After fleeing into the city like fawns, the Trojans
quenched their thirst and dried their sweat
as they sat beside the battlements. Meanwhile,
the Achaeans approached the wall with shields
on shoulders. But deadly fate forced Hector
to remain in front of Ilios by the Scaean gates.
Then Phoebus Apollo called to Peleus’ son:
“Son of Peleus, your feet are fast, but a mortal
like yourself could never catch a god. Or are you
too filled with rage to realize I am a god? Do you
not care about fighting the Trojans? You forced
them back into the city only to follow me here.
But you cannot kill me, for I cannot die.”

Then swift-footed Achilles angrily replied to him:
“You tricked me, far-shooter, deadliest of all gods,
by leading me away from the wall. I could have
sent many to the dust before they reached Ilios,
but now you have taken my glory and blithely
saved them, for you have no fear of retribution.
I would surely punish you—if only I could.”

So saying, Achilles hurried back to the city,
moving his feet and knees as swiftly as
a prize-winning chariot horse who runs
effortlessly across the plain at full stride.

Old Priam was first to catch sight of shining
Achilles as he raced over the plain. Just as
the star that rises in harvest time, called
Orion’s Dog, is both the brightest star,
outshining all others in the dead of night,
and a sign of ill fortune that brings many
fevers to wretched mortals, so also shone
the bronze chest of Achilles as he ran.
At the sight, the old man groaned in grief,
beat his head with his hands, and cried out
to his dearest son who stood before the gates,
eager to battle Achilles. With outstretched
arms and a pitiful voice, Priam said to him:
“Hector, dear child, do not fight this man
alone, without aid, or you will quickly meet
your fate, slain by the mighty son of Peleus,
cruel as he is. If only the gods hated him like
I do, then he would lie dead, a feast for dogs
and vultures, and grief would leave my heart,
for he has taken so many of my noble sons,
killing them or selling them to distant lands.
Even now, I do not see two of my sons among
the Trojans in the city: Lycaon and Polydorus,
whose mother is Laothoe, pearl of a woman.
If they still live in the enemy camp, then we
can free them with some of the gold or bronze
gifts that old Altes gave to his daughter.
But if they are dead and in the house of Hades,
then I and their mother will be filled with grief,
though the grief of others will be shorter—
unless you, too, are killed by Achilles. So come
inside the walls, my child. Save the Trojan
men and women, and do not give great glory
to Peleus’ son and deprive yourself of dear life.
And take pity on your wretched father before
Zeus, son of Cronos, kills me in my old age,
long after I have witnessed many woes: sons
killed, daughters captured, treasures plundered,
infants taken and hurled to the ground in grim
combat, and daughters-in-law dragged away
by the deadly hands of the Achaeans. Then,
after all this, a man will come to my door,
strike me down with his sharp spear, and strip
my limbs of life; then my own guard dogs, who
I fed at my table, will drag me out, rip my body
to pieces, and drink my blood with savage
fury until they fall asleep in the doorway.
A young man killed in battle and lying dead
on the field, his body torn by bronze, is a fine
and noble sight, but nothing is more shameful
than seeing dogs mutilate a dead old man’s
grizzled face, grey beard, and naked corpse.”

So the old man said, ripping the grey hair
from his head, but Hector could not be swayed.
Then his mother, crying and shedding tears,
opened her robe with one hand, held a breast
out with the other, and tearfully said to her son:
“Hector, my child, look at these. If I ever gave
you my breast to ease your pain, then pity me.
Remember this, dear child, and fight the foe
from inside the wall; do not be a fool and face
him. If he kills you, then I will never mourn
you on a bier, dear branch whom I bore,
nor will your bountiful bride, for swift dogs will
devour you by the Argive ships, far from us.”

So they spoke, tearfully begging their dearest
son, but Hector was unswayed as he awaited
mighty Achilles’ approach. Just as a mountain
serpent in his lair waits for a man while eating
poison herbs that fuel his rage and glaring
menacingly as he coils inside his hole,
so Hector, with steadfast courage, stood firm
and leaned his shining shield against the wall.
But he was troubled, telling his heroic heart:
“Woe is me! If I go inside the gates and walls,
then Polydamas will be the first to shame me,
for he urged me to return the Trojans to the city
on the deadly night that godlike Achilles was
roused. But I ignored him—a grave mistake.
Now, since my folly brought the army to ruin,
I fear facing the Trojans and their long-robed
wives and hearing some lesser man tell me:
‘Hector’s arrogance has destroyed the army.’
So they will say. Frankly, I would rather face
Achilles one-on-one, kill him, and return
home or else die gloriously before the city.
Or perhaps I will set down my bossed shield
and stout helm, lean the spear against the wall,
go alone to noble Achilles, and promise him
that Helen and all the prizes that Alexander
brought in his hollow ships back to Troy—
and thus started this strife—will be given
to Atreus’ sons to take away. Then I will
divide among the Achaeans all the city’s
hidden riches and make the Trojan elders
swear an oath that they will hide nothing
and divide in two all treasures to be found
in this fair city. But why does my heart debate
such things? If I approach him as a suppliant,
stripped of armor like a woman, then he will
not pity me or respect me but will kill me.
There is no way now from tree or rock to chat
with him in the same way a girl and a boy—
girl and boy!—chat idly with each other.
Better, then, to fight him at once and find out
which of us is granted glory by the Olympian.”

So he thought as he waited, but soon Achilles,
equal to the glancing-helmed warrior Enyalius,
drew near, his dreaded Pelian ash spear shaking
over his right shoulder and his bronze armor
shining like a flaming fire or a rising sun.
When Hector saw him, he fled in panic, leaving
the gates behind, but the son of Peleus pursued,
trusting his swift feet. Just as a mountain
hawk, swiftest of birds, swoops down on a wild
dove, and though the dove flees, the hawk,
crying sharply, draws ever closer, intent
on seizing her, so also did Achilles fly straight
at him. But Hector fled from the Trojan walls
in fear, moving as fast as his limbs allowed.
They ran past the lookout point and the wind-
swept fig tree, followed the carriage road
under the wall, and came to two fair-flowing
springs whose waters feed the swirling
Scamander. Warm water flows in one, steam
rising all around like a blazing fire, while even
in summer the water in the other flows as cold
as hail or snow or ice that forms in water.
Beside the springs are fine washing basins
of stone, where Trojan wives and fair daughters
cleaned their clothes back in more peaceful
times, before the arrival of the Achaean sons.
They ran past: one fleeing, the other chasing.
A good man was in front, but a better man
pursued him quickly, for they raced not to win
a prize, like a sacrificial animal or an ox-hide,
but for the life of horse-taming Hector. Just as
champion single-hoofed horses gallop swiftly
at the turn when a great prize like a tripod
or woman is at stake in a funeral games,
so the swift feet of these two circled the city
of Priam three times as the gods looked on.
First to speak was the father of gods and men:
“Alas, I see a dear man being chased around
the walls, and my heart grieves for Hector, who
has burnt many thigh pieces in offering to me
on many-ridged Ida’s peaks or on the city’s
rooftops. But now noble Achilles pursues
Priam’s son around the city with his swift feet.
So come, immortals, and give counsel. Should
we save Hector from death or allow this good
man to be slain by Achilles, son of Peleus?”

Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena replied:
“Father, lord of thunderbolts and black clouds,
what are you saying? Do you want to free
from death a mortal long fated to die? Do it,
but do not expect the other gods to approve.”

And cloud-gatherer Zeus replied to her:
“Tritogeneia, dear child, relax; my words
are not in earnest, and I want to please you.
So do what you must; I will not get in the way.”

Hearing this, an already-eager Athena
quickly darted down the peaks of Olympus.

Meanwhile, swift Achilles chased Hector like
a dog chasing a fawn out of its mountain lair
and over valleys and dells, and though the fawn
hides in a bush for a while, the dog soon finds
its scent and runs it down. So also was Hector
unable to escape the swift son of Peleus. Each
time he headed for the Dardanian gates, where
the well-built walls offered safety and archers
could rain down missiles, Achilles forced him
back to the plain and kept himself between
Hector and the city. Just as a dreamer cannot
chase one who flees, for one cannot overtake
and the other cannot pursue, so Achilles could
not catch Hector, nor could Hector escape.
But Hector could never have escaped fated
death had Apollo not come near him one last
time to stir his strength and quicken his knees.
Noble Achilles motioned to his men not to shoot
their sharp missiles at Hector in case one hit
him and took the glory, leaving Achilles second.
But when they reached the springs a fourth time,
father Zeus set two deadly fates on his golden
scales: one for Achilles and one for horse-taming
Hector. When he lifted the middle of the scales,
the weight dropped for Hector’s deadly day
of doom, and so Phoebus Apollo left him.
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena came
near the son of Peleus and said to him:
“Now, glorious Achilles, dear to Zeus, I hope
we can bring glory back to the Achaean ships
after slaying Hector, though he is unrelenting
in battle. Now he cannot flee from us, even if
far-shooter Apollo grovels before the face
of aegis-bearing father Zeus. For now, stand
here and take a breath while I go to Hector
and persuade him to fight you man-to-man.”

So Athena said, and Achilles eagerly obeyed,
stopping and leaning against his bronze-tipped
ashen spear. And Athena, taking the form
and voice of Deïophobus, approached noble
Hector and said to him with winged words:
“Dear brother, swift Achilles is wearing you
down by chasing you around Priam’s city.
So let us stand together and defend our home.”

Then glancing-helmed Hector answered her:
“Deïphobus, in the past you were the dearest
of my brothers born to Priam and Hecabe,
but now my heart will honor you even more,
for when you saw me, you dared to come out
beyond the walls while the others stayed inside.”

Then again bright-eyed goddess Athena replied:
“Dear brother, father and my revered mother
begged me, along with my comrades, to stay
back, for they fear Achilles, but my heart was
worn down by painful grief for you. Now, let
us charge him and fight—and spare no spears
so we may learn whether Achilles will kill us
and drag our bloody armor back to the hollow
ships or whether he will die by our spears.”

So Athena said, cunningly deceiving Hector.
When they closed on one another, glancing-
helmed Hector spoke first, telling Achilles:
“Son of Peleus, I am done running away.
I circled Priam’s great city three times because
I could not stay and fight, but now my heart
compels me to face you and either kill or be
killed. But let us swear an oath to the gods,
who will bear witness and guard our pact:
if Zeus grants me victory, I will not mutilate
your corpse, for once I strip your glorious
armor, Achilles, I will give your body back
to the Achaeans—if you will do the same.”

With a scowl, swift-footed Achilles replied:
“Wretched Hector, do not speak to me of pacts.
No oaths of trust exist between lions and men,
nor do wolves and lambs seek common ground,
for their hearts are full of hatred for each other.
So it is between you and I, and there will be no
oaths between us until one of us falls and sates
steady-shielded Ares with his blood. Remember
all your valor: you must be a great spearman
and a bold warrior, for there is no escape for you.
Soon Pallas Athena will slay you with my spear,
and you will repay me for all my sorrows after
you killed my friends in a rage with your spear.”

So saying, he poised his long-shadowed spear
and hurled it, but famed Hector saw it coming
and ducked, and the bronze flew over his shoulder
and fell to the earth. But Pallas Athena snatched
it up and gave it back to Achilles without Hector
noticing. And Hector told noble Peleus’ son:
“You missed, godlike Achilles, so it seems you
do not know my fate from Zeus as you claimed.
You thought that glib and wily words would make
me cower in fear and rob me of might and courage,
but you will not spear me in the back as I flee,
though you may drive it into my chest as I
charge you—if the gods allow it. For now, avoid
my bronze spear, which I hope to bury deep
in your flesh. War would be easier for the Trojans
if you perished, for you are their fiercest foe.”

So saying, he poised and hurled his long spear,
but it landed in the center of Achilles’ shield
before glancing aside. Angry that his weapon
was cast in vain, Hector stood there, crushed,
and without a second ashen spear. He then
called to bright-shielded Deïphobus, asking
for another long spear, but he was not there.
Then Hector realized the truth, and exclaimed:
“Alas, the gods have surely called for my death,
for I thought heroic Deïphobus was beside me,
but he is behind the wall, and Athena has tricked
me. Now bitter death is near, and I cannot escape.
Surely, this has long been the will of Zeus
and his far-shooting son, who once guarded me
gladly. Now fate has come for me, but I will not
die shamefully, without a fight, but will do some
great deed that future men will hear about.”

Saying this, he drew from its sheath a sharp
sword, strong and sturdy; then he collected
himself and attacked. Just as an eagle swoops
down from the murky clouds to snatch a tender
lamb or cowering hare, so Hector swooped,
wielding his sharp sword. Achilles also charged,
savage fury filling his heart, his well-made shield
protecting his chest, his four-crested helmet
bobbing up and down, and a thick golden plume
waving along the crest, set there by Hephaestus.
Just as the evening star,^[1] the brightest star
in the heavens, shines in the gloom of night,
so shone the sharp spear that Achilles held
in his right hand and aimed at noble Hector
with murderous intent while scanning his fair
flesh to find a weak spot. Hector’s body was
covered in the bronze armor he had stripped
from Patroclus after killing him, but there was
a gap where the collar-bone and shoulders
joined the neck: the gullet, a deadly spot. This is
where noble Achilles shot his spear as Hector
charged. The heavy bronze point passed clean
through the soft neck but did not cut his wind-
pipe, so he could still speak. Then Hector fell
to the dust, and Achilles derided him, saying:
“Hector, you thought you would be safe when
you stripped Patroclus, but you forgot about me,
you fool—an avenger, greater than he, far away
by the hollow ships. Now I have dropped you
to your knees, and dogs and birds will tear you
apart horribly while the Achaeans bury Patroclus.”

A weakened Hector of the flashing helm replied:
“I beg you on the knees and souls of your parents:
do not let dogs devour me by the Achaean ships.
My father and mother will give you endless
gifts of gold and bronze if you let my body be
taken home so the Trojan men and Trojan
wives may offer death rites by funeral pyre.”

With a scowl, swift-footed Achilles said to him:
“Do not beg me on your knees or by my parents,
dog. I only wish my might and rage would let
me cut your flesh and eat it raw for all you did
to me. Nothing will keep the dogs from your head,
not even if they weigh out ten or twenty times
the normal ransom and promise even more
or if Priam, son of Dardanus, offers your weight
in gold. Your revered mother will never place
you on a death bed and mourn the son she
bore, for dogs and birds will tear you apart.”

As he lay dying, flashing-helmed Hector said:
“I know you well, and I know nothing could
persuade you, for you have a heart of iron.
But beware, or I will be the cause of the gods’
wrath against you when Paris and Phoebus
Apollo slay you, great hero, by the Scaean gates.”

As he spoke, death’s shroud enveloped him,
and his soul left his limbs and headed to Hades
with a wailing cry, leaving youth and manhood
behind. To the dead man, noble Achilles said:
“Die now, and I will accept my fate when
Zeus and the other gods bring it to pass.”

So saying, he pulled the bronze spear out
of Hector’s corpse, set it aside, and stripped
the blood-soaked armor from his shoulders.
Then the Achaean sons surrounded Hector,
admiring his glorious body while stabbing it.
Then they turned to each other and said:
“Well, Hector is now much easier to handle
than when he was setting fire to our ships.”

So they said as they prodded the body.
But once Achilles had stripped the armor,
he stood among the Achaeans and said:
“Friends, leaders, and rulers of the Argives,
since the gods have allowed us to slay this man
who has brought us misery beyond all others,
let us go, fully-armed, to the city to find
out what the Trojans have in mind: will they
abandon the high city now that Hector has
fallen or remain in spite of the loss? But why
does my heart debate such things? A corpse
lies by the ships, unmourned and unburied:
Patroclus, whom I will never forget so long
as I live and my knees are limber. And if
in Hades the dead forget the dead, I will still
remember my dear comrade. Now, let us sing
a victory song, Achaean sons, and go back
to the hollow ships with him in tow. Great
glory is ours! We killed heroic Hector, whom
the Trojans in the city worshipped like a god!”

So he said, and devised cruel plans for noble
Hector. He pierced the tendons in both feet
between ankles and heels, drew ox-hide straps
through them, and tied them to the chariot,
leaving the head to drag behind. He leapt
on the chariot, set the armor down, whipped
the horses, and set off. Dust rose up and spread
over Hector’s dark hair, his once-fair head lying
deep in the dust. This is how Zeus delivered him
to his enemies to be abused in his father’s land.

As Hector’s head was dragged through the dust,
his mother was tearing out her hair, flinging
off her shining veil, and loudly wailing
at the sight of her son. His father also groaned
in grief, and people across the city mourned
as if all of hill-top Ilios were burning
in a blazing fire. His people were barely
able to stop the frenzied old man from rushing
out the Dardanian gates, and he pleaded
with them all as he wallowed in the dung,^[2]
calling on each man by name and saying:
“Stop fretting, my friends, and help me leave
the city by myself and go to the Achaean
ships. I will beg this reckless, violent man
and see if he respects his elders and takes pity
on an old man. His own father is my age:
Peleus, who gave him life and raised him to be
the bane of Troy—but especially me, for he
killed my many sons, all in their youthful
prime. Still, though I mourn them all, it is
my sharp grief for Hector that will drag me
down to Hades. If only he had died in my arms!
Then we could have our fill of weeping
and wailing: the mother who bore him and I.”

So he said, weeping, and the city cried with him.
And Hecuba led the Trojan women in mourning:
“My child, how wretched am I! How shall I
live now that you are dead? You were my glory
every day and night in the city, and you aided
all Trojan men and women, who treated you
like a god. You were their great glory too,
but now death and fate have come for you.”

So she said, weeping, but Hector’s wife knew
none of this, for no messenger had come to tell
her that her husband was still outside the gates.
She was at her loom deep inside the high house,
inserting colorful flowers into a purple cloak.
She told her fair-haired attendants to set a tripod
on the fire so a hot bath would be ready when
Hector returned from battle—the poor thing.
She was unaware that, far from all baths, bright-
eyed Athena had slain him by Achilles’ hands.
Then from the wall she heard the wailing cries,
and her knees buckled; she dropped the rod
and called again to her fair-haired attendants:
“You two, follow me. I must see what has
happened. I heard Hecuba’s voice, and now
my heart is in my throat and my knees are stiff;
surely some evil has come to a child of Priam.
May the word stay far from my ear, but I fear
noble Achilles has cut off bold Hector
from the city, driven him onto the plain,
and put an end to his fatal courage, for Hector
would never remain in a crowd but charge
to the front, his fury yielding to no man.”

So saying, Andromache ran from the hall like
a madwoman, heart racing and attendants
following. When she reached the wall, she pushed
through the crowd, looked down, and saw swift
horses dragging Hector ruthlessly before the city
and then away to the hollow Achaean ships.
At once, a dark cloud covered her eyes and she
fell back, gasping. Her bright head-dress flew off,
diadem and cap and plaited head-band along
with the veil that golden Aphrodite had given
her on the day flashing-helmed Hector took her
from Eëtion’s house after bringing countless
gifts as bride-price. Then she was circled
by her husband’s sisters and brother’s wives
who held her as she wailed for death. When she
had revived and her spirit had returned, she
lifted her voice and said to the women of Troy:
“Hector, I am lost. We were born to one fate,
you and I: you in Troy in Priam’s house and I
in Thebes under wooded Placus in the house
of Eëtion, who raised me, the father of a cursed
child. I wish he had never given me life.
Now you go to the home of Hades deep under
the earth, leaving me in dreadful grief, a widow
in your halls with an infant child, the son born
to you and I, both of us cursed. You are dead,
Hector, and so cannot help him, nor he you.
For if he escapes the tearful Achaean war,
his life will be full of hard work and sorrow,
for others will take his lands. Orphanhood
robs a child of his friends: his head hangs low,
his cheeks are wet with tears, and when he must,
he visits his father’s friends, tugging at one’s cloak
or another’s tunic, and they pity him, and one
offers him a small sip from his cup, which wets
his lips but does not quench his thirst. Then one
whose parents still live strikes him, throws him
from the feast, and reproaches him, saying,
‘Get out! Your father does not share our feast.’
Tearfully, he returns to his widowed mother,
the child Astyanax, who once sat on his father’s
knees eating only marrow and rich sheep fat,
and when sleep came and he finished playing,
he slept in a soft bed in his nurse’s arms,
his heart filled with happy thoughts. But now
that he has lost his father, he will suffer terribly,
the boy the Trojans call Astyanax because you
alone, Hector, saved their gates and high walls.
Now, by the curved ships, far from your parents,
wriggling worms will eat your naked corpse once
the dogs have had their fill, though in your halls
lie fine clothes made by women’s hands. But I will
burn them all in a blazing fire; you do not need
them, since you will never lie in them, but by doing
this the men and women of Troy will honor you.”

So she said, weeping, and the women cried with her.