to pile a deep warm bed for Phoenix, quickly.
They obeyed and spread the bed as he ordered,
with fleeces, woolen throws and soft linen sheets.
There the old man lay, awaiting shining Dawn.
And deep in his well-built lodge Achilles slept
with the woman he brought from Lesbos, Phorbas’ daughter,
Diomede in all her beauty sleeping by his side.
And over across from him Patroclus slept
with the sashed and lovely Iphis by his side,
whom Prince Achilles gave him the day he took
the heights of Scyros, Enyeus’ rocky stronghold.
But once the envoys reached Atrides’ shelters,
comrades leapt to their feet, welcomed them back
and clustering round them, lifted golden cups.
One after another pressed them with questions,
King Agamemnon most urgent of alclass="underline" “Come—
tell me, famous Odysseus, Achaea’s pride and glory—
will he fight the fire off the ships? Or does he refuse,
does rage still grip his proud, mighty spirit?”
And the steady, long-enduring Odysseus replied,
“Great marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon,
that man has no intention of quenching his rage.
He’s still bursting with anger, more than ever—
he spurns you, spurns all your gifts. Work out
your own defense, he says, you and your captains
save the Argive armies and the ships. Himself?
Achilles threatens, tomorrow at first light,
to haul his well-benched warships out to sea.
And what’s more, he advises all the rest,
‘Sail home now. You will never set your eyes
on the day of doom that topples looming Troy.
Thundering Zeus has spread his hands above her . . .
her armies have taken heart.’
That’s his answer.
And here are men to confirm it, fellow envoys.
Ajax and two heralds, both clear-headed men.
But old Phoenix passes the night in camp
as Achilles bids him, so he can voyage home,
home in the ships with him to the fatherland they love.
Tomorrow at dawn. But only if Phoenix wishes.
He will never force the man to go.”
So he reported.
Silence held them all, struck dumb by his story,
Odysseus’ words still ringing in their ears.
A long while they said nothing, spirits dashed.
Finally Diomedes lord of the war cry broke forth:
“Great marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon—
if only you’d never begged the dauntless son of Peleus,
holding out to Achilles trove on trove of gifts!
He’s a proud man at the best of times, and now
you’ve only plunged him deeper in his pride.
I say have done with the man—
whether he sails for home or stays on here.
He’ll fight again—in his own good time—whenever
the courage in him flares and a god fires his blood.
So come, follow my orders. And all of us unite.
Go to sleep now, full to your heart’s content
with food and wine, a soldier’s strength and nerve.
Then when the Dawn’s red fingers shine in all their glory,
quickly deploy your chariots and battalions, Agamemnon,
out in front of the ships—you spur them on
and you yourself, you fight in the front ranks!”
And Achaea’s kings all shouted their assent,
stirred by the stallion-breaking Diomedes’ challenge.
Pouring cups to the gods, each warlord sought his shelter.
There they spent the night and took the gift of sleep.
BOOK TEN
Marauding Through the Night
So by the ships the other lords of Achaea’s armies
slept all night long, overcome by gentle sleep . . .
But not the great field marshal Agamemnon—
the sweet embrace of sleep could not hold him:
his mind kept churning, seething. Like Zeus’s bolts
when the lord of bright-haired Hera flashes lightning,
threatening to loose torrential rain or pelting hail
or snow when a blizzard drifts on fields—or driving on,
somewhere on earth, the giant jaws of rending war—
so thick-and-fast the groans came from Atrides,
wrenching his chest, heaving up from his heart
and rocked his very spirit to the core.
Now as he scanned across the Trojan plain
Agamemnon marveled in horror at those fires,
a thousand fires blazing against the walls of Troy,
and the shrill of pipes and flutes and low roar of men.
And now as he glanced back at Achaea’s troops and ships
he tore out his hair by the roots, he looked to Zeus on high,
groaning from the depths of his proud, embattled heart.
But soon this recourse struck his mind as best:
he would go and approach the son of Neleus first
and see if Nestor could work out something with him,
some foolproof plan that just might ward disaster
off the Achaean forces..
He rose up quickly
and over his chest he pulled a battle-shirt,
under his smooth feet he fastened supple sandals,
round him slung the glossy hide of a big tawny lion,
swinging down to his heels, and grasped a spear.
And the same anguish shook Menelaus too—
no sleep could settle over his eyes, not now.
He feared his men might meet the worst at last,
comrades who crossed a waste of seas for him
to raise Troy and mount their fierce assault.
First he covered his broad back with leopard skin,
a fine spotted hide, then lifting a round helmet
of good sturdy bronze, he fitted it to his head,
he took a spear in his grip and off he strode
to rouse his brother, king of all the Argives,
the armies that prized him in his power like a god.
And Menelaus found him alongside his ship’s stern,
strapping his handsome gear around his shoulders.
Agamemnon warmed with pleasure as he came up
but Menelaus lord of the war cry ventured first,
“Why arming now, my brother? To spur a volunteer
to spy on Trojan lines? Not a man in sight will take
that mission on, I fear, and go against our enemies,
scout them out alone in the bracing godsent night—
it will take a daring man to do the job.”
King Agamemnon answered crisply, “Tactics,
my noble Menelaus. That’s what we need now,
you and I both, and cunning tactics too.
Something to shield and save our men and ships
since Zeus’s heart has turned—his mighty heart
is set on Hector’s offerings more than ours.