what hoards I'll give to set your heart at peace."
But the swift runner Achilles broke in sharply--
"Field marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon,
produce the gifts if you like, as you see fit,
or keep them back, it's up to you. But now--
quickly, call up the wild joy of war at once!
It's wrong to malinger here with talk, wasting time--
our great work lies all before us, still to do.
Just as you see Achilles charge the front once more,
hurling his bronze spear, smashing Troy's battalions--
so each of you remember to battle down your man!"
But Odysseus fine at tactics answered firmly,
"Not so quickly, brave as you are, godlike Achilles.
Achaea's troops are hungry: don't drive them against Troy
to fight the Trojans. It's no quick skirmish shaping,
once the massed formations of men begin to clash
with a god breathing fury in both sides at once.
No, command them now to take their food and wine
by the fast ships--a soldier's strength and nerve.
No fighter can battle all day long, cut-and-thrust
till the sun goes down, if he is starved for food.
Even though his courage may blaze up for combat,
his limbs will turn to lead before he knows it,
thirst and hunger will overtake him quickly,
his knees will cave in as the man struggles on.
But the one who takes his fill of food and wine
before he grapples enemies full force, dawn to dusk--
the heart in his chest keeps pounding fresh with courage,
nor do his legs give out till all break off from battle.
Come, dismiss your ranks, have them make their meal.
As for the gifts, let the king of men Agamemnon
have the lot of them hauled amidst our muster,
so all the troops can see the trove themselves
and you, Achilles, you can warm your heart.
And let the king stand up before the entire army,
let Agamemnon swear to you his solemn, binding oath:
he never mounted her bed, never once made love with her,
the natural thing, my lord, men and women joined.
And you, Achilles, show some human kindness too,
in your own heart. Then, as a peace offering,
let him present you a lavish feast in his tents
so you won't lack your just deserts at last.
And you, great son of Atreus ...
you be more just to others, from now on.
It is no disgrace for a king to appease a man
when the king himself was first to give offense."
The lord of men Agamemnon answered warmly,
"Son of Laertes, I delight to hear your counsel!
You have covered it all fairly, point by point.
I'll gladly swear your oath--the spirit moves me now--
nor will I break that oath in the eyes of any god.
But let Achilles remain here, for the moment,
much as his heart would race him into war.
The rest remain here too, all in strict formation,
till the treasure trove is hauled forth from my tents
and we can seal our binding oaths in blood.
And you, Odysseus, I tell you, I command you:
pick out young men, the best in our joint forces,
bring forth the gifts from my ship, all we promised
Achilles just the other day, and bring the women too.
Here in the presence of our united armed contingents
let Talthybius quickly prepare a wild boar for me--
we must sacrifice to the Sun and Father Zeus."
But the swift runner Achilles interjected,
"Field marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon,
better busy yourself with that some other time,
when a sudden lull in the fighting lets us rest
and the fury's not such fire inside my heart.
Now our men are lying mauled on the field--
all that Hector the son of Priam overwhelmed
when Zeus was handing Hector his high glory--
but you, you and Odysseus urge us to a banquet!
I, by god, I'd drive our Argives into battle now,
starving, famished, and only then, when the sun goes down,
lay on a handsome feast--once we've avenged our shame.
Before then, for me at least, neither food nor drink
will travel down my throat, not with my friend dead,
there in my shelter, torn to shreds by the sharp bronze ...
His feet turned to the door; stretched out for burial,
round him comrades mourning.
You talk of food?
I have no taste for food--what I really crave
is slaughter and blood and the choking groans of men!"
But Odysseus, cool tactician, tried to calm him:
"Achilles, son of Peleus, greatest of the Achaeans,
greater than I, stronger with spears by no small edge--
yet I might just surpass you in seasoned judgment
by quite a lot, since I have years on you
and I know the world much better ...
So let your heart be swayed by what I say.
Now fighting men will sicken of battle quickly:
the more dead husks the bronze strews on the ground
the sparser the harvest then, when Zeus almighty
tips his scales and the tide of battle turns--
the great steward on high who rules our mortal wars.
You want the men to grieve for the dead by starving?
Impossible. Too many falling, day after day--battalions!
When could we find a breathing space from fasting?
No. We must steel our hearts. Bury our dead,
with tears for the day they die, not one day more.
And all those left alive, after the hateful carnage,
remember food and drink--so all the more fiercely
we can fight our enemies, nonstop, no mercy,
durable as the bronze that wraps our bodies.
Let no one hold back now, waiting further summons--
these are your summons: pain and death to the man
who skulks beside the ships! Now, all in a mass,
drive hard against them--rousing battering war
against these stallion-breaking Trojans!"
He led an escort
formed of the brave old soldier Nestor's sons,
Meges the son of Phyleus, Meriones and Thoas,
Lycomedes the son of Creon, Melanippus too.
Off they went to the tents of Agamemnon--
a few sharp commands and the work was done.
Seven tripods hauled from the tents, as promised,
twenty burnished cauldrons, a dozen massive stallions.
They quickly brought out women, flawless, skilled in crafts,
seven, and Briseis in all her beauty made the eighth.
Then Odysseus weighed out ten full bars of gold
and led the princes back, laden with other gifts,
and they set them down amid the meeting grounds.
Agamemnon rose to his feet.
The crier Talthybius, his voice clear as a god's,
holding the boar in his arms, flanked the great commander.
And Atreus' son drew forth the dagger always slung
at his battle-sword's big sheath, he cut some hairs
from the boar's head, first tufts to start the rite,
and lifting up his arms to Zeus on high he prayed
while the armies held fast to their seats in silence,
all by rank and file, listening to their king.
He scanned the vaulting skies as his voice rang in prayer:
"Zeus be my witness first, the highest
, best of gods!
Then Earth, the Sun, and Furies stalking the world below
to wreak revenge on the dead who broke their oaths--
I swear I never laid a hand on the girl Briseis,
I never forced her to serve my lust in bed
or perform some other task ...
Briseis remained untouched within my tents.
True. If a word of what I say is falsely swom,
may the gods deal out such blows to me, such agonies
as they deal out to the men who break sworn oaths
and take their names in vain!"
On those terms
he dragged his ruthless dagger across the boar's throat.
Talthybius whirled the carcass round about his head
and slung it into the yawning gulf of the gray sea
for swarming fish to eat. Then Prince Achilles stood
and addressed the Argives keen for battle: "Father Zeus--
great are the blinding frenzies you deal out to men!
If not, I swear, Atrides could never have roused
the fury in me, the rage that would not die,
or wrenched the girl away against my will--
stubborn, implacable man. But Zeus, somehow,
was bent on this awesome slaughter of Achaeans.
Go now, take your meat--the sooner to bring on war."
This brusque command dispersed the muster quickly.
The contingents scattered, each to its own ship.
Exultant Myrmidons took charge of the gifts
and bore them off to their royal captain's moorings.
They stowed them safe in his shelters, settled the women
and proud henchmen drove the teams to his herds.
And so Briseis returned, like golden Aphrodite,
but when she saw Patroclus lying torn by the bronze
she flung herself on his body, gave a piercing cry
and with both hands clawing deep at her breasts,
her soft throat and lovely face, she sobbed,
a woman like a goddess in her grief, "Patroclus--
dearest joy of my heart, my harrowed, broken heart!
I left you alive that day I left these shelters,
now I come back to find you fallen, captain of armies!
So grief gives way to grief, my life one endless sorrow!
The husband to whom my father and noble mother gave me,
I saw him torn by the sharp bronze before our city,
and my three brothers--a single mother bore us:
my brothers, how I loved you!--
you all went down to death on the same day ...
But you, Patroclus, you would not let me weep,
not when the swift Achilles cut my husband down,
not when he plundered the lordly Mynes' city--
not even weep! .No, again and again you vowed
you'd make me godlike Achilles' lawful, wedded wife,
you would sail me west in your warships, home to Phthia
and there with the Myrmidons hold my marriage feast.
So now I mourn your death--I will never stop--
you were always kind."
Her voice rang out in tears
and the women wailed in answer, grief for Patroclus
calling forth each woman's private sorrows.
But Achaea's warlords clustered round Achilles,
begging him to eat. He only spurned them, groaning,
"I beg you-if any comrade will hear me out in this--
stop pressing me now to glut myself with food and drink,
now such painful grief has come and struck my heart!
I'll hold out till the sun goes down--enduring--
fasting--despite your appeals."
His voice so firm
that Achilles caused the other kings to scatter.
But the two Atridae stayed, and good Odysseus,
Nestor, Idomeneus, Phoenix the old charioteer,
all trying to comfort Achilles deep in sorrow.
But no comfort could reach the fighter's heart
till he went striding into the jaws of bloody war.
The memories swept over him ...
sighs heaved from his depths as Achilles burst forth,
"Ah god, time and again, my doomed, my dearest friend,
you would set before us a seasoned meal yourself,
here in our tents, in your quick and expert way,
when Argive forces rushed to fight the Trojans,
stampeding those breakers of horses into rout.
But now you lie before me, hacked to pieces here
while the heart within me fasts from food and drink
though stores inside are full--
I'm sick with longing for you!
There is no more shattering blow that I could suffer.
Not even if I should learn of my own father's death,
who, this moment, is weeping warm tears in Phthia,
I know it, bereft of a son as loved as this ...
and here I am in a distant land, fighting Trojans,
and all for that blood-chilling horror, Helen!--
or the death of my dear son, reared for me in Scyros,
if Prince Neoptolemus is still among the living.
Till now I'd hoped, hoped with all my heart
that I alone would die
far from the stallion-land of Argos, here in Troy,
but you, Patroclus, would journey back to Phthia
and then you'd ferry Neoptolemus home from Scyros,
fast in your black ship, and show him all my wealth,
my servingmen, my great house with the high vaulting roof.
For father, I fear--if he's not dead and buried yet--
just clings, perhaps, to his last breath of life,
ground down now by the hateful siege of years,
waiting, day after day, for painful news of me--
until he learns his only son is dead."
His voice rang out in tears and the warlords mourned in answer,
each remembering those he had left behind at home.
Seeing their grief the Father, filled with pity,
quickly turned to Athena with winging words:
"My child, have you abandoned him forever?
Your favorite man of war. Is it all lost now?--
no more care for Achilles left inside your heart?
There he huddles before his curving, beaked ships,
racked with grief for his dear friend while others scatter,
settling down to their meal. He's fasting, never fed.
Go. Run and instill some nectar and sweet ambrosia
deep within his chest. Stave off his hunger now."
So he urged Athena already poised for action.
Down the sky she swooped through the clear bright air
like a shrieking, sharp-winged hawk, and while Achaeans
quickly armed throughout the encampment, she instilled
some nectar and sweet ambrosia deep in Achilles' chest
so the stabbing pangs of hunger could not sap his knees.
Then back to her mighty Father's sturdy halls she went
as troops moved out, pouring out of the fast trim ships.
Thick-and-fast as the snow comes swirling down from Zeus,
frozen sharp when the North Wind born in heaven blasts it on--
so massed, so dense the glistening burnished helmets shone,
streaming out of the ships, and shields with jutting bosses,
breastplates welded front and back and the long ashen spears.
The glory of armor lit the skies and the whole earth laughed,
rippling under the glitter of bronze, thunder resounding
under trampling feet of armies. And in their midst
the brilliant Achilles began to arm for battle...
A sound of grinding came from the fighter's teeth,
his eyes blazed forth in searing points of fire,
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unbearable grief came surging through his heart
and now, bursting with rage against the men of Troy,
he donned Hephaestus' gifts--magnificent armor
the god of fire forged with all his labor.
First he wrapped his legs with well-made greaves,
fastened behind his heels with silver ankle-clasps,
next he strapped the breastplate round his chest
then over his shoulder Achilles slung his sword,
the fine bronze blade with its silver-studded hilt,
then hoisted the massive shield flashing far and wide
like a full round moon--and gleaming bright as the light
that reaches sailors out at sea, the flare of a watchfire
burning strong in a lonely sheepfold up some mountain slope
when the gale-winds hurl the crew that fights against them
far over the fish-swarming sea, far from loved ones--
so the gleam from Achilles' well-wrought blazoned shield
shot up and hit the skies. Then lifting his rugged helmet
he set it down on his brows, and the horsehair crest
shone like a star and the waving golden plumes shook
that Hephaestus drove in bristling thick along its ridge.
And brilliant Achilles tested himself in all his gear,
Achilles spun on his heels to see if it fitted tightly,
see if his shining limbs ran free within it, yes,
and it felt like buoyant wings lifting the great captain.
And then, last, Achilles drew his father's spear
from its socket-stand--weighted, heavy, tough.
No other Achaean fighter could heft that shaft,
only Achilles had the skill to wield it well:
Pelian ash it was, a gift to his father Peleus
presented by Chiron once, hewn on Pelion's crest
to be the death of heroes.
Now the war-team--
Alcimus and Automedon worked to yoke them quickly.
They cinched the supple breast-straps round their chests
and driving the bridle irons home between their jaws,
pulled the reins back taut to the bolted chariot.
Seizing a glinting whip, his fist on the handgrip,
Automedon leapt aboard behind the team and behind him
Achilles struck his stance, helmed for battle now,
glittering in his armor like the sun astride the skies,
his ringing, daunting voice commanding his father's horses:
"Roan Beauty and Charger, illustrious foals of Lightfoot!
Try hard, do better this time--bring your charioteer
back home alive to his waiting Argive comrades
once we're through with fighting. Don't leave Achilles
there on the battlefield as you left Patroclus--dead!"
And Roan Beauty the horse with flashing hoofs
spoke up from under the yoke, bowing his head low
so his full mane came streaming down the yoke-pads,
down along the yoke to sweep the ground ...
The white-armed goddess Hera gave him voice:
"Yes! we will save your life--this time too--
master, mighty Achilles! But the day of death
already hovers near, and we are not to blame