The Iliad Read online

  But the old seer who knew the cause full well

  revealed the will of the archer god Apollo.

  And I was the first, mother, I urged them all,

  ‘Appease the god at once!’ That’s when the fury

  gripped the son of Atreus. Agamemnon leapt to his feet

  and hurled his threat—his threat’s been driven home.

  One girl, Chryseis, the fiery-eyed Achaeans

  ferry out in a fast trim ship to Chryse Island,

  laden with presents for the god. The other girl,

  just now the heralds came and led her away from camp,

  Briseus’ daughter, the prize the armies gave me.

  But you, mother, if you have any power at all,

  protect your son! Go to Olympus, plead with Zeus,

  if you ever warmed his heart with a word or any action ...

  Time and again I heard your claims in father’s halls,

  boasting how you and you alone of all the immortals

  rescued Zeus, the lord of the dark storm cloud,

  from ignominious, stark defeat ...

  That day the Olympians tried to chain him down,

  Hera, Poseidon lord of the sea, and Pallas Athena—

  you rushed to Zeus, dear Goddess, broke those chains,

  quickly ordered the hundred-hander to steep Olympus,

  that monster whom the immortals call Briareus

  but every mortal calls the Sea-god’s son, Aegaeon,

  though he’s stronger than his father. Down he sat,

  flanking Cronus’ son, gargantuan in the glory of it all,

  and the blessed gods were struck with terror then,

  they stopped shackling Zeus.

  Remind him of that,

  now, go and sit beside him, grasp his knees ...

  persuade him, somehow, to help the Trojan cause,

  to pin the Achaeans back against their ships,

  trap them round the bay and mow them down.

  So all can reap the benefits of their king—

  so even mighty Atrides can see how mad he was

  to disgrace Achilles, the best of the Achaeans!“

  And Thetis answered, bursting into tears,

  “O my son, my sorrow, why did I ever bear you?

  All I bore was doom ...

  Would to god you could linger by your ships

  without a grief in the world, without a torment!

  Doomed to a short life, you have so little time.

  And not only short, now, but filled with heartbreak too,

  more than all other men alive—doomed twice over.

  Ah to a cruel fate I bore you in our halls!

  Still, I shall go to Olympus crowned with snow

  and repeat your prayer to Zeus who loves the lightning.

  Perhaps he will be persuaded.

  But you, my child,

  stay here by the fast ships, rage on at the Achaeans,

  just keep clear of every foray in the fighting.

  Only yesterday Zeus went off to the Ocean River

  to feast with the Aethiopians, loyal, lordly men,

  and all the gods went with him. But in twelve days

  the Father returns to Olympus. Then, for your sake,

  up I go to the bronze floor, the royal house of Zeus—

  I’ll grasp his knees, I think I’ll win him over.“

  With that vow

  his mother went away and left him there, alone,

  his heart inflamed for the sashed and lovely girl

  they’d wrenched away from him against his will.

  Meanwhile Odysseus drew in close to Chryse Island,

  bearing the splendid sacrifice in the vessel’s hold.

  And once they had entered the harbor deep in bays

  they furled and stowed the sail in the black ship,

  they lowered the mast by the forestays, smoothly,

  quickly let it down on the forked mast-crutch

  and rowed her into a mooring under oars.

  Out went the bow-stones—cables fast astern—

  and the crew themselves swung out in the breaking surf,

  leading out the sacrifice for the archer god Apollo,

  and out of the deep-sea ship Chryseis stepped too.

  Then tactful Odysseus led her up to the altar,

  placing her in her loving father’s arms, and said,

  “Chryses, the lord of men Agamemnon sent me here

  to bring your daughter back and perform a sacrifice,

  a grand sacrifice to Apollo—for all Achaea’s sake—

  so we can appease the god

  who’s loosed such grief and torment on the Argives.”

  With those words he left her in Chryses’ arms

  and the priest embraced the child he loved, exultant.

  At once the men arranged the sacrifice for Apollo,

  making the cattle ring his well-built altar,

  then they rinsed their hands and took up barley.

  Rising among them Chryses stretched his arms to the sky

  and prayed in a high resounding voice, “Hear me, Apollo!

  God of the silver bow who strides the walls of Chryse

  and Cilla sacrosanct—lord in power of Tenedos!

  If you honored me last time and heard my prayer

  and rained destruction down on all Achaea’s ranks,

  now bring my prayer to pass once more. Now, at last,

  drive this killing plague from the armies of Achaea!”

  His prayer went up and Phoebus Apollo heard him.

  And soon as 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 the old man burned these over dried split wood

  and over the quarters poured out glistening wine

  while young men at his side held five-pronged forks.

  Once they had burned the bones 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,

  the young men brimmed the mixing bowls with wine

  and tipping first drops for the god in every cup

  they poured full rounds for all. And all day long

  they appeased the god with song, raising a ringing hymn

  to the distant archer god who drives away the plague,

  those young Achaean warriors singing out his power,

  and Apollo listened, his great heart warm with joy.

  Then when the sun went down and night came on

  they made their beds and slept by the stern-cables ...

  When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more,

  they set sail for the main encampment of Achaea.

  The Archer sent them a bracing following wind,

  they stepped the mast, spread white sails wide,

  the wind hit full and the canvas bellied out

  and a dark blue wave, foaming up at the bow,

  sang out loud and strong as the ship made way,

  skimming the whitecaps, cutting toward her goal.

  And once offshore of Achaea’s vast encampment

  they eased her in and hauled the black ship high,

  far up on the sand, and shored her up with timbers.

  Then they scattered, each to his own ship and shelter.

  But he raged on, grimly camped by his fast fleet,

  the royal son of Peleus, the swift runner Achilles.

  Now he no longer haunted the meeting grounds

  where men win glory, now he no longer went to war />
  but day after day he ground his heart out, waiting there,

  yearning, always yearning for battle cries and combat.

  But now as the twelfth dawn after this shone clear

  the gods who live forever marched home to Olympus,

  all in a long cortege, and Zeus led them on.

  And Thetis did not forget her son’s appeals.

  She broke from a cresting wave at first light

  and soaring up to the broad sky and Mount Olympus,

  found the son of Cronus gazing down on the world,

  peaks apart from the other gods and seated high

  on the topmost crown of rugged ridged Olympus.

  And crouching down at his feet,

  quickly grasping his knees with her left hand,

  her right hand holding him underneath the chin,

  she prayed to the lord god Zeus, the son of Cronus:

  “Zeus, Father Zeus! If I ever served you well

  among the deathless gods with a word or action,

  bring this prayer to pass: honor my son Achilles!—

  doomed to the shortest life of any man on earth.

  And now the lord of men Agamemnon has disgraced him,

  seizes and keeps his prize, tears her away himself. But you—

  exalt him, Olympian Zeus: your urgings rule the world!

  Come, grant the Trojans victory after victory

  till the Achaean armies pay my dear son back,

  building higher the honor he deserves!”

  She paused

  but Zeus who commands the storm clouds answered nothing.

  The Father sat there, silent. It seemed an eternity ...

  But Thetis, clasping his knees, held on, clinging,

  pressing her question once again: “Grant my prayer,

  once and for all, Father, bow your head in assent!

  Or deny me outright. What have you to fear?

  So I may know, too well, just how cruelly

  I am the most dishonored goddess of them all.”

  Filled with anger

  Zeus who marshals the storm clouds answered her at last:

  “Disaster. You will drive me into war with Hera.

  She will provoke me, she with her shrill abuse.

  Even now in the face of all the immortal gods

  she harries me perpetually, Hera charges me

  that I always go to battle for the Trojans.

  Away with you now. Hera might catch us here.

  I will see to this. I will bring it all to pass.

  Look, I will bow my head if that will satisfy you.

  That, I remind you, that among the immortal gods

  is the strongest, truest sign that I can give.

  No word or work of mine—nothing can be revoked,

  there is no treachery, nothing left unfinished

  once I bow my head to say it shall be done.”

  So he decreed. And Zeus the son of Cronus bowed

  his craggy dark brows and the deathless locks came pouring

  down from the thunderhead of the great immortal king

  and giant shock waves spread through all Olympus.

  So the two of them made their pact and parted.

  Deep in the sea she dove from radiant Mount Olympus.

  Zeus went back to his own halls, and all the gods

  in full assembly rose from their seats at once

  to meet the Father striding toward them now.

  None dared remain at rest as Zeus advanced,

  they all sprang up to greet him face-to-face

  as he took his place before them on his throne.

  But Hera knew it all. She had seen how Thetis,

  the Old Man of the Sea’s daughter, Thetis quick

  on her glistening feet was hatching plans with Zeus.

  And suddenly Hera taunted the Father, son of Cronus:

  “So, who of the gods this time, my treacherous one,

  was hatching plans with you?

  Always your pleasure, whenever my back is turned,

  to settle things in your grand clandestine way.

  You never deign, do you, freely and frankly,

  to share your plots with me—never, not a word!”

  The father of men and gods replied sharply,

  “Hera—stop hoping to fathom all my thoughts.

  You will find them a trial, though you are my wife.

  Whatever is right for you to hear, no one, trust me,

  will know of it before you, neither god nor man.

  Whatever I choose to plan apart from all the gods—

  no more of your everlasting questions, probe and pry no more.”

  And Hera the Queen, her dark eyes wide, exclaimed,

  “Dread majesty, son of Cronus, what are you saying?

  Now surely I’ve never probed or pried in the past.

  Why, you can scheme to your heart’s content

  without a qualm in the world for me. But now

  I have a terrible fear that she has won you over,

  Thetis, the Old Man of the Sea’s daughter, Thetis

  with her glistening feet. I know it. Just at dawn

  she knelt down beside you and grasped your knees

  and I suspect you bowed your head in assent to her—

  you granted once and for all to exalt Achilles now

  and slaughter hordes of Achaeans pinned against their ships.”

  And Zeus who marshals the thunderheads returned,

  “Maddening one ... you and your eternal suspicions—

  I can never escape you. Ah but tell me, Hera,

  just what can you do about all this? Nothing.

  Only estrange yourself from me a little more—

  and all the worse for you.

  If what you say is true, that must be my pleasure.

  Now go sit down. Be quiet now. Obey my orders,

  for fear the gods, however many Olympus holds,

  are powerless to protect you when I come

  to throttle you with my irresistible hands.”

  He subsided

  but Hera the Queen, her eyes wider, was terrified.

  She sat in silence. She wrenched her will to his.

  And throughout the halls of Zeus the gods of heaven

  quaked with fear. Hephaestus the Master Craftsman

  rose up first to harangue them all, trying now

  to bring his loving mother a little comfort,

  the white-armed goddess Hera: “Oh disaster ...

  that’s what it is, and it will be unbearable

  if the two of you must come to blows this way,

  flinging the gods in chaos just for mortal men.

  No more joy for us in the sumptuous feast

  when riot rules the day.

  I urge you, mother—you know that I am right—

  work back into his good graces, so the Father,

  our beloved Father will never wheel on us again,

  send our banquets crashing! The Olympian lord of lightning—

  what if he would like to blast us from our seats?

  He is far too strong. Go back to him, mother,

  stroke the Father with soft, winning words—