The Iliad, Page 29

  So runs the doom of Zeus.

  You and your anger--

  rage away! I care nothing for that. Not even

  if you go plunging down to the pit of earth and sea

  where Cronus and Iapetus make their beds of pain,

  where not a ray of the Sun can warm their hearts,

  not a breeze, the depths of Tartarus wall them round.

  Not if you ventured down as far as the black abyss Itself--

  I care nothing for you, you and your snarling anger,

  none in the world a meaner bitch than you."

  So he erupted

  but the white-armed goddess Hera answered not a word . . .

  Now down in the Ocean sank the fiery light of day,

  drawing the dark night across the grain-giving earth.

  For the men of Troy the day went down against their will

  but not the Argives--what a blessing, how they prayed

  for the nightfall coming on across their lines.

  But again, still bent on glory, Hector mustered

  his Trojan cohorts, pulled them back from the ships

  toward the river rapids, to wide open ground

  where they found a sector free and clear of corpses.

  They swung down from their chariots onto earth

  to hear what Hector dear to Zeus commanded now.

  He clutched a thrusting-lance eleven forearms long;

  the bronze tip of the weapon shone before him,

  ringed with a golden hoop to grip the shaft.

  Leaning on this, the prince addressed his men:

  "Hear me, Trojans, Dardans, all our loyal allies!

  I had hoped by now, once we destroyed them all--

  all the Achaeans and all their hollow ships--

  we might turn home to the windy heights of Troy.

  But night came on too soon. That's what saved them,

  that alone, they and their ships along the churning surf.

  Very well then, let us give way to the dark night,

  set out our supper, unyoke our full-maned teams

  and pile the fodder down before their hoofs.

  Drive cattle out of the city, fat sheep too,

  quickly, bring on rations of honeyed, mellow wine

  and bread from the halls, and heap the firewood high.

  Then all night long till the breaking light of day

  we keep the watch fires blazing, hundreds of fires

  and the rising glare can leap and hit the skies,

  so the long-haired Achaeans stand no chance tonight

  to cut and run on the sea's broad back. Never,

  not without a struggle, not at their royal ease

  are they going to board those ships! No, no,

  let every last man of them lick his wounds--

  a memento at home--pierced by arrow or spear

  as he vaults aboard his decks. So the next fool

  will cringe at the thought of mounting hateful war

  against our stallion-breaking Trojans.

  Now let heralds

  dear to Zeus cry out through the streets of Troy

  that boys in their prime and old gray-headed men

  must take up posts on the towers built by the gods,

  in bivouac round the city. And as for our wives,

  each in her own hall must set big fires burning.

  The night watch too, it must be kept unbroken,

  so no night raiders can slip inside the walls

  with our armies camped afield.

  That's our battle-order,

  my iron-hearted Trojans, just as I command.

  Let the order I issue now stand firm and clear

  and the stirring call to arms I sound tomorrow morning,

  my stallion-breaking Trojans!

  My hopes are rising now--

  I pray to Zeus and the great array of deathless gods

  that we will whip the Achaeans howling out of Troy

  and drive them off to death, those dogs of war

  the deadly fates drove here in their black ships!

  So now, for the night, we guard our own positions,

  but tomorrow at daybreak, armed to the hilt for battle,

  waken slashing war against their hollow hulls.

  I'll soon see if the mighty Diomedes rams me

  back from the ships and back against our walls

  or I kill him with bronze and strip his bloody armor!

  Tomorrow Tydeus' son will learn his own strength--

  if he has the spine to stand the onrush of my spear.

  In the front ranks he'll sprawl, I think, torn open,

  a rout of his comrades down around their captain

  just as the sun goes rising into dawn. If only

  I were as sure of immortality, ageless all my days--

  and I were prized as they prize Athena and Apollo

  as surely as this day will bring the Argives death!"

  So Hector urged his armies. The Trojans roared assent.

  The fighters loosed their sweating teams from the yokes,

  tethered them by the reins, each at his own chariot.

  They herded cattle out of the city, fat sheep too,

  quickly, brought on rations of honeyed, mellow wine

  and bread from the halls, heaped the firewood high

  and up from the plain the winds swept the smoke,

  the sweetness and the savor swirling up the skies.

  And so their spirits soared

  as they took positions down the passageways of battle

  all night long, and the watchfires blazed among them.

  Hundreds strong, as stars in the night sky glittering

  round the moon's brilliance blaze in all their glory

  when the air falls to a sudden, windless calm . . .

  all the lookout peaks stand out and the jutting cliffs

  and the steep ravines and down from the high heavens bursts

  the boundless bright air and all the stars shine clear

  and the shepherd's heart exults--so many fires burned

  between the ships and the Xanthus' whirling rapids

  set by the men of Troy, bright against their walls.

  A thousand fires were burning there on the plain

  and beside each fire sat fifty fighting men

  poised in the leaping blaze, and champing oats

  and glistening barley, stationed by their chariots,

  stallions waited for Dawn to mount her glowing throne.

  BOOK NINE

  The Embassy to Achilles

  So the Trojans held their watch that night but not the Achaeans--

  godsent Panic seized them, comrade of bloodcurdling Rout:

  all their best were struck by grief too much to bear.

  As crosswinds chop the sea where the fish swarm,

  the North Wind and the West Wind blasting out of Thrace

  in sudden, lightning attack, wave on blacker wave, cresting,

  heaving a tangled mass of seaweed out along the surf--

  so the Achaeans' hearts were torn inside their chests.

  Distraught with the rising anguish, Atreus' son

  went ranging back and forth, commanding heralds

  to sound out loud and clear and call the men to muster,

  each by name, but no loud outcry now. The king himself

  pitched in with the lead heralds, summoning troops.

  They grouped on the meeting grounds, morale broken.

  Lord marshal Agamemnon rose up in their midst,

  streaming tears like a dark spring running down

  some desolate rock face, its shaded currents flowing.

  So, with a deep groan, the king addressed his armies:

  "Friends ... lords of the Argives, all my captains!

  Cronus' son has entangled me in madness, blinding ruin--

  Zeus is a harsh, cruel god. He vowed to me long ago,

  he bowed his head that I should never embark for h
ome

  till I had brought the walls of Ilium crashing down.

  But now, I see, he only plotted brutal treachery:

  now he commands me back to Argos in disgrace,

  whole regiments of my men destroyed in battle.

  So it must please his overweening heart, who knows?

  Father Zeus has lopped the crowns of a thousand cities,

  true, and Zeus will lop still more--his power is too great.

  So come, follow my orders. Obey me, all you Argives.

  Cut and run! Sail home to the fatherland we love!

  We'll never take the broad streets of Troy."

  Silence held them all, struck dumb by his orders.

  A long while they said nothing, spirits dashed.

  Finally Diomedes lord of the war cry broke forth:

  "Atrides--I will be first to oppose you in your folly,

  here in assembly, King, where it's the custom.

  Spare me your anger. My courage--

  mine was the first you mocked among the Argives,

  branding me a coward, a poor soldier. Yes, well,

  they know all about that, the Argives young and old.

  But you--the son of Cronus with Cronus' twisting ways

  gave you gifts by halves: with that royal scepter

  the Father gave you honor beyond all other men alive

  but he never gave you courage, the greatest power of all.

  Desperate man! So certain, are you, the sons of Achaea

  are cowards, poor soldiers, just because you say so?

  Desert--if your spirit drives you to sail home,

  then sail away, my King! The sea-lanes are clear,

  there are your ships of war, crowded down the surf,

  those that followed you from Mycenae, your own proud armada.

  But the rest of the long-haired Achaeans will hold out,

  right here, until we've plundered Troy. And they,

  if they go running home to the land they love,

  then the two of us, I and Sthenelus here

  will fight our way to the fixed doom of Troy.

  Never forget--we all sailed here with god."

  And all the Achaeans shouted their assent,

  stirred by the stallion-breaking Diomedes' challenge.

  But Nestor the old driver rose and spoke at once:

  "Few can match your power in battle, Diomedes,

  and in council you excel all men your age.

  So no one could make light of your proposals,

  not the whole army--who could contradict you?

  But you don't press on and reach a useful end.

  How young you are . . . why, you could be my son,

  my youngest-born at that, though you urge our kings

  with cool clear sense: what you've said is right.

  But it's my turn now, Diomedes.

  I think I can claim to have some years on you.

  So I must speak up and drive the matter home.

  And no one will heap contempt on what I say,

  not even mighty Agamemnon. Lost to the clan,

  lost to the hearth, lost to the old ways, that one

  who lusts for all the horrors of war with his own people.

  But now, I say, let us give way to the dark night,

  set out the evening meal. Sentries take up posts,

  squads fronting the trench we dug outside the rampart.

  That's the command I give the younger fighters.

  Then,

  Atrides, lead the way--you are the greatest king--

  spread out a feast for all your senior chiefs.

  That is your duty, a service that becomes you.

  Your shelters overflow with the wine Achaean ships

  bring in from Thrace, daily, down the sea's broad back.

  Grand hospitality is yours, you rule so many men.

  Come, gather us all and we will heed that man

  who gives the best advice. That's what they need,

  I tell you--all the Achaeans--good sound advice,

  now our enemies, camping hard against the ships,

  kindle their watchfires round us by the thousands.

  What soldier could warm to that? Tonight's the night

  that rips our ranks to shreds or pulls us through."

  The troops hung on his words and took his orders.

  Out they rushed, the sentries in armor, forming

  under the son of Nestor, captain Thrasymedes,

  under Ascalaphus, Ialmenus, sons of Ares,

  under Meriones, Aphareus and Deipyrus,

  under the son of Creon, trusty Lycomedes.

  Seven chiefs of the guard, a hundred under each,

  fighters marching, grasping long spears in their hands,

  took up new positions between the trench and rampart.

  There they lit their fires, each man made his meal.

  Meanwhile marshal Agamemnon led his commanders,

  a file of senior chiefs, toward his own lodge

  and set before them a feast to please their hearts.

  They reached out for the good things that lay at hand

  but when they had put aside desire for food and drink

  the old man began to weave his counsel among them:

  Nestor was first to speak--from the early days

  his plans and tactics always seemed the best.

  With good will to the chiefs he rose and spoke,

  "Great marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon . . .

  with you I will end, my King, with you I will begin,

  since you hold sway over many warriors, vast armies,

  and Zeus has placed in your hands the royal scepter

  and time-honored laws, so you will advise them well.

  So you above all must speak your mind, and listen,

  and carry out the next man's counsel too,

  whenever his spirit leads him on to speak

  for the public good. Credit will go to you

  for whatever he proposes.

  Now I will tell you what seems best to me.

  No one will offer a better plan than this . . .

  the plan I still retain, and I've been forming,

  well, for a good long while now, from the very day

  that you, my illustrious King, infuriated Achilles--

  you went and took from his tents the girl Briseis,

  and not with any applause from us, far from it:

  I for one, I urged you against it, strenuously.

  But you, you gave way to your overbearing anger,

  disgraced a great man the gods themselves esteem--

  you seized his gift of honor and keep her still.

  But even so, late as it is, let us contrive

  to set all this to rights, to bring him round

  with gifts of friendship and warm, winning words."

  And Agamemnon the lord of men consented quickly:

  "That's no lie, old man--a full account you give

  of all my acts of madness. Mad, blind I was!

  Not even I would deny it.

  Why look, that man is worth an entire army,

  the fighter Zeus holds dear with all his heart--

  how he exalts him now and mauls Achaea's forces!

  But since I was blinded, lost in my own inhuman rage,

  now, at last, I am bent on setting things to rights:

  I'll give a priceless ransom paid for friendship.

  Here,

  before you all, I'll name in full the splendid gifts I offer.

  Seven tripods never touched by fire, ten bars of gold,

  twenty burnished cauldrons, a dozen massive stallions,

  racers who earned me trophies with their speed.

  He is no poor man who owns what they have won,

  not strapped for goods with all that lovely gold--

  what trophies those high-strung horses carried off for me!

  Seven women I'll give him, flawless, skilled in crafts,


  women of Lesbos--the ones I chose, my privilege,

  that day he captured the Lesbos citadel himself:

  they outclassed the tribes of women in their beauty.

  These I will give, and along with them will go

  the one I took away at first, Briseus' daughter,

  and I will swear a solemn, binding oath in the bargain:

  I never mounted her bed, never once made love with her--

  the natural thing for mankind, men and women joined.

  Now all these gifts will be handed him at once.

  But if, later, the gods allow us to plunder

  the great city of Priam, let him enter in

  when we share the spoils, load the holds of his ship

  with gold and bronze--as much as his heart desires--

  and choose for his pleasure twenty Trojan women

  second only to Argive Helen in their glory.

  And then, if we can journey home to Achaean Argos,

  pride of the breasting earth, he'll be my son-by-marriage!

  I will even honor him on a par with my Orestes,

  full-grown by now, reared in the lap of luxury.

  Three daughters are mine in my well-built halls--

  Chrysothemis and Laodice and Iphianassa--

  and he may lead away whichever one he likes,

  with no bride-price asked, home to Peleus' house.

  And I will add a dowry, yes, a magnificent treasure

  the likes of which no man has ever offered with his daughter!

  Seven citadels I will give him, filled with people,

  Cardamyle, Enope, and the grassy slopes of Hire,

  Pherae the sacrosanct, Anthea deep in meadows,

  rolling Aepea and Pedasus green with vineyards.

  All face the sea at the far edge of sandy Pylos

  and the men who live within them, rich in sheep-flocks,

  rich in shambling cattle, will honor him like a god

  with hoards of gifts and beneath his scepter's sway

  live out his laws in sleek and shining peace.

  All this--

  I would extend to him if he will end his anger.

  Let him submit to me! Only the god of death

  is so relentless, Death submits to no one--

  so mortals hate him most of all the gods.

  Let him bow down to me! I am the greater king,

  I am the elder-born, I claim-the greater man."

  Nestor the noble charioteer embraced his offer:

  "Generous marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon!

  No one could underrate these gifts of yours, not now,

  the treasure trove you offer Prince Achilles.

  Come--we'll send a detail of picked men.

  They'll go to Achilles' tent with all good speed.

  Quick, whomever my eye will light on in review,

  the mission's theirs. And old Phoenix first--

  Zeus loves the man, so let him lead the way.

  Then giant Ajax and tactful royal Odysseus.

  Heralds? Odius and Eurybates, you escort them.

  Water for their hands! A reverent silence now . . .

  a prayer to Zeus. Perhaps he'll show us mercy."

  The brisk commands he issued pleased them all.