The Iliad

  the impulse seized him, sent by white-armed Hera

  grieving to see Achaean fighters drop and die.

  Once they'd gathered, crowding the meeting grounds,

  the swift runner Achilles rose and spoke among them:

  "Son of Atreus, now we are beaten back, I fear,

  the long campaign is lost. So home we sail ...

  if we can escape our death--if war and plague

  are joining forces now to crush the Argives.

  But wait: let us question a holy man,

  a prophet, even a man skilled with dreams--

  dreams as well can come our way from Zeus--

  come, someone to tell us why Apollo rages so,

  whether he blames us for a vow we failed, or sacrifice.

  If only the god would share the smoky savor of lambs

  and full-grown goats, Apollo might be willing, still,

  somehow, to save us from this plague."

  So he proposed

  and down he sat again as Calchas rose among them,

  Thestor's son, the clearest by far of all the seers so

  who scan the flight of birds. He knew all things that are,

  all things that are past and all that are to come,

  the seer who had led the Argive ships to Troy

  with the second sight that god Apollo gave him.

  For the armies' good the seer began to speak:

  "Achilles, dear to Zeus ...

  you order me to explain Apollo's anger,

  the distant deadly Archer? I will tell it all.

  But strike a pact with me, swear you will defend me

  with all your heart, with words and strength of hand.

  For there is a man I will enrage--I see it now--

  a powerful man who lords it over all the Argives,

  one the Achaeans must obey ... A mighty king,

  raging against an inferior, is too strong.

  Even if he can swallow down his wrath today,

  still he will nurse the burning in his chest

  until, sooner or later, he sends it bursting forth.

  Consider it closely, Achilles. Will you save me?"

  And the matchless runner reassured him: "Courage!

  Out with it now, Calchas. Reveal the will of god,

  whatever you may know. And I swear by Apollo

  dear to Zeus, the power you pray to, Calchas,

  when you reveal god's will to the Argives--no one,

  not while I am alive and see the light on earth, no one

  will lay his heavy hands on you by the hollow ships.

  None among all the armies. Not even if you mean

  Agamemnon here who now claims to be, by far,

  the best of the Achaeans."

  The seer took heart

  and this time he spoke out, bravely: "Beware--

  he casts no blame for a vow we failed, a sacrifice.

  The god's enraged because Agamemnon spurned his priest,

  he refused to free his daughter, he refused the ransom.

  That's why the Archer sends us pains and he will send us more

  and never drive this shameful destruction from the Argives,

  not till we give back the girl with sparkling eyes

  to her loving father--no price, no ransom paid--

  and carry a sacred hundred bulls to Chryse town.

  Then we can calm the god, and only then appease him."

  So he declared and sat down. But among them rose

  the fighting son of Atreus, lord of the far-flung kingdoms,

  Agamemnon--furious, his dark heart filled to the brim,

  blazing with anger now, his eyes like searing fire.

  With a sudden, killing look he wheeled on Calchas first:

  "Seer of misery! Never a word that works to my advantage!

  Always misery warms your heart, your prophecies--

  never a word of profit said or brought to pass.

  Now, again, you divine god's will for the armies,

  bruit it about, as fact, why the deadly Archer

  multiplies our pains: because I, I refused

  that glittering price for the young girl Chryseis.

  Indeed, I prefer her by far, the girl herself,

  I want her mine in my own house! I rank her higher

  than Clytemnestra, my wedded wife--she's nothing less

  in build or breeding, in mind or works of hand.

  But I am willing to give her back, even so,

  if that is best for all. What I really want

  is to keep my people safe, not see them dying.

  But fetch me another prize, and straight off too,

  else I alone of the Argives go without my honor.

  That would be a disgrace. You are all witness,

  look--my prize is snatched away!"

  But the swift runner

  Achilles answered him at once, "Just how, Agamemnon,

  great field marshal ... most grasping man alive,

  how can the generous Argives give you prizes now?

  I know of no troves of treasure, piled, lying idle,

  anywhere. Whatever we dragged from towns we plundered,

  all's been portioned out. But collect it, call it back

  from the rank and file? That would be the disgrace.

  So return the girl to the god, at least for now.

  We Achaeans will pay you back, three, four times over,

  if Zeus will grant us the gift, somehow, someday,

  to raze Troy's massive ramparts to the ground."

  But King Agamemnon countered, "Not so quickly,

  brave as you are, godlike Achilles--trying to cheat me.

  Oh no, you won't get past me, take me in that way!

  What do you want? To cling to your own prize

  while I sit calmly by--empty-handed here?

  Is that why you order me to give her back?

  No--if our generous Argives will give me a prize,

  a match for my desires, equal to what I've lost,

  well and good. But if they give me nothing

  I will take a prize myself--your own, or Ajax'

  or Odysseus' prize--I'll commandeer her myself

  and let that man I go to visit choke with rage!

  Enough. We'll deal with all this later, in due time.

  Now come, we haul a black ship down to the bright sea,

  gather a decent number of oarsmen along her locks

  and put aboard a sacrifice, and Chryseis herself,

  in all her beauty ... we embark her too.

  Let one of the leading captains take command.

  Ajax, Idomeneus, trusty Odysseus or you, Achilles,

  you--the most violent man alive--so you can perform

  the rites for us and calm the god yourself."

  A dark glance

  and the headstrong runner answered him in kind: "Shameless--

  armored in shamelessness--always shrewd with greed!

  How could any Argive soldier obey your orders,

  freely and gladly do your sailing for you

  or fight your enemies, full force? Not I, no.

  It wasn't Trojan spearmen who brought me here to fight.

  The Trojans never did me damage, not in the least,

  they never stole my cattle or my horses, never

  in Phthia where the rich soil breeds strong men

  did they lay waste my crops. How could they?

  Look at the endless miles that lie between us ...

  shadowy mountain ranges, seas that surge and thunder.

  No, you colossal, shameless--we all followed you,

  to please you, to fight for you, to win your honor

  back from the Trojans--Menelaus and you, you dog-face!

  What do you care? Nothing. You don't look right or left.

  And now you threaten to strip me of my prize in person--

  the one I fought for long and hard, and sons of Achaea

  handed her to me.
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  My honors never equal yours,

  whenever we sack some wealthy Trojan stronghold--

  my arms bear the brunt of the raw, savage fighting,

  true, but when it comes to dividing up the plunder

  the lion's share is yours, and back I go to my ships,

  clutching some scrap, some pittance that I love,

  when I have fought to exhaustion.

  No more now--

  back I go to Phthia. Better that way by far,

  to journey home in the beaked ships of war.

  I have no mind to linger here disgraced,

  brimming your cup and piling up your plunder."

  But the lord of men Agamemnon shot back,

  "Desert, by all means--if the spirit drives you home!

  I will never beg you to stay, not on my account.

  Never--others will take my side and do me honor,

  Zeus above all, whose wisdom rules the world.

  You--I hate you most of all the warlords

  loved by the gods. Always dear to your heart,

  strife, yes, and battles, the bloody grind of war.

  What if you are a great soldier? That's just a gift of god.

  Go home with your ships and comrades, lord it over

  your Myrmidons!

  You are nothing to me--you and your overweening anger!

  But let this be my warning on your way:

  since Apollo insists on taking my Chryseis,

  I'll send her back in my own ships with my crew.

  But I, I will be there in person at your tents

  to take Briseis in all her beauty, your own prize--

  so you can learn just how much greater I am than you

  and the next man up may shrink from matching words with me,

  from hoping to rival Agamemnon strength for strength!"

  He broke off and anguish gripped Achilles.

  The heart in his rugged chest was pounding, torn ...

  Should he draw the long sharp sword slung at his hip,

  thrust through the ranks and kill Agamemnon now?--

  or check his rage and beat his fury down?

  As his racing spirit veered back and forth,

  just as he drew his huge blade from its sheath,

  down from the vaulting heavens swept Athena,

  the white-armed goddess Hera sped her down:

  Hera loved both men and cared for both alike.

  Rearing behind him Pallas seized his fiery hair--

  only Achilles saw her, none of the other fighters--

  struck with wonder he spun around, he knew her at once,

  Pallas Athena! the terrible blazing of those eyes,

  and his winged words went flying: "Why, why now?

  Child of Zeus with the shield of thunder, why come now?

  To witness the outrage Agamemnon just committed?

  I tell you this, and so help me it's the truth--

  he'll soon pay for his arrogance with his life!"

  Her gray eyes clear, the goddess Athena answered,

  "Down from the skies I come to check your rage

  if only you will yield.

  The white-armed goddess Hera sped me down:

  she loves you both, she cares for you both alike.

  Stop this fighting, now. Don't lay hand to sword.

  Lash him with threats of the price that he will face.

  And I tell you this--and I know it is the truth--

  one day glittering gifts will lie before you,

  three times over to pay for all his outrage.

  Hold back now. Obey us both."

  So she urged

  and the swift runner complied at once: "I must--

  when the two of you hand down commands, Goddess,

  a man submits though his heart breaks with fury.

  Better for him by far. If a man obeys the gods

  they're quick to hear his prayers."

  And with that

  Achilles stayed his burly hand on the silver hilt

  and slid the huge blade back in its sheath.

  He would not fight the orders of Athena.

  Soaring home to Olympus, she rejoined the gods

  aloft in the halls of Zeus whose shield is thunder.

  But Achilles rounded on Agamemnon once again,

  lashing out at him, not relaxing his anger for a moment:

  "Staggering drunk, with your dog's eyes, your fawn's heart!

  Never once did you arm with the troops and go to battle

  or risk an ambush packed with Achaea's picked men--

  you lack the courage, you can see death coming.

  Safer by far, you find, to foray all through camp,

  commandeering the prize of any man who speaks against you.

  King who devours his people! Worthless husks, the men you rule--

  if not, Atrides, this outrage would have been your last.

  I tell you this, and I swear a mighty oath upon it ...

  by this, this scepter, look,

  that never again will put forth crown and branches,

  now it's left its stump on the mountain ridge forever,

  nor will it sprout new green again, now the brazen ax

  has stripped its bark and leaves, and now the sons of Achaea

  pass it back and forth as they hand their judgments down,

  upholding the honored customs whenever Zeus commands--

  This scepter will be the mighty force behind my oath:

  someday, I swear, a yearning for Achilles will strike

  Achaea's sons and all your armies! But then, Atrides,

  harrowed as you will be, nothing you do can save you--

  not when your hordes of fighters drop and die,

  cut down by the hands of man-killing Hector! Then--

  then you will tear your heart out, desperate, raging

  that you disgraced the best of the Achaeans!"

  Down on the ground

  he dashed the scepter studded bright with golden nails,

  then took his seat again. The son of Atreus smoldered,

  glaring across at him, but Nestor rose between them,

  the man of winning words, the clear speaker of Pylos ...

  Sweeter than honey from his tongue the voice flowed on and on.

  Two generations of mortal men he had seen go down by now,

  those who were born and bred with him in the old days,

  in Pylos' holy realm, and now he ruled the third.

  He pleaded with both kings, with clear good will,

  "No more--or enormous sorrow comes to all Achaea!

  How they would exult, Priam and Priam's sons

  and all the Trojans. Oh they'd leap for joy

  to hear the two of you battling on this way,

  you who excel us all, first in Achaean councils,

  first in the ways of war.

  Stop. Please.

  Listen to Nestor. You are both younger than I,

  and in my time I struck up with better men than you,

  even you, but never once did they make light of me.

  I've never seen such men, I never will again ...

  men like Pirithous, Dryas, that fine captain,

  Caeneus and Exadius, and Polyphemus, royal prince,

  and Theseus, Aegeus' boy, a match for the immortals.

  They were the strongest mortals ever bred on earth,

  the strongest, and they fought against the strongest too,

  shaggy Centaurs, wild brutes of the mountains--

  they hacked them down, terrible, deadly work.

  And I was in their ranks, fresh out of Pylos,

  far away from home--they enlisted me themselves

  and I fought on my own, a free lance, single-handed.

  And none of the men who walk the earth these days

  could battle with those fighters, none, but they,

  they took to heart my counsels, marked my words.

  So now you listen too. Yielding i
s far better ...

  Don't seize the girl, Agamemnon, powerful as you are--

  leave her, just as the sons of Achaea gave her,

  his prize from the very first.

  And you, Achilles, never hope to fight it out

  with your king, pitting force against his force:

  no one can match the honors dealt a king, you know,

  a sceptered king to whom great Zeus gives glory.

  Strong as you are--a goddess was your mother--

  he has more power because he rules more men.

  Atrides, end your anger--look, it's Nestor!

  I beg you, cool your fury against Achilles.

  Here the man stands over all Achaea's armies,

  our rugged bulwark braced for shocks of war."

  But King Agamemnon answered him in haste,

  "True, old man--all you say is fit and proper--

  but this soldier wants to tower over the armies,

  he wants to rule over all, to lord it over all,

  give out orders to every man in sight. Well,

  there's one, I trust, who will never yield to him!

  What if the everlasting gods have made a spearman of him?

  Have they entitled him to hurl abuse at me?"

  "Yes!"--blazing Achilles broke in quickly--

  "What a worthless, burnt-out coward I'd be called

  if I would submit to you and all your orders,

  whatever you blurt out. Fling them at others,

  don't give me commands!

  Never again, I trust, will Achilles yield to you.

  And I tell you this--take it to heart, I warn you--

  my hands will never do battle for that girl,

  neither with you, King, nor any man alive.

  You Achaeans gave her, now you've snatched her back.

  But all the rest I possess beside my fast black ship--

  not one bit of it can you seize against my will, Atrides.

  Come, try it! So the men can see, that instant,

  your black blood gush and spurt around my spear!"

  Once the two had fought it out with words,

  battling face-to-face, both sprang to their feet

  and broke up the muster beside the Argive squadrons.

  Achilles strode off to his trim ships and shelters,

  back to his friend Patroclus and their comrades.

  Agamemnon had a vessel hauled down to the sea,

  he picked out twenty oarsmen to man her locks,

  put aboard the cattle for sacrifice to the god

  and led Chryseis in all her beauty amidships.

  Versatile Odysseus took the helm as captain.

  All embarked,

  the party launched out on the sea's foaming lanes

  while the son of Atreus told his troops to wash,

  to purify themselves from the filth of plague.

  They scoured it off, threw scourings in the surf

  and sacrificed to Apollo full-grown bulls and goats

  along the beaten shore of the fallow barren sea

  and savory smoke went swirling up the skies.

  So the men were engaged throughout the camp.

  But King Agamemnon would not stop the quarrel,

  the first threat he hurled against Achilles.

  He called Talthybius and Eurybates briskly,

  his two heralds, ready, willing aides: