An Iliad Read online

But Hector answered, “I know all this, woman. But the shame I would feel if I were to stay away from the battle would be too great. I was taught, growing up, always to be strong, and to fight in the front line of every battle, for the glory of my father and for my own. How could my heart now allow me to flee? I well know that the day will come when the sacred city of Troy will perish, and with it Priam and the people of Priam. And if I imagine that day it’s not the grief of the Trojans that I imagine, nor that of my father, or my mother, or my brothers, slaughtered by their enemies and lying in the dust. When I imagine that day I see you. I see an Achaean warrior who seizes you and drags you away in tears, I see you a slave, in Argos, weaving clothes for another woman and fetching water for her at the fountain, I see you weeping, and I hear the voices of those who, seeing you, say, ‘Look there, that’s the wife of Hector, the bravest of all the Trojans.’ May I die before I know you are a slave. May I be under the earth before I have to hear your cries.”

  Thus spoke glorious Hector, and then he came toward me. I was holding his son in my arms, you see? And he approached and was going to take the boy. But the child hugged my breast and burst into tears. It frightened him seeing his father. The bronze armor frightened him, and the fluttering crest on the helmet scared him, and so he burst into tears. And I remember that then Hector and Andromache looked at each other and smiled. He took off the helmet and set it on the ground. Then the child let himself be held, and Hector took him in his arms and kissed him. And lifting him up high he said, “Zeus, and you other gods in heaven, let my son be like me, the bravest of all the Trojans, and lord of Ilium. And may people seeing him return from battle say, ‘He is even braver than his father.’ May he return one day bearing the bloody spoils of his enemies, and may his mother be there, that day, to rejoice in her heart.” And as he was speaking these words he put the child in Andromache’s arms. And I remember that she smiled and wept, hugging the child to her breast. She wept and smiled, and Hector, looking at her, took pity on her and caressed her and said to her, “Don’t grieve too much in your heart. No one will kill me unless fate wills it; and if fate wills it, then remember that no man, once he is born, can escape fate. Whether he is a coward or brave. No one. Now go home and take up your work at the spindle and the loom with your women. Let the men take care of the war, all the men of Troy, and I more than any other man of Troy.”

  Then he bent down and picked up his helmet from the ground, the helmet with the fluttering crest. We went home. Andromache wept as she walked, and kept turning to look back. When the women saw her coming, a great sadness arose in all of them. They burst out crying. They wept for Hector. They wept for him in his house, wept for him while he was still living, because not one felt in her heart that he would return from the battle alive.

  Nestor

  We saw Hector come hurrying out of the Scaean gates. ‘We thought he had returned to fight, but in fact what he did was strange. He strode along the front ranks of his men, with his spear lowered, ordering them to stop. So Agamemnon, too, ordered us Achaeans to lower our arms. Thus the two armies faced each other, suddenly silent, almost motionless: they were like the sea when the wind begins to blow and the surface lightly ripples. In the middle of that sea was Hector, and he spoke out.

  “Hear me, Trojans, and you, Achaeans. I will tell you what is in my heart. The gods delude us with their promises, and then condemn us to suffering and sorrow, and so it will go on until Troy wins or is taken. And so I say to you: if there is an Achaean prince who has the courage to fight me, man to man, I challenge him. Today I am ready to meet my fate.”

  The armies were silent. We, the Achaean princes, looked into one another’s eyes: it was clear that we were afraid to accept the challenge, but we were ashamed to refuse it. Finally we heard the voice of Menelaus, furious.

  “So, Achaeans, what are you, sissies? Can’t you imagine the disgrace if no one of us accepts the challenge? Go to your ruin, men without courage or glory. I will fight for you, and the gods will decide the victor.” And he took his armor and stepped forward. We knew that it was hopeless, that Hector was too strong for him. So we stopped him. Agamemnon, his brother, took him by the hand and spoke to him in a low voice, gently. “Menelaus, don’t continue in this madness. Don’t fight a man who is stronger than you. Even Achilles is afraid to fight Hector, and you want to do it? Stop, let us send someone else.”

  Menelaus knew in his heart that Agamemnon was right. He listened and obeyed: he let his men take the armor from his shoulders. Then I looked at all the others and said, “Alas, what a sad moment this is for the Achaean people. How many tears would our fathers shed if they knew that we were all trembling before Hector. Ah, if only I were still young and strong. I would not be afraid, I swear, and Hector would have to fight me. You are afraid, I wouldn’t be.”

  Then nine of them stepped forward, first Agamemnon, and then Diomedes, the two Ajaxes, Idomeneus, Meriones, Eurypylus, Thoas, and, last, Odysseus. Now they all wanted to fight. “Fate will decide,” I said. And in Agamemnon’s helmet I had each of the nine put a tile bearing his symbol. I shook the helmet and drew one. I looked at the symbol. Then I went to Telamonian Ajax, the only one of us who had some hope against Hector, and gave it to him. He looked. He understood. And throwing it on the ground he said, “Friends, mine is the fate, mine is the fortune, and my heart laughs, because

  I will crush glorious Hector. Give me my arms and pray for me.”

  He dressed in dazzling bronze, and when he was ready he went toward Hector with long strides, terrifying, brandishing his spear on high, above his head, with a fierce expression on his face. Seeing him, the Trojans trembled, all of them, and I know that even Hector felt his heart race in his chest. But he could no longer flee, having thrown out the challenge, and he couldn’t withdraw.

  “Hector,” Ajax shouted, “now you’ll find out what sort of heroes there are among the Achaeans, besides Achilles the destroyer. He, the lion-hearted, may be in his tent, but, as you see, we, too, are capable of fighting you.”

  “Stop talking,” Hector answered, “and fight.” He raised his spear and hurled it. The bronze tip struck Ajax’s enormous shield, tore through the layer of bronze and then, one after the other, seven layers of ox hide, and in the last it stopped, in the last layer, just before it would have wounded him. Then it was Ajax’s turn. The spear tore through Hector’s shield. Hector leaned to one side, and this saved him. The bronze tip only grazed him. It tore his tunic but didn’t wound. Then both wrenched the spears from the shields and set upon one another like savage lions. Ajax was protected by his enormous shield; Hector kept striking but couldn’t touch him. When he grew tired, Ajax left the shelter of his shield and with a thrust of the spear cut his neck: we saw the black blood spurt from the wound. Another would have stopped, but not Hector: he bent down to pick up a stone from the ground, huge, jagged, black, and he hurled it at Ajax. You could hear the shield resound—the bronze echoing—but Ajax withstood the blow and in his turn picked up a rock, an even bigger one, swung it in the air, and threw it with a terrible strength. Hector’s shield broke apart and he fell, but right away he got up again, and they grabbed their swords and went for one another, yelling …

  And the sun set.

  Then two heralds, one Achaean, one Trojan, came forward to separate the two, because even in battle it’s good to be obedient to the night. Ajax didn’t want to stop. “It’s Hector who must decide, he made the challenge.” And Hector decided. “Let’s interrupt the fight for today,” he said. “You are strong, Ajax, and your spear is the best among all those of the Achaeans. You will make your friends and companions happy by returning alive to your tent tonight. And the men and women of Troy will rejoice, seeing me return, alive, to Priam’s great city. And now let’s exchange precious gifts, so that all may say: They fought fiercely, but they parted in harmony and peace.” So he spoke. And he gave Ajax his silver-studded sword, with its well-made sheathe and strap. And Ajax gave him his war belt of shining purpl
e.

  That night, at the banquet where we celebrated Ajax, I let them all drink and eat, and then, when I saw that they were tired, I asked the princes to listen to me. I was the oldest, and they respected my wisdom. So I said that we should ask the Trojans for a day of truce, so that we and they could gather up our dead from the battlefield. And I said that we must take advantage of that day to build a wall around the ships, a high wall, and a broad trench, to protect ourselves from an assault by the Trojans.

  “A wall? What need do we have for walls—we have shields,” said Diomedes. “I knock down walls, I don’t build them,” he said. No one liked the idea. There were even some who said, “Think how Achilles will boast when he discovers that without him we are so afraid that we shut ourselves behind a wall.” They laughed. But the truth is that they were young, and the young have an old idea of war. Honor, beauty, heroism. Like the fight between Hector and Ajax: two princes who first try savagely to kill each other and then exchange gifts. I was too old to believe in those things still. We won that war by means of a huge wooden horse, filled with soldiers. We won by a trick, not by an open, fair, honorable fight. And this they, the young men, never liked. But I was old. Odysseus was old. We knew that the long war we were fighting was old, and that it would be won in a day by those who were able to fight it in a new way.

  That night we went to sleep without making a decision, and when we woke we received a delegation from the Trojans. Idaeus came to us and said that since the Trojans had taken up the fight again, after the encounter between Paris and Menelaus, and had broken the sacred pact, they were now willing to give us our due by returning all the treasures that Paris had carried off with Helen of Argos. Not the woman but the treasures, yes. And he said that to those they would add splendid gifts, to compensate us for the treachery. They were afraid that the gods would not forgive their perfidy, you see?

  Diomedes rose and said, “Not even if they gave us back Helen in flesh and blood would we stop, my friends. Even a fool could understand that the end of Troy is near.” And we all applauded; at that moment we felt that he was right. So Agamemnon answered Idaeus that we rejected the offer. And then he agreed to a truce of one day, so that we and the Trojans could gather our dead and consign them to the flames in accordance with custom. And so it was.

  A strange day of war. On the great plain, beneath the sun that lighted up the land, went Achaeans and Trojans, mingled together, looking for their own dead. They leaned over the fouled bodies, with water washed away the blood in order to identify the faces, and then, weeping, loaded them onto carts. Silently, with grieving hearts, they heaped the bodies on the pyres, and stood there watching as the leaping flames burned those who, until the day before, had fought at their side.

  When the sun began to set, I gathered a band of Achaeans around the funeral pyre and had them construct the wall, the hated wall, with high, secure towers and broad gates so that our men could go in and out. I had them build it all the way around the ships. And I had them dig a deep trench in front of the wall to keep the Trojan chariots away. And only when it was finished did we withdraw to the tents to take the gift of sleep. During the night Zeus hurled terrible thunder from the sky, and it was a sound of disaster that left us pale with fear.

  At dawn the next day we took our meal quickly and put on our armor. The Trojans emerged from the city and came toward us in an immense tumult. In the middle of the plain the two armies clashed in a fury of shields, spears, and bronze armor, of groans and shouts, of the sorrow of the killed and the triumph of the killers, while the earth was stained with blood. From dawn until noon the blows flew on one side and the other, but when the sun was high in the middle of the sky, then the fate of the battle smiled on the Trojans. Around me I saw our men begin to retreat, and then flee. I, too, thought of turning back in my chariot, like the others, but an arrow shot by Paris struck one of my horses in his forehead: he reared up in pain, then fell to the ground, upsetting the other two. With my sword I cut the traces loose from him and was about to call back the other horses when I saw Hector in his chariot speeding toward me in the fray. I was a dead man. I saw Odysseus not far from me. Even he was fleeing, so I shouted, “Odysseus, where are you going? Do you want to be killed by a spear in your back? You coward, come and help me!” But patient, glorious Odysseus couldn’t hear me, and continued heading toward the ships.

  It was Diomedes who came to save me. He arrived quickly in his chariot and pulled me up with him. I took the reins and urged the horses toward Hector. And when we were close enough, Diomedes hurled his spear with all his strength. When I saw that it had missed, I understood that fate was against us and it was better to escape. “Escape? Me?” said Diomedes. “And then let Hector go around boasting that Diomedes ran away from him?” As I said, the young love glory, and so they lose wars. “Diomedes, even if he says it, no one will believe him, because people believe the winner, not the loser.” And I turned the horses in flight amid the turmoil, with the voice of Hector fading behind us, shouting insults.

  We retreated to the trench and there we stopped. Hector was driving us back with his whole army, the plain was teeming with soldiers and chariots and horses. Agamemnon was shouting, urging on the Achaeans, and all the heroes fought hard, one beside the other. I remember that Teucer, the archer, hid behind the shield of Ajax, and when Ajax lowered the shield he took aim and let fly into the crowd of Trojans. He didn’t miss a shot. The Trojans fell, one after the other, struck by his arrows. We shouted at him to take Hector, to aim at him. “I can’t hit him, that mad dog,” he said. Twice he had tried, twice missed, and he didn’t have time to try again, for Hector was on him and hit him in the shoulder with a rock. The bow flew out of his hands; he fell to the ground. Ajax sheltered him with his shield, and two men managed to grab him and carry him off, far from Hector’s fury.

  We fought but we couldn’t contain them. They pushed us into the trench and then against the wall, while Hector never stopped shouting, “They think they can hold us back with a wall, but our chariots will fly over that wall and we won’t stop until we reach the ships and fire consumes them!” Nothing could save us.

  The sun saved us. It sank into Ocean, bringing night upon the fertile earth. In anger the Trojans watched it set. In joy, ourselves. Even war is obedient to the night.

  We withdrew behind the wall, into our tents, in front of the ships. But Hector, for the first time in nine long years of war, didn’t lead his army back inside the walls of the city. He ordered his men to camp there, at the wall. From the city he had oxen and fat sheep brought, and sweet wine and bread and wood for the blazing fires. The wind bore the odor of sacrifices. And we, who had come from far away to lay siege to a city, became a city under siege. All night, right before our eyes, the fires of the proud Trojans burned by the thousand. They shone the way the moon and stars shine at night under the open sky, illuminating the mountain peaks and valleys and warming the shepherd’s heart with gladness. In the glow of the flames we saw the shadows of the Trojans moving in the night, waiting for Aurora on her beautiful throne.

  Achilles

  Five of them came. Odysseus first of all. Then the great warrior Ajax and Phoenix, loved by Zeus. And two heralds, Odius and Eurybates. I was in my tent, playing the lyre. It was a precious lyre—beautifully made, with a silver bridge—that I had chosen from among the spoils, and I was playing because it comforted my heart to play and sing of the adventures of heroes. Beside me Patroclus listened in silence. Then they arrived. They had been well chosen: among all the Achaeans they were most dear to me. “Friends,” I said, and had them sit around me on couches covered with purple carpets. I sent Patroclus to get more wine, and he brought wine, and meat and bread.

  So we feasted in my tent together, and only at the end Odysseus, who was sitting just across from me, raised a cup of wine and said, “Hail, Achilles, divine prince. Your banquet is sumptuous, but, sadly, we have not come here for your food and wine. An immense disaster threatens us, and we are afr
aid. If you don’t take up your weapons, it will be difficult to save the ships. The proud Trojans and their allies are encamped right at the wall that we built for our defense. They have lighted a thousand fires and say they will not stop until they reach our black ships. Hector is raging, he fears neither men nor gods, he is possessed by a brutal fury. He says that he is only waiting for dawn to attack and set fire to our ships and, in the smoke, slaughter the Achaeans. He will do it, Achilles. I know, in the depths of my heart, that he will do it, and we’ll all die here, in Troy, far from our homes. But if you want, there is still time to save the Achaeans before that irreparable evil, for us and also for you. My friend, do you remember the day when Peleus, your father, watched you leave at Agamemnon’s side? ‘The gods will give you strength,’ he said to you, ‘but you must restrain your proud heart. To be gentle—that is to be strong. Stay away from quarrels and arguments, and the Achaeans, young and old, will honor you.’ Thus he spoke, but you have forgotten.

  “Hear me now. Let me tell you, one by one, about the gifts that Agamemnon has promised if you’ll set aside your anger— precious gifts, if only you’ll give up your anger; splendid gifts, if only you’ll forget your anger. Seven tripods never touched by fire, ten talents of gold, twenty shining bowls, twelve strong, swift stallions that have won countless races. Agamemnon will give you seven women from Lesbos skilled in handiwork, the same seven he chose for himself the day you destroyed the well-built city of Lesbos for him. They were the most beautiful: he will give them to you. And along with them he will give you Briseis, whom he took from you one day, and he will swear solemnly that he has never shared his bed with her, and has not loved her the way men and women love. All this you will have, and right away, here. And then if destiny allows us to destroy the great city of Priam, you may step forward, when the spoils are divided, and load your ship with gold and bronze, as much as you want, and twenty Trojan women, the most beautiful you can find, with the exception of Helen of Argos. And if, finally, we return to Argos, in the fertile land of Achaia, Agamemnon wants you to marry one of his three daughters, who are waiting for him now in his shining palace: you can choose the one you want and bring her to the home of Peleus, without offering any marriage gift. Agamemnon, rather, will give you pleasing gifts, more than any father has ever given to his daughter. He will give you seven of his richest cities—Cardamyle, Enope, Hire, sacred Pherae, Anthea with its green meadows, beautiful Aepea, and Pedasus lush with vineyards—all cities near the sea, all inhabited by men rich in oxen and lambs who will honor you as a god and will pay you, their king, huge tributes. All this he will give you, if you will put aside your anger. And if you can’t, because Agamemnon is too hateful to you and his gifts are insupportable, then at least have pity on us, who today are suffering, and tomorrow will honor you as a god. It’s the right moment to challenge Hector and kill him: he is possessed by a tremendous fury, and, with his conviction that he is the best, he won’t run away. Wouldn’t the glory be immense, Achilles?”