it’s wrong for me, since I have years on you
and I know the world much better.
Fool, what short-lived memory you must havel
Don’t you remember? Have you forgotten—even now?—
all those troubles we suffered here alongside Troy,
we alone of the gods when Zeus dispatched us down
to slave for proud Laomedon one whole year,
for stated wages—at that man’s beck and call.
I erected the rampart round the Trojans’ city,
a massive ashlar wall to make the place impregnable.
You, Phoebus, herded his shambling crook-homed cattle
along the spurs of Ida’s timbered ridges. Ah but then,
when the happy spring brought time for payment round,
that outrageous man Laomedon robbed us blind.
He stole our wages, cursed us, sent us packing—
he threatened to bind us both, hand and foot,
ship us off and away as slaves to distant islands—
he was all for lopping off our ears with a brazen ax!
So we made our way back home, hearts smoldering,
furious for the sum he swore but never paid—
and that, that is the one whose men you favor now.
No joining ranks with us as we fight to wipe them out,
these insolent Trojans, stretch them out in the dust
with all their sons and all their honored wives!”
But the distant deadly Archer volleyed back,
“God of the earthquake—you’d think me hardly sane
if I fought with you for the sake of wretched mortals ...
like leaves, no sooner flourishing, full of the sun’s fire,
feeding on earth’s gifts, than they waste away and die.
Stop. Call off this skirmish of ours at once—
let these mortals fight themselves to death.”
With that he turned and left, filled with shame
to grapple his own father’s brother hand-to-hand.
But his sister Artemis, Huntress, queen of beasts,
inveighed against him now with stinging insults:
“So, the deadly immortal Archer runs for dear life!—
turning over victory to Poseidon, total victory,
giving him all the glory here without a fight.
Why do you sport that bow, you spineless fool?—
it’s worthless as the wind!
Don’t let me hear you boast in Father’s halls,
ever again, as you bragged among the gods till now,
that you would fight Poseidon strength for strength.”
Not a word in reply to that from the Archer-god
but Zeus’s regal consort flew into rage at once
and her outburst raked the Huntress armed with arrows:
“How do you have the gall, you shameless bitch,
to stand and fight me here? You and your archery!
Zeus made you a lion against all women, true,
he lets you kill off mothers in their labor—
but you’ll find it painful, matching force with me.
Better to slaughter beasts on rocky mountain slopes
and young deer in the wild than fight a higher goddess!
But since you’d like a lesson in warfare, Artemis,
just to learn, to savor how much stronger I am
when you engage my power—”
She broke off,
her left hand seizing both wrists of the goddess,
right hand stripping the bow and quiver off her shoulders—
Hera boxed the Huntress’ ears with her own weapons,
smiling broadly now as her victim writhed away
and showering arrows scattered. Bursting into tears
the goddess slipped from under her clutch like a wild dove
that flies from a hawk’s attack to a hollow rocky cleft
for it’s not the quarry’s destiny to be caught—
so she fled in tears, her archery left on the spot.
But Hermes the guide of souls and giant-killer
reassured her mother, Leto, “Nothing to fear,
I’d never fight you, Leto. An uphill battle it is,
trading blows with the wives of Zeus who rules the clouds.
No, go boast to your heart’s content and tell the gods
you triumphed over me with your superhuman power!”
So Leto gathered the reflex bow and arrows
scattered left and right in the swirling dust,
and bearing her daughter’s archery in her arms
withdrew from the field of battle trailing Artemis.
By now the Huntress had reached Olympus heights
and made her way to the bronze-floored house of Zeus.
And down she sat on her Father’s lap, a young girl,
sobbing, her deathless robe quivering round her body.
But her Father, son of Cronus, hugged her tight
and giving a low warm laugh inquired gently,
“Who has abused you now, dear child, tell me,
who of the sons of heaven so unfeeling, cruel?
Why, it’s as if they had caught you in public,
doing something wrong . . .”
Wreathed in flowers
the one who halloos the hunt cried out at once,
“Your own wife, Father! The white-armed Hera beat me!
This strife, this warfare plaguing all the immortals—
Hera’s all to blame!”
And now as the powers wrangled back and forth
the lord god Apollo entered holy Troy,
filled with dread for the city’s sturdy walls:
what if the Argive forces stormed them down today—
against the will of fate? The rest of the gods
who live forever soon returned to Mount Olympus,
some enraged, some in their proud, new-won glory,
and sat beside the Father, king of the black cloud.
But Achilles slaughtered on and on, never pausing,
killing Trojans and skittish battle-teams at once.
As smoke goes towering into the broad vaulting sky
from a burning town and the gods’ wrath drives it on,
dealing struggle to all, to many searing grief—
so Achilles dealt the Trojans struggle, grief.
But there on the god-built heights stood aged Priam.
He saw the monstrous Achilles and racing on before him
Trojans whipped in headlong flight, all rescue gone.
The king cried out and clambered down to ground
from the high tower, issuing quick commands
to veteran gateway guards beside the walls:
“Spread the great gates wide—all hands now—
till our routed troops can straggle back to Troy!
Achilles swarms over them—they’re stampeding,
a terrible mauling’s coming ... I can see it now!
Once they’re packed in the walls and catch their breath,
close the thickset gates and bolt them tight again.
I dread this murderous man—he’ll burst right through our walls.”