[Homer's great poem begins with an invocation of the Muse and an account of the conflict between Achilles and the Greek general Agamemnon]

Rage: Sing, Goddess, Achilles’ rage,
Black and murderous, that cost the Greeks
Incalculable pain, pitched countless souls
Of heroes into Hades’ dark,
And left their bodies to rot as feasts
For dogs and birds, as Zeus’ will was done.
Begin with the clash between Agamemnon-
The Greek warlord—and godlike Achilles.

Which of the immortals set these two
At each other’s throats?

Apollo,
Zeus’ son and Leto’s, offended
By the warlord. Agamemnon had dishonored
Chryses, Apollo’s priest, so the god
Struck the Greek camp with plague,
And the soldiers were dying of it.

Chryses
Had come to the Greek beachhead camp
Hauling a fortune for his daughter’s ransom.
Displaying Apollo’s sacral ribbons
On a golden staff, he made a formal plea
To the entire Greek army, but especially
The commanders, Atreus’ two sons:

“Sons of Atreus and Greek heroes all:
May the gods on Olympus grant you plunder
Of Priam’s city and a safe return home.
But give me my daughter back and accept
This ransom out of respect for Zeus’ son,
Lord Apollo, who deals death from afar.”

A murmur rippled through the ranks:
“Respect the priest and take the ransom.”
But Agamemnon was not pleased
And dismissed Chryses with a rough speech:

“Don’t let me ever catch you, old man, by these ships again,
Skulking around now or sneaking back later.
The god’s staff and ribbons won’t save you next time.
The girl is mine, and she’ll be an old woman in Argos
Before I let her go, working the loom in my house
And coming to my bed, far from her homeland.
Now clear out of here before you make me angry!”

The old man was afraid and did as he was told.
He walked in silence along the whispering surf line,
And when he had gone some distance the priest
Prayed to Lord Apollo, son of silken-haired Leto:

“Hear me, Silverbow, Protector of Chryse,
Lord of Holy Cilia, Master of Tenedos,
And Sminthian God of Plague!
If ever I’ve built a temple that pleased you
Or burnt fat thighbones of bulls and goats—
Grant me this prayer:
Let the Danaans pay for my tears with your arrows!”

Apollo heard his prayer and descended Olympus’ crags
Pulsing with fury, bow slung over one shoulder,
The arrows rattling in their case on his back
As the angry god moved like night down the mountain.

He settled near the ships and let loose an arrow.
Reverberation from his silver bow hung in the air.
He picked off the pack animals first, and the lean hounds,
But then aimed his needle-tipped arrows at the men
And shot until the death-fires crowded the beach.

Nine days the god’s arrows rained death on the camp.
On the tenth day Achilles called an assembly.
Hera, the white-armed goddess, planted the thought in him
Because she cared for the Greeks and it pained her
To see them dying. When the troops had all mustered,
Up stood the great runner Achilles, and said:

“Well, Agamemnon, it looks as if we’d better give up
And sail home—assuming any of us are left alive—
If we have to fight both the war and this plague.
But why not consult some prophet or priest
Or a dream interpreter, since dreams too come from Zeus,
Who could tell us why Apollo is so angry,
If it’s for a vow or a sacrifice he holds us at fault.
Maybe he’d be willing to lift this plague from us
If he savored the smoke from lambs and prime goats.”

Achilles had his say and sat down. Then up rose
Calchas, son of Thestor, bird-reader supreme,
Who knew what is, what will be, and what has been.
He had guided the Greek ships to Troy
Through the prophetic power Apollo
Had given him, and he spoke out now:

“Achilles, beloved of Zeus, you want me to tell you
About the rage of Lord Apollo, the Arch-Destroyer.
And I will tell you. But you have to promise me and swear
You will support me and protect me in word and deed.
I have a feeling I might offend a person of some authority
Among the Greeks, and you know how it is when a king
Is angry with an underling. He might swallow his temper
For a day, but he holds it in his heart until later
And it all comes out. Will you guarantee my security?”

Achilles, the great runner, responded:

“Don’t worry. Prophesy to the best of your knowledge.
I swear by Apollo to whom you pray, when you reveal
The gods’ secrets to the Greeks, Calchas, that while I live
And look upon this earth, no one will lay a hand
On you here beside these hollow ships, no, not even
Agamemnon, who boasts he is the best of the Achaeans.”

And Calchas, the perfect prophet, taking courage:

“The god finds no fault with vow or sacrifice.
It is for his priest, whom Agamemnon dishonored
And would not allow to ransom his daughter,
That Apollo deals and will deal death from afar.
He will not lift this foul plague from the Greeks
Until we return the dancing-eyed girl to her father
Unransomed, unbought, and make formal sacrifice. Only then might we appease the god.”

He finished speaking and sat down. Then up rose
Atreus’ son, the warlord Agamemnon,
Furious, anger like twin black thunderheads seething
In his lungs, and his eyes flickered with fire
As he looked Calchas up and down, and said:

“You damn soothsayer!
You’ve never given me a good omen yet.
You take some kind of perverse pleasure in prophesying
Doom, don’t you? Not a single favorable omen ever!
Nothing good ever happens! And now you stand here
Uttering oracles before the Greeks, telling us
That your great ballistic god is giving us all this trouble
Because I was unwilling to accept the ransom
For Chryses’ daughter but preferred instead to keep her
In my tent! And why shouldn’t I? I like her better than
My wife Clytemnestra. She’s no worse than her
When it comes to looks, body, mind, or ability.
Still, I’ll give her back, if that’s what’s best.
I don’t want to see the army destroyed like this.
But I want another prize ready for me right away.
I’m not going to be the only Greek without a prize,
It wouldn’t be right. And you all see where mine is going.”

And Achilles, strong, swift, and godlike:

“And where do you think, son of Atreus,
You greedy glory-hound, the magnanimous Greeks
Are going to get another prize for you?
Do you think we have some kind of stockpile in reserve?
Every town in the area has been sacked and the stuff all divided.
You want the men to count it all back and redistribute it?
All right, you give the girl back to the god. The army
Will repay you three and four times over—when and if
Zeus allows us to rip Troy down to its foundations.”

The warlord Agamemnon responded:
“You may be a good man in a fight, Achilles,
And look like a god, but don’t try to put one over on me—
It won’t work. So while you have your prize,
You want me to sit tight and do without?
Give the girl back, just like that? Now maybe
If the army, in a generous spirit, voted me
Some suitable prize of their own choice, something fair—
But if it doesn’t, I’ll just go take something myself,
Your prize perhaps, or Ajax’s, or Odysseus’,
And whoever she belongs to, it’ll stick in his throat.

But we can think about that later.
Right now we launch
A black ship on the bright salt water, get a crew aboard,
Load on a hundred bulls, and have Chryseis board her too,
My girl with her lovely cheeks. And we’ll want a good man
For captain, Ajax or Idomeneus or godlike Odysseus—
Or maybe you, son of Peleus, our most formidable hero—
To offer sacrifice and appease the Arch-Destroyer for us.”

Achilles looked him up and down and said:

“You sorry, profiteering excuse for a commander!
How are you going to get any Greek warrior
To follow you into battle again? You know,
I don’t have any quarrel with the Trojans,
They didn’t do anything to me to make me
Come over here and fight, didn’t run off my cattle or horses
Or ruin my farmland back home in Phthia, not with all
The shadowy mountains and moaning seas between.
It’s for you, dogface, for your precious pleasure—
And Menelaus’ honor—that we came here,
A fact you don’t have the decency even to mention!
And now you’re threatening to take away the prize
That I sweated for and the Greeks gave me.
I never get a prize equal to yours when the army
Captures one of the Trojan strongholds.
No, I do all the dirty work with my own hands,
And when the battle’s over and we divide the loot
You get the lion’s share and I go back to the ships
With some pitiful little thing, so worn out from fighting
I don’t have the strength left even to complain.
Well, I’m going back to Phthia now. Far better
To head home with my curved ships than stay here,
Unhonored myself and piling up a fortune for you.”

The warlord Agamemnon responded:

“Go ahead and desert, if that’s what you want!
I’m not going to beg you to stay. There are plenty of others
Who will honor me, not least of all Zeus the Counselor.
To me, you’re the most hateful man under heaven,
A born troublemaker. You actually like fighting and war.
If you’re all that strong, it’s just a gift from some god.
So why don’t you go home with your ships and lord it over
Your precious Myrmidons. I couldn’t care less about you
Or your famous temper. But I’ll tell you this:
Since Phoebus Apollo is taking away my Chryseis,
Whom I’m sending back aboard ship with my friends,
I’m coming to your hut and taking Briséis,
Your own beautiful prize, so that you will see just how much
Stronger I am than you, and the next person will wince
At the thought of opposing me as an equal.”

Achilles’ chest was a rough knot of pain
Twisting around his heart: should he
Draw the sharp sword that hung by his thigh,
Scatter the ranks and gut Agamemnon,
Or should he control his temper, repress his rage?
He was mulling it over, inching the great sword
From its sheath, when out of the blue
Athena came, sent by the white-armed goddess
Hera, who loved and watched over both men.
She stood behind Achilles and grabbed his sandy hair,
Visible only to him: not another soul saw her.
Awestruck, Achilles turned around, recognizing
Pallas Athena at once—it was her eyes—
And words flew from his mouth like winging birds:

“Daughter of Zeus! Why have you come here?
To see Agamemnon’s arrogance, no doubt.
I'll tell you where I place my bets, Goddess:
Sudden death for this outrageous behavior.”

Athena’s eyes glared through the sea’s salt haze.

“I came to see if I could check this temper of yours,
Sent from heaven by the white-armed goddess
Hera, who loves and watches over both of you men.
Now come on, drop this quarrel, don’t draw your sword.
Tell him off instead. And I’ll tell you,
Achilles, how things will be: You’re going to get
Three times as many magnificent gifts
Because of his arrogance. Just listen to us and be patient.”

Achilles, the great runner, responded:

“When you two speak, Goddess, a man has to listen
No matter how angry. It’s better that way.
Obey the gods and they hear you when you pray.”

With that he ground his heavy hand
Onto the silver hilt and pushed the great sword
Back into its sheath. Athena’s speech
Had been well-timed. She was on her way
To Olympus by now, to the halls of Zeus
And the other immortals, while Achilles
Tore into Agamemnon again:

“You bloated drunk,
With a dog’s eyes and a rabbit’s heart!
You’ve never had the guts to buckle on armor in battle
Or come out with the best fighting Greeks
On any campaign! Afraid to look Death in the eye,
Agamemnon? It’s far more profitable
To hang back in the army’s rear—isn’t it?—
Confiscating prizes from any Greek who talks back
And bleeding your people dry. There’s not a real man
Under your command, or this latest atrocity
Would be your last, son of Atreus.
Now get this straight. I swear a formal oath:
By this scepter, which will never sprout leaf
Or branch again since it was cut from its stock
In the mountains, which will bloom no more
Now that bronze has pared off leaf and bark,
And which now the sons of the Greeks hold in their hands
At council, upholding Zeus’ laws—

By this scepter I swear:
When every last Greek desperately misses Achilles,
Your remorse won’t do any good then,
When Hector the man-killer swats you down like flies.
And you will eat your heart out
Because you failed to honor the best Greek of all.”
Those were his words, and he slammed the scepter,
Studded with gold, to the ground and sat down.

[Angry with Agamemnon, Achilles stubbornly refuses to fight. But when the Trojans threaten to break the Greek line, he sends his comrade Patroclus into the fray. Patroclus turns the tide of battle, but is killed by the great Trojan warrior Hector. Antilochus, a young Greek soldier is sent to tell Achilles the terrible news.]

The fight went on, like wildfire burning.
Antilochus, running hard like a herald,
Found Achilles close to his upswept ships,
His great heart brooding with premonitions
Of what had indeed already happened.

“This looks bad,
All these Greeks with their hair in the wind
Stampeding off the plain and back to the ships.
God forbid that what my mother told me
Has now come true, that while I’m still alive
Trojan hands would steal the sunlight
From the best of all the Myrmidons.
Patroclus, Menoetius’ brave son, is dead.
Damn him! I told him only to repel
The enemy fire from our ships,
And not to take on Hector in a fight.”

Antilochus was in tears when he reached him
And delivered his unendurable message:

“Son of wise Peleus, this is painful news
For you to hear, and I wish it were not true.
Patroclus is down, and they are fighting
For his naked corpse. Hector has the armor.”

A mist of black grief enveloped Achilles.
He scooped up fistfuls of sunburnt dust
And poured it on his head, fouling
His beautiful face. Black ash grimed
His finespun cloak as he stretched his huge body
Out in the dust and lay there,
Tearing out his hair with his hands.
The women, whom Achilles and Patroclus
Had taken in raids, ran shrieking out of the tent
To be with Achilles, and they beat their breasts
Until their knees gave out beneath them.
Antilochus, sobbing himself, stayed with Achilles
And held his hands—he was groaning
From the depths of his soul—for fear
He would lay open his own throat with steel.

The sound of Achilles’ grief stung the air.

Down in the water his mother heard him,
Sitting in the sea-depths beside her old father,
And she began to wail.

And the saltwater women
Gathered around her, all the deep-sea Nereids,
Glaucê and Thaleia and Cymodocê,
Neseia and Speio, Thoê and ox-eyed Halié,
Cymothoê, Actaeê, and Limnoeira,
Melite and Iaera, Amphithoê and Agauê,
Doris, Panopê, and milk-white Galateia,
Nemertes, Apseudes, and Callianassa,
Clymenê, Ianeira, Ianassa, and Maera,
Oreithyia and Amatheia, hair streaming behind her,
And all of the other deep-sea Nereids.
They filled the silver, shimmering cave,
And they all beat their breasts.

Thetis led the lament:

“Hear me, sisters, hear the pain in my heart.
I gave birth to a son, and that is my sorrow,
My perfect son, the best of heroes.
He grew like a sapling, and I nursed him
As I would a plant on the hill in my garden,
And I sent him to Ilion on a sailing ship
To fight the Trojans. And now I will never
Welcome him home again to Peleus’ house.
As long as he lives and sees the sunlight
He will be in pain, and I cannot help him.
But I’ll go now to see and hear my dear son,
Since he is suffering while he waits out the war.”

She left the cave, and they went with her,
Weeping, and around them a wave
Broke through the sea, and they came to Troy.
They emerged on the beach where the Myrmidons’ ships
Formed an encampment around Achilles.
He was groaning deeply, and his mother
Stood next to him and held her son’s head.
Her lamentation hung sharp in the air,
And then she spoke in low, sorrowful tones:

“Child, why are you crying? What pain
Has come to your heart? Speak, don’t hide it.
Zeus has granted your prayer. The Greeks
Have all been beaten back to their ships
And suffered horribly. They can’t do without you.”

Achilles answered her:

“Mother, Zeus may have done all this for me,
But how can I rejoice? My friend is dead,
Patroclus, my dearest friend of all. I loved him,
And I killed him. And the armor—
Hector cut him down and took off his body
The heavy, splendid armor, beautiful to see,
That the gods gave to Peleus as a gift
On the day they put you to bed with a mortal.
You should have stayed with the ’saltwater women,
And Peleus should have married a mortal.
But now—it was all so you would suffer pain
For your ravaged son. You will never again
Welcome me home, since I no longer have the will
To remain alive among men, not unless Hector
Loses his life on the point of my spear
And pays for despoiling Menoetius’ son.”

And Thetis, in tears, said to him:

“I won’t have you with me for long, my child,
If you say such things. Hector’s death means yours.”

From under a great weight, Achilles answered:

“Then let me die now. I was no help
To him when he was killed out there. He died
Far from home, and he needed me to protect him.
But now, since I’m not going home, and wasn’t
A light for Patroclus or any of the rest
Of my friends who have been beaten by Hector,
But just squatted by my ships, a dead weight on the earth ...
I stand alone in the whole Greek army
When it comes to war—though some do speak better.
I wish all strife could stop, among gods
And among men, and anger too—it sends
Sensible men into fits of temper,
It drips down our throats sweeter than honey
And mushrooms up in our bellies like smoke.
Yes, the warlord Agamemnon angered me.
But we’ll let that be, no matter how it hurts,
And conquer our pride, because we must.
But I’m going now to find the man who destroyed
My beloved—Hector.

As for my own fate,
I’ll accept it whenever it pleases Zeus
And the other immortal gods to send it.
Not even Heracles could escape his doom.
He was dearest of all to Lord Zeus, but fate
And Hera’s hard anger destroyed him.
If it is true that I have a fate like his, then I too
Will lie down in death.

But now to win glory
And make some Trojan woman or deep-breasted
Dardanian matron wipe the tears
From her soft cheeks, make her sob and groan.
Let them feel how long I’ve been out of the war.
Don’t try, out of love, to stop me. I won’t listen.”

And Thetis, her feet silver on the sand:

“Yes, child. It’s not wrong to save your friends
When they are beaten to the brink of death.
But your beautiful armor is in the hands of the Trojans,
The mirrored bronze. Hector himself
Has it on his shoulders. He glories in it.
Not for long, though. I see his death is near.
But you, don’t dive into the red dust of war
Until with your own eyes you see me returning.
Tomorrow I will come with the rising sun
Bearing beautiful armor from Lord Hephaestus."


[After returning to the battlefield wearing his new armor, Achilles rampages through the Trojan ranks. He kills many and finally repays Hector for the death of his beloved Patroclus. But the death of his enemy is not enough, and Achilles continues to abuse Hector's corpse, dragging it behind his chariot and refusing to allow the body to be buried. Finally Hector's aged father, king Priam, makes his way to Achilles tent to beg for the return of his son's body.]

And with that Hermes left and returned
Tо high Olympus. Priam jumped down
And left Idaeus to hold the horses and mules.
The old man went straight to the house
Where Achilles, dear to Zeus, sat and waited.

He found him inside. His companions sat
Apart from him, and a solitary pair,
Automedon and Alcimus, warriors both,
Were busy at his side. He had just finished
His evening meal. The table was still set up.
Great Priam entered unnoticed. He stood
Close to Achilles, and touching his knees,
He kissed thе dread and murderous hands
That had killed so many of his sons.

Passion sometimes blinds a man so completely
That he kills one of his own countrymen.
In exile, he comes into a wealthy house,
And everyone stares at him with wonder.

So Achilles stared in wonder at Priam.
Was he a god?
And the others there stared
And wondered and looked at each оther.
But Priam spoke, a prayer of entreaty:

“Remember your father, godlike Achilles.
He and I both are on the doorstep
Of old age. He may well be now
Surrounded by enemies wearing him down
And have no one to protect him from harm.
But when he hears that you are still alive
And his heart rejoices, and he hopes all his days
To see his dear son come back from Troy.
But what is left for me? I had the finest sons
In all wide Troy, and not one of them is left.
Fifty I had when the Greeks came over,
Nineteen out of one belly, and the rest
The women in my house bore to me.
It doesn’t matter how many they were,
The god of war has cut them down at thе knees.
And the only one who could save the city
You’ve just now killed as he fought for his country,
My Hector. It is for him I have come to the Greek ships,
To get him back from you. I’ve brought
A fortune in ransom. Respect the gods, Achilles.
Think of your own father, and pity me.
I am more pitiable. I have borne what no man
Who has walked this еаrth has ever yet borne.
I have kissed the hand of the man who killed my son.”

He spoke, and sorrow for his own father
Welled up in Achilles. He took Priam’s hand
And gently pushed the old man away.
The two of them remembered. Priam,
Huddled in grief at Achilles’ feet, cried
And moaned softly for his man-slaying Hector.
And Achilles cried for his father and
For Patroclus. The sound filled the room.

When Achilles had his fill of grief
And the aching sorrow left his heart,
He rose from his chair and lifted the old man
By his hand, pitying his white hair and beard.
And his words enfolded him like wings:

“Ah, the suffering you’ve had, and the courage.
To come here alone to the Greek ships
And meet my eye, the man who slaughtered
Your many fine sons! You have a heart of iron.
But come, sit on this chair. Let our pain
Lie at rest a while, no matter how much we hurt.
There’s nothing to be gained from cold grief.
Yes, the gods have woven pain into mortal lives,
While they are free from care.

Two jars
Sit at the doorstep of Zeus, filled with gifts
That he gives, one full of good things,
The other of evil. If Zeus gives a man
A mixture from both jars, sometimes
Life is good for him, sometimes not.
But if all he gives you is from the jar of woe,
You become a pariah, and hunger drives you
Over the bright earth, dishonored by gods and men.
Now take Peleus. The gods gave him splendid gifts
From the day he was born. He was the happiest
And richest man on earth, king of the Myrmidons,
And although he was a mortal, the gods gave him
An immortal goddess to be his wife.
But even to Peleus the god gave some evil:
He would not leave offspring to succeed him in power,
Just one child, all out of season. I can’t be with him
To take care of him now that he’s old, since I’m far
From my fatherland, squatting here in Troy,
Tormenting you and your children. And you, old sir,
We hear that you were prosperous once.
From Lesbos down south clear over to Phrygia
And up to the Hellespont’s boundary,
No one could match you in wealth or in sons.
But then the gods have brought you trouble,
This constant fighting and killing around your town.
You must endure this grief and not constantly grieve.
You will not gain anything by torturing yourself
Over the good son you lost, not bring him back.
Sooner you will suffer some other sorrow.”

And Priam, old and godlike, answered him:

“Don’t sit me in a chair, prince, while Hector
Lies uncared for in your hut. Deliver him now
So I can see him with my own eyes, and you—
Take all this ransom we bring, take pleasure in it,
And go back home to your own fatherland,
Since you’ve taken this first step and allowed me
To live and see the light of day.”

Achilles glowered at him and said:
“Don’t provoke me, old man. It’s my own decision
To release Hector to you. A messenger came to me
From Zeus—my own natural mother,
Daughter of the old sea god. And I know you,
Priam, inside out. You don’t fool me one bit.
Some god escorted you to the Greek ships.
No mortal would have dared come into our camp,
Not even your best young hero. He couldn’t have
Gotten past the guards or muscled open the gate.
So just stop stirring up grief in my heart,
Or I might not let you out of here alive, old man—
Suppliant though you are—and sin against Zeus.”

The old man was afraid and did as he was told.

The son of Peleus leapt out the door like a lion.
Followed by Automedon and Alcimus, whom Achilles
Honored most now that Patroclus was dead.
They unyoked the horses and mules, and led
The old man’s herald inside and seated him on a chair.
Then they unloaded from the strong-wheeled cart
The endless ransom that was Hector’s blood price,
Leaving behind two robes and a finespun tunic
For the body to be wrapped in and brought inside.
Achilles called the women and ordered them
To wash the body well and anoint it with oil,
Removing it first for fear that Priam might see his son
And in his grief be unable to control his anger
At the sight of his child, and that this would arouse
Achilles’ passion and he would kill the old man
And so sin against the commandments of Zeus.

After the female slaves had bathed Hector’s body
And anointed it with olive, they wrapped it ’round
With a beautiful robe and tunic, and Achilles himself
Lifted him up and placed him on a pallet
And with his friends raised it onto the polished cart.
Then he groaned and called out to Patroclus:

“Don’t be angry with me, dear friend, if somehow
You find out, even in Hades, that I have released
Hector to his father. He paid a handsome price,
And I will share it with you, as much as is right.

[The next lines of the poem depict Priam’s journey back to Troy (once again with Hermes' help), culminating with a poignant description of Hector’s funeral.]