Homer, Iliad

Book 1: The Quarrel by the Ships [back to top]

The invocation to the Muse; Agamemnon insults Apollo; Apollo sends the plague onto the army; the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon; Calchas indicates what must be done to appease Apollo; Agamemnon takes Briseis from Achilles; Achilles prays to Thetis for revenge; Achilles meets Thetis; Chryseis is returned to her father; Thetis visits Zeus; the gods converse about the matter on Olympus; the banquet of the gods

1. Smithean is a special epithet given to Apollo. It seems to mean something like “killer of field mice.” Chryse is a small coastal town near Troy, where Chryses, the father of Chryseis, is a priest of Apollo.
2. The aegis is a special divine shield, the sight of which has the power to terrify men and make them run away. Later in the poem Apollo uses it to terrify the Achaean soldiers.
3. Achilles’s mother, Thetis, is a minor sea goddess who married the mortal Peleus.
4. The reference [to "tie him up"] is to an attempt by the Olympian gods to topple Zeus. Thetis brought the powerful monster Briareos, one of the children of Gaia and Ouranos, to Zeus’s aid.

Sing, Goddess, sing the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus—
that murderous anger which condemned Achaeans
to countless agonies and threw many warrior souls
deep into Hades, leaving their dead bodies
carrion food for dogs and birds—
all in fulfilment of the will of Zeus.

Start at the point where Agamemnon, son of Atreus,
that king of men, quarrelled with noble Achilles.
Which of the gods incited these two men to fight?

That god was Apollo, son of Zeus and Leto.
Angry with Agamemnon, he cast plague down
onto the troops—a deadly infectious evil.
For Agamemnon had dishonoured the god’s priest,
Chryses, who’d come to the ships to find his daughter,
Chryseis, bringing with him a huge ransom.
In his hand he held up on a golden staff
the scarf sacred to archer god Apollo.
He begged Achaeans, above all the army’s leaders:

“Menelaus, Agamemnon, sons of Atreus,
all you well-armed Achaeans, may the gods
on Olympus grant you wipe out Priam’s city,
and then return home safe and sound.
Release my dear child to me. Take this ransom.
Honour Apollo, far-shooting son of Zeus.”

All the Achaeans roared out their support:

“Respect the priest. Take the generous ransom.”

Displeased, Agamemnon dismissed Chryses roughly:

             “Old man,
don’t let me catch you by our hollow ships,
sneaking back here today or later on.
Who cares about Apollo’s scarf and staff?
I’ll not release the girl to you, no, not before
she’s grown old with me in Argos, far from home,
working the loom, sharing my bed. Go away.
If you want to get home safely, don’t anger me.”

The old man, afraid, obeyed and walked off in silence,
along the shore by the tumbling, crashing surf.
Some distance off, he prayed to lord Apollo,
Leto’s fair-haired child:

       “God with the silver bow,
protector of Chryse, sacred Cilla,
mighty lord of Tenedos, Sminthean Apollo,
hear my prayer: If I’ve ever pleased you
with a holy shrine, or burned bones for you—
bulls and goats well wrapped in fat—
grant me my prayer. Force the Danaans
to pay full price for my tears with your arrows.”

So Chryses prayed. Phoebus Apollo heard him.
He came down from Olympus top enraged,
carrying on his shoulders bow and covered quiver,
his arrows rattling in anger against his arm.
So the god swooped down, descending like the night.
He sat some distance from the ships, shot off an arrow—
the silver bow reverberating ominously.

First, the god massacred mules and swift-running dogs,
then loosed sharp arrows in among the troops themselves.
Thick fires burned the corpses ceaselessly.

For nine days Apollo rained death down upon the troops.
On the tenth, Achilles summoned an assembly.
White-armed Hera put that thought into his mind,
concerned for the Danaans, seeing them die.
The men gathered. The meeting came to order.
Swift-footed Achilles rose to speak:

            “Son of Atreus,
I fear we’re being beaten back, forced home,
if we aren’t all going to be destroyed right here,
with war and plague killing off Achaeans.
Come now, let’s ask some prophet, priest,
interpreter of dreams—for dreams, too, come from Zeus—
a man who might say why Apollo is so angry,
whether he faults our prayers and offerings,
whether somehow he’ll welcome sacrificial smoke
from perfect lambs and goats, then rouse himself
and release us from this plague.”

           Achilles spoke and took his seat.
Then Calchas, Thestor’s son, stood up before them all,
the most astute interpreter of birds, who understood
present, future, past. His skill in prophecy,
Apollo’s gift, had led Achaean ships to Troy.
He addressed the troops, thinking of their common good:

“Achilles, friend of Zeus, you ask me to explain
Apollo’s anger, the god who shoots from far.
And I will speak. But first you listen to me.
Swear an oath that you will freely help me
in word and deed. I think I may provoke
someone who wields great power over Argives,
a man who is obeyed by everyone.
An angry king overpowers lesser men.
Even if that day his anger is suppressed,
resentment lingers in his chest, until one day
he acts on it. So speak. Will you protect me?”

In response to Calchas, swift-footed Achilles said:

“Take courage. State what your powers tell you.
By Apollo, whom Zeus loves, to whom you, Calchas,
pray in prophesy to the Danaans, I swear this—
while I live to look upon the light of day,
no Achaean will raise violent hands against you,
no, not even if you name Agamemnon,
who claims he’s by far the best Achaean.”

Encouraged, the wise prophet then declared:

“Apollo does not fault us for prayers or offerings,
but for his priest, disgraced by Agamemnon,
who did not free his daughter and take ransom.
That’s why the archer god has brought disaster,
and will bring still more. He will not remove
this wretched plague from the Danaans,
until we hand back bright-eyed Chryseis,
give her to her beloved father freely,
without ransom, and offer holy sacrifice
at Chryse. If we will carry out all that,
we may change Apollo’s mind, appease him.”

So he spoke and sat back down. Then, Atreus’s son,
wide-ruling, mighty Agamemnon, stood up before them,
incensed, his spirit filled with immense black rage.
Eyes blazing fire, he rounded first on Calchas:

“Prophet of evil, when have you ever said
good things to me? You love to predict the worst,
always the worst! You never show good news.
Now, in prophecy to the Danaans,
you say archer Apollo brings us pain
because I was unwilling to accept
fine ransom for Chryses’ daughter, Chryseis.
But I have a great desire to take her home.
In fact, I want her more than Clytaemnestra,
the wife I married. Chryseis is just as good
in her shape, physique, intelligence, or work.
Still, I’m prepared to give her back, if that’s best.
I want the people safe, not all killed off.
But then you will owe me another prize.
I won’t be the only Argive left without a gift.
That would be entirely unfair to me.
You all can see my spoils are going elsewhere.”

At that point, swift-footed Achilles answered the king:

“Noble son of Atreus, most acquisitive of men,
how can brave Achaeans give you a prize now?
There are none left for us to pass around.
We’ve divided up what we allotted,
loot from captured towns we devastated.
For men to make a common pile again
would be most unfair. Send the girl back now,
as the god demands. Should Zeus ever grant
we pillage Troy, a city rich in goods,
we’ll offer you three or four times as much.”

Mighty Agamemnon then said in reply:

“Achilles, you’re a fine man, like a god.
But don’t conceal what’s hidden in your heart.
You’ll not deceive me or win me with your words.
You intend to keep your prizes for yourself,
while the army takes my trophy from me.
That’s why you tell me to give Chryseis back.
Let Achaeans give me another prize,
equal in value, something I’ll enjoy.
If not, then I’ll take a prize myself by force,
something from you or Ajax or Odysseus.
The man I visit is going to be enraged.
But let’s postpone discussion of all this.
Let’s drag a black ship to the sacred sea,
select a crew, load oxen on for sacrifice,
and Chryseis, that fair-complexioned girl.
Let’s have as leader some wise counsellor—
Idomeneus, Ajax, godlike Odysseus,
or you, Peleus’s son, most eminent of all,
so with an offering we may appease
the god who shoots from far away.”

Scowling grimly, swift-footed Achilles interposed:

“You insatiable creature, quite shameless.
How can any Achaean obey you willingly—
join a raiding party or keep fighting
with full force against an enemy?
I did not come to battle over here
because of Trojans. I have no fight with them.
They never stole my bulls or horses
or destroyed my crops in fertile Phthia,
where heroes grow. Many shady mountains
and the roaring sea stand there between us.
But you, great shameless man, we came with you,
to please you, to win honour from the Trojans—
for you, dog face, and for Menelaus.
You don’t consider this, don’t think at all.
You threaten now to confiscate the prize
I worked so hard for, gift from Achaea’s sons.
When we Achaeans loot some well-built Trojan town,
my prizes never match the ones you get.
The major share of war’s fury rests on me.
But when we hand around the battle spoils,
you get much larger trophies. Worn out in war,
I reach my ships with something fine but small.
So I’ll return home now to Phthia.
It’s far better to sail back in my curved ships.
I don’t fancy staying here unvalued,
to pile up riches, treasures just for you.”

To that, Agamemnon, king of men, shot back:

“Fly off home then, if that’s your heart’s desire.
I’ll not beg you to stay on my account.
I have others around to honour me,
especially all-wise Zeus himself.
Of all the kings Zeus cherishes, it’s you
I hate the most. You love constant strife—
war and combat. So what if you’re strong?
Some god gave you that. So scurry off home.
Take ships and friends. Go rule your Myrmidons.
I don’t like you or care about your rage.
But I’ll make this threat: I’ll take your prize,
fair-cheeked Briseis. I’ll fetch her in person.
You’ll see just how much I’m the better man.
And others will hate to speak to me as peers,
in public claiming full equality with me.”

As Agamemnon spoke, Peleus’s son, Achilles,
was overwhelmed with anguish, heart torn two ways,
debating in his shaggy chest what he should do:
Should he draw out the sharp sword on his thigh,
incite the crowd, kill Atreus’s son, or suppress his rage,
control his fury? As he argued in his mind and heart,
he slid his huge sword part way from its sheath.
At that moment, Athena came down from heaven.
White-armed Hera sent her. She cherished both men,
cared for them equally. Athena stood behind Achilles,
grabbed him by his golden hair, invisible to all
except Achilles. In astonishment he turned.
At once he recognized Pallas Athena,
the dreadful glitter in her eyes. Achilles spoke—
his words had wings.

        “Child of aegis-bearing Zeus,
why have you come now? Do you wish to see
how overbearing Agamemnon is?
I’ll tell you where all this is going to lead—
that arrogance will soon cost him his life.”

Glittery-eyed Athena then spoke in reply:

“I came down from heaven to curb your passion,
if you obey. White-armed Hera sent me.
She loves you both alike, cares equally.
Give up this quarrel. Don’t draw your sword.
Fight him with words, so he becomes disgraced.
For I say to you, and this will happen,
because of Agamemnon’s arrogance
some day gifts three times greater than this girl
will be set down before you. Control yourself.
Obey.”

        Swift-footed Achilles answered Athena:

“Goddess, men should follow your instructions,
though angry in their hearts. It’s better so.
The person who’s obedient to the gods,
the gods attend to all the more.”

         Obeying Athena’s words,
Achilles relaxed his huge fist on the silver hilt
and pushed the massive sword back in its scabbard.
Athena then returned to heaven, home of Zeus,
who bears the aegis, and the other gods.

Achilles turned again on Agamemnon, Atreus’s son,
with harsh abuse, his anger still unabated:

“You drunken sot, dog-eyed, deer-timid coward,
you’re never strong enough within yourself
to arm for war alongside other comrades,
or venture with Achaea’s bravest on a raid.
To you that smells too much like death.
No. You’d much prefer to stroll around
throughout the wide Achaean army,
to grab gifts from a man who speaks against you.
A king who gorges on his own people!
You lord it over worthless men. If not,
son of Atreus, this would be your last offence.
I’ll tell you, swear a great oath on this point,
by this sceptre, which will never sprout
leaves and shoots again, since first ripped away
from its mountain stump, nor bloom any more,
now that bronze has sliced off leaf and bark.
This sceptre Achaea’s sons take in hand
whenever they do justice in Zeus’s name.
An oath on this has power. On this I swear—
the time will come when Achaea’s sons
all miss Achilles, a time when, in distress,
you’ll lack my help, a time when Hector,
that man killer, destroys many warriors.
Then grief will tear your hearts apart,
because you shamed Achaea’s finest man.”

So the son of Peleus spoke, throwing to the ground
the sceptre with the golden studs. Then he sat down,
directly facing furious Agamemnon.

Then Nestor stood up, clear, sweet orator from Pylos.
Sweeter than honey the words flowed from his tongue.
In his own lifetime two generations of mortal men
had come and passed away, all those born and raised
with him so long ago in sacred Pylos.
Now he ruled a third generation of his people.
Concerned about their common good, he said:

“Alas, this is great sorrow for Achaeans.
Priam and Priam’s children will be glad,
the hearts of other Trojans swell with joy,
should they find out about such quarrelling,
a fight between you two, among Danaans
the very best for counsel or combat.
But listen. You are both younger men than I.
And I’ve been colleague of better men than you,
men who never showed me any disrespect,
men whose like I have not seen again,
and never will—like Peirithous, Dryas,
a shepherd to his people, Caeneus,
Exadios, god-like Polyphemus,
Theseus, son of Aegeus, all god-like men—
the mightiest earthborn men, the strongest.
And the enemies they fought against were strong,
the most powerful of mountain centaurs.
But they destroyed those creatures totally.
Associate of theirs, I came from Pylos,
a long way from that land, summoned personally.
I fought on my own behalf, by myself.
No man alive on earth could now fight them.
Yet they heard me and followed my advice.
So listen, both of you. That’s what’s best now.
Agamemnon, you’re an excellent man,
but do not take Briseis from Achilles.
Let that pass. Achaea’s sons gave her to him first.
And you, Peleus’s son, don’t seek to fight the king,
not as your enemy. The sceptre-bearing king,
whose powerful authority comes from Zeus,
never shares honours equally. Achilles,
you may be stronger, since your mother was divine,
but he’s more powerful, for he rules more men.
But you, son of Atreus, check your anger.
Set aside, I urge you, your rage against Achilles,
who provides, in the middle of war’s evils,
a powerful defence for all Achaeans.”

Mighty Agamemnon then replied to Nestor:

“Old man, everything you say is true enough.
But this man wants to put the rest to shame,
rule all of us, lord it over everyone.
But some, I think, will not obey him.
So what if the gods, who live forever,
made him a spearman? Is that some reason
we should let him say such shameful things?”

Achilles, interrupting Agamemnon, shouted:

“I’d be called a coward, a nobody,
if I held back from any action
because of something you might say.
Order other men about. Don’t tell me
what I should do. I’ll not obey you anymore.
But I will tell you this—remember it well—
I’ll not raise my hand to fight about that girl,
no, not against you or any other man.
You Achaeans gave her to me, and now,
you seize her back again. But you’ll not take
another thing from my swift black ship—
you’ll get nothing else with my consent.
If you’d like to see what happens, just try.
My spear will quickly drip with your dark blood.”

Thus the pair of them continued arguing.
Then they stood up, dissolving the assembly by the ships.
Peleus’s son went back to his well-balanced ships and huts,
along with Patroclus, Menoetius’ son, and friends.

Agamemnon dragged a swift ship down the shore,
chose twenty sailors, loaded on the oxen,
offerings for the god, and led on fair-cheeked Chryseis.
Shrewd Odysseus shipped on as leader. All aboard,
they set off, carving a pathway through the sea.

Atreus’s son ordered troops to cleanse themselves.
The men bathed in the sea, washed off impurities.
They then made sacrificial offerings to Apollo—
hundreds of perfect bulls and goats—beside the restless sea.
Savoury smells curled up amid the smoke high into heaven.

The men thus occupied, Agamemnon did not forget
the challenge he made earlier to Achilles.
He called his heralds, Talthybius and Eurybates:

“Go to Achilles’ tent, Peleus’s son,
take fair-complexioned Briseis by the hand.
Bring her to me. If he won’t surrender her,
I’ll come myself in force and take her.
For him that will be a worse disaster.”

With these firm orders, he dismissed the men, who moved off,
heavy hearted, along the shore of the restless sea.
They reached the huts and ships of the Myrmidons.
There they found Achilles seated by his hut
and his black ship. As he saw them approach,
Achilles felt no joy. The two heralds, afraid,
just stood in silence, out of deference to the king.
In his heart Achilles sensed their purpose. He called them:

“Cheer up, heralds, messengers for gods and men.
Come here. I don’t blame you, but Agamemnon.
He sends you both here for the girl Briseis.
Come, Patroclus, born from Zeus, fetch the girl.
Give her to these two to take away.
Let them both witness, before blessed gods,
mortal men, and that unfeeling king,
if ever there’s a need for me again
to defend others from a shameful death.
That man’s wits are foolish, disastrously so—
he’s not thinking about past or future,
how Achaeans may fight safely by their ships.”

Patroclus did as his dear comrade had requested.
He led out fair-cheeked Briseis from the hut
and gave her up to be led off. The heralds left,
returning to Achaean ships, Briseis with them,
but against her will.

           Achilles then, in tears,
withdrew from his companions, sat by the shore,
staring at the wide grey seas. Stretching out his hands,
he cried aloud, praying repeatedly to Thetis,
his beloved mother:

     “Mother, since you gave me life—
if only for a while—Olympian Zeus,
high thunderer, should give me due honour.
But he does not grant me even slight respect.
For wide-ruling Agamemnon, Atreus’s son,
has shamed me, has taken away my prize,
appropriated it for his own use.”

             As he said this, he wept.
His noble mother heard him from deep within the sea,
where she sat by her old father. Quickly she rose up,
moving above grey waters, like an ocean mist,
and settled down before him, as he wept. She stroked him,
then said:

     “My child, why these tears? What sorrows
weigh down your heart? Tell me, so we’ll both know.
Don’t hide from me what’s on your mind.”

With a deep groan, swift-footed Achilles then replied.

“You know. Why should I tell you what you know?
We came to Thebe, Eëtion’s sacred city,
sacked it, taking everything the city had.
Achaea’s sons apportioned it all fairly
amongst themselves. Agamemnon’s share
was fair-skinned Chryseis. Then Chryses arrived
at the swift ships of bronze-armed Achaeans.
Archer god Apollo’s priest sought out his daughter.
He brought with him an enormous ransom,
carried in his hands the sacred golden staff
with the shawl of archer god Apollo.
He begged Achaeans, above all Atreus’ two sons,
the people’s leaders. All Achaeans called on them
to respect the priest, accept the splendid ransom.
But that didn’t please Agamemnon in his heart.
He sent him roughly off with harsh abusive orders
The old man went away again, enraged.
He prayed to Apollo, who loved him well.
The god heard him and sent his deadly arrows
against the Argives. The troops kept dying,
one by one, as the god rained arrows down
throughout the wide Achaean army.
The prophet Calchas, understanding all,
told us Apollo’s will. At once I was the first
to recommend we all appease the god.
But anger got control of Agamemnon.
He stood up on the spot and made that threat
which he’s just carried out. So quick-eyed Achaeans
are sending Chryseis in fast ships back to Chryse,
transporting gifts for lord Apollo, and heralds came
to take away Briseis from my huts,
the girl who is my gift from Achaea’s sons.
So now, if you can, protect your son.
Go to Mount Olympus, and implore Zeus,
if ever you in word or deed have pleased him.
For often I have heard you boast in father’s house
that you alone of all the deathless gods
saved Zeus of the dark clouds from disgraceful ruin,
when other Olympians came to tie him up,
Hera, Pallas Athena, and Poseidon.
But you, goddess, came and set him free,
by quickly calling up to high Olympus
that hundred-handed monster gods call Briareos,
and men all name Aigaion, a creature
whose strength was greater than his father’s.
He sat down beside the son of Cronos,
exulting in his glory. The sacred gods, afraid,
stopped tying up Zeus. So sit down right by Zeus,
clasp his knee, remind him of all that,
so he’ll want to help the Trojans somehow,
corner Achaeans by the sea, by their ships’ prows,
have them destroyed, so they all enjoy their king,
so the son of Atreus, wide-ruling Agamemnon,
himself may see his foolishness, dishonouring
Achilles, the best of the Achaeans.”

Thetis, shedding tears, answered her son, Achilles:

“O my child, why did I nurture you,
since I brought you up to so much pain?
Would you were safely by your ships dry-eyed.
Your life is fated to be short—you’ll not live long.
Now, faced with a quick doom, you’re in distress,
more so than any other man. At home,
I gave you life marked by an evil fate.
But I’ll tell these things to thunder-loving Zeus.
I’ll go myself to snow-topped Mount Olympus,
to see if he will undertake all this.
Meanwhile, you should sit by your swift ships,
angry at Achaeans. Take no part in war.
For yesterday Zeus went to Oceanus,
to banquet with the worthy Ethiopians.
The gods all journeyed with him. In twelve days,
when he returns and comes home to Olympus,
I’ll go to Zeus’s bronze-floored house, clasp his knee.
I think I’ll get him to consent.”

             Thetis spoke.
Then she went away, leaving Achilles there,
angry at heart for lovely girdled Briseis,
taken from him by force against his will.

Odysseus sailed to Chryse, bringing with him
the sacrificial animals as sacred offerings.
When they had sailed into deep anchorage,
they took in the sails and stowed them in the ship.
With forestays they soon set the mast down in its notch,
then rowed the ship in to its mooring place.
They threw out anchor stones, lashed stern cables,
and clambered out into the ocean surf.
They brought off the offerings to archer god Apollo.
Then Chryseis disembarked from the ocean ship.

Resourceful Odysseus led her to the altar,
placed her in her beloved father’s hands, then said:

“Chryses, I have been sent by Agamemnon,
ruler of men, to bring your daughter to you,
and then, on behalf of the Danaans,
to make an offering to lord Apollo—
all these sacrificial beasts—to placate the god,
who now inflicts such dismal evil on us.”

After saying this, he handed the girl over.
Chryses gave his daughter a joyful welcome back.
And then around the well-built altar, they arranged
the splendid sacrifice. They washed their hands,
and picked up the barley grain for sprinkling.
Raising his arms, Chryses prayed out loud on their behalf:

“Hear me, god of the silver bow, protector
of Chryse, mighty lord of holy Cilla,
sacred Tenedos. You heard me earlier,
when I prayed to you. Just as you honoured me,
striking hard against Achaeans then, so now,
grant me what I pray for—remove disaster,
this wretched evil, from the Danaans.”

So Chryses spoke. Phoebus Apollo heard him.
Once they had prayed and scattered barley grain,
they pulled back the heads of sacrificial beasts,
slit their throats, flayed them, sliced the thigh bones out,
and hid them in twin layers of fat, with raw meat on top.
Old Chryses burned them on split wood, poured wine on them.
Young men beside him held out five-pronged forks.
Once the thighs were well burned, they sampled entrails,
then sliced up all the rest, skewered the meat on spits,
roasted it carefully, and drew off every piece.
That work complete, they then prepared a meal and ate.
No heart was left unsatisfied. All feasted equally.
And when the men had had their fill of food and drink,
young boys filled the mixing bowl with wine up to the brim,
and served it, pouring libations into every cup.

Then all day long young Achaean lads played music,
singing to the god a lovely hymn of praise,
honouring in dance and song the god who shoots from far.
Hearing them, Apollo felt joy fill his heart. At sunset,
as dusk came on, by the ship’s stern they went to sleep.
But when early born, rose-fingered Dawn appeared,
they set off, once more back to the wide Achaean camp.
Far-shooting Apollo sent them favourable winds.
They raised the mast and then the sails. The wind blew,
filling out the body of the sail—on both sides of the prow
the purple waves hissed loudly as the ship sped on its way,
its motion carving a path through the ocean swell.
When they reached the broad Achaean army,
they hauled the black ship high up on the sand,
pushed long props tight beneath it, then dispersed,
each man returning to his own huts and ships.

Meanwhile, Achilles, divinely born son of Peleus,
sat down in anger alongside his swift ships. Not once
did he attend assembly where men win glory
or go out to fight. But he pined away at heart,
remaining idle by his ships, yearning
for the hue and cry and clash of battle.

Twelve days later, the company of gods came back
together to Olympus, with Zeus in the lead.
Thetis did not forget the promise to her son.
She rose up through the ocean waves at daybreak,
then moved high up to great Olympus. She found Zeus,
wide-seeing son of Cronos, some distance from the rest,
seated on the highest peak of many-ridged Olympus.
She sat down right in front of him. With her left hand,
she clutched his knees, with her right she cupped his chin,
in supplication to lord Zeus, son of Cronos:

“Father Zeus, if, among the deathless gods,
I’ve ever served you well in word or deed,
then grant my prayer will be fulfilled.
Bring honour to my son, who, of all men
will be fate’s quickest victim. For just now,
Agamemnon, king of men, has shamed him.
He seized his prize, robbing him in person,
and kept it for himself. But honour him,
Zeus, all-wise Olympian. Give the Trojans
the upper hand, until Achaeans respect my son,
until they multiply his honours.”

Thetis finished. Cloud gatherer Zeus did not respond.
He sat a long time silent. Thetis held his knees,
clinging close, repeating her request once more:

“Promise me truly, nod your head, or deny me—
since there’s nothing here for you to fear—
so I’ll clearly see how among the gods
I enjoy the least respect of all.”

Cloud gatherer Zeus, greatly troubled, said:

         “A nasty business.
What you say will set Hera against me.
She provokes me so with her abuse. Even now,
in the assembly of immortal gods,
she’s always insulting me, accusing me
of favouring the Trojans in the war.
But go away for now, in case Hera catches on.
I’ll take care of this, make sure it comes to pass.
Come, to convince you, I’ll nod my head.
Among gods that’s the strongest pledge I make.
Once I nod my assent, nothing I say
can be revoked, denied, or unfulfilled.”

Zeus, son of Cronos, nodded his dark brows.
The divine hair on the king of gods fell forward,
down over his immortal head, shaking Olympus
to its very base. The conference over, the two parted.
Thetis plunged from bright Olympus back into the sea.

Zeus went inside his house. Their father present,
all the gods at once stood up from their seats.
No one dared stay put as he came in—all rose together.
Zeus seated himself upon his throne. Looking at him,
Hera sensed he had made some deal with Thetis,
silver-footed daughter of the Old Man of the Sea.
At once she spoke up accusingly:

              “Which god
has been scheming with you, you crafty one?
You always love to work on things in secret,
without involving me. You never want
to tell me openly what you intend.”

The father of gods and men replied:

              “Hera,
don’t hope to understand my every plan.
Even for my own wife that’s dangerous.
What’s appropriate for you to hear about,
no one, god or man, will know before you.
But when I wish to hide my thoughts from gods,
don’t you go digging after them,
or pestering me for every detail.”

Ox-eyed queen Hera then replied to Zeus:

“Most dread son of Cronos, what are you saying?
I have not been overzealous before now,
in questioning you or seeking answers.
Surely you’re quite at liberty to plan
anything you wish. But now, in my mind,
I’ve got this dreadful fear that Thetis,
silver-footed daughter of the Old Man of the Sea,
has won you over, for this morning early,
she sat down beside you, held your knees.
I think you surely nodded your agreement
to honour Achilles, killing many soldiers,
slaughtering them by the Achaean ships.”

Zeus, the cloud gatherer, spoke out in response:

“My dear lady, you’re always fancying things.
Your attention picks up every detail.
But you can’t do anything about it,
except push yourself still further from my heart,
making matters so much worse for you.
If things are as they are, then that’s the way
I want them. So sit down quietly.
Do as I say. If not, then all the gods
here on Olympus won’t be any help,
when I reach out to set my hands on you,
for they’re invincible.”

            Zeus finished speaking.
Ox-eyed queen Hera was afraid—so she sat down,
silently suppressing what her heart desired.
In Zeus’s home the Olympian gods began to quarrel.
Then that famous artisan, Hephaestus, concerned
about his mother, white-armed Hera, spoke to them:

“A troublesome matter this will prove—
unendurable—if you two start fighting
over mortal men like this, inciting gods to quarrel.
If we start bickering, we can’t enjoy the meal,
our excellent banquet. So I’m urging mother,
though she’s more than willing, to humour Zeus,
our dear father, so he won’t get angry once again,
disturb the feast for us. For if Zeus,
the Olympian lord of lightning, was of a mind
to hurl us from our seats, his strength’s too great.
But if you talk to him with soothing words,
at once Olympian Zeus will treat us well.”

Hephaestus spoke, then stood up, passed a double goblet
across to his dear mother, saying to her:

“Stay calm, mother, even though you are upset.
If not, then, as beloved as you are,
I may see you beaten up before my eyes,
with me incapable of helping out,
though the sight would make me most unhappy.
It’s hard to take a stand opposing Zeus.
Once, when I was eager to assist you,
Zeus seized me by the feet and threw me out,
down from heaven’s heights. The entire day
I fell and then, right at sunset, dropped
on Lemnos, almost dead. After that fall,
men of Sintes helped me to recover.”

As he spoke, the white-armed goddess Hera smiled.
She reached for her son’s goblet. He poured the drink,
going from right to left, for all the other gods,
drawing off sweet nectar from the mixing bowl.
Then their laughter broke out irrepressibly,
as the sacred gods saw Hephaestus bustling around,
concerned about the feast. All that day they dined,
until sunset. No one’s heart went unsatisfied.
All feasted equally. They heard exquisite music,
from Apollo’s lyre and the Muses’ beautiful song
and counter-song. When the sun’s bright light had set,
the gods all went to their own homes. Hephaestus,
the famous lame god, with his resourceful skill,
had made each god a place to live. Olympian Zeus,
god of lightning, went home to his own bed,
where he usually reclined whenever sweet sleep
came over him. He went inside and lay down there,
with Hera of the golden throne stretched out beside him.

Book 2: Agamemnon's Dream and The Catalogue of Ships [back to top]

Zeus sends a false dream to Agamemnon; Agamemnon reports the dream to his advisors and outlines a test of the army; Agamemnon urges his troops to go home; Odysseus restores order; Thersites insults Agamemnon; Odysseus deals with Thersites, reminds the men of Calchas' original prophecy; Nestor suggests a display of the troops; the Catalogue of Ships (list of the Achaean, Trojan, and allied forces).

1. Aulis was the place where the Achaean forces assembled before setting out against Troy ten years before.
2. The Achaean forces abandoned Philoctetes on Lemnos, because they could not stand his cries of agony or the smell of his wound. However, later in the narrative of the war (although not in the Iliad) Philoctetes’s bow becomes an essential weapon in the capture of Troy.
3. Typhoeus was a primordial monster who attempted to overthrow the Olympian gods. Zeus buried him alive under Mount Etna in Sicily.

Gods and warriors slept through the entire night.
But sweet Sleep did not visit Zeus, tossing and turning
over in his mind some way to honour Achilles,
by slaughtering many soldiers by the Achaean ships.
In Zeus’s heart the best idea seemed to be
to send out a wicked Dream to Agamemnon.
Calling the Dream, Zeus said these winged words to him:

“Evil Dream, fly quickly to Achaea’s men,
by their swift ships. Go to Agamemnon’s hut,
Atreus’s son. Report my words precisely.
Bid him quickly arm long-haired Achaean troops,
for now they’ll capture Troy, city of wide streets.
Immortal gods who dwell on Mount Olympus
no longer disagree about all this.
Hera’s entreaties have persuaded them.
Trojans can expect more sorrows, more disasters.”

Zeus spoke. With these instructions, Dream set off,
quickly reaching Achaea’s fast ships and Atreus’ son.
He found Agamemnon resting in his hut,
wrapped up in the sweet divinity of Sleep.
Dream stood above his head, looking just like Nestor,
son of Neleus, of all the more senior men
the one Agamemnon held in special honour.
In that shape, divine Dream spoke to Agamemnon:

“You are sleeping, son of fiery Atreus,
tamer of horses. But a prudent man,
one to whom people have given their trust,
who has so many things to think about,
shouldn’t sleep all night. So pay attention.
Hear what I have to say. I come to you
as Zeus’s messenger, with his orders.
He’s far off, but pities and cares for you.
He bids you quickly arm long-haired Achaeans,
for now you can take Troy, city of wide streets.
The immortal gods who dwell on Mount Olympus
no longer disagree about all this.
Hera’s entreaties have persuaded them.
Trojans can expect from Zeus more sorrows,
more disasters. Remember what I’ve said.
Don’t let forgetfulness seize your mind,
when honey Sleep has loosed his sweet grip on you.”

This said, Dream went off, leaving the king imagining things
which would not come to pass. He thought he’d take Troy,
Priam’s city, that very day. Fool! He had no clue
of what Zeus really meant, his plan to load on them,
Trojans and Danaans both, still more suffering,
more cries of sorrow, through war’s brutality.

Agamemnon roused himself from sleep, the divine voice
all round him still. He sat up, pulled on a supple tunic,
new and finely made. On top he threw a large cloak.
He laced up lovely sandals over his sleek feet
and slung a silver-studded sword around both shoulders.
He took with him the royal staff of his ancestors,
eternal and imperishable. Gripping this,
he approached the ships of the bronze-armed Achaeans.

When goddess Dawn rose high up on Olympus,
bringing light to Zeus and the immortals,
Agamemnon bid the loud-voiced heralds summon
all the long-haired Achaeans to assembly.
Such a call went out. Men answered on the run.
But first, Agamemnon convened a meeting
of all his great-hearted senior counsellors.
They met by Nestor’s ships, king born on Pylos.
To the assembled group Agamemnon then sketched out
a plan he had conceived—a devious one.

“My friends, listen.
A divine Dream has just come to me,
through the sacred night, as I lay asleep,
in form, size, and voice just like worthy Nestor.
He stood above my head and spoke these words:

‘You are sleeping, son of fiery Atreus,
tamer of horses. But a prudent man,
one to whom people have given their trust,
who has so many things to think about,
shouldn’t sleep all night. So pay attention.
Hear what I have to say. I come to you
as Zeus’s messenger, with his orders.
He’s far off, but pities and cares for you.
He bids you quickly arm long-haired Achaeans,
for now you can take Troy, city of wide streets.
Immortal gods who dwell on Mount Olympus
no longer disagree about all this.
Hera’s entreaties have persuaded them.
The Trojans can expect from Zeus more sorrows,
more disasters. Remember what I’ve said.’

With that, Dream flew off, sweet Sleep released me.
Come, then, let’s get long-haired Achaeans
somehow armed for battle. But first,
it’s only right I test the men, ordering them
to go home in their ships with many oars.
You hold them back with your commands,
each one working from his own position.”

Agamemnon finished speaking and sat back down.
Nestor stood up before them, king of sandy Pylos.
With a wise sense of their common cause, he addressed them:

“My friends, chiefs and leaders of the Argives,
if any other Achaean had told us such a dream,
we would declare it quite false, dismiss it.
But now the man who has a claim to be
the greatest of Achaeans has witnessed it.
So come, let’s find a way to arm Achaea’s sons.”

So Nestor spoke. Then he began to make his way back,
leaving the council meeting. The others stood up,
all sceptre-bearing kings, following Nestor’s lead,
his people’s shepherd. Troops came streaming out to them.
Just as dense clouds of bees pour out in endless swarms
from hollow rocks, in clusters flying to spring flowers,
charging off in all directions, so from ships and huts
the many clans rushed out to meet, group after group.
Among the troops Rumour blazed, Zeus’s messenger,
igniting them. The assembly was in uproar.
Beneath the men, as they sat amid the din, earth groaned.
Nine heralds shouted out instructions, attempting
to control the noise, so men could hear their leaders,
god’s chosen ones. Gradually men settled down,
kept quiet in their places. The noise subsided.
King Agamemnon stood up, hands gripping his staff,
one fashioned by Hephaestus’ careful craftsmanship.
That god had given it to lord Zeus, son of Cronos.
Later Zeus had presented it to Hermes,
the guide, killer of Argus. Hermes, in his turn,
gave it to king Pelops, the chariot racer,
who passed the staff to Atreus, the people’s leader.
This man, as he lay dying, left it for Thyestes,
who owned many flocks. Thyestes, in his turn,
passed it onto Agamemnon, who held it
as ruler of all Argos and many islands.
With this staff as his support, Agamemnon spoke:

“You Danaan warriors, comrades,
companions of Ares, god of war,
Zeus, son of Cronos, has entangled me
in some really serious foolishness.
Perverse Zeus! He promised me, he agreed—
I’d have devastated well-built Troy
before going home. Now he plans a cruel trick,
tells me to return to Argos dishonoured,
after I’ve lost so many warriors.
This is apparently what high Zeus desires,
he who has smashed so many city heights,
and will destroy still more, such is his power,
the greatest power of all. This is a great disgrace,
which people will learn about in years to come—
how an Achaean force of such quality and size
vainly sailed off to fight a lesser force,
and failed to get what they set out to take.
For if we Achaeans and the Trojans wished,
in good faith, to draw up a treaty,
to tally up the numbers on both sides,
with Trojans counting each inhabitant of Troy,
and if we Achaeans set ourselves in groups of ten,
then chose, for every group, a Trojan man
to pour our wine, then of our groups of ten
many would lack a man to act as steward.
That, I tell you, indicates just how much
Achaea’s sons outnumber Trojans,
those who live in Troy. But all their allies,
warrior spearmen from many cities,
are a huge problem for me. They thwart my wish
to smash down those sturdy walls of Troy.
Nine of great Zeus’s years have rolled on past.
Ships’ planks have rotted, their ropes have frayed.
Back home our wives and children wait for us.
The work for which we came remains undone.
So come, let’s all agree to what I say.
Let’s go back to our own dear country in our ships.
For we’ll not capture Troy with its broad streets.”

So Agamemnon spoke. Among the soldiers,
all those with no idea of what he’d planned,
men’s feelings quickened. The assembly was aroused.
Just like huge ocean waves on the Icarian Sea,
when East Wind and South Wind rush down together
from Father Zeus’s clouds to whip up the sea,
the whole assembly rippled, like a large grain field,
undulating under the fury of the storm,
as West Wind roars in with force, all ears of corn
ducking down under the power of the gusts—
that’s how the shouting men stampeded to their ships.
From underneath their feet a dust cloud rose.
They yelled orders to each other to grab the ships,
drag them to the sacred sea, clear out channels
for launching boats, knock out props from underneath,
frantic to get home. Heaven echoed with the din.

At that point, the Argives might well have gone back—
contravening what Fate had proposed for them—
if Hera had not spoken to Athena:

“Alas, unconquerable child of Zeus,
who bears the aegis, the Argives will flee,
go back home to their dear native land,
cross the wide sea, abandoning Helen,
an Argive woman, leaving in triumph
Priam and his Trojans. On her account,
many Achaeans have perished here in Troy,
far from the homes they love. So now, come on,
go down to the bronze-clad Achaean troops,
use your persuasive power to stop the men
hauling their curved ships down into the sea.”

So Hera spoke. Bright-eyed goddess Athena obeyed.
She sped off, raced down from Mount Olympus’s crest,
quickly reached Achaea’s swift ships, rushing to the spot
Odysseus, a man as wise as Zeus, was standing.
He’d laid no hand on his fast, black, well-decked ship.
His stout heart was filled with pain. Standing close to him,
bright-eyed Athena spoke to him:

            “Odysseus,
divinely bred, Laertes’ resourceful son,
so you are going to fly back home,
sail off to your own dear country.
You’ll leap into your ships with many oars,
and leave in triumph Priam and the Trojans,
abandoning Argive Helen, for whose sake
so many Achaeans have died here in Troy,
far from the homes they love. But come now,
move around among Achaean soldiers.
Don’t hesitate. Persuade each man to stop
dragging the curved ships down into the sea.”

So Athena spoke. Odysseus knew her from her voice,
as she talked. Then he ran, shrugging off his cloak—
Eurybates, the herald, later picked it up,
a man from Ithaca, aide to Odysseus.
Odysseus went straight to Agamemnon, Atreus’ son,
took from him his imperishable ancestral staff.
Grasping this, he ran to the bronze-clad Achaeans’ ships.
When he came across some king or prominent leader,
he’d confront him, telling him to hold his ground:

“Friend, it’s not suitable for you to panic,
as if you’re worthless. Take your seat instead.
Get other soldiers to remain in place.
You’ve no clear sense of Agamemnon’s plan.
Right now he’s testing all the army.
Soon enough he’ll punish Achaea’s sons.
Didn’t we all hear what he said in council?
In his rage he may harm Achaean troops—
passions run high in kings whom Zeus supports.
Their honour comes from Zeus the Counsellor,
who loves them.”

        By contrast, when Odysseus
came across some common soldier yelling out,
he beat him with the staff, admonishing him:

“My friend, take your place in silence. Stay put.
Listen to what others say, your betters,
you puny coward, useless in war or council.
Achaeans can’t all rule here as kings.
No good comes from having many leaders.
Let there be one in charge, one ruler,
who gets from crooked-minded Cronos’ son
sceptre and laws, so he may rule his people.”

Odysseus moved throughout the army, calming things.
From ships and huts, soldiers rushed to reassemble,
echoing like waves of the roaring sea crashing on shore,
as Ocean thunders on. Men sat calmly in their places.
But a single man kept on yelling out abuse—
scurrilous Thersites, expert in various insults,
vulgar terms for inappropriate attacks on kings,
whatever he thought would make the Argives laugh.
Of all the men who came to Troy, he was the ugliest—
bow legged, one crippled foot, rounded shoulders
curving in toward his chest. On top, his pointed head
sprouted thin, scraggly tufts of hair. Achilles hated him,
as did Odysseus, too, both subject to his taunts.
But now Agamemnon was the target of his gibes.
The Achaeans, despising Thersites in their hearts,
were furious at him. But he kept shouting out,
aiming noisy insults right at Agamemnon:

“Son of Atreus, what’s your problem now?
What do you lack? Your huts are stuffed with bronze,
plenty of choice women, too—all presents
we Achaeans give you as our leader,
whenever we ransack some city.
Or are you in need of still more gold,
a ransom fetched by some horse-taming Trojan
for his son tied up and delivered here
by me or by some other Achaean?
Or do you want a young girl to stash away,
so you’re the only one who gets to screw her?
It’s just not fair that you, our leader,
have botched things up so badly for us,
Achaea’s sons. But you men, you soldiers,
cowardly comrades, disgraceful people,
you’re Achaean women, not warriors.
Let’s sail home in our ships, leave this man,
our king, in Troy here to enjoy his loot.
That way he might come to recognize
whether or not we’re of some use to him.
Now Agamemnon has even shamed Achilles,
a much finer warrior than himself,
stealing a prize, keeping it for his own use.
Then there’s Achilles, no heart’s anger there,
who lets it all just happen. If he didn’t,
this bullying of yours, son of Atreus,
would be your last.”

       Thersites yelled out these insults
right at Agamemnon, the people’s shepherd,
abusing him. Noble Odysseus stood up quickly,
confronting Thersites. Scowling, he lashed out sternly:

“Shut up, chatterbox. You’re a champion talker.
But don’t try to have it out with kings,
all by yourself. Let me tell you something—
of all those who came to Troy with Atreus’ sons,
you’re the most disgraceful. So shut your mouth.
No more words from you abusing our kings,
seeking to sneak back home. How this war will end,
we’ve no idea—whether Achaea’s sons
will go back home successful or will fail.
You sit here, railing at Agamemnon,
Atreus’ son, leader of his people,
because Danaan heroes have given him
so many gifts—but that’s a cheap insult.
So I’ll tell you how things are going to be.
If I find you being so foolish any more,
then let Odysseus’ head no longer stay
upon his shoulders, let him no longer
be called the father of Telemachus,
if I don’t grab you, rip off all your clothes,
cloak and tunic, down to your cock and balls,
and beat you back to the fast ships in tears,
whipping you in shame from our assembly.”

Saying this, Odysseus lashed out with the sceptre,
hitting Thersites hard across his back and shoulders.
He doubled up in pain, shedding many tears.
In the middle of Thersites’ back sprang up
bloody welts beneath the golden sceptre.
He sat down, afraid and hurt, peering around,
like an idiot, and rubbing away his tears.
The soldiers, though discontent, laughed uproariously,
saying to one another:

             “Comrades,
before now Odysseus has done good things
thinking up fine plans and leading us in war.
But that’s the best thing he’s done by far
to help the Argives, shutting up that rabble-rouser.
Thersites’ bold spirit won’t urge him on
to trash our kings again with his abuse.”

That is how the soldiers talked together. Then Odysseus,
destroyer of cities, rose up, grasping the sceptre.
At his side, bright-eyed Athena, looking like a herald,
silenced troops, so Achaeans close by and far away
could hear him and follow his advice. Odysseus,
bearing in mind their common good, spoke out:

           “Son of Atreus,
now the Achaeans wish to disgrace you,
their king, shame you before all mortal men.
They’re refusing now to keep their promise,
the one they all swore to while sailing here,
still on their way from horse-breeding Argos,
that oath that they’d return after we’d destroyed
Troy’s strong walls. Like widows or small children,
they’re whining to each other to go home.
But going back demoralized is bad.
A man who spends one month aboard his ship,
away from his wife, becomes downhearted
when winter gusts and stormy seas confine him.
This is now the ninth revolving year
we’ve been waiting here, on this very spot.
So I don’t think that badly of Achaeans
in their frustration here by their curved ships.
Still, it’s shameful to go home with nothing.
My friends, be patient, give us all more time,
until Calchas’ prophecy comes true or not.
We all have kept in mind what he foretold.
You all are witnesses, the ones whom Fate
has not yet visited to carry off in death.
Not long ago, when our Achaean ships
gathered at Aulis, bringing disaster
for Priam and his Trojans, we sacrificed
on holy altars placed around a spring
hundreds of perfect creatures to the gods,
the immortals—underneath that tree,
a lovely plane tree, where bright water flowed.
And then a great omen appeared, a snake,
blood-red along its back, a dreadful sight,
a thing sent out by Zeus into the daylight.
Out from under the altar that snake slithered,
darting for the plane tree, where there lay
tiny, new-born sparrows, eight fledglings,
huddled under foliage at the very top.
The ninth one was the mother of the batch.
The serpent ate the infants, who screamed with fear.
The mother fluttered around here and there,
lamenting her dear chicks. The coiled serpent
snatched the crying mother by the wing.
Once the beast had gobbled up the sparrow
and her chicks, the god who’d made the snake appear
did something to it there for all to see.
Crooked Cronos’ son changed that snake to stone!
We stood there astounded at what we’d seen—
a horror desecrating the gods’ sacrifice.
Calchas at once spoke out in prophecy:

‘Long-haired Achaeans, why stand there so mute?
Counsellor Zeus has made manifest to us
a tremendous omen. It has come late,
and will take many years to be fulfilled,
but its fame will never die. Just as that snake
swallowed the sparrow’s brood, eight in all,
with the mother who bore them the ninth one killed,
so that’s how long we’ll fight them over there.
In the tenth year we’ll take Troy, wide streets and all.’

That’s what Calchas said. Now it’s coming true.
So come on, all you well-armed Achaeans,
let’s stay, until we seize Priam’s great city.”

At this speech Argives gave out an enormous cheer.
The ships on all sides resounded ominously,
as Achaeans roared out their endorsement of his words.
Then Nestor, the Geranian horseman, cried out:

“Alas! In our assembly you’re all infants,
silly children, with no sense of war’s events.
What will happen to our agreements,
the oaths we made? Let fire consume
our strategies, men’s plans, our treaties,
ratified with wine and handshakes, those things
we used to trust. For now we fight ourselves,
arguing like this. We can’t find any remedy,
though we’ve been sitting here for years.
Son of Atreus, you must maintain with force
your previous plan to lead the Argive troops
directly to the harsh demands of war.
And let those one or two be damned,
the men who don’t think like Achaeans,
the few of them who yearn to go back home—
something they’ll find impossible to do—
before we learn the truth or falsehood
of what was promised by aegis-bearing Zeus.
For I assure you mighty Zeus nodded assent
on that very day the Argives put to sea,
bearing Troy’s destructive fate in their swift ships.
On our right hand, Zeus hurled down lightning bolts,
signs manifesting his good will to us.
So let no man run off to get back home—
not before he’s had sex with some Trojan’s wife,
payment for Helen’s miseries, her cries of pain.
If any man is really keen to get back home,
let him just set hand to his well-benched ship,
he’ll come face to face, in plain view of all,
with death, his fate. You, my lord, think carefully—
think about what someone else suggests.
Don’t simply throw out what I say to you.
Agamemnon, set men in groups by tribes and clans,
so clans encourage clans, tribes bolster tribes.
If you do that, if Achaeans all obey,
you’ll then recognize who’s good and bad
among your leaders and your men. Ranged like that,
the two groups will stand against each other.
You’ll then know whether failure to take Troy
stems from divine will or craven soldiers
or ineptitude in managing the war.”

Mighty Agamemnon then answered Nestor:

“Old man, in our assembly once again
you win out over all Achaea’s sons.
O Father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo—
if I only had ten such counsellors
among Achaeans, king Priam’s city
would soon fall, be taken, sacked at our hands.
But aegis-bearing Zeus, son of Cronos,
keeps showering me with grievous troubles.
He throws me into pointless bitter fights.
So Achilles and I fought for that girl,
yelling at each other. The first fault was mine.
But if we two agreed, were of one mind,
then Troy’s fate would be sealed without delay,
without a moment’s pause. But let’s go off to eat,
so we can resume the fight. Every one of you,
get your spears and shields prepared for action.
Feed your swift-footed horses properly.
Inspect the chariots with a careful eye,
so we can stand all day and battle Ares,
hateful god of war. We’ll get no respite,
not even for a moment, except at dusk,
when nightfall separates the frenzied soldiers.
Chest straps on our protective body shields
will be soaked through with sweat. Around our spears
hands will grow numb. Horses, too, will sweat,
under the strain of hauling polished chariots.
But if I see a man coming out to fight
reluctantly, hanging back by our curved ships,
he’ll not escape being food for dogs and birds.”

Argives answered Agamemnon with a mighty roar,
like waves by a steep cliff crashing on the rock face,
lashed by South Wind’s blasts, always foaming on the rock,
whipped on by every wind gusting here and there.
The men leapt up, moved off, scattering to ships,
set fires by their huts, and each man ate his dinner.
Every man then sacrificed to the immortal gods,
praying to escape death and war’s killing zone.
Agamemnon, king of men, sacrificed an ox,
a fat one, five years old, to Zeus, exalted son of Cronos.
He summoned the best senior men of all Achaeans—
first, Nestor and Idomeneus, then both Ajaxes,
then Diomedes, Tydeus’s son. Seventh came Odysseus.
Warrior Menelaus arrived without a summons,
knowing in his heart all Agamemnon’s worries.
They stood by the ox, with barley grains for sprinkling.
Then Agamemnon prayed on their behalf:

        “Most powerful Zeus,
exalted lord of thunder clouds, Zeus,
who dwells in heaven, grant my prayer—
May the sun not go down, nor darkness come,
before I have cast down Priam’s palace,
covered it with dust, destroyed its doors
in all-consuming fire, and with my bronze sword
sliced to shreds the tunic on Hector’s chest.
May many of his comrades lie beside him,
face down on the ground, teeth grinding dirt.”

So he prayed. But Cronos’ son did not grant his wish.
Zeus took the offering but increased their suffering.

Once the men had prayed, scattering barley grain,
they pulled back the beast’s head, slit its throat, flayed it,
sliced thigh bones out and hid them in twin layers of fat,
with raw meat on top. They cooked these on split wood,
then placed the innards on spits in Hephaestus’ fire.
When the wrapped-up thigh bones were completely cooked,
and they had tasted samples of the inner organs,
they chopped up the rest, arranged the meat on spits,
cooked it carefully, then drew it from the fire.
This work finished, the men prepared a meal and ate.
Each soldier’s appetite was fully satisfied—
all dined equally. When every man had eaten
as much food and drink as anyone could wish,
Geranian horseman Nestor was the first to speak.

“Lord Agamemnon, son of Atreus,
king of men, let’s end our discussions now
and not postpone work given by the gods.
Come, let heralds of bronze-clad Achaeans
summon all the soldiers to assembly.
Let’s move together across the wide front,
rouse Achaea’s men with blood-lust for war.”

Agamemnon, king of men, agreed with Nestor.
He ordered clear-voiced heralds immediately
to sound the battle call to long-haired Achaeans.
The call went out. Troops assembled on the run.
Around Agamemnon, kings nurtured by the gods
rushed to establish order. With them strode Athena,
her eyes glittering, holding up the aegis
her priceless, ageless, eternal aegis,
its hundred golden tassels quivering,
each finely woven, valued at a hundred oxen.
With this, she sped on through Achaean ranks,
like lightning, firing soldiers’ hearts for war.
As she passed, she roused in men that hot desire
to fight, to kill. At once she made each man feel war
far sweeter than returning home, finer than sailing
in the hollow ships back to his dear native land.
Just as an all-consuming fire burns through huge forests
on a mountain top, and men far off can see its light,
so, as soldiers marched out, their glittering bronze
blazed through the sky to heaven, an amazing sight.

As many birds in flight—geese, cranes, and long-necked swans—
in an Asian meadow by the flowing river Caystrios,
fly here and there, proud of their strong wings, and call,
as they settle, the meadow resounding with the noise,
so the many groups of soldiers moved out then
from ships and huts onto Scamander’s plain.
Under men’s and horses’ feet the earth rang ominously.
Then they stood there, in that flowered meadow,
by the Scamander, an immense array,
as numerous as leaves and flowers in springtime.
Like flies swarming around shepherds’ pens in spring,
when pails fill up with milk, so the Achaeans,
a huge long-haired host, marched out onto that plain
against the Trojans, eager to destroy them.
Just as goatherds sort out with ease the wandering beasts,
all mixed up in the pasture, so through all the army,
the leaders organized the troops for battle.
Among them powerful Agamemnon roamed,
eyes and head like Zeus, who loves the thunder,
waist like Ares, god of war, chest like Poseidon.
Just as in cattle herds the bull stands out above the rest,
by far the most conspicuous amid the cows,
so on that day Zeus made Agamemnon stand
pre-eminent among the troops, first of heroes.

Now, you Muses living on Olympus, tell me—
for you are goddesses and know everything,
while we hear only stories, knowing nothing certain—
tell me the leaders of Danaans, the rulers.
It would be impossible for me to tell
the story of or name those in the common mass,
not even with ten tongues, ten mouths, an untiring voice,
a heart of bronze, unless the Olympian Muses,
daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus, could sing of the men,
all those who came to Troy. But I shall list the leaders,
commanders of the ships, and all the ships in full.

Peneleus, Leitus, and Arcesilaus
led the Boeotians, with Clonius and Prothoenor.
Their men came from Hyria, rocky Aulis,
Schoenus, Scolus, mountainous Eteonus,
Thespeia, Graia, spacious Mycalassus,
men holding Harma, Eilesium, Erythrae;
men holding Eleon, Hyle, Peteon,
Ocalea, the well-built fortress Medeon,
Copae, Eutresis, Thisbe, city full of doves;
men from Coronea, grassy Haliartus;
men from Plataea, Glisas, those who held
fortified Lower Thebe and sacred Onchestus,
with Poseidon’s splendid grove; men from Arne,
land rich in grapes, Midea, sacred Nisa,
and distant Anthedon. Fifty ships came with these men,
each with one hundred and twenty young Boeotians.

Men from Aspledon and Minyan Orchomenus
were led by Ascalaphus and Ialmenus,
sons of Ares. Astyoche bore them in Actor’s house,
Azeus’ son, to mighty Ares. She, a modest virgin,
went upstairs, where the god lay with her in secret.
These men brought with them a fleet of thirty ships.

Schedius and Epistrophus, sons of Iphitus,
the son of great-hearted Naubolus,
commanded Phoceans—men from Cyparissus,
rocky Pytho, holy Crisa, Daulis, and Panopeus;
men from Anemorea and Hyampolis;
from around the sacred river Cephisus,
from Lilaea, beside Cephissus’s springs.
Forty black ships these two leaders brought with them.
Moving around, as soldiers armed themselves,
they set Phocean ranks by the Boeotians, on their left.

The Locrians were led by swift Ajax, son of Oileus,
the lesser Ajax, not the greater Ajax,
son of Telamon, but a much smaller man.
Though he was short and wore cloth armour,
among all Hellenes and Achaeans he excelled
in fighting with his spear. Locrians came from Cynus,
Opous, Calliarus, Bessa, Scarphe,
lovely Aegeiae, Tarphe, Thronion,
and from around the river Boagrius.
Ajax brought forty black ships of Locrians
living across from sacred Euboea.

Elephenor, offspring of Ares, son of Chalcodon,
great-hearted leader, commanded the Abantes,
who live to breathe war’s fury, soldiers from Euboea,
Chalcis, Eretria, wine-rich Histiaea, Cerinthus by the sea,
men from the steep fortress Dium, Carystus, and Styra.
These swift Abantes came with Elephenor,
their hair grown long behind, warrior spearmen,
filled with fierce desire to tear apart their enemies,
to pierce armed bodies with their long ash spears.
Forty black ships came with Elephenor.

Soldiers came from that well-built fortress Athens,
land of proud Erechtheus, whom Athena raised,
after he was born out of the harvest land.
She placed him in Athens, at her own rich shrine.
To him Athenian youth make sacrificial offerings,
with bulls and rams as each year comes around.
Menestheus, son of Peteos, led these men.
In tactics no one alive on earth could match him
for deploying chariots or shield-bearing men.
Nestor, from a previous age, was his only rival.
Menestheus brought with him fifty black ships.

From Salamis Ajax commanded twelve ships.
He organized his men in their positions,
so they stood adjacent to Athenian ranks.

Warriors from Argos, fortified Tiryns, Hermione,
Asine, both with deep bays, Troezene, Eionae,
vine-rich Epidaurus, Achaean youth from Aegina, Mases—
all these were led by mighty fighter Diomedes,
skilled in war cries, and by Sthenelus, dear son
of famous Capaneus. There was a third leader,
god-like Euryalus, Mecisteus’s son, son of lord Talaus.
But warlike Diomedes was the main commander.
These men brought with them eighty black ships.

Troops from the strong fortress Mycenae, rich Corinth,
well-built Cleonae, Orneae, lovely Araethyrea,
Sicyon, whose first king was Adrestus,
with men from Hyperesia, lofty Gonoessa,
Pellene, from Aegium, men from coastal regions
and wide Helice—of these men Agamemnon,
son of Atreus, led one hundred ships.
The most troops came with him, the finest men by far.
In their midst, Agamemnon put on a proud display,
dressed in gleaming armour, prominent among all heroes.
He was the best of all, because he had most men.

Men from Lacedaemon, land of ravines, Pharis,
Sparta, Messe, where doves congregate,
men living in Bryseae, beautiful Augeiae,
Amyclae, coastal Helos, men from Laäs,
from around Oetylus—all these in sixty ships
were led by powerful, warlike Menelaus,
Agamemnon’s brother. Among these warriors,
as they armed themselves some distance off,
Menelaus strode—confident, courageous—
rousing his troops for war, his heart passionate
to avenge Helen’s struggles, her cries of pain.

Men came from Pylos, lovely Arene, Thryum,
by Alpheus ford, well-built Aipy, Cyparisseis,
Amphigenea, Pteleum, Helos, Dorium,
where the Muses met the Thracian Thamyris,
and stopped his singing. He was coming back
from Oechalia, from the court of Eurytus the king.
He had boasted his singing would surpass the Muses,
daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus, should they compete.
In their anger the Muses mutilated Thamyris,
taking away his godlike power of song,
and making him forget his skill in playing the lyre.
Geranian horseman Nestor led these men
in a flotilla of ninety hollow ships.

Men from Arcadia, from below steep mount Cyllene,
near Aepytus’ tomb, where men excel in combat
hand to hand, troops from Pheneus, Orchomenus,
rich in flocks, Rhipe, Stratie, windy Enispe,
Tegea, lovely Mantinea, Stymphelus,
Parrhasia—mighty Agapenor led these men,
Ancaeus’s son, in sixty ships. Many Arcadians
came in every ship, skilled fighters. Agamemnon,
king of men, had himself provided well-decked ships
for them to sail across the wine-dark ocean,
for these men lacked expertise in matters of the sea.

Soldiers from Bouprasium, fair Elis, those parts
bounded by Hyrmine, coastal Myrsinus,
the rock of Olene, and Alesium—these troops
had four commanders, each with ten swift ships.
The many Epeians on board were commanded
by Amphimachus, son of Cteatus, and Thalpius,
son of Eurytus, descended both from Actor.
Third leader was Diores, son of Amarynces.
Fourth was Polyxeinus, son of Agasthenes, Augeas’s son.

Men from Doulichium, sacred Echinean islands,
living across the sea from Elis, were commanded
by warlike Meges, son of Phyleus, the horseman,
loved of Zeus. Phyleus, angry with his father,
moved to Doulichium. Meges brought with him
forty black ships in his flotilla.

          Odysseus led on
the Cephallenians, soldiers from Ithaca,
well wooded Neritum, Crocylea,
rugged Aegilips, from Zacynthus, Samos,
both those inhabiting the mainland
and those from cities on the facing shore.
Odysseus, as wise as Zeus, led these troops,
who came with him in twelve black ships.

Thoas, son of Andraemon, led the Aetolians,
men from Pleuron, Olenus, Pylene,
coastal Chalchis, and rocky Calydon.
Proud king Oeneus had no living sons,
and he himself was dead, as was fair-haired Meleager.
Thus, Thoas ruled alone. He brought forty black ships.

Famous spearman Idomeneus led the Cretans
from Cnossus, fortified Gortyn, Lyctus, Miletus,
chalky Lycastus, Phaestus, Rhytium,
both populous towns, with other warriors
from Crete’s one hundred cities. Idomeneus,
famous for fighting with a spear, led these troops,
along with Meriones, as skilled at killing men
as Ares, god of war. They brought eighty black ships.

Tlepolemus, son of Hercules, a huge brave man,
led nine ships of courageous troops, men from Rhodes,
split into three divisions—from Lindus, Ialysus,
and chalky Cameirus—all led by Tlepolemus,
famous spearman, born to Astyocheia
and mighty Hercules, who’d taken her from Ephyra,
by the river Selleis, after razing many towns
full of vital warriors. Once he’d grown up
in their well-furnished home, Tlepolemus killed
his father’s uncle, Licymnius, a well-loved old man,
a great fighter, too. At once Tlepolemus built a fleet,
assembled many men, and fled away. Other sons
and grandsons of great Hercules had threatened him.
He suffered badly, until he came to Rhodes,
whose people live in three groups split by tribes.
Zeus, who governs gods and men, loved them,
and so the son of Cronos blessed them with great wealth.

Nireus brought three well-balanced ships from Syme.
The son of Aglaea and lord Charopus,
the handsomest of all Danaans who sailed to Troy,
after Achilles, who had no equal. But he was weak,
because he had few troops.

          Men from Nisyrus,
Crapathus, Casus, Cos, Eurypylus’s city,
the Calydnian islands had Pheidippus and Antiphus,
sons of lord Thessalus, Hercules’s son, as leaders.
With them came thirty hollow ships.

All the troops from Pelasgian Argos, Alos,
men living in Alope, Trachis, from Phthia,
and Hellas, where lovely women live, men called
Myrmidons, Hellenes, Achaeans—these troops
Achilles led in fifty ships. But their minds were not set
on the grim clash of war. They had no one to lead them.
Godlike Achilles, swift of foot, sat by his ships,
still angry over fair-complexioned Briseis, seized
from Lyrnessus after heavy fighting.
Achilles had laid waste Lyrnessus and Thebe’s walls,
overthrown the spearmen Mynes and Epistrophus,
sons of lord Euenus, son of king Selepius.
Because of her, Achilles sat still grieving.
But soon enough he would rouse himself again.

Troops from Phylace, flowering Pyrasus,
shrine of Demeter, Iton, where flocks breed,
Antrum by the sea, and grassy Pteleum—
brave Protesilaus had led these men, while still alive.
Now the black earth held him. In Phylace,
he left behind a wife to tear her cheeks in grief,
home half complete. Some Dardanian killed him,
as he jumped on Trojan soil, the first on shore,
far ahead of all Achaeans. His soldiers lamented
the loss of their chief, but did not lack a leader.
Warlike Podarces, son of Iphicles, led them—
the man owned many flocks and was a young blood brother
to Protesilaus. But that great-hearted warlike soldier
was an older, better man. So these troops had a leader,
though they missed the noble one they lost.
Podarces brought forty black ships along with him.

Troops from Pherae by Lake Boebea, from Boebeïs,
Glaphyrae, well-built Iolcus—these came
in eleven ships, commanded by Eumelus,
Admetus’s well-loved son, born to him by Alcestis,
loveliest of Pelias’s daughters.

Troops from Methone, Thaumacia, Meliboea,
and rugged Olizon, were led by Philoctetes,
the skilled archer, in seven ships, each with fifty men,
expert archers. But Philoctetes stayed behind on Lemnos,
the sacred island, in horrific pain, abandoned.
Achaea’s sons had left him there in agony,
wounded by a snake bite. He lay there in torment.
But soon the Argives by their ships would have reason
to remember him. These soldiers missed their chief,
but were now led by Medon, Oïleus’s bastard son,
whom Rhene bore to Oïleus, destroyer of cities.
So Medon was the one who set their ranks in order.

Men from Tricca, rocky Ithome, Oechalia,
city of Eurytus, the Oechalian,
were commanded by two sons of Asclepius,
skilled healers, Podaleirus and Machaon.
They brought thirty hollow ships with them.

Troops from Ormenius, from the fount of Hyperea,
from Asterius, from Titanus with its white hilltops—
these men were commanded by Eurypylus,
fine son of Euaemon, in forty black ships.
Men from Argissa, Gyrtone, Orthe, Elone,
the white city Oloösson—these troops were led
by Polypoetes, a steadfast soldier,
son of Perithous, himself son to immortal Zeus.
That famous lady Hippodameia bore
Polypoetes to Perithous on that very day
he took revenge out on those hairy monsters,
and beat them from mount Pelion towards the Aithices.
But Polypoetes was not the sole commander.
With him was Leonteus, a warlike man,
son of proud-hearted Coronus, Caeneus’s son.
With them they brought forty black ships.

Gouneus brought twenty-two ships from Cyphus.
With him sailed the Enienes and Peraebians,
reliable fighting men from cold Dodona,
who work by the lovely river Titaressus,
which empties its beautiful, flowing waters
into the Peneus. These do not intermingle
with the silver stream of the Peneus,
but flow along on top of them, like oil.
For the Titaressus is a branch of the river Styx,
dread waters by which the most solemn oaths are sealed.

Prothous, son of Tenthredon, led the Magnetes,
from the region round Peneus and mount Pelion,
where leaves are always trembling in the wind.
With him swift Prothous brought forty black ships.

These men were leaders, rulers of the Danaans.
Muse, tell me this—Which of them were the very best
of those who came over with the sons of Atreus?

The best horses were those of Admetus, son of Pheres.
Eumelus drove them. As fast as birds, they matched
each other in colour, age, and height along the back.
Bred by Apollo of the silver bow in Perea,
both mares, they carried terror with them.
Of the men, by far the best was Ajax, son of Telamon,
but only while Achilles did not join in battle.
For Achilles was the better man by far.
The horses carrying Peleus’s son, man without equal,
were much better, too. But he stayed behind,
by his curved seaworthy ships, still enraged
at Agamemnon, Atreus’ son, the people’s shepherd.
His soldiers amused themselves beside the breaking sea
by throwing spears and discus or with archery.
Their horses stood near their chariots, browsing on lotus
and parsley from the marsh. Their masters’ chariots,
fully covered, remained stationed in the huts.
Missing their warlike leader, these troops strolled
here and there throughout the camp and did not fight.

The soldiers, like a fire consuming all the land,
moved on out. Earth groaned under them, just as it does
when Zeus, who loves thunder, in his anger lashes
the land around Typhoeus, among the Arimi,
where people say Typhoeus has his lair.
That’s how the earth groaned loudly under marching feet.

Then wind-swift Iris came to Troy as messenger
from aegis-bearing Zeus carrying grim news.
Trojans had summoned an assembly by Priam’s palace gates.
There all had gathered, young and old. Standing by Priam,
swift-footed Iris spoke, sounding like Polites, Priam’s son.
He’d been stationed as a scout—fully confident
of his skill at running—at old Aesyetes’ tomb,
right at the top, waiting for the moment
Achaeans moved out from their ships.
Looking just like Polites, swift-footed Iris said:

“Priam, old man, you always love to talk
about irrelevant things, as you did earlier
in peacetime. But now this war continues
relentlessly. I’ve gone to battle many times.
I’ve never seen an army like this one, so many men,
as numerous as leaves or grains of sand,
coming across the plain to assault our city.
Hector, I call on you, on you above all, to follow
my instructions—the numerous allies here
in Priam’s great city all speak different languages
from far-scattered regions. So let each man
issue orders to the ones he leads,
let him now organize his countrymen,
then lead them out to battle.”

Iris spoke. Hector understood her words.
Immediately he ended the assembly.
Men rushed to arm themselves. They opened up the gates.
Troops streamed out, infantry and horses. A huge din arose.
In the plain, some distance off, a high hill stood by itself,
right before the city. People call it Batieia,
but the gods know it as the tomb of agile Myrine.
Here the Trojans and their allies marshalled forces.

Hector of the flashing helmet, Priam’s son,
led out the Trojans. With him marched in arms
the largest contingent, the finest men by far,
eager to get working with their spears.

Aeneas, Anchises’s worthy son, led the Dardanians.
Goddess Aphrodite had borne him to Anchises.
She had lain with him on the slopes of Ida.
But Aeneas was not their sole commander.
With him were Antenor’s two sons, Archelochus
and Acamas, extremely skilled in every form of war.

Men from Zeleia, on mount Ida’s lowest slope,
wealthy Trojans, men who drink dark waters
of the river Aesepus were led by Pandarus,
Lycaon’s worthy son, whom Apollo had taught archery.

Soldiers from Adresteia, Apaesus, Pityeia,
steep Mount Tereia were commanded by Adrestus
and Amphius in cloth armour, Merops’s sons from Percote,
who knew more of prophecy than anyone.
He gave his children orders to stay away from war,
which eats men up. They did not obey him.
Deadly black fates had called them on to battle.

Troops from Percote, Practius, Sestos, Abydos,
holy Arisbe—these troops were led by Asius,
son of Hyrtacus, an important ruler.
Arius’s huge, tawny horses brought him
from Arisbe, from the river Selleïs.

Hippothous led tribes of spearmen from Pelasgia,
fertile Larisa, along with Pylaeus, offshoots of Ares,
sons of Pelasgian Lethus, Teutamus’ son.

Acamas and warlike Peirous led the Thracians,
those men bounded by the Hellespont’s strong flow.

Euphemus, son of god-nurtured Troezenus,
son of Ceos, led Ciconian spearmen.

Pyraechmes led archers from Paeonia,
from far off Amydon, by the Axius,
a broad flowing river, whose moving waters
are the loveliest on earth.

              Pylaemenes,
a brave soldier, commanded Paphlagonians
from Enetae, where herds of mules run wild,
men from Cytorus, from around Sesamus,
those with fine homes by the stream Parthenius,
from Cromna, Aegialus, high Erithini
Odius and Epistrophus led the Halizoni
from distant Alybe, where men mine silver.
Chromis and prophet Ennomus led the Mysians.
But Ennomus’s great skill in prophecy
did not allow him to evade his deadly fate.
Swift Achilles, descendant of Aeacus, killed him
in the river where he slaughtered other Trojans.
Phorcys and noble Ascanius led up Phrygians
from far-off Ascania, men keen for war.

Mesthles and Antiphus commanded the Maeonians.
Sons of Talaemenes, born to Gygaea,
a water nymph, they led Maeonians
from around the foot of Mount Tmolus.

Nastes led the Carians, men with a strange language,
from Miletus, Phthires, with its wooded mountain,
Maeander’s waters and high peaks of Mount Mycale.
Nastes and Amphimachus, noble sons of Nomion
were their leaders. Nastes went to war carrying gold,
like a girl. What a fool! His gold did not spare him
a wretched death. He died in the river,
at the hand of swift Achilles, descended from Aeacus.
Fiery Achilles carried off his gold.

Sarpedon and noble Glaucus commanded Lycians,
from distant Lycia, by the swirling river Xanthus.

Book 3: Paris, Menelaus, and Helen [back to top]

The armies move together; Paris volunteers to fight Menelaus in single combat; both sides prepare make a truce; Iris visits Helen; Helen goes to the Scaean Gate, looks at the Achaean troops with Priam; Priam leaves Troy to visit the armies and administer the treaty oath; Agamemnon utters the prayer for the treaty; Paris and Menelaus fight in single combat; Aphrodite rescues Paris; Paris and Helen meet in Troy; Agamemnon demands compensation from the Trojans

1. The Pygmies in Greek mythology were a race of small people who were constantly at war with the cranes who migrated to their territory (they should not be confused with the actual African pygmies about whom the Greeks had no sure knowledge).
2. Alexander is another name for Paris, prince of Troy, the man who had abducted Helen, wife of Menelaus.

Once troops had formed in ranks under their own leaders,
Trojans marched out, clamouring like birds, like cranes
screeching overhead, when winter’s harsh storms drive them off,
screaming as they move over the flowing Ocean,
bearing death and destruction to the Pygmies,
launching their savage attack on them at dawn.
Achaeans came on in silence, breathing ferocity,
determined to stand by each other in the fight.
Just as South Wind spreads mist around the mountain peak,
something shepherds hate, but thieves prefer to night,
for one can see only a stone’s throw up ahead,
so, as men marched, dense dust clouds rose from underfoot.
They advanced at full speed out across the plain.
The two armies moved in close towards each other.
Then godlike Paris stepped out, as Trojan champion,
on his shoulders a leopard skin. He had bow and sword.
Brandishing two bronze-tipped spears, he challenged
the best men in the whole Achaean force to fight—
a single combat, to the death. War-loving Menelaus
noticed Alexander striding there, his troops
bunched up in ranks behind him, and he rejoiced,
like a famished lion finding a large carcass—
antlered stag or wild goat—and devouring it at once,
though fierce young hunters and swift dogs attack.
So Menelaus was pleased to see Paris there,
right before his eyes. Menelaus had in mind
taking revenge on the man who had dishonoured him.
At once Menelaus jumped from his chariot,
down to the ground, his weapons in his fists.
When godlike Alexander saw Menelaus there,
among the fighters at the front, his heart sank.
He moved back into the ranks, among his comrades,
avoiding death. Just as a man stumbles on a snake
in some mountainous ravine and gives way, jumping back,
his limbs trembling, his cheeks pale, so godlike Paris,
afraid of Atreus’s son, slid back into proud Trojan ranks.
Seeing this, Hector went at Alexander, insulting him:

“Despicable Paris, handsomest of men,
but woman-mad seducer. How I wish
you never had been born or died unmarried.
That’s what I’d prefer, so much better
than to live in shame, hated by others.
Now long-haired Achaeans are mocking us,
saying we’ve put forward as a champion
one who looks good, but lacks a strong brave mind.
Was this what you were like back on that day
you gathered up your faithful comrades,
sailed sea-worthy ships across the ocean,
went out among a foreign people,
and carried back from that far-off land
a lovely woman linked by marriage
to warrior spearmen, thus bringing on
great suffering for your father and your city,
all your people—joy to your enemies
and to yourself disgrace? And can you now
not face Menelaus? If so, you’d learn
the kind of man he is whose wife you took.
You’d get no help then from your lyre, long hair,
good looks—Aphrodite’s gifts—once face down,
lying in the dirt. Trojans must be timid men.
If not, for all the evil things you’ve done
by now you’d wear a garment made of stones.”

To Hector godlike Alexander then replied:

“Hector, you’re right in what you say against me.
Those complaints of yours are not unjustified.
Your heart is tireless, like a wood-chopping axe
wielded by a craftsman cutting timber for a ship.
The axe makes his force stronger. Your mind’s like that—
the spirit in your chest is fearless. But don’t blame me
for golden Aphrodite’s lovely gifts.
Men can’t reject fine presents from the gods,
those gifts they personally bestow on us,
though no man would take them of his own free will.
You want me now to go to battle.
Get others to sit down—Trojans and Achaeans.
Put me and war-loving Menelaus
in their midst to fight it out for Helen,
all her property. The one who triumphs,
comes off victorious, the better man,
let him take all the goods and lead her home,
as his wife. Let others swear a solemn oath,
as friends, either to live on in fertile Troy
or to return to horse-breeding Argos,
land of the lovely women of Achaea.”

Paris spoke. Hearing those words, Hector felt great joy.
He went to the middle ground, between the armies,
halted Trojan troops, grasping the centre of his spear shaft.
The men sat. But long-haired Achaeans kept on shooting,
attempting to hit Hector with rocks and arrows.
Then Agamemnon, king of men, roared out at them:

“Argives, Achaean lads, stop hurling things.
Hector of the flashing helmet wants to talk to us.”

Once Agamemnon spoke, the men stopped fighting
quickly falling silent. Hector then addressed both sides:

“You Trojans, you well-armed Achaeans,
listen now to what Paris has to say,
the man whose actions brought about our fight.
He bids the other Trojans, all Achaeans,
set their weapons on the fertile ground.
He and war-loving Menelaus here
will fight it out alone between the armies
for Helen and for all her property.
Whichever one comes out victorious,
the stronger man, let him seize all the goods,
and take the woman as his wife back home.
Let others swear a solemn oath as friends.”

So Hector spoke. The soldiers all grew silent.
Then Menelaus, loud in war, answered Hector:

“Listen now to me. More than anyone,
my heart has suffered pain. So now I think
Argives and Trojans should part company,
since you have suffered many hardships,
thanks to the fight between myself and Paris,
a fight that he began. Whichever one of us
death takes, our fate, let that man perish.
You others quickly go your separate ways.
So bring two lambs here—white male, black female—
for earth and sun. We’ll bring one more for Zeus.
Lead out great Priam to administer the oath
in person, for his sons are over-proud,
untrustworthy. No man should transgress
by violence oaths sworn in Zeus’s name.
Young men’s minds are fickle. An older man
who joins them thinks of past and future,
so with both groups things happen for the best.”

Achaeans and Trojans were elated, full of hope
that wretched war would end. They pulled the chariots back
into the ranks, climbed out, disarmed, and placed their weapons
next to each other on the ground, with little room
between both groups. Hector sent two heralds to the city,
to fetch the lambs with speed and summon Priam.
Agamemnon sent Talthybius to the hollow ships,
instructing him to bring a sacrificial lamb.
Talthybius obeyed god-like Agamemnon’s orders.

Then Iris came as messenger to white-armed Helen
taking on the image of her sister-in-law,
wife of Antenor’s son, fine Helicaon.
Her name was Laodice, of all Priam’s daughters
the most beautiful. She found Helen in her room,
weaving a large cloth, a double purple cloak,
creating pictures of the many battle scenes
between horse-taming Trojans and bronze-clad Achaeans,
wars they suffered for her sake at the hands of Ares.
Standing near by, swift-footed Iris said:

       “Come here, dear girl,
Look at the amazing things going on.
Horse-taming Trojans and bronze-clad Achaeans,
men who earlier were fighting one another
in wretched war out there on the plain,
both keen for war’s destruction, are sitting still.
Alexander and war-loving Menelaus
are going to fight for you with their long spears.
The man who triumphs will call you his dear wife.”

With these words the goddess set in Helen’s heart
sweet longing for her former husband, city, parents.
Covering herself with a white shawl, she left the house,
shedding tears. She did not go alone, but took with her
two attendants, Aethrae, daughter of Pittheus,
and ox-eyed Clymene. They soon reached the Scaean Gates.
Oucalegaon and Antenor, both prudent men,
elder statesmen, sat at the Scaean Gates,
with Priam and his entourage—Panthous, Thymoetes,
Lampus, Clytius, and brave Hicataeon. Old men now,
their fighting days were finished, but they all spoke well.
They sat there, on the tower, these Trojan elders,
like cicadas perched up on a forest branch, chirping
soft, delicate sounds. Seeing Helen approach the tower,
they commented softly to each other—their words had wings:

“There’s nothing shameful about the fact
that Trojans and well-armed Achaeans
have endured great suffering a long time
over such a woman—just like a goddess,
immortal, awe-inspiring. She’s beautiful.
But nonetheless let her go back with the ships
Let her not stay here, a blight on us, our children.”

So they talked. Priam then called out to Helen.

“Come here, dear child. Sit down in front of me,
so you can see your first husband, your friends,
your relatives. As far as I’m concerned,
it’s not your fault. For I blame the gods.
They drove me to wage this wretched war
against Achaeans. Tell me, who’s that large man,
over there, that impressive, strong Achaean?
Others may be taller by a head than him,
but I’ve never seen with my own eyes,
such a striking man, so noble, so like a king.”

Then Helen, goddess among women, said to Priam:

“My dear father-in-law, whom I respect and honour,
how I wish I’d chosen an evil death
when I came here with your son, leaving behind
my married home, companions, darling child,
and friends my age. But things didn’t work that way.
So I weep all the time. But to answer you,
that man is wide-ruling Agamemnon,
son of Atreus, a good king, fine fighter,
and once he was my brother-in-law,
if that life was ever real. I’m such a whore.”

Priam gazed in wonder at Agamemnon, saying:

“Son of Atreus, blessed by the gods, fortune’s child,
divinely favoured, many long-haired Achaeans
serve under you. Once I went to Phrygia,
that vine-rich land, where I saw Phrygian troops
with all their horses, thousands of them,
soldiers of Otreus, godlike Mygdon,
camped by the banks of the Sangarius river.
I was their ally, part of their army,
the day the Amazons, men’s peers in war,
came on against them. But those forces then
were fewer than these bright-eyed Achaeans.”

The old man then spied Odysseus and asked:

“Dear child, come tell me who this man is,
shorter by a head than Agamemnon,
son of Atreus. But he looks broader
in his chest and shoulders. His armour’s stacked
there on the fertile earth, but he strides on,
marching through men’s ranks just like a ram
moving through large white multitudes of sheep.
Yes, a woolly ram, that’s what he seems to me.”

Helen, child of Zeus, then answered Priam:

“That is Laertes’ son, crafty Odysseus,
raised in rocky Ithaca. He’s well versed
in all sorts of tricks, deceptive strategies.”

At that point, wise Antenor said to Helen:

“Lady, what you say is true. Once lord Odysseus
came here with war-loving Menelaus,
as an ambassador in your affairs.
I received them both in my residence
and entertained them. I got to know them—
from their appearance and their wise advice.
When those two men mingled with us Trojans
in our meeting and Menelaus rose,
his broad shoulders were higher than the other’s.
But once they sat, Odysseus seemed more regal,
and when the time came for them to speak to us,
setting out their thoughts quite formally,
Menelaus spoke with fluency—few words,
but very clear—no chatter, no digressions—
although he was the younger of the two.
But when wise Odysseus got up to speak,
he just stood, eyes downcast, staring at the ground.
He didn’t move the sceptre to and fro,
but gripped it tightly, like some ignoramus—
a bumpkin or someone idiotic.
But when that great voice issued from his chest,
with words like winter snowflakes, no man alive
could match Odysseus. We were no longer
disconcerted at witnessing his style.”

Priam, the old man, saw a third figure, Ajax, and asked:

“Who is that other man? He’s over there—
that huge, burly Achaean—his head and shoulders
tower over the Achaeans.”

              Then Helen
long-robed goddess among women, answered:

“That’s massive Ajax, Achaea’s bulwark.
Across from him stands Idomeneus,
surrounded by his Cretans, like a god.
Around him there stand the Cretan leaders.
Often war-loving Menelaus welcomed him
in our house, whenever he arrived from Crete.
Now I see all the bright-eyed Achaeans
whom I know well, whose names I could recite.
But I can’t see two of the men’s leaders,
Castor, tamer of horses, and Pollux,
the fine boxer—they are both my brothers,
whom my mother bore along with me.
Either they did not come with the contingent
from lovely Lacedaemon, or they sailed here
in their seaworthy ships, but have no wish
to join men’s battles, fearing the disgrace,
the many slurs, which are justly mine.”

Helen spoke. But the life-nourishing earth
already held her brothers in Lacedaemon,
in their own dear native land.

               Through Troy,
heralds brought offerings to seal the binding oaths,
two lambs and in a goatskin sack some sparkling wine,
fruit of the earth. Idaios, the herald, brought in
the gleaming mixing bowl and golden cups.
Standing close by Priam, he encouraged him.

“Son of Laomedon, the leading officers
among horse-taming Trojans and bronze-clad Achaeans
are calling you to come down to the plain,
to administer their binding promises.
Paris and war-loving Menelaus
are going to fight it out with their long spears
over the woman. The man who wins,
who comes off the victor, gets the woman
and her property. The others will all swear
an oath of friendship, a binding one—
we will live in fertile Troy, they in Argos,
where horses breed, and in Achaea,
land of lovely women.”

               Idaios finished.
The old man trembled, then ordered his attendants
to prepare his chariot. They obeyed at once.
Priam climbed in and pulled back on the reins.
Antenor climbed in the fine chariot beside him.
The two men led swift horses through the Scaean Gate,
out to the plain. Once they reached the Trojans and Achaeans,
they climbed out of the chariot onto fertile ground,
in the space between the Trojan and Achaean troops.
At once, Agamemnon and crafty Odysseus
stood up to greet them. Noble heralds fetched the offerings,
to ratify their solemn oaths pledged to the gods.
They prepared wine in the mixing bowl, then poured water
over the kings’ hands. Atreus’s son drew out the dagger
which always hung beside his sword’s huge scabbard,
then sliced hairs off lambs’ heads. Attendants passed these hairs
among the leaders of the Trojans and Achaeans.
Raising his hands, Agamemnon then intoned
a mighty prayer on their behalf:

           “Father Zeus,
ruling from Mount Ida, most glorious,
most powerful, and you, too, god of the sun,
who sees everything, hears everything,
you rivers, earth, you gods below the earth,
who punish the dead when men swear false oaths,
you gods are witnesses. Keep this oath firm.
If Alexander slays Menelaus,
let him keep Helen, all her property.
Let us return in our sea-worthy ships.
But if fair-haired Menelaus kills Alexander,
then let the Trojans hand back Helen,
with all her property, and compensate
Achaeans with something suitable,
which future ages will remember.
If Alexander’s killed and Priam
and Priam’s children are unwilling
to reimburse me, then I’ll remain here,
fight on until I’m fully satisfied,
until I end this war appropriately.”

So Agamemnon prayed. With his bronze dagger,
he slit the lambs’ throats, placed them on the ground,
gasping in their death throes as their life ebbed out,
their spirit sliced away by Agamemnon’s knife.
Next from the mixing bowl, they drew off wine in cups,
poured out libations to the deathless gods.
Then Trojans and Achaeans all spoke out this prayer:

“Most powerful, mighty Zeus, and you others,
you immortal gods, may you make sure
the men who first violate these oaths
will have their brains spill out onto the ground,
just like this wine, they and their children.
May their wives be carried off by other men.”

So they prayed. But the son of Cronos did not grant their wish.
Then Priam, descendant of Dardanus, addressed them all:

“Hear me, you Trojans, you well-armed Achaeans.
I am returning now to windy Troy.
I have no wish to see with my own eyes
my dear son fight war-loving Menelaus.
Zeus and other immortal gods know well
which of them is fated to end up dead.”

So Priam spoke. He placed the lambs in his chariot.
The god-like man climbed in, held back the reins.
Antenor climbed in the fine chariot by Priam.
Then both men set off, moving back toward Troy.

Then Hector, Priam’s son, and lord Odysseus
first measured out the ground, took lots, and shook them up
in a bronze helmet, to see who’d throw his bronze spear first.
Then every Trojan and Achaean held up his hands,
and uttered a prayer to the immortal gods:

“Father Zeus, ruling from Mount Ida,
mighty, all-powerful, of these two men,
let the one who brought this war to both sides
be killed and then go down to Hades’ house.
And grant our oath of friendship will hold firm.”

So they prayed. Hector of the flashing helmet
turned his eyes to one side and shook out the lots.
Alexander’s token fell out immediately.
The troops sat down in their respective places,
by their high-stepping horses and their inlaid armour.
Paris, husband to Helen with the lovely hair,
hoisted his fine armour on his shoulders. On his shins,
he clipped leg armour fitted with silver ankle clasps.
Then he put around his chest the body armour
belonging to his brother Lycaon. It fit him well.
On his shoulder he looped his bronze, silver-studded sword,
his huge strong shield. On his handsome head he put
a fine helmet with nodding horse-hair plumes on top,
full of menace. Then he picked out a brave spear
which fit his grip. Menelaus prepared himself as well.
When the two men, standing on each side with their troops,
had armed themselves, they strode out to the open space
between the Trojans and Achaeans, staring ferociously.
As horse-taming Trojans and well-armed Achaeans
gazed at the two men, they were overcome with wonder.
The two men approached each other over measured ground,
brandishing their spears in mutual fury.

Alexander was the first to hurl his spear.
It struck Menelaus’ shield, a perfect circle,
but the bronze did not break through, the point deflected
by the sturdy shield. Then Menelaus, Atreus’ son,
threw in his turn. First he made this prayer to Zeus:

“Lord Zeus, grant I may be revenged on this man,
who first committed crimes against me,
lord Alexander. Let him die at my hands,
so generations of men yet to come
will dread doing wrong to anyone
who welcomes them into his home as friends.”

Menelaus then drew back his long-shadowed spear,
and hurled it. It hit the son of Priam’s shield,
a perfect circle. The heavy spear pierced through it,
went straight through the fine body armour, through the shirt
which covered Alexander’s naked flesh.
But Paris twisted to the side, evading a black fate.
Pulling out his silver-studded sword, the son of Atreus
raised it and struck the crest of Paris’s helmet.
But the sword shattered into three or four pieces,
falling from his hand. The son of Atreus, in vexation,
looked up into wide heaven, crying out:

              “Father Zeus,
what god brings us more trouble than you do?
I thought I was paying Alexander
for his wickedness, but now my sword
has shattered in my fist, while from my hand
my spear has flown in vain. I haven’t hit him.”

As Menelaus said these words, he sprang forward,
grabbing the horse hair crest on Paris’s helmet,
twisting him around. He began dragging Paris off,
back in the direction of well-armed Achaeans.
The fine leather strap stretched round Paris’s soft neck,
right below his chin, was strangling him to death.
At that point Menelaus would have hauled back Paris
and won unending fame, if Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter,
had not had sharp eyes. Her force broke the ox-hide strap,
leaving Menelaus clutching in his massive hands
an empty helmet. Whipping it around, Menelaus
hurled the helmet in among well-armed Achaeans.
His loyal companions retrieved it. He charged back,
with his bronze spear, intent on killing Alexander.
But Aphrodite had snatched Paris up—for a god
an easy feat—concealed him in a heavy mist,
and placed him in his own sweetly scented bedroom.

Then Aphrodite went to summon Helen.
She found her on the high tower, in a crowd
among the Trojan women. She clutched Helen
by her perfumed dress, twitched it, then addressed her,
in the form of an old woman, a wool carder,
someone who used to live in Lacedaemon,
producing fine wool, a woman Helen really liked.
In this shape, divine Aphrodite spoke to Helen:

“Alexander is asking you to come back home.
He’s in the bedroom, on the carved-out bed,
his beauty and his garments glistening.
You wouldn’t think he’s just come from some fight.
He looks as if he’s going to a dance,
or if he’s sitting down right after dancing.”

Aphrodite spoke, stirring emotion in Helen’s heart.
Noticing the goddess’s lovely neck, enticing breasts,
her glittering eyes, Helen was astonished.

“Goddess, why do you wish to deceive me so?
Are you going to take me still further off,
to some well-populated city somewhere
in Phrygia or beautiful Maeonia,
because you’re in love with some mortal man
and Menelaus has just beaten Paris
and wants to take me, a despised woman,
back home with him? Is that why you’re here,
you and that devious trickery of yours?
Why don’t you go with Paris by yourself,
stop walking around here like a goddess,
stop guiding your feet toward Olympus,
and lead a miserable life with him,
caring for him, until he makes you his wife
or slave. I won’t go to him in there—
that would be shameful, serving him in bed.
Every Trojan woman would revile me afterwards.
Besides, my heart is hurt enough already.”

Divine Aphrodite, angry at Helen, answered her:

“Don’t provoke me, you obstinate girl.
I might lose my temper, abandon you,
and hate you just as much as I have loved you.
I could make Trojans and Danaans hate you, too.
Then you’d suffer a miserable death.”

Aphrodite spoke. Helen, born from Zeus, was too afraid.
She covered herself in her soft white linen shawl,
went off in silence, unnoticed by all the Trojan women.
With goddess Aphrodite in the lead,
they came to Alexander’s lovely house.
There the attendants quickly set about their work.
Helen, goddess among women, went to her room upstairs,
where laughter-loving goddess Aphrodite
picked up a chair and carried it for Helen.
She placed it facing Paris. Helen, child of Zeus,
who bears the aegis, sat down. With eyes averted,
she began to criticize her husband:

“You’ve come back from the fight. How I wish
you’d died there, killed by that strong warrior
who was my husband once. You used to boast
you were stronger than warlike Menelaus,
more strength in your hands, more power in your spear.
So go now, challenge war-loving Menelaus
to fight again in single combat.
I’d suggest you stay away. Don’t fight it out
man to man with fair-haired Menelaus,
without further thought. You might well die,
come to a quick end on his spear.”

Replying to Helen, Paris said:

               “Wife,
don’t mock my courage with your insults.
Yes, Menelaus has just defeated me,
but with Athena’s help. Next time I’ll beat him.
For we have gods on our side, too. But come,
let’s enjoy our love together on the bed.
Never has desire so filled my mind as now,
not even when I first took you away
from lovely Lacedaemon, sailing off
in our sea-worthy ships, or when I lay with you
in our lover’s bed on the isle of Cranae.
That’s how sweet passion has seized hold of me,
how much I want you now.”

         Paris finished speaking.
He led the way to bed. His wife went, too.
The two lay down together on the bed.

Atreus’s son paced through the crowd, like a wild beast,
searching for some glimpse of godlike Alexander.
But no Trojan nor any of their famous allies
could reveal Alexander to warlike Menelaus.
If they’d seen him, they had no desire to hide him.
For they all hated Paris, as they hated gloomy death.
Agamemnon, king of men, addressed them:

“Listen to me, Trojans, Dardanians, allies—
victory clearly falls to war-loving Menelaus.
So give back Argive Helen and her property,
compensate us with a suitable amount,
something future ages will all talk about.”

As he finished speaking, the other Achaeans cheered.

Book 4: The Armies Clash [back to top]

The Council of the Gods on Olympus; Zeus sends Athena to break the truce; Athena persuades Pandarus to fire an arrow at Menelaus; Menelaus is wounded; Machaon tends to Menelaus; Agamemnon tours the battlefield rallying his troops; the battle starts again

1. At this point [starting at row 151] the narrator unexpectedly addresses one of the characters in the story with the word “you”. While this feature of the style is not particularly common, it does occur from time to time.
2. Cheiron (or Chiron) in Greek mythology was a centaur (a creature with the torso, arms, and head of human being and the body and legs of a horse). He was famous for his intelligence and knowledge of medicine.
3. The Cadmeans are the citizens of Thebes, taking their name from Cadmus, the founder of the city.
4. Tritogeneia is a common epithet for Athena. Its precise meaning is unclear (“Trito born”?).

The gods all sat assembled in the golden courtyard,
with Zeus there, too. Gracious Hebe went among them,
pouring nectar. They toasted each other in golden cups,
as they looked out on Troy. Then Zeus, son of Cronos,
wishing to irk Hera with a sarcastic speech,
addressed them in deviously provoking words:

“Menelaus has two goddesses
assisting him, Hera of Argos
and Athena of Alalcomene.
But they sit far away, looking on,
enjoying themselves, while Aphrodite,
who loves laughter, helps Paris all the time,
protecting him from death. Now, for instance,
she’s just rescued him from certain death.
For war-loving Menelaus was the victor,
no doubt of that. But why don’t we discuss
how this warfare is going to finish up—
whether we should re-ignite harsh combat,
this horrific strife, or make both sides friends.
If this second option pleases all of us,
if we find it sweet, then king Priam’s city
remains inhabited, and Menelaus
takes Argive Helen home with him.”

Athena and Hera sat together muttering,
plotting trouble for the Trojans. Angry at Zeus,
her father, Athena sat there silently,
so enraged she didn’t say a word. But Hera,
unable to contain her anger, burst out:

“Most fearful son of Cronos, what are you saying?
How can you wish to undermine my efforts,
prevent them from achieving anything?
What about the sweat which dripped from me,
as I worked so hard, wearing my horses out,
gathering men to wipe out Priam and his children.
Go ahead then. But all we other gods
do not approve of what you’re doing.”

Then cloud-gatherer Zeus, irritated, said to her:

“Dear wife, what sort of crimes have Priam
or Priam’s children committed against you,
that you should be so vehemently keen
to destroy that well-built city Ilion?
If you went through its gates or its huge walls,
you’d gorge on Priam and his children,
other Trojans, too, swallow their flesh raw.
That’s what you’d do to slake your anger.
Do as you wish. We should not make this matter
something you and I later squabble over,
a source of major disagreements.
But I will tell you this—keep it in mind.
Whenever I get the urge to wipe out
some city whose inhabitants you love,
don’t try to thwart me. Let me have my way.
I’ll give in to you freely, though unwillingly.
For of all towns inhabited by earth’s peoples,
under the sun, beneath the heavenly stars,
sacred Ilion, with Priam and his people,
expert spearmen, stands dearest in my heart.
My altar there has always shared their feasts,
with libations and sacrificial smoke,
offerings we get as honours due to us.”

Ox-eyed Hera then said in reply to Zeus:

“The three cities I love the best by far
are Argos, Sparta, and Mycenae,
city of wide streets. Destroy them utterly,
if you ever hate them in your heart.
I won’t deny you or get in your way.
If I tried disagreeing with such destruction,
my hostile stance would be quite useless.
For you are far more powerful than me.
But my own work must not be wasted,
worth nothing. I’m a god, the same race as you—
I’m crooked-minded Cronos’ eldest daughter.
Another thing—in addition to my birth—
I’m called your wife, and you rule all immortals.
In this matter, then, let’s both support
each other’s wishes—you mine, I yours.
Other gods will follow our example.
Instruct Athena to go immediately
where Trojans and Achaeans carry on
their bitter conflict. There she should try
to get the Trojans to break their oaths first,
by harming the glorious Achaeans.”

Hera spoke. The father of gods and men agreed.
He spoke up to Athena—his words had wings.

“Go quickly to the Trojan and Achaean troops.
Try to get the Trojans to break their oaths first,
by injuring the glorious Achaeans.”

Zeus’s words stirred up Athena’s earlier desires.
She darted from Olympus summit, sped off,
like a comet sent by crooked-minded Cronos’s son,
a beacon for sailors and the wide race of men,
showering sparks behind her as she flew.
That’s how Pallas Athena shot to earth, then dropped
right down into the middle of the soldiers.
Horse-taming Trojans looked on in amazement,
well-armed Achaeans, too. As they saw her,
each man said to the person next to him:

“There’s going to be more war, more wretched combat,
or else great Zeus, who serves up war to men,
will make the troops on both sides friends.”

That’s what troops muttered, both Trojan and Achaean.
Athena went down into the Trojan crowd,
looking like Laodocus, Antenor’s son,
a strong spearman, seeking godlike Pandarus.
She met Pandarus, Lycaon’s powerful son,
a fine man, standing there with his sturdy soldiers,
shield-bearing troops who’d come from the river Aesopus.
Standing near him, Athena spoke. Her words had wings:

“Fiery hearted son of Lycaon,
why not do as I suggest? Prepare yourself
to shoot a swift arrow at Menelaus.
You’d earn thanks and glory from all Trojans,
and most ofall from prince Alexander.
He’d be the very first to bring fine gifts,
if he could look at warlike Menelaus,
son of Atreus, mounted on his bier,
his bitter funeral pyre, killed by your arrow.
So come, then, shoot an arrow at him—
at splendid Menelaus. Promise Apollo,
illustrious archer born in Lycia,
you’ll make fine sacrifice, some new-born lambs,
once you get back to holy Zeleia.”

Athena spoke and thus swayed his foolish wits.
Pandarus took up his bow of polished horn,
made from a nimble wild goat he himself once shot
under the chest, as it leapt down from a rock.
He’d waited in ambush and hit it in the front.
The goat fell down the rocks, landing on its back.
Horns on its head were sixteen palm widths long.
A man skilled in shaping horn had worked on them,
to fit the horns together to create a bow.
He had polished it all over, adding gold caps
snugly fitted on the tips. Pandarus stooped down,
strung the bow, then set it on the ground.
His brave companions held their shields before him,
just in case Achaea’s warlike sons attacked them,
before he could shoot Menelaus, Atreus’ warrior son.
Then, removing the cover from his quiver,
Pandarus took out an arrow, a fresh-winged courier
bearing dark agony. Next he quickly set
the keen arrow on the string, swearing an oath
to the archer god, Lycian-born Apollo,
that he would make splendid sacrifice, first-born lambs,
when he got back to his city, holy Zaleia.
Gripping the arrow notch, the ox-gut bowstring,
he pulled back, drawing the string right to his nipple,
iron arrow head against the bow. Once he’d bent
that great bow into a circle, the bow twanged,
the string sang out, the sharp-pointed arrow flew away,
eager to bury itself in crowds of men.

But, Menelaus, the immortal sacred gods
did not forget you. Athena, Zeus’s daughter,
goddess of war’s spoils, was first to stand before you,
to ward off the piercing arrow—she brushed it from your skin,
just as a mother brushes a fly off her child
while he lies sweetly sleeping. Athena led the arrow
to the spot where the gold buckles on the belt
rest on the joint in the double body armour.
The keen arrow dug into the leather strap,
passed right through the finely decorated belt,
through the richly embossed armour, the body mail,
his most powerful guard, worn to protect his flesh,
by blocking spears and arrows. The arrow pierced it,
going through that mail, and grazed the skin of Menelaus.
Dark blood at once came flowing from the wound.
Just as when some woman of Meonia or Caria
stains ivory with purple dye, making a cheek piece
for a horse, and leaves it in her room—an object
many riders covet for themselves, a king’s treasure,
a horse’s ornament and rider’s glory—
that’s how, Menelaus, your strong thighs, shins and ankles
were stained with your own blood below the wound.

When Agamemnon saw dark blood flowing from the wound,
that king of men shuddered. And Menelaus,
who loved war, shuddered, too. But when he saw
barbs of the arrow head, its binding, still outside,
not underneath the skin, his spirits rose, and courage
flowed back into his chest. Mighty Agamemnon,
taking Menelaus by the hand, with a bitter groan,
spoke to his companions, all grieving with him:

“Dear brother, that oath I swore to was your death—
letting you step forward to fight Trojans,
as Achaea’s champion. For now the Trojans
have shot you, walking roughshod on their oaths,
that treaty they swore to in good faith. But still,
the oath, lambs’ blood, unmixed libations,
handshakes, things in which we placed our trust—
all these will not go in vain. For if Zeus,
the Olympian, does not fulfill them now,
later on he will. Trojans will pay much—
with their heads, their wives, their children.
I know in my mind and heart that day will come
when holy Troy, Priam, and his people,
fine spearmen, will be annihilated,
when high-ruling Zeus, son of Cronos,
who dwells in the sky, angry at their lies,
will shake his dark aegis against them all.
These things will be fulfilled. But, Menelaus,
I’ll be in dreadful pain on your account,
if you die, if Fate now ends your life,
if I return to Argos totally disgraced.
For Achaeans immediately will think of home,
leaving Priam and his Trojans here in triumph,
abandoning Helen, an Argive woman.
Your bones will lie rotting here in Trojan soil,
recalling the work we failed to finish.
Then some arrogant Trojan, leaping up
onto the tomb of famous Menelaus,
will shout:

       ‘May Agamemnon’s anger
always end like this. His Achaean army
he brought here in vain. He returned home,
back to his native land in empty ships,
abandoning courageous Menelaus.’

That’s what he’ll say. Before that day
I hope the broad earth will lie over me!”

Then Menelaus, to cheer up Agamemnon, said:

“Take courage. Don’t upset Achaeans.
This sharp arrow is not a fatal hit.
My gleaming belt protected me on top,
as did my body chain mail underneath,
forged in bronze.”

       Mighty Agamemnon answered:

“My dear Menelaus, I hope that’s true.
But a healer must inspect your wound,
apply his medicine to relieve black pain.”

Agamemnon ordered Talthybius, his godlike herald:

“Talthybius, as quickly as you can,
get Machaon here, son of Asclepius,
healer without equal, to look over
warlike Menelaus, son of Atreus,
shot by someone’s arrow, a skilled archer,
Trojan or Lycian—to his glory and our grief.”

Once he heard the order, Talthybius obeyed.
He set off among bronze-clad Achaeans,
seeking heroic Machaon. He saw him there,
standing among the ranks of his strong warriors,
shield-bearing men who’d come with him from Tricca,
land where horses breed. Standing close beside him,
Talthybius spoke. His words had wings:

“Son of Asclepius, rouse yourself.
For mighty Agamemnon calls for you
to look at warrior Menelaus, Achaea’s leader,
shot by someone’s arrow, a skilled archer,
Trojan or Lycian—to his glory and our grief.”

At Talthybius’s words Machaon’s spirits
were stirred up in his chest. They set off together,
through the wide Achaean army’s crowded ranks.
They came where wounded fair-haired Menelaus lay.
Around him all the noblest men had gathered in a circle.
Machaon, godlike man, strode into the middle,
drew the arrow from the belt without delay,
twisting back the sharp barbs as he pulled the arrow out.
He undid the finely decorated belt and armour,
then, under that, the chain mail forged in bronze.
Next, he inspected the wound the keen arrow made,
sucked out the blood, then skilfully applied his potions,
soothing medicines which Cheiron gave his father.

While the Achaeans were looking after Menelaus,
lord of the loud war shout, Trojan ranks advanced,
shields ready, once more armed with all their weapons,
fully charged with passionate desire for battle.
Then you would not have seen lord Agamemnon sleeping,
hiding, or not keen to fight. Quite the reverse,
he was moving out to combat, to man-ennobling war.
He left his horses and ornate bronze chariot
with his aide Eurymedon, son of Ptolemaeus,
son of Peiraeus, who held the panting horses at a distance.
For Agamemnon had ordered him repeatedly
to keep the horses ready for the time his limbs
grew tired from moving through so many soldiers.
He went around on foot, inspecting warrior ranks.
When he saw Danaans coming up with horses,
he approached them, shouting words of encouragement:

“Argives, don’t lose your warlike spirit.
Father Zeus will never help those liars.
By attacking us, these Trojans were the first
to violate their oaths. Vultures will gnaw away
their tender flesh, while we lead off their wives
and their dear delicate children to our ships,
after we’ve demolished their city.”

But when Agamemnon saw soldiers holding back
from hateful war, he lashed out at them in anger:

“You cowards, worthless Argives, aren’t you ashamed?
What are you doing just standing here,
like dazed fawns exhausted after running
over a large plain, now motionless,
hearts drained of spirit—that’s how you stand,
in a trance, not marching up to battle.
Are you waiting for Trojans to come closer,
up to the fine sterns of our ships beached here,
on the grey sea shore, so you can see
if the hand of Cronos’ son will shield you?”

In this way, Agamemnon moved around the army,
exerting his authority throughout the ranks.
Going past crowds of men, he met the troops from Crete,
as they armed themselves around Idomeneus,
their fiery-hearted leader at the front,
fierce as a wild boar. In the rear, Meriones
roused the ranks for action. Looking at these two,
Agamemnon, king of men, rejoiced. He spoke out,
talking straight to Idomeneus in a friendly tone:

“Idomeneus, above all Danaans,
with their swift horses, I value you in war,
in all other matters, and at banquets,
when Achaea’s finest prepare gleaming wine,
the kind reserved for kings, in mixing bowls.
Other long-haired Achaeans drink their portion,
the amount allotted to them, but your cup
always stands full of wine, as does mine,
so you drink any time your heart desires.
Set off to battle, then—show you’re a man,
the splendid man you claimed to be before.”

Idomeneus, Cretan leader, answered Agamemnon:

“Son of Atreus, indeed I’ll prove myself
a loyal comrade to you, as I promised
that first time long ago. But you should rouse
other long-haired Achaean men to action,
so we may fight at once, without delay.
Since Trojans have broken their sworn promises,
death and sorrow will come to them at last,
for they attacked us first, breaking their oaths.”

At these words, Agamemnon felt joy fill his heart.
Then he moved off. As he continued on his way,
he met both men called Ajax, arming themselves
among the hordes of troops, with crowds of men on foot.
Just as a goatherd high on a lookout sees a cloud
coming across the sea, driven by West Wind’s force—
something that from a distance seems pitch black
as it moves across the sea, driving a huge storm,
and, shuddering at the sight, he takes his flocks
into a cave—that’s how the dense ranks of young men,
gods’ favourites, marched around both Ajaxes,
ready for war, all dressed in black, with shields and spears.
Seeing them, powerful Agamemnon felt great joy—
he shouted out to them in words with wings:

         “You two Ajaxes,
leaders of the Argives armed in bronze,
for you I have no orders. It’s not right
for me to urge you forward—both of you
are rousing men to fight with all their force.
By Father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo,
I wish such spirit would fill each man’s chest.
Then king Priam’s city would soon topple.
We’d capture it, destroy it utterly.”

With these words, he left them there, going on to others.
He met Nestor, clear-voiced orator from Pylos,
setting his troops in order, urging them to fight
under huge Pelagon, Alastor, Chromius,
Haemon, and mighty Bias, his people’s shepherd.
Nestor set horses, chariots, and charioteers in front.
In the rear, he placed his many brave foot soldiers,
a battle wall. In the middle he placed his poorer troops,
to force them to keep fighting on against their will.
First, he told the charioteers to control their horses,
so they did not confuse the battle line:

“In your eagerness to engage the Trojans,
don’t any of you charge ahead of others,
trusting your own power and horsemanship.
And don’t lag behind. That will hurt our charge.
Any man whose chariot confronts an enemy’s
should thrust out with his spear at him from there.
That’s the most effective tactic, the way
men wiped out city strongholds long ago—
their chests full of that style and spirit.”

Thus that old man, skilled in war’s traditions, roused his men.
Seeing him, mighty Agamemnon was elated.
He spoke to Nestor. His words had wings.

                “Old man,
how I wish the power in those knees of yours
could match the spirit in your chest, your strength
remain unbowed. But old age, our common enemy,
has worn you down. If only that had happened
to some other man and left you in place,
among the ranks of younger warriors.”

To these words Geranian horseman Nestor said:

“Son of Atreus, yes, indeed, I wish
I were the man I used to be back then,
when I cut down lord Ereuthalion.
But gods don’t give men everything at once.
Then I was young. Now old age follows me.
But I’ll be with my horsemen, advising them,
giving them their orders, an old man’s right.
Fighting with spears is for the younger men
born after me, men who rely on strength.”

Nestor spoke. Filled with joy, Atreus’s son moved on.
Next, he came upon Menestheus, Peteos’ son,
a charioteer, standing still among Athenians,
famous for their battle cries. Close by them,
resourceful Odysseus stood among his troops,
Cephallenian soldiers, powerful fighting men.
These warriors had not yet heard the call to battle,
for the armies of horse-taming Trojans
and Achaeans had only just begun to march
against each other. So Odysseus’s soldiers
stood waiting for the rest of the Achaeans
to charge against the Trojans and begin the fight.
Seeing this, Agamemnon, king of men, spoke out,
rebuking them. His words had wings.

“Son of Peteos, god-given king, and you,
Odysseus, skilled in sly deception,
crafty minded, why are you holding back,
standing apart? Are you waiting for the rest?
By rights you two should be with those in front,
sharing the heat of battle. At banquets,
when we Achaeans feast our senior men,
you hear me call your name out first.
Then you like to have roast meat and cups of wine,
honey sweet, to your full heart’s content.
But now you’d be quite happy looking on
if ten Achaean groups were fighting here
with ruthless bronze before your very eyes.”

Resourceful Odysseus, scowling grimly, then replied:

“Son of Atreus, how can you say such things?
How can you claim I’m hanging back from battle
each time we Achaeans rouse ourselves for war
against horse-taming Trojans? If you want,
if it’s of interest to you, then you’ll see
Telemachus’s dear father battling
horse-taming Trojans at the very front.
What you’ve been saying is clearly nonsense.”

Mighty Agamemnon saw the anger in Odysseus.
He smiled at him and took back what he’d just said:

“Odysseus, you resourceful man,
divinely born son of Laertes,
I’m not finding serious fault with you.
I’m issuing no orders to you.
I know that spirit in your loyal chest
is well disposed. We both are of one mind.
If I’ve said something bad we’ll make it good.
May the gods bring all of this to nothing.”

With these words, Agamemnon left Odysseus there,
moving on to other men. He met Diomedes,
Tydeus’ high-spirited son, standing by his horses
and his well-made chariot. Beside him stood Sthenelus,
son of Capaneus. Seeing them, Agamemnon
spoke out in rebuke. His words had wings.

            “Alas, Diomedes,
son of fiery-hearted, horse-taming Tydeus,
why are you hiding, just watching battle lanes?
Tydeus was not a man to shirk like this.
He fought his enemies in front of his companions.
That’s what they say, those who saw him work.
I never saw him for myself. People claim
he ranked above the rest. Once he came to Mycenae
as a peaceful guest with godlike Polyneices,
mustering men to assault the sacred walls of Thebes.
They begged us to give them worthy comrades.
Mycenaeans, willing to comply, agreed.
But then Zeus later changed their minds,
revealing an unlucky omen to them.
So Tydeus and Polyneices left.
On their way, they reached the river Asopus,
its lush grassy meadows full of reeds.
Sent by Achaeans as envoy to Thebes,
Tydeus went there. He found Cadmeans
feasting in large numbers in the palace,
home of great Eteocles. Though a stranger,
all by himself in that Cadmean crowd,
chariot fighter Tydeus was not afraid.
He challenged them in various contests.
Athena helped, so he won them all with ease.
Horse-breaking Cadmeans were upset with him.
They organized a strong ambush against him
as he returned—fifty young men, with two leaders,
that godlike hero Maeon, Haemon’s son,
and warlike Polyphontes, son of Autophonus.
But these men came to fatal shameful ends.
For Tydeus killed them, all but one.
He let Maeon go home, sent him away,
in obedience to an omen from the gods.
That’s the man Aetolian Tydeus was.
But his son is a lesser man than he,
though better when it comes to talking.”

Mighty Diomedes did not reply to Agamemnon’s words,
shamed at the rebuke from a king whom he respected.
But Sthenelus, son of famous Capaneus, answered:

“Son of Atreus, don’t spread lies. You know the truth.
We claim we’re far better than our fathers.
We captured Thebes, city of seven gates,
leading smaller forces over stronger walls,
trusting signs sent by the gods and Zeus’s aid.
The others died through their own foolishness.
So don’t give our fathers honours high as mine.”

Powerful Diomedes, frowning, spoke to Sthenelus:

“My friend. Stay quiet. Follow my advice.
For I’m not hurt that Agamemnon,
the army’s shepherd, urges armed Achaeans
on to battle. For he will get the glory,
if Achaeans annihilate the Trojans
and capture sacred Ilion. And he’ll get
great sorrow, if Achaeans are wiped out.
But come, let’s get our two minds working
to rouse our spirits for this coming fight.”

Diomedes spoke. Then with his weapons he jumped
from his chariot down to the ground. Around his chest
the bronze rang fearfully, as he moved into action,
a sound to make even brave warriors afraid.

Just as thundering ocean surf crashes on the sand,
wave after wave, driven by the West Wind’s power,
one wave rising at sea, then booming down on shore,
arching in crests and crashing down among the rocks,
spewing salt foam, so then Danaan ranks,
row after row, moved out, spirits firmly set on war.
Each leader issued his own orders to his men.
The rest marched on in silence. You would never think
such a huge army could move out with its voice
buried in those chests, in silent fear of their commanders.
As they marched, the polished armour on them glittered.

As for the Trojans, they were like thousands of ewes
standing in a rich man’s farm, bleating constantly,
waiting for someone to come and collect white milk,
as they hear lambs call. Just like that, the din rose up
throughout the widespread Trojan force. They shared no words—
they had no common language, but mixtures of tongues,
with men from many lands. Ares urged the Trojans on,
while bright-eyed Athena kept rousing the Achaeans.
With them came Terror, Fear, and tireless Strife,
sister and companion of man-destroying Ares—
at first small in stature, she later grows enormous,
head reaching heaven, as she strides across the earth.
Strife went through crowds of soldiers, casting hatred
on both sides equally, multiplying human miseries.

When the two armies came to one common ground,
they smashed into each other—shields, spears, fierce angry men
encased in bronze. Studded shields bashed one another.
A huge din arose—human cries of grief and triumph,
those killing and those killed. Earth flowed with blood.
Just as streams swollen with melting snows pour out,
flow downhill into a pool, and meet some torrent
from a great spring in a hollow gully there,
and the shepherd in the distant hills hears the roar—
so the shouts and turmoil resounded then from warriors,
as they collided.

    Antilochus was the first to kill a man—
a well-armed Trojan warrior, Echepolus,
son of Thalysius, a courageous man,
who fought in the front ranks. He hit his helmet crest,
topped with horsehair plumes, spearing his forehead.
The bronze point smashed straight through the frontal bone.
Darkness hid his eyes and he collapsed, like a tower,
falling down into that frenzied battle. As he fell,
powerful Elephenor, son of Chalcodon,
courageous leader of the Abantes, seized his feet,
and started pulling him beyond the range of weapons,
eager to strip him of his armour quickly.
But Elephenor’s attempt did not go on for long.
Great-hearted Agenor saw him drag the dead man.
He stabbed Elephenor with his bronze spear,
right in his exposed side, where his shield left him
vulnerable as he bent down. His limbs gave way,
as his spirit left him. Over his dead body,
Trojans and Achaeans kept fighting grimly on,
attacking like wolves, man whirling against man.

Then Ajax, son of Telamon, hit Simoeisius,
Anthemion’s son, a fine young warrior.
He was born on the banks of the river Simoeis,
while his mother was coming down Mount Ida,
accompanying her parents to watch their flocks.
That’s why the people called him Simoeisius.
But he did not repay his fond parents for raising him.
His life was cut short on great Ajax’s deadly spear.
As he was moving forward with the men in front,
Ajax struck him in the chest, by the right nipple.
The bronze spear went clean through his shoulder.
He collapsed in the dust, like a poplar tree,
one growing in a large well-watered meadow,
from whose smooth trunk the branches grow up to the top,
until a chariot builder’s bright axe topples it,
bends the wood, to make wheel rims for a splendid chariot,
letting the wood season by the riverbank.
That’s how godlike Ajax chopped down Simoeisius,
son of Anthemion.

            Then Antiphus, Priam’s son,
with his shining helmet, hurled his sharp spear at Ajax
through a crowd of men. He missed Ajax, but hit Leucus,
a brave companion of Odysseus, in the groin,
as he was dragging Simoeisius away.
His hands let go. He fell down on the corpse.
Enraged at Leucus’ slaughter, Odysseus strode up,
through the front ranks, armed in gleaming bronze. Going in close,
he took his stand. Looking round, he hurled his glittering spear.
As he threw, Trojans moved back, but the spear found a mark.
It hit Democoön, Priam’s bastard son, who had come
from Abydos, where he bred horses for their speed.
Angry for his friend, Odysseus speared him in the temple.
The sharp bronze pressed on through the other side,
coming out his forehead. Darkness fell on his eyes,
and he collapsed with a crash. The armour on him echoed.

Trojans in the front ranks, among them noble Hector,
backed away. Raising a huge shout, the Argives
hauled off the corpses and charged ahead much further.

Looking down from Pergamus, Apollo grew annoyed.
He called out to the Trojans, shouting:

“Charge ahead, you horse-taming Trojans.
Don’t make Argives happy. Their skin’s not made
of stone or iron. Once you strike at them
it can’t stop flesh-ripping bronze. And Achilles,
son of lovely Thetis, isn’t in this fight.
He’s sitting by his ships, nursing his anger.”

So the fearsome god spoke out from the city.
Athena Tritogeneia, mighty Zeus’s daughter,
rushed among Achaeans, urging companies on,
if she saw men holding back, hesitant to fight.

Death then came to Diores, son of Amarynceus.
He was hit by a jagged rock on his right shin,
beside the ankle. It was thrown by Peirous,
son of Imbrasus, captain of the Thracians,
who’d come from Aenus. The cruel rock crushed both tendons
and the bone. He fell onto his back down in the dust.
There he reached out with both hands for his companions.
His spirit left his body with each gasp he took.
Peirous, who’d thrown the rock, ran up and speared his gut.
His bowels spilled out onto the ground. Darkness hid his eyes.

As Peirous moved off, Thoas, an Aetolian, hit him,
his spear striking him above the nipple. The bronze spear point
bit into his lungs. Thoas moved in to close quarters,
pulled the heavy spear out from his chest, drew his sharp sword,
then drove it straight into the middle of his belly,
destroying Peirous’s life. But Thoas could not strip
the armour off. For Peirous’s companions,
Thracian men whose hair is piled atop their heads,
rallied round, holding out long spears, forcing Thoas
away from them. Thoas was big, strong, and brave,
but he fell back, shaken. And so those two warriors
lay stretched out in the dirt beside each other—
one Thracian chief, one captain of bronze-clad Epeians.
And many other men lay dead around them.

At that point, no man who joined in the battle there
could take it lightly, not even one who strolled unhurt
through the middle of the fight, untouched by that sharp bronze,
with Pallas Athena escorting him by hand,
shielding him from flying weapons. For on that day,
many Trojans and Achaeans lay there side by side,
stretched out together, face down in the dust.

Book 5: Diomedes Goes to Battle [back to top]

Athena inspires Diomedes with special powers; Athena takes Ares from the battle; Achaean leaders kill many Trojans; Diomedes’s special glory on the field; Pandarus hits Diomedes with an arrow; Athena restores Diomedes, who continues his battle frenzy; Aeneas and Pandarus move out against Diomedes; Diomedes kills Pandarus, wounds Aeneas; Aphrodite saves Aeneas; Sthenelus captures Aeneas’s horses; Diomedes attacks and wounds Aphrodite, who returns to Olympus; Diomedes threatens Apollo; Apollo heals Aeneas; Sarpedon complains to Hector; the battle continues; Sarpedon kills Tlepolemus, but is wounded; Athena and Hera go down to the battlefield; Athena and Diomedes attack and wound Ares; Ares returns to Olympus.

1. Hephaestus, the divine son of Zeus and Hera, was the artisan god, famous for his work with metals.
2. Artemis was the virgin goddess of hunting.
3. Ganymede, a young prince of Troy, was so beautiful that Zeus fell in love with him and abducted him to be his cupbearer and companion on Olympus.
4. The Graces in Greek mythology were three goddesses of charm and beauty. In some accounts they are daughters of Zeus.
5. Iris is a divine messenger of the gods and is often associated with the rainbow.
6. Hercules killed a sea monster threatening Troy after Laomedon, the king of Troy and father of Priam, agreed to give him the horses Zeus had presented to Laomedon in exchange for Ganymede if he was successful. However, Laomedon reneged on their agreement. Hercules returned some time later with an army, captured Troy, and killed Laomedon and all his sons except Priam.
7. Athena was reported to have sprung full grown from the head of Zeus; hence, the idea here that Zeus gave birth to her.

Then Pallas Athena gave Diomedes, son of Tydeus,
strength and courage, so among all Argives,
he would stand out and win heroic glory.
She made his helmet blaze with tireless flames,
his shield as well—like a late star in summer
which shines especially bright, newly risen from its bath
in Ocean’s streams. Around his head and shoulders
the goddess put a fiery glow, then drove him forward,
right into the middle of the strife, the killing zone,
where most warriors fight.

           Among the Trojans
was a rich and honourable man called Dares,
priest of Hephaestus. He had two sons—Phegeus
and Idaios—both very skilled in all aspects of war.
Moving forward in their chariot to the front,
these two charged Diomedes, who was on foot,
staying on the ground. When they were at close range,
Phegeus was the first to hurl his long-shadowed spear.
The spear point flew by Diomedes’ left shoulder—
it missed him. Tydeus’s son then threw his spear.
The weapon did not leave his hand and miss the target.
It hit Phegeus right between the nipples
and knocked him from his splendid chariot.
Idaios jumped out and ran off from his horses.
He didn’t dare protect his slaughtered brother’s corpse.
Even so, he would not have escaped black doom,
but Hephaestus saved him with a dark cloud cover,
so his aged father would not waste away with grief.
Tydeus’ son, great Diomedes, drove the horses off,
then gave them to his comrades to take back to the ships.
When great-hearted Trojans saw those two sons of Dares—
one shunning battle, one dead beside his chariot—
all their hearts were stirred.

          Then Athena, eyes glittering,
took her brother, headstrong Ares, by the hand,
and said:

   “Ares, Ares, insatiable man-killer,
destroyer of cities, why don’t we leave
Trojans and Achaeans to fight it out?
Father Zeus will make one group victorious.
Let’s withdraw, avoiding Zeus’s anger.”

With these words, she led headstrong Ares from the battle,
then sat him down by Scamander river bank.

Danaans then began to push the Trojans back.
Each leader killed his enemy. First, Agamemnon,
king of men, threw huge Odius, chief of the Halizoni,
from his chariot. His spear first struck him in the back,
between the shoulder blades, as he turned to flee.
It drove clean through his chest. Odius pitched forward
with a thud, his armour rattling round him as he fell.
Idomeneus slaughtered Phaestus, son of Borus,
a Meonian, who’d come from fertile Tarne.
With his long spear, skilful Idomeneus struck him
in his right shoulder, as he climbed in his chariot.
Dreadful darkness came and gathered Phaestus in.
Those attending Idomeneus stripped the armour.
Then with his sharp spear Menelaus, son of Atreus,
killed Scamandrius, son of Strophius, a huntsman.
Artemis herself had taught him how to shoot
every animal raised in the mountain forests.
But archer Artemis was no help to him then,
no more than was his expertise in archery,
at which he’d been pre-eminent in former times.
For fine spearman Menelaus, son of Atreus,
caught him as he ran away in front of him,
hitting him in the back between his shoulder blades,
forcing the spear right through Scamandrius’s chest.
He fell head first. His armour rattled round him.

Meriones then killed Phereclus, son of Tecton,
Harmon’s son, whose hands could make fine objects of all sorts.
Pallas Athena had a special love for him.
He was the one who made well-balanced ships
for Paris at the start of all the trouble,
bringing disaster on the Trojans and on Paris, too,
for he was ignorant of what gods had decreed.
Meriones went after Phereclus as he ran off,
hurled his spear straight into his right buttock.
The spear point pushed on through, below the bone,
piercing his bladder. He fell down on his knees,
screaming. Then death carried him into its shadows.

Then Meges killed Pedaeus, Antenor’s bastard son.
Theano had raised him with all care, loving him
as one of her own children, to please her husband.
That famous spearman Meges, son of Phyleus,
coming up close, drove a sharp spear in his neck,
into the nape behind his head. The bronze point,
slicing underneath his tongue, smashed through his teeth.
He fell into the dust, jaws locked on the cold bronze.

Eurypylus, Euaemon’s son, killed lord Hypsenor,
son of proud Dolopion, Scamander’s priest,
a man honoured by his people as a god.
Eurypylus, Euaemon’s splendid son, caught him
as he ran off in front of him. Going quickly after him,
Eurypylus struck at Hypsenor’s shoulder—
his sharp sword sliced off Hypsenor’s brawny arm.
The bloody limb fell on the ground. Then death’s black night,
all-powerful fate, moved in and stole away his sight.

Thus these men kept toiling in the battle frenzy.
As for Diomedes, you could not tell where he belonged,
whether among the Trojans or Achaeans.
For he rushed across the plain like a swollen river,
like a swift winter torrent bursting dikes—
no dam put in its way can hold it back,
no barrier of fruitful vineyards check its current,
as all at once it floods when storms from Zeus roar down.
It knocks aside all fine things built by farmers,
hard-working men—that’s how the son of Tydeus
drove the dense ranks of Trojans into mass confusion.
For all their numbers they could not contain him.

Lycaon’s fine son saw Diomedes moving fast
along the plain, pushing Trojan ranks in front of him,
in complete disorder. He quickly bent his bow,
taking aim at Diomedes. He shot an arrow
and hit him on his sculpted body armour,
in the right shoulder. The sharp arrow went in there,
kept going, and splattered blood down on the curving metal.
At this Lycaon’s noble son gave out a noisy shout:

“Come on, you brave horse-lashing Trojans.
For the finest of Achaeans has been hurt.
I don’t think he’ll long survive my arrow’s force,
if Apollo, son of Zeus, really was the one
who put it in my heart to leave Lycia.”

That’s what Lycaon’s son cried out, boasting aloud.
But his sharp arrow had not killed Diomedes,
who moved back to stand beside his chariot and horses.
He called to Sthenelus, son of Capaneus.

“My friend, son of Capaneus, come on,
get down from the chariot, so you can pull
this sharp arrow from my shoulder for me.”

Diomedes spoke. Sthenelus jumped down on the ground.
Standing beside him, he pulled out the sharp arrow
stuck in his shoulder. Blood seeped through the woven shirt.
Diomedes, expert in war cries, then spoke this prayer:

“Hear me, Athena, unwearied daughter
of aegis-bearing Zeus. If you’ve ever
loved my father, stood by his side
in murderous combat, be my friend now.
Grant that I kill this man, that I come
a spear’s throw from the one who hit me
unexpectedly and now boasts about it,
saying I won’t see daylight for much longer.”

As Diomedes prayed, Pallas Athena heard.
She put fresh strength into his legs and upper arms.
Standing close beside him, she spoke. Her words had wings.

“Take courage, Diomedes, in this fight with Trojans.
I’ve put your father’s strength into your chest,
that shield-bearing horseman’s fearless power.
And I’ve removed the filter from your eyes
which covered them before, so now,
you’ll easily distinguish gods from men.
If a god comes here and stands against you,
don’t offer to fight any deathless one,
except for Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter.
If she fights, go at her with your sharp bronze.”

Bright-eyed Athena left. Diomedes charged off,
joining at once those soldiers fighting in the front,
his spirit on fire to battle Trojans, seized by frenzy
three times greater than before. He was like a lion
slightly hurt by a shepherd guarding his sheep flock
out in the wilds, when it jumps the wall into the pen.
But he’s not killed it. The wound rouses the beast’s strength.
The shepherd can’t keep the charging lion from his sheep,
who, left unguarded, panic. Huddled in a mass,
they crowd in on one another. So the lion,
in his hot rage, leaps over the wide sheep-fold wall.
That’s how strong Diomedes went to fight the Trojans
in his angry fury.

         First he killed Astynous,
and then Hypeiron, a shepherd of his people.
His bronze spear hit one right above the nipple.
His huge sword struck the other on the collar,
by the shoulder, slicing through the shoulder bone,
severing it from Hypeiron’s neck and back.
He left them there, to chase Abas and Polyidus,
sons of old Eurydamas, interpreter of dreams.
The old man did not visit them to explain their dreams,
for mighty Diomedes slaughtered both of them.
Then Diomedes went after Xanthus and Thoön,
two sons of Phaenops, both of whom he loved.
Worn down by sad old age, he’d have no other child,
no person to inherit all his property.
Diomedes killed them, took the life they loved,
leaving bitter grief and anguish for their father,
who would not welcome them back home from war alive.
His next of kin thus divided up his assets.
Diomedes then challenged two sons of Priam,
son of Dardanus, both in a single chariot—
Echemmon and Chromius. Just as a lion
leaps onto cattle and snaps necks on the cows,
some heifer grazing in the bushes, so Tydeus’s son
knocked them out of their chariot viciously,
against their will. Then he stripped their armour.
His companions took the horses to the ships.

Aeneas saw Diomedes cutting his way
through ranks of soldiers. He charged on through the fight,
the clash of spears, looking for Pandarus.
He met Lycaon’s son, a fine and powerful man.
Standing close by, Aeneas said to him:

             “Pandarus,
where’s your bow, your feathered arrows,
your reputation as a splendid archer?
No man can match your expertise in that.
No one in Lycia can claim to be your better.
Come, raise your hands in prayer to Zeus,
then shoot an arrow at that man, whose force
now dominates the field, hurting Trojans badly,
hacking limbs from many fine young men,
unless, of course, it is some angry god,
displeased with Trojans’ sacrificial gifts.
It’s hard to stand against a raging god.”

To Aeneas Lycaon’s fine son then replied:

“Aeneas, counsellor to bronze-armed Trojans,
from all I see, I think that man must be
the warlike son of Tydeus. I know him
by his shield, the visor on his helmet,
and by looking at his horses. I’m not sure
he’s not a god. But if he’s the man
I think he is, the fierce son of Tydeus,
he could not be charging at us in this way
without help from some god beside him,
an immortal with a covering cloud
around his shoulders, the god who pushed aside
that sharp arrow which struck Diomedes.
For I’ve already shot an arrow at him,
hit his shoulder through that moulded armour.
I thought I’d shipped him straight to Hades.
But I didn’t kill him. The man must be
some angry god. But we’ve no horses here,
no chariot for me to chase him in.
In storage in Lycaon’s house somewhere
there are eleven chariots, new ones, too.
They’re beautiful and made just recently,
but covered up with drapes. Beside each one
stand pairs of horses, munching wheat and barley.
When I was coming here, old soldier Lycaon,
in his well-built home, gave me much advice.
He told me to take chariots and horses
when I lead Trojans to the hot heart of war.
But I didn’t follow his advice. If I had,
things would have been much better for me.
But I worried about the horses—they’d lack forage
with so many men all crammed together,
and they were used to eating very well.
I left them and came to Troy to fight on foot,
relying on my expertise in archery.
But that skill is apparently of little use.
For already I’ve hit two of their best men,
Tydeus’ son and the son of Atreus.
I’ve drawn blood from both of them, it’s true,
but that just made them much more dangerous.
It was an evil time, that day I took
my curved bow off its peg to lead my Lycians
to lovely Troy, a favour for prince Hector.
If I get home and see with my own eyes
my native land, my wife, my large and lofty home,
let someone chop my head off on the spot,
if I don’t smash this bow with my own hands
and throw the pieces in the blazing fire.
For me it’s been completely useless.”

Aeneas, leader of the Trojans, then replied:

“Don’t talk like that. Things won’t change at all
until the two of us go out to challenge
Diomedes with a chariot and horses,
until we confront him with our weapons.
Come, get in my chariot. Then you’ll see
how good these horses are from Tros’s stock,
skilled in rapid movement on the plain,
in all directions, in pursuit or in retreat.
This pair will take us safely to the city,
should Zeus give victory to Diomedes.
Let’s go. Take the whip and glistening reins.
I’ll leave you the horses, so I can fight.
Or if you fight him, I’ll control the horses.”

Lycaon’s fine son then said in reply:

“Aeneas, you should take the reins yourself,
guide your own horses—for they will pull
your curving chariot that much better
with a driver they’re both accustomed to,
if we must flee Tydeus’ son this time.
If they miss your voice, they may shy or panic,
or refuse to charge straight into battle.
Then the son of great-hearted Tydeus
in his attack may kill us both and lead
these swift horses off. You drive the chariot,
guide your horses. I’ll do battle with him—
my spear will give him a sharp welcome.”

They finished talking, climbed up together, and set off,
riding out in a fine chariot, both keen to kill,
driving the swift horses against Tydeus’s son.
Seeing them coming, Sthenelus, Capaneus’s brave son,
at once spoke up to Diomedes—his words had wings.

“Diomedes, son of Tydeus, my heart’s
true friend, I see two men approaching,
eager to attack you, two powerful men,
an outstanding team. One is Pandarus,
the skilful archer, who boasts he’s Lycaon’s son.
The other is Aeneas, proud Anchises’ son,
that’s his claim. His mother’s Aphrodite.
So come, let’s retire with the horses,
in case our quick charge through the killing zone
ends up costing you your precious life.”

Strong Diomedes, with a scowl, answered Sthenelus:

“Don’t talk of moving back. For I know well
you won’t persuade me. By birth it’s not in me
to shirk war or seek refuge. My spirit’s strong.
Nor am I keen to climb up in the chariot.
I’ll go to fight them as I am, on foot.
Pallas Athena does not allow me
to withdraw in fear. Their horses may be fast,
but they’ll not carry them both back again,
away from us, even if one escapes.
But I will tell you this—keep it in mind—
if Athena, that clever schemer, gives me
great glory and I do kill them both,
then you must hold our swift horses here,
tying these reins up to the chariot rail.
Remember to run down Aeneas’s team,
then drive those horses from the Trojans
to well-armed Achaeans. For those horses
come from the stock that wide-seeing Zeus
gave Tros, payment for Ganymede, his son.
They are the finest horses under the sun,
beneath the light of day. Anchises,
king of men, got some of that line by stealth,
putting his mares into Laomedon’s herd
without his knowledge. Six of those horses
became the breeding stock on his estate.
He kept four of them in his own stable
and gave Aeneas two, horses so fierce,
they scatter men before them. If we can,
we’ll catch these two and win ourselves great glory.”

As they talked to each other of their strategy,
the fast horses quickly brought the two men closer.
Lycaon’s worthy son spoke first, shouting out:

“Great spirited, warlike son of Tydeus,
that noble man, I see that my sharp arrow,
a bitter shaft, did not destroy you.
So now I’ll try to hit you with my spear.”

He spoke, balanced his long-shadowed spear, and threw it.
The spear hit the son of Tydeus on his shield.
The bronze point pierced it, but stopped at the body armour.
Seeing that, Lycaon’s fine son let out a mighty cheer:

“You’re hit, right in the ribs. You won’t last long.
I think you’ve given me a glorious triumph.”

Unperturbed, powerful Diomedes said to him:

“You’re wrong. You haven’t hit me. In my view,
this matter won’t end for the two of you,
until one of you falls dead, and his blood
satisfies in full hard warlike Ares.”

That said, he threw his spear. Athena guided it
straight to Pandarus’ nose, directly by the eyes.
It smashed through his white teeth. The tireless bronze
sliced through his tongue at its root, coming out his chin,
right at the tip. Pandarus fell from the chariot,
his brightly shining armour rattling round him.
The swiftly running horses swerved aside.
Then and there his life-force, his spirit, left him.
Aeneas then leapt down with his long spear and shield,
fearing Achaeans would somehow haul away the corpse.
He made a stand by Pandarus, like a lion,
confident of its strength. He held his spear in front,
his round shield, too, with fearful shouts, fiercely eager
to kill anyone who came up to confront him.
The son of Tydeus picked up a stone, a massive rock
that no two men now alive could lift. He threw it
all by himself with ease. It hit Aeneas’s leg,
where thigh meets pelvis, what people call the hip joint.
The boulder smashed the socket and both tendons round it.
The rough edges on the rock scraped off his skin.
Falling to his knees, warlike Aeneas stayed down,
supporting himself with his strong hand on the ground.
Black night came down and covered both his eyes.
Aeneas, king of men, would have perished there,
if Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter, had not seen him right away.
She was his mother—she’d conceived him with Anchises,
while he was tending cattle. Wrapping her white arms
around the son she loved, she hid him in the folds
of her bright gown, to ward off any spears,
should some Danaan driving with swift horses
hurl a spear into his chest and take his life.
She then began to carry her dear son from the fight.

Meanwhile, Sthenelus, son of Capaneus,
did not forget what Diomedes, skilled in war cries,
told him. He pulled his sure-footed horses to one side,
beyond the fight, tying the reins onto the rail,
and then went after those fine-maned horses of Aeneas.
He drove the animals away from Trojan lines
towards well-armed Achaeans. There he gave them
to his dear companion Deïpylus, whom he esteemed
above all others the same age as himself,
since they both thought alike. He instructed him
to take them to the hollow ships. Then brave Sthenelus
climbed back into his chariot, grabbed the shining reins,
and raced the strong horses back, keen to rejoin Diomedes.

But Diomedes with his ruthless bronze had gone
to run down Aphrodite—knowing she was not a god
who could do much in battle, not one of those
who control men’s wars. She was no Athena,
no goddess Strife, who destroys whole cities.
He chased her through the crowded battle zone.
When he met her, great-hearted Tydeus’s son
charged, lunging with his sharp spear at Aphrodite.
His weapon wounded her slim wrist, piercing the skin
above her hand, right through her godlike robe,
a garment the Graces had made for her themselves.
Immortal divine fluid then flowed out, ichor,
which circulates only in the blessed gods,
who do not eat food or drink down gleaming wine.
Hence, they lack blood, and men call them immortal.
Aphrodite screamed wildly and let go of her son.
But Phoebus Apollo caught him in his hands,
then shielded him with a dark cloud, just in case
some fast-riding Danaan threw a spear into his chest
and took away his life. Then Diomedes,
expert in war cries, shouted loudly:

          “Daughter of Zeus,
leave war and fights alone. Isn’t it enough
for you to fool around with feeble women?
If you start loitering on the battlefield,
I think the war will make you shake with terror,
even though you learn about it from a distance.”

Diomedes spoke. Aphrodite left in agony,
distressed and fearful. Wind-swift Iris came to her,
led her off, out of the crowd, moaning in pain,
her fair skin stained and wounded. She came across
fierce Ares, seated on the left flank of the fight,
his spear and his fast horses resting on a cloud.
Falling on her knees, she implored her dear brother,
pleading hard for his golden-bridled horses:

“Dear brother, save me. Give me your horses,
so I may go back up to Mount Olympus,
the immortals’ home. My wound pains me a lot.
A mortal man struck me with his spear,
Tydeus’ son, who’d now fight Father Zeus himself.”

At this, Ares gave her his golden-bridled horses.
She climbed up in the chariot, her fond heart suffering.
Getting in beside her, Iris picked up the reins,
then lashed the horses forward. They flew on willingly.
At once they reached the gods’ home, steep Olympus.
There wind-swift Iris stopped the horses, untied them
from the chariot, and gave them heavenly fodder.
Aphrodite threw herself into her mother’s lap,
divine Dione, who took her daughter in her arms,
caressed her with her hand, then said:

            “My dear child,
which of the heavenly gods has done this,
acted so brazenly against you, as if
you’d done something evil in broad daylight?”

Laughter-loving Aphrodite answered her:

“Proud Diomedes, son of Tydeus,
wounded me, for I was carrying off
Aeneas, my dear son, away from battle.
Of all men, he’s the one I love the most.
Now grim war is not just Trojans and Achaeans,
for Danaans fight against immortals, too.”

Dione, queen among the goddesses, replied:

“Be brave, my child, hold on, though you’re in pain.
Many of us living on Olympus
have been hurt by men in our attempts
to bring harsh troubles on each other.
Ares suffered, too, when mighty Otus
and Ephialtes, children of Aloëus,
tied him up in powerful manacles,
then kept him prisoner in a brass jar
for thirteen months. Ares would’ve died there,
with all his war-lust, if their step-mother,
fair Eëriboea, had not told Hermes.
He stole Ares secretly. Ares was exhausted.
That harsh imprisonment was breaking him.
Hera suffered, as well, when Hercules,
the powerful son of Amphitryon,
hit her right breast with a three-barbed arrow.
She was wracked by pain beyond all cure.
With them huge Hades also suffered
from a sharp arrow, when this same man,
this Hercules, a son of aegis-bearing Zeus,
shot him in Pylos, among the corpses there,
inflicting pain. Hades went straight to Zeus
at home on Mount Olympus—his heart enraged,
in agony, the arrow buried deep
in his strong shoulder. He was incensed.
Paeëon healed him with pain-killing herbs
smeared on the wound, for Hades was immortal.
What a wretch he was, that Hercules,
a trouble maker. He didn’t hesitate
to commit bad acts with that bow of his
against the gods who dwell on Mount Olympus.
But Athena, the bright-eyed goddess,
prompted Tydeus’ son to go at you.
Still, he’s a fool for not remembering
the man who fights wars against immortals
does not live long. His children have no chance
to prattle to their father at his knee,
once he gets home from war’s grim butchery.
Diomedes is surely powerful—
but he should take care. A greater power than you
may come against him. Then Aegialeia,
wise daughter of Adrestusand brave wife
of horse-taming Diomedes, with cries of sorrow
will rouse all her dear household from their sleep,
lamenting the husband whom she married,
the best of the Achaeans.”

            As she said this,
with her hand Dione cleaned away the ichor
on Aphrodite’s wrist, healing the hand,
curing Aphrodite of her pain. Looking on,
Athena and Hera teased Zeus, son of Cronos:

“Father Zeus, you won’t get angry with me
for what I say, will you? Aphrodite,
trying to coax some new Achaean woman
into running off with one of those Trojans
she loves so much, must have been caressing
some well-dressed Achaean lady and scratched
her delicate hand on a golden brooch.”

When they spoke, the father of gods and men smiled,
called for golden Aphrodite, and then said to her:

“My child, this warfare is not your business.
You should concern yourself with your own work—
love, especially erotic love in marriage.
Swift Ares and Athena will take care of this.”

As the gods talked the matter over with each other,
Diomedes, expert at war cries, sought out Aeneas.
Though he knew Apollo himself was shielding him,
he had no fear at all of that great god, pushing on
to kill Aeneas, then strip his fine armour from him.
Three times he charged forward, in a frenzy for the kill.
Three times Apollo pushed back his shining shield.
But when for the fourth time he came on like a god,
Apollo, the far shooter, in a terrifying voice, cried:

“Take care, son of Tydeus. Go back.
Don’t think you’re equal to the gods.
The race of men who walk upon the ground
can never match the race of deathless gods.”

At these words, Diomedes drew back somewhat,
avoiding the anger of Apollo, the far shooter.
Apollo put Aeneas some distance from the fight,
on sacred Pergamus, where his temple stood.
There, in the large shrine, Leto and Artemis,
the archer goddess, healed Aeneas, restoring him
to his former power and magnificence.
Apollo of the silver bow then made an image,
a copy of Aeneas, with matching armour,
around which Trojans and brave Achaeans fought,
hacking away at ox-hide covering their chests,
at the round shields or smaller shields with fringes.
Phoebus Apollo then called to foolhardy Ares:

“Ares, Ares, you bloodstained man-killer,
can’t you go back to Diomedes
and remove him from the battle? Right now,
he’d stand and fight with Father Zeus himself.
First, he wounded Aphrodite on the wrist,
fighting at close quarters. Then he flung himself,
like some god, at me.”

           After saying this,
Apollo took a seat high up on Pergamus.
Murderous Ares went in among the Trojan ranks,
inspiring the troops. In the shape of Acamas,
Thracian leader, he yelled at Priam’s royal sons:

“You sons of Priam, that god-nurtured king,
why are you still allowing the Achaeans
to keep slaughtering your troops? Are you waiting
until they fight by the well-built city gates?
There lies great-hearted Anchises’s son,
Aeneas, whom we honour as we do prince Hector.
Let’s save our brave companion from the battle.”

Ares’s words gave each man courage and blood-zest for war.
Then Sarpedon spoke to Hector, bitterly complaining:

“Hector, where’s that courage you used to have?
You kept claiming you could guard the city
on your own, without your people or your allies,
using your own family and relatives.
Looking around now, I can’t see them here,
any of them. They’ve all taken refuge,
like dogs around a lion. Those of us
who’ve come as allies, we do all the fighting.
I marched here as an ally, travelling far,
for Lycia is a long, long way from here,
by the swirling river Xanthus, where I left
my dear wife, my infant son, much property,
something poor men covet. But for all that,
I urge my Lycian troops to action,
I stand and fight all comers on my own,
when I’ve nothing for the enemy to take.
But you stand around, without urging men
to fight back or defend their wives. Watch out.
You may become a prize yourself—a trophy
for your enemies. You’ll be like a fish
snared in the meshes of a fatal net.
They’ll quickly smash your well-built city.
You should be thinking of this day and night,
imploring leaders of your famous allies
to hold on staunchly, thus preventing them
from mounting any serious complaints.”

Sarpedon’s speech stung Hector’s heart. Fully armed,
he quickly jumped down from his chariot to the ground.
Waving two sharp spears, he roamed through all the army,
rousing men to fight, steeling hearts for dreadful war.
Troops rallied once more and turned to face Achaeans.
Argives, too, stood firm. The men did not withdraw.
As on the sacred threshing floor wind blows the chaff,
while men stand winnowing the crop, when Demeter,
with her golden hair, separates the grain from chaff
in the rushing breeze, and piles of chaff grow whiter,
so then Achaean troops grew white, covered with dust
stirred up by horses’ hooves. It coloured the sky bronze.
So the chariots came on to battle once again,
wheeled round by drivers’ strong ferocious hands.
Headstrong Ares assisted Trojans in the battle,
concealing them in darkness, roaming everywhere,
carrying out his orders from Phoebus Apollo,
god with the golden sword, who’d told him to arouse
the Trojans’ spirits when he saw Pallas Athena
leave the fighting, for she was helping the Danaans.

Apollo then sent Aeneas from his costly shrine,
putting fighting strength into this warrior’s heart,
his people’s shepherd. Aeneas rejoined his friends,
who were overjoyed to see him safe and sound—alive—
approaching with brave spirits. They did not question him.
They had too much other work at hand to do.
For Apollo, god with the silver bow, and Ares,
the man killer, along with insatiable Strife,
had stirred things up there on the battlefield.

Then the two Ajaxes, Odysseus, and Diomedes
roused Danaans, urging them to battle.
They did not fear the Trojans’ powerful attack
and stood their ground like clouds set in place by Zeus,
son of Cronos, above a range of mountain peaks
on a windless day, quite motionless, while the force
of North Wind and other raging blasts is sound asleep.
When these storm winds blow, they scatter shadowy clouds.
That’s the way Danaans held their positions then,
without flinching, without fear. The son of Atreus
moved through the troops and gave out many orders.

“My friends, be men. Let courage fill your hearts.
In the heat of battle remember honour,
each man’s reputation. When men recall
their honour, more troops are saved than slaughtered.
Those who run away lose life and fame.”

Agamemnon spoke, then quickly hurled his spear.
He hit a good fighting man, comrade to Aeneas,
great-hearted Deïcoön, son of Pergasus,
whom Trojans honoured as they did king Priam’s sons,
for he was quick to take his place among the best,
the men who do their fighting at the very front.
Mighty Agamemnon’s spear struck against his shield,
but the shield could not hold out—the bronze went through,
piercing Deïcoön’s belt and sinking in his gut.
He fell with a thud, his armour rattling round him.

Then Aeneas killed two of the best Danaans,
Orsilochus and Crethon, whose father lived
in well-built Phere, a man of property,
descended from the river Alpheus, whose broad streams
flow through Pylian land. The river bore Orsilochus,
king of many men, and Orsilochus fathered
great-hearted Diocles, to whom were born twin sons,
Orsilochus and Crethon, experts in all aspects of war.
These two, once grown, came with Argives in black ships
to Troy, city rich in horses, to win honour
for Agamemnon and Menelaus, sons of Atreus.
Death’s final moment took them in. As two lions,
cared for by their mother in a deep thick forest
on a mountain peak, steal stout sheep and cattle
and plunder people’s farmsteads, until they perish,
killed by sharp bronze in the hands of men, so these two died,
cut down by Aeneas. They fell like lofty pines.

War-loving Menelaus felt pity for these two,
seeing them die. He made his way through the men’s front ranks,
armed in glittering bronze, brandishing his spear.
Ares stirred his battle spirit, planning his death
at Aeneas’s hand. But then Antilochus,
son of great-hearted Nestor, saw Menelaus.
He hurried through the foremost ranks, in his concern
for this shepherd of the people, that if he came to grief,
all their efforts would be completely futile.
Menelaus and Aeneas, now faced each other,
with eager hands and spears, ready to begin the fight.
But when Antilochus stood by Menelaus,
Aeneas, though a swift fighter, started to withdraw,
seeing these two men standing their ground together.
So Menelaus and Antilochus dragged the corpses
of Crethon and Orsilochus to Achaean troops,
placed the two dead heroes in the hands of friends,
then turned back to fight with those in the front ranks.

Antilochus and Menelaus then killed Pylaemenes,
a man like Ares, leader of the Paphlagonians,
great-hearted, shield-bearing men. The son of Atreus,
famous spearman Menelaus, struck him,
as he stood up in his chariot, hitting him
right on his collar bone. Antilochus hit Mydon,
Atymnius’ noble son, the attendant driver,
as he was wheeling his sure-footed horses round.
He struck him with a rock square on the elbow.
The reins, decorated with rich ivory,
fell from his hands down onto the dusty ground.
Antilochus sprang out and with his sword struck Mydon
on the temple. Gasping with pain, Mydon pitched over,
and tumbled from the well-made chariot headfirst,
his head and shoulders disappearing in the dirt.
For some time he stayed stuck, buried in deep sand,
until his horses kicked him flat, level with the dust,
stamping him into the ground, as Antilochus
whipped them on, leading them back to Achaean troops.

Hector saw this from the lines. He ran against them,
shouting wildly, with strong Trojan soldiers in support.
Leading these men came Ares, along with fearful Strife,
bringing war’s pitiless and murderous confusion.
Ares worked with a huge spear in his hands, moving round,
sometimes behind Hector, sometimes in front of him.

When Diomedes, skilled in war cries, noticed Ares,
he shuddered—just a man crossing a large plain
stops at a raging river rushing to the sea,
looks helplessly at swirling foam, and moves away—
so Tydeus’s son backed off then, saying to his men:

“My friends, we’re so amazed prince Hector
is such a spearman, so courageous, warlike.
But he’s always got some god beside him,
to ward off destruction. Right now, it’s Ares
he’s has with him, looking like a mortal man.
Stay turned towards the Trojans, but fall back.
Don’t try to battle on against the gods.”

Diomedes spoke. Trojans then approached much closer.
Hector killed two men, keen warriors—Menesthes
and Anchialus—both riding in a single chariot.
Seeing them fall, great Telamonian Ajax felt pity.
He approached, stood firm, then threw his shining spear.
The spear struck Amphius, son of Selagus,
who owned much property in Paesus, with many crops.
Fate led him to become allied with Priam and his sons.
Ajax, son of Telamon, hit Amphius in the belt.
The long-shadowed spear struck hard, low in his gut.
He collapsed with a crash. Noble Ajax ran up
to strip the armour off, but Trojans showered him
with bright, sharp spears. His shield took many hits.
Pushing his heel into the corpse he pulled out his bronze spear,
but the hail of weapons stopped him stripping off
Amphius’s splendid armour from his shoulders.
He feared the fierce brave Trojans standing by the corpse,
for many spearmen crowded him and forced him back.
And Ajax, for all his massive size and strength,
for all his courage, had to move back, shaken.

As these men toiled in frantic battle, powerful fate
drove strong, brave Tlepolemus, son of Hercules,
against godlike Sarpedon. These two men approached,
facing each other at close quarters, son and grandson
of cloud-gathering Zeus. Tlepolemus called out first:

“Sarpedon, counsellor to the Lycians,
what forces you to cower down right here,
quite ignorant in battle? Those who say
you’re aegis-bearing Zeus’s son are liars.
You’re far inferior to those men born of Zeus
in times long past. Consider mighty Hercules,
my father. He was quite different, they say—
steadfast, brave, his spirit like a lion.
He came here once for Laomedon’s horses.
With fewer men and only six ships, he sacked
the Trojan city and emptied all its streets.
But you’ve a paltry spirit, your troops
are withering away. And it’s impossible
you’ll help the Trojans by coming here
from Lycia, even if you’re powerful.
I’ll kill you, and you’ll pass through Hades gate.”

Sarpedon, Lycian leader, then said in reply:

“Yes, Tlepolemus, Hercules did destroy
sacred Ilion, but through the foolishness
of the city’s king, high-born Laomedon,
who tricked the man who’d worked so well for him.
He didn’t offer Hercules the horses
he’d come so far to get. As for you,
I’ll now see to your death, that fatal blackness.
You’ll give me great glory, and your life
you’ll give to famous horseman Hades.”

Sarpedon spoke. Tlepolemus raised his ash spear high.
Then two long spears flew from their hands together.
Sarpedon’s spear hit Tlepolemus right in the neck.
The cruel point kept going. Dark night covered up his eyes.
Tlepolemus’ long spear struck Sarpedon in his left thigh.
Its bloodthirsty point pierced him, aiming for the bone.
On this occasion, father Zeus held off his fate.
His brave companions carried off godlike Sarpedon,
pulled down by the long spear’s weight, as it dragged behind.
No one thought to pull the ash spear from his leg,
so he could walk. They were in such a rush to shift him.

On the opposing side, well-armed Achaeans
carried Tlepolemus away from battle.
Godlike Odysseus noticed them, his spirit steady,
but his fond heart was burning, as he turned over
in his mind, whether to chase after that son of Zeus,
loud thunderer, or stay to kill more Lycians.
But Fate did not decree that brave Odysseus
should kill Zeus’s mighty son with his sharp bronze.
Athena turned his heart against that Lycian crowd.
So he killed Coeranus, Alastor, Chromius,
Alcandrus, Halius, Noëmon, and Prytanis.
Lord Odysseus would have killed still more Lycians,
if Hector of the flashing helmet had not seen him,
then gone through the ranks in front, armed in shining bronze,
terrifying Danaans. Sarpedon, son of Zeus,
was glad to see him coming. He implored Hector:

“Son of Priam, don’t let me lie here,
a trophy for Danaans. Rescue me.
Let me remain forever in your city,
since it seems I’ll not be going home
to cheer up my dear wife and infant son.”

Hector of the flashing helmet made no reply.
He charged on, eager to force the Argives quickly back,
to massacre large numbers of their soldiers.
God-like Sarpedon’s noble comrades placed him
by a fine oak tree, sacred to aegis-bearing Zeus.
Pelagon, his strong, well-loved attendant, then pushed
the ash spear straight out through his thigh. Sarpedon fainted.
A mist fell, clouding his eyes, but soon he breathed again.
North Wind’s breeze revived him, blowing air into his heart,
as his spirit panted, gasping his life away.

Argives were not driven back to their black ships by Ares
or by bronze-armed Hector. Nor did they wheel about
to battle Trojans face to face. They kept moving back,
once they realized Ares was with the Trojans.

Among the Argives, who were the first and last men killed
by Hector, son of Priam, and brazen Ares?
They were godlike Teuthras, Orestes the charioteer,
Trechus, an Aetolian spearman, Oenomaus,
Helenus, son of Oenops, and Oresbius,
with his glittering belt, a man who lived in Hyle
and kept himself preoccupied with wealth
along the shores of lake Cephisia. Beside him
lived even more Boeotians, owners of rich lands.

White-armed goddess Hera saw Argives being slaughtered
in the thick of battle. She spoke out to Athena.

“Alas, Athena, child of aegis-bearing Zeus,
tireless one, we’ve made an empty promise
to Menelaus, that he’d wipe out Troy,
that well-built city, before going home,
if we let murderous Ares rage on like this.
Come, let’s both recall our fighting power.”

Athena, the bright-eyed goddess, agreed with Hera’s words.
So that revered goddess Hera, daughter of great Cronos,
went to prepare her horses with their golden bridles.
Then Hebe quickly checked the chariot’s curved wheels,
bronze with eight spokes each, on axles made of iron,
wheel rims made out of imperishable gold,
edged with tires of close-fitted bronze, an amazing sight.
Silver axle boxes revolve on either side.
The body of the chariot has gold and silver strips.
Two rails run round it. The pole is made of silver.
On its end Hebe tied the cross-piece, lovely gold,
then fixed the golden collar straps. Hera, keen for war,
led her swift-footed horses out into their yoke.
Then Athena, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus,
threw on her father’s porch the embroidered gown
which she had made herself with her own hands.
She then put on the robe of cloud-gatherer Zeus
and armed herself with weapons for that wretched war.
She slung across her shoulders the fearsome tasselled aegis,
its borders woven with Fear, Strife, Force, terrorizing Panic,
with the chilling, horrifying and monstrous Gorgon’s head—
the horrifying emblem of aegis-bearing Zeus.
On her head she placed a double-ridged gold helmet,
men from a hundred cities etched upon its four-part crest.
She set foot in her blazing chariot, grasping
her huge, strong, heavy spear, with which she kills men,
heroes who annoy her, goddess with a mighty father.
Hera quickly lashed the horses with her whip.
The gates of heaven scraped open on their own.
The Seasons supervise them, for they’re in charge
of great heavenly Olympus, opening up
the dense packed clouds or closing them again.
Through these gates the goddesses led out their horses,
Hera lashing them ahead. They met the son of Cronos,
sitting some distance from the other gods,
on the highest crest of many-ridged Olympus.
Hera, white-armed goddess, reined in the horses,
then spoke to Zeus, most high son of Cronos:

“Father Zeus, aren’t you angry with Ares
for killing off those warriors? He’s wiped out
so many Achaean men, good ones, too,
and so rashly. It’s not right. It pains me.
Meanwhile, Aphrodite and Apollo,
with his silver bow, are enjoying themselves,
happy about this madman they’ve unleashed,
who has no sense of what’s appropriate.
Father Zeus, would I annoy you very much
if I hurt Ares and chased him from this fight?”

Cloud gatherer Zeus smiled and then said in reply:

“All right, then, do that. But set Athena,
goddess of the battle spoils, against him.
For she’s the one who’s most accustomed
to inflicting nasty pains on Ares.”

White-armed goddess Hera agreed with what Zeus said.
She whipped the horses on. They flew off willingly,
mid-way between the starry heaven and earth.
As far as a man on a height can see in the distant haze
as he looks out across the wine-dark sea, that’s how far
gods’ snorting horses vault in just one stride.
When they came to Troy’s two flowing rivers,
where the Simoeis and the Scamander meet,
white-armed goddess Hera stopped the horses,
loosed them from the chariot and hid them in thick cloud.
Simoeis produced ambrosia for them to eat.
The goddesses moved stealthily, like wild pigeons,
eager to assist the Argive troops. They reached that place
where most of the bravest men were fighting, in a crowd
by mighty Diomedes, tamer of horses,
like lions who eat raw meat or wild boars whose strength
is not easily exhausted. In that place Hera,
white-armed goddess, stood up, looking just like Stentor,
a great-hearted, loud-throated man, whose voice could shout
with the strength of fifty men. Hera cried out:

“Shame on you, you Argive warriors.
You’re a disgrace, good only for display.
When lord Achilles used to go to battle,
the Trojans didn’t dare to venture out
beyond the Dardanian gates. They feared
his mighty spear. But now they’re fighting
well outside the city, by our hollow ships.”

With these words, she roused each man’s heart and spirit.
Bright-eyed Athena quickly moved to Diomedes.
She found that king beside his chariot and horses,
recovering from the wound from Pandarus’s arrow.
The sweat under the wide strap of his round shield
was bothering him. The chafing made his arms grow tired.
He was lifting up the strap, wiping off dark blood.
Setting her hand on the chariot yoke, the goddess said:

“Tydeus had a son not much like his father.
He may have been short, but he was a fighter.
When I would not allow him into battle
or to display himself, that time he came
to Thebes alone, far from his Achaeans,
in the middle of all those Cadmeans,
I told him to be quiet at the palace feast.
But he possessed a powerful spirit
always active in him. So he challenged
Cadmean young men and beat them easily.
That’s how much I helped him. Now I stand here,
beside you, taking care of you, your friend.
And I’m telling you to fight the Trojans.
But you’re either weary after so much action,
your limbs worn out, or fear has made you timid.
If so, then you’re no son of Tydeus,
the son of warlike Oeneus.”

In answer to Athena, mighty Diomedes said:

“I recognize you, goddess daughter
of aegis-bearing Zeus. I’ll speak to you
quite openly, concealing nothing. It’s not
that fear has made me hesitant or anxious.
But I’m remembering your own instructions,
what you laid down. You told me not to fight
face to face with any immortal god,
unless Zeus’s daughter Aphrodite
should come to battle. With my sharp bronze,
I was to wound her. I’ve pulled myself back,
and told the other Argives to stay here
since I see Ares dominates the fight.”

Bright-eyed goddess Athena answered him:

“Diomedes, son of Tydeus,
you fill my heart with joy. Don’t fear Ares
or any other immortal deity.
For I’ll give you all the help you need.
But come, first let your sure-footed horses
charge at Ares. Hit him up close. Have no fear
of headstrong Ares, that madman, born evil,
that fickle god. Just now he gave his word
to me and Hera too that he would fight
the Trojans and assist the Argives. But now,
he’s forgotten that and helps the Trojans.”

Saying this, Athena grabbed Sthenelus’s hand
and hauled him from the chariot to the ground.
He jumped up at once. The goddess climbed up eagerly
beside lord Diomedes in the chariot.
The oaken axle groaned aloud, weighed down,
bearing the fearful goddess and the finest man.
Pallas Athena took up the reins and whip.
First, she led the sure-footed horses against Ares.
He was removing armour from huge Periphas,
Ochesius’ fine son, by far the best of the Aetolians.
Blood-stained Ares was stripping him of all his weapons.
Then Athena put Hades’ helmet on her head,
so she was invisible to mighty Ares.
But man-killing Ares did see Diomedes.
He let the body of huge Periphas lie there,
where he’d first killed him and ripped out his spirit.
He strode straight up to horse-taming Diomedes.
When the two came to close quarters and faced each other,
Ares thrust his bronze spear first, over the yoke
and horses’ reins, eager to take Diomedes’ life.
Athena, bright-eyed goddess, hands gripping the reins,
shoved the spear aside, so its thrust was harmless,
above the chariot. Diomedes, skilled in war cries,
then made the second thrust with his bronze spear.
Pallas Athena guided the weapon right to Ares’ gut,
the lower part where his waist band went around him.
Diomedes wounded Ares, piercing his fair skin,
then pulled back on his spear. Brazen Ares roared
as loud as the screams of nine or ten thousand men
when they clash in war. Fear seized Achaeans—Trojans, too.
They shuddered. That’s how strong that cry sounded
as it came from Ares, insatiable for war.
Just as a dark mist moves upward from the clouds,
when in hot weather a strong wind arises,
so brazen Ares looked to Tydeus’s son, Diomedes,
as the god at once soared up into the clouds,
ascending to wide heaven. Ares, in a rush,
went to the gods’ home, steep Olympus, sat by Zeus,
distressed at heart. He showed Zeus where he was wounded,
dripping with immortal blood, then made his complaint.
His words had wings.

          “Father Zeus,
aren’t you incensed at this barbarity?
We gods are always suffering dreadfully
at each other’s hands, when we bring men help.
We all lay the blame for this on you.
For you gave birth to that insane young girl,
your destructive daughter, always busy
with some nastiness. All the other gods,
all those on Mount Olympus, do what you say.
And each of us is subject to your will.
But you never punish her in word or deed.
You do nothing, because you gave birth to her
yourself, to Athena, your vicious daughter.
Just now she urged proud Diomedes,
son of Tydeus, to charge insanely
against deathless gods. First he attacked
Aphrodite and struck her on the wrist.
Then he charged me, even me, like a god.
But my quick feet took me away. If not,
I’d be in lasting pain with the fearful dead,
or have barely lived, wounded by bronze spears.”

Scowling at him, cloud-gatherer Zeus replied:

“You hypocrite, don’t sit there whining at me.
Among the gods who live on Mount Olympus,
you’re the one I hate the most. For you love war,
constant strife and battle. Your mother, Hera,
has an implacable, unyielding spirit.
It’s hard for me to control how she reacts
to what I say. You’re suffering because of her,
through her conniving, that’s what I think.
But I’ll leave you in pain no longer.
You’re my child—your mother and I made you.
But if you’d been born from any other god,
by now you’d be lower than the sons
of Ouranos—you’re so destructive.”

Zeus spoke. He instructed Paeëon to heal Ares.
Paeëon cured him by spreading pain-killing herbs,
for Ares wasn’t born to die. Just as fig juice
added quickly to white milk clots it at once,
as it’s stirred, that’s how fast headstrong Ares healed.
Hebe washed him and clothed him in fine garments.
He sat beside Zeus, son of Cronos, enjoying his splendour.

Athena of Alalcomenae and Argive Hera
returned once more to mighty Zeus’s house,
now they’d stopped man-killing Ares’s slaughter.

Book 6: Hector and Andromache [back to top]

The battle continues; Menelaus captures Adrestus; Agamemnon refuses ransom; Helenus gives advice to Hector; Glaucus and Diomedes prepare to fight; Glaucus tells the story of Bellerophon; Glaucus and Diomedes exchange armour in friendship; Hector goes to Troy, talks with his mother; Hector talks to Paris and Helen; Hector goes home, talks to his housekeeper; Hector meets Andromache and Astyanax; Hector prays for his son's future; Paris rejoins Hector at the gates

1. This passage [about coded symbols starting at row 208] has been much discussed because it is the only reference in the entire poem to something that sounds very much like writing.

Now the grim war between Trojans and Achaeans
was left to run its course. The battle raged,
this way and that, across the entire plain,
as warriors hurled bronze-tipped spears at one another,
between the Simoeis and Xanthus rivers.

Ajax, son of Telamon, Achaea’s tower of strength,
was the first to break through ranks of Trojans,
punching out some breathing room for his companions.
He hit Acamas, son of Eussorus, a strong brave soldier,
best of the Thracians. Ajax’s spear struck him first
on the peak of his horse-plumed helmet. The sharp bronze
drove right into his forehead—dead in the centre—
straight through bone into the brain. Darkness fell on his eyes.

Diomedes, expert in war cries, killed Axylus,
son of Teuthras, a rich man, from well-built Arisbe.
People really loved him, for he lived beside a road
and welcomed all passers-by into his home.
But not one of those men he’d entertained now stood
in front of him, protecting him from wretched death.
Diomedes took the lives of two men—Axylus
and his attendant charioteer, Calesius.
So both men went down into the underworld.

Euryalus killed Dresus and Opheltius,
then charged after Aesepus and Pedasus,
whom the naiad nymph Abarbarea bore
to noble Boucolion, son of high-born Laomedon,
his eldest son. His mother bore Pedasus in secret.
Bucolion had had sex with the nymph
while tending to his flock. She became pregnant,
then gave birth to two twin sons. Euryalus,
son of Mecistus, slaughtered both of them,
destroying their strength and splendid bodies.
Then he stripped the armour from their shoulders.

Next, fierce warrior Polypoetes killed Astyalus.
With his bronze spear Odysseus killed Pidytes from Percote.
Teucer slaughtered lord Aretaon, and Antilochus,
Nestor’s son, with his glittering spear killed Ableros.
Agamemnon, king of men, killed Elatus,
who lived in lofty Pedasus, beside the banks
of the fair-flowing river Satnioeis.
Heroic Leitus knocked down Phylacus, as he was fleeing.
And Eurypylus then slaughtered Melanthus.

Menelaus, skilled in war cries, took Adrestus still alive.
His horses had panicked and bolted off across the plain.
They charged into a tamarisk bush and snapped the pole
on the curved chariot, right at the very end.
The horses then ran off towards the city, where others,
panic stricken, were headed, too. Adrestus
rolled out of the chariot beside the wheel,
face down in the dirt. Menelaus, son of Atreus,
stood there over him, holding his long-shadowed spear.
Adrestus clutched Menelaus by the knees and begged:

“Take me alive, son of Atreus—you’ll get
good ransom. My father is a wealthy man,
owns lots of things—bronze, silver, well-worked iron.
So he’ll give you a splendid ransom,
if he learns I’m by Achaean ships, alive.”

Adrestus pleaded. Menelaus’s heart in his chest was moved.
He was about to hand Adrestus to his attendant,
to take back captive to the fast Achaean ships.
But then Agamemnon came running up to him,
sharply criticizing Menelaus:

    “Menelaus, you soft-hearted man,
why are you sparing men’s lives like this?
In your own home, Trojans treated you
exceptionally well, did they not?
So don’t let any one of them evade
a terrible destruction at our hands—
not even the young child still carried
in his mother’s belly. Let no one escape.
Let everyone in Troy be slaughtered,
without pity, without leaving any trace.”

With these words, by this appeal to justice,
he changed his brother’s mind. So Menelaus
shoved heroic Adrestus away from him.
Mighty Agamemnon then speared him in the side.
Adrestus fell onto his back. The son of Atreus
placed his heel on his chest and pulled the ash spear out.

Then Nestor addressed the Argives, shouting:

          “My friends,
Danaan heroes, comrades of Ares,
let no one lag behind to pick up loot,
seeking to reach our ships with all you can.
Let’s kill the enemy instead. Later,
with the corpses on the plain, you’ll have time
to strip off bodies of the slaughtered men.”

With this Nestor stirred each man’s strength and spirit.
Then Achaeans, filled with love of war, would once more
have beaten Trojans, broken by cowardice,
back in flight to Troy, if Helenus, a son of Priam,
by far the best at reading omens, had not spoken out.
Standing by Hector and Aeneas, Helenus said:

“Aeneas, Hector, among Trojans and Lycians,
the main weight falls particularly on you,
for you are, in all attacks, the best at fighting,
at strategy. Make a stand right here.
Rally the men before the city gates.
Move around through the entire army,
before men run and fall into their women’s arms.
How that would make our enemies rejoice!
Then, once you’ve restored the spirits
in all our ranks, we’ll stand right here
and fight Danaans, no matter how hard pressed.
For then we’ll have no other option.
And you, Hector, go into the city.
Speak to our mother, yours and mine.
Tell her to assemble the old women
at the temple of bright-eyed Athena,
on the city heights. She should take the key,
open the doors of the sacred building,
then place in the lap of the goddess there,
fair-haired Athena, the garment she thinks
loveliest, the greatest in the palace,
the one she likes far above the others.
Tell her to promise Athena she’ll give
twelve heifers in a temple sacrifice,
yearlings, as yet untouched by any goad,
if she will pity Troy, pity the wives
and Trojan children, if she will keep
Tydeus’ son away from sacred Ilion,
that fierce spearman, that mighty warrior,
who makes men afraid—in my opinion,
the most powerful of all Achaeans.
We didn’t fear Achilles, chief of men,
like this, although they say a goddess
was his mother. But this man’s fighting rage
has no equal. We can’t match his power.”

Helenus spoke. Hector was convinced by his advice.
At once he jumped down from his chariot to the ground,
clutching his weapons. Brandishing two sharp spears,
he moved through all the army, urging men to fight,
rousing their spirits for the harsh brutality of war.
So men wheeled around and faced Achaean soldiers.
Argives then drew back and stopped the slaughter,
thinking that one of the immortal gods had come,
descending from star-lit heaven to help the Trojans,
enabling them to turn themselves around and fight.
Hector issued orders to the Trojans, shouting:

“You proud Trojans, wide-renowned allies,
friends, be men, summon up your fighting strength,
while I go to Troy in person, to instruct
the old men of the council and our wives
to pray to the gods and promise sacrifice.”

With these words, Hector of the shining helmet moved away.
As he went, black leather running round the outer edge
on his studded shield struck his neck and ankles.

Then Glaucus, son of Hippolochus, and Diomedes
moved out together between the armies, keen to fight.
When they’d come to close quarters, facing one another,
Diomedes, expert in war cries, was the first to speak:

“Who are you, my dear man, among mortal men?
For I’ve never clapped eyes on you before
in those fights where men win glory.
But now you’ve stepped out well beyond the ranks,
showing more courage here than anyone,
standing up to my long-shadowed spear.
Men who face me end up with grieving parents.
If you’re one of the immortal gods
come down from heaven, I won’t fight you.
Even mighty Lycurgus, son of Dryas,
did not live long, once he started battling
heavenly gods. He was the one who chased
attendants of the frenzied Dionysus,
forcing them to run by sacred Nysa.
They all threw their holy wands onto the ground,
as murderous Lycurgus with his ox whip
kept beating them. Even Dionysus,
terrified, jumped in the ocean waves.
Thetis embraced him, as he shook with fear,
intimidated by Lycurgus’ threats.
He angered the gods, who live without a care,
so the son of Cronos blinded him.
He didn’t live much longer, not once he’d made
all the deathless gods displeased with him.
So I don’t want to battle sacred gods.
But if you’re a mortal man, someone
who eats earth’s fruit, come closer to me,
so you can meet your death more quickly.”

Glaucus, fine son of Hippolochus, replied:

“Son of Tydeus, great-hearted Diomedes,
why ask me about my ancestry?
Generations of men are like the leaves.
In winter, winds blow them down to earth,
but then, when spring season comes again,
the budding wood grows more. And so with men—
one generation grows, another dies away.
But if you wish to learn about my family,
so you’re familiar with my lineage,
well, many people know the details.
There is a city in a part of Argos,
land where horses breed—it’s called Ephyra.
There Sisyphus lived, craftiest man ever born,
Sisyphus, Aeolus’ son. He had a son,
Glaucus, father of handsome Bellerophon.
The gods made Bellerophon so beautiful
and gave him the best qualities of men.
But Proetus, in his heart, plotted against him,
driving him from Argos, being much stronger,
for Zeus had given royal power to Proetus.
Now, Proetus’ wife, lady Anteia,
desperate to have sex with Bellerophon,
wanted him to lie with her in secret.
But fiery Bellerophon refused,
for he possessed an honourable heart.
So Anteia made up lies, telling Proetus,
the king,

      ‘You’ll be murdered, Proetus,
unless you assassinate Bellerophon,
who wants to have sex with me against my will.’

Proetus was overcome with anger
at what he’d heard, but was reluctant
to kill Bellerophon—in his heart
he shrank from such an evil act.
He sent Bellerophon to Lycia,
with a lethal message, coded symbols
written on a folded tablet. These told
many lies about Bellerophon.
Proetus told him to give the message
to his father-in-law, so he’d be killed.
Bellerophon went off to Lycia,
under safe conduct from the gods.
In Lycia he reached the river Xanthus,
and was honoured fully by the Lycian king,
with nine days of welcome entertainment,
nine sacrificial oxen. The tenth day,
when rose-fingered early Dawn appeared,
the Lycian king questioned Bellerophon,
asking to see the message he had brought
from Proetus, his son-in-law.
Once he’d received the evil message
from his son-in-law, he told Bellerophon,
first of all, to kill the Chimera,
an invincible inhuman monster,
but divine in origin. Its front part was a lion,
its rear a snake’s tail, and in between a goat.
She breathed deadly rage in searing fire.
But Bellerophon killed the Chimera,
putting his trust in omens from the gods.
Next, he battled the Solymi, the worst fight,
they say, he ever had with mortal beings.
Then, third, he massacred the Amazons,
women who rival men. The king planned
one more devious evil trick against him,
as he was returning from the Amazons.
He set Lycia’s best men in ambush.
But not a single one of them came back—
worthy Bellerophon had killed them all.
Then the king knew he must be divinely born.
So he kept him with him there in Lycia,
gave him his daughter’s hand in marriage,
and half the honours in the entire kingdom.
The Lycians then gave him an estate
far better than the rest, rich in vineyards,
wheat-growing farmland, for him to keep.
The king’s daughter bore him three children—
Isander, Hippolochus, and Laodamia.
Counsellor Zeus then had sex with the girl.
She bore great Sarpedon, bronze-armed warrior.
But then Bellerophon angered all the gods.
He wandered out alone on the Aleian plain—
depressed in spirit, roaming there and shunning all.
Ares, insatiable in war, killed his son Isander,
while he was fighting the famous Solymi.
Artemis, goddess with the golden reins,
in anger killed the daughter of Bellerophon.
My father was Hippolochus. I claim
my descent from him. He sent me to Troy,
telling me repeatedly to strive always
to be the best, to outdo other warriors,
so I do not shame my father’s family,
the finest men by far in Ephyra,
in spacious Lycia. That’s my lineage,
the blood ancestry I claim as mine.”

Glaucus spoke. Diomedes, skilled at war cries, rejoiced.
He jabbed his spear into the life-giving earth,
and then spoke to that shepherd of his people as a friend:

“In that case, you’re an old friend of my father.
For Oeneus once entertained Bellerophon,
that worthy man, for twenty days at home.
The two of them exchanged fine presents.
Oeneus gave a shining purple belt,
Bellerophon a gold two-handled cup,
which I left in my house when I came here.
I have no memory of Tydeus,
for he died while far away from me,
killed at Thebes with the Achaean army.
Now I’ll be your kind host in middle Argos,
you’ll be mine in Lycia, when I visit you.
Let’s make sure we avoid each other’s spears,
even in the thick of all the fighting.
For there are many famous Trojans and allies
for me to kill, any warrior the gods provide,
whom I can run after and catch on foot.
For you there are many Argives to destroy,
all you can manage. So let’s trade armour.
Then those warriors here will all recognize
that we acknowledge our father’s bonds as friends.”

With these words, the two men jumped out of their chariots,
clasped hands and pledged their mutual friendship.
Then Zeus, son of Cronos, stole Glaucus’s wits,
for he gave Tydeus’s son his golden armour,
worth one hundred oxen, exchanging that
for armour made of bronze, worth only nine.

Meanwhile, Hector reached the Scaean Gates and oak tree.
The Trojans’ wives and daughters ran up round him,
asking after children, brothers, relatives, and husbands.
Addressing each of them in turn, he ordered them
to pray to all the gods. For many were to face great grief.
He came to Priam’s splendid palace, with porticos
of well-ground stone. It had fifty private bed rooms,
all of polished rock, built close to one another,
where Priam’s sons slept with the wives they married.
On the opposite side, within the courtyard,
were twelve roofed rooms, all made of polished stone,
for Priam’s daughters, built near one another,
where Priam’s sons-in-law slept with their married wives.
It was here Hector’s gracious mother, Hecuba,
met him, as she was going to the palace,
with Laodice, loveliest of all her daughters.
Taking his hand, she spoke to Hector:

              “My child,
why have you left hard battle to come here?
The sons of Achaea—may gods curse them!—
press us hard, eager to fight around our city.
Your spirit has led you here to lift your hands
in prayers to Zeus from our city heights.
But wait. I can fetch some sweet wine for you,
so you can start by pouring a libation
to Father Zeus and other deathless gods.
Then you may enjoy some, too, if you’ll drink.
Wine restores strength well in a weary man,
and you’ve grown tired guarding your own family.”

Great Hector of the shining helmet then replied:

“My dear mother, don’t bring me some sweet wine,
for you’ll weaken me. I’ll lose my battle strength.
And I’m ashamed to offer up to Zeus
libations of bright wine with unwashed hands.
It’s not at all appropriate for a man
spattered with blood and dirt to offer prayers
to the son of Cronos, lord of the black clouds.
But you must go to Athena’s temple,
goddess of battle spoils, with burnt offerings.
First assemble the old women all together,
then place in Athena’s lap, that fair-haired goddess,
the garment which you think is loveliest,
the very finest you keep here at home,
the one you like far better than the rest.
You must promise you will give Athena
twelve heifers in a temple sacrifice,
yearlings, as yet untouched by any goad,
if she will pity Troy, pity the wives
and Trojan children, if she will keep
Tydeus’ son away from sacred Ilion,
that fierce spearman, that mighty warrior,
who makes men so afraid. You must leave now—
go straight to the temple of Athena,
goddess of battle spoils. I’ll find Paris
and call him back, if he will to listen to me.
If only the earth would open under him,
swallow him up! Olympian Zeus raised him
as trouble for the Trojans, for brave Priam,
for his children. If I could see Paris die,
heading down to Hades, then I could say
my heart’s sorrows were over and forgotten.”

Hector spoke. His mother went into the house,
calling her attendants, who brought together
the matrons from the city. Then she went down
into the sweet-smelling room which stored their gowns,
fine embroidered work of women from Sidonia,
which godlike Paris brought with him from Sidon,
when he sailed across the broad sea, on that voyage
where he carried high-born Helen off. Hecuba took out
one of the gowns, the finest embroidery, the largest.
Glittering like a star, it lay at the bottom of the chest.
Taking that as Athena’s gift, she walked away.
The old ladies followed her. At Athena’s temple
fair-cheeked Theano, daughter of Cisseus,
wife of horse-taming Antenor, let them in.
Trojans had appointed her Athena’s priestess.
All the women raised their hands, praying to Athena,
while Theano took that lovely robe and placed it
in Athena’s lap, the goddess with the lovely hair,
then spoke out this prayer to great Zeus’s daughter:

“Blessed Athena, sacred goddess,
defender of our city, break the spear
of Diomedes. Let him fall face down
before the Scaean Gates. If so, right now
we’ll sacrifice twelve heifers in your temple,
beasts untouched by any goad, if you’ll pity
our city, Trojans’ wives and children.”

The women prayed. But Pallas Athena refused their prayer.

As they made their plea to great Zeus’s daughter,
Hector went to the fine house of Alexander.
He'd built it himself with fertile Troy’s best craftsmen.
They’d made a bedroom, living quarters, and a yard
close to Priam and to Hector, on the city height.
Hector, loved by Zeus, went in the house, holding his spear,
sixteen feet long, bronze point glittering in front of him,
a gold band running round it. He met Alexander,
busy in his room with his fine weapons—shield
and body armour—polishing his curving bow.
Argive Helen sat there, too, with her attendant ladies,
directing servants in their famous handicrafts.
Seeing Paris, Hector spoke some sharp words to him:

“Paris, you’re a worthless man.
It’s quite wrong of you to nurse that anger
in your heart, while men are being destroyed,
fighting right by the city, its steep walls.
It’s because of you the sounds of warfare
catch fire round our city. You would fight
any man you saw avoiding battle,
fleeing war’s brutality. So up with you,
or soon our city will go up in smoke,
with fire consuming everything.”

      Godlike Alexander then replied:

“Hector, your rebuke is not unfair—
it’s reasonable. So I’ll speak plainly.
Listen and remember what I’m saying.
I’m not sitting in my bedroom here
out of spite or anger with the Trojans.
I want to grieve. Just now my wife urged me,
using gentle words, to rouse myself to fight.
And personally I think that would be best.
Winning shifts from one man to another.
Now, wait here, while I put on my armour.
Or go, and I’ll come later, catch up with you.”

Hector of the shining helmet did not answer.
So Helen spoke to Hector with these soothing words:

“O Hector, you’re my brother, and me,
I’m a horrible, conniving bitch.
I wish that on that day my mother bore me
some evil wind had come, carried me away,
and swept me off, up into the mountains,
or to the waves of the tumbling, crashing sea.
Then I would have died before this happened.
But since gods have ordained these evil things,
I wish I’d been wife to a better man,
someone sensitive to others’ insults,
with feeling for his many shameful acts.
This husband of mine has no sense now
and won’t acquire any in the future.
I expect he’ll get from that what he deserves.
But come in, sit on this chair, my brother,
since this trouble really weighs upon your mind—
all because I was a bitch—because of that
and Paris’s folly, Zeus gives us an evil fate,
so we may be subjects for men’s songs
in human generations yet to come.”

Great Hector of the shining helmet answered Helen:

“Don’t ask me to sit down, Helen. You’re kind,
but you won’t persuade me. For my heart’s on fire
to help Trojans, who really miss me when I’m gone.
But you must rouse Paris, and he should hurry,
so he can catch me here in the city.
I’m going home, to visit my dear wife
and infant son, for I have no idea
if I’ll be coming back to them again,
or if the gods will kill me at Achaean hands.”

Saying this, Hector of the shining helmet went away.
Soon afterwards he reached his well-built house.
He didn’t find white-armed Andromache at home,
for she’d left with the infant child, going to the walls
with a finely dressed attendant, in tears, lamenting.
When Hector didn’t meet his fair wife in the house,
he went and, standing in the doorway, asked his servant:

“Woman, tell me the truth. Where’s Andromache?
At one of my sisters? With a well-dressed wife
of one of my brothers? Or is she at Athena’s temple,
where the other fine-haired Trojan women
are praying to that fearful goddess?”

His busy housekeeper then answered him:

“Hector, you asked me to tell you the truth.
She didn’t go to one of your sisters,
or one of your brothers’ well-dressed wives,
nor did she go to Athena’s temple,
where other fine-haired Trojan women
are praying to that fearful goddess.
No. She went to Ilion’s great tower,
for she’d heard the Trojans were hard pressed,
the power of Achaeans was so great.
So she’s hurrying off up to the walls,
like someone in a fit. A nurse went, too,
carrying the child.”

         Once the housekeeper spoke,
Hector left the house by the same route he’d come,
through the well-built streets, across the mighty city,
and reached the Scaean Gates, beyond which he’d go
out onto the plain. There his wife ran up to meet him,
Andromache, daughter of great-hearted Eëtion,
who had included a large dowry with her.
Eëtion had lived below forested Mount Placus,
in Thebe, king of the Cilician people. She’d become
married wife to Hector of the shining helmet.
Now she met him there. With her came the nurse,
holding at her breast their happy infant child,
well-loved son of Hector, like a beautiful star.
Hector had named him Scamandrius, but others
called him Astyanax, lord of the city,
because Hector was Troy’s only guardian.
Hector looked at his son in silence, with a smile.
Andromache stood close to him, weeping.
Taking Hector by the hand, she spoke to him:

“My dear husband, your warlike spirit
will be your death. You’ve no compassion
for your infant child, for me, your sad wife,
who before long will be your widow.
For soon the Achaeans will attack you,
all together, and cut you down. As for me,
it would be better, if I’m to lose you,
to be buried in the ground. For then I’ll have
no other comfort, once you meet your death,
except my sorrow. I have no father,
no dear mother. For lord Achilles killed
my father, when he wiped out Thebe,
city with high gates, slaying Eëtion.
But he didn’t strip his corpse—his heart
felt too much shame for that. So he burned him
in his finely decorated armour
and raised a burial mound above the ashes.
Mountain nymphs, daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus,
planted elm trees all around his body.
I had seven brothers in my home.
All went down to Hades in a single day,
for swift-footed lord Achilles killed them all,
while they were guarding their shambling oxen
and their white shining sheep. As for my mother,
who ruled wooded Thebe-under-Placus,
he brought her here with all his other spoils.
Then he released her for a massive ransom.
But archer goddess Artemis then killed her
in her father’s house. So, Hector, you are now
my father, noble mother, brother,
and my protecting husband. So pity me.
Stay here in this tower. Don’t orphan your child
and make me a widow. Place men by the fig tree,
for there the city is most vulnerable,
the wall most easily scaled. Three times
their best men have come there to attack,
led by the two Ajaxes, the sons of Atreus,
famous Idomeneus, and Diomedes,
Tydeus’s courageous son, incited to it
by someone well versed in prophecy
or by their own hearts’ inclination.”

Great Hector of the shining helmet answered her:

                “Wife,
all this concerns me, too. But I’d be disgraced,
dreadfully shamed among Trojan men
and Trojan women in their trailing gowns,
if I should, like a coward, slink away from war.
My heart will never prompt me to do that,
for I have learned always to be brave,
to fight alongside Trojans at the front,
striving to win fame for father and myself.
My heart and mind know well the day is coming
when sacred Ilion will be destroyed,
along with Priam of the fine ash spear
and Priam’s people. But what pains me most
about these future sorrows is not so much
the Trojans, Hecuba, or king Priam,
or even my many noble brothers,
who’ll fall down in the dust, slaughtered
by their enemies. My pain focuses on you,
when one of those bronze-clad Achaeans
leads you off in tears, ends your days of freedom.
If then you come to Argos as a slave,
working the loom for some other woman,
fetching water from Hypereia or Messeis,
against your will, forced by powerful Fate,
then someone seeing you as you weep
may well say:

    ‘That woman is Hector’s wife.
He was the finest warrior in battle
of all horse-taming Trojans in that war
when they fought for Troy.’

        Someone will say that,
and it will bring still more grief to you,
to be without a man like that to save you
from days of servitude. May I lie dead,
hidden deep under a burial mound,
before I hear about your screaming,
as you are dragged away.”

              With these words,
glorious Hector stretched his hands out for his son.
The boy immediately shrank back against the breast
of the finely girdled nurse, crying out in terror
to see his own dear father, scared at the sight of bronze,
the horse-hair plume nodding fearfully from his helmet top.
The child’s loving father laughed, his noble mother, too.
Glorious Hector pulled the glittering helmet off
and set it on the ground. Then he kissed his dear son
and held him in his arms. He prayed aloud to Zeus
and the rest of the immortals:

       “Zeus, all you other gods,
grant that this child, my son, may become,
like me, pre-eminent among the Trojans,
as strong and brave as me. Grant that he may rule
Troy with strength. May people someday say,
as he returns from war, ‘This man is far better
than his father.’ May he carry back
bloody spoils from his slaughtered enemy,
making his mother’s heart rejoice.”

He placed his son in the hands of his dear wife.
She embraced the child on her sweet breast, smiling
through her tears. Observing her, Hector felt compassion.
He took her hand, then spoke to her.

            “My dearest wife,
don’t let your heart be sad on my account.
No man will throw me down to Hades
before my destined time. I tell you this—
no one escapes his fate, not the coward,
nor the brave man, from the moment of his birth.
So you should go into the house, keep busy
with your proper work, with your loom and wool,
telling your servants to set about their tasks.
War will be every man’s concern, especially mine,
of all those who live in Troy.”

           Having said these words,
glorious Hector took his plumed helmet in his hands.
His beloved wife went home, often looking back,
as she went, crying bitterly. She quickly reached
the spacious home of Hector, killer of men.
Inside she met her many servants and bid them all lament.
So they mourned for Hector in his own house,
though he was still alive—they thought he’d not come back,
he’d not escape the battle fury of Achaean hands.

Paris did not wait for long in his high-roofed home.
Once he’d pulled on his famous armour, ornate bronze,
he hurried off on foot quickly through the city.
Just as some stalled stallion, well fed in the barn,
breaks his restraints, then gallops at top speed
across the plain, off to bathe in a fair-flowing river,
something he does habitually, proud of his strength,
holding his head high, mane streaming on his shoulders,
legs carrying him swiftly to the grazing mares—
that’s how Paris, son of Priam, hurried then,
rushing down from the heights of Pergamus,
gleaming like a ray of sunshine in his armour,
laughing with joy as his feet carried him so fast.
He soon met his brother Hector, turning away
from where he’d had his conversation with his wife.
Godlike Paris was the first to speak:

“My dear brother, you’re in a hurry.
I’m holding you back with my delay,
not coming as quickly as you asked.”

Hector of the shining helmet answered Paris:

“Brother, no one could justly criticize
your work in battle, for you fight bravely.
But you deliberately hold yourself back
and do not wish to fight. It pains my heart,
when I hear shameful things about you
from Trojans, who are suffering much distress
because of you. But let’s be on our way.
We’ll sort all this out later, if Zeus ever grants
we arrange in place inside our homes
bowls of wine to celebrate our freedom,
in thanks to the eternal, heavenly gods,
once we have driven away from Troy
all these well-armed Achaeans.”

Book 7: Hector and Ajax [back to top]

Book 8: The Trojans Have Success [back to top]

Book 9: Peace Offerings to Achilles [back to top]

Book 10: A Night Raid [back to top]

Book 11: The Achaeans Face Disaster [back to top]

Book 12: The Fight at the Barricade [back to top]

Book 13: The Trojans Attack the Ships [back to top]

Book 14: Zeus Deceived [back to top]

Book 15: Battle at the Ships [back to top]

Book 16: Patroclus Fights and Dies [back to top]

Book 17: The Fight Over Patroclus [back to top]

Book 18: The Arms of Achilles [back to top]

Book 19: Achilles and Agamemnon [back to top]

Book 20: Achilles Returns to Battle [back to top]

Book 21: Achilles Fights the River [back to top]

Book 22: The Death of Hector [back to top]

Book 23: The Funeral Games for Patroclus [back to top]

Book 24: Achilles and Priam [back to top]