your teams and bolted chariots—

  take your places now!”

  Achilles’ call rang out

  and it brought the fastest drivers crowding forward.

  The first by far, Eumelus lord of men sprang up,

  Admetus’ prized son who excelled in horsemanship

  and following him Tydides, powerful Diomedes,

  yoking the breed of Tros he’d wrested from Aeneas

  just the other day when Apollo saved their master.

  Then Atreus’ son Menelaus, the red-haired captain

  born of the gods, leading under the yoke his racers,

  Blaze, Agamemnon’s mare, and his own stallion Brightfoot.

  Anchises’ son Echepolus gave Agamemnon Blaze,

  a gift that bought him off from the king’s armies

  bound for windy Troy: he’d stay right where he was,

  a happy man, since Zeus had given him vast wealth

  and he lived in style on Sicyon’s broad dancing rings.

  His was the mare Atrides harnessed, champing for the race.

  And the fourth to yoke his full-maned team was Antilochus,

  the splendid son of Nestor the old high-hearted king,

  lord Neleus’ offspring. A team of Pylian purebreds

  drew his chariot. His father stood at his side,

  lending sound advice to the boy’s own good sense:

  “Young as you are, Antilochus, how the gods have loved you!

  Zeus and Poseidon taught you horsemanship, every sort,

  so there’s no great need for me to set you straight.

  Well you know how to double round the post ...

  but you’ve got the slowest nags—a handicap, I’d say.

  Yet even if other teams are faster, look at their drivers:

  there’s not a trick in their whips that you don’t have at hand.

  So plan your attack, my friend, muster all your skills

  or watch the prize slip by!

  It’s skill, not brawn, that makes the finest woodsman.

  By skill, too, the captain holds his ship on course,

  scudding the wine-dark sea though rocked by gales.

  By skill alone, charioteer outraces charioteer.

  The average driver, leaving all to team and car,

  recklessly makes his turn, veering left and right,

  his pair swerving over the course—he can’t control them.

  But the cunning driver, even handling slower horses,

  always watches the post, turns it close, never loses

  the first chance to relax his reins and stretch his pair

  but he holds them tight till then, eyes on the leader.

  Now, the turn itself—it’s clear, you cannot miss it.

  There’s a dead tree-stump standing six feet high,

  it’s oak or pine, not rotted through by the rains,

  and it’s propped by two white stones on either side.

  That’s your halfway mark where the homestretch starts

  and there’s plenty of good smooth racing-room around it—

  it’s either the grave-mound of a man dead long ago

  or men who lived before us set it up as a goal.

  Now, in any event, swift Achilles makes it

  his turning-post. And you must hug it close

  as you haul your team and chariot round but you

  in your tight-strung car, you lean to the left yourself,

  just a bit as you whip your right-hand horse, hard,

  shout him on, slacken your grip and give him rein.

  But make your left horse hug that post so close

  the hub of your well-turned wheel will almost seem

  to scrape the rock—just careful not to graze it!

  You’ll maim your team, you’ll smash your car to pieces.

  A joy to your rivals, rank disgrace to yourself ...

  So keep your head, my boy, be on the lookout.

  Trail the field out but pass them all at the post,

  no one can catch you then or overtake you with a surge—

  not if the man behind you were driving huge Arion,

  Adrastus’ lightning stallion sired by the gods,

  or Laomedon’s team, the greatest bred in Troy.”

  Nestor sat down again. He’d shown his son the ropes,

  the last word in the master horseman’s skills.

  Now after Meriones yoked his sleek horses fifth,

  they boarded their cars and dropped lots in a helmet.

  Achilles shook it hard—Antilochus’ lot leapt out

  so he drew the inside track.

  Next in the draw came hardy lord Eumelus,

  Atrides Menelaus the famous spearman next

  and Meriones drew the fourth starting-lane

  and Tydides Diomedes drew the fifth and last,