The Iliad
Page 83
They keep urging the sharp-eyed giant-killer Hermes
to go and steal the body. But that is not my way.
I will grant Achilles glory and so safeguard
your awe and love of me for all the years to come.
Go at once to the camp, give your son this order:
tell him the gods are angry with him now
and I am rising over them all in deathless wrath
that he in heartsick fury still holds Hector’s body,
there by his beaked ships, and will not give him back—
perhaps in fear of me he’ll give him back at once.
Then, at the same time, I am winging Iris down
to greathearted Priam, commanding the king
to ransom his dear son, to go to Achaea’s ships,
bearing gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.”
So he decreed
and Thetis with her glistening feet did not resist a moment.
Down the goddess flashed from the peaks of Mount Olympus,
made her way to her son’s camp, and there he was,
she found him groaning hard, choked with sobs.
Around him trusted comrades swung to the work,
preparing breakfast, steadying in their midst
a large fleecy sheep just slaughtered in the shelter.
But his noble mother, settling down at his side,
stroked Achilles gently, whispering his name: “My child—
how long will you eat your heart out here in tears and torment?
All wiped from your mind, all thought of food and bed?
It’s a welcome thing to make love with a woman ...
You don’t have long to live now, well I know:
already I see them looming up beside you—death
and the strong force of fate. Listen to me,
quickly! I bring you a message sent by Zeus:
he says the gods are angry with you now
and he is rising over them all in deathless wrath
that you in heartsick fury still hold Hector’s body,
here by your beaked ships, and will not give him back.
O give him back at once—take ransom for the dead!”
The swift runner replied in haste, “So be it.
The man who brings the ransom can take away the body,
if Olympian Zeus himself insists in all earnest.”
While mother and son agreed among the clustered ships,
trading between each other many winged words,
Father Zeus sped Iris down to sacred Troy:
“Quick on your way now, Iris, shear the wind!
Leave our Olympian stronghold—
take a message to greathearted Priam down in Troy:
he must go to Achaea’s ships and ransom his dear son,
bearing gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.
But let him go alone, no other Trojan attend him,
only a herald with him, a seasoned, older one
who can drive the mules and smooth-running wagon
and bring the hero’s body back to sacred Troy,
the man that brilliant Achilles killed in battle.
Let him have no fear of death, no dread in his heart,
such a powerful escort we will send him—the giant-killer
Hermes will guide him all the way to Achilles’ presence.
And once the god has led him within the fighter’s shelter,
Achilles will not kill him—he’ll hold back all the rest:
Achilles is no madman, no reckless fool, not the one
to defy the gods’ commands. Whoever begs his mercy
he will spare with all the kindness in his heart.”
So he decreed
and Iris ran his message, racing with gale force
to Priam’s halls where cries and mourning met her.
Sons huddled round their father deep in the courtyard,
robes drenched with tears, and the old man amidst them,
buried, beaten down in the cloak that wrapped his body . . .
Smeared on the old man’s head and neck the dung lay thick
that he scraped up in his own hands, groveling in the filth.
Throughout the house his daughters and sons’ wives wailed,
remembering all the fine brave men who lay dead now,
their lives destroyed at the fighting Argives’ hands.
And Iris, Zeus’s crier, standing alongside Priam,
spoke in a soft voice, but his limbs shook at once—
“Courage, Dardan Priam, take heart! Nothing to fear.
No herald of doom, I come on a friendly mission—
I come with all good will.
I bring you a message sent by Zeus, a world away
but he has you in his heart, he pities you now . . .
Olympian Zeus commands you to ransom royal Hector,
to bear gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.
But you must go alone, no other Trojan attend you,
only a herald with you, a seasoned, older one
who can drive the mules and smooth-running wagon
and bring the hero’s body back to sacred Troy,
the man that brilliant Achilles killed in battle.
But have no fear of death, no dread in your heart,
such a powerful escort will conduct you—the giant-killer
Hermes will guide you all the way to Achilles’ presence.
And once the god has led you within the fighter’s shelter,
Achilles will not kill you—he’ll hold back all the rest:
Achilles is no madman, no reckless fool, not the one
to defy the gods’ commands. Whoever begs his mercy
he will spare with all the kindness in his heart!”
And Iris racing the wind went veering off
and Priam ordered his sons to get a wagon ready,
a good smooth-running one, to hitch the mules
and strap a big wicker cradle across its frame.
Then down he went himself to his treasure-chamber,
high-ceilinged, paneled, fragrant with cedarwood
and a wealth of precious objects filled its chests.
He called out to his wife, Hecuba, “Dear woman!
An Olympian messenger came to me from Zeus—
I must go to Achaea’s ships and ransom our dear son,
bearing gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.
Tell me, what should I do? What do you think?
Myseif—a terrible longing drives me, heart and soul,
down to the ships, into the vast Achaean camp.”
But his wife cried out in answer, “No, no—
where have your senses gone?—that made you famous once,
both among outland men and those you rule in Troy!
How can you think of going down to the ships, alone,
and face the glance of the man who killed your sons,
so many fine brave boys? You have a heart of iron!
If he gets you in his clutches, sets his eyes on you—
that savage, treacherous man—he’ll show no mercy,
no respect for your rights!
Come, all we can do now
is sit in the halls, far from our son, and wail for Hector ...
So this, this is the doom that strong Fate spun out,
our son’s life line drawn with his first breath—
the moment I gave him birth—
to glut the wild dogs, cut off from his parents,
crushed by the stronger man. Oh would to god
that I could sink my teeth in his liver, eat him raw!
That would avenge what he has done to Hector—
no coward the man Achilles killed—my son stood
and fought for the men of Troy and their deep-breasted wives
with never a thought of flight or run for cover!”
But the old and noble Priam answered firmly,
“I will
go. My mind’s made up. Don’t hold me back.
And don’t go flying off on your own across the halls,
a bird of evil omen—you can’t dissuade me now.
If someone else had commanded me, some mortal man,
some prophet staring into the smoke, some priest,
I’d call it a lie and turn my back upon it.
Not now. I heard her voice with my own ears,
I looked straight at the goddess, face-to-face.
So I am going—her message must not come to nothing.
And if it is my fate to die by the beaked ships
of Achaeans armed in bronze, then die I shall.
Let Achilles cut me down straightway—
once I’ve caught my son in my arms and wept my fill!”
He raised back the carved lids of the chests
and lifted out twelve robes, handsome, rich brocades,
twelve cloaks, unlined and light, as many blankets,
as many big white capes and shirts to go with them.
He weighed and carried out ten full bars of gold
and took two burnished tripods, four fine cauldrons
and last a magnificent cup the Thracians gave him once—
he’d gone on an embassy and won that priceless treasure—
but not even that did the old man spare in his halls,
not now, consumed with desire to ransom back his son.
Crowds of Trojans were mobbing his colonnades—
he gave them a tongue-lashing, sent them packing:
“Get out—you good-for-nothings, public disgraces!
Haven’t you got enough to wail about at home
without coming here to add to all my griefs?
You think it nothing, the pain that Zeus has sent me?—
he’s destroyed my best son! You’ll learn too, in tears—
easier game you’ll be for Argive troops to slaughter,
now my Hector’s dead. But before I have to see
my city annihilated, laid waste before my eyes—
oh let me go down to the House of Death!”
He herded them off with his staff—they fled outside
before the old man’s fury. So he lashed out at his sons,
cursing the sight of Helenus, Paris, noble Agathon,
Pammon, Antiphonus, Polites loud with the war cry,
Deiphobus and Hippothous, even lordly Dius—
the old man shouted at all nine, rough commands:
“Get to your work! My vicious sons—my humiliations!
If only you’d all been killed at the fast ships
instead of my dear Hector ...
But I—dear god, my life so cursed by fate!—
I fathered hero sons in the wide realm of Troy
and now, now not a single one is left, I tell you.
Mestor the indestructible, Troilus, passionate horseman
and Hector, a god among men—no son of a mortal man,
he seemed a deathless god’s. But Ares killed them all
and all he left me are these, these disgraces—liars,
dancers, heroes only at beating the dancing-rings,
you plunder your own people for lambs and kids!
Why don’t you get my wagon ready—now, at once?
Pack all these things aboard! We must be on our way!”
Terrified by their father’s rough commands
the sons trundled a mule-wagon out at once,
a good smooth-running one,
newly finished, balanced and bolted tight,
and strapped a big wicker cradle across its frame.
They lifted off its hook a boxwood yoke for the mules,
its bulging pommel fitted with rings for guide-reins,
brought out with the yoke its yoke-strap nine arms long
and wedged the yoke down firm on the sanded, tapered pole,
on the front peg, and slipped the yoke-ring onto its pin,
strapped the pommel with three good twists, both sides,
then lashed the assembly round and down the shaft
and under the clamp they made the lashing fast.
Then the priceless ransom for Hector’s body:
hauling it up from the vaults they piled it high
on the wagon’s well-made cradle, then they yoked the mules—
stamping their sharp hoofs, trained for heavy loads—
that the Mysians once gave Priam, princely gifts.
And last they yoked his team to the king’s chariot,
stallions he bred himself in his own polished stalls.
No sooner were both men harnessed up beneath the roofs,
Priam and herald, minds set on the coming journey,
than Hecuba rushed up to them, gaunt with grief,
her right hand holding a golden cup of honeyed wine
so the men might pour libations forth at parting.
She stood in front of the horses, crying up at Priam,
“Here, quickly—pour a libation out to Father Zeus!
Pray for a safe return from all our mortal enemies,
seeing you’re dead set on going down to the ships—
though you go against my will. But if go you must,
pray, at least, to the great god of the dark storm cloud,
up there on Ida, gazing down on the whole expanse of Troy!
Pray for a bird of omen, Zeus’s wind-swift messenger,
the dearest bird in the world to his prophetic heart,
the strongest thing on wings—clear on the right
so you can see that sign with your own eyes
and trust your life to it as you venture down
to Achaea’s ships and the fast chariot-teams.
But if farseeing Zeus does not send you that sign—
his own messenger—then I urge you, beg you,
don’t go down to the ships—
not for all the passion in your heart!”
The old majestic Priam gave his answer:
“Dear woman, surely I won’t resist your urging now.
It’s well to lift our hands and ask great Zeus for mercy.”
And the old king motioned a steward standing by
to pour some clear pure water over his hands,
and she came forward, bearing a jug and basin.
He rinsed his hands, took the cup from his wife
and taking a stand amidst the forecourt, prayed,
pouring the wine to earth and scanning the high skies,
Priam prayed in his rich resounding voice: “Father Zeus!
Ruling over us all from Ida, god of greatness, god of glory!
Grant that Achilles will receive me with kindness, mercy.
Send me a bird of omen, your own wind-swift messenger,
the dearest bird in the world to your prophetic heart,
the strongest thing on wings—clear on the right
so I can see that sign with my own eyes
and trust my life to it as I venture down
to Achaea’s ships and the fast chariot-teams!”
And Zeus in all his wisdom heard that prayer
and straightaway the Father launched an eagle—