The Iliad, Page 25

now so soon? Yes, soon they will kill you off,

  all the Achaean forces massed for assault, and then,

  bereft of you, better for me to sink beneath the earth.

  What other warmth, what comfort's left for me,

  once you have met your doom? Nothing but torment!

  I have lost my father. Mother's gone as well.

  Father . . . the brilliant Achilles laid him low

  when he stormed Cilicia's city filled with people,

  Thebe with her towering gates. He killed Eetion,

  not that he stripped his gear--he'd some respect at least--

  for he burned his corpse in all his blazoned bronze,

  then heaped a grave-mound high above the ashes

  and nymphs of the mountain planted elms around it,

  daughters of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder.

  And the seven brothers I had within our halls . . .

  all in the same day went down to the House of Death,

  the great godlike runner Achilles butchered them all,

  tending their shambling oxen, shining flocks.

  And mother,

  who ruled under the timberline of woody Placos once--

  he no sooner haled her here with his other plunder

  than he took a priceless ransom, set her free

  and home she went to her father's royal halls

  where Artemis, showering arrows, shot her down.

  You, Hector--you are my father now, my noble mother,

  a brother too, and you are my husband, young and warm

  and strong!

  Pity me, please! Take your stand on the rampart here,

  before you orphan your son and make your wife a widow.

  Draw your armies up where the wild fig tree stands,

  there, where the city lies most open to assault,

  the walls lower, easily overrun. Three times

  they have tried that point, hoping to storm Troy,

  their best fighters led by the Great and Little Ajax,

  famous Idomeneus, Atreus' sons, valiant Diomedes.

  Perhaps a skilled prophet revealed the spot--.

  or their own fury whips them on to attack."

  And tall Hector nodded, his helmet flashing:

  "All this weighs on my mind too, dear woman.

  But I would die of shame to face the men of Troy

  and the Trojan women trailing their long robes

  if I would shrink from battle now, a coward.

  Nor does the spirit urge me on that way.

  I've learned it all too well. To stand up bravely,

  always to fight in the front ranks of Trojan soldiers,

  winning my father great glory, glory for myself.

  For in my heart and soul I also know this well:

  the day will come when sacred Troy must die,

  Priam must die and all his people with him,

  Priam who hurls the strong ash spear . . .

  Even so,

  it is less the pain of the Trojans still to come

  that weighs me down, not even of Hecuba herself

  or King Priam, or the thought that my own brothers

  in all their numbers, all their gallant courage,

  may tumble in the dust, crushed by enemies--

  That is nothing, nothing beside your agony

  when some brazen Argive hales you off in tears,

  wrenching away your day of light and freedom!

  Then far off in the land of Argos you must live,

  laboring at a loom, at another woman's beck and call,

  fetching water at some spring, Messeis or Hyperia,

  resisting it all the way--

  the rough yoke of necessity at your neck.

  And a man may say, who sees you streaming tears,

  'There is the wife of Hector, the bravest fighter

  they could field, those stallion-breaking Trojans,

  long ago when the men fought for Troy.' So he will say

  and the fresh grief will swell your heart once more,

  widowed, robbed of the one man strong enough

  to fight off your day of slavery.

  No, no,

  let the earth come piling over my dead body

  before I hear your cries, I hear you dragged away!"

  In the same breath, shining Hector reached down

  for his son--but the boy recoiled,

  cringing against his nurse's full breast,

  screaming out at the sight of his own father,

  terrified by the flashing bronze, the horsehair crest,

  the great ridge of the helmet nodding, bristling terror--

  so it struck his eyes. And his loving father laughed,

  his mother laughed as well, and glorious Hector,

  quickly lifting the helmet from his head,

  set it down on the ground, fiery in the sunlight,

  and raising his son he kissed him, tossed him in his arms,

  lifting a prayer to Zeus and the other deathless gods:

  "Zeus, all you immortals! Grant this boy, my son,

  may be like me, first in glory among the Trojans,

  strong and brave like me, and rule all Troy in power

  and one day let them say, 'He is a better man than his father!'--

  when he comes home from battle bearing the bloody gear

  of the mortal enemy he has killed in war--

  a joy to his mother's heart."

  So Hector prayed

  and placed his son in the arms of his loving wife.

  Andromache pressed the child to her scented breast,

  smiling through her tears. Her husband noticed,

  and filled with pity now, Hector stroked her gently,

  trying to reassure her, repeating her name: "Andromache,

  dear one, why so desperate? Why so much grief for me?

  No man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate.

  And fate? No one alive has ever escaped it,

  neither brave man nor coward, I tell you--

  it's born with us the day that we are born.

  So please go home and tend to your own tasks,

  the distaff and the loom, and keep the women

  working hard as well. As for the fighting,

  men will see to that, all who were born in Troy

  but I most of all."

  Hector aflash in arms

  took up his horsehair-crested helmet once again.

  And his loving wife went home, turning, glancing

  back again and again and weeping live warm tears.

  She quickly reached the sturdy house of Hector,

  man-killing Hector,

  and found her women gathered there inside

  and stirred them all to a high pitch of mourning.

  So in his house they raised the dirges for the dead,

  for Hector still alive, his people were so convinced

  that never again would he come home from battle,

  never escape the Argives' rage and bloody hands.

  Nor did Paris linger long in his vaulted halls.

  Soon as he buckled on his elegant gleaming bronze

  he rushed through Troy, sure in his racing stride.

  As a stallion full-fed at the manger, stalled too long,

  breaking free of his tether gallops down the plain,

  out for his favorite plunge in a river's cool currents,

  thundering in his pride--his head flung back, his mane

  streaming over his shoulders, sure and sleek in his glory,

  knees racing him on to the fields and stallion-haunts he loves--

  so down from Pergamus heights came Paris, son of Priam,

  glittering in his armor like the sun astride the skies,

  exultant, laughing aloud, his fast feet sped him on.

  Quickly he overtook his brother, noble Hector

  still lingering, slow to turn from the spot

  where he had just confided in his wife . . .<
br />
  Magnificent Paris spoke first: "Dear brother,

  look at me, holding you back in all your speed--

  dragging my feet, coming to you so late,

  and you told me to be quick!"

  A flash of his helmet as Hector shot back,

  "Impossible man! How could anyone fair and just

  underrate your work in battle? You're a good soldier.

  But you hang back of your own accord, refuse to fight.

  And that, that's why the heart inside me aches

  when I hear our Trojans heap contempt on you,

  the men who bear such struggles all for you.

  Come,

  now for attack! We'll set all this to rights,

  someday, if Zeus will ever let us raise

  the winebowl of freedom high in our halls,

  high to the gods of cloud and sky who live forever--

  once we drive these Argives geared for battle out of Troy!"

  BOOK SEVEN

  Ajax Duels with Hector

  Vaunting, aflash in arms, Hector swept through the gates

  with his brother Paris keeping pace beside him.

  Both men bent on combat, on they fought like wind

  when a god sends down some welcome blast to sailors

  desperate for it, worked to death at the polished oars,

  beating the heavy seas, their arms slack with the labor--

  so welcome that brace of men appeared to the Trojans

  desperate for their captains.

  Each one killed his man.

  Paris took Menesthius, one who had lived in Ame,

  a son of King Areithous lord of the war-club

  and his lady Phylomedusa with large lovely eyes.

  Hector slashed Eioneus' throat with a sharp spear,

  ripped him under the helmet's hammered bronze rim--

  his legs collapsed in death.

  Quick in the jolting onset

  Lycia's captain Glaucus son of Hippolochus skewered

  Dexius' son Iphinous just as he leapt behind

  his fast mares--he stabbed his shoulder, hard,

  and down from his car Iphinous crashed to earth

  and his limbs went slack with death.

  Rampaging Trojans!

  Yes, but as soon as fiery-eyed Athena marked them

  killing Argive ranks in this all-out assault,

  down she rushed from the peaks of Mount Olympus

  straight for sacred Troy. But Phoebus Apollo

  spotting her from Pergamus heights--the god grim set

  on victory for the Trojans--rose to intercept her . . .

  As the two came face-to-face beside the great oak,

  lord Apollo the son of Zeus led off, "What next?--

  what is the mighty Zeus's daughter blazing after now?

  Down from Olympus, what heroics stir your heart?

  No doubt you'll hand your Argives victory soon,

  you'll turn the tide of battle!

  You have no mercy, none for dying Trojans.

  Come, listen to me--my plan is so much better:

  let us halt the war and the heat of combat now,

  at least for today. They'll fight again tomorrow,

  until they win their way to the fixed doom of Troy,

  since that is your only passion--you two goddesses--

  to plunder Troy to rubble."

  Athena's eyes lit up

  and the goddess said, "So be it, archer of the sky!

  Those were my very thoughts, winging down from Olympus

  into the midst of Trojans and Achaeans. But tell me,

  how do you hope to stop the men from fighting?"

  "Hector!"--lord Apollo the son of Zeus replied--

  "We'll spur his nerve and strength, that breaker of horses,

  see if he'll challenge one of the Argives man-to-man

  and they will duel in bloody combat to the death.

  Achaeans armed in bronze will thrill to his call,

  they'll put up a man to battle shining Hector."

  So Apollo staged the action. Her eyes afire

  the goddess Pallas did not resist a moment.

  She flashed the word in Helenus' mantic spirit--

  the son of Priam sensed what pleased the immortals

  hatching instant plans, and coming up to Hector

  advised him quickly, "Hector, son of Priam,

  a mastermind like Zeus, listen to me now--

  let your brother guide you.

  Have all Trojans and Argives take their seats,

  and you, you challenge Achaea's bravest man

  to duel in bloody combat to the death.

  It's not the hour to meet your doom, not yet.

  I heard a voice of the gods who live forever."

  When Hector heard that challenge he rejoiced

  and right in the no man's land along his lines he strode,

  gripping his spear mid-haft, staving men to a standstill

  while Agamemnon seated his Argives geared for combat.

  And Apollo lord of the silver bow and Queen Athena,

  for all the world like carrion birds, like vultures,

  slowly settled atop the broad towering oak

  sacred to Zeus whose battle-shield is thunder,

  relishing those men. Wave on wave of them settling,

  close ranks shuddering into a dense, bristling glitter

  of shields and spears and helmets--quick as a ripple

  the West Wind suddenly risen shudders down the sea

  and the deep sea swell goes dark beneath its force--

  so settling waves of Trojan ranks and Achaeans

  rippled down the plain . . .

  And Hector rose and spoke between both sides:

  "Hear me--Trojans, Achaeans geared for combat!

  I'll speak out what the heart inside me urges.

  Our oaths, our sworn truce--Zeus the son of Cronus

  throned in the clouds has brought them all to nothing

  and all the Father decrees is death for both sides at once.

  Until you Argives seize the well-built towers of Troy

  or you yourselves are crushed against your ships.

  But now,

  seeing the best of all Achaeans fill your ranks,

  let one whose nerve impels him to fight with me

  come striding from your lines, a lone champion

  pitted against Prince Hector. Here are the terms

  that I set forth--let Zeus look down, my witness!

  If that man takes my life with his sharp bronze blade,

  he will strip my gear and haul it back to his ships.

  But give my body to friends to carry home again,

  so Trojan men and Trojan women can do me honor

  with fitting rites of fire once I am dead.

  But if I kill him and Apollo grants me glory,

  I'll strip his gear and haul it back to sacred Troy

  and hang it high on the deadly Archer's temple walls.

  But not his body: I'll hand it back to the decked ships,

  so the long-haired Achaeans can give him full rites

  and heap his barrow high by the broad Hellespont.

  And someday one will say, one of the men to come,

  steering his oar-swept ship across the wine-dark sea,

  'There's the mound of a man who died in the old days,

  one of the brave whom glorious Hector killed.'

  So they will say, someday, and my fame will never die."

  A hushed silence went through all the Achaean ranks,

  ashamed to refuse, afraid to take his challenge . . .

  But at long last Menelaus leapt up and spoke,

  lashing out at them, groaning, heartsick: "Oh no--

  your threats, your bluster--women, not men of Achaea!

  What disgrace it will be--shame, cringing shame

  if not one Danaan now steps up to battle Hector.

  You can all turn to earth and w
ater--rot away!

  Look at each of you, sitting there, lifeless,

  lust for glory gone. I'll harness up,

  I'll fight the man myself. The gods on high--

  they hold the ropes of victory in their hands!"

  With that he began to don his handsome gear.

  And then and there, Menelaus,

  the death-stroke would have blazed before your eyes--

  dead at the hands of Hector, a far stronger man--

  if Argive kings had not leapt up and caught you.

  And Atreus' son himself, powerful Agamemnon

  seized your right hand, shouting out your name:

  "You're mad, my Prince! No need for such an outburst--

  get a grip on yourself, distraught as you are.

  Just for the sake of rivalry, soldier's pride,

  don't rush to fight with a better man, with Hector

  the son of Priam. Many others shrink before him.

  Even Achilles dreads to pit himself against him

  out on the battle lines where men win glory--

  Achilles, far and away a stronger man than you.

  Go back. Sit down with the comrades you command.

  We'll put up another champion to go against this Hector.

  Fearless, is he? and never sated with fighting?

  He'll gladly sink to a knee and rest, I'd say,

  if the man comes through alive

  from the fight he begs for, dueling to the death."

  Again the iron warrior brought his brother round--

  good counsel, fitting too. Menelaus yielded at once.

  His aides, elated, lifted the armor off his shoulders.

  And then lord Nestor rose and spoke among the men:

  "No more--or enormous sorrow comes to all Achaea!

  How he would groan at this, the old horseman Peleus,

  that fine speaker, the Myrmidons' famed commander.

  How he rejoiced that day, questioning me in his halls,

  when he learned the blood and birth of all the Argives.

  Now if he heard how all cringe in the face of Hector,

  time and again he'd stretch his hands to the gods

  and pray that life breath would quit his limbs

  and sink to the House of Death.

  Oh if only-

  Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo--I were young again!

  Fresh as the day we fought by Celadon's rapids,

  our Pylians in platoons against Arcadian spearmen

  under Phia's ramparts, round the Iardanus' banks.

  When Arcadia's champion Ereuthalion strode forth,

  a man like a god for power, his shoulders decked

  with King Areithous' armor, massive Areithous ...

  the Great War-club, so they called that hulk,

  his men-at-arms and their sashed and lovely women.

  He would never fight with a bow or long spear, no,

  with his giant iron club he'd break battalions open.

  That monster--Lycurgus cut him down by stealth,

  not force at all, on a footpath so cramped

  his iron club was useless fending off his death.

  There--before he could heft it--a sudden lunge

  and Lycurgus' spear had run him through the guts.

  Flat on his back he went, slamming against the ground