The Iliad · wrath, sing, goddess
The gods vote against the rage; a mother tells her son to eat, to sleep, to love; an old man kisses the hands that killed his sons — and the two of them weep, eat, and look at each other. The poem that began with the wrath ends with a burial done properly.
The Iliad does not end with a fall of a city or a death of a hero. It ends with an act of mercy so difficult that heaven has to engineer it and two broken men have to perform it — and with a funeral. Book 24 begins where Book 23's community ended: everyone else asleep, Achilles alone on the beach, cycling through his postures of grief, harnessing at each dawn to drag Hector three times round the tomb — and going nowhere, because Apollo keeps the corpse whole with the golden aegis. The mutilation has become a machine that grinds and does not feed. The gods' council states the poem's verdict through Apollo's indictment — Achilles "ravages dumb earth in his fury," having lost pity and that aidōs "that harms men greatly, and profits them"; even a man who loses a brother or a son "weeps, and laments, and lets go: for the Fates gave mankind an enduring heart" (note 3). Zeus's ruling refuses both theft and equal honor: Hector was dearest of Troy's mortals to the gods; Achilles shall have the glory — of giving him back. Mercy is arranged as an honor, because that is the only currency the recipient still accepts (note 4).
The double embassy — Thetis down to Achilles, Iris down to Priam — produces the book's two impossible journeys: a mother telling her doomed son to eat, sleep, and lie with a woman, "for you will not be with me long" (note 6); and an old man driving a treasure-wagon at night into the camp of the man who has killed his sons, against his wife's plea (her wish to eat Achilles' liver raw is the third and most terrible of the poem's raw-eating wishes, because it is hers; note 8). Hermes — the god whose dearest thing is "to be man's companion" — walks Priam through the sleeping army disguised as a princely squire with his first beard, and delivers, along the way, the poem's kindest sentence: Hector lies twelve days unburied and "dewy-fresh... the blessed gods care for your son though he is nothing now but a dead man, because they loved him at heart" (note 13).
Then the scene the whole epic exists for. Priam enters unnoticed, clasps Achilles' knees, and kisses "the terrible, man-slaughtering hands that had killed so many of his sons" — while the poem compares him, the suppliant king, to a murderer arriving in exile at a rich man's hall: the roles of killer and victim deliberately exchanged in the simile (note 15). "Remember your father" opens the plea that ends: "I have endured what no other mortal on earth has yet endured: to lift to my lips the hand of the man who killed my son." And the two of them weep together — Priam for Hector, Achilles "now for his father, now again for Patroclus" — two griefs, one sound, filling the house (note 17). What follows is the consolation of the two jars — no unmixed good exists for mortals; Peleus's splendor and Priam's fifty sons end the same way; "Bear it... you will not raise him up" — and then supper, and the strangest, most humane moment in Homer: the two enemies simply look at each other, each marveling at what the other is, "and when they had taken their fill of looking" (note 22). The old rage flickers once — "Do not provoke me now, old man" — and its live presence under the mercy is exactly what makes the mercy real (note 19).
The supplication-arc of the late books (Tros refused, Lycaon refused, Hector refused) closes with supplication accepted; and with it the poem's largest ring: an aged father comes with ransom to redeem his child from a king's wrath — Chryses, Book 1, line 12 — and this time the king says yes. Achilles washes and lifts the body himself, apologizes to Patroclus, promises a share of the ransom, and grants eleven days' truce with his hand on the old man's wrist "so his heart should not be afraid." Briseis, in one quiet clause, sleeps at his side again. Priam drives home past the ford of Xanthus (the register's line, its third appearance); Cassandra cries the city awake; and the three laments — Andromache with the head in her hands, Hecuba, and last Helen, mourning the one man in Troy who was kind to her — carry the poem to the pyre, the golden box, the purple robes, the mound raised under guard, the funeral feast. "So they busied themselves with the burial of Hector, the tamer of horses": the epic of wrath ends on rites performed — grief, at last, allowed to do its work properly (note 30).
Register notes: 24.692-693 = 21.1-2 = 14.433-434 (the ford, third occurrence); Iris's message 175-187 repeats Zeus's 146-158 verbatim (kept); "your heart must be iron" 205 = 521 (Hecuba's phrase returned by Achilles); the raw-eating triplet closes (4.35, 22.346, 24.212); "man-slaughtering" passes to Hector's own head at 724; the Judgment of Paris (25-30, ath.), the jars, and Niobe's petrifaction (614-617, ath.) are kept and noted; all fixed formulas hold to the last line.
1The gathering broke, and the people scattered, each man1
to his own swift ship. The rest turned their minds to supper
and to sweet sleep, and took their fill; but Achilles
wept, remembering his dear companion; and sleep
5that subdues all things would not take him: he turned this way and that,
aching for Patroclus — for his manhood and his brave strength,
and all he had wound through and suffered at his side,
threading the wars of men and the punishing waves.
Remembering these things he let the swollen tears fall,
10lying now on his side, now again
on his back, now face-down; and then he would stand
straight up, and wander in circles, distraught, along the beach. Nor did dawn
ever slip past him, showing over the sea and the shores:
he would yoke his swift horses under the chariot,
15and tie Hector behind the car, to drag him,
and haul him three times round the tomb of Menoetius's dead son,
then rest again in his hut, and leave him there,
stretched face-down in the dust. But Apollo kept
all disfigurement from the flesh, pitying the man
20even in death: he covered him round with the aegis,
all golden, so the dragging would not tear him.
So Achilles in his fury defiled brilliant Hector;2
but the blessed gods, looking on, were moved to pity,
and kept urging the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus to steal him.
25That pleased all the others — but never Hera,
nor Poseidon, nor the grey-eyed maiden:
they held fast, as when it first began, to their hatred
of holy Ilion, and Priam, and his people — for the blindness
of Alexandros, who insulted the goddesses when they came
30to his sheep-fold, and praised the one who fed his grievous lust.
But when the twelfth dawn rose from that day,3
then Phoebus Apollo spoke among the immortals:
"You are hard, you gods — you destroyers! Did Hector never
burn for you the thigh-cuts of oxen and unblemished goats?
35And now you cannot bring yourselves to save him — a corpse! —
for his wife to look upon, and his mother, and his child,
and his father Priam, and the people, who would quickly
burn him in the fire and give him his portion of rites.
No — it is ruinous Achilles you gods choose to help:
40a man with no fit wits in him, no purpose in his chest
that will bend: his thoughts are savage, like a lion
who yields to his own great strength and lordly heart
and goes at the flocks of men, to take his feast:
so Achilles has destroyed pity; and there is no shame in him —
45shame, which harms men greatly, and profits them too.
A man may lose someone even closer than a friend —
a brother of one womb, or his own son —
and yet, when he has wept and lamented, he lets go:
for the Fates gave mankind an enduring heart.
50But this man — since he stripped great Hector of his dear life,
he ties him behind his horses and drags him round the tomb
of his dear companion. It is not the finer thing, nor the better.
Let him take care we do not turn on him in anger, great as he is:
it is dumb earth he defiles in all his fury."
55And white-armed Hera, angered, answered him:4
"Even that word of yours might stand, lord of the silver bow,
if you gods will set Achilles and Hector at one price.
Hector is mortal, and was suckled at a woman's breast;
but Achilles is the child of a goddess — one I myself
60reared and cherished and gave to a man to be his wife —
to Peleus, dear beyond all men to the immortals.
All of you gods were at the wedding; and you among them
sat at the feast with your lyre — companion of evils, faithless forever!"
Then in answer spoke to her cloud-gatherer Zeus:
65"Hera — do not be wholly furious with the gods.
Their honor shall not be one price. And yet Hector
was dearest to the gods of all mortals in Ilion —
so he was to me: he never failed in the gifts I love.
Never did my altar lack its fair share of the feast,
70the libation and the savor: for that is the honor-portion we gods have.
But the stealing — let it go. There is no way to take
bold Hector unseen by Achilles: his mother
is beside him always, mingled with his nights and days.
No — let one of the gods call Thetis here to me,
75so I can tell her a close-packed word: that Achilles
shall take gifts from Priam, and give Hector back."
So he spoke; and storm-footed Iris rose to carry it,5
and midway between Samos and rugged Imbros
she plunged into the black sea; and the water groaned above her.
80Down she shot to the bottom like the lead sinker
that rides the horn of a field-ox down the line
and goes among the ravening fish, carrying death.
She found Thetis in the hollow cave, and around her
the other sea-goddesses sat gathered; and she in their midst
85was weeping the fate of her blameless son, who was to
perish in deep-soiled Troy, far from his fatherland.
And standing close, swift-footed Iris addressed her:
"Rise, Thetis. Zeus of the imperishable counsels calls you."
Then answered her the goddess, silver-footed Thetis:
90"Why does the great god summon me? I shrink from
mixing with the immortals: the griefs in my heart are past counting.
But I will go. Whatever word he speaks shall not be spoken in vain."
So speaking, the brilliant goddess took up a veil —
a dark-blue one: there is no garment blacker.
95And she set out, and wind-footed swift Iris led
before her; and around them the wave of the sea gave way.
They stepped out on the beach and darted up to heaven,
and found the wide-seeing son of Cronos, and around him
sat gathered all the other blessed gods who are forever.
100And she sat down beside father Zeus — Athena yielded her place —
and Hera put a beautiful golden cup in her hand
and cheered her with words; and Thetis drank, and gave it back.
And the father of men and gods began speaking among them:
"You have come to Olympus, goddess Thetis, for all your sorrow,
105carrying unforgettable grief in your heart. I know it myself.
Even so, I will tell you why I called you here.
For nine days a quarrel has stood among the immortals
over Hector's body, and Achilles sacker of cities;
they keep urging the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus to steal him.
110But I attach this glory to Achilles instead —
guarding your reverence and your love for the days to come.
Go quickly to the camp, and lay this charge on your son:
tell him the gods are indignant with him — and I beyond all
immortals am angered — because in his heart's madness
115he holds Hector at the beaked ships, and has not released him:
so that, it may be, he will fear me, and give Hector back.
And I will send Iris to great-hearted Priam:
to ransom his dear son, going to the ships of the Achaeans,
bearing gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart."
120So he spoke; and the goddess, silver-footed Thetis, obeyed,6
and went darting down from the peaks of Olympus,
and came to her son's hut. There she found him
groaning without pause; and around him his companions
were busy at speed, making the morning meal:
125a great shaggy sheep lay slaughtered in the hut.
And she, his lady mother, sat down close beside him,
and stroked him with her hand, and spoke a word, and named him:
"My child — how long will you eat your own heart out
with weeping and grieving, remembering neither bread
130nor bed? Yet it is good to lie with a woman
in love. For you will not be with me long: already
death stands close beside you, and fate the overpowering.
Now listen quickly: I am a messenger of Zeus to you.
He says the gods are indignant with you — and he beyond all
135immortals is angered — because in your heart's madness
you hold Hector at the beaked ships, and have not released him.
Come: give him up, and accept ransom for the dead."
Then in answer spoke to her swift-footed Achilles:
"So be it. Whoever brings the ransom, let him take the body,
140if the Olympian himself, in earnest, commands it."
So the two of them, in the gathering-place of the ships,
mother and son, spoke many winged words to each other.
And the son of Cronos sent Iris down to holy Ilion:
"Up, swift Iris: leave the seat of Olympus7
145and carry word to great-hearted Priam inside Ilion:
to ransom his dear son, going to the ships of the Achaeans,
bearing gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart —
alone: let no other man of the Trojans go with him.
A herald may follow him, an elder one, to steer
150the mules and the smooth-wheeled wagon, and to carry
back to the city the dead man brilliant Achilles killed.
And let no thought of death trouble his mind, no fear:
such an escort we will give him — the slayer of Argus,
who will lead him until his leading brings him to Achilles.
155And when he has led him inside Achilles' hut,
that man will not kill him — he will hold all others back:
for he is not witless, not blind, not godless;
he will spare a suppliant man, and treat him with all kindness."
So he spoke; and storm-footed Iris rose to carry it,
160and came to Priam's house, and found there crying and mourning.
The sons sat around their father inside the courtyard,
soaking their clothes with tears; and in their midst the old man,
wrapped tight in his mantle; and thick on the old man's
head and neck lay the dung
165he had gathered on himself with his own hands, rolling in it.
And his daughters and his sons' wives wailed through the house,
remembering the men — so many, and so brave —
who lay dead at Argive hands, their lives destroyed.
And the messenger of Zeus stood by Priam and spoke,
170in a small voice; and trembling took his limbs:
"Take courage in your heart, Priam, Dardanus's descendant. Do not fear.
I do not come to you with my eye on evil,
but meaning well. I am a messenger of Zeus to you,
who far away cares for you greatly, and pities you.
175The Olympian commands you: ransom brilliant Hector,
bearing gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart —
alone: let no other man of the Trojans go with you.
A herald may follow you, an elder one, to steer
the mules and the smooth-wheeled wagon, and to carry
180back to the city the dead man brilliant Achilles killed.
And let no thought of death trouble your mind, no fear:
such an escort will go with you — the slayer of Argus,
who will lead you until his leading brings you to Achilles.
And when he has led you inside Achilles' hut,
185that man will not kill you — he will hold all others back:
for he is not witless, not blind, not godless;
he will spare a suppliant man, and treat him with all kindness."
So speaking, swift-footed Iris went her way.8
And Priam ordered his sons to make ready the smooth-wheeled
190mule-wagon, and to lash the wicker box upon it;
and he himself went down to the vaulted store-room,
cedar-beamed, high-roofed, that held his many treasures,
and called his wife Hecuba, and said to her:
"Lady — a messenger from Zeus has come to me from Olympus:
195I am to ransom our dear son, going to the ships of the Achaeans,
bearing gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart.
So come, tell me: how does it seem to your mind?
For my own strength and heart are urging me terribly
to go there — to the ships, into the broad camp of the Achaeans."
200So he spoke; and the woman shrieked, and answered:
"Ah me — where have your wits gone, for which you once
were famous among strangers and the people you rule?
How can you want to go to the ships of the Achaeans — alone —
into the eyes of the man who has stripped your many
205brave sons? Your heart must be iron.
If he takes you — if he sets eyes on you —
savage and faithless as that man is, he will not pity you,
he will not respect you. No: let us weep for our son far off,
sitting in the hall. So overpowering Fate
210spun for him with her thread at his very birth, when I bore him:
to glut the running dogs, far from his own parents,
beside a violent man — oh, that I could fasten on that man's
liver, and eat it raw! Then there would be work paid back
for my son — for it was no coward he killed:
215a man who stood for the men of Troy and the deep-girdled women
of Troy, with no thought of shelter, none of flight."
Then in turn the old man, godlike Priam, answered her:
"I will go. Do not hold me back — and do not be
a bird of evil omen in my own halls. You will not persuade me.
220If any other man on earth had ordered this —
some seer reading the smoke, some priest —
we would call it false, and keep our distance from it.
But now — I heard the god myself; I looked her in the face —
I go; and her word shall not be spoken in vain. And if it is my portion
225to die by the ships of the bronze-shirted Achaeans,
I choose it. Let Achilles kill me on the spot —
once I have taken my son in my arms, and put away my fill of weeping."
He spoke, and lifted the beautiful lids of the chests,9
and out of them he took twelve magnificent robes,
230twelve single-fold cloaks, and as many blankets,
as many white mantles, and as many tunics besides.
He weighed and carried out ten full talents of gold,
and two glittering tripods, and four cauldrons,
and a cup of great beauty, which the men of Thrace had given him
235when he went on embassy — a great treasure. Not even this
did the old man spare in his halls: he wished with all his heart
to ransom his dear son. And the Trojans — all of them —
he drove from the colonnade, lashing them with words of shame:
"Out, you disgraces! You objects of reproach! Have you no
240mourning of your own at home, that you come to torment me?
Is it nothing to you that Zeus, Cronos's son, has given me this grief —
to lose my best son? You will learn it yourselves:
you will be far easier now for the Achaeans
to slaughter, with that man dead. But as for me —
245before I see this city sacked and ravaged
with my own eyes, let me go down into the house of Hades."
He spoke, and went at the men with his staff; and they fled out
before the old man's fury. And he shouted at his own sons,
cursing Helenus and Paris and brilliant Agathon
250and Pammon and Antiphonus and Polites of the war-cry
and Deiphobus and Hippothous and noble Dius —
nine sons; and the old man bellowed his orders at them:
"Move, you worthless children — my shames! I wish the whole pack of you
had been killed at the swift ships instead of Hector.
255Ah, my evil fate! — I fathered the best sons
in wide Troy, and I tell you not one of them is left:
Mestor the godlike, and Troilus the chariot-fighter,
and Hector, who was a god among men — he did not seem
the son of a mortal man, but of a god.
260Ares destroyed them. And these — these disgraces — are all left me:
liars, dancers, heroes of the beaten dance-floor,
plunderers of their own people's lambs and kids!
Will you not get a wagon ready for me — now —
and load all this on it, so we can be on our way?"
265So he spoke; and dreading their father's rebuke10
they brought out the smooth-wheeled mule-drawn wagon,
a beautiful one, fresh-built, and lashed the wicker box upon it;
and they took down from its peg the box-wood mule-yoke
with its knob, well fitted with guide-rings,
270and brought out with the yoke its lashing, nine cubits long.
They set the yoke with care on the polished pole,
on the rest at the pole's end, and threw the ring on the peg,
and lashed it three times each way round the knob, and then
wound the rest down the pole and tucked the tongue beneath.
275Then they brought from the store-room and heaped on the polished wagon
the ransom past counting for Hector's head,
and yoked the strong-hoofed mules, trained to the harness,
which once the Mysians gave to Priam, a shining gift;
and for Priam they led beneath the yoke the horses
280the old man kept for himself, and fed at the polished manger.
So the two of them, in the high house, were having their teams yoked —
the herald and Priam, with close-packed counsel in their minds —
when Hecuba came up to them, her heart heavy,11
carrying honey-hearted wine in her right hand
285in a golden cup, for them to pour before they went;
and she stood before the horses, and spoke a word, and named him:
"Here: pour to father Zeus, and pray to come home again
out of the enemy's hands — since your heart
drives you to the ships, though I would not have it so.
290Pray, then, to the son of Cronos of the black cloud,
the god of Ida, who looks down on all the Troad,
and ask for a bird of omen — the swift messenger
that is dearest of birds to him, whose power is greatest —
on the right, so that seeing it with your own eyes
295you may trust it, and go to the ships of the quick-horsed Danaans.
But if wide-seeing Zeus will not give you his messenger,
then I at least would not urge you on, or bid you
go to the Argive ships, however hard you desire it."
Then in answer spoke to her godlike Priam:
300"Lady, I will not refuse what you ask.
It is good to lift hands to Zeus, in hope he will pity."
He spoke, and the old man told the housekeeper to pour
clean water over his hands; and she stood by,
the serving-woman, with basin and pitcher in her hands.
305He washed, and took the cup from his wife,
and standing in the middle of the court he prayed, and poured the wine,
looking up into heaven, and spoke aloud:
"Father Zeus, ruling from Ida, most glorious, greatest:
grant that I come to Achilles welcome, and pitied;
310and send me a bird of omen — the swift messenger
that is dearest of birds to you, whose power is greatest —
on the right, so that seeing it with my own eyes
I may trust it, and go to the ships of the quick-horsed Danaans."
So he spoke, praying; and Zeus the counselor heard him,
315and at once sent an eagle, surest omen of flying things,
the dark hunter, the one men call the dusky one.
Wide as the door of some rich man's high-roofed
treasure-chamber stands, a door well fitted with bolts,
so wide his wings spread out on either side. He appeared to them
320on the right, sweeping across the city; and seeing him
they rejoiced, and the hearts in them all were warmed.
Then the old man in haste mounted his chariot12
and drove out of the gateway and the echoing colonnade.
In front the mules drew the four-wheeled wagon —
325war-minded Idaeus drove them — and behind came the horses
the old man urged along with the whip
at a brisk pace through the city; and all his people followed,
mourning without end, as if he were going to his death.
And when they had come down from the city and reached the plain,
330the others turned back for Ilion —
the sons and the sons-in-law. But the two of them did not slip past
wide-seeing Zeus as they came out on the plain: he saw, and pitied
the old man, and quickly spoke to Hermes, his dear son:
"Hermes — since to you, beyond all gods, it is dearest
335to be man's companion, and you listen to whom you will,
go now, and lead Priam to the hollow ships of the Achaeans
so that no one sees him, no one marks him,
of all the Danaans, before he reaches the son of Peleus."
So he spoke; and the courier, the slayer of Argus, obeyed.
340At once he bound beneath his feet the beautiful sandals,
ambrosial, golden, that carry him over the water
and over the boundless land with the breath of the wind;
and he took up the wand with which he charms men's eyes
to sleep, whomever he wishes, and wakes the sleeping;
345with this in his hands the strong slayer of Argus flew,
and quickly came to Troy and the Hellespont,
and went on his way in the likeness of a princely youth
with the first down on his lip — the age when youth has its highest grace.
Now when the two had driven past the great mound of Ilus,
350they halted the mules and horses at the river
to drink; for dusk by now had come down over the earth.
And the herald peered close, and made out Hermes
near at hand, and spoke out to Priam:
"Look sharp, Dardanus's descendant! Here is work for a careful mind.
355I see a man; and I think we are about to be torn to pieces.
Come — let us flee with the horses; or if not,
clasp his knees and beg him — he might pity us."
So he spoke; and the old man's mind was scattered, and he was terribly
afraid, and the hair stood up on his bent limbs,
360and he froze, dazed. But the helper-god came close himself,
and took the old man's hand, and questioned him:
"Where, father, are you steering these horses and mules13
through the ambrosial night, when other mortals sleep?
Have you no fear of the Achaeans, breathing fury,
365your enemies, pitiless, so near at hand?
If one of them saw you through the running black night
bringing so many treasures — what would your plan be then?
You are not young yourself, and this man with you is old —
no strength to fight off a man who starts a quarrel.
370But I will do you no harm — no: I would defend you
against another. You are the image of my own dear father."
Then in turn the old man, godlike Priam, answered him:
"It is all much as you say, dear child.
But some god, even now, has held his hand over me,
375who sent a wayfarer like you to cross my path —
a good omen: such is your body and your beauty, a wonder,
and your mind is sound. Blessed are the parents you come of."
Then in turn the courier, the slayer of Argus, addressed him:
"Yes, old man — all this you have said aright.
380But come, tell me this, and recount it truly:
are you sending away a great treasure, and a fine one,
to foreign men somewhere, so that much at least survives you?
Or are you all abandoning holy Ilion now
in fear — such a man has perished, the best among you,
385your son: who never hung back from battle with the Achaeans."
Then in turn the old man, godlike Priam, answered him:
"Who are you, my brave one? Of what parents do you come,
who speak so beautifully of my ill-fated son's death?"
Then in turn the courier, the slayer of Argus, addressed him:
390"You test me, old man — asking about brilliant Hector.
Him my own eyes have seen — and often — in the battle
where men win glory; and when he drove the Argives
onto their ships and kept killing, carving with the sharp bronze,
we stood and marveled at it: for Achilles,
395in his anger at Atreus's son, would not let us fight.
I am his squire; one strong-built ship brought us both.
I am a Myrmidon by birth; my father is Polyctor —
a wealthy man, and old, just as you are:
six sons he has, and I am his seventh;
400I shook lots with the others, and the lot fell to me to sail here.
Now I have come to the plain from the ships: for at daybreak
the bright-eyed Achaeans will set their battle around the city.
They chafe at sitting idle, and the kings of the Achaeans
cannot hold them back, so hot they are for war."
405Then in turn the old man, godlike Priam, answered him:
"If you are truly a squire of Achilles, Peleus's son,
come then — tell me the whole truth:
is my son still by the ships? Or has Achilles
cut him limb from limb by now, and thrown him to his dogs?"
410Then in turn the courier, the slayer of Argus, addressed him:
"Old man — the dogs have not eaten him, nor the birds:
he lies there still, beside the ship of Achilles,
just as he was, among the huts. Twelve dawns now
he has lain there; and his flesh does not decay, and the worms
415do not eat him — the worms that devour men killed in war.
It is true that around the tomb of his dear companion
Achilles drags him, careless, whenever bright dawn shows —
but he cannot disfigure him. You would marvel yourself, if you came,
at how he lies there dewy-fresh, the blood all washed
420from him, no stain anywhere; and every wound has closed,
every one that was struck — and many drove their bronze into him.
Such is the care the blessed gods take for your son,
a dead man though he is — because they loved him at heart."
So he spoke; and the old man rejoiced, and answered:
425"My child — how good a thing it is to give the immortals
their due gifts! For my son — if ever he truly was —
never forgot, in his halls, the gods who hold Olympus;
and so they have remembered him, even in the portion of death.
But come — take from me this beautiful cup,
430and guard my body, and escort me, with the gods,
until I come to the hut of Peleus's son."
Then in turn the courier, the slayer of Argus, addressed him:
"You test me again, old man — the young man — but you will not persuade me,
asking me to take your gifts behind Achilles' back.
435I fear that man; my heart shrinks with too much awe
to rob him — lest some evil find me afterward.
But you — I would escort you with all care, even to famous Argos,
by swift ship or on foot beside you;
and no man would make light of your escort, or attack."
440He spoke, and the helper-god sprang up onto the chariot,14
and swiftly caught the whip and reins into his hands,
and breathed brave strength into the horses and the mules.
And when they came to the towers and the ditch of the ships,
the sentries were just busying themselves with supper;
445and the courier, the slayer of Argus, poured sleep
over them all, and opened the gates at once, and thrust back the bars,
and led in Priam and the shining gifts on the wagon.
And when they came to the hut of Peleus's son —
the high hut the Myrmidons had built their lord,
450cutting beams of fir, and roofed it over
with a shaggy thatch of reeds mown from the meadow,
and around it made their lord a great courtyard
with close-set stakes; and one single bar of fir
held the door — a bolt three Achaeans would drive home
455and three would draw, of the others: three men
to that great bolt, though Achilles would ram it home alone —
then Hermes the helper opened it for the old man,
and brought in the famed gifts for the swift-footed son of Peleus,
and stepped down from the chariot to the ground, and said:
460"Old man — I am an immortal god come down to you:
Hermes. My father sent me with you as your escort.
But now I will go back: I will not walk
into Achilles' sight. It would stir indignation —
an immortal god openly entertained by mortals.
465You go in; clasp the knees of Peleus's son,
and beg him by his father, by his mother of the lovely hair,
by his child — so you may stir the heart in him."
So speaking, Hermes went his way to high Olympus;15
and Priam leapt from the chariot to the ground
470and left Idaeus there to hold
the horses and mules; and the old man walked straight in,
to where Achilles, dear to Zeus, was sitting. Inside
he found him — his companions sitting apart; only two,
the hero Automedon and Alcimus, sprig of Ares,
475were busy at his side; he had newly finished eating,
finished food and drink; the table still stood by him.
Great Priam came in unseen by them all, and standing close,
he clasped Achilles' knees with his hands, and kissed his hands —
the terrible, man-slaughtering hands that had killed so many of his sons.
480As when thick blindness takes a man, who in his own country
kills another, and comes among a different people,
to a rich man's house, and wonder holds all who see him:
so Achilles wondered, seeing godlike Priam;
and the others wondered too, and looked at one another.
485And Priam, in supplication, spoke his word to him:16
"Remember your father, Achilles like the gods —
a man of my years, on the ruinous threshold of old age.
It may be that the men who live around him
are grinding him down, and there is no one to beat off ruin and destruction.
490Yet he at least, hearing that you are alive,
rejoices in his heart, and hopes through all his days
to see his dear son coming home from Troy.
But I am doomed to the last: I fathered the best sons
in wide Troy, and I tell you not one of them is left.
495Fifty I had, when the sons of the Achaeans came:
nineteen were mine from a single womb,
and the others women of the palace bore me.
Rushing Ares has unstrung the knees of most of them;
and the one who was left me, who guarded the city and the people —
500him you killed, days ago, fighting for his fatherland:
Hector. For his sake I come now to the ships of the Achaeans
to ransom him from you; and I bring ransom past counting.
Respect the gods, Achilles, and pity me,
remembering your own father. And I am still more pitiable:
505I have endured what no other mortal on earth has yet endured —
to lift to my lips the hand of the man who killed my son."
So he spoke; and he stirred in Achilles the desire to weep for his father.17
He took the old man's hand, and gently pushed him back;
and the two of them remembered: the one wept long and sore
510for man-slaughtering Hector, huddled at Achilles' feet,
and Achilles wept for his own father — and now again
for Patroclus; and the sound of their mourning filled the house.
But when brilliant Achilles had taken his fill of lament,
and the longing for it had gone out of his chest and limbs,
515he rose from his seat at once, and raised the old man up by the hand,
pitying the grey head and the grey beard,
and speaking winged words he addressed him:
"Poor man. How much evil your heart has endured!18
How could you bear to come to the ships of the Achaeans — alone —
520into the eyes of the man who has stripped your many
brave sons? Your heart must be iron.
Come, sit on this chair; and our griefs — we will let them
lie quiet in our hearts, for all our sorrow.
There is nothing to be gained from chill lament.
525For this is the way the gods have spun it for wretched mortals:
to live in grief. And they themselves are free of care.
Two jars stand on the floor of Zeus's hall,
full of the gifts he gives: one of evils, one of blessings.
The man to whom Zeus who delights in thunder gives a mixture,
530meets now with evil, and now again with good;
but the man to whom he gives only from the jar of sorrows —
him he has made an outcast: ravening hunger drives him over the earth,
and he wanders honored neither by gods nor by mortals.
So it was with Peleus: the gods gave him shining gifts
535from his birth; he outshone all mankind
in wealth and fortune, and was king of the Myrmidons,
and mortal though he was, they made a goddess his wife.
But even on him the god laid evil: no brood
of ruling sons was born to him in his halls —
540one child he fathered, doomed out of season. And I give him
no care in his old age: far from my fatherland
I sit here in Troy, grieving you and your children.
And you, old man — we hear you prospered once:
all that Lesbos out to sea, the seat of Macar, bounds,
545and Phrygia inland, and the boundless Hellespont —
over all these, old man, they say you were first in wealth and sons.
But since the gods of heaven brought this affliction on you,
there is nothing around your city now but battles and the killing of men.
Bear it. Do not mourn without respite in your heart.
550You will accomplish nothing, grieving for your son;
you will not raise him up — sooner you will suffer some new evil."
Then in turn the old man, godlike Priam, answered him:19
"Do not seat me on a chair, Zeus-nurtured — not while Hector
lies in the huts uncared-for. Give him back
555quickly, so my eyes can see him; and accept the ransom —
the great ransom we bring you. May you have joy of it, and come
to your own fatherland — since you have let me,
from the first, live on and look upon the light of the sun."
Then, glaring darkly, swift-footed Achilles answered him:
560"Do not provoke me now, old man. I mean myself
to give Hector back to you: a messenger came to me from Zeus —
my mother, who bore me, the daughter of the old man of the sea.
And I know you too, Priam — do not think to hide it:
some god led you to the swift ships of the Achaeans.
565No mortal would have dared come into the camp — not even
a man in his prime: he could not have slipped past the sentries,
nor easily levered back the bar of our doors.
So do not stir my heart further in its griefs,
or I may not spare even you, old man, inside my huts —
570suppliant though you are — and may trespass against the commands of Zeus."
So he spoke; and the old man was afraid, and obeyed.
And the son of Peleus sprang out the door of the house like a lion —20
not alone: two of his aides went with him,
the hero Automedon and Alcimus, the two Achilles
575honored most of his companions after dead Patroclus.
They loosed the horses and mules from the yokes,
and led in the old man's clear-voiced herald
and sat him on a bench; and from the polished wagon
they lifted down the ransom past counting for Hector's head.
580But they left two mantles and a fine-spun tunic,
so he might wrap the body and give it to be carried home.
And Achilles called out slave-women, and ordered them to wash him
and anoint him — but apart, moved away, so Priam would not see his son:
lest the grief in his heart not master his anger
585at the sight of his child, and Achilles' own spirit be stirred,
and he kill him, and trespass against the commands of Zeus.
And when the slave-women had washed him and anointed him with oil,
and wrapped the beautiful mantle and the tunic around him,
Achilles himself lifted him and laid him on a bier,
590and his companions with him raised it onto the polished wagon.
Then he groaned, and called his dear companion by name:
"Do not be angry with me, Patroclus, if you learn —
even in the house of Hades — that I released brilliant Hector
to his dear father: the ransom he gave was not unworthy.
595And to you, in turn, I will give your share of it — all that is fitting."
He spoke, and went back into the hut, brilliant Achilles,
and sat down on the richly-worked couch he had risen from,
against the far wall, and spoke his word to Priam:
"Your son is given back, old man, as you commanded:
600he lies on a bier. At the showing of dawn
you will see him yourself, and take him. Now — let us remember supper.
For even lovely-haired Niobe remembered food,21
though twelve children perished in her halls —
six daughters, and six sons in the pride of their youth.
605The sons Apollo killed with his silver bow,
in anger at Niobe; and Artemis who showers arrows killed the daughters —
because Niobe had matched herself with fair-cheeked Leto:
Leto, she said, bore two; she herself had borne many.
So those two, though they were only two, destroyed them all.
610Nine days they lay in their blood, and there was no one
to bury them: the son of Cronos had turned the people to stones.
On the tenth day the gods of heaven buried them.
And she remembered food, when she was worn out with weeping.
And now, somewhere among the rocks, in the lonely mountains,
615on Sipylus, where they say the goddess nymphs
have their beds — the nymphs who dance along the Achelous —
there, stone though she is, she broods on the griefs the gods gave her.
Come then, noble old man: let the two of us also remember
food. Afterward you may weep for your dear son again,
620when you have brought him into Ilion. He will cost you many tears."
He spoke, and swift Achilles sprang up and slaughtered22
a white-fleeced sheep; and his companions flayed and dressed it well
and duly, and cut it up with skill, and pierced it on the spits,
and roasted it with care, and drew off every portion.
625And Automedon took bread and set it out along the table
in beautiful baskets; and Achilles portioned out the meat.
And they reached out their hands to the good things lying ready.
And when they had put away the desire for drink and food,
then Priam, Dardanus's descendant, marveled at Achilles —
630how big he was, how beautiful: like the gods to look upon;
and Achilles marveled at Priam, Dardanus's descendant,
looking at his fine face and listening to his words.
And when they had taken their fill of looking at each other,
the first to speak was the old man, godlike Priam:23
635"Give me a bed now quickly, Zeus-nurtured, so that we
may lie down at last and take our fill of sweet sleep.
For my eyes have never closed beneath their lids
since my son lost his life under your hands:
I have done nothing but groan, and brood on griefs past counting,
640rolling in the dung in the yard where my cattle are penned.
Now at last I have tasted bread, and let the gleaming wine
down my throat. Before this I had touched nothing."
He spoke; and Achilles ordered his companions and the slave-women
to set out beds under the porch, and to throw on them
645fine purple rugs, and spread blankets over these,
and lay out fleecy cloaks on top for covering.
And the women went from the hall with torches in their hands,
and quickly and busily made up two beds.
And swift-footed Achilles said to him, with an edge in his voice:
650"Sleep outside, dear old man — in case some Achaean
councilor comes here: they are forever sitting
at my side weaving plans, as is their custom.
If one of them saw you through the running black night,
he would tell it at once to Agamemnon, shepherd of the people,
655and there would be delay in the release of the body.
But come, tell me this, and recount it truly:
how many days do you need for the burial of brilliant Hector —
so I may wait that long myself, and hold back the army."
Then in turn the old man, godlike Priam, answered him:24
660"If you are truly willing that I give brilliant Hector burial,
then this, Achilles, is how you would do me kindness.
You know how we are penned in the city; and the wood
is far to bring from the mountain, and the Trojans are afraid.
Nine days we would mourn him in the halls;
665on the tenth we would bury him, and the people feast;
on the eleventh we would raise the mound above him;
and on the twelfth we will fight again — if we must."
Then in turn swift-footed brilliant Achilles addressed him:
"This too shall be as you command, old Priam:
670I will hold off the war for the time you ask."
So speaking, he took the old man's right hand
at the wrist, so his heart should not be afraid.
So there in the fore-hall of the house they lay down,
the herald and Priam, with close-packed counsel in their minds;
675but Achilles slept in the inner corner of his strong-built hut,
and fair-cheeked Briseis lay beside him.
The other gods, and men who fight from chariots,25
slept the whole night through, subdued by soft sleep;
but sleep would not take Hermes the helper,
680turning it over in his heart how he would bring king Priam
away from the ships unseen by the strong gate-keepers.
He stood above his head, and spoke a word to him:
"Old man — no evil worries you, to judge by how you sleep
among enemy men, because Achilles spared you.
685You have ransomed your dear son now; you paid a great price.
But for you — alive — your sons left behind would pay
three times as much again, if Agamemnon
Atreus's son knew of you — if all the Achaeans knew."
So he spoke; and the old man was afraid, and woke the herald.
690And Hermes yoked the horses and the mules for them,
and drove them quickly through the camp himself; and no one knew.
But when they came to the ford of the fair-flowing river,
eddying Xanthus, whom immortal Zeus begot,
then Hermes went his way to high Olympus,
695and Dawn in her saffron robe was spreading over all the earth,
and they drove the horses toward the city with wailing
and lamentation; and the mules carried the dead.
Nor did any other know them, man or fair-girdled woman —26
only Cassandra, like golden Aphrodite,
700who had climbed Pergamus, and saw her dear father
standing in the chariot, and the herald, the city's crier,
and saw him too — lying on the bier behind the mules —
and shrieked, and cried out through the whole city:
"Come, men of Troy, women of Troy: come and see Hector —
705if ever, while he lived, you rejoiced when he came home
from battle: for he was a great joy to the city and all its people."
So she spoke; and not one man was left in the city,
not one woman: on all of them came grief past bearing;
and close by the gates they met him bringing home the dead.
710First of all his dear wife and his lady mother
tore their hair for him, rushing at the smooth-wheeled wagon,
touching his head; and the crowd stood around them, weeping.
And now the whole day long until the setting sun
they would have mourned Hector before the gates, pouring their tears,
715had not the old man spoken to the people from his chariot:
"Make way for the mules to pass. Afterward
you may glut yourselves with weeping — when I have brought him home."
So he spoke; and they parted, and made way for the wagon.
And when they had brought him into the famous house, they laid him
720on a corded bed, and set beside him singers,
leaders of the dirge, who sang their mournful song —
they chanted the dirge, and the women wailed in answer.
And among them white-armed Andromache led the lament,27
holding in her hands the head of man-slaughtering Hector:
725"Husband — you were lost young out of life, and you leave me
a widow in your halls; and the boy is just a baby still,
whom we bore, you and I — the two ill-fated. And I think
he will not reach manhood: before that, this city
will be sacked from its height. For you have perished — you, its watcher,
730who guarded it, and kept safe its honored wives and little children.
They will ride away soon in the hollow ships,
and I with them. And you, my child — you will follow me
where degrading labors wait for you,
drudging under a harsh master's eye — or some Achaean
735will seize you by the arm and fling you from the wall — a wretched death —
in anger, because Hector killed his brother,
or his father, or his son: for very many Achaeans
bit the boundless earth in their teeth at Hector's hands.
Your father was not gentle in the sad fighting;
740and so the people mourn him through the city,
and you have laid a cursed grief and mourning, Hector,
on your parents. And for me beyond all others the bitter
pain is left: you did not die in bed, reaching your arms to me,
you spoke no close last word that I might have
745remembered always, nights and days, with my tears falling."
So she spoke, weeping; and the women wailed in answer.
And among them Hecuba in her turn led the thick lament:28
"Hector — far dearest to my heart of all my children,
dear to the gods you were while you lived with me,
750and they have cared for you even in the portion of death.
My other sons — swift-footed Achilles would sell them,
whichever ones he took, across the barren sea,
into Samos, and Imbros, and Lemnos of the smoke.
But you — when he had taken your life with the long-edged bronze,
755he dragged you again and again around the tomb of his companion
Patroclus, whom you killed — though not even so did he raise him up.
And now you lie in my halls dewy-fresh, as if newly slain,
like one whom Apollo of the silver bow has visited
and killed with his gentle arrows."
760So she spoke, weeping, and roused the endless lament.
And third after them, Helen led the lament:29
"Hector — far dearest to my heart of all my husband's brothers!
My husband is godlike Alexandros,
who brought me to Troy. I wish I had died before that day.
765This is now the twentieth year for me
since I came away from there and left my own country;
yet never once did I hear from you an evil word, or a slighting one.
No — if any other rebuked me in the halls,
a brother of my husband, or a sister, or a brother's fine-robed wife,
770or my husband's mother — though his father was always gentle as my own —
you would turn them aside, you would restrain them,
with your gentle-mindedness and your gentle words.
And so I weep for you — and for myself, doomed as I am — grieving at heart:
for there is no one else now in wide Troy
775gentle to me, or kind: they all shudder at me."
So she spoke, weeping; and the vast crowd groaned in answer.
And old Priam spoke his word among the people:30
"Bring wood now, Trojans, into the city; and have no fear
in your hearts of an Argive ambush: for Achilles,
780sending me from the black ships, gave me his pledge
that he will do us no harm until the twelfth dawn comes."
So he spoke; and they yoked oxen and mules to the wagons,
and quickly then they gathered before the city.
Nine days they hauled in wood past measuring;
785and when the tenth dawn rose with its light for mortals,
then they carried out bold Hector, weeping,
and set the body on the height of the pyre, and threw on the fire.
And when young Dawn showed again, the rosy-fingered,
then the people gathered around glorious Hector's pyre.
790And when they had assembled and were gathered together,
first they quenched the burning-place with glistening wine,
all of it, wherever the fire's strength had reached; and then
his brothers and companions gathered the white bones,
mourning, and the swollen tears ran down their cheeks.
795And they took the bones and laid them in a golden box,
wrapping them in soft purple robes,
and quickly set it down in a hollow grave,
and roofed it over with great stones set close together;
and swiftly they heaped the mound — with watchers posted round on every side,
800lest the strong-greaved Achaeans should storm out before the time.
And when they had heaped the mound they went back; and then,
gathered together in due order, they feasted a glorious feast
in the house of Priam, the king nurtured of Zeus.
So they busied themselves with the burial of Hector, the tamer of horses.
1 lines 1–21 — The book opens on the community dissolving back into ordinary life — supper, sweet sleep — and one man exempt: Achilles cycling through the postures of grief (side, back, face-down, up and pacing), unreached by "sleep that subdues all things." The dawns are iterative — the Greek's tenses make the dragging a routine: harness, drag three times round the tomb, rest, leave him face-down. And the routine accomplishes nothing: Apollo with the golden aegis keeps the flesh whole, "pitying the man even in death." Rage has become machinery — running, grinding, and feeding no one. That futility is the book's premise. ↩
2 lines 22–30 — The divine majority wants the corpse stolen; three gods refuse — Hera, Poseidon, Athena — because of the poem's oldest wound: "the blindness of Alexandros, who insulted the goddesses when they came to his sheep-fold, and praised the one who fed his grievous lust." This is the Iliad's only mention of the Judgment of Paris, and Aristarchus athetized the passage — partly because the poem nowhere else knows the story, partly for the coarse word μαχλοσύνη ("lust"). Kept here: at the very end, the poem finally names the beginning — a beauty contest on a hillside as the seed of everything we have watched. ↩
3 lines 31–54 — Apollo's indictment is the poem's ethical summit-speech: Achilles has "destroyed pity," and lost aidōs — the shame-before-others "which harms men greatly, and profits them too": the double-edged social emotion that the whole epic runs on, defined in one line. The lion comparison strips the aristeia of its glamour (savagery "at the flocks of men, to take his feast"); and the norm is stated with terrible gentleness: a man may lose a brother or a son, "and yet, when he has wept and lamented, he lets go: for the Fates gave mankind an enduring heart" (τλητὸν γὰρ Μοῖραι θυμὸν θέσαν ἀνθρώποισιν) — endurance as the species-defining gift. The close is the book's moral in five words: "it is dumb earth he defiles in all his fury" — the dead man is beyond harm; the harm is all the living man's own. ↩
4 lines 55–76 — Hera's counter is pure rank (a breast-fed mortal cannot be priced with a goddess's son — with her swipe at Apollo's lyre-playing at the very wedding: "companion of evils, faithless forever"); and Zeus's ruling splits the difference with statesman's care: no equal honor — but Hector was "dearest to the gods of all mortals in Ilion" for the oldest reason in the poem's theology, the unfailing altar. The theft is rejected on practical grounds (Thetis's watch), but the true design appears in one phrase: "I attach this glory (κῦδος) to Achilles" — the return of the body is arranged not as defeat but as honor, mercy denominated in the only currency the recipient still values. ↩
5 lines 77–119 — Iris's dive "like the lead sinker that rides the horn of a field-ox down the line" — the most homely simile ever given a goddess: heaven's messenger as fishing-tackle. Thetis's veil is the poem's blackest object ("there is no garment blacker"): she dresses for her son's death to attend a council about his mercy. On Olympus the courtesies are exact — Athena yields her place, Hera hands the cup — the divine family arranging itself gently around a bereaved mother whose bereavement has not yet happened. ↩
6 lines 120–142 — Thetis delivers Zeus's rebuke and adds what no god scripted: "it is good to lie with a woman in love. For you will not be with me long..." (Aristarchus athetized 130-132 as indecorous; they are the scene's heart). A mother's last advice to a doomed son is bread, bed, and love — the whole mortal portion, urged because the portion is nearly spent. And Achilles' answer, after three books of iron: "So be it" (τῇδ' εἴη) — the wrath that filled an epic ends in two words of assent, the moment the demand comes from the one person he cannot refuse, carrying an honor he can accept. ↩
7 lines 143–187 — Iris's commission to Priam repeats Zeus's wording verbatim (146-158 = 175-187, kept identical here): heaven's mercy delivered twice, unedited — the poem's formulaic economy made providential. The house she enters is a tableau of collective ruin: sons weeping in the courtyard, daughters and sons' wives wailing within, and the king wrapped in his mantle with dung on his head and neck, "gathered on himself with his own hands." The message lands on a man already performing his own burial. ↩
8 lines 188–228 — The marriage scene: Priam tells Hecuba, and her answer is the poem's final maternal ferocity — the wish to "fasten on that man's liver, and eat it raw." The raw-eating triplet closes: Hera (4.35), Achilles (22.346), and now Hecuba — goddess of the winning side, killer, and grieving mother speaking one idiom; grief and hate converge in the same appetite. Priam's answer sets the book's terms: he has seen the god face to face; and if the price is death, "I choose it. Let Achilles kill me on the spot — once I have taken my son in my arms, and put away my fill of weeping." The embassy is a father's calculated exchange: his life, if need be, for one embrace. ↩
9 lines 229–264 — The ransom counted out (the poem loves the inventory: robes, cloaks, blankets, mantles, tunics, twelve of each; ten talents; tripods, cauldrons, the Thracian cup "not even this did the old man spare") — and then Priam's rage: first at the Trojans ("Have you no mourning of your own at home?"), then the terrible roll- call of the nine surviving sons — "liars, dancers, heroes of the beaten dance-floor, plunderers of their own people's lambs and kids" — against the dead: Mestor, Troilus, "and Hector, who was a god among men." Grief in old men, the poem knows, comes out as fury at the living for not being the dead. (Among the cursed: Helenus, Paris, Deiphobus — the city's remaining leadership, measured and found wanting by their father in public.) ↩
10 lines 265–282 — The yoking, in loving procedural detail — the box-wood yoke, the knob, the guide-rings, the nine-cubit lashing wound three times each way. The poem slows to craftsman's tempo exactly as it did for Hera's chariot and Priam's own libation to come: ritual care in the doing is how the Iliad marks an act as sacred. This wagon is an altar being assembled. ↩
11 lines 283–322 — Hecuba's libation-counsel — having failed to stop him, she arms him with piety: pour to Zeus, ask for the eagle on the right; "but if wide-seeing Zeus will not give you his messenger, I at least would not urge you." The omen comes: the dusky hunter-eagle, wings as wide "as the door of some rich man's high-roofed treasure-chamber" — the simile drawn from precisely the world of stored wealth Priam has just emptied for the ransom. And the exit: all Troy follows the wagon "mourning without end, as if he were going to his death" — which is, as far as anyone knows, the truth. ↩
12 lines 322–362 — Zeus's commission to Hermes defines the god: "to you, beyond all gods, it is dearest to be man's companion" (ἀνδρὶ ἑταιρίσσαι) — the escort-god, the one Olympian whose office is company. He comes as a princely youth "with the first down on his lip — the age when youth has its highest grace," and the meeting at the ford by Ilus's tomb, at dusk, is built as pure terror first: the herald's whisper, the old man's hair standing on his bent limbs — before the god takes his hand. Every earlier night-crossing in this poem (Book 10) ended in blood; the poem uses that memory to make this one tremble. ↩
13 lines 362–440 — The interrogation is Hermes at play — "You are the image of my own dear father"; the invented Myrmidon biography (seventh son of Polyctor, chosen by lot) — but its center is the report on the corpse: twelve days dead, dragged daily, and "his flesh does not decay... You would marvel yourself, if you came, at how he lies there dewy-fresh, the blood all washed from him, no stain anywhere; and every wound has closed... Such is the care the blessed gods take for your son, a dead man though he is — because they loved him at heart." The kindest sentence in the Iliad, spoken by a disguised god to a father in the dark. Priam's response makes it doctrine — "how good a thing it is to give the immortals their due gifts" — with the one heartbreaking parenthesis, "if ever he truly was" (εἴ ποτ' ἔην γε): grief's suspicion that the beloved might have been a dream. Hermes' refusal of the cup — no gifts "behind Achilles' back" — teaches with a light hand the order of things: even gods respect what is owed to Achilles; mercy must come from the man himself. ↩
14 lines 440–468 — Into the camp: sleep poured on the sentries, the gates opened — and the poem pauses to build Achilles' hut in full (fir beams, meadow-thatch, the palisade court) for the sake of one detail: the fir-wood bar that "three Achaeans would drive home and three would draw... though Achilles would ram it home alone." The door is a strength-gauge; Hermes opens it for an old man. His parting instructions are the supplication-manual: knees, and the names — father, mother, child. ↩
15 lines 469–485 — The entrance. Priam walks in unseen (a god's last gift), and the recognition is staged in gestures before any word: knees clasped, and the kiss — "the terrible, man-slaughtering hands that had killed so many of his sons" (χεῖρας δεινὰς ἀνδροφόνους): the fixed epithet of Hector's hands, then Achilles', pressed now to a father's lips. Then the simile that turns the world over: as when a man who has killed someone in his own country arrives in exile at a rich man's hall, "and wonder holds all who see him" — the innocent suppliant king compared to a murderer, the killer cast as the startled host. The reversal is the scene's meaning: guilt and grief have changed places so many times in this poem that only an exchanged simile can measure the moment. "And the others wondered too, and looked at one another" — the poem's people, like its audience, checking that everyone is seeing this. ↩
16 lines 486–507 — The plea. "Remember your father" — the argument Hermes assigned and Priam perfects: Peleus, same age, same encircling enemies — but with hope, because his son lives; "But I am doomed to the last": fifty sons, nineteen from one womb, and the guardian of all of them killed "days ago, fighting for his fatherland: Hector" — the name held back to the end of its clause. Then the two lines on which the Iliad closes its account of what humans can do: "I have endured what no other mortal on earth has yet endured — to lift to my lips the hand of the man who killed my son." Endurance — Apollo's τλητὸν θυμόν of line 49 — performed past its imaginable limit. ↩
17 lines 507–518 — The weeping. Priam's words stir in Achilles "the desire to weep for his father" — grief answering grief by way of substitution — and the poem's quietest, deepest sentence: "the two of them remembered: the one wept long and sore for man-slaughtering Hector, huddled at Achilles' feet, and Achilles wept for his own father — and now again for Patroclus; and the sound of their mourning filled the house." Two men weeping for different dead in one sound: shared mourning without shared objects — the only communion the Iliad believes in, and enough. When it is spent, Achilles lifts the old man up by the hand, "pitying the grey head and the grey beard" — the exact grey head and beard Priam foresaw defiled by his own dogs (22.74): the image returns, and is pitied instead. ↩
18 lines 518–553 — The consolation of the jars. Achilles' speech is the poem's theology spoken by its protagonist: "this is the way the gods have spun it for wretched mortals: to live in grief. And they themselves are free of care." Two jars on Zeus's floor — evils and blessings — and only two possible mixtures: mixed, or purely evil. No mortal draws unmixed good; the best life alternates. The proofs are the two fathers in the room: Peleus — wealth, kingship, a goddess-wife — and one doomed son who gives him "no care in his old age"; Priam — wealth and sons from Lesbos to the Hellespont — and this. The counsel is Apollo's from line 49, now spoken by the man it indicted: "Bear it... you will not raise him up." Achilles has become the teacher of the endurance he could not practice; saying it to Priam is how he begins to practice it. ↩
19 lines 552–573 — The flash of the old fire: Priam pushes — no chair while Hector lies uncared-for — and Achilles darkens: "Do not provoke me now, old man... or I may not spare even you... suppliant though you are, and may trespass against the commands of Zeus." The rage is not cured; it is contained, and knows itself. That self- knowledge — Achilles managing his own danger like a man banking a fire — is what makes the mercy trustworthy: the poem does not sentimentalize its hero into safety; it shows him holding himself, barely and deliberately, on the right side of the line. "And the old man was afraid, and obeyed." ↩
20 lines 574–597 — The ransoming, managed with the same self- knowledge: the body washed and anointed away from Priam's sight, "lest the grief in his heart not master his anger... and Achilles' own spirit be stirred, and he kill him" — mercy engineering its own conditions. Then Achilles himself lifts Hector onto the bier: the hands that dragged him now carry him — the body given back by the same strength that destroyed it. And the apology to Patroclus, with its scrupulous accounting ("the ransom he gave was not unworthy — and I will give you your share"): even now, the dead friend is a partner whose consent matters, and the transaction must be squared with the grave. ↩
21 lines 598–622 — Niobe. The paradigm is chosen with terrifying precision: the mother of twelve dead children "remembered food" — therefore eat. Inside it, the poem's darkest wonder-tale: nine days the children lay in blood "and there was no one to bury them: the son of Cronos had turned the people to stones. On the tenth day the gods of heaven buried them" — a world petrified by grief until heaven itself performs the funeral; and Niobe on Sipylus, "stone though she is, she broods on the griefs the gods gave her" (614-617 were athetized by Aristophanes and Aristarchus — the mourner turned mountain, weeping forever, kept here). Eating, in this logic, is not the end of grief but the body's assent to go on being mortal: Niobe ate; Achilles ate (24.475-476; 19's fast long broken); now Priam must. The shared meal is the sacrament of the enduring heart. ↩
22 lines 623–635 — The meal and the gaze. Achilles slaughters, his companions dress, Automedon serves, Achilles portions — the host's offices performed in full for the father of his enemy. And then the poem's most humane astonishment: "Priam marveled at Achilles — how big he was, how beautiful: like the gods to look upon; and Achilles marveled at Priam... And when they had taken their fill of looking at each other" (the verb of satiety the book has used for grief and food now given to sight). Two men who have destroyed each other's lives sit and behold each other as marvels. It is the closest the Iliad comes to peace: not reconciliation, not forgiveness — just the full, mutual, unhurried sight of another human being. ↩
23 lines 636–660 — Priam's first sleep-request since his son died ("my eyes have never closed... I have done nothing but groan"), and his first food ("Before this I had touched nothing" — his fast ending in the same hut where Achilles' ended). Achilles' bed-arrangement comes "with an edge in his voice" (ἐπικερτομέων): sleep outside, lest a wandering Achaean councilor see you and Agamemnon "delay the release of the body" — the grim comedy of a mercy that must be hidden from its own army, and a last flick at the king he quarreled with. Then the question no one could have predicted in Book 22: "how many days do you need for the burial of brilliant Hector?" ↩
24 lines 661–678 — The truce: nine days of mourning, the tenth for burial and the feast, the eleventh for the mound — "and on the twelfth we will fight again — if we must" (εἴ περ ἀνάγκη: the war resumed as necessity, not appetite; no one in this room wants it anymore). Achilles grants it with the book's definitive gesture: he takes the old man's right hand "at the wrist, so his heart should not be afraid" — the killer's hand as guarantee of safety. And then, in one clause with no comment: "and fair-cheeked Briseis lay beside him." The woman the wrath began over is home; Thetis's counsel (130-132) is kept; the poem's first quarrel closes in a domestic sentence. ↩
25 lines 679–695 — Hermes' midnight warning turns the ransom grammar around — "for you — alive — your sons left behind would pay three times as much": Priam himself is the last treasure in the camp — and the departure crosses "the ford of the fair-flowing river, eddying Xanthus, whom immortal Zeus begot": the register's line (14.433-434 = 21.1-2), at its third and last station. Hector was revived at this ford; the rout was split here; now his body crosses it homeward. Hermes leaves at the boundary; Dawn in her saffron robe spreads over the whole earth; the poem's last day begins. ↩
26 lines 696–724 — Cassandra — her only appearance in the poem's action, "like golden Aphrodite" — is Troy's watcher now (climbing Pergamus as Priam climbed the tower), and her cry is the city's whole relation to Hector in one sentence: "come and see Hector — if ever, while he lived, you rejoiced when he came home from battle." The gate-scene reprises Book 22's discovery in the key of ritual — wife and mother first, hands on his head — and Priam's crowd-order ("you may glut yourselves with weeping — when I have brought him home") is grief marshaled into procession. The bed, the singers, the antiphony: at last, the apparatus of proper mourning around the body that was promised to dogs. ↩
27 lines 725–749 — Andromache's lament — holding "the head of man-slaughtering Hector in her hands": the epithet of the killing hands (479, 509) given now to the head a widow cradles; the poem's fiercest word gentled by its final position. Her lament is all future tense: the child who "will not reach manhood," the city sacked, the ships, the slavery — and the alternative she imagines for Astyanax, flung from the wall by an Achaean avenging what "Hector killed — his brother, or his father, or his son": the fate the tradition indeed assigns him, spoken here as a mother's reasoned dread. Her last grievance is the tenderest in the poem: "you did not die in bed, reaching your arms to me, you spoke no close last word that I might have remembered always" — not the death, but the missing goodbye. ↩
28 lines 750–763 — Hecuba's lament is a theodicy: her sold sons (Samos, Imbros, "Lemnos of the smoke") against this one, killed, dragged — "though not even so did he raise him up" (the futility of the outrage stated by the victim's mother) — and yet lying "dewy-fresh, as if newly slain, like one whom Apollo of the silver bow has visited and killed with his gentle arrows." The gods' care, which Hermes reported to Priam in the dark, is now visible in Troy by torchlight: the body itself has become the proof that heaven loved him. ↩
29 lines 764–779 — Helen's lament, third and last — the poem's final speech given to the woman the war was fought over. Twenty years from home, and her praise of Hector is the smallest and most exact in the three laments: "never once did I hear from you an evil word, or a slighting one" — and when others reviled her, "you would turn them aside... with your gentle-mindedness and your gentle words." She mourns him as the last kindness in Troy — "there is no one else now in wide Troy gentle to me, or kind: they all shudder at me" — so that the poem's cause weeps for the poem's best man as her only friend. The crowd's groan answers her: the city, for one moment, grieving with the woman it shudders at. ↩
30 lines 780–804 — The ending: the truce honored (wood gathered nine days under Achilles' pledge), the pyre, rosy-fingered Dawn, the wine-quench and white bones — the rites following, step for step, the liturgy of Patroclus's funeral in Book 23: the two enemies buried by the same book of rites. The bones in the golden box, the soft purple robes, the hollow grave roofed with great stones, the mound raised quickly with watchers posted (grief efficient under threat — the war visible at the edges of the funeral), and the feast "in the house of Priam, the king nurtured of Zeus." Then the last line: "So they busied themselves with the burial of Hector, the tamer of horses" — the poem of wrath ends with no death, no fall, no victory: with rites performed, a feast eaten, and a single dead man given his due — the γέρας θανόντων Achilles named at 23.9. Everything else — Achilles' death, the horse, the sack, the fates Andromache numbered — stands just outside the final line, known to every hearer and refused entry. (Antiquity's rhapsodes felt the door ajar: a variant continuation ran "So they busied themselves with the burial of Hector; and there came the Amazon, the daughter of great-hearted Ares..." — splicing the epic onward into the Aethiopis. Our text ends where the poet ended: on the funeral, the feast, and the name of the man the city buried.) The Iliad begins with a father begging a king for his child and being refused; it ends with a father begging a king for his child and being answered. That is the distance the poem travels; the wrath of Achilles is the space between. ↩