trading between each other many winged words,
Father Zeus sped Iris down to sacred Troy:
“Quick on your way now, Iris, shear the wind!
Leave our Olympian stronghold—
take a message to greathearted Priam down in Troy:
he must go to Achaea’s ships and ransom his dear son,
bearing gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.
But let him go alone, no other Trojan attend him,
only a herald with him, a seasoned, older one
who can drive the mules and smooth-running wagon
and bring the hero’s body back to sacred Troy,
the man that brilliant Achilles killed in battle.
Let him have no fear of death, no dread in his heart,
such a powerful escort we will send him—the giant-killer
Hermes will guide him all the way to Achilles’ presence.
And once the god has led him within the fighter’s shelter,
Achilles will not kill him—he’ll hold back all the rest:
Achilles is no madman, no reckless fool, not the one
to defy the gods’ commands. Whoever begs his mercy
he will spare with all the kindness in his heart.”
So he decreed
and Iris ran his message, racing with gale force
to Priam’s halls where cries and mourning met her.
Sons huddled round their father deep in the courtyard,
robes drenched with tears, and the old man amidst them,
buried, beaten down in the cloak that wrapped his body . . .
Smeared on the old man’s head and neck the dung lay thick
that he scraped up in his own hands, groveling in the filth.
Throughout the house his daughters and sons’ wives wailed,
remembering all the fine brave men who lay dead now,
their lives destroyed at the fighting Argives’ hands.
And Iris, Zeus’s crier, standing alongside Priam,
spoke in a soft voice, but his limbs shook at once—
“Courage, Dardan Priam, take heart! Nothing to fear.
No herald of doom, I come on a friendly mission—
I come with all good will.
I bring you a message sent by Zeus, a world away
but he has you in his heart, he pities you now . . .
Olympian Zeus commands you to ransom royal Hector,
to bear gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.
But you must go alone, no other Trojan attend you,
only a herald with you, a seasoned, older one
who can drive the mules and smooth-running wagon
and bring the hero’s body back to sacred Troy,
the man that brilliant Achilles killed in battle.
But have no fear of death, no dread in your heart,
such a powerful escort will conduct you—the giant-killer
Hermes will guide you all the way to Achilles’ presence.
And once the god has led you within the fighter’s shelter,
Achilles will not kill you—he’ll hold back all the rest:
Achilles is no madman, no reckless fool, not the one
to defy the gods’ commands. Whoever begs his mercy
he will spare with all the kindness in his heart!”
And Iris racing the wind went veering off
and Priam ordered his sons to get a wagon ready,
a good smooth-running one, to hitch the mules
and strap a big wicker cradle across its frame.
Then down he went himself to his treasure-chamber,
high-ceilinged, paneled, fragrant with cedarwood
and a wealth of precious objects filled its chests.
He called out to his wife, Hecuba, “Dear woman!
An Olympian messenger came to me from Zeus—
I must go to Achaea’s ships and ransom our dear son,
bearing gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.
Tell me, what should I do? What do you think?
Myseif—a terrible longing drives me, heart and soul,
down to the ships, into the vast Achaean camp.”
But his wife cried out in answer, “No, no—
where have your senses gone?—that made you famous once,
both among outland men and those you rule in Troy!
How can you think of going down to the ships, alone,
and face the glance of the man who killed your sons,
so many fine brave boys? You have a heart of iron!
If he gets you in his clutches, sets his eyes on you—
that savage, treacherous man—he’ll show no mercy,
no respect for your rights!
Come, all we can do now
is sit in the halls, far from our son, and wail for Hector ...
So this, this is the doom that strong Fate spun out,
our son’s life line drawn with his first breath—
the moment I gave him birth—
to glut the wild dogs, cut off from his parents,
crushed by the stronger man. Oh would to god
that I could sink my teeth in his liver, eat him raw!
That would avenge what he has done to Hector—
no coward the man Achilles killed—my son stood
and fought for the men of Troy and their deep-breasted wives
with never a thought of flight or run for cover!”
But the old and noble Priam answered firmly,
“I will go. My mind’s made up. Don’t hold me back.
And don’t go flying off on your own across the halls,
a bird of evil omen—you can’t dissuade me now.
If someone else had commanded me, some mortal man,
some prophet staring into the smoke, some priest,
I’d call it a lie and turn my back upon it.
Not now. I heard her voice with my own ears,
I looked straight at the goddess, face-to-face.
So I am going—her message must not come to nothing.
And if it is my fate to die by the beaked ships
of Achaeans armed in bronze, then die I shall.
Let Achilles cut me down straightway—
once I’ve caught my son in my arms and wept my fill!”
He raised back the carved lids of the chests
and lifted out twelve robes, handsome, rich brocades,
twelve cloaks, unlined and light, as many blankets,
as many big white capes and shirts to go with them.
He weighed and carried out ten full bars of gold
and took two burnished tripods, four fine cauldrons
and last a magnificent cup the Thracians gave him once—
he’d gone on an embassy and won that priceless treasure—
but not even that did the old man spare in his halls,
not now, consumed with desire to ransom back his son.
Crowds of Trojans were mobbing his colonnades—
he gave them a tongue-lashing, sent them packing:
“Get out—you good-for-nothings, public disgraces!
Haven’t you got enough to wail about at home
without coming here to add to all my griefs?
You think it nothing, the pain that Zeus has sent me?—
he’s destroyed my best son! You’ll learn too, in tears—