Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
Sing, goddess, the ruinous anger of Achilles, son of Peleus, which cost the Greeks countless pains and hurled down to the House of Death so many mighty souls of heroes, leaving their bodies as spoil for dogs and every scavenging bird. So the will of Zeus was carried out, from the first day a bitter quarrel split the two of them: Agamemnon, lord of men, and the great Achilles.
Which of the gods drove them to fight? Apollo, son of Zeus and Leto. Furious with Agamemnon, he sent a deadly plague through the army, and the men were dying, because Agamemnon had shamed the priest Chryses. Chryses had come to the swift Greek ships to ransom back his daughter, carrying a fortune in gifts and holding in his hands, on a golden staff, the sacred bands of Apollo the Archer. He begged the whole army, but above all the two sons of Atreus, the marshals of the people:
"Sons of Atreus, and all you other Greeks in fine bronze greaves, may the gods who hold the halls of Olympus grant you the sack of Priam's city and a safe voyage home. Only give me back my dear daughter, and accept this ransom, out of reverence for Apollo, son of Zeus, the Archer God."
All the rest of the Greeks shouted their approval — to respect the priest and take the splendid ransom. But this did not please Agamemnon in his heart, and he sent the old man away harshly, with a rough command ringing after him: "Don't let me catch you, old man, lingering by our hollow ships now, or coming back again later, or that staff and the god's sacred bands may do you no good at all. Your daughter I will not release. She will grow old in my house, in Argos, far from her homeland, working the loom and sharing my bed. Now go. Don't provoke me, if you want to get home safe."
So he spoke, and the old man was afraid and obeyed. He walked in silence along the shore of the crashing sea, and when he had gone some way off, he prayed hard to the lord Apollo, son of lovely-haired Leto: "Hear me, god of the silver bow, protector of Chryse and holy Cilla, mighty lord of Tenedos, Smintheus — if I ever roofed a temple that pleased you, if I ever burned for you the fat thighs of bulls and goats, grant me this wish: let the Greeks pay for my tears with your arrows."
So he prayed, and Phoebus Apollo heard him. Down from the peaks of Olympus he came, rage in his heart, his bow and covered quiver on his shoulders. The arrows clattered on the shoulders of the angry god as he moved, and he came on like the night. He sat down apart from the ships and let an arrow fly — a terrible ring rose from that silver bow. First he went after the mules and the swift dogs, but then he turned his sharp arrows on the men themselves and struck, and the funeral pyres burned thick without pause. Nine days the god's arrows ranged through the army, and on the tenth Achilles called the men to assembly, an idea the white-armed goddess Hera put in his mind — for she cared about the Greeks, seeing them die.
When they had all gathered together, Achilles rose among them and spoke: "Son of Atreus, now I think we'll be beaten back and forced home again — if we escape death at all — since war and plague together are crushing the Greeks. Come, let's ask some seer or priest, or even a reader of dreams — for a dream too comes from Zeus — who can tell us why Apollo is so angry: is it a vow he blames us for, or a sacrifice we owe him? Maybe if he tastes the smoke of lambs and choice goats, he'll be willing to lift this plague from us."
Having spoken, he sat down. Then up rose Calchas, son of Thestor, easily the best of the bird-readers, who knew what is, what will be, and what has been, and who had guided the Greek ships to Troy by the gift of prophecy Apollo had given him. With good will toward them all he spoke: "Achilles, dear to Zeus, you ask me to explain the anger of Apollo, lord of the far-shot arrow. I will tell you — but you must promise, swear to me, that you'll stand by me eagerly with word and hand, because I expect to anger a man who rules all the Greeks with great power, whom the Greeks obey. A king is too strong when he holds a grudge against a lesser man;
even if he swallows his anger for that one day, he still nurses the resentment afterward in his chest until he gets even. So tell me — will you keep me safe?"
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Take courage and speak whatever truth you know. For by Apollo, dear to Zeus, the very god to whom you pray, Calchas, when you reveal your prophecies to the Greeks — as long as I am alive and looking on this earth, no one of all the Greeks will lay a heavy hand on you by the hollow ships, not even if you mean Agamemnon,"
"who now claims to be by far the greatest of the Greeks." Then the blameless seer took courage and spoke: "It is not a vow he holds against us, nor a sacrifice, but the priest — Agamemnon dishonored him, refused to free his daughter, and would not accept the ransom. That is why the Archer God has brought pain, and will bring more. He will not lift this ugly plague from the Greeks until we give back the bright-eyed girl to her father, unransomed, with no price, and carry a sacred offering to Chryse. Only then might we appease him and win him over."
Having spoken, he sat down. Then the hero, the son of Atreus, wide-ruling Agamemnon, rose in anger, his heart swollen huge and black with fury, his eyes like blazing fire. He glared first at Calchas and spoke, full of menace: "Prophet of disaster, never once have you told me anything good. Trouble is always dear to your heart to foretell, and you have never yet spoken a helpful word, let alone brought one to pass. And now, prophesying before the Greeks, you claim the Archer God brings us this suffering
because I would not accept the splendid ransom for the girl, Chryses' daughter — because I would rather keep her at home. Yes, I prefer her even to Clytemnestra, my own wife — she is no worse than her, not in figure, not in build, not in mind, not in any skill. Still, I am willing to give her back, if that is better. I want my people safe, not destroyed. But get me a prize at once in her place, so that I alone among the Greeks am not left without one — that would be shameful. All of you can see: my prize is slipping away from me."
Then swift-footed godlike Achilles answered him: "Most honored son of Atreus, greediest of all men — how can the great-hearted Greeks give you a prize now? We have no great store of goods lying in common. What we took from the sacked towns has already been divided, and it isn't right to make the men gather it all back again. No, give the girl back to the god for now, and we Greeks will repay you three, four times over, if Zeus ever grants us to raze the strong walls of Troy."
Agamemnon answered him: "Don't try that trick on me, brave as you are, godlike Achilles — you won't slip past me, you won't win me over. Do you want to keep your own prize while I sit here empty-handed, and you tell me to give mine up? Only if the great-hearted Greeks give me a new prize, one that satisfies me, matching its worth — fine. But if they don't, then I will come myself and take one — yours, or Ajax's, or Odysseus' — I'll seize it and carry it off, and whoever I visit can be furious about it. But we can settle this some other time."
"For now, come — let's drag a black ship down to the bright sea, gather rowers enough for it, load the sacrifice aboard, and put the girl herself on board too, Chryses' fair-cheeked daughter. Let one of our counselor-chiefs command it — Ajax, or Idomeneus, or godlike Odysseus, or you, son of Peleus, most alarming of all men — so you can perform the rites and appease the god who strikes from afar for us." Achilles glared at him from under his brows and answered: "You — wrapped in shamelessness, always scheming for profit — how can any Greek willingly obey your orders,
whether to march on a campaign or fight hard against men? I didn't come here to fight because of the Trojan spearmen — they've done nothing to me. They've never driven off my cattle or my horses, never ravaged my crops in Phthia, land of rich soil and strong men who raise it — too much lies between us, shadowed mountains and the roaring sea. No — you, shameless as you are, we followed here to please you, to win honor for Menelaus and for you, dog-face, from the Trojans. None of that means anything to you, none of it troubles you.
And now you threaten to take my own prize from me with your own hands — the one I worked hard for, that the sons of the Greeks gave to me. I never get a prize equal to yours, whenever the Greeks sack some well-settled Trojan town. My hands do the greater share of the grinding work of battle, but when it comes time to divide the spoils, yours is by far the bigger portion, and I go back to my ships with some small thing, dear as it is to me, worn out from fighting. Now I am going home to Phthia — it's far better to sail home with my curved ships. I don't intend
to stay here disrespected, piling up riches and wealth for you." Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him: "Run, then, if that's what you want. I won't beg you to stay on my account. I have others beside me who will honor me, above all Zeus, whose counsel rules all things. Of all the kings that Zeus has raised, you are the one I hate most. Conflict is always dear to you, and war, and battle. If you are so very strong, some god gave you that gift. Go home, then, with your ships and your companions,
rule your Myrmidons — I don't care about you, and your anger means nothing to me. But hear this threat: since Apollo is taking my Chryseis from me, I will send her back on my own ship with my own men, but I myself will go to your hut and take Briseis, your own prize, your fair-cheeked girl, so you'll understand just how much stronger I am than you, and so that no other man will dare to think himself my equal, my match, to my face."
So he spoke, and pain gripped the son of Peleus, and inside his shaggy chest his heart was torn two ways — whether to draw the sharp sword from his thigh,
scatter the men aside, and cut Agamemnon down, or to hold back his rage and master his fury. While he weighed this in his mind and heart, and had already begun drawing his great sword from its sheath, Athena came down from the sky. White-armed Hera had sent her, loving them both alike and caring for them equally. She stood behind him and took hold of his golden hair, visible to him alone — no one else could see her. Achilles was startled, and turned, and knew her at once,
Pallas Athena — her eyes blazed terribly. He spoke to her, and his words flew fast: "Why have you come now, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis? Is it to watch Agamemnon's arrogance? I tell you plainly, and I think it will come true — his overreaching pride may soon cost him his life." The grey-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "I came down from the sky to check your rage, if you'll listen — sent by white-armed Hera, who loves you both equally and cares for you both. Come, stop this quarrel, don't draw your sword,
but go ahead and abuse him with words instead, as much as you like — that much I allow. And I tell you this, and it will be so: one day gifts three times as splendid will come to you because of this outrage — hold back, and obey us." Swift-footed Achilles answered her: "I must obey your word, goddess, however angry my heart may be — that is the better way. Whoever obeys the gods, the gods listen to as well." With that, he pressed his heavy hand on the silver hilt and thrust the great sword back into its sheath, obeying
Athena's word. She then went back up to Olympus, to the halls of Zeus who bears the aegis, to join the other gods. But the son of Peleus turned again on the son of Atreus with harsh words, and his anger had not yet let go: "You wine-sack, with the eyes of a dog and the heart of a deer — you have never once had the courage to arm for battle alongside the army, or to join the best men of the Greeks on an ambush. That, to you, looks like death itself. It's far easier, isn't it, to stand in the wide Greek camp and strip the prize from anyone who dares speak against you —
a king who feeds on his own people, since the men you rule are worthless. Otherwise, son of Atreus, this insult would be your last. But I tell you this, and I swear a great oath on it: by this staff — which will never again grow leaves or branches, now that it has left its stump on the mountainside for good, and will never sprout again, since the bronze blade stripped it of its bark and leaves — and now the sons of the Greeks carry it in their hands, the judges who guard the laws that come down from Zeus. This will be my great oath to you:
a day will come when every last man of the Greeks will long for Achilles, and on that day you will be powerless, for all your grief, to help them, when many fall dying at the hands of Hector, killer of men. Then you will tear at your heart in anguish, that you dishonored the best of the Greeks." So spoke the son of Peleus, and he flung his staff down on the ground, studded with golden nails, and sat down. Across from him, Agamemnon raged on. But now Nestor rose among them, the sweet-voiced speaker of Pylos, whose voice ran from his tongue sweeter than honey. Already two generations of mortal men
had lived and died who were born and raised alongside him in holy Pylos, and now he ruled among the third. With good will he spoke and said: "What grief has come upon the land of Greece! How Priam would rejoice, and Priam's sons, and all the rest of the Trojans, how glad their hearts would be, if they learned of all this quarreling between you two, who are first among the Greeks in council and first in battle! Listen to me — you are both younger men than I am. In my time I have kept company with better men than even you,
and they never disregarded me. I have never seen men like them, nor will I again — men like Pirithous, and Dryas, shepherd of his people, and Caeneus, and Exadius, and godlike Polyphemus, and Theseus, son of Aegeus, a match for the immortals. These were the strongest men ever raised on this earth — the strongest, and they fought the strongest, the shaggy centaurs of the mountains, and they destroyed them utterly. I was one of that company too, called all the way from Pylos, from a distant land — for they summoned me themselves —
and I fought there as only I could, and there is no man alive on this earth today who could fight men like that. Yet they listened to my counsel and heeded my words. So you too should listen — it is better to listen. You, Agamemnon, strong as you are, do not take the girl from him — leave her be, since the sons of the Greeks gave her to him first as his prize. And you, son of Peleus, do not try to match wills with a king, toe to toe — a scepter-bearing king is never granted honor equal to other men, since Zeus has given him glory. If you are stronger, and a goddess bore you as your mother,
still he outranks you, since he rules over more. Son of Atreus, put down your rage — and I myself beg you to release your anger against Achilles, who stands as a great wall for all the Greeks against the horrors of war." Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him: "Yes, old man, all that you say is fitting and just. But this man wants to stand above everyone else — he wants to rule over all, be lord of all, give orders to everyone — and I don't think there's one man here who will obey him. If the gods who live forever made him a great spearman,
does that give him license to hurl abuse at will?" Godlike Achilles broke in and answered him: "Yes — I would deserve to be called a coward and a nobody if I gave in to your every word, whatever you order. Command that to others, don't try commanding me — I no longer intend to obey you. And I'll tell you one more thing — fix it firmly in your mind: I will not raise my hands to fight over the girl, not with you, not with any other man, since you're the ones taking away what you gave me. But of everything else that is mine, by my swift black ship,
You would not carry anything off from me against my will. But go on and try it, so these men here can see too — your dark blood will come spurting fast around my spear." So the two of them, hurling these hostile words back and forth, stood up and broke the assembly by the Achaean ships. Achilles went off toward his own tents and shapely vessels with Menoetius' son and his other companions, while Agamemnon had a swift ship hauled down to the sea and picked twenty oarsmen to man it, loaded aboard a hundred cattle for the god, and brought the fair-cheeked daughter of Chryses
aboard as well, and set her there. Resourceful Odysseus went aboard as leader. So they climbed in and set out across the watery ways. Meanwhile Agamemnon ordered the troops to purify themselves. They washed themselves clean and threw the filth into the sea, and offered Apollo full and perfect sacrifices of bulls and goats along the shore of the barren salt water, and the smoke curled up to heaven, rich with the smell of roasting fat. So the army busied itself with these rites. But Agamemnon had not let go of the quarrel, the one he'd first hurled at Achilles as a threat — instead he turned to Talthybius and Eurybates,
his two heralds and ready aides, and said: "Go to the tent of Achilles, son of Peleus. Take Briseis of the lovely cheeks by the hand and bring her here. If he won't hand her over, I'll come myself with more men and take her — and that will be far worse for him." So he sent them off with these harsh words ringing behind them. Unwilling, the two men went along the shore of the barren sea and reached the tents and ships of the Myrmidons. They found Achilles sitting there beside his tent and dark ship. He was not glad to see them coming.
The two men, afraid and full of respect for the king, stood there and said nothing to him, nor did they ask him anything. But he understood in his own heart, and spoke first: "Welcome, heralds, messengers of Zeus and of men. Come closer — you are not to blame in my eyes, but Agamemnon is, who sends you here for the girl Briseis. Come, Patroclus, sprung from Zeus, bring the girl out and give her to them to take away. But let these two stand as witnesses before the blessed gods and before mortal men, and before that harsh king himself, if ever again
there comes a need for me to save the rest of you from ugly ruin. That man's mind is truly running wild with destruction — he doesn't know how to look both forward and back, so that the Achaeans might fight safely by their ships." So he spoke, and Patroclus obeyed his dear companion. He led Briseis of the lovely cheeks out from the tent and gave her over to be taken away. The two heralds went back toward the Achaean ships, and the woman went with them unwillingly. But Achilles, weeping, drew apart from his companions and sat down alone by the shore of the gray sea, gazing out over the boundless water,
and he stretched out his hands and prayed, again and again, to his dear mother: "Mother, since you bore me to a short life, at least Olympian Zeus, thunderer on high, should have granted me some honor in return — but instead he has not honored me even a little. Agamemnon, wide-ruling son of Atreus, has disgraced me — he has taken my prize and keeps it, seized it for himself." So he spoke, pouring out tears, and his revered mother heard him where she sat in the depths of the sea beside her aged father. Quickly she rose up out of the gray water like a mist, and she came and sat down before him as he wept,
and stroked him with her hand, and spoke his name, saying: "Child, why are you crying? What sorrow has come into your heart? Tell me, don't hide it in your mind, so we may both know." And swift-footed Achilles answered her with a heavy groan: "You already know. Why should I tell you everything as though you didn't? We went to Thebe, Eëtion's holy city, sacked it, and brought everything back here. The sons of the Achaeans divided the spoils fairly among themselves, and they chose out fair-cheeked Chryseis for Agamemnon. Then Chryses, priest of Apollo who strikes from afar,
came to the swift ships of the bronze-armored Achaeans, wanting to ransom his daughter, bringing with him a boundless price. He held in his hands the sacred bands of Apollo who strikes from afar, wound on a golden staff, and he begged all the Achaeans, but above all the two sons of Atreus, marshals of the people. Then all the rest of the Achaeans shouted their approval, that the priest should be respected and the splendid ransom accepted — but this did not please Agamemnon, son of Atreus, in his heart, and he sent the man away harshly, adding a stern warning. So the old man went back angry, and Apollo
heard him when he prayed, since Chryses was very dear to him, and he shot a deadly arrow down on the Argives. The people were dying one after another, as the god's shafts ranged everywhere through the wide camp of the Achaeans. But a seer who knew well told us the will of the archer-god. At once I was the first to urge that we appease the god, but then anger seized the son of Atreus, and he stood up at once and spoke a threat that has now come true. The Achaeans with their flashing eyes are sending the girl on a swift ship to Chryse, carrying gifts for the lord Apollo.
But the heralds have just now come from my tent and led away the girl, Briseus' daughter, whom the sons of the Achaeans gave to me. So if you have the power, protect your own son. Go up to Olympus and beg Zeus, if you have ever pleased his heart by word or deed. Many times in my father's halls I have heard you boast that you alone among the immortals saved the son of Cronus, lord of the dark clouds, from shameful ruin, when the other Olympians wanted to bind him — Hera, Poseidon, and Pallas Athena.
You, goddess, went and freed him from those chains, quickly calling up to tall Olympus the hundred-handed one whom the gods call Briareus, but all men call Aigaion, since he is greater in strength than even his own father. He sat down beside the son of Cronus, glorying in his power, and the blessed gods were afraid of him and did not bind Zeus after all. Now go and remind him of this, sit beside him, take hold of his knees, and see whether he is willing to help the Trojans and pin the Achaeans back against the sterns and along the sea, dying, so that all of them may get their fill of their own king,
and so that even wide-ruling Agamemnon may recognize his own blindness, that he showed no honor to the best of the Achaeans." Thetis answered him then, weeping: "Oh, my child, why did I ever raise you, since I bore you to such a bitter fate? If only you could sit by the ships without tears, without grief, since your life is fated to be so brief, not long at all. But now you are doomed both to die young and to suffer more than anyone — it was to an evil fate that I bore you in our halls. I will go myself to snow-capped Olympus and tell all this to Zeus who delights in thunder, in hopes he will listen.
But you, stay here beside your swift ships, keep your anger against the Achaeans, and hold back completely from the fighting. Zeus went yesterday to the Ocean, to the blameless Ethiopians, for a feast, and all the gods went with him. On the twelfth day he will come back again to Olympus, and then I will go to his bronze-floored house and clasp his knees, and I believe I will persuade him." So she spoke and went away, leaving him there, angry in his heart over the fair-belted woman they had taken from him by force against his will. Meanwhile Odysseus
arrived at Chryse, bringing the sacred hundred cattle. When they had come inside the deep harbor, they furled the sails and stowed them in the black ship, lowered the mast quickly into its socket by loosening the forestays, and rowed her forward into the anchorage. They threw out the anchor stones and made the stern lines fast, and the men themselves stepped out onto the breaking surf. They led out the hundred cattle for Apollo who strikes from afar, and Chryseis stepped down from the seagoing ship. Resourceful Odysseus led her up to the altar
and placed her in her father's arms, saying: "Chryses, Agamemnon, lord of men, sent me to bring your daughter back to you, and to offer Phoebus a sacred hundred cattle on behalf of the Danaans, so that we may appease the lord who has now brought grief and lamentation on the Argives." So he spoke, and placed her in his arms, and the old man received his beloved daughter with joy. Quickly they set the sacred cattle in order around the well-built altar, washed their hands, and took up the barley grains. Then Chryses lifted his hands and prayed aloud for them all:
"Hear me, god of the silver bow, you who stand guard over Chryse and holy Killa, and rule Tenedos with your might. Once before you heard my prayer, honored me, and struck the Achaean people hard. Now grant me this wish as well: turn aside the ugly plague from the Danaans." So he prayed, and Phoebus Apollo heard him. When they had finished praying and scattering the barley grains, they drew back the victims' heads, slit their throats, and skinned them. They cut out the thigh bones and wrapped them
in a double fold of fat, laying raw meat over them. The old man burned these on split wood and poured gleaming wine over the flames, while the young men beside him held five-pronged forks in their hands. When the thighs were burned through and they had tasted the inner organs, they cut up the rest of the meat, skewered it on spits, roasted it carefully, and drew it all off the fire. When they had finished the work and prepared the feast, they ate, and no one's heart lacked its fair share of food. When they had satisfied their desire for eating and drinking,
the young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with wine and passed a share to everyone, pouring first from their cups. All day long the young Achaeans appeased the god with song, singing a beautiful hymn of praise to the god who works from afar, and his heart delighted in listening. When the sun went down and darkness came on, they lay down to sleep by the ship's stern cables, and when the early-born, rosy-fingered dawn appeared, they set out again for the wide camp of the Achaeans. Apollo who works from afar sent them a following wind, and they raised the mast and spread the white sails,
and the wind bellied out the sail's middle, and the dark blue wave sang loudly around the prow as the ship went forward, and she ran on cutting through the swell, making her way. When they reached the wide camp of the Achaeans, they hauled the black ship up onto the mainland, high on the sand, and set long props beneath her, and the men themselves scattered among the tents and ships. But Achilles stayed by his swift ships, still nursing his anger — Zeus-born Achilles, son of Peleus, swift of foot. He never went to the assembly where men win glory,
nor ever into battle, but wasted his own heart away staying there, longing for the war cry and the fighting. But when the twelfth dawn since then had come, the gods who live forever went up to Olympus together, with Zeus leading them, and Thetis had not forgotten her son's request. She rose up out of the sea's waves, went up early through the great sky to Olympus, and found the wide-seeing son of Cronus sitting apart from the rest on the topmost peak of many-ridged Olympus. She sat down before him and took hold of his knees,
her left hand, and with her right she cupped his chin, and pleaded with the lord Zeus, son of Cronus, saying: "Father Zeus, if I have ever helped you among the immortals, by word or deed, grant me this wish: honor my son, whose life will be shorter than any other man's. Now Agamemnon, lord of men, has dishonored him — he has taken his prize and keeps it, seized it for himself. But you, Olympian Zeus, wise in counsel, honor him instead — give strength to the Trojans until the Achaeans pay my son back and heap honor upon him."
So she spoke, but the cloud-gathering Zeus said nothing to her, and sat silent a long while. Thetis, just as she had taken hold of his knees, clung there still, and asked him again: "Give me a true promise, nod your assent, or refuse me outright, since you have nothing to fear — so I may know for certain how far I am, among all the gods, the most dishonored." Deeply troubled, cloud-gathering Zeus answered her: "This is a wretched business, if you're going to set me against Hera and make her provoke me with her cutting words —
she is always accusing me, even without cause, before the immortal gods, and saying I help the Trojans in battle. But go back now, so Hera doesn't notice anything. I will see to these matters myself and bring them to pass. Come, I will nod my head to you so you can trust it — this, among the immortals, is my surest sign, for nothing I confirm with a nod of my head can be taken back, or fail, or go unfulfilled." So the son of Cronus spoke and nodded his dark brows, and the immortal locks of hair swung forward from the lord's head, and he made great Olympus shake.
So the two of them, having settled this, parted ways — she leapt down into the deep sea from shining Olympus, and Zeus went to his own hall, and all the gods rose together from their seats before their father as he came; not one dared stay seated as he approached, but they all stood to face him. So he took his seat there on his throne. But Hera had not failed to notice, seeing that silver-footed Thetis, daughter of the old man of the sea, had been plotting with him. At once she spoke sharply to Zeus, son of Cronus: "Which of the gods, you schemer, has been plotting with you now?
It's always your pleasure to keep apart from me and make your secret decisions, and you can never bring yourself to tell me plainly whatever you have in mind." Then the father of gods and men answered her: "Hera, don't expect to know all my plans — they would be too much for you, even as my wife. Whatever is fitting for you to hear, no one, god or man, will learn of before you. But whatever I choose to think through apart from the other gods, don't go probing into each of these things, and don't ask questions."
Then the ox-eyed lady Hera answered him: "Dreadful son of Cronus, what a thing to say! I have never before asked you or pried into your plans — you've always been perfectly free to think through whatever you please. But now I am terribly afraid that silver-footed Thetis, daughter of the old man of the sea, has talked you around. She sat with you early this morning and took hold of your knees. I suspect you gave her a true nod that you will honor Achilles, and destroy great numbers of the Achaeans by their ships." Cloud-gathering Zeus answered her then:
"You strange creature, you're always suspecting, and I can never slip past you. Yet you will accomplish nothing by it, except to grow further from my heart — and that will be worse for you. If this is how it is, then it must be my pleasure that it be so. Now sit down quietly and obey what I tell you, or all the gods on Olympus won't be able to help you when I come near and lay my irresistible hands on you." So he spoke, and the ox-eyed lady Hera was afraid, and sat down in silence, mastering her heart. Throughout the halls of Zeus the heavenly gods were troubled,
and among them Hephaestus, famous craftsman, began to speak, wishing to comfort his dear mother, white-armed Hera: "This will be a wretched business, truly unbearable, if the two of you are going to quarrel like this over mortal men, and stir up strife among the gods — there will be no pleasure left in our fine feasting, since the worse side is winning out. I urge my mother, though she already understands this herself, to make peace with our dear father Zeus, so that he won't scold her again and throw our feast into turmoil. For if the Olympian, lord of the lightning, wants
to knock us from our seats, he could — he is far the strongest of us all. Come, speak to him gently, and at once the Olympian will be gracious to us again." So he spoke, and springing up, he placed a two-handled cup in his dear mother's hand, and said to her: "Be patient, mother, and endure it, grieved though you are, so that I don't see you, dear as you are to me, being beaten before my eyes, and be unable to help you, no matter how much it pains me — the Olympian is a hard one to stand against. Once before, when I tried to defend you,
he seized me by the foot and hurled me from the divine threshold. I fell all day, and as the sun was going down I dropped onto Lemnos, with only a little life left in me. There the Sintian people quickly took me in and cared for me." So he spoke, and the white-armed goddess Hera smiled, and smiling, took the cup from her son's hand. Then Hephaestus went around pouring sweet nectar to all the other gods from the mixing bowl, moving to the right. And unquenchable laughter rose among the blessed gods as they watched Hephaestus bustling busily through the halls.
So they feasted the whole day long, until the sun went down, and no one's heart lacked anything in that fair and equal banquet — nor was there any lack of the beautiful lyre that Apollo held, or of the Muses, who sang in sweet answering voices.
But when the sun's bright light had sunk away, each of them went home to sleep, to the house that the famous crook-legged Hephaestus had built for him with all his cunning skill.
And Zeus, the Olympian lord of the lightning, went to his own bed, the place where he always lay down whenever sweet sleep came over him. There he climbed up and slept, and beside him lay Hera of the golden throne.