whenever Hermes wants, or wakes them up from sleep.
That wand in his grip he flew, the mighty giant-killer
touching down on Troy and the Hellespont in no time
and from there he went on foot, for all the world
like a young prince, sporting his first beard,
just in the prime and fresh warm pride of youth.
And now,
as soon as the two drove past the great tomb of Ilus
they drew rein at the ford to water mules and team.
A sudden darkness had swept across the earth
and Hermes was all but on them when the herald
looked up, saw him, shouted at once to Priam,
“Danger, my king—think fast! I see a man—
I’m afraid we’ll both be butchered on the spot—
into the chariot, hurry! Run for our lives
or fling ourselves at his knees and beg for mercy!”
The old man was stunned, in a swirl of terror,
the hairs stood bristling all over his gnarled body—
he stood there, staring dumbly. Not waiting for welcome
the running god of luck went straight up to Priam,
clasped the old king’s hands and asked him warmly,
“Father—where do you drive these mules and team
through the godsent night while other mortals sleep?
Have you no fear of the Argives breathing hate and fury?
Here are your deadly enemies, camping close at hand.
Now what if one of them saw you, rolling blithely on
through the rushing night with so much tempting treasure—
how would you feel then? You’re not so young yourself,
and the man who attends you here is far too old
to drive off an attacker spoiling for a fight.
But I would never hurt you—and what’s more,
I’d beat off any man who’d do you harm:
you remind me of my dear father, to the life.”
And the old and noble Priam said at once,
“Our straits are hard, dear child, as you say.
But a god still holds his hands above me, even me.
Sending such a traveler here to meet me—
what a lucky omen! Look at your build ...
your handsome face—a wonder. And such good sense—
your parents must be blissful as the gods!”
The guide and giant-killer answered quickly,
“You’re right, old man, all straight to the mark.
But come, tell me the truth now, point by point:
this treasure—a king’s ransom—do you send it off
to distant, outland men, to keep it safe for you?
Or now do you all abandon sacred Troy,
all in panic—such was the man who died,
your finest, bravest man ... your own son
who never failed in a fight against the Argives.”
But the old majestic Priam countered quickly,
“Who are you, my fine friend?—who are your parents?
How can you speak so well of my doomed son’s fate?”
And the guide and giant-killer answered staunchly,
“You’re testing me, old man—asking of noble Hector.
Ah, how often I watched him battling on the lines
where men win glory, saw the man with my own eyes!
And saw him drive Achaeans against the ships that day
he kept on killing, cutting them down with slashing bro
while we stood by and marveled—Achilles reined us in:
no fighting for us while he raged on at Agamemnon.
I am Achilles’ aide, you see,
one and the same good warship brought us here.
I am a Myrmidon, and my father is Polyctor,
and a wealthy man he is, about as old as you ...
He has six sons—I’m the seventh—we all shook lots
and it fell to me to join the armies here at Troy.
I’ve just come up from the ships to scout the plain—
at dawn the fiery-eyed Achaeans fight around the city.
They chafe, sitting in camp, so bent on battle now
the kings of Achaea cannot hold them back.”
And the old and noble Priam asked at once,
“If you really are the royal Achilles’ aide,
please, tell me the whole truth, point by point.
My son—does he still lie by the beached ships,
or by now has the great Achilles hacked him
limb from limb and served him to his dogs?”
The guide and giant-killer reassured him:
“So far, old man, no birds or dogs have eaten him.
No, there he lies—still there at Achilles’ ship,
still intact in his shelters.
This is the twelfth day he’s lain there, too,
but his body has not decayed, not in the least,
nor have the worms begun to gnaw his corpse,
the swarms that devour men who fall in battle.
True, dawn on fiery dawn he drags him round
his beloved comrade’s tomb, drags him ruthlessly
but he cannot mutilate his body. It’s marvetous—
go see for yourself how he lies there fresh as dew,
the blood washed away, and no sign of corruption.
All his wounds sealed shut, wherever they struck ...
and many drove their bronze blades through his body.
Such pains the blissful gods are lavishing on your son,
dead man though he is—the gods love him dearly!”
And the old man rejoiced at that, bursting out,
“O my child, how good it is to give the immortals
fit and proper gifts! Now take my son—
or was he all a dream? Never once in his halls
did he forget the gods who hold Olympus, never,
so now they remember him ... if only after death.
Come, this handsome cup: accept it from me, I beg you!
Protect me, escort me now—if the gods will it so—
all the way till I reach Achilles’ shelter.”
The guide and giant-killer refused him firmly,
“You test me again, old man, since I am young,
but you will not persuade me,
tempting me with a gift behind Achilles’ back.
I fear the man, I’d die of shame to rob him—
just think of the trouble I might suffer later.
But I’d escort you with all the kindness in my heart,
all the way till I reached the shining hills of Argos
bound in a scudding ship or pacing you on foot—
and no marauder on earth, scorning your escort,
would dare attack you then.”
And the god of luck,
leaping onto the chariot right behind the team,
quickly grasped the whip and reins in his hands
and breathed fresh spirit into the mules and horses.
As they reached the trench and rampart round the fleet,
the sentries had just begun to set out supper there
but the giant-killer plunged them all in sleep ...
he spread the gates at once, slid back the bars