Zeus has accomplished everything you wanted,
just as you raised your hands and prayed that day.
All the sons of Achaea are pinned against the ships
and all for want of you—they suffer shattering losses.”
And groaning deeply the matchless runner answered,
“O dear mother, true! All those burning desires
Olympian Zeus has brought to pass for me—
but what joy to me now? My dear comrade’s dead—
Patrocius—the man I loved beyond all other comrades,
loved as my own life-I’ve lost him—Hector’s killed him,
stripped the gigantic armor off his back, a marvel to behold—
my burnished gear! Radiant gifts the gods presented Peleus
that day they drove you into a mortal’s marriage bed ...
I wish you’d lingered deep with the deathless sea-nymphs,
lived at ease, and Peleus carried home a mortal bride.
But now, as it is, sorrows, unending sorrows must surge
within your heart as well—for your own son’s death.
Never again will you embrace him striding home.
My spirit rebels—I’ve lost the will to live,
to take my stand in the world of men—unless,
before all else, Hector’s battered down by my spear
and gasps away his life, the blood-price for Patroclus,
Menoetius’ gallant son he’s killed and stripped!”
But Thetis answered, warning through her tears,
“You’re doomed to a short life, my son, from all you say!
For hard on the heels of Hector’s death your death
must come at once—”
“Then let me die at once”—
Achilles burst out, despairing—“since it was not my fate
to save my dearest comrade from his death! Look,
a world away from his fatherland he’s perished,
lacking me, my fighting strength, to defend him.
But now, since I shall not return to my fatherland ...
nor did I bring one ray of hope to my Patroclus,
nor to the rest of all my steadfast comrades,
countless ranks struck down by mighty Hector—
No, no, here I sit by the ships ...
a useless, dead weight on the good green earth—
I. no man my equal among the bronze-armed Achaeans,
not in battle, only in wars of words that others win.
If only strife could die from the lives of gods and men
and anger that drives the sanest man to flare in outrage—
bitter gall, sweeter than dripping streams of honey,
that swarms in people’s chests and blinds like smoke—
just like the anger Agamemnon king of men
has roused within me now ...
Enough.
Let bygones be bygones. Done is done.
Despite my anguish I will beat it down,
the fury mounting inside me, down by force.
But now I’ll go and meet that murderer head-on,
that Hector who destroyed the dearest life I know.
For my own death, I’ll meet it freely—whenever Zeus
and the other deathless gods would like to bring it on!
Not even Heracles fled his death, for all his power,
favorite son as he was to Father Zeus the King.
Fate crushed him, and Hera’s savage anger.
And I too, if the same fate waits for me ...
I’ll lie in peace, once I’ve gone down to death.
But now, for the moment, let me seize great glory!—
and drive some woman of Troy or deep-breasted Dardan
to claw with both hands at her tender cheeks and wipe away
her burning tears as the sobs come choking from her throat—
they’ll learn that I refrained from war a good long time!
Don’t try to hold me back from the fighting, mother,
love me as you do. You can’t persuade me now.”
The goddess of the glistening feet replied,
“Yes, my son, you’re right. No coward’s work,
to save your exhausted friends from headlong death.
But your own handsome war-gear lies in Trojan hands,
bronze and burnished—and Hector in that flashing helmet,
Hector glories in your armor, strapped across his back.
Not that he will glory in it long, I tell you:
his own destruction hovers near him now. Wait—
don’t fling yourself in the grind of battle yet,
not till you see me coming back with your own eyes.
Tomorrow I will return to you with the rising sun,
bearing splendid arms from Hephaestus, god of fire!”
With that vow she turned away from her son
and faced and urged her sisters of the deep,
“Now down you go in the Ocean’s folding gulfs
to visit father’s halls—the Old Man of the Sea—
and tell him all. I am on my way to Olympus heights,
to the famous Smith Hephaestus—I pray he’ll give my son
some fabulous armor full of the god’s great fire!”
And under a foaming wave her sisters dove
as glistening-footed Thetis soared toward Olympus
to win her dear son an immortal set of arms.
And now,
as her feet swept her toward Olympus, ranks of Achaeans,
fleeing man-killing Hector with grim, unearthly cries,
reached the ships and the Hellespont’s long shore.
As for Patroclus, there seemed no hope that Achaeans
could drag the corpse of Achilles’ comrade out of range.
Again the Trojan troops and teams overtook the body
with Hector son of Priam storming fierce as fire.
Three times illustrious Hector shouted for support,
seized his feet from behind, wild to drag him off,
three times the Aeantes, armored in battle-fury
fought him off the corpse. But Hector held firm,
staking all on his massive fighting strength—
again and again he’d hurl himself at the melee,
again and again stand fast with piercing cries
but he never gave ground backward, not one inch.
The helmed Aeantes could no more frighten Hector,
the proud son of Priam, back from Patroclus’ corpse
than shepherds out in the field can scare a tawny lion
off his kill when the hunger drives the beast claw-mad.
And now Hector would have hauled the body away
and won undying glory ...
if wind-swift Iris had not swept from Olympus
bearing her message—Peleus’ son must arm—
but all unknown to Zeus and the other gods
since Hera spurred her on. Halting near
she gave Achilles a flight of marching orders:
“To arms—son of Peleus! Most terrifying man alive!
Defend Patroclus! It’s all for him, this merciless battle
pitched before the ships. They’re mauling each other now,
Achaeans struggling to save the corpse from harm,
Trojans charging to haul it back to windy Troy.