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The gathering broke up, and the men scattered, each making his way to the swift ships. They turned their thoughts to supper and the pleasures of sweet sleep. But Achilles wept as he remembered his dear companion, and sleep, which masters all, could not take him. He tossed from side to side, longing for Patroclus, for his manhood and his noble strength, remembering all they had accomplished together and all they had suffered, passing through battles among men and the cruel waves of the sea. At these memories he shed thick tears, lying now on his side, now on his back, now face downward. Then he would rise and wander distraught along the seashore; nor did dawn ever find him unaware as she shone over the sea and its beaches.

Whenever he had yoked his swift horses to the chariot, he would tie Hector behind it to drag him along. Three times he hauled him around the tomb of the dead son of Menoetius, then returned to rest in his hut, leaving Hector stretched face downward in the dust. But Apollo kept all disfigurement from his flesh, pitying the man even in death. He covered him entirely with his golden aegis, so that Achilles would not tear his skin as he dragged him.

So Achilles in his fury dishonored noble Hector. The blessed gods looked on and pitied him, and urged the keen-eyed slayer of Argus to steal the body away. This pleased all the others, but never Hera, nor Poseidon, nor the gray-eyed maiden. They held fast to their first hatred of sacred Ilios, of Priam and his people, because of the folly of Alexander, who had slighted the goddesses when they came to his farmstead, and praised the one who gave him ruinous lust.

But when the twelfth dawn had come since Hector’s death, Phoebus Apollo spoke among the immortals: “You are cruel, destructive gods! Did Hector never burn for you the thighbones of bulls and unblemished goats?

“Yet now you cannot bring yourselves to save him, even as a corpse, so that his wife may see him, and his mother and his child, his father Priam and his people, who would quickly burn him on the pyre and pay him his funeral honors.

“Instead, gods, you choose to help murderous Achilles, whose thoughts know no justice and whose heart cannot bend. His mind is savage as a lion’s, that yields to its great strength and proud spirit and attacks the flocks of men to seize a meal. So Achilles has lost all pity, and there is no shame in him—that shame which can greatly harm or help a man.

“Surely another man may lose someone dearer still, a brother born of the same mother, or even a son; yet after weeping and lamenting he lets his grief go, for the Fates have given men hearts that can endure.

“But this man, after robbing noble Hector of his life, lashes him to his horses and drags him around his dear companion’s tomb. This brings him neither honor nor advantage. Let him beware lest, brave though he is, we turn our anger against him: in his fury he is outraging nothing but senseless earth.”

Then white-armed Hera answered him in anger: “Your words might stand, lord of the silver bow, if you intend to give Achilles and Hector equal honor. Hector was mortal and suckled at a woman’s breast; but Achilles is the child of a goddess whom I myself reared and cherished and gave as wife to Peleus, a man dear beyond others to the immortals.

“All of you gods attended their wedding, and you too feasted among them, holding your lyre—you friend of evildoers, forever faithless!” Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: “Hera, do not rage so bitterly against the gods. Their honor will not be equal. Yet Hector too was dear to the gods, beyond all mortals who live in Ilios. So he was to me, for he never failed to offer welcome gifts.

“My altar never lacked its proper share of feasting, of poured wine and the savor of burnt fat; that is the honor allotted to us. But we will give up the thought of stealing bold Hector away without Achilles knowing; indeed, it cannot be done, for his mother is always beside him, night and day alike.

“If one of the gods would summon Thetis here to me, I would tell her a prudent plan, so that Achilles may receive gifts from Priam and release Hector’s body.” So he spoke, and storm-footed Iris sprang away to carry the message. Between Samos and rugged Imbros she plunged into the dark sea, and the waters groaned above her.

She shot down into the depths like a lead weight fixed to the horn of a field-roaming ox, that goes down bringing death to ravenous fish. She found Thetis in a hollow cave, with the other sea-goddesses gathered around her. In their midst she wept for the fate of her blameless son, who was destined to die in fertile Troy, far from his native land.

Swift-footed Iris stood beside her and said, “Rise, Thetis. Zeus, whose counsels never fail, is calling you.” Then silver-footed Thetis answered her: “Why does that great god summon me? I am ashamed to mingle with the immortals, for my heart is full of endless sorrow.

“Still, I shall go, and whatever he says will not be spoken in vain.” So the noble goddess spoke and took a dark veil, blacker than any other garment. She set out, and swift Iris, whose feet are like the wind, led the way. Around them the sea’s waves parted.

Coming up onto the shore, they darted into heaven. There they found the far-seeing son of Cronus, with all the other blessed, everlasting gods assembled around him. Thetis sat beside father Zeus, and Athena made room for her.

Hera placed a beautiful golden cup in her hand and welcomed her with kindly words. Thetis drank and handed it back. Then the father of men and gods began to speak: “Goddess Thetis, you have come to Olympus despite your sorrow, with a grief that cannot be forgotten in your heart. I know it well myself. Nevertheless, I shall tell you why I called you here.

“For nine days now a quarrel has raged among the immortals over Hector’s body and Achilles, sacker of cities. They urge the keen-eyed slayer of Argus to steal the body away. But I wish to grant Achilles this glory, preserving my regard and affection for you in the days to come.

“Go at once to the camp and give your son this command. Tell him the gods are angry with him, and I more than all the immortals, because in his madness he keeps Hector beside the beaked ships and will not release him. Perhaps he will stand in awe of me and give Hector back.

“Meanwhile I shall send Iris to great-hearted Priam, bidding him go to the Achaean ships to ransom his dear son, and bring Achilles gifts that may soothe his heart.” So he spoke, and silver-footed Thetis obeyed. She darted down from the peaks of Olympus and came to her son’s hut. There she found him groaning bitterly, while his dear companions busied themselves around him, preparing the morning meal. A large, shaggy sheep had been slaughtered for them in the hut.

His lady mother sat close beside him, stroked him with her hand, and said, “My child, how long will you eat your heart out in sorrow and lamentation, taking no thought of food or bed? It is good even to lie with a woman in love. You will not be with me long: already death and mighty fate stand close beside you.

“But listen to me at once, for I have come as a messenger from Zeus. He says the gods are angry with you, and he more than all the immortals, because in your madness you keep Hector beside the beaked ships and will not release him.

“Come, give him back, and accept a ransom for the dead.” Swift-footed Achilles answered her: “So be it. Let whoever brings the ransom take the body away, if the Olympian himself commands it in earnest.”

So mother and son exchanged many winged words amid the gathering of the ships. Meanwhile the son of Cronus sent Iris to sacred Ilios: “Go, swift Iris, leave your seat on Olympus and carry word to great-hearted Priam in Ilios. Tell him to go to the Achaean ships to ransom his dear son and bring Achilles gifts that may soothe his heart. He must go alone, with no other Trojan man beside him.

“An elderly herald may accompany him to drive the mules and the well-wheeled wagon, and bring back to the city the body of the man noble Achilles killed. Let him have no thought of death or fear in his heart. We shall give him the slayer of Argus as his escort, who will guide him until he brings him to Achilles.

“And when he has led him into Achilles’ hut, Achilles will neither kill him himself nor allow anyone else to do so. He is neither foolish nor heedless nor wicked, but will show all due mercy to a man who comes as a suppliant.”

So he spoke, and storm-footed Iris sprang away to carry the message. She came to Priam’s house and found crying and lamentation. His sons sat around their father within the courtyard, drenching their clothes with tears. In their midst the old man sat wrapped tightly in his cloak, his head and neck covered with the filth he had scooped up in his own hands as he rolled upon the ground.

His daughters and his sons’ wives wailed throughout the halls, remembering the many brave men who lay dead, their lives destroyed by Argive hands. The messenger of Zeus stood beside Priam and spoke softly, but trembling seized his limbs: “Take heart, Priam, son of Dardanus, and do not be afraid. I have not come to foretell you evil, but with good intent. I am a messenger from Zeus, who, far off though he is, cares deeply for you and pities you.

“The Olympian bids you ransom noble Hector and bring Achilles gifts that may soothe his heart. Go alone, with no other Trojan man beside you. An elderly herald may accompany you to drive the mules and the well-wheeled wagon, and bring back to the city the body of the man noble Achilles killed.

“Let there be no thought of death or fear in your heart. The slayer of Argus will go beside you as your escort and guide you until he brings you to Achilles. And when he has led you into Achilles’ hut, Achilles will neither kill you himself nor allow anyone else to do so. He is neither foolish nor heedless nor wicked, but will show all due mercy to a man who comes as a suppliant.”

With these words swift-footed Iris departed. Priam ordered his sons to prepare the well-wheeled mule wagon and fasten its wicker body upon it. He himself went down into his fragrant, high-roofed chamber of cedar, which held many precious things. He called his wife Hecuba to him and said, “My dear wife, an Olympian messenger has come to me from Zeus, bidding me go to the Achaean ships to ransom my dear son, and bring Achilles gifts that may soothe his heart.

“Come now, tell me what you think of this. My own heart and spirit urge me strongly to go there, to the ships, into the broad Achaean camp.”

So he spoke, and his wife cried aloud and answered: “Alas, where has that wisdom gone for which you were once renowned among strangers and the people you rule? How can you wish to go alone to the Achaean ships, into the presence of the man who has slain so many of your brave sons? Your heart must be made of iron.

“If that savage, faithless man catches you and sees you face to face, he will neither pity nor respect you. Let us sit here in our hall and weep for Hector far away. So mighty Fate spun his thread at birth, when I bore him: to feed swift-footed dogs far from his parents, beside a ruthless man. I wish I could fasten on that man and devour his very liver! Then my son would have his recompense, for it was no coward that Achilles killed, but a man standing before the Trojans and their deep-robed women, with no thought of flight or shelter.”

Then old, godlike Priam answered her: “Do not hold me back when I am determined to go, and do not make yourself a bird of ill omen in my halls. You will not persuade me.

“If any other mortal had told me this, whether a prophet who reads the smoke of sacrifice or a priest, we might have called it false and turned away all the more. But now I have heard the goddess myself and looked her in the face. I shall go, and her words will not be in vain. And if it is my fate to die beside the ships of the bronze-armored Achaeans, I am willing. Let Achilles kill me at once, when I have taken my son in my arms and satisfied my longing to weep.”

He spoke and opened the handsome lids of his chests. From them he took twelve beautiful robes, twelve cloaks of single thickness, as many rugs, as many white mantles, and as many tunics besides.

He weighed out ten full talents of gold, and brought out two gleaming tripods, four cauldrons, and a beautiful cup, a splendid treasure the Thracians had given him when he went to them on an embassy. Not even this did the old man spare in his halls, so greatly did he desire to ransom his dear son. He drove all the Trojans from the porch, assailing them with harsh words: “Away, you disgraces, you shameful wretches! Have you no grief in your own homes, that you have come here to torment me?

“Is it not enough for you that Zeus the son of Cronus has given me this sorrow, the loss of my best son? You too will learn what it means. Now that he is dead, it will be far easier for the Achaeans to kill you. As for me, may I go down into the house of Hades before my own eyes see the city plundered and laid waste!”

He spoke and drove the men away with his staff, and they went out before the old man’s fury. Then he shouted in reproach at his sons—Helenus and Paris and noble Agathon, Pammon and Antiphonus and Polites of the mighty war cry, Deiphobus and Hippothous and noble Agavus. At these nine the old man shouted his commands: “Hurry, you worthless sons, my shame! Would that all of you together had been killed beside the swift ships instead of Hector!

“Ah, I am utterly accursed! I fathered the finest sons in broad Troy, and now I say that not one of them is left: godlike Mestor, Troilus the chariot-fighter, and Hector, who was a god among men, and seemed no mortal man’s son, but a god’s.

“Ares has destroyed them, and all the shameful ones remain—liars and dancers, champions at beating out the dance, who rob their own people of lambs and kids. Will you not make the wagon ready at once and load all these things upon it, so that we can start our journey?”

So he spoke, and, frightened by their father’s rebuke, they brought out the handsome, newly built, well-wheeled mule wagon and fastened its wicker body upon it. From its peg they took down the boxwood mule yoke, with its central boss and well-fitted guiding rings, and brought out with it a yoke strap nine cubits long.

They set the yoke carefully on the forward end of the polished pole and slipped its ring over the pin. Three times on either side they wound the strap around the boss, then bound it in a row of coils and tucked its end beneath the hook.

They carried the boundless ransom for Hector’s life from the chamber and heaped it on the polished wagon. Then they harnessed the strong-hoofed mules, trained to work in harness, which the Mysians had once given Priam as splendid gifts.

For Priam they brought the horses beneath the yoke, horses the old man himself had reared and tended at the polished manger. While Priam and the herald were harnessing their teams in the lofty courtyard, their minds full of careful plans, Hecuba approached them, grieving at heart. In her right hand she held a golden cup of honey-sweet wine, so that they might pour an offering before they left. She stood before the horses and said, “Here, pour an offering to father Zeus, and pray that you may return home from among your enemies, since your heart urges you to the ships against my will.

“Pray to the dark-clouded son of Cronus on Ida, who looks down over all Troy, and ask him to send his swift messenger, the bird he loves best of all birds, whose strength is greatest. Let it appear on your right, so that, seeing it with your own eyes, you may go in confidence to the ships of the Danaans with their swift horses.

“But if far-seeing Zeus will not send you his messenger, then I would never urge you on or bid you go to the Argive ships, however eager you may be.” Godlike Priam answered her: “Wife, I shall not refuse this request of yours.

“It is good to raise our hands to Zeus, in the hope that he will pity us.” So the old man spoke and told the housekeeper to pour pure water over his hands. The maid came and stood beside him, holding a basin and a pitcher.

When he had washed, he took the cup from his wife. Then, standing in the middle of the courtyard, he prayed, pouring out wine and looking up to heaven: “Father Zeus, ruler from Ida, most glorious and most great, grant that I may come to Achilles and find friendship and pity. Send me your swift messenger, the bird you love best of all birds, whose strength is greatest. Let it appear on my right, so that, seeing it with my own eyes, I may go in confidence to the ships of the Danaans with their swift horses.”

So he prayed, and Zeus the counselor heard him. At once he sent an eagle, surest of all birds for an omen, the dark hunter that men also call the dusky eagle. As wide as the well-fastened door of a rich man’s high-roofed treasure chamber, so wide were its outstretched wings on either side. It appeared on their right, sweeping over the city. At the sight they rejoiced, and every heart was comforted.

The old man hurried to mount his chariot and drove out through the gateway and the echoing porch. Ahead went the mules, drawing the four-wheeled wagon, with wise Idaeus driving. Behind came the horses, which the old man urged on with his whip, driving swiftly through the city. All his loved ones followed, lamenting bitterly as though he were going to his death.

When they had come down from the city and reached the plain, his sons and sons-in-law turned back toward Ilios. But the two men did not escape the far-seeing eye of Zeus as they appeared upon the plain. He looked on the old man with pity and at once spoke to Hermes, his dear son: “Hermes, since you delight above all in keeping a man company, and listen to whomever you choose, go and guide Priam to the hollow Achaean ships, so that none of the other Danaans sees or notices him before he reaches the son of Peleus.”

So he spoke, and the messenger, the slayer of Argus, obeyed. At once he bound beneath his feet his beautiful immortal sandals of gold, which bore him over water and the boundless earth as swiftly as the breath of the wind. He took the wand with which he charms to sleep the eyes of any men he wishes, or awakens others from their slumber. With this in his hands the mighty slayer of Argus flew away.

Quickly he reached Troy and the Hellespont, and went on foot in the likeness of a young prince, with the first down upon his chin, at the loveliest age of youth. Meanwhile, after driving past the great tomb of Ilus, the two men halted their mules and horses to drink in the river, for darkness had already fallen over the earth.

The herald caught sight of Hermes as he approached and said to Priam, “Take care, son of Dardanus. This calls for a prudent mind. I see a man, and I fear we shall soon be cut to pieces.

“Come, let us flee in the chariot, or else clasp his knees and beg him to show us mercy.” So he spoke, and the old man’s mind reeled. He was terribly afraid; the hair stood up all over his bent limbs, and he stood bewildered. But the bringer of good fortune came close, took the old man by the hand, and questioned him: “Father, where are you driving your horses and mules through the immortal night, when other men are asleep?

“Have you no fear of the Achaeans, who breathe fury, your bitter and unrelenting enemies so close at hand? If one of them should see you carrying so much treasure through the swift, dark night, what would become of you?

“You are not young yourself, and this man beside you is old—hardly fit to fight off an attacker. But I shall do you no harm, and would even defend you against another. You remind me of my own dear father.”

Then old, godlike Priam answered him: “Things are much as you say, dear child. Yet some god still holds his hand over me, sending such a traveler to meet me, a welcome omen: one so admirable in form and looks, so wise in mind. Blessed are the parents who bore you.”

Then the messenger, the slayer of Argus, answered him: “Yes, old sir, all you have said is fitting. But come, tell me this, and tell me truly: are you sending all these fine treasures away to foreign men, so that they may be kept safe for you? Or are you all abandoning sacred Ilios now in fear, since so great a man has died, your son, who never fell short of the Achaeans in battle?”

Then old, godlike Priam answered him: “Who are you, noble youth, and who are your parents, that you speak so kindly of my ill-fated son’s death?” And the messenger, the slayer of Argus, replied: “You are testing me, old sir, asking about noble Hector.

“I have very often seen him with my own eyes in battle, where men win glory, and when he drove the Argives back to the ships and slaughtered them with his sharp bronze. We stood and watched in wonder, for Achilles would not let us fight, so angry was he with the son of Atreus.

“I am his attendant, and the same well-built ship brought us here. I am one of the Myrmidons, and my father is Polyctor. He is wealthy, but old, just as you are. He has six other sons, and I am the seventh; when we cast lots among ourselves, it fell to me to come here.

“Now I have come out onto the plain from the ships, for at dawn the keen-eyed Achaeans will take up battle around the city. They are restless with sitting idle, and the Achaean kings cannot hold them back in their eagerness for war.”

Then old, godlike Priam answered him: “If you are indeed an attendant of Achilles, son of Peleus, come, tell me the whole truth. Is my son still beside the ships, or has Achilles already cut him limb from limb and thrown him to his dogs?”

Then the messenger, the slayer of Argus, answered him: “Old sir, neither dogs nor birds have eaten him. He still lies there beside Achilles’ ship, within the huts, just as he was. This is the twelfth dawn that he has lain there, yet his flesh does not decay, nor do the worms devour him that feed upon men slain in war.

“It is true that Achilles drags him pitilessly around his dear companion’s tomb whenever holy dawn appears, but he does not disfigure him. You would marvel if you went and saw how fresh he lies, as though wet with dew. The blood is washed away, and there is no stain upon him. All the wounds he received have closed, though many men drove bronze into his body.

“So the blessed gods care for your noble son, even in death, because he is dear to their hearts.” So he spoke, and the old man rejoiced and answered: “My child, it is surely good to give the immortals the gifts that are their due. For my son, if ever he truly lived, never forgot in his halls the gods who hold Olympus. And so they have remembered him, even in the doom of death.

“Come, accept this beautiful cup from me. Protect me and, with the gods’ favor, guide me until I reach the hut of Peleus’ son.” Then the messenger, the slayer of Argus, answered him: “You are tempting me because I am younger, old sir, but you will not persuade me to accept your gifts without Achilles knowing.

“I fear him, and have too much respect for him to rob him, lest some evil befall me afterward. But as your escort I would go with you even to glorious Argos, faithfully keeping you company in a swift ship or on foot. No one would think so little of your escort as to attack you.”

So he spoke, and the bringer of good fortune sprang into the chariot. Quickly he took the whip and reins in his hands and breathed fresh strength into the horses and mules. When they reached the towers and the ditch that guarded the ships, the sentries were busy preparing their supper. The messenger, the slayer of Argus, poured sleep over them all, then immediately opened the gates and thrust back the bars. He brought Priam inside with the splendid gifts upon the wagon.

At last they came to the lofty hut of Peleus’ son, which the Myrmidons had built for their lord from felled fir trees, roofing it with thick thatch cut from the meadows. Around it they had made their lord a great courtyard enclosed with closely set stakes. A single fir beam barred the door; it took three Achaeans to thrust it into place, and three to draw back that great bar—three ordinary men, though Achilles could set it in place alone. Now Hermes, the bringer of good fortune, opened it for the old man and brought in the splendid gifts for the swift-footed son of Peleus. Then he stepped down from the chariot to the ground and said, “Old sir, I who have come with you am an immortal god, Hermes. My father sent me to be your escort.

“Now I shall return, and will not enter Achilles’ presence. It would be improper for an immortal god to show mortals such open favor. But you must go inside and clasp the knees of Peleus’ son. Entreat him in the name of his father, his lovely-haired mother, and his child, so that you may stir his heart.”

With these words Hermes departed for high Olympus. Priam sprang from the chariot to the ground, leaving Idaeus there to stay and hold the horses and mules. The old man went straight toward the house where Achilles, dear to Zeus, was sitting. He found him inside, his companions seated apart. Only two were attending him nearby: the warrior Automedon and Alcimus, a scion of Ares. Achilles had just finished eating and drinking, and the table still stood beside him.

Great Priam entered unnoticed, came close, and clasped Achilles’ knees in his hands. He kissed those terrible, murderous hands that had killed so many of his sons.

As when blind ruin seizes a man who kills someone in his own country and comes to a foreign land, to the house of a wealthy man, and all who see him are struck with wonder, so Achilles was astonished at the sight of godlike Priam. The others too were astonished, and looked at one another.

Then Priam spoke in supplication: “Remember your father, Achilles, peer of the gods. He is of my age, on the cruel threshold of old age. Perhaps the people living around him are hard-pressing him, and there is no one to ward off ruin and disaster.

“Yet when he hears that you are alive, his heart rejoices, and every day he hopes to see his dear son returning from Troy. But I am utterly accursed, for I fathered the finest sons in broad Troy, and now I say that not one of them is left.

“I had fifty sons when the sons of the Achaeans came. Nineteen were born to me from a single womb; the others were borne by women in my halls. Most of them have had their knees unstrung by raging Ares. But the one who alone remained to me, who guarded the city and its people, you killed not long ago as he fought for his native land—Hector. It is for him that I have come now to the Achaean ships, to ransom him from you, and I bring a boundless ransom.

“Revere the gods, Achilles, and pity me, remembering your own father. Yet I am more to be pitied, for I have endured what no other mortal on earth has ever endured: I have raised to my lips the hand of the man who killed my son.”

So he spoke, and stirred in Achilles a longing to weep for his father. Taking the old man’s hand, he gently pushed him away. Then both remembered: Priam wept bitterly for Hector, slayer of men, crouching at Achilles’ feet, while Achilles wept for his own father, and then again for Patroclus. Their lamentation filled the house.

But when noble Achilles had taken his fill of weeping, and the longing had left his heart and limbs, he rose at once from his chair and raised the old man by the hand, pitying his gray head and gray beard. Then he spoke to him in winged words: “Ah, poor man, how much sorrow you have borne in your heart!”

“How did you dare come alone to the ships of the Achaeans, to face the man who has slain so many of your brave sons? Your heart must be made of iron. But come, sit down upon this chair, and let us leave our sorrows lying in our hearts, for all our grief. Nothing is gained by chilling lamentation. For this is the fate the gods have spun for wretched mortals: to live in sorrow, while they themselves are free from care.

“Two jars stand on the floor of Zeus’s house, holding the gifts he gives: one of evils, the other of blessings. When Zeus who delights in thunder gives a man a mingled portion, he meets now with suffering, now with good fortune. But when he gives him only misery, he makes him an outcast, and ravening hunger drives him over the fair earth; he wanders, honored neither by gods nor mortals.

“So too the gods gave Peleus splendid gifts from birth. He surpassed all men in happiness and wealth, and ruled the Myrmidons; though he was mortal, they gave him a goddess for his wife.

“Yet even upon him a god laid suffering: no line of princely sons was born in his halls, but only one son, doomed to an early death. Nor am I there to tend him in his old age, for far from my homeland I sit here in Troy, bringing sorrow to you and to your children.

“You too, old man, we hear, were prosperous once. Throughout the lands bounded by Lesbos, the seat of Macar, by Phrygia inland, and by the boundless Hellespont, they say that you surpassed all others in wealth and sons.

“But since the gods of heaven brought this affliction upon you, battles and slaughter have never ceased around your city. Endure, and do not grieve without respite in your heart. Mourning your noble son will gain you nothing; you will not raise him from the dead, and may suffer yet another evil.”

Then old Priam, godlike in bearing, answered him: “Do not ask me to sit, cherished of Zeus, while Hector lies untended in your hut. Release him at once, so that I may see him with my own eyes, and accept the great ransom we have brought you. May you have joy of it and return to your native land, since you have first spared my life and let me look upon the sunlight.”

Swift-footed Achilles glared at him and said: “Do not provoke me further, old man. I intend myself to release Hector 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 in my heart, Priam—you cannot hide it from me—that one of the gods guided you to the swift ships of the Achaeans. No mortal, even in the prime of youth, would dare enter our camp. He could not evade the guards, nor easily shift the bar across our doors.

“So do not stir my heart to greater anguish, lest I spare not even you here in my hut, old man, though you are a suppliant, and transgress the commands of Zeus.” So he spoke, and the old man was afraid and obeyed.

The son of Peleus sprang out through the doorway like a lion, and not alone: two attendants followed him, the warrior Automedon and Alcimus, whom Achilles prized above all his companions now that Patroclus was dead. They unyoked the horses and mules, brought in the old man’s herald, the clear-voiced crier, and seated him on a chair. Then from the smoothly fashioned wagon they unloaded the boundless ransom for Hector’s life.

They left two cloaks and a finely woven tunic, so that Achilles could wrap the dead man and give him over to be carried home. Calling out the serving women, he ordered them to wash and anoint him, but to take him aside where Priam could not see his son. He feared that at the sight of his child Priam’s grieving heart might fail to restrain his anger, and Achilles’ own heart might flare in answer, so that he would kill him and transgress the commands of Zeus.

When the women had washed him and anointed him with oil, and clothed him in a fine cloak and tunic, Achilles himself lifted him and laid him on a bier; then his companions helped him raise it onto the smoothly fashioned wagon.

Then he groaned and called upon his beloved companion: “Do not be angry with me, Patroclus, if even in the house of Hades you learn that I have released noble Hector to his dear father, for the ransom he gave me was no paltry one.

“And from it I shall allot you your rightful share.” With that, noble Achilles went back into the hut and sat down again in the richly wrought chair he had left, against the opposite wall. Then he spoke to Priam: “Your son is released, old man, as you asked, and lies upon a bier. At the first light of dawn you will see him yourself as you take him away. But now let us think of supper.

“Even lovely-haired Niobe remembered food, though twelve children had perished in her halls—six daughters and six sons in their prime. Apollo slew the sons with his silver bow in anger at Niobe, and Artemis, who showers arrows, slew the daughters, because Niobe had set herself against fair-cheeked Leto. Leto, she said, had borne only two children, while she herself had borne so many; yet those two destroyed them all.

“For nine days they lay in their blood, and there was no one to bury them, for the son of Cronus had turned the people into stone. On the tenth day the gods of heaven buried them. Then Niobe remembered food, when she had worn herself out with weeping.

“And now, somewhere among the rocks on lonely Sipylus, where they say the divine nymphs have their resting places, those who dance beside the Achelous, there, though turned to stone, she broods over the sorrows the gods have brought her.

“Come, noble old man, let us too think of food. Afterward you may weep again for your dear son, when you have brought him into Ilium; many tears will be shed for him.” With that, swift Achilles sprang up and slaughtered a white-fleeced sheep. His companions flayed it and dressed it carefully, cut it skillfully into pieces, threaded them on spits, roasted them with care, and drew them all off.

Automedon took bread and set it out on the table in fine baskets, while Achilles served the meat. They reached for the good food set before them.

When they had satisfied their hunger and thirst, Priam, descendant of Dardanus, marveled at Achilles, at his stature and beauty, for he seemed a god to look upon. And Achilles marveled at Priam, descendant of Dardanus, as he gazed at his noble face and listened to his words.

When they had taken their pleasure in looking at one another, old Priam, godlike in bearing, spoke first: “Let me lie down now without delay, cherished of Zeus, so that at last we may rest and enjoy sweet sleep. For my eyes have not closed beneath their lids since my son lost his life at your hands. I have only groaned and brooded over countless sorrows, rolling in the dung within the courtyard.

“Only now have I tasted food and poured gleaming wine down my throat; before this I had tasted nothing.” So he spoke, and Achilles ordered his companions and serving women to set beds beneath the portico, lay fine purple blankets upon them, spread coverlets over these, and provide thick woolen cloaks to wrap themselves in.

The women went out of the hall with torches in their hands and quickly made up two beds. Then swift-footed Achilles spoke to Priam with gentle teasing: “You must sleep outside, dear old man, in case one of the Achaean counselors comes here. They are always sitting beside me to take counsel, as is their custom. If one of them should see you in the swift black night, he would tell Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, at once, and the release of the dead might be delayed.

“But come, tell me this, and tell me truly: how many days do you intend to devote to noble Hector’s funeral, so that I may hold back myself and keep the army still until then?” Then old Priam, godlike in bearing, answered him: “If you are willing to let me perform the funeral rites for noble Hector, Achilles, you would do me a kindness by granting this.

“You know that we are penned within the city, and the wood must be brought from the mountains far away; and the Trojans are sorely afraid. For nine days we would mourn him in our halls; on the tenth we would bury him and hold a feast for the people. On the eleventh we would raise a burial mound above him, and on the twelfth we will fight again, if we must.”

Then noble, swift-footed Achilles answered him: “These things too shall be as you ask, old Priam. I will hold back the fighting for as long as you require.” As he spoke, he took the old man’s right hand by the wrist, so that he would have no fear in his heart.

There in the forecourt of the dwelling Priam and the herald lay down to sleep, their minds full of careful plans. But Achilles slept in the innermost part of his well-built hut, and fair-cheeked Briseis lay beside him.

All the other gods and chariot-fighting men slept through the night, overcome by gentle sleep. But sleep did not take hold of Hermes the Helper, as he pondered how to lead King Priam away from the ships unseen by the sacred gatekeepers.

He stood above Priam’s head and spoke to him: “Old man, you seem to have no thought of danger, sleeping here among your enemies because Achilles has spared you.

“You have ransomed your dear son and paid a great price. But for your own life the sons you have left behind would pay three times as much, if Agamemnon, son of Atreus, should learn you are here, and all the Achaeans learn it too.”

So he spoke, and the old man was afraid and roused the herald. Hermes harnessed the horses and mules for them, and himself drove them swiftly through the camp; no one saw them.

When they reached the ford of the fair-flowing river, eddying Xanthus, whom immortal Zeus begot, Hermes departed for high Olympus. Saffron-robed Dawn was spreading over all the earth as they drove their horses toward the city with cries and groans, while the mules bore the dead. No other man or fair-girdled woman saw them first: Cassandra, lovely as golden Aphrodite, had climbed the citadel of Pergamus and caught sight of her dear father standing in the chariot, and of the herald whose cries rang through the city. Then she saw Hector lying on the bier drawn by the mules. She wailed and cried out through all the city: “Come, men and women of Troy, and look upon Hector, if ever you rejoiced to see him return alive from battle! For he was a great joy to the city and all its people.”

So she spoke, and not a man or woman remained within the city, for unbearable grief had seized them all. Near the gates they met Priam bringing home the dead. First his dear wife and his queenly mother rushed to the well-wheeled wagon, tearing their hair and clasping his head, while the crowd stood round them weeping.

There before the gates they would have wept and mourned for Hector all day until the sun went down, had not the old man called to the people from his chariot: “Make way and let the mules pass through. Afterward, when I have brought him home, you shall have your fill of weeping.”

So he spoke, and they parted and made way for the wagon. When they had brought him into the glorious halls, they laid him upon a fretted bed and seated singers beside him to lead the lament. The singers chanted their mournful song, and the women answered them with groans.

White-armed Andromache began the lament among them, holding the head of Hector, slayer of men, between her hands: “Husband, you have died young and left me a widow in our home. Our child is still only a baby, the son you and I brought into the world, ill-fated that we are. I do not think he will reach manhood, for this city will be utterly destroyed before then. You, its guardian, have perished, you who kept it safe and protected its faithful wives and little children. Soon they will be carried away in the hollow ships, and I among them. And you, my child, will either follow me and labor at degrading tasks beneath a pitiless master, or some Achaean will seize you by the arm and hurl you from the wall to a dreadful death, in anger because Hector killed his brother, or his father, or his son. For many Achaeans have bitten the broad earth beneath Hector’s hands.

“Your father was not gentle in the misery of battle. That is why the people mourn him throughout the city. Hector, you have brought unspeakable lamentation and grief upon your parents, but the bitterest anguish will be left to me.

“For you did not stretch out your hands to me from your deathbed, nor speak some treasured word that I might remember always, night and day, through my tears.” So she spoke, weeping, and the women answered her with groans.

Then Hecuba began her passionate lament among them: “Hector, dearest by far to my heart of all my children, while you lived you were dear to the gods, and even in the doom of death they have cared for you.

“When swift-footed Achilles captured my other sons, he sold them beyond the barren sea, to Samos and Imbros and misty Lemnos. But when he had taken your life with the long-edged bronze, he dragged you again and again around the tomb of his companion Patroclus, whom you slew. Yet even so he could not raise him from the dead.

“And now you lie here in my halls, fresh and dewy, like a man whom Apollo of the silver bow has approached and slain with his gentle arrows.” So she spoke, weeping, and roused an unending lament.

Then Helen was the third to lead their lament: “Hector, dearest by far to my heart of all my husband’s brothers! My husband is godlike Alexander, who brought me to Troy—would that I had died before then.

“This is now the twentieth year since I left that land and came away from my own country, yet never have I heard a harsh or insulting word from you. If anyone else in the halls reproached me—one of your brothers or sisters, or a brother’s wife in her lovely robes, or your mother, though your father was always kind to me as my own—you would restrain them with your words, soothing them with your gentle heart and gentle speech.

“So I weep for you and for my own unhappy self, with an aching heart. For there is no one else in all broad Troy who will be kind or loving to me; they all shudder at the sight of me.” So she spoke, weeping, and the countless people groaned.

Then old Priam spoke to the people: “Bring wood into the city now, men of Troy, and have no fear in your hearts of a cunning Argive ambush. For when Achilles sent me away from the black ships, he promised that he would do us no harm until the twelfth dawn came.”

So he spoke, and they yoked oxen and mules to their wagons and quickly gathered outside the city. For nine days they hauled in a boundless store of wood. But when the tenth dawn rose to give light to mortals, they carried bold Hector out with streaming tears, laid his body on the summit of the pyre, and set it alight.

When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, the people gathered round glorious Hector’s pyre. Once they had assembled and were all together, they first quenched with gleaming wine every part of the pyre that the fire’s strength had reached. Then his brothers and companions gathered up his white bones, mourning, with great tears streaming down their cheeks.

They took the bones and laid them in a golden chest, wrapped in soft purple cloths. Quickly they placed it in a hollow grave and covered it above with great stones set close together. Then they swiftly heaped up a mound, while watchers sat on every side, lest the well-greaved Achaeans should attack before their work was done.

When they had raised the mound, they went back, and then assembled for a splendid feast in the halls of Priam, the king cherished by Zeus. Thus they performed the funeral rites for Hector, tamer of horses.