Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
So the Trojans kept their watch through the night. But the Achaeans were seized by a monstrous panic, the sister of chilling terror, and grief beyond bearing struck down every one of their best men. As two winds churn the sea where the fish swarm, the North Wind and the West Wind blowing together out of Thrace, coming on suddenly, and at once the dark wave rears up and heaps the shore with seaweed - so the heart in the Achaeans' chests was torn apart.
Agamemnon, son of Atreus, struck to the heart with great sorrow, went among them, ordering his clear-voiced heralds to summon each man by name to the assembly, but not to shout it aloud, and he himself worked among the foremost. They sat in the assembly, broken men, and Agamemnon rose among them, shedding tears like a spring of dark water pouring its gloomy stream down some sheer rock face. Groaning heavily he spoke to the Argives:
"Friends, leaders and rulers of the Argives, Zeus, son of Cronus, has bound me fast in cruel ruin - the merciless god, who once promised me and bowed his head that I would sack well-walled Troy before sailing home, but now he has plotted a wicked deception, and he is driving me to return to Argos in disgrace, having lost so many of my people. This, it seems, is the pleasure of Zeus in his overwhelming might, who has already toppled the crowns of many cities, and will topple more - for his power is greatest of all. Come, then, let us all obey what I say: let us flee with our ships to our own dear homeland, for we will never take Troy of the wide streets."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, struck dumb. For a long while the sons of the Achaeans sat there without a word, broken men, until at last Diomedes, master of the war cry, spoke up:
"Son of Atreus, I will be the first to oppose your folly, as is my right, lord, in this assembly - and you must not be angered by it. You were the one who mocked my courage before the Danaans, calling me unwarlike and weak, and all the Argives know it, young and old alike. But the son of crooked-counseling Cronus gave you a divided gift: he gave you the scepter, to be honored above all men, but he did not give you courage, which is the greatest power of all. Poor fool - do you really believe the sons of the Achaeans are as unwarlike and weak as you say?
If your own heart is set on going home, then go - the way is open, and your ships stand near the sea, the many ships that followed you from Mycenae. But the rest of us, the long-haired Achaeans, will stay until we bring down Troy. And if the others too wish to flee homeward with their ships, let them go. Sthenelus and I will fight on until we find the destined end of Troy - for it was with a god's help that we came here."
So he spoke, and all the sons of the Achaeans shouted approval, marveling at the words of Diomedes, tamer of horses. Then Nestor the horseman rose among them and spoke:
"Son of Tydeus, in battle you are mighty beyond all others, and in council too you stand first among men of your age. No Achaean here will scorn your words or speak against them - and yet you have not brought your speech to its full conclusion. You are young still - you might even be my own son, my youngest-born, and yet you speak with good sense to the kings of the Argives, for what you said was fitting. But let me, who claim to be older than you, speak fully and go through everything - and no one, not even lord Agamemnon, will hold my words in contempt.
A man without clan, without law, without a hearth is he who longs for the horror of war among his own people. But for now let us obey the coming of dark night and prepare our supper, and let the guards each take their posts along the ditch dug outside the wall. This I lay upon the young men. But you, son of Atreus, must take the lead, for you are the most kingly among us. Give a feast for the elders - that is fitting for you, no shame in it at all.
Your shelters are full of wine, which the ships of the Achaeans bring daily from Thrace over the wide sea. You have every means of hospitality, for you rule over many men. When many are gathered, you will follow the counsel of whoever offers the best plan - and the Achaeans have great need now of wise and careful counsel, since the enemy is burning countless fires close by our ships. Who could take pleasure in that sight? This night will either destroy our army or save it."
So he spoke, and they listened closely and did as he said. The sentries went out under arms, gathered around Thrasymedes, son of Nestor, shepherd of the people, and around Ascalaphus and Ialmenus, sons of Ares, and around Meriones, and Aphareus, and Deipyrus, and around Lycomedes, the noble son of Creon. Seven were the captains of the watch, and with each marched a hundred young men carrying long spears in their hands. They went and took their places between the ditch and the wall, and there they lit fires and each made ready his supper.
Meanwhile Agamemnon led the elders of the Achaeans together to his shelter and set before them a feast to warm their hearts. They reached out their hands to the good food laid ready before them. When they had satisfied their desire for food and drink, old Nestor, whose counsel had always proven best before, began to weave his plan for them. With good will he spoke and addressed the assembly:
"Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, I will end with you, and I will begin with you, since you are lord over many peoples, and Zeus has put into your hand the scepter and the laws, so that you may take counsel for them. Therefore it falls to you above all to speak and also to listen, and to grant another man his say too, whenever his heart moves him to speak for the common good - for what follows from it will rest with you.
I will tell you now what seems best to me. No other man will devise a better plan than the one I have had in mind, both long ago and still now, from the very time, son of Zeus, when you went to Achilles' shelter and took the girl Briseis from him in your anger - not at all with our approval, for I myself argued strongly against it. But you gave way to your own proud heart and dishonored the best of men, one whom even the immortals have honored - for you seized his prize and still hold it. Even now, though, let us think how we might appease him and win him back with pleasing gifts and gentle words."
Then Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him: "Old man, you have not spoken falsely in listing my follies. I was blind, and I do not deny it myself. A man that Zeus loves in his heart is worth many others - and so now he has honored this man, and has crushed the army of the Achaeans. But since I was blind and yielded to my wretched heart, I am willing now to make amends and to give back gifts beyond counting.
Before you all I will name the glorious gifts: seven tripods never touched by fire, ten talents of gold, twenty gleaming cauldrons, and twelve strong racing horses that have won prizes with their speed. No man who possessed as much as these horses have won for me would be poor, nor lacking in precious gold. And I will give seven women skilled in fine handiwork, women of Lesbos, whom I chose for myself when he himself took well-built Lesbos - women who surpassed all others in beauty.
These I will give him, and among them will be the one I took from him before, the daughter of Briseus. And I will swear a great oath that I have never gone up into her bed nor lain with her, as is the natural right between men and women. All this will be his at once. And if the gods grant that we sack the great city of Priam, let him come in and load his ship with gold and bronze when we Achaeans divide the spoil, and let him himself choose twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Argive Helen.
And if we return to Argos, the richest land on earth, he shall become my son by marriage - I will honor him as I honor Orestes, my own son who is growing up in great comfort. I have three daughters in my well-built hall, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; let him take whichever one he wishes, without bride-price, to the house of Peleus, and I will add a dowry, more than any man has ever given with his daughter. I will give him seven well-peopled cities,
Cardamyle, Enope, and grassy Hire, holy Pherae, deep-meadowed Antheia, fair Aepea, and vine-rich Pedasus - all of them near the sea, at the far edge of sandy Pylos. The men who live there are rich in flocks and cattle; they will honor him with gifts as if he were a god, and under his scepter they will pay him rich tribute. All this I will do for him, if only he lays down his anger. Let him submit - Hades alone is pitiless and unyielding, and for that reason he is the most hated of all gods by mortals - and let him yield to me, since I am the greater king
and since I claim to be older by birth."
Then Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, answered him: "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, the gifts you offer to lord Achilles are no longer anything to scorn. Come, then, let us send chosen men to go with all speed to the shelter of Achilles, son of Peleus. Let me choose the men, and let them agree to go. Let Phoenix, dear to Zeus, lead the way, and after him great Ajax and noble Odysseus, and let the heralds Odius and Eurybates go with them.
Bring water for our hands, and call for silence, so that we may pray to Zeus, son of Cronus, that he take pity on us." So he spoke, and his words pleased them all. At once the heralds poured water over their hands, and the young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with wine and served it to everyone, pouring first the portion of libation. When they had poured out their offerings and drunk as much as their hearts desired, they set out from the shelter of Agamemnon, son of Atreus.
Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, gave them many instructions, glancing meaningfully at each man, and especially at Odysseus, urging them to find some way to persuade the blameless son of Peleus. So the two went along the shore of the loud-crashing sea, praying earnestly to the Earthshaker who holds the earth in his embrace, that they might easily win over the great heart of the grandson of Aeacus. They came to the shelters and ships of the Myrmidons, and found Achilles delighting his heart with a clear-toned lyre, a beautiful instrument, finely wrought, with a silver crossbar, which he had taken from the spoils when he destroyed the city of Eetion. With it he was delighting his heart, singing of the glorious deeds of men. Patroclus alone sat across from him in silence,
waiting for Achilles to finish his singing. The two men came forward, with noble Odysseus leading, and stood before him. Achilles sprang up in astonishment, lyre still in hand, leaving the seat where he had been sitting. Patroclus likewise rose when he saw the men. Achilles, swift of foot, greeted them and said:
"Welcome - truly you are dear friends who have come, and there must be great need, since even in my anger you are the Achaeans dearest to me." So speaking, noble Achilles led them forward and seated them on couches spread with purple rugs,
and at once he called to Patroclus, who was nearby: "Bring out a bigger mixing bowl, son of Menoetius, and mix the wine stronger, and set out a cup for each man, for these who have come under my roof are the dearest of my friends." So he spoke, and Patroclus obeyed his dear companion. He threw down a great chopping block in the firelight, and laid on it the back of a sheep and of a fat goat, and the chine of a well-fed hog, rich with fat. Automedon held the meat steady while noble Achilles carved it, and he cut it well into pieces and pierced them on spits,
and Patroclus, godlike in his brightness, built up a great fire. When the fire had burned down and the flame had died away, he spread out the embers and stretched the spits above them, and sprinkled the meat with sacred salt, resting the spits on supports. When he had roasted it and heaped it onto platters, Patroclus took bread and set it out on the table in fine baskets, while Achilles served the meat. He himself sat down across from godlike Odysseus, against the far wall, and told his companion Patroclus to make sacrifice to the gods; and Patroclus threw the first offerings into the fire.
They reached out their hands to the good food laid ready before them. When they had satisfied their desire for food and drink, Ajax nodded to Phoenix, but noble Odysseus caught the sign; he filled his cup with wine and raised it to Achilles: "Your health, Achilles! We have no lack of an equal feast, either back in the shelter of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, or here now, for there is plenty here to satisfy the heart. But it is not the pleasures of a fine feast that concern us now - no, lord, we look on a disaster too great to bear, and we are afraid. It hangs in the balance whether we save our well-benched ships
or lose them, unless you put on your strength again. For close by our ships and wall the proud Trojans and their far-famed allies have made their camp, lighting many fires across the plain, and they say they can no longer be held back, but will fall upon our black ships. And Zeus, son of Cronus, sends them lightning on their right hand as a sign of favor, and Hector, glorying in his tremendous strength, rages beyond all bounds, trusting in Zeus, and honors neither men nor gods - so fierce is the madness that has taken hold of him. He prays for the bright dawn to come quickly,
for he boasts he will hack off the high stern-horns of our ships and burn them with consuming fire, and slaughter the Achaeans as they stumble in confusion through the smoke. This is what I fear terribly in my heart - that the gods will bring his threats to fulfillment, and that it will be our fate to die here at Troy, far from horse-pasturing Argos. Up, then, if you are willing, even now, late as it is, to save the sons of the Achaeans as they are worn down by the Trojan onslaught.
You yourself will suffer grief for it afterward, and there will be no remedy to find once the harm is done. No - think now, before it is too late, how you will ward off this evil day from the Danaans. Friend, surely your father Peleus charged you, on the day he sent you from Phthia to Agamemnon: 'My son, strength Athena and Hera will give you, if they wish it, but you must hold your proud heart in check within your chest, for kindness is the better path. Put an end to the destructive strife that breeds only harm, so that the young and the old among the Argives may honor you all the more.'
So the old man charged you, but you have forgotten. Even now, though, stop - let go of the anger that eats at your heart. Agamemnon offers you gifts worthy of your worth, if you will lay aside your wrath. If you will hear me out, I will list for you all that Agamemnon promised in his shelter as gifts: seven tripods never touched by fire, ten talents of gold, twenty gleaming cauldrons, and twelve strong racing horses that have won prizes with their speed. No man who possessed as much as these horses have won would be poor, nor lacking in precious gold - as much as the horses of Agamemnon have won with their speed. And he will give seven women skilled in fine handiwork,
women of Lesbos, whom he chose for himself when you yourself took well-built Lesbos - women who surpassed all others in beauty. These he will give you, and among them will be the one he took from you before, the daughter of Briseus. And he will swear a great oath that he has never gone up into her bed nor lain with her, as is the natural right, lord, between men and women. All this will be yours at once. And if the gods grant that we sack the great city of Priam, you may come in and load your ship with gold and bronze when we Achaeans divide the spoil,
and you may choose for yourself twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Argive Helen. And if we return to Argos, the richest land on earth, you would become his son by marriage - he will honor you as he honors Orestes, his own son who is growing up in great comfort. He has three daughters in his well-built hall, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; take whichever one you wish, without bride-price, to the house of Peleus, and he will add a dowry, more than any man has ever given with his daughter.
He will give you seven well-peopled cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and grassy Hire, holy Pherae, deep-meadowed Antheia, fair Aepea, and vine-rich Pedasus - all of them near the sea, at the far edge of sandy Pylos. The men who live there are rich in flocks and cattle; they will honor you with gifts as if you were a god, and under your scepter they will pay you rich tribute. All this he will do for you, if only you lay down your anger. But if the son of Atreus has grown too hateful to your heart -
"— you yourself, and gifts from him along with you. But still, take pity on the rest of the Achaeans, worn down across the camp, who will honor you like a god. You would win very great glory from them, for you might kill Hector now, since he would come right up close to you in his deadly frenzy — he claims no other Danaan brought here by the ships is his equal."
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Odysseus, son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful man of many turns — I must give you my answer plainly, exactly what I intend and how it will be, so that you don't sit around me, one after another, muttering the same thing at me. I hate that man like the gates of Hades who hides one thing in his heart and says another. I will tell you what seems best to me. I don't think Agamemnon son of Atreus will win me over, nor will the rest of the Danaans, since there was never any thanks for fighting the enemy without end, on and on. The man who stays back gets the same share as the man who fights hardest — coward and hero are held in the same honor. The man who does nothing dies the same as the man who has done a great deal.
Nothing extra comes to me for it, since I have suffered pain in my heart, forever staking my life on the fighting. Like a bird that brings food to her unfledged chicks whenever she catches any, and goes hungry herself — that is how I have spent so many sleepless nights and passed so many bloody days fighting men in battle for the sake of other men's women. I have sacked twelve cities from my ships, and eleven more on foot, I count, across the rich land of Troy. From all of them I took many fine treasures and carried them off and gave every one to Agamemnon son of Atreus. And he, staying behind by the fast ships, would take them in, hand out a few, and keep the most for himself. He gave prizes to the other chiefs and kings, and theirs remain untouched — but from me alone of all the Achaeans he took mine back, and he keeps the woman who pleased my heart. Let him sleep beside her and enjoy her. Why do the Argives have to fight the Trojans at all? Why did Agamemnon gather an army and bring it here? Wasn't it for the sake of fair-haired Helen? Are the sons of Atreus the only men alive who love their wives? Any man who is good and sound of mind loves his own woman and cares for her, and so I loved mine with my whole heart, even though she was a spear-won prize.
But now that he has torn my prize out of my hands and cheated me, let him not test me again — he knows well enough what I am. He will not win me over. No, Odysseus — let him plot with you and the other kings how to keep the killing fire from the ships. He has certainly done a great deal already without my help: he has built a wall, and driven a ditch beside it, wide and deep, and planted stakes in it. But even so it cannot hold back man-killing Hector's strength. While I was still fighting among the Achaeans, Hector had no wish to carry the battle far from the wall — he would come only as far as the Scaean gates and the oak tree. There he once waited for me alone, and barely escaped my charge. But now, since I have no wish to fight glorious Hector, tomorrow, once I have made sacrifice to Zeus and all the gods, and loaded my ships well and hauled them down to the sea, you will see — if you care to, if it matters to you — my ships sailing at dawn on the fish-filled Hellespont, my men straining eagerly at the oars. And if the famous Earthshaker grants a fair crossing, on the third day I will reach the rich soil of Phthia.
I left a great deal behind there when I sailed off, to my ruin — and from here I will carry off still more: gold, red bronze, well-girdled women, and gray iron, whatever fell to my share. But the prize he himself gave me, lord Agamemnon son of Atreus has taken back again, and insolently too. So tell him everything exactly as I command, openly, so that the rest of the Achaeans will be angry at him too, if he still hopes to cheat some other Danaan, wrapped forever in his shamelessness. He would not dare look me in the face, shameless dog that he is. I will join him in no plan and no deed of his — he has already cheated me and wronged me, and he will not fool me a second time with words. That is enough of him. Let him go to his ruin in peace; wise Zeus has stripped his sense from him. His gifts are hateful to me, and I weigh him at a hair's worth. Not even if he offered me ten times, twenty times all he now possesses, and whatever else might come to him from anywhere — not all the wealth that flows into Orchomenos, not all that goes into Egyptian Thebes, where the richest treasures of all lie stored in houses, that city of a hundred gates, from each of which two hundred men ride out with horses and chariots — not even if he gave me as much as the sand and dust of the earth, not even then would Agamemnon win over my heart, not until he has paid me back in full for all the heart-rending outrage.
And I will not marry the daughter of Agamemnon son of Atreus, not even if she rivaled golden Aphrodite in beauty and matched gray-eyed Athena in skill — not even then would I marry her. Let him choose some other Achaean, one who suits him, one who is more of a king than I am. For if the gods spare me and I make it home, Peleus himself will find me a wife in time. There are many Achaean women throughout Hellas and Phthia, daughters of chieftains who guard their cities — I will take whichever of them pleases me as my own wife. Many times my proud heart has longed, once I had married a fitting wife there, to settle down and enjoy the wealth that old Peleus gathered. For nothing is worth my life to me — not all they say the well-built city of Troy possessed before, in peacetime, before the sons of the Achaeans came, nor all that the stone threshold of the Archer god holds within it at rocky Pytho. Cattle and fat sheep can be plundered, tripods and tawny-headed horses can be won, but a man's life cannot be plundered back or won back once it has passed the barrier of his teeth.
My mother, the goddess silver-footed Thetis, tells me that I carry two different fates toward the end of death. If I stay here and fight around the city of Troy, my homecoming is lost, but my glory will never die. If I go home to my own dear country, my noble glory is lost, but I will have a long life, and death's end will not come to me quickly. And I would urge the rest of you, too, to sail home, since you will never find the end of steep Troy — Zeus who sees far has held his hand over it, and its people have taken heart. So go, and carry my message back to the chiefs of the Achaeans — that is the privilege due to elders — so that they can work out some better plan in their minds, one that will save their ships and their army by the hollow hulls, since the plan they have just devised will not work, now that I refuse to give up my anger. But let Phoenix stay here and sleep among us, so that he can sail with me on my ships to my own dear country tomorrow, if he wishes — I will not force him to come."
So he spoke, and they all fell silent, saying nothing, struck by his words, for he had refused them very forcefully. At last the old horseman Phoenix spoke among them, breaking into tears, for he was deeply afraid for the ships of the Achaeans.
"If it is truly a homecoming you are set on in your heart, shining Achilles, and you have no wish at all to defend the fast ships from the ravaging fire, since anger has settled into your heart — then how could I stay behind here without you, dear child, alone? Old horseman Peleus sent me with you on the day he sent you from Phthia to Agamemnon, a mere boy who knew nothing yet of grim war, nor of the assemblies where men make their names. That is why he sent me — to teach you all these things, to be a speaker of words and a doer of deeds. So I would never wish, dear child, to be left behind here without you, not even if a god himself promised to scrape the old age off me and make me young again, as young as I was when I first left Hellas, land of lovely women, fleeing a quarrel with my father Amyntor, son of Ormenus, who grew furious with me over his lovely-haired mistress — he loved her himself, and treated his own wife, my mother, with contempt.
She kept begging me, clasping my knees, to lie with the mistress first, so that the woman would come to hate the old man. I gave in and did it. My father found out at once and cursed me bitterly, calling on the hateful Furies that no son born of me should ever sit upon his knees — and the gods fulfilled his curse, Zeus of the underworld and dread Persephone. After that I could no longer bear, in my heart, to go on living under my raging father's roof. My kinsmen and cousins gathered around me from every side, begging me, holding me back in the halls; they slaughtered many fat sheep and shambling curved-horned cattle, and many pigs rich with fat were singed and stretched over the flame of Hephaestus, and much wine was drunk from that old man's jars. Nine whole nights they slept around me in turns, keeping watch — the fire never went out, one watch-fire under the gallery of the well-fenced courtyard, another in the porch before the doors of my chamber. But when the tenth dark night came upon me, I broke down the tightly fitted doors of my chamber and went out, and leapt over the courtyard fence easily, slipping past the guards and the serving men and women unseen.
Then I fled far off through spacious Hellas, and came to Phthia, rich soil, mother of flocks, and to lord Peleus. He received me kindly, and loved me as a father loves his own son, his only cherished child amid great wealth. He made me a rich man, and gave me many people to rule — I lived on the border of Phthia, lord of the Dolopians. And it was I who made you what you are, godlike Achilles, loving you from my heart, since as a boy you would go with no one else to feasts, and would not eat in the halls, until I had sat you on my knees and cut your meat for you and given you wine. Many times you soaked the tunic on my chest, spitting up wine in your painful infancy. So I suffered a great deal for you, and worked hard, knowing that the gods would never grant me a son of my own from my own body — so I made you my son instead, godlike Achilles, so that someday you might keep disgraceful ruin away from me.
So master your great heart, Achilles. You must not have a pitiless spirit — even the gods themselves can be swayed, though their excellence, honor, and strength are far greater than ours. Men turn them aside with sacrifices, gentle prayers, libation, and the smoke of offering, when someone has overstepped and gone wrong. For Prayers are the daughters of great Zeus — lame, wrinkled, and squinting in both eyes — and they take great care to follow after Ruin wherever she goes. But Ruin is strong and swift on her feet, so she far outruns them all, and reaches every corner of the earth first to do men harm, while the Prayers come behind, healing what she has done. Whoever respects the daughters of Zeus when they draw near, him they help greatly, and they listen when he prays. But whoever refuses them and stubbornly turns them away, they go to Zeus, son of Cronus, and beg that Ruin follow that man, so that he is harmed and made to pay for it. So you too, Achilles, should grant the daughters of Zeus the honor that bends the minds of other noble men.
If Agamemnon were not bringing gifts and naming still more to come, but only kept raging on without end, I would not urge you to cast off your anger and defend the Argives, no matter how badly they need you. But as it stands he is giving much right now, and has promised more later, and he has sent the finest men to beg you, choosing them out of the whole Achaean army, men who are dearest to you yourself among the Argives. Do not scorn their words, or their journey here — before this, no one could blame you for being angry. This is how we have heard, too, of the glorious deeds of the heroes of old, when fierce anger came upon one of them — they could still be won over by gifts and turned aside by words. I remember one such deed myself, an old story, not a new one, and I will tell it now to all of you, my friends.
The Curetes were fighting the steadfast Aetolians around the city of Calydon, and killing one another — the Aetolians defending lovely Calydon, the Curetes eager to lay it waste in war. For golden-throned Artemis had stirred up trouble among them, angry that Oeneus had not offered her the first fruits of his orchard. The other gods feasted on his hecatombs, but to the daughter of great Zeus alone he made no offering — he forgot, or simply failed to think of it, a grave mistake of the heart. Enraged, the archer goddess, child divine, sent against him a fierce wild boar with gleaming white tusks, which did great damage, ravaging Oeneus's orchard again and again — it tore up whole tall trees by the roots and flung them to the ground, blossoms and all. Meleager, son of Oeneus, killed the beast, gathering hunters and hounds from many cities, for it could not be brought down by a few men — it was that huge, and it had already sent many men up onto the grievous funeral pyre.
But the goddess stirred up a great uproar and quarrel over the boar's head and shaggy hide, between the Curetes and the great-hearted Aetolians. Now as long as Meleager, beloved of Ares, kept fighting, things went badly for the Curetes, and many as they were, they could not hold their ground outside the walls. But when anger crept into Meleager — the same anger that swells the hearts even of other men who think carefully — he lay there brooding, raging at his own mother Althaea, beside his wedded wife, lovely Cleopatra, daughter of fair-ankled Marpessa, child of Evenus, and of Idas, who was once the strongest man alive on earth, and who even raised his bow against the lord Phoebus Apollo for the sake of that fair-ankled bride. Her father and honored mother used to call her Alcyone in their halls, a name given because her own mother, suffering the fate of the mournful halcyon bird, wept when far-shooting Phoebus Apollo had snatched her daughter away.
Beside her Meleager lay, brooding on his heart-eating anger, enraged over his mother's curses. For she, grieving bitterly over her brother's murder, had prayed to the gods, beating the all-nourishing earth with her hands as she knelt, calling on Hades and dread Persephone, her lap soaked with tears, to bring death down upon her own son — and the Fury who walks in darkness heard her from Erebus, her heart unyielding. Soon the roar and crash of battle rose around the gates as the walls were assaulted, and the elders of the Aetolians begged Meleager to come out and defend them, sending the finest priests of the gods, and promising him a great gift: wherever the richest ground lay in lovely Calydon's plain, there they told him to take a magnificent estate of fifty acres, half of it vineyard, half bare plowland to be cut from the plain. Many times old horseman Oeneus begged him, standing on the threshold of his high-roofed chamber, rattling the fastened doors, pleading with his son. Many times too his sisters and his honored mother begged him, but he only refused all the more.
And his companions, the closest and dearest of all to him, begged too — yet even they could not persuade the heart in his chest, not until his chamber was being battered hard, and the Curetes were already climbing the walls and setting the great city on fire. Then at last his well-girdled wife begged Meleager, weeping, and laid out before him all the miseries that fall on people whose city is taken — the men are killed, the city is burned to ashes, and strangers carry off the children and the deep-girdled women. His heart was stirred as he heard of these evils, and he rose and went, and put on his gleaming armor. So he drove the day of disaster away from the Aetolians, yielding at last to his own change of heart — but by then they no longer paid him the many lovely gifts they had promised; still, he warded off the disaster, gift or no gift.
But you — do not let your mind turn that way, do not let some spirit lead you down that same road, dear friend. It would be far worse to defend the ships only once they are already burning. No — go now, for the sake of the gifts; the Achaeans will honor you as a god. But if you go into the man-destroying war without gifts —"
You will never keep the honor you have, though you drive the war back.
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Phoenix, old father, cherished by Zeus, I have no need of that kind of honor. I trust I am honored already by the will of Zeus, which will hold me here by my curved ships as long as breath stays in my chest and my knees still move under me. But I will tell you something else — fix it in your mind. Do not trouble my heart with grieving and weeping on behalf of the son of Atreus, out of favor to that man. You should not love him, or you will make yourself hateful to me, who love you.
It would be a fine thing for you to hurt whoever hurts me, side by side with me. Rule as an equal with me and take half my honor. These men will carry my answer back; you will stay here and sleep, on a soft bed. At dawn tomorrow we will decide together whether to sail for home or to remain."
So he spoke, and he nodded silently to Patroclus, a signal to make up a thick bed for Phoenix, so that the others might think quickly of leaving the hut and going home. Then Ajax, godlike son of Telamon, spoke among them: "Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, let us go — I do not think our errand will reach its end by this road. We must report the message to the Danaans quickly, bad as it is, for they sit waiting for us even now. But Achilles has made the great proud heart in his chest savage — hard man, and he takes no account of the love his companions gave him, honoring him beside the ships above all others — pitiless. And yet a man will accept payment even from the killer of his brother, or of his own dead son, and the killer, having paid a great price, remains on among his people,
and the other's heart and proud spirit are checked once he has taken the payment. But the gods have set in your chest a heart that will not rest, harsh, all because of one girl — one alone! And now we offer you seven, the best there are, and much more besides. Make your heart kindly, then, and respect your own roof. We are guests under it, sent from the mass of the Danaans, and we wish to be closer to you and dearer than any other Achaeans."
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Ajax, sprung from Zeus, son of Telamon, lord of your people, everything you have said seems to speak to my own heart. But my heart still swells with fury whenever I remember how the son of Atreus treated me with contempt before the Argives, as if I were some dishonored vagabond. Go now, and carry back my answer — I will not turn my mind to the bloody work of war again until Hector, son of wise Priam, comes as far as the huts and ships of the Myrmidons, killing Argives as he comes, and sets the ships ablaze with fire. But around my own hut and my black ship,
I think Hector will be stopped, however eager he is for battle."
So he spoke, and each of them took up a two-handled cup, poured out their offering, and went back to the ships; Odysseus led the way. Patroclus told his companions and the serving women to make up a thick bed for Phoenix as quickly as they could, and they obeyed and spread the bed as he told them, with fleeces, a blanket, and a fine linen sheet. There the old man lay down and waited for shining dawn. But Achilles slept in the inner chamber of his well-built hut, and beside him lay the woman he had brought from Lesbos,
Diomede, fair-cheeked daughter of Phorbas. And on the other side Patroclus lay down, and beside him too lay fair-girdled Iphis, whom godlike Achilles had given him when he took steep Scyros, the city of Enyeus.
Now when the envoys had come to the huts of the son of Atreus, the sons of the Achaeans rose one after another from their places and greeted them with golden cups, and questioned them. First to ask was Agamemnon, lord of men: "Tell me, Odysseus, much-praised, great glory of the Achaeans, is he willing to keep the hostile fire from our ships,
or does he refuse, and does anger still hold his great heart?"
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, that man is not willing to quench his anger — quite the opposite, he is filled with rage more than ever, and he rejects you and your gifts. He tells you to decide for yourself, together with the Argives, how you will save the ships and the army of the Achaeans. As for himself, he threatened that at dawn tomorrow he will drag his well-benched, curved ships down into the sea. And he said he would advise the rest of us too
to sail home, since you will no longer find an end to steep Troy — for far-seeing Zeus has spread his hand wide over that city, and its people have taken courage. So he spoke — and these men here can confirm it, who came with me, Ajax and the two heralds, both wise men. Old Phoenix has lain down to sleep there, as Achilles bid him, so that he might sail with him in his ships to his own dear homeland tomorrow, if he wishes — but he will not force him to go."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, saying nothing, in awe of his words — for he had spoken with great force.
For a long time the sons of the Achaeans sat speechless, downcast; but at last Diomedes, good at the war cry, spoke among them: "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, you should not have begged the noble son of Peleus, offering him countless gifts — he is proud enough as it is, and now you have driven him even further into his pride. Let us leave him alone, whether he goes or stays — he will fight again whenever the heart in his chest tells him to, and a god rouses him. Come, let us all do as I say.
For now, let us go to rest, once we have satisfied our hearts with bread and wine, for these are strength and courage. But as soon as fair rose-fingered Dawn appears, muster the men and the horses quickly before the ships, urging them on, and take your own place fighting among the foremost."
So he spoke, and all the kings applauded, in awe of the words of horse-taming Diomedes. Then they poured their offerings and went, each man, to his own hut, and there they lay down to rest and took the gift of sleep.