The Iliad, Page 63

and she, terrified, stunned to the point of death,

  struggling for breath now and coming back to life,

  burst out in grief among the Trojan women: "O Hector--

  I am destroyed! Both born to the same fate after all!

  You, you at Troy in the halls of King Priam--

  1 at Thebes, under the timberline of Placos,

  Eetion's house ... He raised me as a child,

  that man of doom, his daughter just as doomed--

  would to god he'd never fathered me!

  Now you go down

  to the House of Death, the dark depths of the earth,

  and leave me here to waste away in grief, a widow

  lost in the royal halls--and the boy only a baby,

  the son we bore together, you and I so doomed.

  Hector, what help are you to him, now you are dead?--

  what help is he to you? Think, even if he escapes

  the wrenching horrors of war against the Argives,

  pain and labor will plague him all his days to come.

  Strangers will mark his lands off, stealing his estates.

  The day that orphans a youngster cuts him off from friends.

  And he hangs his head low, humiliated in every way ...

  his cheeks stained with tears, and pressed by hunger

  the boy goes up to his father's old companions,

  tugging at one man's cloak, another's tunic,

  and some will pity him, true,

  and one will give him a little cup to drink,

  enough to wet his lips, not quench his thirst.

  But then some bully with both his parents living

  beats him from the banquet, fists and abuses flying:

  'You, get out--you've got no father feasting with us here!'

  And the boy, sobbing, trails home to his widowed mother ...

  Astyanax!

  And years ago, propped on his father's knee,

  he would only eat the marrow, the richest cuts of lamb,

  and when sleep came on him and he had quit his play,

  cradled warm in his nurse's arms he'd drowse off,

  snug in a soft bed, his heart brimmed with joy.

  Now what suffering, now he's lost his father--

  Astyanax!

  The Lord of the City, so the Trojans called him,

  because it was you, Hector, you and you alone

  who shielded the gates and the long walls of Troy.

  But now by the beaked ships, far from your parents,

  glistening worms will wriggle through your flesh,

  once the dogs have had their fill of your naked corpse--

  though we have such stores of clothing laid up in the halls,

  fine things, a joy to the eye, the work of women's hands.

  Now, by god, I'll burn them all, blazing to the skies!

  No use to you now, they'll never shroud your body--

  but they will be your glory

  burned by the Trojan men and women in your honor!"

  Her voice rang out in tears and the women wailed in answer.

  BOOK TWENTY-THREE

  Funeral Games for Patroclus

  So they grieved at Troy while Achaea's troops pulled back.

  Once they reached the warships moored at the Hellespont

  the contingents scattered, each man to his own ship,

  but Achilles still would not dismiss his Myrmidons,

  he gave his battle-loving comrades strict commands:

  "Charioteers in fast formation--friends to the death!

  We must not loose our teams from the war-cars yet.

  All in battle-order drive them past Patroclus--

  a cortege will mourn the man with teams and chariots.

  These are the solemn honors owed the dead. And then,

  after we've eased our hearts with tears and dirge,

  we free the teams and all take supper here."

  All as one

  the armies cried out in sorrow, and Achilles led the chant.

  Three times they drove their full-maned stallions round the body,

  Myrmidon soldiers mourning, and among them Thetis stirred

  a deep desire to grieve. And the sands grew wet,

  the armor of fighting men grew wet with tears,

  such bitter longing he roused ...

  Patroclus, that terror who routed Trojans headlong.

  Achilles led them now in a throbbing chant of sorrow,

  laying his man-killing hands on his great friend's chest:

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

  Look--all that I promised once I am performing now:

  I've dragged Hector here for the dogs to rip him raw--

  and here in front of your flaming pyre I'll cut the throats

  of a dozen sons of Troy in all their shining glory,

  venting my rage on them for your destruction!"

  So he triumphed

  and again he was bent on outrage, on shaming noble Hector--

  he flung him facedown in the dust beside Patroclus' bier.

  And down to the last unit all eased off their armor,

  fine burnished bronze, and released their neighing teams

  and took their seats by the swift runner Achilles' ship,

  Myrmidons in their thousands, and he set before them all

  a handsome funeral feast to meet their hearts' desire.

  And many pale-white oxen sank on the iron knife,

  gasping in slaughter, many sheep and bleating goats

  and droves of swine with their long glinting tusks,

  succulent, rich with fat. They singed the bristles,

  splaying the porkers out across Hephaestus' fire

  then poured the blood in cupfuls all around the corpse.

  But now their commander, swift Achilles was led away

  by Achaea's kings, barely able to bring him round--

  still raging for his friend--to feast with Agamemnon.

  As soon as the party reached the warlord's tents

  they ordered the clear-voiced heralds straightaway

  to set a large three-legged cauldron over the fire,

  still in hopes of inducing Peleus' royal son

  to wash the clotted bloodstains from his body.

  He spurned their offer, firmly, even swore an oath:

  "No, no, by Zeus--by the highest, greatest god!

  It's sacrilege for a single drop to touch my head

  till I place Patroclus on his pyre and heap his mound

  and cut my hair for him--for a second grief this harsh

  will never touch my heart while I am still among the living ...

  But now let us consent to the feasting that I loathe.

  And at daybreak, marshal Agamemnon, rouse your troops

  to fell and haul in timber, and furnish all that's fitting,

  all the dead man needs for his journey down the western dark.

  Then, by heaven, the tireless fire can strike his corpse--

  the sooner to burn Patroclus from our sight--

  and the men turn back to battles they must wage."

  So he insisted. They hung on his words, complied,

  rushed to prepare the meal, and each man feasted well

  and no man's hunger lacked a share of the banquet.

  When they had put aside desire for food and drink

  each went his way and slept in his own shelter.

  But along the shore as battle lines of breakers

  crashed and dragged, Achilles lay down now,

  groaning deep from the heart,

  near his Myrmidon force but alone on open ground

  where over and over rollers washed along the shore.

  No sooner had sleep caught him, dissolving all his grief

  as mists of refreshing slumber poured around him there--

  his powerful frame was bone-weary from charging Hector

  straight and hard to the walls of windswept Troy--

>   than the ghost of stricken Patroclus drifted up ...

  He was like the man to the life, every feature,

  the same tall build and the fine eyes and voice

  and the very robes that used to clothe his body.

  Hovering at his head the phantom rose and spoke:

  "Sleeping, Achilles? You've forgotten me, my friend.

  You never neglected me in life, only now in death.

  Bury me, quickly--let me pass the Gates of Hades.

  They hold me off at a distance, all the souls,

  the shades of the bumt-out, breathless dead,

  never to let me cross the river, mingle with them ...

  They leave me to wander up and down, abandoned, lost

  at the House of Death with the all-embracing gates.

  Oh give me your hand--I beg you with my tears!

  Never, never again shall I return from Hades

  once you have given me the soothing rites of fire.

  Never again will you and I, alive and breathing,

  huddle side-by-side, apart from loyal comrades,

  making plans together--never ... Grim death,

  that death assigned from the day that I was born

  has spread its hateful jaws to take me down.

  And you too,

  your fate awaits you too, godlike as you are, Achilles--

  to die in battle beneath the proud rich Trojans' walls!

  But one thing more. A last request--grant it, please.

  Never bury my bones apart from yours, Achilles,

  let them lie together ...

  just as we grew up together in your house,

  after Menoetius brought me there from Opois,

  and only a boy, but banished for bloody murder

  the day I killed Amphidamas' son. I was a fool--

  I never meant to kill him--quarreling over a dice game.

  Then the famous horseman Peleus took me into his halls,

  he reared me with kindness, appointed me your aide.

  So now let a single urn, the gold two-handled urn

  your noble mother gave you, hold our bones--together!"

  And the swift runner Achilles reassured him warmly:

  "Why have you returned to me here, dear brother, friend?

  Why tell me of all that I must do? I'll do it all.

  I will obey you, your demands. Oh come closer!

  Throw our arms around each other, just for a moment--

  take some joy in the tears that numb the heart!"

  In the same breath he stretched his loving arms

  but could not seize him, no, the ghost slipped underground

  like a wisp of smoke ... with a high thin cry.

  And Achilles sprang up with a start and staring wide,

  drove his fists together and cried in desolation, "Ah god!

  So even in Death's strong house there is something left,

  a ghost, a phantom--true, but no real breath of life.

  All night long the ghost of stricken Patroclus

  hovered over me, grieving, sharing warm tears,

  telling me, point by point, what I must do.

  Marvelous--like the man to the life!"

  So he cried

  and his outcry stirred in them all a deep desire to grieve,

  and Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone upon them weeping

  round the wretched corpse. At daybreak King Agamemnon

  ordered parties of men and mules to haul in timber,

  pouring from the tents with a good man in charge,

  the lordly Idomeneus' aide-in-arms Meriones.

  The troops moved out with loggers' axes in hand

  and sturdy cabled ropes as mules trudged on ahead.

  Uphill, downhill, crisscross, zigzag on they tramped

  and once they reached the slopes of Ida with all her springs,

  quickly pitching themselves at towering, leaf-crowned oaks,

  they put their backs into strokes of the whetted bronze axes

  and huge trunks came crashing down. They split them apart,

  lashed the logs to the mules and their hoofs tore up the earth,

  dragging them down to level ground through dense brush.

  And all the woodcutters hoisted logs themselves--

  by command of Idomeneus' good aide Meriones--

  and they heaved them down in rows along the beach

  at the site Achilles chose to build an immense mound

  for Patroclus and himself.

  With boundless timber piled

  on all sides of the place, down they sat, waiting, massed.

  And at once Achilles called his Myrmidons keen for battle:

  "Belt yourselves in bronze! Each driver yoke his team!

  Chariots harnessed!" Up they rose and strapped on armor

  and swung aboard the war-cars, drivers, fighters beside them--

  and the horse moved out in front, behind came clouds of infantry,

  men by thousands, and in their midst his comrades bore Patroclus.

  They covered his whole body deep with locks of hair they cut

  and cast upon him, and just behind them brilliant Achilles

  held the head, in tears--this was his steadfast friend

  whom he escorted down to the House of Death.

  When they reached the site Achilles had pointed out

  they laid Patroclus down and swiftly built his body

  a fitting height of timber.

  And now the great runner remembered one more duty.

  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 piec
es 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.