we man the towering ramparts. All the worse for him—
if Achilles wants to venture forth from the fleet,
fight us round our walls. Back to the ships he’ll go,
once he’s lashed the power out of his rippling stallions,
whipping them back and forth beneath our city walls.
Not even his fury will let him crash our gates—
he’ll never plunder Troy.
Sooner the racing dogs will eat him raw!”
Helmet flashing, Hector wheeled with a dark glance:
“No more, Polydamas! Your pleading repels me now.
You say go back again—be crammed inside the city.
Aren’t you sick of being caged inside those walls?
Time was when the world would talk of Priam’s Troy
as the city rich in gold and rich in bronze—but now
our houses are stripped of all their sumptuous treasures,
troves sold off and shipped to Phrygia, lovely Maeonia,
once great Zeus grew angry ...
But now, the moment the son of crooked Cronus
allows me to seize some glory here at the ships
and pin these Argives back against the sea—
you fool, enough! No more thoughts of retreat
paraded before our people. Not that one Trojan
will ever take your lead—I’ll never permit it.
Come, follow my orders! All obey me now.
Take supper now. Take your posts through camp.
And no forgetting the watch, each man wide awake.
And any Trojan so weighed down, so oppressed
by his own possessions, let him collect the lot,
pass them round to the people—a grand public feast.
Far better for one of ours to reap the benefits
than all the marauding Argives. Then, as you say,
‘tomorrow at daybreak, armed to the hilt for battle’—
we slash to attack against their deep curved hulls!
If it really was Achilles who reared beside the ships,
all the worse for him—if he wants his fill of war.
I for one, I’ll never run from his grim assault,
I’ll stand up to the man—see if he bears off glory
or I bear it off myself! The god of war is impartiaclass="underline"
he hands out death to the man who hands out death.”
So Hector finished. The Trojans roared assent,
lost in folly. Athena had swept away their senses.
They gave applause to Hector’s ruinous tactics,
none to Polydamas, who gave them sound advice.
And now their entire army settled down to supper
but all night long the Argives raised Patroclus’ dirge.
And Achilles led them now in a throbbing chant of sorrow,
laying his man-killing hands on his great friend’s chest,
convulsed with bursts of grief. Like a bearded lion
whose pride of cubs a deer-hunter has snatched away,
out of some thick woods, and back he comes, too late,
and his heart breaks but he courses after the hunter,
hot on his tracks down glen on twisting glen—
where can he find him?—gripped by piercing rage ...
so Achilles groaned, deeply, crying out to his Myrmidons,
“O my captains! How empty the promise I let fall
that day I reassured Menoetius in his house—
I promised the king I’d bring him back his son,
home to Opois, covered in glory, Troy sacked,
hauling his rightful share of plunder home, home.
But Zeus will never accomplish all our best-laid plans.
Look at us. Both doomed to stain red with our blood
the same plot of earth, a world away in Troy!
For not even I will voyage home again. Never.
No embrace in his halls from the old horseman Peleus
nor from mother, Thetis—this alien earth I stride
will hold me down at last.
But now, Patroclus,
since I will follow you underneath the ground,
I shall not bury you, no, not till I drag back here
the gear and head of Hector, who slaughtered you,
my friend, greathearted friend ...
Here in front of your flaming pyre I’ll cut the throats
of a dozen sons of Troy in all their shining glory,
venting my rage on them for your destruction!
Till then you lie as you are beside my beaked ships
and round you the Trojan women and deep-breasted Dardans
will mourn you night and day, weeping burning tears,
women we fought to win—strong hands and heavy lance—
whenever we sacked rich cities held by mortal men.“
With that the brilliant Achilles ordered friends
to set a large three-legged cauldron over the fire
and wash the clotted blood from Patroclus’ wounds
with all good speed. Hoisting over the blaze
a cauldron, filling it brimful with bathing water,
they piled fresh logs beneath and lit them quickly.
The fire lapped at the vessel’s belly, the water warmed
and soon as it reached the boil in the glowing bronze
they bathed and anointed the body sleek with olive oil,
closed each wound with a soothing, seasoned unguent
and then they laid Patroclus on his bier ...
covered him head to foot in a thin light sheet
and over his body spread the white linen shroud.
Then all night long, ringing the great runner Achilles,
Myrmidon fighters mourned and raised Patroclus’ dirge.
But Zeus turned to Hera, his wife and sister, saying,
“So, my ox-eyed Queen, you’ve had your way at last,
setting the famous runner Achilles on his feet.
Mother Hera—look, these long-haired Achaeans
must be sprung of your own immortal loins.”
But her eyes widening, noble Hera answered,
“Dread majesty, son of Cronus, what are you saying?
Even a mortal man will act to help a friend,
condemned as a mortal always is to death
and hardly endowed with wisdom deep as ours.
So how could I, claiming to be the highest goddess—
both by birth and since I am called your consort
and you in turn rule all the immortal gods—
how could I hold back from these, these Trojans,
men I loathe, and fail to weave their ruin?”
Now as the King and Queen provoked each other,
glistening-footed Thetis reached Hephaestus’ house,
indestructible, bright as stars, shining among the gods,
built of bronze by the crippled Smith with his own hands.
There she found him, sweating, wheeling round his bellows,
pressing the work on twenty three-legged cauldrons,
an array to ring the walls inside his mansion.
He’d bolted golden wheels to the legs of each
so all on their own speed, at a nod from him,
they could roll to halls where the gods convene