The Iliad Read online

  And those who held Arcadia under Cyllene’s peak,

  near Aepytus’ ancient tomb where men fight hand-to-hand,

  men who lived in Pheneos and Orchomenos rife with sheep,

  Stratia, Rhipe and Enispe whipped by the sudden winds,

  men who settled Tegea, Mantinea’s inviting country,

  men who held Stymphalus, men who ruled Parrhasia—

  the son of Ancaeus led them, powerful Agapenor

  with sixty ships in all, and aboard each vessel

  crowded full Arcadian companies skilled in war.

  Agamemnon himself, the lord of men had given them

  those well-benched ships to plow the wine-dark sea,

  since works of the sea meant nothing to those landsmen.

  Then the men who lived in Buprasion, brilliant Elis,

  all the realm as far as Hyrmine and Myrsinus, frontier towns

  and Olenian Rock and Alesion bound within their borders.

  Four warlords led their ranks, ten-ship flotillas each,

  and filling the decks came bands of Epean fighters,

  two companies under Thalpius and Amphimachus, sons

  of the line of Actor, one of Eurytus, one of Cteatus.

  Strong Diores the son of Amarynceus led the third

  and the princely Polyxinus led the fourth,

  the son of King Agasthenes, Augeas’ noble stock.

  Then ocean men from Dulichion and the Holy Islands,

  the Echinades rising over the sea across from Elis—

  Meges a match for Ares led their troops to war,

  a son of the rider Phyleus dear to Zeus who once,

  enraged at his father, fled and settled Dulichion.

  In his son’s command sailed forty long black ships.

  Next Odysseus led his Cephallenian companies,

  gallant-hearted fighters, the island men of Ithaca,

  of Mount Neriton’s leafy ridges shimmering in the wind,

  and men who lived in Crocylia and rugged Aegilips,

  men who held Zacynthus and men who dwelled near Samos

  and mainland men who grazed their flocks across the channel.

  That mastermind like Zeus, Odysseus led those fighters on.

  In his command sailed twelve ships, prows flashing crimson.

  And Thoas son of Andraemon led Aetolia’s units,

  soldiers who lived in Pleuron, Pylene and Olenus,

  Chalcis along the shore and Calydon’s rocky heights

  where the sons of wellborn Oeneus were no more

  and the king himself was dead

  and Meleager with his golden hair was gone.

  So the rule of all Aetolian men had passed to Thoas.

  In Thoas’ command sailed forty long black ships.

  And the great spearman Idomeneus led his Cretans,

  the men who held Cnossos and Gortyn ringed in walls,

  Lyctos, Miletus, Lycastus’ bright chalk bluffs,

  Phaestos and Rhytion, cities a joy to live in—

  the men who peopled Crete, a hundred cities strong.

  The renowned spearman Idomeneus led them all in force

  with Meriones who butchered men like the god of war himself.

  And in their command sailed eighty long black ships.

  And Heracles’ son Tlepolemus tall and staunch

  led nine ships of the proud Rhodians out of Rhodes,

  the men who lived on Rhodes in three island divisions,

  Lindos and Ialysus and Camirus’ white escarpment,

  armies led by the famous spearman Tlepolemus

  whom Astyochea bore to Heracles filled with power.

  He swept her up from Ephyra, from the Selleis River

  after he’d ravaged many towns of brave young warlords

  bred by the gods. But soon as his son Tlepolemus

  came of age in Heracles’ well-built palace walls

  the youngster abruptly killed his father’s uncle—

  the good soldier Licymnius, already up in years—

  and quickly fitting ships, gathering partisans,

  he fled across the sea with threats of the sons

  and the sons’ sons of Heracles breaking at his back.

  But he reached Rhodes at last, a wanderer rocked by storms,

  and there they settled in three divisions, all by tribes,

  loved by Zeus himself the king of gods and mortals

  showering wondrous gold on all their heads.

  Nireus led his three trim ships from Syme,

  Nireus the son of Aglaea and King Charopus,

  Nireus the handsomest man who ever came to Troy,

  of all the Achaeans after Peleus’ fearless son.

  But he was a lightweight, trailed by a tiny band.

  And men who held Nisyrus, Casus and Crapathus,

  Cos, Eurypylus’ town, and the islands called Calydnae—

  combat troops, and Antiphus and Phidippus led them on,

  the two sons of the warlord Thessalus, Heracles’ son.

  In their command sailed thirty long curved ships.

  And now, Muse,

  sing all those fighting men who lived in Pelasgian Argos,

  the big contingents out of Alus and Alope and Trachis,

  men of Phthia and Hellas where the women are a wonder,

  all the fighters called Achaeans, Hellenes and Myrmidons

  ranked in fifty ships, and Achilles was their leader.

  But they had no lust for the grind of battle now—

  where was the man who marched their lines to war?

  The brilliant runner Achilles lay among his ships,

  raging over Briseis, the girl with lustrous hair,

  the prize he seized from Lymessus—

  after he had fought to exhaustion at Lyrnessus,

  storming the heights, and breached the walls of Thebes

  and toppled the vaunting spearmen Epistrophus and Mynes,

  sons of King Euenus, Selepius’ son. All for Briseis

  his heart was breaking now ... Achilles lay there now

  but he would soon rise up in all his power.

  Then men of Phylace, Pyrasus banked in flowers,

  Demeter’s closed and holy grove and Iton mother of flocks,

  Antron along the shore and Pteleos deep in meadows.

  The veteran Protesilaus had led those troops

  while he still lived, but now for many years

  the arms of the black earth had held him fast

  and his wife was left behind, alone in Phylace,

  both cheeks torn in grief, their house half-built.

  Just as he vaulted off his ship a Dardan killed him,

  first by far of the Argives slaughtered on the beaches.

  But not even then were his men without a captain,

  yearn as they did for their lost leader. No,

  Podarces a fresh campaigner ranged their units—

  a son of Iphiclus son of Phylacus rich in flocks—

  Podarces, gallant Protesilaus’ blood brother,

  younger-born, but the older man proved braver too,

  an iron man of war. Yet not for a moment did his army

  lack a leader, yearn as they did for the braver dead.

  Under Podarces sailed their forty long black ships.

  And the men who lived in Pherae fronting Lake Boebeis,

  in Boebe and Glaphyrae and Iolcos’ sturdy ramparts:

  their eleven ships were led by Admetus’ favored son,

  Eumelus, born to Admetus by Alcestis, queen of women,

  the most radiant daughter Pelias ever fathered.

  Then men who lived in Methone and Thaumacia,

  men who held Meliboea and rugged ridged Olizon:

  Philoctetes the master archer had led them on

  in seven ships with fifty oarsmen aboard each,

  superbly skilled with the bow in lethal combat.

  But their captain lay on an island, racked with pain,

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sp; on Lemnos’ holy shores where the armies had marooned him,

  agonized by his wound, the bite of a deadly water-viper.

  There he writhed in pain but soon, encamped by the ships,

  the Argives would recall Philoctetes, their great king.

  But not even then were his men without a captain,

  yearn as they did for their lost leader. No,

  Medon formed them up, Oileus’ bastard son

  whom Rhene bore to Oileus, grim raider of cities.

  And men who settled Tricca, rocky Ithome terraced high

  and men who held Oechalia, Oechalian Eurytus’ city:

  the two sons of Asclepius led their units now,

  both skilled healers, Podalirius and Machaon.

  In their command sailed forty curved black ships.

  And men who held Ormenion and the Hyperian Spring,

  men who held Asterion, Titanos’ chalk-white cliffs:

  Eurypylus marched them on, Euaemon’s shining son.

  In his command sailed forty long black ships.

  And the men who settled Argissa and Gyrtone,

  Orthe, Elone, the gleaming citadel Oloosson:

  Polypoetes braced for battle led them on,

  the son of Pirithous, son of deathless Zeus.

  Famous Hippodamia bore the warrior to Pirithous

  that day he wreaked revenge on the shaggy Centaurs,

  routed them out of Pelion, drove them to the Aethices.

  Polypoetes was not alone, Leonteus shared the helm,

  companion of Ares, Caeneus’ grandson, proud Coronus’ son.

  And in his command sailed forty long black ships.

  And Guneus out of Cyphus led on two and twenty ships

  and in his platoons came Enienes and battle-tried Peraebians

  who pitched homes in the teeth of Dodona’s bitter winters,

  who held the tilled acres along the lovely Titaressus

  that runs her pure crystal currents into Peneus—

  never mixed with Peneus’ eddies glistening silt

  but gliding over the surface smooth as olive oil,

  branching, breaking away from the river Styx,

  the dark and terrible oath-stream of the gods.

  And Prothous son of Tenthredon led the Magnesians,

  men who lived around the Peneus, up along Mount Pelion

  sloped in wind-whipped leaves. Racing Prothous led them on

  and in his command sailed forty long black ships.

  These, these were the captains of Achaea and the kings.

  Now tell me, Muse, who were the bravest of them all,

  of the men and chariot-teams that came with Atreus’ sons?

  The best by far of the teams were Eumelus’ mares

  and Pheres’ grandson drove them—swift as birds,

  matched in age and their glossy coats and matched

  to a builder’s level flat across their backs.

  Phoebus Apollo lord of the silver bow

  had bred them both in Perea, a brace of mares

  that raced the War-god’s panic through the lines.

  But best by far of the men was Telamonian Ajax

  while Achilles raged apart. The famed Achilles

  towered over them all, he and the battle-team

  that bore the peerless son of Peleus into war.

  But off in his beaked seagoing ships he lay,

  raging away at Atrides Agamemnon, king of armies,

  while his men sported along the surf, marking time,

  hurling the discus, throwing spears and testing bows.

  And the horses, each beside its chariot, champing clover

  and parsley from the marshes, waited, pawing idly.

  Their masters’ chariots stood under blankets now,

  stored away in the tents while the rank and file,

  yearning for their leader, the great man of war,

  drifting here and there throughout the encampment,

  hung back from the fighting.

  But on the armies came

  as if the whole earth were devoured by wildfire, yes,

  and the ground thundered under them, deep as it does

  for Zeus who loves the lightning, Zeus in all his rage

  when he lashes the ground around Typhoeus in Arima,

  there where they say the monster‘makes his bed of pain—

  so the earth thundered under their feet, armies trampling,

  sweeping through the plain at blazing speed.

  Now the Trojans.

  Iris the wind-quick messenger hurried down to Ilium,

  bearing her painful message, sent by storming Zeus.

  The Trojans assembled hard by Priam’s gates,

  gathered together there, young men and old,

  and rushing closer, racing Iris addressed them,

  keying her voice to that of Priam’s son Polites.

  He had kept a watch for the Trojans, posted atop

  old Aesyetes’ tomb and poised to sprint for home

  at the first sign of Argives charging from the ships.

  Like him to the life, the racing Iris urged, “Old Priam,

  words, endless words—that is your passion, always,

  as once in the days of peace. But ceaseless war’s upon us!

  Time and again I’ve gone to battle, fought with men

  but I’ve never seen an army great as this. Too much—

  like piling leaves or sand, and on and on they come,

  advancing across the plain to fight before our gates.

  Hector, I urge you first of all—do as I tell you.

  Armies of allies crowd the mighty city of Priam,

  true, but they speak a thousand different tongues,

  fighters gathered here from all ends of the realm.

  Let each chief give commands to the tribe he leads,

  move them out, marshal his own contingents—now!”

  Hector missed nothing—that was a goddess’ call.

  He broke up the assembly at once. They rushed to arms

  and all the gates flung wide and the Trojan mass surged out,

  horses, chariots, men on foot—a tremendous roar went up.

  Now a sharp ridge rises out in front of Troy,

  all on its own and far across the plain

  with running-room around it, all sides clear.

  Men call it Thicket Ridge, the immortals call it

  the leaping Amazon Myrine’s mounded tomb, and there

  the Trojans and allies ranged their troops for battle.

  First, tall Hector with helmet flashing led the Trojans—

  Priam’s son and in his command by far the greatest, bravest army,

  divisions harnessed in armor, veterans bristling spears.

  And the noble son of Anchises led the Dardanians—

  Aeneas whom the radiant Aphrodite bore Anchises

  down the folds of Ida, a goddess bedded with a man.

  Not Aeneas alone but flanked by Antenor’s two sons,

  Acamas and Archelochus, trained for every foray.

  And men who lived in Zelea under the foot of Ida,

  a wealthy clan that drank the Aesepus’ dark waters—

  Trojans all, and the shining son of Lycaon led them on,