The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  and beside it placed a battle-shield and helmet,

  the arms Patroclus stripped from lord Sarpedon.

  And Achilles rose and challenged all the Argives:

  “We invite two men—our best—to compete for these.

  Full battle-gear, take up your slashing bronze lances.

  Fight it out with each other, duel before the troops!

  The soldier who gets in first and cuts a rival’s flesh,

  who pierces armor to draw blood and reach his entrails—

  I’ll give that man this broadsword, silver-studded,

  handsome Thracian work I stripped from Asteropaeus.

  But both fighters will share this armor, bear it off,

  and we’ll give them a victor’s banquet in our tents.”

  Huge Telamonian Ajax rose to meet the challenge,

  Tydeus’ son rose too, the powerful Diomedes.

  Both men armed at opposite sides of the forces,

  into the ring they strode and met, burning for battle,

  glances menacing, wild excitement seizing all their comrades.

  And just coming in range, just closing on each other ...

  they made three rapid charges, three lunges and then—

  Ajax stabbed through Tydides’ round balanced shield

  but failed to reach his flesh—saved by the breastplate

  just behind the buckler! But now Diomedes thrusting

  over the giant’s massive shield, again and again,

  threatened to graze his throat—the spearpoint glinting sharp—

  and such terror for Ajax struck his Argive friends

  they cried for them to stop, to divide the prizes,

  “Share and share alike!” But the hero Achilles

  took the great long sword and gave it to Diomedes,

  slung in its sheath on a supple, well-cut sword-strap.

  And now Achilles set out a lump of pig iron,

  the shot Eetion used to put with all his power

  before the swift runner Pelides brought him down

  and hauled it off in the ships with all his other wealth.

  Achilles rose up tall and challenged every Achaean:

  “Now men come forward—compete to win this prize!

  An ingot big enough to keep the winner in iron

  for five wheeling years. Though his rich estates

  lie far away in the country, it won’t be want of iron

  that brings his shepherd or plowman into town—

  he’ll be well-stocked at home.”

  That was his offer.

  Up stood Polypoetes, always braced for battle,

  Leonteus flanked him, strong, intense as a god,

  then Telamon’s son Great Ajax, lord Epeus too.

  They stood in a row. Big Epeus hefted the iron,

  swung and heaved it—and comrades burst out laughing.

  Next the veteran Leonteus gave the weight a hurl.

  then Ajax came up third and the giant flung it hard

  with his rippling brawny arm to pass all other marks.

  But then Polypoetes braced for battle took the weight

  and far as a seasoned herdsman flings his throwing staff,

  whirling in flight across his cows to keep them all in line—

  so far he outhurled the whole field. The armies roared.

  And the powerful Polypoetes’ men sprang up to bear

  the king’s trophy back to their hollow ships.

  Archery next—

  and again Achilles set out iron, dark gray trophies,

  ten double-headed axes, ten with single heads.

  He stepped the mast of a dark-prowed man-of-war

  far down the beach and tethered a fluttering dove

  atop the pole, its foot looped with a light cord,

  then challenged men to shoot and hit that mark:

  “The man who hits the fluttering dove up there

  can carry the whole array of double-axes home!

  Whoever misses the bird but still hits the cord—

  he’s the loser, true, but he takes the single heads.”

  Teucer the master archer rose to meet the challenge,

  Meriones joined him, Idomeneus’ rough-and-ready aide.

  They dropped lots in a bronze helmet, shook it hard

  and the lot fell to Teucer to shoot first ...

  He quickly loosed an arrow, full-draw force

  but never swore to the Archer

  he’d slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs,

  so he missed the dove—Apollo grudged him that—

  but he hit the cord that tethered the bird’s foot,

  the tearing arrow split the cord straight through

  and the bird shot into the sky and left the tether

  dangling down to ground. The armies roared applause.

  But already clutching a shaft while Teucer aimed

  Meriones leapt to snatch the bow from his hand

  and quickly swore to the distant deadly Archer

  he’d slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs—

  Up under the clouds he glimpsed the fluttering dove

  and there as she wheeled he hit her right beneath the wing

  and straight through the heart and out the arrow passed,

  plunged at Meriones’ foot and stabbed the earth hard.

  The dove settled onto the mast of the dark-prowed ship,

  her neck wrenched awry, her beating wings went slack

  and life breath flew from her limbs that instant—

  down she dropped, a long drop down to the ground.

  The armies looked on wonder-struck and marveled.

  Meriones carried off the double-axes, all ten,

  Teucer took the singles back to his hollow ships.

  Finally

  Achilles produced a spear that trailed its long shadow,

  a cauldron too, untouched by fire, chased with flowers

  and worth an ox, and set them down in the ring.

  And now the spear-throwers rose up to compete,

  Atrides Agamemnon, lord of the far-flung kingdoms,

  flanked by Idomeneus’ rough-and-ready aide Meriones

  but the swift runner Achilles interceded at once:

  “Atrides—well we know how far you excel us all:

  no one can match your strength at throwing spears,

  you are the best by far!

  Take first prize and return to your hollow ships

  while we award this spear to the fighter Meriones,

  if that would please your heart. That’s what I propose.”

  And Agamemnon the lord of men could not resist.

  Achilles gave the bronze-shod spear to Meriones.

  And the winning hero Atrides gave his own prize

  to his herald Talthybius—the king’s burnished trophy.

  BOOK TWENTY-FOUR

  Achilles and Priam

  The games were over now. The gathered armies scattered,

  each man to his fast ship, and fighters turned their minds

  to thoughts of food and the sweet warm grip of sleep.

  But Achilles kept on grieving for his friend,

  the memory burning on ...

  and all-subduing sleep could not take him,

  not now, he turned and twisted, side to side,

  he longed for Patroclus’ manhood, his gallant heart—

  What rough campaigns they’d fought to an end together,

  what hardships they had suffered, cleaving their way

  through wars of men and pounding waves at sea.

  The memories flooded over him, live tears flowing,

  and now he’d lie on his side, now flat on his back,

  now facedown again. At last he’d leap to his feet,

  wander in anguish, aimless along the surf, and dawn on dawn

  flaming over the sea and shore would find him pacing.

  Then he’d yoke his racing team to the chariot-harness,

 
lash the corpse of Hector behind the car for dragging

  and haul him three times round the dead Patroclus’ tomb,

  and then he’d rest again in his tents and leave the body

  sprawled facedown in the dust. But Apollo pitied Hector—

  dead man though he was—and warded all corruption off

  from Hector’s corpse and round him, head to foot,

  the great god wrapped the golden shield of storm

  so his skin would never rip as Achilles dragged him on.

  And so he kept on raging, shaming noble Hector,

  but the gods in bliss looked down and pitied Priam’s son.

  They kept on urging the sharp-eyed giant-killer Hermes

  to go and steal the body, a plan that pleased them all,

  but not Hera, Poseidon or the girl with blazing eyes.

  They clung to their deathless hate of sacred Troy,

  Priam and Priam’s people, just as they had at first

  when Paris in all his madness launched the war.

  He offended Athena and Hera—both goddesses.

  When they came to his shepherd’s fold he favored Love

  who dangled before his eyes the lust that loosed disaster.

  But now, at the twelfth dawn since Hector’s death,

  lord Apollo rose and addressed the immortal powers:

  “Hard-hearted you are, you gods, you live for cruelty!

  Did Hector never bum in your honor thighs of oxen

  and flawless, full-grown goats? Now you cannot

  bring yourselves to save him—even his corpse—

  so his wife can see him, his mother and his child,

  his father Priam and Priam’s people: how they’d rush

  to bum his body on the pyre and give him royal rites!

  But murderous Achilles—you gods, you choose to help Achilles.

  That man without a shred of decency in his heart . . .

  his temper can never bend and change—like some lion

  going his own barbaric way, giving in to his power,

  his brute force and wild pride, as down he swoops

  on the flocks of men to seize his savage feast.

  Achilles has lost all pity! No shame in the man,

  shame that does great harm or drives men on to good.

  No doubt some mortal has suffered a dearer loss than this,

  a brother born in the same womb, or even a son ...

  he grieves, he weeps, but then his tears are through.

  The Fates have given mortals hearts that can endure.

  But this Achilles—first he slaughters Hector,

  he rips away the noble prince’s life

  then lashes him to his chariot, drags him round

  his beloved comrade’s tomb. But why, I ask you?

  What good will it do him? What honor will he gain?

  Let that man beware, or great and glorious as he is,

  we mighty gods will wheel on him in anger—look,

  he outrages the senseless clay in all his fury!”

  But white-armed Hera flared at him in anger:

  “Yes, there’d be some merit even in what you say,

  lord of the silver bow—if all you gods, in fact,

  would set Achilles and Hector high in equal honor.

  But Hector is mortal. He sucked a woman’s breast.

  Achilles sprang from a goddess—one I reared myself:

  I brought her up and gave her in marriage to a man,

  to Peleus, dearest to all your hearts, you gods.

  All you gods, you shared in the wedding rites,

  and so did you, Apollo—there you sat at the feast

  and struck your lyre. What company you keep now,

  these wretched Trojans. You—forever faithless!”

  But Zeus who marshals the storm clouds warned his queen,

  “Now, Hera, don’t fly into such a rage at fellow gods.

  These two can never attain the same degree of honor.

  Still, the immortals loved Prince Hector dearly,

  best of all the mortals born in Troy ...

  so I loved him, at least:

  he never stinted with gifts to please my heart.

  Never once did my altar lack its share of victims,

  winecups tipped and the deep smoky savor. These,

  these are the gifts we claim—they are our rights.

  But as for stealing courageous Hector’s body,

  we must abandon the idea—not a chance in the world

  behind Achilles’ back. For Thetis is always there,

  his mother always hovering near him night and day.

  Now, would one of you gods call Thetis to my presence?—

  so I can declare to her my solemn, sound decree:

  Achilles must receive a ransom from King Priam,

  Achilles must give Hector’s body back.”

  So he decreed

  and Iris, racing a gale-wind down with Zeus’s message,

  mid-sea between Samos and Imbros’ rugged cliffs

  dove in a black swell as groaning breakers roared.

  Down she plunged to the bottom fast as a lead weight

  sheathed in a glinting lure of wild bull’s horn,

  bearing hooked death to the ravenous fish.

  And deep in a hollow cave she came on Thetis.

  Gathered round her sat the other immortal sea-nymphs

  while Thetis amidst them mourned her brave son’s fate,

  doomed to die, she knew, on the fertile soil of Troy,

  far from his native land. Quick as the wind now

  Iris rushed to the goddess, urging, “Rise, Thetis—

  Zeus with his everlasting counsels calls you now!”

  Shifting on her glistening feet, the goddess answered,

  “Why ... what does the great god want with me?

  I cringe from mingling with the immortals now—

  Oh the torment—never-ending heartbreak!

  But go I shall. A high decree of the Father

  must not come to nothing—whatever he commands.”

  The radiant queen of sea-nymphs seized a veil,

  blue-black, no robe darker in all the Ocean’s depths,

  and launched up and away with wind-swift Iris leading—

  the ground swell round them cleaved and opened wide.

  And striding out on shore they soared to the high sky

  and found farseeing Zeus, and around him all the gods

  who live in bliss forever sat in a grand assembly.

  And Thetis took a seat beside the Father,

  a throne Athena yielded. Hera placed in her hand

  a burnished golden cup and said some words of comfort,

  and taking a few quick sips, Thetis gave it back ...

  The father of men and gods began to address them:

  “You have come to Olympus now, immortal Thetis,

  for all your grief—what unforgettable sorrow

  seizes on your heart. I know it well myself.

  Even so, I must tell you why I called you here.

  For nine whole days the immortals have been feuding

  over Hector’s corpse and Achilles scourge of cities.