Goddess, sing rage, which Peleus’ son Achilles

Sent as an endless curse on the Achaeans,

And how it hurled so many mighty lives

To Hades, leaving plunder for the dogs

And countless birds. The will of Zeus was realized

From the time strife first rose between the son

Of Atreus, lord of men, and bright Achilles.

Which god, then, made them battle in this clash?

Leto and Zeus’ son. Furious at the king,

He filled the ranks with plague; the army perished

To pay for his priest Chryses’ degradation

By Atreus’ son. To the Achaeans’ swift ships

He came, with a huge ransom for his daughter,

Holding Apollo the far-striker’s chaplets

On a gold staff, beseeching the Achaeans,

But chiefly Atreus’ sons, who marshalled armies.

“Atreus’ sons — and all rich-greaved Achaeans —

May gods with mansions on Olympus let you

Sack Priam’s city and return home safe.

Free my dear child, accept this ransom, fearing

The son of Zeus, Apollo the far-striker.”

The rest of the Achaeans all concurred:

Respect the priest and take the splendid ransom.

But Agamemnon, Atreus’ son, displeased,

Sent him off shamefully and taunted him:

“Don’t let me catch you by the hollow ships,

Old man. Don’t loiter here or come back later,

Or the god’s staff and chaplet won’t protect you.

I won’t release her. She’ll get old before that

In Argos, in our house, far from her country,

Working the loom and visiting my bed.

Go back, don’t irk me — that’s the safer way.”

He spoke, and the old man obeyed, in fear,

And left in silence by the sea’s loud roar.

Later, far off, the agèd man prayed fiercely:

“Lovely-haired Leto’s child, lordly Apollo,

Hear, silver-bowed and looming guard of Chryse

And holy Cilla, Tenedos’ strong ruler,

Vermin destroyer! If I ever built you

A pleasing shrine, or burned for you fat pieces

Of bull and goat thighs, grant my wish and punish

The Danaans with your missiles for my tears.”

Phoebus Apollo heard this prayer and came

Down from Olympus’ summits, his heart raging,

The bow and lidded quiver on his shoulders.

The arrows on his shoulders clanged, as rage

Moved him along. He came, and looked like night.

Short of the fleet, he stopped and shot a shaft:

Dreadful, the clanging of the silver bow.

First he attacked the mules and nimble dogs,

Then at the men themselves he launched a sharp dart

And struck. Close-packed, pyres of the dead kept burning.