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,