The Iliad, Page 31

  to the fatherland we love. Tomorrow at dawn.

  But only if Phoenix wishes.

  I will never force the man to go."

  He stopped.

  A stunned silence seized them all, struck dumb--

  Achilles' ringing denials overwhelmed them so.

  At last Phoenix the old charioteer spoke out,

  he burst into tears, terrified for Achaea's fleet:

  "Sail home? Is that what you're turning over in your mind,

  my glorious one, Achilles? Have you no heart at all

  to fight the gutting fire from the fast trim ships?

  The spirit inside you overpowered by anger!

  How could I be severed from you, dear boy,

  left behind on the beachhead here--alone?

  The old horseman Peleus had me escort you,

  that day he sent you out of Phthia to Agamemnon,

  a youngster still untrained for the great leveler, war,

  still green at debate where men can make their mark.

  So he dispatched me, to teach you all these things,

  to make you a man of words and a man of action too.

  Cut off from you with a charge like that, dear boy?

  I have no heart to be left behind, not even

  if Zeus himself would swear to scrape away

  the scurf of age and make me young again . . .

  As fresh as I was that time I first set out

  from Hellas where the women are a wonder,

  fleeing a blood feud with my father, Amyntor,

  Ormenus' son. How furious father was with me,

  over his mistress with her dark, glistening hair.

  How he would dote on her and spurn his wedded wife,

  my own mother! And time and again she begged me,

  hugging my knees, to bed my father's mistress down

  and kill the young girl's taste for an old man.

  Mother--I did your bidding, did my work . . .

  But father, suspecting at once, cursed me roundly,

  he screamed out to the cruel Furies--'Never,

  never let me bounce on my knees a son of his,

  sprung of his loins!'--and the gods drove home that curse,

  mighty Zeus of the Underworld and grim Persephone.

  So I, I took it into my head to lay him low

  with sharp bronze! But a god checked my anger,

  he warned me of what the whole realm would say,

  the loose talk of the people, rough slurs of men--

  they must not call me a father-killer, our Achaeans!

  Then nothing could keep me there, my blood so fired up.

  No more strolling about the halls with father raging.

  But there was a crowd of kin and cousins round me,

  holding me in the house, begging me to stay . . .

  they butchered plenty of fat sheep, banquet fare,

  and shambling crook-horned cattle, droves of pigs,

  succulent, rich with fat--they singed the bristles,

  splaying the porkers out across Hephaestus' fire,

  then wine from the old man's jars, all we could drink.

  Nine nights they passed the hours, hovering over me,

  keeping the watch by rounds. The fires never died,

  one ablaze in the colonnade of the walled court,

  one in the porch outside my bedroom doors.

  But then,

  when the tenth night came on me, black as pitch,

  I burst the doors of the chamber bolted tight

  and out I rushed, I leapt the walls at a bound,

  giving the slip to guards and women servants.

  And away I fled through the whole expanse of Hellas

  and gaining the good dark soil of Phthia, mother of flocks,

  I reached the king, and Peleus gave me a royal welcome.

  Peleus loved me as a father loves a son, I tell you,

  his only child, the heir to his boundless wealth,

  he made me a rich man, he gave me throngs of subjects,

  I ruled the Dolopes, settling down on Phthia's west frontier.

  And I made you what you are--strong as the gods, Achilles--

  I loved you from the heart. You'd never go with another

  to banquet on the town or feast in your own halls.

  Never, until I'd sat you down on my knees

  and cut you the first bits of meat, remember?

  You'd eat your fill, I'd hold the cup to your lips

  and all too often you soaked the shirt on my chest,

  spitting up some wine, a baby's way . . . a misery.

  Oh I had my share of troubles for you, Achilles,

  did my share of labor. Brooding, never forgetting

  the gods would bring no son of mine to birth,

  not from my own loins.

  So you, Achilles-

  great godlike Achilles--I made you my son, I tried,

  so someday you might fight disaster off my back.

  But now, Achilles, beat down your mounting fury!

  It's wrong to have such an iron, ruthless heart.

  Even the gods themselves can bend and change,

  and theirs is the greater power, honor, strength.

  Even the gods, I say, with incense, soothing vows,

  with full cups poured and the deep smoky savor

  men can bring them round, begging for pardon

  when one oversteps the mark, does something wrong.

  We do have Prayers, you know, Prayers for forgiveness,

  daughters of mighty Zeus . . . and they limp and halt,

  they're all wrinkled, drawn, they squint to the side,

  can't look you in the eyes, and always bent on duty,

  trudging after Ruin, maddening, blinding Ruin.

  But Ruin is strong and swift--

  She outstrips them all by far, stealing a march,

  leaping over the whole wide earth to bring mankind to grief.

  And the Prayers trail after, trying to heal the wounds.

  And then, if a man reveres these daughters of Zeus

  as they draw near him, they will help him greatly

  and listen to his appeals. But if one denies them,

  turns them away, stiff-necked and harsh--off they go

  to the son of Cronus, Zeus, and pray that Ruin

  will strike the man down, crazed and blinded

  until he's paid the price.

  Relent, Achilles--you too!

  See that honor attend these good daughters of Zeus,

  honor that sways the minds of others, even heroes.

  If Agamemnon were not holding out such gifts,

  with talk of more to come, that son of Atreus,

  if the warlord kept on blustering in his anger, why,

  I'd be the last to tell you, 'Cast your rage to the winds!

  Defend your friends!'--despite their desperate straits.

  But now, look, he gives you a trove of treasures

  right away, and vows there are more to follow.

  He sends the bravest captains to implore you,

  leaders picked from the whole Achaean army,

  comrades-in-arms that you love most yourself.

  Don't dismiss their appeal, their expedition here--

  though no one could blame your anger, not before.

  So it was in the old days too. So we've heard

  in the famous deeds of fighting men, of heroes,

  when seething anger would overcome the great ones.

  Still you could bring them round with gifts and winning words.

  There's an old tale I remember, an ancient exploit,

  nothing recent, but this is how it went . . .

  We are all friends here--tet me tell it now.

  The Curetes were fighting the combat-hard Aetolians,

  armies ringing Calydon, slaughtering each other,

  Aetolians defending their city's handsome walls

  and Curetes primed to lay them waste in
battle.

  It all began when Artemis throned in gold

  loosed a disaster on them, incensed that Oeneus

  offered her no first fruits, his orchard's crowning glory.

  The rest of the gods had feasted full on oxen, true,

  but the Huntress alone, almighty Zeus's daughter--

  Oeneus gave her nothing. It slipped his mind

  or he failed to care, but what a fatal error!

  How she fumed, Zeus's child who showers arrows,

  she loosed a bristling wild boar, his tusks gleaming,

  crashing his savage, monstrous way through Oeneus' orchard,

  ripping up whole trunks from the earth to pitch them headlong,

  rows of them, roots and all, appleblossoms and all!

  But the son of Oeneus, Meleager, cut him down--

  mustering hunters out of a dozen cities,

  packs of hounds as well. No slim band of men

  could ever finish him off, that rippling killer,

  he stacked so many men atop the tear-soaked pyre.

  But over his body the goddess raised a terrific din,

  a war for the prize, the huge beast's head and shaggy hide--

  Curetes locked to the death with brave Aetolians.

  Now,

  so long as the battle-hungry Meleager fought,

  it was deadly going for the Curetes. No hope

  of holding their ground outside their own city walls,

  despite superior numbers. But then, when the wrath

  came sweeping over the man, the same anger that swells

  the chests of others, for all their care and self-control-

  then, heart enraged at his own dear mother Althaea,

  Meleager kept to his bed beside his wedded wife,

  Cleopatra . . . that great beauty. Remember her?

  The daughter of trim-heeled Marpessa, Euenus' child,

  and her husband Idas, strongest man of the men

  who once walked the earth--he even braved Apollo,

  he drew his bow at the Archer, all for Marpessa

  the girl with lovely ankles. There in the halls

  her father and mother always called Cleopatra Halcyon,

  after the seabird's name . . . grieving once for her own fate

  her mother had raised the halcyon's thin, painful cry,

  wailing that lord Apollo the distant deadly Archer

  had whisked her far from Idas.

  Meleager's Cleopatra--

  she was the one he lay beside those days,

  brooding over his heartbreaking anger.

  He was enraged by the curses of his mother,

  volleys of curses she called down from the gods.

  So racked with grief for her brother he had killed

  she kept pounding fists on the earth that feeds us all,

  kept crying out to the god of death and grim Persephone,

  flung herself on the ground, tears streaking her robes

  and she screamed out, 'Kill Meleager, kill my son!'

  And out of the world of darkness a Fury heard her cries,

  stalking the night with a Fury's brutal heart, and suddenly--

  thunder breaking around the gates, the roar of enemies,

  towers battered under assault. And Aetolia's elders

  begged Meleager, sent high priests of the gods,

  pleading, 'Come out now! defend your people now!'--

  and they vowed a princely gift.

  Wherever the richest land of green Calydon lay,

  there they urged him to choose a grand estate,

  full fifty acres, half of it turned to vineyards,

  half to open plowland, and carve it from the plain.

  And over and over the old horseman Oeneus begged him,

  he took a stand at the vaulted chamber's threshold,

  shaking the bolted doors, begging his own son!

  Over and over his brothers and noble mother

  implored him--he refused them all the more--

  and troops of comrades, devoted, dearest friends.

  Not even they could bring his fighting spirit round

  until, at last, rocks were raining down on the chamber,

  Curetes about to mount the towers and torch the great city!

  And then, finally, Meleager's bride, beautiful Cleopatra

  begged him, streaming tears, recounting all the griefs

  that fall to people whose city's seized and plundered--

  the men slaughtered, citadel burned to rubble, enemies

  dragging the children, raping the sashed and lovely women.

  How his spirit leapt when he heard those horrors--

  and buckling his gleaming armor round his body,

  out he rushed to war. And so he saved them all

  from the fatal day, he gave way to his own feelings,

  but too late. No longer would they make good the gifts,

  those troves of gifts to warm his heart, and even so

  he beat off that disaster . . . empty-handed.

  But you, you wipe such thoughts from your mind.

  Don't let your spirit turn you down that path, dear boy.

  Harder to save the warships once they're up in flames.

  Now--while the gifts still wait--go out and fight!

  Go--the Achaeans all will honor you like a god!

  But enter this man-killing war without the gifts--

  your fame will flag, no longer the same honor,

  even though you hurl the Trojans home!"

  But the swift runner Achilles answered firmly,

  "Phoenix, old father, bred and loved by the gods,

  what do I need with honor such as that?

  I say my honor lies in the great decree of Zeus.

  That gift will hold me here by the beaked ships

  as long as the life breath remains inside my chest

  and my springing knees will lift me. Another thing--

  take it to heart, I urge you. Stop confusing

  my fixed resolve with this, this weeping and wailing

  just to serve his pleasure, Atreus' mighty son.

  It degrades you to curry favor with that man,

  and I will hate you for it, I who love you.

  It does you proud to stand by me, my friend,

  to attack the man who attacks me--

  be king on a par with me, take half my honors!

  These men will carry their message back, but you,

  you stay here and spend the night in a soft bed.

  Then, tomorrow at first light, we will decide

  whether we sail home or hold out here."

  With that,

  he gave Patroclus a sharp glance, a quiet nod

  to pile the bedding deep for Phoenix now,

  a sign to the rest to think of leaving quickly.

  Giant Ajax rose to his feet, the son of Telamon,

  tall as a god, turned and broke his silence:

  "Ready, Odysseus? Royal son of Laertes,

  great tactician--come, home we go now.

  There's no achieving our mission here, I see,

  not with this approach. Best to return at once,

  give the Achaeans a full report, defeating as it is.

  They must be sitting there, waiting for us now.

  Achilles--

  he's made his own proud spirit so wild in his chest,

  so savage, not a thought for his comrades' love--

  we honored him past all others by the ships.

  Hard, ruthless man . . .

  Why, any man will accept the blood-price paid

  for a brother murdered, a child done to death.

  And the murderer lives on in his own country--

  the man has paid enough, and the injured kinsman

  curbs his pride, his smoldering, vengeful spirit,

  once he takes the price.

  You--the gods have planted

  a cruel, relentless fury in your chest! All for a girl,

&n
bsp; just one, and here we offer you seven--outstanding beauties--

  that, and a treasure trove besides. Achilles,

  put some human kindness in your heart.

  Show respect for your own house. Here we are,

  under your roof, sent from the whole Achaean force!

  Past all other men, all other Achaean comrades,

  we long to be your closest, dearest friends."

  And the swift runner Achilles answered warmly,

  "Ajax, royal son of Telamon, captain of armies,

  all well said, after my own heart, or mostly so.

  But my heart still heaves with rage

  whenever I call to mind that arrogance of his--

  how he mortified me, right in front of the Argives--

  that son of Atreus treating me like some vagabond,

  like some outcast stripped of all my rights!

  You go back to him and declare my message:

  I will not think of arming for bloody war again,

  not till the son of wise King Priam, dazzling Hector

  batters all the way to the Myrmidon ships and shelters,

  slaughtering Argives, gutting the hulls with fire.

  But round my own black ship and camp this Hector

  blazing for battle will be stopped, I trust--

  stopped dead in his tracks!"

  So he finished.

  Then each man, lifting his own two-handled cup,

  poured it out to the gods, and back they went

  along the ships, Odysseus in the lead.

  Patroclus told his friends and serving-women

  to pile a deep warm bed for Phoenix, quickly.

  They obeyed and spread the bed as he ordered,

  with fleeces, woolen throws and soft linen sheets.

  There the old man lay, awaiting shining Dawn.

  And deep in his well-built lodge Achilles slept

  with the woman he brought from Lesbos, Phorbas' daughter,

  Diomede in all her beauty sleeping by his side.

  And over across from him Patroclus slept

  with the sashed and lovely Iphis by his side,

  whom Prince Achilles gave him the day he took

  the heights of Scyros, Enyeus' rocky stronghold.

  But once the envoys reached Atrides' shelters,

  comrades leapt to their feet, welcomed them back

  and clustering round them, lifted golden cups.

  One after another pressed them with questions,

  King Agamemnon most urgent of all: "Come--

  tell me, famous Odysseus, Achaea's pride and glory--

  will he fight the fire off the ships? Or does he refuse,

  does rage still grip his proud, mighty spirit?"

  And the steady, long-enduring Odysseus replied,

  "Great marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon,

  that man has no intention of quenching his rage.

  He's still bursting with anger, more than ever--

  he spurns you, spurns all your gifts. Work out

  your own defense, he says, you and your captains

  save the Argive armies and the ships. Himself?

  Achilles threatens, tomorrow at first light,

  to haul his well-benched warships out to sea.

  And what's more, he advises all the rest,

  'Sail home now. You will never set your eyes

  on the day of doom that topples looming Troy.