Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
The assembly broke up, and the men scattered, each to his own swift ship, thinking of supper and of sweet sleep's comfort. But Achilles wept, remembering his dear companion, and sleep that conquers all would not take him. He tossed from side to side, longing for Patroclus' manhood and his splendid strength, remembering all they had endured together, the wars they had fought and the grim waves they had crossed. Remembering these things he let fall warm tears, lying now on his side, now on his back, now face down; then rising to his feet he would wander in distress along the shore of the sea, and never did the dawn, rising over sea and shore, find him at rest. But when he had yoked his swift horses to the chariot, he would tie Hector behind it to be dragged, and after dragging him three times around the tomb of dead Menoetius' son, he would rest again in his hut, leaving the body stretched face down in the dust. Yet Apollo kept all disfigurement from his flesh, pitying the man even in death, and covered him all around with the golden aegis, so that Achilles would not tear his skin as he dragged him.
So, in his fury, Achilles kept defiling godlike Hector. But the blessed gods pitied him as they watched, and urged the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus to steal the body away. This pleased all the others, but never Hera, nor Poseidon, nor the grey-eyed maiden; they still held the hatred they had felt from the start for sacred Troy, for Priam, and for his people, because of the blind folly of Paris, who insulted the goddesses when they came to his steading, and praised the one who offered him ruinous desire.
But when the twelfth dawn had come since that day, Phoebus Apollo spoke among the immortals: "You are pitiless, you gods, destroyers all! Did Hector never burn for you the thighbones of oxen and unblemished goats? Yet now you cannot bring yourselves to save even his corpse, so his wife might see him, and his mother, and his child, and his father Priam and his people, who would swiftly burn him on the pyre and give him his due rites. No, it is cursed Achilles you gods wish to favor, a man whose mind knows no justice, whose heart in his chest will not bend, but who, like a lion turned savage, gives way to his own great strength and proud spirit and falls upon the flocks of men to make himself a feast. So Achilles has destroyed all pity, and feels no shame, though shame does men both great harm and great good. Surely a man may lose someone dearer still, a brother born of the same womb, or a son, and yet, having wept and grieved, he lets him go, for the Fates gave men hearts that can endure. But this man, after tearing the life from godlike Hector, ties him behind his chariot and drags him around the tomb of his beloved companion. This brings him no honor, no advantage at all. Let him beware, good as he is, that we gods grow angry with him, for in his fury he outrages the senseless earth."
Then white-armed Hera answered him in anger: "That might even be true, lord of the silver bow, if you gods meant to give Achilles and Hector equal honor. But Hector is mortal, and sucked at a woman's breast, while Achilles is the son of a goddess, one I myself raised and nursed and gave in marriage to a man, to Peleus, who became dear to the immortals' hearts. All of you gods attended their wedding feast, and you sat among them with your lyre, friend of the wicked, forever faithless!"
Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: "Hera, do not be so utterly angry with the gods. Their honor will not be equal, it is true, yet Hector too was dearest to the gods of all mortal men in Troy. So he was to me as well, for he never failed to bring me pleasing gifts. My altar never lacked its share of the feast, the libation and the savor of sacrifice, for that is the honor allotted to us. But as for stealing the body, we will let that go, for it cannot be done, not with bold Hector hidden from Achilles, since his mother is always beside him, night and day alike. But let one of you call Thetis to my side, so that I may speak a careful word to her, that Achilles may accept ransom from Priam and give Hector back."
So he spoke, and storm-footed Iris rose to carry his word. Between Samos and rugged Imbros she plunged into the dark sea, and the water groaned as she struck it. Down she sank to the depths like a lump of lead, which, fastened to the horn of a grazing ox, goes down bearing death to the ravenous fish. She found Thetis in a hollow cave, and around her sat the other sea-goddesses gathered together; and Thetis, in their midst, wept for the doom of her flawless son, who was fated to die in Troy, in that rich land far from his home.
Standing close beside her, swift-footed Iris spoke: "Rise, Thetis. Zeus of the undying counsels calls you."
Then the goddess Thetis, silver-footed, answered her: "Why does that great god summon me? I am ashamed to mingle with the immortals, for I carry griefs beyond counting in my heart. Still, I will go; his word will not be spoken for nothing."
So speaking, the shining goddess took up her dark veil, blacker than which no garment could be found. She set out to go, and before her went wind-footed, swift Iris leading the way, and around them the waves of the sea parted. Stepping up onto the shore they shot up into the sky, and found the wide-seeing son of Cronus, and around him all the other blessed gods who live forever sat gathered together. She sat down beside father Zeus, and Athena made way for her. Hera placed a fine golden cup in her hand and spoke to comfort her; Thetis drank, and gave it back.
Then the father of gods and men began to speak among them: "You have come to Olympus, goddess Thetis, for all your sorrow, bearing an unforgettable grief in your heart — I know it well myself. Even so, I will tell you why I called you here. For nine days now a quarrel has risen among the immortals over Hector's corpse and over Achilles, sacker of cities. They urge the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus to steal the body away, but I grant this honor instead to Achilles, guarding your regard and friendship for time to come. Go quickly to the camp and give your son this charge: tell him the gods are angry with him, and that I am enraged beyond all the immortals, because in his raging heart he keeps Hector by the curved ships and will not release him — so that, in fear of me, he may give him back. And for my part, I will send Iris to great-hearted Priam, to bid him ransom his dear son, going to the Achaean ships, and bring gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart."
So he spoke, and silver-footed Thetis did not disobey; she went darting down from the peaks of Olympus and came to her son's hut. There she found him groaning heavily, and around him his dear companions were busy hurrying to prepare their morning meal, for a great shaggy sheep had just been slaughtered in the hut. His honored mother sat down close beside him, stroked him with her hand, and spoke, calling him by name: "My child, how long will you waste your heart in grief and mourning, remembering neither food nor rest? It is a good thing even to lie with a woman in love, for you will not live long — already death and mighty fate stand close beside you. But listen to me now, and quickly, for I come to you as a messenger from Zeus. He says the gods are angry with you, and that he himself is enraged beyond all the immortals, because in your raging heart you keep Hector by the curved ships and will not release him. Come, give him up, and accept ransom for the body."
Then swift-footed Achilles answered her: "So be it. Let whoever brings the ransom take the body away, if the Olympian himself commands it with a willing heart."
So, there among the gathered ships, mother and son spoke many winged words to one another.
Then the son of Cronus sent Iris to sacred Troy: "Go, swift Iris, leave your seat on Olympus and carry this message into Troy, to great-hearted Priam: tell him to ransom his dear son, going to the Achaean ships, and to bring gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart — alone, with no other Trojan man beside him. Let some herald attend him, an older man, to guide the mules and the smooth-wheeled wagon, and to bring the body back to the city, the one that godlike Achilles killed. Let no thought of death trouble his heart, no fear of any kind, for such a guide we will give him, the slayer of Argus, who will lead him until he brings him close to Achilles. And once he has led him inside Achilles' hut, Achilles himself will not kill him, but will hold back all the others, for he is not senseless, nor careless, nor lawless, but will show every kindness in sparing a man who comes as a suppliant."
So he spoke, and storm-footed Iris rose to carry his word. She came to Priam's house, and found there wailing and lament. His sons sat around their father inside the courtyard, drenching their clothing with tears, and the old man sat among them, wrapped close in his cloak, and much filth covered the old man's head and neck, gathered by his own hands as he rolled upon the ground. His daughters and his sons' wives wailed throughout the halls, remembering all the many brave men who lay dead, their lives taken by Argive hands.
Zeus's messenger stood beside Priam and spoke to him, her voice hushed, and trembling seized his limbs. "Take courage, Priam, son of Dardanus, and do not be afraid. I have not come here foreseeing harm for you, but with good will. I am a messenger from Zeus, who though far away cares greatly for you and pities you. The Olympian bids you ransom godlike Hector, and bring gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart — alone, with no other Trojan man beside you. Let some herald attend you, an older man, to guide the mules and the smooth-wheeled wagon, and to bring the body back to the city, the one that godlike Achilles killed. Let no thought of death trouble your heart, no fear of any kind, for such a guide will go along with you, the slayer of Argus, who will lead you until he brings you close to Achilles. And once he has led you inside Achilles' hut, Achilles himself will not kill you, but will hold back all the others, for he is not senseless, nor careless, nor lawless, but will show every kindness in sparing a man who comes as a suppliant."
So speaking, swift-footed Iris went on her way. And Priam ordered his sons to make ready the smooth-wheeled mule-wagon, and to bind the wicker box upon it. He himself went down to his fragrant chamber, high-roofed and built of cedar, which held many treasures, and called to his wife Hecuba and spoke to her: "My poor wife, a messenger has come to me from Zeus on Olympus, telling me to ransom my dear son, going to the Achaean ships, and to bring gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart. Come, tell me — what does your heart make of this? For as for me, some terrible strength and longing drives me to go there, to the ships, into the vast camp of the Achaeans."
So he spoke, and his wife cried out and answered him: "Oh, where has your good sense gone, the sense that once made you renowned among strangers and among your own people? How can you wish to go alone to the ships of the Achaeans, before the eyes of a man who has killed so many of your fine sons? Your heart must be iron. For if he seizes you, and looks upon you with his own eyes, that savage, faithless man will show you no mercy, no respect at all. No, let us weep for him instead, sitting apart in our hall. That is how mighty Fate spun the thread for him at his birth, when I myself bore him — to glut the swift-footed dogs, far from his parents, in the house of a violent man, whose liver I wish I could fasten on and eat! Then his deeds would be repaid for my son, since it was not as a coward that Achilles killed him, but as he stood before the Trojans and the deep-robed women of Troy, with no thought of flight or retreat."
Then old, godlike Priam answered her in turn: "Do not hold me back when I wish to go, and do not become yourself an evil omen in my own halls; you will not persuade me. For if it were some other man on earth who bade me do this, one of the seers who read the sacrifices, or one of the priests, we might call it false and turn away from it all the more. But now, since I myself heard the god and looked upon him face to face, I will go, and his word will not be spoken for nothing. And if it is my fate to die beside the ships of the bronze-clad Achaeans, I am willing; let Achilles kill me at once, once I have taken my son in my arms, once I have had my fill of grief."
He spoke, and lifted the fine lids of his chests; from within he took twelve very beautiful robes, twelve single-fold cloaks, as many carpets, as many white mantles, and as many tunics besides. He weighed out and brought ten full talents of gold, and brought out two gleaming tripods, four cauldrons, and one very beautiful cup, which Thracian men had given him when he went to them on an embassy, a great treasure — not even this did the old man spare in his house, so greatly did he wish in his heart to ransom his dear son. And he drove all the Trojans from his portico, scolding them with harsh words: "Get out, you disgraces, you shameful men! Have you no grief of your own at home, that you have come here to trouble me? Or do you think it a small thing that the son of Cronus, Zeus, has given me such pain, taking from me the best of my sons? You too will come to know it — you will find it far easier for the Achaeans to kill you now that he is dead. But as for me, before I see with my own eyes this city plundered and laid waste, let me go down into the house of Hades."
So he spoke, and drove the men off with his staff, and they went outside before the old man's urgency. Then he turned on his own sons, scolding Helenus and Paris and godlike Agathon, Pammon and Antiphonus and Polites, good at the war cry, Deiphobus and Hippothous and godlike Agavus — nine of them the old man scolded, and commanded: "Hurry, you wretched children, you disgraces! I wish all of you had been killed together at the swift ships instead of Hector. How wholly unlucky I am, since I fathered the finest sons in wide Troy, and not one of them, I say, is left to me — godlike Mestor, and Troilus, glorious in the chariot, and Hector, who was a god among men and seemed no mortal's son, but a god's. All these Ares destroyed, and only the disgraces are left to me — liars, dancers, champions of the stamping feet, plunderers of their own people's lambs and kids. Will you not make the wagon ready for me at once, and load all these things upon it, so that we may be on our way?"
So he spoke, and they, fearing their father's rebuke, brought out the smooth-wheeled mule-wagon, fine and newly built, and bound the wicker box upon it. They took down from its peg the mule-yoke, made of boxwood, fitted with a knob and well-set guiding rings; they brought out too the yoke-band, nine cubits long, together with the yoke. This they fitted carefully to the polished pole, at its very end, set the ring upon the pin, wound the band three times around the knob on each side, then lashed it in order and turned the end under the hook. Then, bringing out from the chamber the boundless ransom for Hector's head, they heaped it on the polished wagon, and yoked the strong-hooved, hard-working mules, which the Mysians had once given Priam as splendid gifts. And they led out for Priam his horses, which the old man had himself kept and reared at the polished manger.
While these were being yoked before the high house by the herald and Priam, both with careful thoughts in mind, Hecuba came near them, heavy at heart, holding in her right hand honey-sweet wine in a golden cup, so that they might pour libation before setting out. She stood before the horses and spoke, calling him by name: "Here, pour libation to father Zeus, and pray that you return home again from among your enemies, since your heart drives you to the ships, though I am against it. Pray then to the dark-clouded son of Cronus of Ida, who watches over all of Troy, and ask for a swift bird, his own messenger, the one dearest to him of all birds and greatest in strength, on the right hand, so that seeing it with your own eyes you may trust in it and go to the ships of the swift-horsed Danaans. But if far-seeing Zeus does not send you his own messenger, then I would not urge you, nor advise you, to go to the ships of the Argives, however eager you are."
Then godlike Priam answered her: "Wife, I will not refuse you in what you ask."
For it is a fine thing to lift one's hands to Zeus, if he will show mercy." So the old man spoke, and he told the housekeeper to pour clean water over his hands, and she came to his side holding the basin and the pitcher together. When he had washed, he took the cup from his wife's hands, and then, standing in the middle of the courtyard, he prayed and poured out wine, looking up to the sky, and he cried aloud:
"Father Zeus, who rule from Ida, most glorious, greatest of gods, grant that I come to Achilles as a man he will welcome and pity, and send me a swift bird, that best of omens, the one dearest to your own heart and mightiest in strength, flying to the right, so that I may see it with my own eyes and trust it as I go to the ships of the fast-horsed Greeks."
So he prayed, and Zeus the counselor heard him. At once he sent an eagle, most perfect of winged things that fly, the dark hunter men also call the black eagle. Wide as the door of a rich man's high-roofed chamber is made, fitted with its close-set bolt, so wide were the eagle's wings on either side. It swept to the right over the city, and when they saw it, everyone's heart lifted with joy.
The old man hurried to mount his chariot and drove out through the gateway and the echoing colonnade. In front the mules pulled the four-wheeled wagon, driven by wise Idaeus, and behind came the horses, which the old man drove on with his whip, urging them swiftly through the city, and all his household followed after him, weeping without end, as if he were going to his death.
But when they had gone down from the city and come out onto the plain, the sons and sons-in-law turned back toward Troy, while the two of them, going on across the plain, did not escape the notice of far-seeing Zeus. Seeing the old man, he pitied him, and at once spoke to his own son Hermes:
"Hermes, since it is you above all who love to be a companion to men, and you listen to whomever you wish, go now and lead Priam to the hollow ships of the Greeks in such a way that no one of the other Greeks sees or notices him, until he reaches the son of Peleus."
So he spoke, and the guide, the slayer of Argus, did not disobey. At once he bound beneath his feet the beautiful sandals, immortal and golden, which carry him over water and over the boundless earth alike, swift as a gust of wind. And he took up his wand, with which he charms the eyes of men, of whomever he wishes, and wakes others again from sleep. Holding this in his hands the strong slayer of Argus flew on his way.
Quickly he reached Troy and the Hellespont, and went forward in the likeness of a young prince, just growing his first beard, in the fairest bloom of youth. Now when the travelers had driven past the great mound of Ilus, they stopped the mules and horses to let them drink at the river, for by now darkness had come down over the land.
Looking closely, the herald caught sight of Hermes approaching, and spoke to Priam, saying, "Take care, son of Dardanus, this calls for a wary mind. I see a man, and I think we may soon be torn apart. Come, let us flee on the chariot, or else clasp his knees and beg for mercy, in case he pities us."
So he spoke, and the old man's mind grew faint with fear; the hair stood up on his bent limbs, and he stood there stunned. But the kindly god himself came near, took the old man's hand, and questioned him, saying, "Father, where are you driving your horses and mules like this through the divine night, while other mortals sleep? Have you no fear of the fierce-breathing Greeks, who are your enemies and stand so near? If one of them should see you carrying such treasures through the swift black night, what then would be in your mind? You yourself are no longer young, and this man who follows you is old too, hardly able to fight off anyone who moves against you first. But I will do you no harm — indeed I would keep off anyone else who tried; I take you for a father dear to me."
Then the old godlike Priam answered him: "All this is indeed as you say, dear child. But still some god has held out a hand over me even now, sending such a traveler to meet me, one so fortunate — you, so fine in body and looks, so wise in mind, and surely born of blessed parents."
Then the guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to him again: "Yes indeed, old man, all you say is fitting. But come, tell me this and speak it truly — are you sending all these many rich treasures away to foreign men, so that they may be kept safe for you there? Or are you all now abandoning holy Troy in fear, since the best man among you has fallen, your own son, who was second to none of the Greeks in battle?"
Then the old godlike Priam answered him: "Who are you, best of men, and whose son are you, that you speak so fairly of my ill-fated son's fate?"
Then the guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to him again: "You are testing me, old man, asking about noble Hector. Him I have seen many times with my own eyes in battle where men win glory, and I saw him too when he drove the Greeks to their ships and cut them down with his sharp bronze; and we stood by in wonder, for Achilles would not let us fight, being angry at the son of Atreus. I am his attendant — the same well-built ship brought us both. I am one of the Myrmidons, and my father is Polyctor. He is a rich man, and old now like yourself; he has six sons, and I am the seventh. I cast lots among them and it fell to me to come here. Now I have come out to the plain from the ships, for at dawn the bright-eyed Greeks will set their battle around the city. They grow restless sitting idle, and the kings of the Greeks cannot hold them back from fighting."
Then the old godlike Priam answered him: "If indeed you are the attendant of Achilles, son of Peleus, then come, tell me the whole truth — is my son still there by the ships, or has Achilles by now cut him limb from limb and thrown him to his dogs?"
Then the guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to him again: "Old man, no dogs or birds have yet eaten him. He still lies there by Achilles' ship, just as he was, in the huts; and this is now the twelfth day he has lain there, yet his flesh does not decay, nor do worms devour it, the kind that feed on men slain in war. It is true Achilles drags him without pity round the tomb of his dear companion, every day when dawn appears, yet he does not disfigure him. You would marvel yourself to see him, could you go there — how fresh with dew he lies, washed clean of blood, with no stain anywhere; and every wound has closed, though many drove their bronze into him. So it is that the blessed gods care for your son, even dead as he is, for he was dear to their hearts."
So he spoke, and the old man rejoiced, and answered, "My child, how good it is to give the immortals their due gifts! For never, while he lived, did my son forget the gods who hold Olympus in his own house — and so they remembered him even in the fate of death. But come, accept this fine cup from my hands, and keep me safe, and grant me passage, with the gods' help, until I reach the hut of the son of Peleus."
Then the guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to him again: "You are testing me, old man, since I am younger, but you will not persuade me to take gifts from you behind Achilles' back. I fear him too much, and I would be ashamed in my heart to rob him, in case some harm should come to me afterward. But as your guide I would go with you even to famous Argos, faithfully, whether by swift ship or on foot beside you, and no one would attack you for scorning your escort."
With that the kindly god sprang up onto the chariot, quickly seized the whip and reins in his hands, and breathed great strength into the horses and mules. When they reached the towers and the ditch that guarded the ships, the sentries were just then busy with their evening meal, and over all of them the guide, the slayer of Argus, poured sleep; then at once he opened the gates and pushed back the bars, and led in Priam and the glittering gifts upon the wagon.
But when they reached the lofty hut of the son of Peleus, which the Myrmidons had built for their lord, cutting timbers of fir, and roofed above with shaggy thatch they had gathered from the meadow — and around it they had made a great courtyard for their lord with close-set stakes, whose gate was barred by a single bolt of pine, which it took three Greeks to ram shut and three to draw back that great bar of the door — three of the rest, that is, for Achilles alone could ram it shut by himself — there the kindly Hermes opened the gate for the old man, and led in the glorious gifts to the swift-footed son of Peleus. Then he stepped down from the chariot to the ground and said,
"Old man, it is I, an immortal god, who have come to you — Hermes, for my father sent me to be your guide. But now I will go back again; I will not go before Achilles' eyes, for it would bring shame for an immortal god to welcome mortal men so openly, face to face. You, go in yourself, and clasp the knees of the son of Peleus, and beg him by his father and his fair-haired mother and by his child, so that you may move his heart."
With these words Hermes went off toward high Olympus. Priam leapt down from the chariot to the ground, leaving Idaeus there, who stayed behind holding the horses and mules, while the old man went straight to the house where Achilles, dear to Zeus, was accustomed to sit. There he found him inside; his companions sat apart from him, and only two, the warrior Automedon and Alcimus, offshoot of Ares, were busy attending him nearby, for he had just finished eating and drinking, and the table still stood beside him.
Great Priam came in without their noticing, and, standing close to Achilles, he clasped his knees and kissed his hands — those terrible hands that had killed so many of his sons. As when a heavy madness seizes a man who, having killed someone in his own country, comes to a foreign land, to the house of some rich man, and wonder seizes those who look on him — so Achilles wondered to see godlike Priam before him, and the others wondered too, and looked at one another.
Then Priam spoke to him, pleading: "Remember your own father, godlike Achilles, a man my own age, standing on the grim threshold of old age. Perhaps those living around him now wear him down, and there is no one there to defend him from ruin and harm. Yet he, at least, hearing that you are still alive, rejoices in his heart, and hopes every day to see his beloved son coming home from Troy. But I am utterly unfortunate, for I fathered the best sons in wide Troy, and not one of them, I think, is left to me. I had fifty when the sons of the Greeks came — nineteen born of a single womb, the rest borne to me by other women in my halls. Furious Ares has loosened the knees of most of them, and the one who alone stood by me, who defended the city and its people — him you killed a few days ago as he fought for his homeland, Hector. It is for his sake that I have come now to the ships of the Greeks, to win him back from you, and I bring a ransom beyond counting.
"Achilles, honor the gods, and take pity on me, remembering your own father. I am more pitiable still, for I have endured what no other mortal on this earth has ever endured — I have brought to my lips the hand of the man who killed my sons."
So he spoke, and stirred in Achilles a longing to weep for his own father. Taking the old man's hand, he gently pushed him back. And the two of them remembered — Priam, huddled at Achilles' feet, wept bitterly for man-slaying Hector, while Achilles wept for his own father, and then again for Patroclus, and the sound of their grieving rose through the house.
But when great Achilles had had his fill of weeping, and the longing for it had passed from his heart and limbs, he rose at once from his seat and raised the old man by the hand, pitying his gray head and gray beard, and spoke to him, saying, "Ah, poor man, you have indeed borne much sorrow in your heart. How did you dare to come alone to the ships of the Greeks, into the sight of the man who has killed so many of your brave sons? Your heart must be made of iron. But come now, sit on this chair, and though we grieve, let us let our sorrows lie quiet in our hearts for now, for there is no profit to be had from chilling grief. This is the fate the gods have spun for wretched mortals, to live in sorrow, while they themselves are free of care.
"Two jars stand on the floor of Zeus's palace, filled with the gifts he gives, one of evils, the other of blessings. The man to whom Zeus who delights in thunder gives a mixture of both meets sometimes with evil and sometimes with good; but the man to whom he gives only from the jar of sorrows, that man he makes an outcast, and cruel hunger drives him over the bright earth, and he wanders honored by neither gods nor men.
"So too the gods gave splendid gifts to Peleus from his very birth, for he surpassed all men in prosperity and wealth, and ruled over the Myrmidons, and though he was mortal, the gods gave him a goddess for a wife. But even upon him the gods laid an evil too, for no line of sons to rule after him was born to him in his halls — he had only one son, doomed to an untimely end, and I am not there to care for him in his old age, since I sit here far from my homeland, in Troy, bringing grief to you and your children.
"And you too, old man, we hear, were once fortunate. Over all the land bounded by Lesbos, seat of Macar, and Phrygia above, and the boundless Hellespont, over all this, they say, you were foremost, old man, in wealth and in sons. But since the gods of heaven brought this affliction on you, there has been nothing round your city but battle and the killing of men. Bear it, and do not grieve without end in your heart, for you will gain nothing by mourning for your son; you will not bring him back to life, and before that you may suffer some other evil still."
Then the old godlike Priam answered him: "Do not yet make me sit on a chair, my lord, while Hector lies uncared for among the huts, but quickly free him, so that I may see him with my own eyes, and accept the ransom, the great ransom, that we bring you. May you have joy of it, and may you return to your own homeland, since you have allowed me, at least, to live and to see the light of the sun."
Then swift-footed Achilles looked at him darkly and said, "No longer provoke me, old man. I have already resolved on my own to free Hector for you; a messenger came to me from Zeus — my mother, who bore me, daughter of the old man of the sea. And I know well, Priam, and it is no secret to me, that some god has led you here to the swift ships of the Greeks. For no mortal, however young and strong, would dare come into our camp — he could not escape the notice of the guards, nor could he easily force back the bar of our gate. So now, do not stir my heart further in my grief, or I may not spare even you, old man, suppliant though you are, within these huts, and I may sin against the commands of Zeus."
So he spoke, and the old man grew afraid and obeyed his word. Then the son of Peleus sprang out of the hut like a lion, not alone, for two attendants went with him, the warrior Automedon and Alcimus, whom Achilles honored most among his companions after the death of Patroclus. These now loosed the horses and mules from their harness, and led in the herald, the old man's crier, and set him on a stool; and from the polished wagon they lifted the boundless ransom brought for Hector's head.
But they left behind two robes and a well-woven tunic, so that Achilles might wrap the body in them to be carried home. Then he called out the serving women and told them to wash the body and anoint it, carrying it apart first, so that Priam would not see his son — lest, seeing his child, he could not hold back his anger in his grieving heart, and it would stir Achilles' own heart to fury, and he might kill him and sin against the commands of Zeus.
So when the serving women had washed the body and anointed it with oil, and wrapped it round in a fine robe and a tunic, Achilles himself lifted it and laid it on a bier, and his companions helped him raise it onto the polished wagon. Then he groaned aloud and called on his dear companion by name: "Do not be angry with me, Patroclus, if you learn, even there in the house of Hades, that I have given back noble Hector to his dear father, for he has paid me no unworthy ransom. And I will give you your due share of this too, as much as is fitting."
So he spoke, and godlike Achilles went back into the hut and sat down on the richly worked chair from which he had risen, against the opposite wall, and spoke his words to Priam: "Your son, old man, has been given back to you as you asked; he lies upon a bier, and at dawn, when it appears,
—you shall see him yourself when I bring him to you. But now let us think of supper. Even Niobe, with her lovely hair, remembered food, though twelve children had died in her halls—six daughters and six strong sons. The sons Apollo killed with his silver bow, angry at Niobe, and the daughters Artemis, showering arrows, because Niobe had set herself against fair-cheeked Leto, boasting that Leto had borne only two children while she herself had borne many—yet those two destroyed all of hers. Nine days the dead lay in their blood, and no one was left to bury them, for the son of Cronos turned the people to stone; but on the tenth day the gods of heaven buried them. Niobe, worn out with weeping, remembered food at last. And now, somewhere among the rocks, on the lonely mountains of Sipylus, where they say the nymphs who dance beside the river Achelous have their beds, there, though she is stone, she still broods on the sorrows the gods gave her.
But come, noble old man, let us too think of food. Afterward you may weep for your dear son again, once you have brought him into Troy—he will be much wept for.
So speaking, swift Achilles sprang up, killed a white sheep, and his companions skinned it and dressed it well, in proper order. They cut it skillfully into pieces, spitted them, roasted them with care, and drew all off the spits. Automedon took bread and set it out on the table in fine baskets, while Achilles served the meat. They reached out their hands to the good things laid ready before them.
When they had put aside their desire for food and drink, Priam, son of Dardanus, gazed at Achilles in wonder, seeing how great he was and what he looked like—for he seemed like the gods themselves. And Achilles in turn gazed at Priam, son of Dardanus, wondering at his noble looks and listening to his words.
When they had had their fill of looking at one another, old godlike Priam spoke first: “Put me to bed quickly now, cherished by Zeus, so that at last we may lie down and take our pleasure in sweet sleep. My eyes have not closed beneath my eyelids since my son lost his life at your hands. I have done nothing but groan and brood over countless griefs, rolling in the dung of my courtyard. But now at last I have tasted bread and let gleaming wine pass down my throat—before this I had tasted nothing.”
So he spoke, and Achilles ordered his companions and the serving-women to set up beds beneath the portico, to lay fine purple blankets on them, spread coverlets over these, and put thick woolen cloaks on top for warmth. The women went out of the hall carrying torches in their hands, and quickly made up two beds, working briskly. Then swift-footed Achilles said to Priam, teasing him: “Sleep outside, dear old man, in case some counselor of the Achaeans comes here
—as they always do, sitting beside me to plan our strategy, as is right. If one of them should see you here through the swift black night, he would go at once and tell Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, and then the return of the body might be delayed. But come, tell me this exactly, and speak the truth: how many days do you intend for burying godlike Hector, so that for that time I may hold myself back and restrain the army?”
Then old godlike Priam answered him: “If you are truly willing to let me carry out the full burial for godlike Hector
—then you would do me a kindness, Achilles, by acting this way. You know how we are penned within the city, and the timber must be hauled from the mountain far away, and the Trojans are very much afraid. Nine days we would mourn him in our halls, and on the tenth we would bury him and the people would feast, and on the eleventh we would build a mound over him, and on the twelfth we would fight again, if fight we must.”
Then swift godlike Achilles answered him in turn: “This too shall be granted you, old Priam, just as you ask. I will hold back the war for as long a time as you require.”
So speaking, he took the old man's hand at the wrist, on the right side, so that his heart would feel no fear. Then the herald and Priam lay down to sleep there in the porch of the house, their minds full of careful thoughts, while Achilles slept in the innermost chamber of his well-built hut, and Briseis of the lovely cheeks lay down beside him.
Now all the other gods, and the men who fight from chariots, slept the whole night through, overcome by soft sleep. But sleep did not catch hold of Hermes, guide and helper, as he turned over in his mind how he might lead King Priam away from the ships without the sacred gatekeepers noticing
—Standing over Priam's head, he spoke to him and said: “Old man, you have no fear at all of danger, sleeping on like this among enemy men, now that Achilles has spared you. You have ransomed your dear son, true, and paid a great price for him—but for your own life, three times as much again would your sons still living pay in ransom, should Agamemnon, son of Atreus, learn who you are, and should all the other Achaeans learn it too.”
So he spoke, and the old man was afraid, and roused the herald. Then Hermes yoked their horses and mules for them
—and drove them himself briskly through the camp, and no one noticed. But when they reached the ford of the fair-flowing river, the swirling Xanthus, whom immortal Zeus had fathered, Hermes departed for towering Olympus, while Dawn in her saffron robe was spreading over the whole earth. They drove the horses toward the city, groaning and wailing, and the mules carried the body. No one else noticed them, none of the men or fair-girdled women—only Cassandra, lovely as golden Aphrodite, who had climbed up to Pergamus and caught sight of her dear father
—standing in the chariot, and the herald who cried through the city. And she saw Hector too, lying on the mules' litter. Then she wailed aloud, and her cry rang out through the whole city: “Come, Trojans, men and women, look upon Hector, if ever before you rejoiced to see him come home alive from battle—for he was a great joy to the city and to all the people.” So she spoke, and no man or woman was left within the city, for unbearable grief had seized them all. They met the crowd bringing the corpse near the gates. First his beloved wife and his honored mother
—flung themselves upon the smooth-wheeled wagon, tearing their hair, clutching at his head, while the crowd stood weeping around them. And now they would have mourned Hector there before the gates the whole day long, weeping until the sun went down, had not the old man spoken from his chariot to the people: “Make way for me to pass through with the mules; you may have your fill of weeping afterward, once I have brought him home.” So he spoke, and they parted and made way for the wagon. When they had brought him into the famous house, they laid him on a corded bed, and set beside him singers
—to lead the dirges, men who sang the mournful song, while the singers led the lament and the women wailed in answer. Among them white-armed Andromache led the keening, holding the head of man-slaying Hector in her hands: “Husband, you have died young, and left me a widow in your halls. Our child is still a mere infant, the one we bore, you and I, doomed as we are—and I do not think he will reach manhood, for before that this city will be utterly destroyed from its heights. For you, its guardian, are dead—you who protected it, who kept safe its faithful wives and its little children
—who will soon be carried off in the hollow ships, and I among them. And you, my child, will either come with me, to labor at degrading tasks, toiling for a harsh master, or else some Achaean will seize you by the arm and hurl you from the tower to a wretched death, in anger because Hector killed his brother, or his father, or his son—for many Achaeans indeed bit the vast earth at Hector's hands. Your father was never gentle in the grim work of war. That is why the people mourn him throughout the city
—and you have brought unspeakable grief and mourning to your parents, Hector; but to me most of all will be left bitter sorrow. You did not die reaching your hands to me from your bed, nor did you speak to me some final word I might remember always, weeping, night and day.” So she spoke, weeping, and the women wailed in answer. Then Hecuba in turn led their thick lament: “Hector, dearest to my heart of all my children, while you lived you were beloved by the gods, and even now, in the fate of death, they have cared for you
—for the others among my sons, swift-footed Achilles used to sell, whenever he caught them, across the barren sea, to Samos, to Imbros, and to smoky Lemnos; but you—when he took your life with the sharp bronze, he dragged you again and again around the tomb of his companion Patroclus, whom you had killed—yet even so he could not bring him back to life. But now you lie in our hall fresh and dewy, like one whom Apollo of the silver bow has come upon and slain with his gentle arrows.” So she spoke, weeping, and stirred an unceasing lament.
Then, third, Helen led them in mourning: “Hector, dearest by far to my heart of all my husband's brothers—for indeed my husband is godlike Paris, who brought me to Troy: would that I had died before that day! For this is now the twentieth year since I went away from there and left my own homeland, yet never once did I hear an unkind or bitter word from you. And if anyone else in the halls reproached me—one of your brothers, or your sisters, or your brothers' fair-robed wives, or your mother—though your father was always as gentle as if he were my own
—you would speak out and hold them back with your words, with your own gentle spirit and your gentle speech. So I weep for you and for my own wretched self, grieving in my heart, for I have no one else now in all wide Troy who is kind or friendly to me—everyone shrinks from me in horror.” So she spoke, weeping, and the vast crowd of people groaned in answer. Then old Priam spoke a word among the people: “Trojans, now bring wood into the city, and have no fear in your hearts of an Achaean ambush lying in wait; for Achilles, sending me off from the black ships, promised me
—that he would do us no harm before the twelfth dawn should come.” So he spoke, and they yoked oxen and mules to their wagons, and quickly gathered before the city. For nine days they hauled in a vast store of timber. But when the tenth dawn appeared, bringing light to mortals, then they carried out bold Hector, weeping, and laid the body on the top of the pyre, and cast fire upon it. When Dawn appeared again, rosy-fingered, born early, then the people gathered once more around the pyre of glorious Hector. And when they had assembled, all gathered together
—first they quenched the burning pyre with gleaming wine, wherever the fire's force had reached; then his brothers and companions gathered the white bones, weeping, and warm tears ran down their cheeks. They took the bones and placed them in a golden chest, wrapping them in soft purple robes. Quickly they laid this in a hollow grave, and over it heaped a covering of great close-set stones. Swiftly they raised a mound above it, while watchers sat all around, everywhere, lest the well-greaved Achaeans should attack before their time.
When they had heaped up the mound, they went back again; and then, gathering together properly, they held a glorious funeral feast in the halls of Priam, king cherished by Zeus. So they carried out the burial of Hector, tamer of horses.