Iliad (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

Achilles, then, madly raging,

Foully dishonored the body of noble Hector,¹

But meanwhile the blessed gods, who saw what he did,

Had compassion on Hector and prompted Hermes, the keen-eyed

Killer of Argus, to go steal the corpse. And all

Of the gods thought he should, save Hera, Poseidon, and maidenly

Bright-eyed Athena, each of whom kept up the hatred

Which they had felt from the first against holy Troy,

King Priam, and Priam’s people, because of the sin

Of Prince Paris, the man who deeply insulted Athena

And Hera, when they had come to his courtyard, by favoring

Sweet Aphrodite, the goddess who furthered his blind

And disastrous lust.^bw But when the twelfth morning came

Since Hector had lain a corpse, Phoebus Apollo

Spoke thus among the immortals:

“You’re ruthlessly cruel,

You gods, and workers of evil! Has Hector, then,

Never burned thigh-pieces for you of bulls and goats

Without flaw? And have you so little concern to save

His mere corpse, for his wife and mother and little boy

To look upon, along with his father Priam

And Priam’s people, who soon would burn his dead body

And build him a barrow with all due funeral rites?

Oh yes, you’d rather help monstrous Achilles, whose thought

Is outrageous, whose will too rigid to bend. His heart

Is obsessed with savage revenge, a heart as unfeeling

And brutal as that of a lordly lion urged on

By his spirit and might to spring on the flock of some shepherd

And try for a feast. Like him, Achilles is void

Of all pity, nor has his heart any shame, which can help

As well as harm mortal men. A man, after all,

May lose one dearer to him than this man was,

A brother, sprung from the same womb as he, or even

A son. But when he has wept and fittingly mourned

For him, he ends his grieving, for surely the fates

Have given to men a tough and patient spirit.²

Achilles, though, having taken the life of great Hector,

Binds him in back of his car and drags him daily

About his dear comrade’s barrow. Truly, he’ll win

Nothing good by so doing. Let him, indeed, beware,

Before we grow really angry at him, brave man

Though he surely is, for now in his stupid fury

He sinfully fouls and defiles insensible clay!”

Angered by this, white-armed Hera replied:

“Something may come of your words, O silver-bowed one,

Providing you gods honor Hector no more than Achilles.

For Hector, you know, is mortal, and to him a mere woman

Gave suck, but Achilles was born of an immortal goddess,

Whom I myself lovingly reared and gave to a man

In marriage, to Peleus, who was very dear to the gods.

And all of you shining immortals were there at her wedding,

Including you, Apollo, you friend of blackguards,

Treacherous always—but there you sat in our midst

With your lyre in hand!”

Then Zeus, the gale-gathering god,

Spoke thus in answer: “Do not be so utterly angry,

Hera, against the immortals. Those two shall never

Be honored the same. Even so, of all the mortals

In Troy, Hector was dearest indeed to the gods.

So, at least, I regarded the man, for never once

Did he fail to please me with gifts. Never once was my altar

By him left bare of the ample feast—drink-offering

And savor of burning meat—that we consider

Our due. But let us forget the proposal to steal

Brave Hector’s body. It surely could not be done

Without Achilles’ knowing, since night and day

His mother closely attends him. But I wish some immortal

Would go tell Thetis to come here to me, that I

May advise her in time to get her great son to accept

King Priam’s gifts of ransom and give Hector back.”

He spoke, and gale-footed Iris hurried to carry

His message. Midway between Samos and craggy Imbros

She dived into the dark sea, and the billows boomed

As they closed above her. Then down she shot, like a sinker

Of lead attached to the horn-guarded hook that plummets

Below bearing death to the ravenous fish. And there

In a high-vaulted cave she found Thetis, and all around her

A throng of other sea-goddesses sat, while she

In their midst was bewailing the fate of her matchless son,

Who as she knew was destined to fall and die

In the rich land of Troy, far from his own dear country.

Standing beside her, quick-footed Iris spoke thus:

“Up now, O Thetis. Zeus of the unfailing counsels

Calls you to come.”

So saying, the goddess,

Radiantly fair, took a sea-blue veil, the darkest

Thing she possessed, and started the journey to Zeus,

With wind-footed Iris leading the way, and about them

The billows parted as out they stepped on the beach.

Then off they sped to Olympus. There they found Cronos’ son,

Far-seeing Zeus, and gathered around him sat all

Of the other undying gods. Then Thetis sat down

Beside Father Zeus—Athena yielded her chair—

And Hera, placing a gorgeous gold cup in her hand,

Welcomed her warmly. When Thetis had drunk and returned

The bright cup, the Father of gods and men was the first

To speak:

“You came, divine Thetis, up here to Olympus

In spite of the comfortless grief I know you are full of

Let me, then, tell you why I called you to come.

For the last nine days the immortal gods have wrangled

About Hector’s corpse and Achilles, taker of towns.

They’ve even suggested that keen-sighted Hermes, killer

Of Argus, steal noble Hector’s body. But I

Would much rather resolve their strife in a way that will honor

Achilles and keep for me in later days

Your worship and love. Go, then, with all speed to the camp

And tell your son what I say. Tell him the gods

Are angry with him, I most of all, because

In his madness of heart he still keeps noble Hector

Beside the beaked ships, refusing to give him back.

His awe of me may then overcome him and lead him

To yield the body. Meanwhile, I’ll dispatch Iris

To great-hearted Priam to bid him go to the ships

Of Achaea with ransom for his dear son, gifts

That will soften the heart of Achilles.”

Such were his words,

And the goddess silver-shod Thetis did not disobey him,

But down she went darting from high on the peaks of Olympus

And came to the lodge of her grieving son. She found him there,

Riddled with groans, while round him his comrades were busy

Preparing the morning meal, having already slaughtered

A huge shaggy ram. Then sitting close by his side,

His goddess mother gently caressed him, called him

By name, and said:

“My child, how long will you go on

Eating your heart out with grieving and weeping, forgetful

Of food and bed alike. Even that would be

A good thing, for you to make love with some woman, since you,

Dear child, have not much longer to live. Already

Death and powerful fate are standing beside you.

But hear, now, this message from Zeus. He says that the gods

Are angry with you, he most of all, because

In your madness of heart you still keep noble Hector

Beside the beaked ships, refusing to give him back.

But come, give up the body, and take in return

A ransom paid for the dead.”

Thus,

Mid many ships, mother and son spoke words

Both winged and numerous, each to the other. Meanwhile,

Zeus dispatched Iris to sacred Ilium, saying:

“Up now, swift Iris, and go. Leave your seat

On Olympus and bear these tidings to great-hearted Priam

In Troy, saying that he must go to the ships

Of the Argives to ransom his precious son, taking gifts

With him to soften the heart of Achilles. And tell him

To go by himself, save only perhaps one herald,

Some older man, to drive the well-running mule wagon

And bring back to town the body of him cut down

By Achilles. But let him not dwell on death, nor have

Any fear, for he shall be led by the greatest of guides,

Even Hermes, slayer of Argus, and he will take him

Right into the lodge of Achilles, who will not only

Not kill him himself—he’ll hold back all of the others.

For he is not really stupid or thoughtless, nor is he

An utterly godless sinner. No, he’ll treat

A suppliant father with care and every kindness.”

He spoke, and gale-footed Iris hurried to carry

His word. Arriving at Priam’s house, she was greeted

By clamorous keening. There in the courtyard his sons

Were seated about their old father, moistening their garments

With tears, while he in their midst sat tightly wrapped

In his shroud-like cloak of mourning, his ancient head

And neck filthily fouled with dung, which he

Had smeared on himself with his hands as he rolled in grief

On the dung-laden ground. And throughout the palace his daughters

And daughters-in-law were wailing with sorrow, recalling

The many brave heroes undone at the hands of the Argives.

Coming up close, the bright agent of Zeus addressed him,

And though she spoke softly, his body trembled all over:

“Be brave, O Priam, descended of Dardanus, and banish

All fear. I have not come to you now with a message

Of evil, but one you’ll be glad to hear. I come

Directly from Zeus, who though far away still has

Great care and compassion for you. He, the Olympian

Himself, bids you go ransom your precious son,

Taking gifts with you to soften the heart of Achilles.

And you must go by yourself, save only perhaps

One herald, some older man, to drive the well-running

Mule wagon and bring back to town the body of him

Cut down by Achilles. But don’t dwell on death, nor have

Any fear, for you shall be led by the greatest of guides,

Even Hermes, slayer of Argus, and he will take you

Right into the lodge of Achilles, who will not only

Not kill you himself—he’ll hold back all of the others.

For he is not really stupid or thoughtless, nor is he

An utterly godless sinner. No, he’ll treat

A suppliant father with care and every kindness.”

So saying, fleet-footed Iris took off, whereupon

Old Priam ordered his sons to harness mules

To a well-running wagon and bind the wicker body

On top. He himself went down to his high-vaulted chamber,

Fragrant with cedar and full of bright treasures, and calling

To him his wife Hecuba, gently he spoke to her, saying:

“My sorely afflicted lady, a messenger straight

From Zeus and Olympus has just come to me, bidding me

Go to the ships of Achaea with adequate ransom

For our dear son, splendid gifts to soften the heart

Of Achilles. But tell me, how do you feel about this?

As for myself, I’m more than anxious to go

To the ships, deep into the widely spread camp of the Argives.”

At this his wife cried out, shrilly protesting:

“O misery! where now is that wisdom for which you have always

Been famous, both here at home and abroad? Why

Would you wish to go unattended into the fiercely

Glaring presence of him who has murdered your sons

So many and brave? Surely your heart is of iron!

For once he gets you before him and sees who you are,

He’ll have neither care nor compassion for you, believe me.

So now, my husband, let us lament for our son

Right here in the palace. For such is surely the lot

That powerful Fate spun out for him on the day

When I myself bore him, that he should glut the lean guts

Of flashing-swift dogs far from his loving parents,

A corpse by the lodge of a violent monster, whose liver

I’d joyfully eat, if only somehow I could sink

My teeth into it!^bx Only then would I feel that he’d paid

For the life of my son, who died doing nothing unmanly,

But standing out in defense of the men and deep-breasted

Women of Troy, with no thought at all of running

Or taking cover.”

Then answering her, old Priam

The godlike said: “Don’t try to restrain me when I

Am so anxious to go, nor be a bird of ill omen

Here in the palace. Believe me, you’ll not change my mind!

For had any earth-dwelling creature bidden me do this,

Whether some priest or seer or teller of omens,

We might have considered it false and thus ignored it

Completely. But now that I’ve heard in person the voice

Of the goddess and looked on her face, I’ll go, nor shall

Her words have been spoken in vain. And if my fate be

To lie a corpse by the ships of the bronze-clad Achaeans,

Such is my preference. Achilles may quickly kill me

With my dear son held close in my arms, once I

Have quenched my desire for tearful grief and lamenting.”

Thus he resolved, and lifting the ornate lids

Of the chests, he took twelve exquisite robes, twelve cloaks

Of single fold, and a dozen each of blankets,

White mantles, and tunics. Then he weighed and bore out

Ten talents of gold, which he followed with two gleaming tripods,

Four bowls, and a marvelous goblet, a gift from the men

Of Thrace when he had gone there on a mission, a truly

Rare treasure, but not even this would the old man spare

In his palace, so deeply desirous was he to ransom

His precious son.

The next thing he did was to drive

All loitering Trojans out of his portico, chiding

Them thus with hard words: “Get out, you disgraceful wretches!

Can it be that you have so little sorrow at home

That you have to come pestering me here? Do you think it nothing,

This grief that Cronos’ son Zeus has brought upon me,

This loss of my most valiant and princely son?

But you too shall know very well what I mean, for all

Of you now will fall a much easier prey to Achaeans

With no Hector here to protect you. As for myself,

Before I see this city sacked and her people destroyed,

May I go down and enter Hades’ dark halls.”

So saying, he rushed at them with his staff, and all of them

Rapidly scattered before the furious old one.

Then he called out to his sons, rebuking them harshly—

To Helenus, Paris, and Agathon, nobly gifted,

To Antiphonus, Pammon, and battle-roaring Polites,

As well as Deïphobus, Hippothous, and haughty Dius.

To these nine their old father shouted harsh orders, crying:

“Hurry up, my no-account sons, my groveling disgraces!

O how I wish that you’d all been killed at the ships

And that Hector was still alive! How utterly luckless

Can one old man be? For I sired excellent sons,

The best by far in the whole wide country of Troy.

But now, I tell you, not one of them is alive,

Not Mestor the godlike, not horse-prizing Troilus, and now

Not Hector, who lived a god among men, for always

He seemed far more like the son of some immortal

Than he did of any mere man. All of them Ares

Has slaughtered, leaving me nothing but you poor excuses

For men, a bunch of flattering knaves, champions

Nowhere but on the dance floor, and stealers of lambs

And kids from your own Trojan people! Well why the delay?

Get busy right now! Make ready a wagon, and put

All these things aboard it, that we may get started at once.”

He spoke, and they, gripped with fear at the words of their father,

Hauled out a newly built, beautiful wagon, strong

And smooth-running, and on it they bound the light wicker body.

Then down from its peg they lifted the mule-yoke, a box-wood

Yoke with a knob at the center and well fitted out

With rings for the chains to pass through, and with it they brought

The yoke-band some fifteen feet long. Snugly they set

The yoke at the right-angled end of the car’s polished shaft

And flipped the yoke-ring over the peg in the pole.

Next with the yoke-band they lashed the knob fast to the upturned

End of the shaft, with three quick turns to the left

And three to the right, and fastened the straps, deftly

Tucking the ends in. Then they brought from the chamber

The treasures of Priam, the boundless ransom for Hector,

Which they heaped high on the gleaming wagon, and yoked

To it the sohd-hoofed mules, strong toilers in harness,

A glorious pair that once the people of Mysia

Had given to Priam. For Priam himself they yoked

His own horses, a team reserved for his use and reared

By himself at the smooth wooden manger.

Now while the old King

And his herald were waiting beneath the high roof for all

To be ready, both of them anxiously planning ahead

In silence, old Hecuba, grieving, came with a cup

Of honey-sweet wine in her wrinkled right hand, that they

Might pour a libation before setting out. She stopped

In front of the horses and said:

“Take now this cup

And pour a libation to Zeus the Father, earnestly

Praying for your safe return from the midst of our foes,

Since now your heart is determined to go, in spite of

My wish that you wouldn’t. Then pray to Zeus once again,

To Cronos’ son, god of the lowering gale, who scans

At a glance the whole country of Troy, and ask him to send

His most favorably ominous bird, his own swift bearer

Of omen, the dearest of birds to him, and the strongest

Of wing. And let him fly by on the right, that you

May go on to the ships of the swiftly-drawn Danaans, trusting

In that mighty sign. But if far-seeing Zeus

Refuses to send you his own most favorable bird,

Then I would by no means advise you to go to the ships

Of the Argives, no matter how strong and deep your resolve.”

So spoke the old King, and asked

The handmaid in attendance to rinse his hands with fresh water,

And soon she came up with basin and pitcher. Then,

Having washed his hands, he took the cup from his wife,

And walking out to the midst of the court, he poured

The libation of wine, looking toward heaven and praying:

“O Father Zeus, ruling from Ida, most great

And glorious lord, grant that I come to the lodge

Of Achilles as one to be pitied and cared for. And send

Your most favorably ominous bird, your own swift bearer

Of omen, the dearest of birds to you, and the strongest

Of wing. And let him fly by on the right, that I

May go on to the ships of the swiftly-drawn Danaans, trusting

In that mighty sign.”

Such was his prayer, and Zeus

The contriver heard him. At once he sent out an eagle,

The surest of all winged omens, the deadly dark hunter

That men call the grape-colored one. From tip to tip

His wings were as wide as the double well-bolted doors

Of some wealthy man’s high-vaulted chamber, and by he flew

On the right, swooping low through the city. All were made glad

By the sight, and the hearts of all were warmly encouraged.

Then quickly the old one mounted his car and drove

Through the gate and loud colonnade. In front the mules

Drew the four-wheeled wagon, with prudent Idaeus driving,

While rapidly on came old Priam, constantly laying

The lash on and urging his pair through the city. And following

Him came all of his kinsmen and friends, wailing loudly

For him as for one who went to his death. But when

They got out of the city and came to the plain, his sons

And sons-in-law turned back to town with the rest, while the herald

And Priam went on toward the ships, nor were they unnoticed

By far-seeing Zeus.³ Feeling pity at sight of old Priam,

He spoke at once to his dear son Hermes, saying:

He spoke, and swift Hermes,

Slayer of Argus, obeyed him, putting on his bright sandals

Of magic immortal gold, which bear him always

Swift as the wind over boundless earth and sea.

And he took the wand with which he can lull to sleep

Or wake from the deepest slumber whomever he wishes.

With this in his hand the mighty slayer of Argus

Flew down, and quickly he came to the Hellespont stream

And the Trojan plain. Then he went on afoot in the form

Of a princely young man with the first fine down on his lip,

At that age when youth is most charming.

Meanwhile, the old King

And his herald had driven past Ilus’ huge barrow and stopped

For the horses and mules to drink from the river. Darkness

Had fallen on earth when the herald looked up and there

Close at hand saw Hermes, whereat he spoke thus to King Priam:

“Look out! Dardanian. Now is the time for quick thinking.

Here comes a man, and soon, I fear, we shall both

Be ripped all to pieces. But come, let us leap in the chariot

Now and run for our lives, or else hug his knees

And beg him for mercy!”

At this the old King was so frightened

He lost all power to think. He stood in a daze,

Struck dumb, and the hair fairly rose on his gnarled old limbs.

But Hermes the helper came up and taking his hand

Inquired: “Where, O father, can you he driving

These horses and mules through the fragrant and immortal night

While other people are sleeping? Have you no fear

At all of the fury-breathing Achaeans, hostile

And ruthless men that they are, and so close at hand?

If one of them saw you conveying such huge store of wealth

Through the fast-fallen blackness of night, what would you do then?

You’re not young yourself, and he who goes with you is old,

Nor could you defend yourselves against any man

Who chose to attack you. But so far from doing you damage

Myself, I will go against any who tries to. For you

Remind me a lot of my own beloved old father.”

To which ancient Priam the godlike: “Things are, dear child,

Just as you say. But surely some god has stretched out

His hand in protection above me, since now he has sent

A man such as you, so splendid in face and physique,

So gifted with keen understanding, and truly a bearer

Of blessings to me. Your parents are happy indeed

To have such a son.”

And again the messenger Hermes,

Slayer of Argus, spoke: “What you say, old sire,

Is well and happily put. But come, tell me frankly.

Are you taking this treasure to some foreign folk

For safe keeping, or have you all started to leave holy Troy

In fear, now that your greatest and noblest is dead,

Your own valiant son who never let up for so much

As a moment in waging fierce war against the Achaeans?”

And the messenger Hermes, slayer of Argus, said:

“You’re trying me now, old sire, to see what I know

Of great Hector. I’ve seen him a good many times in the fury

Of hero-enhancing battle, including the time

He drove the Argives to the ships and cut many down

With sharp bronze. And we just stood there and marveled, forbidden

To fight by Achilles, who seethed with furious wrath

Against Agamemnon. I am Achilles’ squire,

And the same sturdy ship brought both of us here. I’m a Myrmidon,

Son of Polyctor, a rich man and old, very much

Like yourself, and I am the youngest of his seven sons.

On me the lot fell to come here and fight, and now

I have left the ships and come to the plain, for at dawn

The quick-eyed Achaeans will once again attack Troy.

They’re restless indeed sitting idle, nor can the kings

Of Achaea restrain them, so hot are they for the fight.”

Then the escort Hermes, slayer of Argus:

“Old sire, not yet have dogs and birds devoured him,

But he still lies mid the lodges beside the ship

Of Achilles, just as he has from the first. And though

This makes the twelfth day he has lain there, his flesh has not even

Begun to decay, nor do any worms consume him,

Worms such as feast on the bodies of battle-slain men.

It’s true that Achilles each day at the coming of bright

Divine Dawn unfeelingly drags him about the barrow

Of his beloved friend, but he does his body no damage

At all. If you were to go and see him yourself,

You’d surely marvel at how he lies, washed clean

Of blood and fresh as the dew, altogether unmarred

And unstained. For the numerous wounds he received from the mob

That thrust their bronze in his flesh have all closed up

Completely. Even such is the care the happy gods take

Of your son, though only a corpse, for he was quite dear

To their hearts.”

At this the old one, rejoicing, said:

“My child, what a fine thing it is to give the immortals

Such gifts as are rightfully due them. For never once

Did my son—if ever I had such a son—neglect

In our halls the gods who live on Olympus, which is why

They’ve remembered him now, though his fate was to die as he did.

But come, accept this choice goblet from me and be

My protector, that I by the grace of the gods everlasting

May come to the lodge of Peleus’ son Achilles.”

And once again the god who slew Argus answered:

“You’re testing me now, old sire, but young though I am

I’ll certainly not allow you to bribe me with gifts

Behind the back of Achilles. Were I to accept

What will soon be his own, my heart should be filled with terror

And dread at the prospect of what might become of me

Hereafter. But go as your guide I most surely will,

Even all the way to world-famous Argos, if such

Is your wish, very carefully guiding and guarding you always,

Whether on land or aboard a swift ship. Nor would

Any man attack you for want of respect for your escort!”

So saying, help-bringing Hermes sprang up behind

The car-drawing horses, caught up the whip and the reins

And breathed fresh spirit into the horses and mules.

When they came to the trench and the wall round the ships, the guards

Had just begun fixing supper, but Hermes quickly

Put them to sleep and, thrusting the bars back, opened

The gates. Then into the camp he drove the old King,

And with them they brought the wagon of glorious gifts

For Achilles. Soon they arrived at his lodge, the lofty

Shelter the Myrmidon men had built for their chief,

Hewing out beams of pine and roofing it over

With reed-shaggy thatch from the fields. And they had built round it

For him a spacious courtyard high fenced with stakes

Closely set, with a gate strongly locked by means of one bar

Across it. This huge beam of pine it took three Achaeans

To move back and forth, though Achilles could handle the thing

By himself. Once there, luck-bringing Hermes opened

The gate for old Priam and drove him inside, and with them

They brought the marvelous gifts for the swift son of Peleus.

Then stepping down, Hermes spoke thus to the King:

“Old sire, I that have come to you thus am a god

Everlasting—Hermes, sent by the Father to act

As your guide. But now I’ll go back without letting Achilles

See me, for it would be wrong for an immortal god

To be so openly welcomed by mortal men.

But you yourself go in and, embracing the knees

Of Peleus’ son, make your plea in the name of his father,

Lovely-haired mother, and son, that you may stir

The depths of his soul.”

So saying, Hermes took off

For the heights of Olympus, and Priam sprang down from the car

To the ground and, leaving Idaeus in charge of the horses

And mules, strode straight for the lodge where Zeus-loved Achilles

Sat. And inside he found him, apart from all comrades

But two, the hero Automedon, and Alcimus, scion

Of Ares, who busily waited upon him, since he

Had just finished eating and drinking, and still the table

Had not been removed. Great Priam came in unnoticed

By any, till coming up close to Achilles he threw

His arms round his knees and kissed his dread hands, the

murderous

Hands that had killed so many of his precious sons.

And as when thick darkness of soul comes down on a man

And killing another he flees from his own dear country

And comes to some foreign land and the house of a man

Of bountiful wealth, and wonder grips all who see him

A suppliant there, so now Achilles was seized

With exceeding amazement at sight of sacred Priam,

And those who were with him marveled and looked at each other.⁴

Then Priam made his plea, beseeching him thus:

“Remember, Achilles, O godlike mortal, remember

Peleus your father, a man of like years as myself,

Far gone on the path of painful old age. Very likely

His neighbors are grinding him down, nor is there one there

To keep from him ruin and destruction. However, so long

As he hears you’re alive, his heart can daily be glad

In the hope that he shall yet see his dear son returning

From Troy. But I am without good fortune completely,

Since though I begot the best sons in the whole wide country

Of Troy, yet now not even one is left!

When the sons of Achaeans arrived, I had fifty sons

Of my own, nineteen from the womb of one mother, the rest

Borne to me by women of mine in the palace. But though

They were many, furious Ares has unstrung the knees

Of all, and the only one left me, who all by himself

Protected the city and people, fell to your spear

Some days ago as he was defending his country—

Hector my son, and now I have come to the ships

Of Achaea to pay you a ransom for him, and I bring

With me a load of treasure past counting. Have awe

Of the gods, O Achilles, and pity on me, remembering

Your dear father. I am indeed even more

To be pitied than he, for I have endured what no other

Earth-dwelling mortal has—to reach out my hand

To the face of him who slaughtered my precious sons!”

Such was his plea, and he stirred in Achilles a yearning

To weep for Peleus his father, and taking the hand

Of old Priam he gently pushed him away. Then the two of them

Thought of their losses, and Priam sobbed sorely for man-killing

Hector, the old King huddling in front of Achilles,

Whose weeping was now for his father and now for Patroclus,

And throughout the lodge arose the sound of their grief.

But when great Achilles had found some relief in lamenting,

And longing for such had gone out of his body and soul,

He suddenly sprang from his chair, and filled with pity

For Priam’s gray head and gray beard, he raised the old King

By the hand and spoke to him these winged words:

“Wretched sire,

Many indeed are the horrors your soul has endured.

But how could you ever have come here alone to the ships

Of the Argives to look in the eyes of the man who has killed

Your many brave sons? Surely your heart is of iron!

But come, sit down in a chair, and we’ll both let our grief,

Great though it is, lie quiet in our hearts. Cold crying

Accomplishes little. For thus have the sorrowless gods

Spun the web of existence for miserable mortals—with pain

Woven in throughout! There stand by the threshold of Zeus

Two urns, one full of evils, the other of blessings.

To whomever Zeus, the lover of lightning, gives

A portion from each, that man experiences

Both evil and good, but to whomever Zeus gives nothing

But of the grievous, that man is reviled by gods

And men and hounded by horrible hunger all over

The sacred earth. Take Peleus my father for instance.

No man ever had more glorious god-bestowed gifts

Than he from the time of his birth, for he surpassed all

In wealth and good fortune, was King of the Myrmidon people,

And though but a mortal himself, the gods gave a goddess

To him for a wife. But even on him the immortals

Brought evil enough, since there in his halls no plentiful

Offspring of princes was born, but only one son,

And he undoubtedly doomed to die young. Nor can I

So much as look after him as he ages, since far,

Very far from home I live in the country of Troy,

A plague to you and your children. And you, old sire,

We hear were once happy, for you, because of your wealth

And your sons, were the first of mortals in all the great space

That lies between Lesbos, south in the sea, where Macar

Was King long ago, and Phrygia off to the north

And the free-flowing Hellespont. Since, though, the heavenly gods

Brought on you this baneful war, your city has been

Surrounded by havoc and dying men. But you

Must bear up, nor can you afford to grieve without ceasing.

You’ll not thereby do anything good for your son.

Before you bring him back to life, you’ll suffer a fate

Little less unhappy yourself!”

To which the old Priam:

“By no means ask me to sit, O god-nourished man,

So long as Hector lies mid the lodges uncared for.

Release him to me at once, that I may see him

Myself, and take the great ransom we bring to you

For his body. May you enjoy it all and come

Even yet to the land of your fathers, since you now have spared me

To live on for a while beholding the light of the sun.”

Then scowling at him, quick-footed Achilles spoke sternly:

“Do nothing else to provoke me, old man! I myself,

With no help from you, have already agreed to give

Hector back, for Zeus has sent word to me by the mother

Who bore me, the briny old sea-ancient’s daughter. And don’t think

I haven’t known all along about you—that you

Were guided here by some god to the swift-sailing ships

Of Achaeans. For certainly no mere mortal, no matter

How young and strong, would ever dare enter this camp.

He could not get by the guards, nor could he easily

Push back the bar of my gate. So say nothing else,

Old man, to make me feel any worse, or I

May forget to spare even you mid the lodges, and so break

The strict law of Zeus.”

At this the old king was gripped

By a wordless terror and watched as Achilles sprang

Through the door of the lodge like a lion, not by himself,

But accompanied by the two squires, the hero Automedon

Followed by Alcimus, two that Achilles honored

Beyond all his comrades, save only the dead Patroclus.

These then unharnessed the horses and led

The herald inside, the old King’s aged town crier,

And gave him a seat, and from the wagon they took

The boundless ransom for Hector. They left, however,

Two cloaks and a well-woven tunic, that these Achilles

Might use to wrap up the dead and so give him back

To be borne to his home. Then Achilles called for handmaids

To wash and anoint the dead body, bidding them do it

Where Priam could not see his son, for Achilles feared

That his guest might not be able to hold back his wrath,

And so he might lose his own temper and kill the old man,

Thus sinning against Zeus’s law. When the handmaids had washed

The body and rubbed it with oil and put about it

A tunic and beautiful cloak, Achilles himself

Lifted it onto a bier and helped his companions

Lift it onto the wagon.⁵ Then groaning, he called

On his precious friend by name:

So spoke great Achilles, then went back inside and sat down

In his richly wrought chair by the opposite wall from old Priam,

To whom he spoke thus: “Your son, old sire, has now

Been released to you as you have requested and lies

On a bier, and you yourself shall see him tomorrow

At daybreak while carrying him away—but let us

Not neglect supper, for even the lovely-haired Niobe

Ate, though her twelve children all died in her palace,

Six daughters and six lusty sons. Shaft-showering Artemis

Brought down the daughters, while Phoebus Apollo put arrows

Through all of the sons with his silver bow, both of them

Wrathful with her for comparing herself with their own mother

Leto, Niobe saying that Leto had only

Two children while she herself had borne many. So they,

Though only two, destroyed all twelve of hers.

And there for nine days they lay in their blood unburied,

For Cronos’ son Zeus turned all of the people to stones.

On the tenth, however, the heavenly gods held the funeral,

And Niobe, weary of weeping, remembered to eat.

And now somewhere mid the crags in the desolate hills

Of Sipylus, where, men say, the nymphs go to bed

When they tire of dancing about the stream Achelous,

Niobe stands and, though solid stone, broods

On her god-sent disasters.^by So come, my royal old sire,

And let us likewise remember to eat, and later,

Back in your city, you may lament your dear son

With innumerable tears.”

So saying, Achilles sprang up

And slaughtered a silvery white sheep, which his comrades flay-ed

And made ready in every detail, skillfully cutting

The carcass into small pieces, which meat they spitted

And roasted well, and drew it all from the spits.

Then Automedon served them the bread, setting it forth

In exquisite baskets, while swift Achilles apportioned

The meat, and they reached out and ate of the good things before

them.

But when they had eaten and drunk as much as they wanted,

Priam, descended of Dardanus, sat there and marveled

At mighty Achilles, thinking how huge and handsome

He was, a man in the image of gods everlasting,

And likewise Achilles marveled at Priam, looking

Upon his fine face and listening to what he said.

When both had looked on each other enough, old Priam

The godlike spoke thus:

“Show me my bed, now, Achilles,

O nobleman nurtured of Zeus, that we may enjoy

A night of sweet sleep. For never once have my lids

Come together in sleep since my son lost his life at your hands,

But always I’ve mourned, miserably brooding on

My innumerable sorrows and groveling in dung on the ground

Of my high-walled courtyard. Now, though, I’ve tasted some food

And drunk flaming wine. Till now, I had tasted nothing.”

He spoke, and Achilles ordered his comrades and handmaids

To place two beds in the portico and cover them

With fine purple robes, light spreads, and fleecy warm blankets,

And the girls went out with torches and made the beds.

Then Achilles, fast on his feet, spoke to King Priam,

Somewhat bitterly saying:

“My dear aged friend,

You’ll have to sleep outside, since one of the counselors

Of the Achaeans may come to consult me, as often

They do, and as they should. But if one of these

Were to catch sight of you through the fast-flying blackness of night,

He might very well go straight to King Agamemnon,

Commander-in-chief of the army, and so there would be

A delay in my giving back the body. But come,

Tell me frankly. How long would you like for the funeral rites

Of Prince Hector, that I myself may hold back from battle

And keep back the others also?”

And the godlike old King:

“If you really want me to give noble Hector his full

Funeral rites, this, O Achilles, is what you could do

To help me. You know how we’re penned in the city and also

How far the terrified Trojans must go for wood

From the mountains. Let us, then, mourn for him in our halls

For nine days, then burn him and hold the funeral feast

On the tenth, and on the eleventh build a barrow

For him. Then on the twelfth we’ll fight again,

If we must.”

So saying, he clasped the old King’s right wrist, in a gesture

Of friendly assurance. Then there in the porch of the lodge

The old ones retired, the herald and Priam, their hearts

Ever thoughtful. But Achilles slept in one corner of the spacious,

Strongly built lodge, and beside him lay Briseis,

Lovely of face.

Now all other gods and mortal

Wearers of horsehair-plumed helmets slept soundly all night,

Overcome by soft sleep, but not on help-bringing Hermes

Could sleep get a grip, as he pondered within his mind

How he could get King Priam away from the ships

Unseen by the powerful guards at the gate. Standing close

By the head of his bed, he spoke to him, saying:

“Old sire,

To sleep this way in the midst of your foes, it must be

You have no idea of possible harm, now that

Achilles has spared you. True, you have ransomed your son,

And great was the ransom you paid. Just think what the sons

You left in the city would have to pay for your life—

Three times as much at least—if Atreus’ son

Agamemnon should find that you’re here and the other Achaeans

Get word!”

When they came to the ford of the fair-flowing river, the swirling

Xanthus, that immortal Zeus begot, then Hermes

Left for Olympus, just as crocus-clad Dawn

Was scattering light over earth. And the King and his herald

With moaning and wailing drove the two horses on

Toward the town, and the mules came on with the dead. Nor were

They noticed by any, no man or brightly-sashed woman,

Until Cassandra, lovely as golden Aphrodite,

Having gone to the heights of Pergamus, stronghold of Troy,

Saw her dear father coming on in the car with his herald,

The aged town crier, beside him. And then she saw

What they brought on the bier in the mule-drawn wagon.

She called, and soon not one man or woman was left

In the town, for unbearable grief seized all, and close

By the gates they met Priam bringing the corpse of his son.

Hector’s dear wife and royal mother rushed up

To the wheel-spinning wagon, and touching the head of the dead

They wailed and tore at their hair, while the people crowded

Around them and wept. And now all day long till sunset

They would have stayed outside the gates, lamenting

And weeping for Hector, had not the old King, still

In the chariot, spoken thus to his people:

He spoke, and the crowd

Opened up, making way for the wagon. Once at the palace

They laid Hector out on a corded bed and seated

Beside him singers to lead in the dirge, and they chanted

The funeral song with the women responding in chorus.

Then white-armed Andromache led their lament, holding

The head of man-killing Hector close in her arms,

And wailing:

“My husband, early indeed you have left us,

Me a widow in your spacious halls, your son

Still a baby, the son we two so unluckily had,

Who now, I think will never live to be grown,

Since long before that this city shall topple in ruins.

For you, my husband, are dead, you that protected

The town and kept from harm its excellent wives

And little children. These, I fear, shall soon

Be riding the hollow ships, and I among them—

And you, my child, must go with me to where you shall toil

For some monstrous master, or have some Achaean seize

Your small arm and hurl you down from the wall to a miserable

Death, being bitter at Hector for killing his brother,

Perhaps, or his father, or else his son, since many,

Many Achaeans have bitten the dusty huge earth

At the hands of brave Hector, for your father was not at all gentle

In horrible war—so now the people are mourning

For you, Hector, throughout the city, and grief beyond words

You have brought on your parents, but I far more than all others

Have nothing left but miserable sorrow. For you

As you died neither stretched out your arms to me from the bed,

Nor did you say any word of sweet love that I

Might have kept in my heart through long days and nights of weeping.”

Thus she spoke in her wailing, and all of the women

Responded, moaning and weeping. Then Hecuba took up

The dirge and led the vehement keening, crying:

“Hector, the dearest by far to my heart of all

My children, you when alive were also dear

To the gods, and so they have cared for you now, though your fate

Was to die as you did. Whenever swift-footed Achilles

Took other children of mine, he sold them as slaves

Beyond the barren and unresting sea, into Samos,

Imbros, and Lemnos, lost in the haze. But when

With his tapering bronze he had taken your life, he dragged you

Daily about his comrade Patroclus’s barrow—

Patroclus, whom you, my son, slew—though even this

Did not resurrect his friend. But now you lie

Fresh as the dew in our palace, like one merely sleeping,

Or one whom silver-bowed Phoebus Apollo has slain

With his gentle shafts.”

Even so she spoke in her wailing,

And roused the passionate keening. Then Helen was third

To lead the lament, crying: “O Hector, dearest

By far to my heart of all my husband’s brothers,

My husband is Paris the godlike, who brought me to Troy—

Would I had died first! Now this is the twentieth year

Since I left my own country, but never once have I heard

From you an evil word or an ugly. In fact,

When the others reproached me here in the palace, some brother

Of yours, a sister, or a well-dressed sister-in-law,

Or even your mother—your father was kind to me always,

A father to me as well—at such times you

Would turn them away and restrain them with your gentle spirit

And courteous words. Hence now I weep for you

And my own luckless self, grieving at heart, for now

No longer is anyone left in wide Troy that is gentle

Or loving to me. All shudder whenever I pass.”

Such was her wailing lament, and the numberless crowd

Re-echoed her moans. Then the old King Priam spoke

Mid his people, saying: “Bring wood, you men of Troy,

Into the city, and have no dread in your hearts

Of a treacherous Argive ambush, for Achilles truly

Assured me when he sent me forth from the hollow black ships

That he would do us no harm till the twelfth morning came.”

Such were his words, and they harnessed their oxen and mules

To wagons and rapidly gathered in front of the city.

Then for nine days they carted in wood, a supply

Unspeakably great, but when the tenth man-lighting morning

Arrived, they carried brave Hector forth, and laying

Him down on top of the pyre threw flame upon it.

But as soon as young rose-fingered Dawn appeared the next day,

The people gathered about Hector’s pyre, and when

They had quenched with sparkling wine whatever still burned,

His grieving brothers and friends, weeping big tears

All the while, collected Hector’s white bones. These they placed

In a golden box, which they wrapped in soft purple robes

And laid away in a hollowed-out grave. This they closed

With huge stones laid side by side and over it, rapidly

Working, they heaped his high barrow, setting guards round about

To prevent a surprise attack from the well-greaved Achaeans.

When the barrow was done, they returned to the palace of Priam,

The Zeus-nurtured King, where they feasted a glorious feast.