Sample: Achilles Duels Hector

In Homer’s Iliad, easily the most tense scene is where Achilles, hero of the Greeks, duels Hector, hero of the Trojans. The following segment of the Iliad has been edited for clarity.

Achilles approached, like a god the Greek drew near;
His dreadful helmet nodded from on high;
His javelin, in his better hand,
Shot trembling rays that glittered over the land;
And on his chest the beamy splendor shone,
Like Zeus’s own lightning, or the rising sun.
As Hector sees, terror rose within him,
Struck by some god, he fears, draws back, and flees.
He leaves the gates; he leaves the wall behind:
Achilles follows like the winged wind.
Thus, the falcon flew at the dove.
One urged by fury, one impelled by fear:
Now circling round the walls,
Where the high watch-tower overlooks the plain;
The mighty fled, pursued by stronger might.
Swiftly they ran as if in a race, with Hector’s life the prize.
Three times round the Trojan wall Achilles pursued Hector.
The gazing gods lean forward from the sky, watching;
To whom, while watching the chase eagerly, Zeus spoke:

“Unworthy sight! Hector, the man beloved of heaven,
Behold, inglorious round the city pursued!
My heart feels the generous Hector’s pain;
Hector, whose zealously slays whole troops,
Whose grateful sacrifices the gods received with joy,
Now see him fleeing; to his fears resigned,
And fate, and fierce Achilles, close behind.
Shall we snatch him from impending fate, or let him die?

Then Athena said, “Shall he holds the lightning bolts
Prolong one Trojan’s forfeit breath?
A man, a mortal, pre-ordained to death!”

“Go then,” Zeus answered, “Without delay,
Do what you wish with Hector.”

Thus step by step, wherever the Trojan went,
There swift Achilles crossed round the field.
Zeus lifts the golden balances, that show
The fates of mortal men, and things below:
Here each contending hero’s lot he tries,
And weighs, with equal hand, their destinies.
Low sinks the scale carrying Hector’s fate;
Heavy with death it sinks, and the underworld receives the weight.

Fierce Athena flies to Achilles, and triumphing, cries:
“O loved of Zeus! This day our labors cease,
And conquest blazes with full beams on Greece.
Great Hector falls; that Hector famed so far,
Drunk with renown, insatiable of war,
Falls by your hand, and mine! Nor force, nor flight,
Shall more avail him, nor his god of light.
See, where in vain he prays,
At the feet of unrelenting Zeus;
Rest here: myself will lead the Trojan on,
And urge to meet the fate he cannot shun.”

Impersonating Deiphobus, Hector’s comrade in arms,
Athena urged Hector to stay and fight:

“Too long, O Hector! have I borne the sight
Of this distress, and grieved in your fleeing:
It fits now for us to make a noble stand,
And here, as brothers, seek our fate.”

Then Hector: “O prince! Allied in blood and fame,
Long tried, long loved: much loved, but honored more!
Defend my life, regardless of your own.”

Again the goddess: “Come then, let us try the glorious conflict,
Let the steel sparkle, and the javelin fly;
Or let us stretch Achilles on the field,
Or to his arm our bloody trophies yield.”

Fraudulently she said; then swiftly marched before:
The Trojan hero shuns his foe no more.
Sternly they met. The silence Hector broke:

“Enough, Achilles! Troy has viewed
Her walls circled, and her chief pursued.
But now some god within me bids me try
your, or my fate: I kill you, or I die.”

Achilles launched his javelin at the foe;
But Hector shunned the meditated blow:
He stooped, while over his head the flying spear
Sang innocent, and spent its force in air.
Athena watched it falling on the land,
Then drew it, and gave it to great Achilles’ hand,
Unseen by Hector, who, elated with joy,
Now shakes his lance, and braves the dread of Troy.

“The life you boasted to that javelin given,
Prince! you have missed. My fate depends on Heaven,
To you, presumptuous as you are, unknown,
Or what must prove my fortune, or your own.
Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind,
And with false terrors sink another’s mind.
But know, whatever fate I am to try,
By no dishonest wound shall Hector die.
My soul shall bravely issue from my breast.
But first, you shall try my arm; and may this dart
End all my country’s woes, deep buried in your heart.”

Hector’s javelin flew, its course unerring held,
Unerring, but the heavenly shield repelled
The mortal dart; resulting with a bound
From off the ringing orb, it struck the ground.
Hector beheld his javelin fall in vain,
Nor other lance, nor other hope remain;
He calls Deiphobus, demands a spear —
In vain, for no Deiphobus was there.
All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh;
“It is so — Heaven wills it, and my hour has come!
I deemed Deiphobus had heard my call,
But he sits secure, guarded behind the wall.
A god deceived me; Athena, it was your deed,
Death and black fate approach! I must bleed.
No refuge now, no help from above,
Great Zeus deserts me, and the son of Zeus,
Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome fate!
It is true I perish, yet I perish great:
Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire,
Let future ages hear it, and admire!”

Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew,
And, all collected, on Achilles flew.
So Zeus’s bold bird, high balanced in the air,
Stoops from the clouds to truss the quivering hare.
Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares:
Before his breast the flaming shield he bears,
Far-beaming over the silver host of night,
When all the starry train emblaze the sphere:
So shone the point of great Achilles’ spear.
In his right hand he waves the weapon round,
Eyes the whole man, and contemplates where to wound;
One space at length he spies, to let in fate,
Where between the neck and throat the jointed plate
Gave entrance: through that penetrable part
Furious he drove the well-directed dart:
Nor pierced the windpipe yet, nor took the power
Of speech from your dying hour.
Prone on the field the bleeding warrior lies,
While, thus triumphing, stern Achilles cries:

“At last is Hector stretched upon the plain,
Who feared no vengeance for Patroclus slain:
Then, prince! you should have feared, what now you feel;
Achilles absent was Achilles still:
Yet a short space the great avenger stayed,
Then low in dust your strength and glory laid.
Peaceful he sleeps, with all our rites adorned,
Forever honored, and forever mourned:
While cast to all the rage of hostile power,
You birds shall mangle, and the gods devour.”

Then Hector, fainting at the approach of death:
“By your own soul! By those who gave you breath!
By all the sacred prevalence of prayer;
Ah, leave me not for Grecian dogs to tear!
The common rites of burial bestow,
To soothe a father’s and a mother’s woe:
Let their large gifts procure an urn at least,
And Hector’s ashes in his country rest.”

“No, wretch accursed!” relentless Achilles replies;
(Flames, as he spoke, shot flashing from his eyes;)
“No — to the dogs I resign your carcass.
Should Troy, to bribe me, bring forth all her treasure,
Should Trojan Priam, and his weeping dame,
Drain their whole realm to buy one funeral flame:
Their Hector on the pyre they should not see,
Nor rob the vultures of one limb of you.”

Then thus the chief his dying accents drew:
“Your rage, implacable! Too well I knew:
The Furies cursed you with a heart that cannot yield.
Yet think, a day will come, when fate’s decree
And angry gods shall wreak this wrong on you;
Paris shall avenge my fate,
And stretch you here before the gate.”

He ceased. The Fates suppressed his laboring breath,
And his eyes stiffened at the hand of death;
To the dark realm the spirit wings its way,
A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!

Achilles stripped the slain.
Then forcing backward from the gaping wound
The reeking javelin, cast it on the ground.
The thronging Greeks behold with wondering eyes
His manly beauty and superior size;
High over the slain the great Achilles stands,
And thus aloud, while all the host attends:
“Princes and leaders! countrymen and friends!
Since now at length the powerful will of heaven
The dire destroyer to our arm has given,
Is not Troy fallen already? Hurry, you rulers!
See, if already their deserted towers
Are left unmanned; or if they yet retain
The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain.
But what is Troy, or glory what to me?
Or why reflects my mind on anything but you,
Divine Patroclus! Death hath sealed his eyes;
Can his dear image from my soul depart,
Long as the vital spirit moves my heart?
If in the melancholy shades below,
The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow,
Yet mine shall sacred last; mine, undecayed,
Burn on through death, and animate my shade.
Then his fell soul birthed a thought of vengeance;
Through Hector’s ankles he bored, his feet he bound
With ropes inserted through the double wound;
These fixed up high behind his rolling chariot,
His graceful head was trailed along the plain.
Proud on his chariot the insulting victor stood,
He whips the steeds; the rapid chariot flies;
The sudden clouds of circling dust arise.
Now lost is all that formidable air;
Hector’s face divine, and long-descending hair,
Purple the ground, and streak the sable sand;
Deformed, dishonoured, in his native land,
Given to the rage of an insulting throng,
And, in his parents’ sight, now dragged along!

To cite this reading, use the following format:

Homer. Iliad: Book 22. Translated by Alexander Pope, 1720. Mythopedia, https://mythopedia.com/library/iliad-pope-1720/book-22