easier game you’ll be for Argive troops to slaughter,
now my Hector’s dead. But before I have to see
my city annihilated, laid waste before my eyes—
oh let me go down to the House of Death!”
He herded them off with his staff—they fled outside
before the old man’s fury. So he lashed out at his sons,
cursing the sight of Helenus, Paris, noble Agathon,
Pammon, Antiphonus, Polites loud with the war cry,
Deiphobus and Hippothous, even lordly Dius—
the old man shouted at all nine, rough commands:
“Get to your work! My vicious sons—my humiliations!
If only you’d all been killed at the fast ships
instead of my dear Hector ...
But I—dear god, my life so cursed by fate!—
I fathered hero sons in the wide realm of Troy
and now, now not a single one is left, I tell you.
Mestor the indestructible, Troilus, passionate horseman
and Hector, a god among men—no son of a mortal man,
he seemed a deathless god’s. But Ares killed them all
and all he left me are these, these disgraces—liars,
dancers, heroes only at beating the dancing-rings,
you plunder your own people for lambs and kids!
Why don’t you get my wagon ready—now, at once?
Pack all these things aboard! We must be on our way!”
Terrified by their father’s rough commands
the sons trundled a mule-wagon out at once,
a good smooth-running one,
newly finished, balanced and bolted tight,
and strapped a big wicker cradle across its frame.
They lifted off its hook a boxwood yoke for the mules,
its bulging pommel fitted with rings for guide-reins,
brought out with the yoke its yoke-strap nine arms long
and wedged the yoke down firm on the sanded, tapered pole,
on the front peg, and slipped the yoke-ring onto its pin,
strapped the pommel with three good twists, both sides,
then lashed the assembly round and down the shaft
and under the clamp they made the lashing fast.
Then the priceless ransom for Hector’s body:
hauling it up from the vaults they piled it high
on the wagon’s well-made cradle, then they yoked the mules—
stamping their sharp hoofs, trained for heavy loads—
that the Mysians once gave Priam, princely gifts.
And last they yoked his team to the king’s chariot,
stallions he bred himself in his own polished stalls.
No sooner were both men harnessed up beneath the roofs,
Priam and herald, minds set on the coming journey,
than Hecuba rushed up to them, gaunt with grief,
her right hand holding a golden cup of honeyed wine
so the men might pour libations forth at parting.
She stood in front of the horses, crying up at Priam,
“Here, quickly—pour a libation out to Father Zeus!
Pray for a safe return from all our mortal enemies,
seeing you’re dead set on going down to the ships—
though you go against my will. But if go you must,
pray, at least, to the great god of the dark storm cloud,
up there on Ida, gazing down on the whole expanse of Troy!
Pray for a bird of omen, Zeus’s wind-swift messenger,
the dearest bird in the world to his prophetic heart,
the strongest thing on wings—clear on the right
so you can see that sign with your own eyes
and trust your life to it as you venture down
to Achaea’s ships and the fast chariot-teams.
But if farseeing Zeus does not send you that sign—
his own messenger—then I urge you, beg you,
don’t go down to the ships—
not for all the passion in your heart!”
The old majestic Priam gave his answer:
“Dear woman, surely I won’t resist your urging now.
It’s well to lift our hands and ask great Zeus for mercy.”
And the old king motioned a steward standing by
to pour some clear pure water over his hands,
and she came forward, bearing a jug and basin.
He rinsed his hands, took the cup from his wife
and taking a stand amidst the forecourt, prayed,
pouring the wine to earth and scanning the high skies,
Priam prayed in his rich resounding voice: “Father Zeus!
Ruling over us all from Ida, god of greatness, god of glory!
Grant that Achilles will receive me with kindness, mercy.
Send me a bird of omen, your own wind-swift messenger,
the dearest bird in the world to your prophetic heart,
the strongest thing on wings—clear on the right
so I can see that sign with my own eyes
and trust my life to it as I venture down
to Achaea’s ships and the fast chariot-teams!”
And Zeus in all his wisdom heard that prayer
and straightaway the Father launched an eagle—
truest of Zeus’s signs that fly the skies—
the dark marauder that mankind calls the Black-wing.
Broad as the door of a rich man’s vaulted treasure-chamber,
well-fitted with sturdy bars, so broad each wing of the bird
spread out on either side as it swept in through the city
flashing clear on the right before the king and queen.
All looked up, overjoyed—the people’s spirits lifted.
And the old man, rushing to climb aboard his chariot,
drove out through the gates and echoing colonnades.
The mules in the lead hauled out the four-wheeled wagon,
driven on by seasoned Idaeus. The horses came behind
as the old man cracked the lash and urged them fast
throughout the city with all his kinsmen trailing ...
weeping their hearts out, as if he went to his death.
But once the two passed down through crowded streets
and out into open country, Priam’s kin turned back,
his sons and in-laws straggling home to Troy.
But Zeus who beholds the world could hardly fail
to see the two men striking out across the plain.
As he watched the old man he filled with pity
and quickly summoned Hermes, his own dear son:
“Hermes—escorting men is your greatest joy,
you above all the gods,
and you listen to the wish of those you favor.
So down you go. Down and conduct King Priam there
through Achaea’s beaked ships, so none will see him,
none of the Argive fighters recognize him now,
not till he reaches Peleus’ royal son.”
So he decreed
and Hermes the giant-killing guide obeyed at once.
Under his feet he fastened the supple sandals,
never-dying gold, that wing him over the waves
and boundless earth with the rush of gusting winds.
He seized the wand that enchants the eyes of men