But he who rules the waters of the sea,
the trident-bearing Neptune, still feels grief—
a father’s sorrow for his son, transformed
into a swan, the bird so dear to Phaethon:
he can’t forget his Cycnus; he detests
the cruel Achilles; nothing curbs his wrath;
Latin [562–83]
his rage is past all measure. And the war
has lasted almost ten long years by now;
and he turns to the unshorn god, Apollo:
“Of all my brother’s sons, you are—by far—
the one whom I love most; you labored hard
beside me as we built (although in vain)
the walls of Troy. And now that they will fall
so soon, so doomed, don’t you lament? Are you
not grieved when you recall the fighting men
who fell, defending the great battlements?
I will not name them all—but can’t you see
the shade of Hector, even as they drag
his corpse around his Pergamum? Meanwhile,
the terrible Achilles, more bloodthirsty
than war itself, the one who wrecked our work,
still lives! If he would only come before me,
in reach of my own trident, by the sea,
I’d have him feel what three prongs can inflict.
But since I’m not permitted to confront
Achilles face to face, won’t you instead
have him meet death by covert means—a shaft
he cannot see?”
The Delian agrees;
just as his uncle—and his own self—wish,
wrapped in a cloud, Apollo then is quick
to reach the Trojan ranks. There he can see,
amid that slaughter, Paris aiming shafts
from time to time against a crowd of Greeks.
Revealing his identity, Apollo
asks: “Why waste arrows killing common folk?
If you are so devoted to your Trojans,
then aim your shafts at Peleus’ son: avenge
your slaughtered brothers.” So Apollo said,
and then he pointed out just where Achilles
was felling many Trojans with his lance;
the god turned Paris’ bow in that direction;
Latin [583–605]
and when the shaft was shot, Apollo guided
the well-aimed arrow with his deadly hand.
Since Hector’s death, just this had brought the gift
of joy to the old Priam—only this.
Achilles, victor over mighty men,
now you have fallen at a coward’s hands—
a ravisher who snatched a Grecian wife.
But if a woman was to take your life,
it is an Amazon you would have liked
to fell you with her double ax beside
Thermodon’s banks.
The man who terrified
the Phrygians, Aeacus’ far-famed grandson,
the unsurpassable chieftain, who adorned
and shielded the Pelasgians’ name, is burned.
And Vulcan, who had made Achilles’ arms,
is that same god whose flames consume him now.
He is but ashes; all that’s left of great
Achilles hardly fills a little urn.
Only the world can be commensurate
with such a warrior: in such a space
the son of Peleus is his own true self—
and not confined to hollow Tartarus.
Reminding us of just how great he was,
even his shield spurs warriors to war.
The Greeks contend: each hero takes up arms,
that he might bear the arms Achilles bore.
But neither Menelaus, lesser son
of Atreus; nor the greater, Agamemnon;
nor Diomedes; not the lesser Ajax,
Oileus’ son; nor other mighty chieftains
dare claim the right to bear Achilles’ weapons;
just two have claims upon a prize so grand:
only Laertes’ son, Ulysses, and
the greater Ajax, son of Telamon.
Latin [606–25]
But to elude a task that none would envy
(reluctant to decide between those two
contenders), Agamemnon summons all
the Argive chieftains; mid-camp, they assemble.
He calls on them to choose—to end the quarrel.