Achilles is no madman, no reckless fool, not the one
to defy the gods' commands. Whoever begs his mercy
he will spare with all the kindness in his heart."
So he decreed
and Iris ran his message, racing with gale force
to Priam's halls where cries and mourning met her.
Sons huddled round their father deep in the courtyard,
robes drenched with tears, and the old man amidst them,
buried, beaten down in the cloak that wrapped his body . . .
Smeared on the old man's head and neck the dung lay thick
that he scraped up in his own hands, groveling in the filth.
Throughout the house his daughters and sons' wives wailed,
remembering all the fine brave men who lay dead now,
their lives destroyed at the fighting Argives' hands.
And Iris, Zeus's crier, standing alongside Priam,
spoke in a soft voice, but his limbs shook at once--
"Courage, Dardan Priam, take heart! Nothing to fear.
No herald of doom, I come on a friendly mission--
I come with all good will.
I bring you a message sent by Zeus, a world away
but he has you in his heart, he pities you now . . .
Olympian Zeus commands you to ransom royal Hector,
to bear gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.
But you must go alone, no other Trojan attend you,
only a herald with you, a seasoned, older one
who can drive the mules and smooth-running wagon
and bring the hero's body back to sacred Troy,
the man that brilliant Achilles killed in battle.
But have no fear of death, no dread in your heart,
such a powerful escort will conduct you--the giant-killer
Hermes will guide you all the way to Achilles' presence.
And once the god has led you within the fighter's shelter,
Achilles will not kill you--he'll hold back all the rest:
Achilles is no madman, no reckless fool, not the one
to defy the gods' commands. Whoever begs his mercy
he will spare with all the kindness in his heart!"
And Iris racing the wind went veering off
and Priam ordered his sons to get a wagon ready,
a good smooth-running one, to hitch the mules
and strap a big wicker cradle across its frame.
Then down he went himself to his treasure-chamber,
high-ceilinged, paneled, fragrant with cedarwood
and a wealth of precious objects filled its chests.
He called out to his wife, Hecuba, "Dear woman!
An Olympian messenger came to me from Zeus--
I must go to Achaea's ships and ransom our dear son,
bearing gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.
Tell me, what should I do? What do you think?
Myseif--a terrible longing drives me, heart and soul,
down to the ships, into the vast Achaean camp."
But his wife cried out in answer, "No, no--
where have your senses gone?--that made you famous once,
both among outland men and those you rule in Troy!
How can you think of going down to the ships, alone,
and face the glance of the man who killed your sons,
so many fine brave boys? You have a heart of iron!
If he gets you in his clutches, sets his eyes on you--
that savage, treacherous man--he'll show no mercy,
no respect for your rights!
Come, all we can do now
is sit in the halls, far from our son, and wail for Hector ...
So this, this is the doom that strong Fate spun out,
our son's life line drawn with his first breath--
the moment I gave him birth--
to glut the wild dogs, cut off from his parents,
crushed by the stronger man. Oh would to god
that I could sink my teeth in his liver, eat him raw!
That would avenge what he has done to Hector--
no coward the man Achilles killed--my son stood
and fought for the men of Troy and their deep-breasted wives
with never a thought of flight or run for cover!"
But the old and noble Priam answered firmly,
"I will go. My mind's made up. Don't hold me back.
And don't go flying off on your own across the halls,
a bird of evil omen--you can't dissuade me now.
If someone else had commanded me, some mortal man,
some prophet staring into the smoke, some priest,
I'd call it a lie and turn my back upon it.
Not now. I heard her voice with my own ears,
I looked straight at the goddess, face-to-face.
So I am going--her message must not come to nothing.
And if it is my fate to die by the beaked ships
of Achaeans armed in bronze, then die I shall.
Let Achilles cut me down straightway--
once I've caught my son in my arms and wept my fill!"
He raised back the carved lids of the chests
and lifted out twelve robes, handsome, rich brocades,
twelve cloaks, unlined and light, as many blankets,
as many big white capes and shirts to go with them.
He weighed and carried out ten full bars of gold
and took two burnished tripods, four fine cauldrons
and last a magnificent cup the Thracians gave him once--
he'd gone on an embassy and won that priceless treasure--
but not even that did the old man spare in his halls,
not now, consumed with desire to ransom back his son.
Crowds of Trojans were mobbing his colonnades--
he gave them a tongue-lashing, sent them packing:
"Get out--you good-for-nothings, public disgraces!
Haven't you got enough to wail about at home
without coming here to add to all my griefs?
You think it nothing, the pain that Zeus has sent me?--
he's destroyed my best son! You'll learn too, in tears--
easier game you'll be for Argive troops to slaughter,
now my Hector's dead. But before I have to see
my city annihilated, laid waste before my eyes--
oh let me go down to the House of Death!"
He herded them off with his staff--they fled outside
before the old man's fury. So he lashed out at his sons,
cursing the sight of Helenus, Paris, noble Agathon,
Pammon, Antiphonus, Polites loud with the war cry,
Deiphobus and Hippothous, even lordly Dius--
the old man shouted at all nine, rough commands:
"Get to your work! My vicious sons--my humiliations!
If only you'd all been killed at the fast ships
instead of my dear Hector ...
But I--dear god, my life so cursed by fate!--
I fathered hero sons in the wide realm of Troy
and now, now not a single one is left, I tell you.
Mestor the indestructible, Troilus, passionate horseman
and Hector, a god among men--no son of a mortal man,
he seemed a deathless god's. But Ares killed them all
and all he left me are these, these disgraces--liars,
dancers, heroes only at beating the dancing-rings,
you plunder your own people for lambs and kids!
Why don't you get my wagon ready--now, at once?
Pack all these things aboard! We must be on our way!"
Terrified by their father's rough commands
the sons trundled a mule-wagon out at once,
a good smooth-running one,
newly finished, balanced and bolted tight,
and strapped a big wicker cradle across its frame.
They lifted off its hook a boxwood yoke for the mules,
its bulging pommel fitted with rings for guide-reins,
brought out with the yoke its yoke-strap nine arms long
and wedged the yoke down firm on the sanded, tapered pole,
on the front peg, and slipped the yoke-ring onto its pin,
strapped the pommel with three good twists, both sides,
then lashed the assembly round and down the shaft
and under the clamp they made the lashing fast.
Then the priceless ransom for Hector's body:
hauling it up from the vaults they piled it high
on the wagon's well-made cradle, then they yoked the mules--
stamping their sharp hoofs, trained for heavy loads--
that the Mysians once gave Priam, princely gifts.
And last they yoked his team to the king's chariot,
stallions he bred himself in his own polished stalls.
No sooner were both men harnessed up beneath the roofs,
Priam and herald, minds set on the coming journey,
than Hecuba rushed up to them, gaunt with grief,
her right hand holding a golden cup of honeyed wine
so the men might pour libations forth at parting.
She stood in front of the horses, crying up at Priam,
"Here, quickly--pour a libation out to Father Zeus!
Pray for a safe return from all our mortal enemies,
seeing you're dead set on going down to the ships--
though you go against my will. But if go you must,
pray, at least, to the great god of the dark storm cloud,
up there on Ida, gazing down on the whole expanse of Troy!
Pray for a bird of omen, Zeus's wind-swift messenger,
the dearest bird in the world to his prophetic heart,
the strongest thing on wings--clear on the right
so you can see that sign with your own eyes
and trust your life to it as you venture down
to Achaea's ships and the fast chariot-teams.
But if farseeing Zeus does not send you that sign--
his own messenger--then I urge you, beg you,
don't go down to the ships--
not for all the passion in your heart!"
The old majestic Priam gave his answer:
"Dear woman, surely I won't resist your urging now.
It's well to lift our hands and ask great Zeus for mercy."
And the old king motioned a steward standing by
to pour some clear pure water over his hands,
and she came forward, bearing a jug and basin.
He rinsed his hands, took the cup from his wife
and taking a stand amidst the forecourt, prayed,
pouring the wine to earth and scanning the high skies,
Priam prayed in his rich resounding voice: "Father Zeus!
Ruling over us all from Ida, god of greatness, god of glory!
Grant that Achilles will receive me with kindness, mercy.
Send me a bird of omen, your own wind-swift messenger,
the dearest bird in the world to your prophetic heart,
the strongest thing on wings--clear on the right
so I can see that sign with my own eyes
and trust my life to it as I venture down
to Achaea's ships and the fast chariot-teams!"
And Zeus in all his wisdom heard that prayer
and straightaway the Father launched an eagle--
truest of Zeus's signs that fly the skies--
the dark marauder that mankind calls the Black-wing.
Broad as the door of a rich man's vaulted treasure-chamber,
well-fitted with sturdy bars, so broad each wing of the bird
spread out on either side as it swept in through the city
flashing clear on the right before the king and queen.
All looked up, overjoyed--the people's spirits lifted.
And the old man, rushing to climb aboard his chariot,
drove out through the gates and echoing colonnades.
The mules in the lead hauled out the four-wheeled wagon,
driven on by seasoned Idaeus. The horses came behind
as the old man cracked the lash and urged them fast
throughout the city with all his kinsmen trailing ...
weeping their hearts out, as if he went to his death.
But once the two passed down through crowded streets
and out into open country, Priam's kin turned back,
his sons and in-laws straggling home to Troy.
But Zeus who beholds the world could hardly fail
to see the two men striking out across the plain.
As he watched the old man he filled with pity
and quickly summoned Hermes, his own dear son:
"Hermes--escorting men is your greatest joy,
you above all the gods,
and you listen to the wish of those you favor.
So down you go. Down and conduct King Priam there
through Achaea's beaked ships, so none will see him,
none of the Argive fighters recognize him now,
not till he reaches Peleus' royal son."
So he decreed
and Hermes the giant-killing guide obeyed at once.
Under his feet he fastened the supple sandals,
never-dying gold, that wing him over the waves
and boundless earth with the rush of gusting winds.
He seized the wand that enchants the eyes of men
whenever Hermes wants, or wakes them up from sleep.
That wand in his grip he flew, the mighty giant-killer
touching down on Troy and the Hellespont in no time
and from there he went on foot, for all the world
like a young prince, sporting his first beard,
just in the prime and fresh warm pride of youth.
And now,
as soon as the two drove past the great tomb of Ilus
they drew rein at the ford to water mules and team.
A sudden darkness had swept across the earth
and Hermes was all but on them when the herald
looked up, saw him, shouted at once to Priam,
"Danger, my king--think fast! I see a man--
I'm afraid we'll both be butchered on the spot--
into the chariot, hurry! Run for our lives
or fling ourselves at his knees and beg for mercy!"
The old man was stunned, in a swirl of terror,
the hairs stood bristling all over his gnarled body--
he stood there, staring dumbly. Not waiting for welcome
the running god of luck went straight up to Priam,
clasped the old king's hands and asked him warmly,
"Father--where do you drive these mules and team
through the godsent night while other mortals sleep?
Have you no fear of the Argives breathing hate and fury?
Here are your deadly enemies, camping close at hand.
Now what if one of them saw you, rolling blithely on
through the rushing night with so much tempting treasure--
how would you feel then? You're not so young yourself,
and the man who attends you here is far too old
to drive off an attacker spoiling for a fight.
But I would never hurt you--and what's more,
I'd beat off any man who'd do you harm:
you remind me of my dear father, to the life."
And the old and noble Priam said at once,
"Our straits are hard, dear child, as you say.
But a god still holds his hands above me, even me.
Sending such a traveler here to meet me--
what a lucky omen! Look at your build ...
your handsome face--a wonder. And such good sense--
your parents must be blissful as the gods!"
The g
uide and giant-killer answered quickly,
"You're right, old man, all straight to the mark.
But come, tell me the truth now, point by point:
this treasure--a king's ransom--do you send it off
to distant, outland men, to keep it safe for you?
Or now do you all abandon sacred Troy,
all in panic--such was the man who died,
your finest, bravest man ... your own son
who never failed in a fight against the Argives."
But the old majestic Priam countered quickly,
"Who are you, my fine friend?--who are your parents?
How can you speak so well of my doomed son's fate?"
And the guide and giant-killer answered staunchly,
"You're testing me, old man--asking of noble Hector.
Ah, how often I watched him battling on the lines
where men win glory, saw the man with my own eyes!
And saw him drive Achaeans against the ships that day
he kept on killing, cutting them down with slashing bro
while we stood by and marveled--Achilles reined us in:
no fighting for us while he raged on at Agamemnon.
I am Achilles' aide, you see,
one and the same good warship brought us here.
I am a Myrmidon, and my father is Polyctor,
and a wealthy man he is, about as old as you ...
He has six sons--I'm the seventh--we all shook lots
and it fell to me to join the armies here at Troy.
I've just come up from the ships to scout the plain--
at dawn the fiery-eyed Achaeans fight around the city.
They chafe, sitting in camp, so bent on battle now
the kings of Achaea cannot hold them back."
And the old and noble Priam asked at once,
"If you really are the royal Achilles' aide,
please, tell me the whole truth, point by point.
My son--does he still lie by the beached ships,
or by now has the great Achilles hacked him
limb from limb and served him to his dogs?"
The guide and giant-killer reassured him:
"So far, old man, no birds or dogs have eaten him.
No, there he lies--still there at Achilles' ship,
still intact in his shelters.
This is the twelfth day he's lain there, too,
but his body has not decayed, not in the least,
nor have the worms begun to gnaw his corpse,
the swarms that devour men who fall in battle.
True, dawn on fiery dawn he drags him round
his beloved comrade's tomb, drags him ruthlessly
but he cannot mutilate his body. It's marvetous--
go see for yourself how he lies there fresh as dew,
the blood washed away, and no sign of corruption.
All his wounds sealed shut, wherever they struck ...
and many drove their bronze blades through his body.
Such pains the blissful gods are lavishing on your son,
dead man though he is--the gods love him dearly!"
And the old man rejoiced at that, bursting out,
"O my child, how good it is to give the immortals