When the games were over, the men scattered
to their ships, their thoughts on food and sweet
sleep, but all-consuming sleep could not hold
a tearful Achilles, who yearned for his dearest
companion, the brave and bold Patroclus.
He tossed and turned as he thought of all they
had achieved and all they had endured, both
the battles and the deadly waves. He would
remember all this while shedding large tears
and lying first on his ribs, then on his back,
and then on his face; then he would stand up
and wander sadly along the shore until Dawn
rose brightly over the sea and beaches.
Then he would yoke his swift horses, tie
Hector to the chariot, and drag him around
Patroclus’ barrow three times before returning
to his hut to rest, leaving Hector stretched
out and face-down in the dust. But Apollo
pitied Hector even in death, protecting
his flesh with his golden aegis so his body
would not be torn as he was dragged along.

As Achilles sought to deface noble Hector,
the blessed gods looked on with pity and urged
sharp-sighted Hermes to steal the corpse.
This idea pleased all the gods save for Hera,
Poseidon, and the bright-eyed maiden whose
hatred for Ilios, Priam, and his people was
as strong as it had been on the day they went
to Alexander’s courtyard and he insulted
them by praising she who fed his deadly lust.^[1]
But at dawn on the twelfth day after Hector’s
death, Phoebus Apollo addressed the immortals:
“Cruel, malicious gods, did Hector not burn
the thigh bones of perfect oxen and goats for you?
Now you refuse to save his corpse for his wife
to look upon as well as his mother, his child,
his father Priam, and his people, who would
swiftly burn him and perform the funeral rites.
No, you gods would prefer to aid deadly Achilles
whose heart is broken and whose mind cannot
be bent. He is like a savage lion whose great
strength and courageous spirit compel him
to attack flocks of men to win himself a feast.
Achilles has lost both his pity and his shame,
which can greatly harm men but also help them.
Even when a man loses one dearer to him than
this man has—a brother from the same mother
or a son—he will mourn and then move on,
for the Fates have given men enduring hearts.
But after robbing Hector of life, Achilles ties
him to his chariot and drags him around
his friend’s barrow. There is no honor or profit
in this. As mighty as he is, he should fear
our wrath, for his rage defiles the senseless earth.”

Then, in anger, white-armed Hera replied to him:
“You would be right, lord of the silver bow,
if Achilles and Hector deserved equal honor.
But Hector was a mortal who suckled his mother’s
breast while Achilles is the son of a goddess,
one I nurtured and raised and gave in marriage
to Peleus, a man dear to the gods. All the gods
went to the wedding, and you also sat at the feast,
lyre in your lap, you faithless friend of misery.”

Then cloud-gatherer Zeus replied to her:
“Hera, do not be angry at the gods. True,
their honor will not be the same, but of all
mortals in Ilios, Hector was dearest to the gods,
myself included. He never failed in his gifts
to me, for my altar never lacked offerings of wine
and burnt flesh, those gifts that are rightly ours.
But let us hear no more talk of stealing brave
Hector without Achilles knowing it; his mother
visits him day and night, after all. Perhaps one
of the gods would summon Thetis to me,
so I may speak to her, for Achilles must accept
Priam’s ransom and return Hector to him.”

At once, storm-footed Iris sped off bearing
his message, and between Samos and rocky
Imbros she dove into the dark sea with a loud
splash and sank to the sea bottom like a lead
weight fixed to a field oxen’s horn that plunges
down and brings death to the flesh-eating fish.
She found Thetis in a hollow cave surrounded
by her sister sea-goddesses, mourning the fate
of her noble son who would soon perish
in deep-soiled Troy, far from his father’s land.
Swift-footed Iris came up to her and said:
“Rise, Thetis. Eternally wise Zeus calls you.”

In reply, silver-footed goddess Thetis said:
“Why does Zeus call me? I am ashamed to mix
with the gods since I am filled with sadness.
Still, I will go, for his words will not be in vain.”

So saying, the goddess took a dark veil,
blacker than any other covering, and set off;
swift-footed Iris led the way, and the swelling
sea parted on either side as they passed.
When they reached the sea shore, they flew
to heaven and found Cronos’ far-seeing son
along with all the other blessed immortals.
Athena made room, and Thetis sat by Zeus.
Hera welcomed her and handed her a fine
golden cup, which she sipped and returned.
Then the father of gods and men told her:
“You have come to Olympus, goddess Thetis,
in spite of all your grief—I know it well.
But I will tell you why I have summoned you
here. For nine days, the gods have quarreled
over Hector’s corpse and over Achilles. They
urge sharp-sighted Hermes to steal the body,
but I grant Achilles his honor in this in order
to preserve your love and respect for me.
So go and speak to your son. Tell him the gods
are angry—and I, above all others, am furious
that he continues to hold Hector by the beaked
ships, refusing to let him go. Perhaps fear of me
will compel him to return Hector. Then I will
send Iris to great-hearted Priam to tell him
to go to the Achaean ships and ransom his son,
bringing with him gifts to soothe Achilles’ heart.”

So he said, and silver-footed Thetis obeyed.
She flew down the Olympian peaks and soon
arrived at her son’s tent. She found him lost
in mourning surrounded by his faithful
comrades who were busy slaughtering a large,
shaggy ram and preparing the morning meal.
His honored mother sat down close to him,
caressed him with her hands, and said to him:
“My child, how long will you let your heart
be eaten away by grief, taking no thought
of food or rest or making love to a woman?
I say to you: you will not live much longer,
for death and resistless fate stand ever closer.
Now listen, for I am a messenger from Zeus.
The gods are angry at you, and Zeus, above
all others, is furious that you continue to hold
Hector by the beaked ships, refusing to let him go.
So release him and accept ransom for the body.”

In reply, swift-footed Achilles said to her:
“If the Olympian commands it, I will obey.
Let he who brings ransom take the body.”

So mother and son spoke many winged words
to one another beside the gathered ships.
But Cronos’ son ordered divine Iris to Ilios:
“Iris, go quickly from Olympus to Ilios and tell
great-hearted King Priam that he must go
to the Achaean ships and ransom his son,
bringing with him gifts to soothe Achilles’
heart. Tell him to do this alone, with no other
Trojan save an old herald to drive the mule
and well-wheeled cart that will carry the body
killed by noble Achilles back to the city.
Let Priam have no fear and think nothing
of death, for he will be guided by Hermes
who will lead him until he reaches Achilles.
And after he has arrived in Achilles’ tent,
neither Achilles nor anyone else will kill him,
for the man is not foolish, impulsive, or sinful
and will kindly protect a suppliant man.”

So saying, swift Iris left to deliver the message
and soon arrived at Priam’s palace to find
a mournful scene. Sons sat around their father,
their clothes covered in tears, while the old man
sat in the middle clutching his cloak tightly,
his head and neck covered in dung, for he had
been wallowing in it and gathering it in his hands.
His daughters and daughters-in-law filled
the house with wails, remembering the noble
warriors who lay dead, killed by Argive hands.
But Zeus’ messenger came near Priam, took
his trembling hand, and spoke softly to him:
“Have courage, Priam, son of Dardanos,
and do not fear, for I have come not with evil
intent but good. I am a messenger from Zeus,
who cares for you and pities you from afar.
The Olympian orders you to ransom noble
Hector’s body by bringing gifts to soothe
Achilles’ heart. Do this alone, with no other
Trojan save an old herald to drive the mule
and well-wheeled cart that will carry the corpse
killed by noble Achilles back to the city.
You must have no fear and think nothing
of death, for you will be guided by Hermes
who will lead you until you reach Achilles.
And after you have arrived in Achilles’ tent,
neither Achilles nor anyone else will kill you,
for the man is not foolish, impulsive, or sinful
and will kindly protect a suppliant man.”

So saying, swift-footed Iris left, and Priam
ordered his sons to prepare a mule and well-
wheeled cart with a wicker basket fixed to it.
He then went into the high-roofed storeroom
that smelled of sweet junipers and was filled
with treasure, and he said to his wife Hecabe:
“Wife! A messenger from Zeus came and told
me to go to the Achaean ships and ransom
my son by bringing gifts to soothe Achilles’
heart. Tell me, what am I to do? As for me,
my heart desperately desires that I go at once
to the great camp of the Achaean ships.”

Hearing this, his wife shrieked and said:
“Where is that wisdom of yours that was once
so revered by foreigners and subjects alike?
How can you think to go to the Achaean ships
alone and face the man who killed your many
noble sons? Yours must surely be an iron heart.
If this savage and untrustworthy man captures
you and looks you in the eyes, he will show you
no respect or pity. No, we must mourn from afar,
in this room. This was the thread spun for him
by resistless Fate on the day I bore him, that he
would sate the hunger of swift dogs far away
from his parents, killed by a powerful man whose
liver I long to devour in vengeance for what he
did to my child who was no coward but died
defending the men and deep-girdled women
of Troy with no thoughts of fear or of flight.”

In reply, the old man, godlike Priam, said to her:
“Do not stop me going where I must, and do
not act like a bird of doom in my halls; you
will not persuade me. If some other mortal had
told me this—a seer, soothsayer, or priest—
then I would call it a lie and dismiss it. But just
now I heard the god’s voice and looked upon her,
so I must trust her word and go. If I am fated
to die by the bronze-clad Achaean ships, then
so be it. Let Achilles slay me after I have held
my son in my arms and have mourned him.”

So saying, he opened the lids of fine chests
and took out twelve beautiful robes, twelve
cloaks to be worn single, as many blankets,
as many linen mantles, and as many tunics.
He weighed and carried out ten talents of gold,
three tripods, four cauldrons, and an exquisite
cup that the Thracians gave to him during
an embassy visit—the old man did not spare
even this, so desperate was he to ransom
his dear son. Then he drove all the Trojans
from the portico and scolded them, saying:
“Get out, wretched fools! Can you not mourn
at home instead of bringing your sorrow to me?
Is it not enough that Zeus, son of Cronos, gave
me grief when I lost my son? You will feel this
loss soon, for it will be easier for the Achaeans
to kill us now he is gone. But I hope to be
in the house of Hades before my eyes must
see the city destroyed and its people slain.”

So saying, he chased the men with his staff,
and they fled from the old man. Then he called
to his sons and reproached them: Helenos,
Paris, noble Agathon, Pammon, Antiphonus,
war crier Polites, Deïphobus, Hippothous,
and godlike Dius. To these nine Priam said:
“Hurry, foul children, disgraces! I wish
you had all died by the swift ships instead
of Hector. Alas, I am cursed! I had the finest
sons in wide Troy, but none of them are left:
not noble Meriones or Troilus the charioteer
or Hector, a god among men, who seemed
more like a god’s son than a man’s. Ares
killed them all and left behind the wretches:
the liars and dancers, dancing heroes, who
rob their own people of lambs and kids.
Now, will you quickly ready my cart and fill it
with these things so we can be on our way?”

So he said, and they, dreading their father’s
rebuke, prepared a mule and well-wheeled cart
with a wicker basket fixed to it. They took
from its peg a boxwood mule yoke with a boss
and guiding rings, a yoke-band nine cubits
long, and the yoke itself. They set the yoke
at the upper end of the polished pole, put
the ring over the peg, bound it to the boss
three times on either side, tied it to the post,
and tucked the tongue under it. After this, they
took the countless treasures for Hector’s ransom
out of the storeroom, put them in the polished
cart, and yoked the strong-hoofed mules who
work the harness, fine gifts given to Priam
by the Mysians. For Priam, they yoked horses
the old man himself had reared in his stable.

The herald and Priam, deep in thought, were
waiting in the palace for their teams to be yoked
when a mournful Hecuba approached, her right
hand holding honey wine in a golden goblet
so they might make a libation before they went.
And she stood in front of the horses and said:
“Pour a libation for father Zeus and pray you
return hone from the enemy since you insist
on going to the ships against my wishes. Pray
to Cronos’ son, lord of black clouds who rules
from Ida and looks down on all Troy, and ask
him for a bird omen, one that is dearest to him,
is the strongest of birds, and is on the right side
so that, when you see it with your own eyes,
you can trust it and go to the swift Danaan ships.
But if far-seeing Zeus does not send a bird,
then I would urge you not to go to the Argive
ships, though you seem determined to do so.”

Then godlike Priam answered her, saying:
“Wife, I will not disobey your request. It is
wise to lift up hands to Zeus and ask for mercy.”

So saying, he told the housekeeper to pour clean
water over his hands, so she stood beside them
with a water jar and basin in her hands. After
washing his hands, he took the cup from his wife,
stood in the center of the room, poured out
the wine, looked up to heaven, and prayed:
“Father Zeus who rules on Ida, great and glorious,
send me to Achilles, welcomed and pitied,
but first send a bird, one that is dearest to you,
is the strongest of birds, and is on the right
side so that, when I see it with my own eyes,
I can trust it and go to the swift Danaan ships.”

Hearing his prayer, counselor Zeus sent down
the greatest of birds, the dark hunter that
men call the black eagle, a bird which has
a wingspan as wide as the well-bolted doors
on a rich man’s high-roofed treasure chamber.
He flew over the city and appeared to them
on their right side, and the hearts of all who
saw him were delighted and comforted.

At once, the old man mounted his chariot
and drove out the door and across the echoing
portico. The mule was in front, pulling the four-
wheeled cart driven by skilled Idaeus; the old man
was behind, whipping his horses and urging them
speedily through the city; and his loved ones
followed, mourning him as they would the dead.
When the two left the city and came to the plain,
the sons and sons-in law stopped and returned
to Ilios, but far-seeing Zeus kept watch as they
streaked across the plain, and he felt pity for Priam,
so he called his dear son Hermes and said to him:
“Hermes, you enjoy the company of men more
than the other gods and will to listen to anyone,
so go—lead Priam to the Achaean hollow ships
and make sure none of the Danaans recognize
him before he reaches the son of Peleus.”

So he said, and Hermes did not disobey.
He tied to his feet the golden, immortal
sandals that carried him over the waters
and the boundless lands like a blast of wind.
Then he took the wand he used to enchant
mortals’ eyes, to make them sleep or to rouse
them awake, and held onto this as he quickly
flew to the Trojan plain and the Hellespont.
He then disguised himself as a young prince,
newly bearded and in the prime of youth.

After driving past the great barrow of Ilus,
the men stopped by the river to let the mules
and horses drink, for darkness had covered
the earth. There the herald spotted Hermes,
who was close at hand, and he said to Priam:
“Think quickly, son of Dardanos, for we have
a problem. I see a man who will, I fear, tear
us to pieces. Let us either flee in the chariot
or fall on his knees and beg for our lives.”

Hearing this, Priam’s mind clouded with fear,
the hairs on his crooked body stood straight up,
and he froze in place. But helper Hermes came
closer, took the old man’s hand, and asked him:
“Father, where are you driving these horses
and mules at this late hour while other men
sleep? Do you not fear the nearby Achaeans,
your enemies who breathe hostile fury? If one
of them saw you transporting these treasures
in the black of night, what then would you do?
You are not young, and your companion is too
old to defend you against any man who attacks.
But I will not harm you, and I will defend you
against others, for you remind me of my father.”

Then the old man, godlike Priam, answered him:
“All that you say is true, dear child, but some
god must be protecting me, for he brought me
into contact with you, a traveler, a truly blessed
sight, for you are a man of admirable form
and sensible mind. Your parents must be proud.”

Then the messenger Hermes replied to him:
“Indeed, old man, all you say is right and true.
But come, explain this to me, and be honest:
are you taking these many fine treasures
to foreign men in order to keep them safe,
or are you fleeing in fear from wondrous Ilios
now that your son has died, the finest warrior,
a man who never stopped fighting the Achaeans.”

Then the old man, godlike Priam, answered him:
“Friend, you speak well of my ill-fated son,
so tell me: who are you and who is your father?”

Then the messenger Hermes replied to him:
“You test me by asking about noble Hector,
but I often saw him in glorious battle, driving
the Argives to their ships and slaying them
with his sharp blade. We stood amazed, for we
were not allowed to fight due to Achilles’ anger
at Atreus’ son. I am Achilles’ attendant, brought
here on the same well-made ship; and I am
a Myrmidon, son of Polyctor, a wealthy man
and as old as you. He has six sons, and I am
the seventh; after we cast lots, I was chosen
to come here. Now I have come to the plain,
away from the ships, for at dawn the quick-
glancing Achaeans will assault the city. They are
too impatient to sit idle, and the Achaean kings
cannot stop them from charging into battle.”

Then the old man, godlike Priam, answered him:
“If you are the attendant of Achilles, son
of Peleus, then tell me the truth: is my son
still beside the ships, or has Achilles cut him
limb from limb and thrown him to the dogs?”

Then the messenger Hermes replied to him:
“Old man, no dogs or birds have eaten him.
He still lies beside Achilles’ ships, near the tents.
For twelve days he has lain there, but his flesh
has not rotted nor have worms feasted upon him
as they often do to slain warriors. And though,
at each dawn, Achilles drags Hector ruthlessly
around his dear friend’s barrow, his body is
unmarred. You would be amazed if you saw
him lying there fresh as dew, cleansed of blood
or other stains, and all wounds closed, wounds
which had been driven into him by bronze.
Thus, even in death, the blessed gods care
for your son, for they loved him in their hearts.”

Hearing this, the old man rejoiced and said:
“Child, truly it is good to give proper gifts
to the immortals, for my son above all others
in my halls honored the Olympian gods,
and they have remembered him even in death.
So come, accept this fine goblet from me
and protect me and guide me with the gods’
blessing until I reach the tent of Peleus’ son.”

Then the messenger Hermes replied to him:
“You test me, old man, for I am young, but I
cannot take your gift behind Achilles’ back.
I respect and fear him too much to wrong
him, for a terrible punishment would result.
But I would guide you and care for you, either
in a swift ship or on foot, all the way to famed
Argos, and no one would dare challenge you.”

At once, the helper leapt on the chariot, took
the whip and reins in his hands, and breathed
life into the horses and mules. When they
reached the ramparts and ditch that guarded
the ships, the messenger Hermes poured sleep
over the guards who were busy making dinner.
He then drew back the bar, opened the gate,
and led in Priam and his wagon full of gifts.
Soon they reached the son of Peleus’ tent,
which the Myrmidons had built for him using
tall fir-wood walls, a thatched roof made
of shaggy grass gathered from the meadows,
a great courtyard with close-set stakes around
it, and a gate held in place by a single wooden
bar that took three Achaeans to close and three
to open—though Achilles could open and close
it on his own. The helper Hermes opened
this gate for the old man, brought in the great
gifts for the swift-footed son of Peleus, leapt
from the chariot to the ground, and said to him:
“Old man, in truth I am the immortal god
Hermes; my father sent me to guide you here.
But now I am returning home before Achilles
sees me, for it would cause offense for a god
to be entertained by mortal men. But you must
go to the son of Peleus on your knees and beg
him in the name of his father, his fair-haired
mother, and his child, and so stir his heart.”

So saying, Hermes returned to high Olympus.
Then Priam leapt from his chariot, left Idaeus
to mind the horses and mules, and went straight
to the tent where Zeus-blessed Achilles waited.
He found him apart from his comrades as two
warriors, Automedon and Alcimus, busily
served him; he had just finished his dinner,
and the table was still near him. Unseen
by others, great Priam entered and stood
beside Achilles, clutched his knees, and kissed
those terrible, murderous hands—the hands
that killed his sons. Like a man blinded
by rage who kills another in his hometown
and escapes to a rich man’s house in a foreign
land where they look upon him with wonder,
so Achilles looked with wonder on godlike
Priam, and the others were equally baffled.
But Priam spoke to him, begging for mercy:
“Godlike Achilles, think of your father, a man
like myself, on the edge of old age. No doubt
those living nearby bring him distress, yet no
one remains to hold them off. But when he
hears of you, that you are alive, his heart surely
rejoices, and he is ever hopeful that one day
he will see his dear son return from Troy.
But I am cursed. I had the finest sons in Troy,
yet none remain. When the Achaeans arrived,
I had fifty sons; nineteen were born of the same
womb, and other palace women bore the rest.
Furious Ares sent most to their knees, but one
remained to protect the city and its people.
That was Hector, the man you killed as he
fought for his country. It is for his sake that
I come to the Achaean ships, to ransom
his body back from you with countless gifts.
Respect the gods, Achilles, and pity me, a man
like your father, a man who has endured more
than any other mortal on earth and who now
kisses the hand of the man who slew his sons.”

Priam’s words filled Achilles with a longing
for his own father. Taking hold of his hand,
he pushed the old man back, and the two
remembered. Priam crouched at Achilles’
feet and wept loudly for man-slaying Hector,
and Achilles wept for his father and Patroclus.
Together their cries filled the tent. But when
his heart and limbs had had their fill of tears,
noble Achilles sprang from his seat, lifted
the old man up, pitying his grey head
and beard, and said to him with winged words:
“Poor man, you have indeed endured many woes.
How could you bear to come to the Achaean
ships alone and look into the eyes of the man
who slew your many noble sons? Yours must
be a heart of iron. But come, sit down, and let
our sorrows rest for a while in our hearts,
for no profit comes from icy grief. The gods
have granted to wretched mortals lives filled
with misery while their own are free of care.
Two jars sit on Zeus’ floor filled with gifts:
one with joy, the other with sorrow. A man
given a mixture of these jars by Zeus will
face ill fortune one day and good the next,
but a man given only sorrow is consumed
by that sorrow, cursed to wander the earth,
dishonored by gods and men. From birth,
the gods blessed Peleus with splendid gifts:
he surpassed others in wealth and prosperity,
ruled the Myrmidons, and though mortal,
was given an immortal wife by the gods.
But the gods sent sorrow even to Peleus: he
will have no heir to succeed him, for his only
son is destined to die young, nor can I comfort
him in his old age since I sit here in Troy, far
from home, bringing pain to you and your sons.
But you, sir, were once happy, so we hear:
from Lesbos, Macar’s home, to the uplands
of Phrygia to the boundless Hellespont,
you were preeminent in wealth and in sons.
Then the gods brought this misery upon you:
a city consumed by fighting and death.
Endure it, and do not grieve forever, for no
amount of grief will bring back your noble
son; before that, you will surely suffer again.”

Then the old man, godlike Priam, answered him:
“Lord, do not offer me a chair while Hector
lies dishonored in your tent. Free him quickly
so my eyes may look upon him, and accept
this great ransom we have brought so you may
enjoy it and return to your native land, for you
have spared me so I may see another day.”

With a scowl, swift-footed Achilles replied:
“Do not anger me, old man. I will give Hector
back to you, for a messenger came from Zeus:
my mother, daughter of the old man of the sea.
And I know in my heart, Priam, that some
god led you to the swift Achaean ships, for no
mortal, not even a young and strong one,
would dare come to our camp or sneak past
the watch or easily lift the bar that seals
our doors. So do not agitate me further
or I will defy the very laws of Zeus
and strike you down, a suppliant in my tent.”

Terrified by his words, the old man complied.
Then, like a lion, Peleus’ son ran out of the tent
followed by his two servants, the warrior
Automedon and Alcimus, Achilles’ dearest
comrades after the slain Patroclus. They
unyoked Priam’s horses and mules and led
in the herald, the old man’s crier, and gave him
a seat; then they took the ransoms for Hector’s
head out of the well-made wagon but left two
cloaks and a finely-spun tunic behind to cover
the corpse on its journey home. Next Achilles
ordered the slave women to wash and oil
Hector’s body, moving it away from Priam
so he would not lash out in anger at the sight
of his son, thus enraging Achilles into slaying
the old man in defiance of Zeus’ laws. Once
the women had washed and anointed the body,
they laid the cloaks and tunic over it, and Achilles
lifted it up, laid it on a bier, and placed it
in the wagon with help from his comrades.
Then, with a groan, he said to his dearest friend:
“Do not be angry with me, Patroclus, when even
Hades learns that I have returned noble Hector
to his dear father, for the ransom he gave me was
honorable, and I will give you your proper share.”

So saying, noble Achilles returned to the tent
and to the well-wrought chair across the room
from Priam, and addressed the old man, saying:
“I have released your son, sir, just as you asked;
he is lying in the wagon. At dawn, you can look
upon him and carry him away, but now let us eat.
Even fair-haired Niobe remembered to eat
when her twelve children died in her halls: six
daughters and six sons all in their prime. Apollo
killed the sons with his silver bow and the archer
Artemis killed the daughters in anger over Niobe
comparing herself to fair Leto, who had only two
children while she had many more; so those two
destroyed all of hers. For nine days, they lay
in their blood, unburied, for the son of Cronos
had turned the people to stone, but on the tenth
day, the heavenly gods buried them, and Niobe,
wearied by her constant tears, thought of food.
Now, among the rocks on lonely mount Sipylus,
a place where they say goddess nymphs live
and dance along the Achelous, there is a stone
that mourns the losses sent to her by the gods.
So come, good sir, let us think of food; you
can mourn your dear son when you return him
to Ilios, where he will be met with many tears.”

At once, swift Achilles rose and slew a silver
sheep, which his comrades flayed and prepared,
cutting it carefully into slices, roasting the slices
on a spit until cooked, and drawing them off.
Automedon then set bread on the table in fine
baskets while Achilles served the meat, and they
proceeded to enjoy the feast. Once they had
sated their desire for food and drink, Priam,
son of Dardanus, looked upon Achilles, awed
by his godlike height and beauty; and Achilles
looked upon Priam, son of Dardanus, awed
by his noble bearing and his wise words.
When they had admired one another long
enough, godlike Priam was first to speak:
“Now lead me to a bed, prince, so I may soon
have my fill of sweet sleep and be restored.
My eyes have not closed since my son lost
his life by your hands. I have done nothing
but groan and grieve over my countless sorrows
as I wallowed in filth in the open courtyard.
Now I have eaten food and sent bright wine
down my throat; before, I had eaten nothing.”

So he said, and Achilles ordered his comrades
and handmaids to prepare a bed on the portico,
cover it with fine purple rugs, and spread
blankets and fleece cloaks on top. With torches
in their hands, the handmaids left the room
and hastily prepared two beds. Then, with wry
humor, swift-footed Achilles said to Priam:
“Sleep outside, dear old man, for Achaeans
often come to me to make plans or take counsel,
as is only proper. If one of them were to see
you this swift black night, he would quickly tell
Agamemnon, shepherd of men, and this would
delay my return of the body to you. But come,
tell me this, and be honest: how many days
do you need for Hector’s funeral? I will wait
as long as you need and hold back the army.”

Then the old man, godlike Priam, replied:
“If you wish me to carry out Hector’s funeral,
you would be doing me a great service, Achilles.
We are trapped in the city, far from the mountains
and trees, and the Trojans are afraid. For nine
days, we will mourn him in the halls; the funeral
will be on the tenth, and the people will feast;
on the eleventh, we will build a barrow for him;
and on the twelfth, we will fight—if we must.”

Then swift-footed, noble Achilles answered him:
“All will be as you say, aged Priam; I will hold
back the battle for as long as you command.”

So he said, seizing the old man’s right hand
by the wrist, so his heart would be free of fear.
The herald and Priam then fell asleep
on the portico, their minds filled with heavy
thoughts, while Achilles slept in the innermost
part of the well-made tent beside fair Briseïs.

And so the gods and men, lords of chariots,
slept sweetly through the whole black night.
But sleep could not catch the helper Hermes,
for his heart struggled over how to lead king
Priam past the ships unnoticed by the noble
gatekeepers. So he stood over Priam and said:
“So, old man, you sleep beside your enemies
with no fear of danger now that Achilles has
spared you. You have ransomed your son,
but at what cost? Your remaining sons will pay
three times the ransom if Agamemnon, son
of Atreus, or the Achaean army learn of you.”

Hearing this, a panicked Priam made his herald
get up. Then Hermes yoked the mules and horses
and drove them through the camp unnoticed.

When they reached the ford of the fair-flowing
river Xanthos, child of immortal Zeus, Hermes
returned to high Olympus, and as saffron-robed
Dawn spread over the land, the two men drove
their horses to the city, wailing and moaning,
while the mules carried the dead. Neither men
nor fair-girdled women knew of their arrival
save for Cassandra, equal to golden Aphrodite,
who stood atop the Pergamus and saw her dear
father in his chariot with the herald, the city’s crier.
When she saw the body lying in the mule-drawn
wagon, she cried out so the whole town could hear:
“Men and women of Troy, look upon Hector,
if you ever rejoiced when he returned from battle,
for he was a great joy to his city and its people.”

So she said, and no man or woman remained
in the city, for everyone, each grieving soul,
rushed to the gates as Priam led Hector home.
First, Hector’s wife and revered mother flew
to the well-made cart, tore their hair in sorrow,
and touched his head while all those around them
wept. And for the rest of the day until the setting
of the sun they would have shed tears and cried
had Priam not said to them from his chariot:
“Make way so the mules can pass; when I have
taken him home, you can have your fill of grief.”

Hearing this, they stood aside and let the wagon
pass. When they led him into the famed house,
they set him on a perforated bed; then singers
came and stood beside him and sang the death
song, and the women added their lamentations.
White-armed Andromache led the mourning,
holding man-slaying Hector’s head in her hands:
“Husband, your life ended far too early, leaving
me a widow in our halls and leaving our infant
child to a miserable fate. He will never reach
manhood; before that happens, the city will be
destroyed, for you are dead—you, our guardian,
protector of loving wives and young children.
Soon they will sail away in hollow ships, and I
with them; and you, my child, will follow me
to a place where you will perform disgraceful
deeds for a relentless lord or else some Achaean
will take your arm and hurl you off the tower
to a horrible death, perhaps angry that Hector
killed his brother or father or son, since many
Achaeans fell to the dust by Hector’s hands,
for your father was not gentle in wretched war.
Thus the whole city mourns for you, Hector,
and you have brought your parents unspeakable
grief, but I above others will be left with endless
pain, for when you died, you did not stretch out
your hand to me in our bed or speak words to me
that I could recall night and day as I shed tears.”

So she said tearfully, and the women wailed,
and from their wails rose the cries of Hecuba:
“Hector, dearest to my heart of all my children,
you were beloved of the gods when you lived,
and even now, in fated death, they care for you.
Other sons of mine were taken by swift-footed
Achilles and sold beyond the barren sea, in Samos
or Imbros or smoky Lemnos; but when he took
your life with his fine-edged spear, he dragged
you around the barrow of his friend Patroclus,
whom you killed, though it did not bring him
back. But now you lie in my halls as fresh
as dew, like someone silver-bowed Apollo
attacked and slayed with his gentle arrows.”

So she said tearfully, rousing unabated wails.
Then Helen was the third to lead the wailing:
“Hector, you were dearest of all my brothers-
in-law. True, godlike Alexander is my husband,
and he brought me to Troy—if only I had died
before that! Now twenty years have passed since
I came here from my native land, and in that
time I never heard a single harsh word
from you. If anyone in the halls spoke abuse
to me—your brothers or their fair-robed wives
or your sisters or your mother, though your father
is as kind as my own—you would stop them
and win them over with a gentle touch or word.
So this unlucky soul also grieves for you, for now
there is no one left in wide Troy who is kind
to me or a friend, for all shudder at my sight.”

So she said tearfully as the countless crowd
cried. Then old Priam addressed his people:
“Trojan men, fetch wood from beyond the city
and do not fear an Argive ambush, for as Achilles
sent me from the black ships, he promised no
attacks would come until the twelfth day dawns.”

Hearing this, the men yoked oxen and mules
to wagons, and soon were gathered outside
the city. For nine days they gathered wood
in endless amounts; as dawn rose on the tenth
day, they tearfully carried out bold Hector,
set him atop the funeral pyre, and lit the fire.

When Dawn’s rosy fingers again appeared,
the people gathered around noble Hector’s
pyre. When all had assembled, they quickly
quenched the pyre with bright wine, wherever
the furious fire still burned. Then his brothers
and comrades mournfully collected the white
bones while tears fell down from their cheeks.
They took the bones, covered them with a soft
purple cloth, placed the cloth in a golden urn,
placed the urn in a hollow grave, and covered
the grave with large, thick-set stones. They soon
piled up the barrow and set guards around it
in case the well-greaved Achaeans attacked.
When the barrow was complete, they returned
to Troy and gathered for a glorious feast
in the halls of Priam, the Zeus-nourished king.

So went the funeral of horse-tamer Hector.