The Iliad

  to bed down for yourself apart from all the troops?

  How shameful for you, the high and mighty commander,

  to lead the sons of Achaea into bloody slaughter!

  Sons? No, my soft friends, wretched excuses--

  women, not men of Achaea! Home we go in our ships!

  Abandon him here in Troy to wallow in all his prizes--

  he'll see if the likes of us have propped him up or not.

  Look--now it's Achilles, a greater man he disgraces,

  seizes and keeps his prize, tears her away himself.

  But no gall in Achilles. Achilles lets it go.

  If not, Atrides, that outrage would have been your last!"

  So Thersites taunted the famous field marshal.

  But Odysseus stepped in quickly, faced him down

  with a dark glance and threats to break his nerve:

  "What a flood of abuse, Thersites! Even for you,

  fluent and flowing as you are. Keep quiet.

  Who are you to wrangle with kings, you alone?

  No one, I say--no one alive less soldierly than you,

  none in the ranks that came to Troy with Agamemnon.

  So stop your babbling, mouthing the names of kings,

  flinging indecencies in their teeth, your eyes

  peeled for a chance to cut and run for home.

  We can have no idea, no clear idea at all

  how the long campaign will end ...

  whether Achaea's sons will make it home unharmed

  or slink back in disgrace.

  But there you sit,

  hurling abuse at the son of Atreus, Agamemnon,

  marshal of armies, simply because our fighters

  give Atrides the lion's share of all our plunder.

  You and your ranting slander--you're the outrage.

  I tell you this, so help me it's the truth:

  if I catch you again, blithering on this way,

  let Odysseus' head be wrenched off his shoulders,

  never again call me the father of Telemachus

  if I don't grab you, strip the clothing off you,

  cloak, tunic and rags that wrap your private parts,

  and whip you howling naked back to the fast ships,

  out of the armies' muster--whip you like a cur!"

  And he cracked the scepter across his back and shoulders.

  The rascal doubled over, tears streaking his face

  and a bloody welt bulged up between his blades,

  under the stroke of the golden scepter's studs.

  He squatted low, cringing, stunned with pain,

  blinking like some idiot ...

  rubbing his tears off dumbly with a fist.

  Their morale was low but the men laughed now,

  good hearty laughter breaking over Thersites' head--

  glancing at neighbors they would shout, "A terrific stroke!

  A thousand terrific strokes he's carried off--Odysseus,

  taking the lead in tactics, mapping battle-plans.

  But here's the best thing yet he's done for the men--

  he's put a stop to this babbling, foulmouthed fool!

  Never again, I'd say, will our gallant comrade

  risk his skin to attack the kings with insults."

  So the soldiers bantered but not Odysseus.

  The raider of cities stood there, scepter in hand,

  and close beside him the great gray-eyed Athena

  rose like a herald, ordering men to silence. All,

  from the first to lowest ranks of Achaea's troops,

  should hear his words and mark his counsel well.

  For the good of all he urged them: "Agamemnon!

  Now, my king, the Achaeans are bent on making you

  a disgrace in the eyes of every man alive. Yes,

  they fail to fulfill their promise sworn that day

  they sailed here from the stallion-land of Argos:

  that not until you had razed the rugged walls of Troy

  would they sail home again. But look at them now,

  like green, defenseless boys or widowed women

  whimpering to each other, wailing to journey back.

  True, they've labored long--they're desperate for home.

  Any fighter, cut off from his wife for one month,

  would chafe at the benches, moaning in his ship,

  pinned down by gales and heavy, raging seas.

  A month--but look at us.

  This is the ninth year come round, the ninth

  we've hung on here. Who could blame the Achaeans

  for chafing, bridling beside the beaked ships?

  Ah but still--what a humiliation it would be

  to hold out so long, then sail home empty-handed.

  Courage, my friends, hold out a little longer.

  Till we see if Calchas divined the truth or not.

  We all recall that moment--who could forget it?

  We were all witnesses then. All, at least,

  the deadly spirits have not dragged away ...

  Why,

  it seems like only yesterday or the day before

  when our vast armada gathered, moored at Aulis,

  freighted with slaughter bound for Priam's Troy.

  We were all busy then, milling round a spring

  and offering victims up on the holy altars,

  full sacrifice to the gods to guarantee success,

  under a spreading plane tree where the water splashed,

  glittering in the sun--when a great omen appeared.

  A snake, and his back streaked red with blood,

  a thing of terror! Olympian Zeus himself

  had launched him into the clean light of day ...

  He slid from under the altar, glided up the tree

  and there the brood of a sparrow, helpless young ones,

  teetered high on the topmost branch-tips, cowering

  under the leaves there, eight they were all told

  and the mother made the ninth, she'd borne them all--

  chirping to break the heart but the snake gulped them down

  and the mother cried out for her babies, fluttering over him ...

  he coiled, struck, fanging her wing--a high thin shriek!

  But once he'd swallowed down the sparrow with her brood,

  the son of crooked Cronus who sent the serpent forth

  turned him into a sign, a monument clear to see--

  Zeus struck him to stone! And we stood by,

  amazed that such a marvel came to light.

  So then,

  when those terrible, monstrous omens burst in

  on the victims we were offering to the gods,

  Calchas swiftly revealed the will of Zeus:

  'Why struck dumb now, my long-haired Achaeans?

  Zeus who rules the world has shown us an awesome sign,

  an event long in the future, late to come to birth

  but the fame of that great work will never die.

  As the snake devoured the sparrow with her brood,

  eight and the mother made the ninth, she'd borne them all,

  so we will fight in Troy that many years and then,

  then in the tenth we'll take her broad streets.'

  So that day the prophet revealed the future--

  and now, look, by god, it all comes to pass!

  Up with you, all you Argives geared for combat,

  stand your ground, right here,

  until we take the mighty walls of Priam!"

  He fired them so

  the armies roared and the ships resounded round them,

  shattering echoes ringing from their shouts

  as Argives cried assent to King Odysseus' words.

  And Nestor the noble horseman spurred them more:

  "What disgrace! Look at you, carrying on

  in the armies' muster just like boys--fools!

  Not a thought in your heads for works of battle.

  What become
s of them now, the pacts and oaths we swore?

  Into the flames with councils, all the plans of men,

  the vows sealed with the strong, unmixed wine,

  the firm clasp of the right hand we trusted!

  We battle on in words, as always, mere words,

  and what's the cure? We cannot find a thing.

  No matter how many years we wrangle here.

  Agamemnon--

  never swerve, hold to your first plan of action,

  lead your armies headlong into war!

  The rest of them? Let them rot, the one or two

  who hatch their plans apart from all the troops--

  what good can they win from that? Nothing at all.

  Why, they'd scuttle home before they can even learn

  if the vows of Zeus with his dark cloudy shield

  are false or not. Zeus the son of almighty Cronus,

  I remind you, bowed his head that day we boarded ship,

  all the Argives laden with blood and death for Troy--

  his lightning bolts on the right, good omens blazing forth.

  So now let no man hurry to sail for home, not yet ...

  not till he beds down with a faithful Trojan wife,

  payment in full for the groans and shocks of war

  we have all borne for Helen.

  But any soldier

  wild with desire to reach his home at once--

  just let him lay a hand on his black benched ship

  and right in front of the rest he'll reach his death!

  But you, my King, be on your guard yourself. Come,

  listen well to another man. Here's some advice,

  not to be tossed aside, and I will tell it clearly.

  Range your men by tribes, even by clans, Agamemnon,

  so clan fights by the side of clan, tribe by tribe.

  Fight this way, if the Argives still obey you,

  then you can see which captain is a coward,

  which contingent too, and which is loyal, brave,

  since they will fight in separate formations of their own.

  Then, what's more, if you fail to sack the city,

  you will know if the will of god's to blame

  or the cowardice of your men--inept in battle."

  And King Agamemnon took his lead, saluting:

  "Again, old man, you outfight the Argives in debate!

  Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo, if only I had ten men

  like Nestor to plan with me among Achaea's armies--

  then we could topple Priam's citadel in a day,

  throttle it in our hands and gut Troy to nothing.

  But Cronus' son, Zeus with his shield of storm

  insists on embroiling me in painful struggles,

  futile wars of words ...

  Imagine--I and Achilles, wrangling over a girl,

  battling man-to-man. And I, I was the first

  to let my anger flare. Ah if the two of us

  could ever think as one, Troy could delay

  her day of death no longer, not one moment.

  Go now, take your meal--the sooner to bring on war.

  Quickly--let each fighter sharpen his spear well,

  balance his shield well, feed his horses well

  with plenty of grain to build their racing speed--

  each man look well to his chariot's running order,

  nerve himself for combat now, so all day long

  we can last out the grueling duels of Ares!

  No breathing space, no letup, not a moment, not

  till the night comes on to part the fighters' fury!

  Now sweat will soak the shield-strap round your chest,

  your fist gripping the spear will ache with tensing,

  now the lather will drench your war-team's flanks,

  hauling your sturdy chariot.

  But any man I catch,

  trying to skulk behind his long beaked ships,

  hanging back from battle--he is finished.

  No way for him to escape the dogs and birds!"

  So he commanded

  and the armies gave a deep resounding roar like waves

  crashing against a cliff when the South Wind whips it,

  bearing down, some craggy headland jutting out to sea--

  the waves will never leave it in peace, thrashed by gales

  that hit from every quarter, breakers left and right.

  The troops sprang up, scattered back to the ships,

  lit fires beside their tents and took their meal.

  Each sacrificed to one or another deathless god,

  each man praying to flee death and the grind of war.

  But the lord of men Agamemnon sacrificed a fat rich ox,

  five years old, to the son of mighty Cronus, Zeus,

  and called the chiefs of all the Argive forces:

  Nestor first and foremost, then King Idomeneus,

  the Great and Little Ajax, Tydeus' son Diomedes

  and Odysseus sixth, a mastermind like Zeus.

  The lord of the war cry Menelaus came uncalled,

  he knew at heart what weighed his brother down.

  They stood in a ring around the ox, took up barley

  and then, rising among them, King Agamemnon

  raised his voice in prayer: "Zeus, Zeus,

  god of greatness, god of glory, lord god

  of the dark clouds who lives in the bright sky,

  don't let the sun go down or the night descend on us!

  Not till I hurl the smoke-black halls of Priam headlong--

  torch his gates to blazing rubble--rip the tunic of Hector

  and slash his heroic chest to ribbons with my bronze--

  and a ruck of comrades round him, groveling facedown,

  gnaw their own earth!"

  And so Agamemnon prayed

  but the son of Cronus would not bring his prayer to pass,

  not yet ... the Father accepted the sacrifices, true,

  but doubled the weight of thankless, ruthless war. ,

  Once the men had prayed and flung the barley,

  first they lifted back the heads of the victims,

  slit their throats, skinned them and carved away

  the meat from the thighbones and wrapped them in fat,

  a double fold sliced clean and topped with strips of flesh.

  And they burned these on a cleft stick, peeled and dry,

  spitted the vitals, held them over Hephaestus' flames

  and once they'd charred the thighs and tasted the organs

  they cut the rest into pieces, pierced them with spits,

  roasted them to a turn and pulled them off the fire.

  The work done, the feast laid out, they ate well

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

  When they had put aside desire for food and drink,

  Nestor the noble old horseman spoke out first:

  "Marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon,

  no more trading speeches now. No more delay,

  putting off the work the god puts in our hands.

  Come, let the heralds cry out to all contingents,

  full battle-armor, muster the men along the ships.

  Now down we go, united--review them as we pass.

  Down through the vast encampment of Achaea,

  the faster to rouse the slashing god of warl"

  Agamemnon the lord of men did not resist.

  He commanded heralds to cry out loud and clear

  and summon the long-haired Achaean troops to battle.

  Their cries rang out. The battalions gathered quickly.

  The warlords dear to the gods and flanking Agamemnon

  strode on ahead, marshaling men-at-arms in files,

  and down their ranks the fiery-eyed Athena bore

  her awesome shield of storm, ageless, deathless--

  a hundred golden tassels, all of them braided tight

  and each worth a hundred oxen, float along th
e front.

  Her shield of lightning dazzling, swirling around her,

  headlong on Athena swept through the Argive armies,

  driving soldiers harder, lashing the fighting-fury

  in each Achaean's heart--no stopping them now,

  mad for war and struggle. Now, suddenly,

  battle thrilled them more than the journey home,

  than sailing hollow ships to their dear native land.

  As ravening fire rips through big stands of timber

  high on a mountain ridge and the blaze flares miles away,

  so from the marching troops the blaze of bronze armor,

  splendid and superhuman, flared across the earth,

  flashing into the air to hit the skies.

  Armies gathering now

  as the huge flocks on flocks of winging birds, geese or cranes

  or swans with their long lancing necks--circling Asian marshes

  round the Cayster outflow, wheeling in all directions,

  glorying in their wings--keep on landing, advancing,

  wave on shrieking wave and the tidal flats resound.

  So tribe on tribe, pouring out of the ships and shelters,

  marched across the Scamander plain and the earth shook,

  tremendous thunder from under trampling men and horses

  drawing into position down the Scamander meadow flats

  breaking into flower--men by the thousands, numberless

  as the leaves and spears that flower forth in spring.

  The armies massing ... crowding thick-and-fast

  as the swarms of flies seething over the shepherds' stalls

  in the first spring days when the buckets flood with milk--

  so many long-haired Achaeans swarmed across the plain

  to confront the Trojans, fired to smash their lines.

  The armies grouping now--as seasoned goatherds

  split their wide-ranging flocks into packs with ease

  when herds have mixed together down the pasture:

  so the captains formed their tight platoons,

  detaching right and left, moving up for action--

  and there in the midst strode powerful Agamemnon,

  eyes and head like Zeus who loves the lightning,

  great in the girth like Ares, god of battles,

  broad through the chest like sea lord Poseidon.

  Like a bull rising head and shoulders over the herds,

  a royal bull rearing over his flocks of driven cattle--

  so imposing was Atreus' son, so Zeus made him that day,

  towering over fighters, looming over armies.

  Sing to me now, you Muses who hold the halls of Olympus!

  You are goddesses, you are everywhere, you know all things--

  all we hear is the distant ring of glory, we know nothing--

  who were the captains of Achaea? Who were the kings?

  The mass of troops I could never tally, never name,

  not even if I had ten tongues and ten mouths,

  a tireless voice and the heart inside me bronze,

  never unless you Muses of Olympus, daughters of Zeus

  whose shield is rolling thunder, sing, sing in memory

  all who gathered under Troy. Now I can only tell

  the lords of the ships, the ships in all their numbers!

  First came the Boeotian units led by Leitus and Peneleos: