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Iliad VIII 504ff
(Fagles, p 245)
At the same time
Zeus the Father whipped his team and hurtling chariot
straight from Ida to Mount Olympus, soon to reach
the sessions of the gods. Quick at Zeus's side
the famous lord of earthquakes freed the team,
canted the battle-chariot firmly on its base
and wrapped it well with a heavy canvas shroud.
Thundering Zeus himself assumed his golden throne
as the massive range of Olympus shook beneath his feet.
Those two alone, Athena and Hera, sat apart from Zeus—
not a word would they send his way, not a question.
But the Father knew their feelings deep within his heart
and mocked them harshly: "Why so crushed, Athena, Hera?
Not overly tired, I trust, from all your efforts
there in glorious battle, slaughtering Trojans,
the men you break with all your deathless rage.
But I with my courage, my hands, never conquered--
for all their force not all the gods on Olympus heights
could ever turn me back. Ah but the two of you—
long ago the trembling shook your glistening limbs
before you could glimpse the horrid works of war.
I tell you this, and it would have come to pass:
once my lightning had blasted you in your chariot,
you could never have returned to Mount Olympus
where the immortals make their home."
So he mocked
as Athena and Queen Hera muttered between themselves,
huddled together, plotting Troy's destruction.
True, Athena held her peace and said nothing . . .
smoldering at the Father, seized with wild resentment.
But Hera could hold the anger in her breast no longer,
suddenly bursting out, "Dread majesty, son of Cronus,
what are you saying? We already know your power,
far too well . . . who can stand against you?
Even so, we pity these Argive spearmen
living out their grim fates, dying in blood.
Yes, we'll keep clear of the war as you command.
We'll simply offer the Argives tactics that may save them—
so they won't all fall beneath your blazing wrath."
And Zeus who
marshals the thunderheads replied,
"Tomorrow at dawn's your chance, my ox-eyed queen.
Look down then, if you have the taste for it, Hera,
and you will see the towering son of Cronus killing
still more hordes, whole armies of Argive soldiers.
This powerful Hector will never quit the fighting,
not till swift Achilles rises beside the ships
that day they battle against the high stems,
pinned in the fatal straits
and grappling for the body of Patroclus.
So runs the doom of Zeus.
You and your anger—
rage away! I care nothing for that. Not even
if you go plunging down to the pit of earth and sea
where Cronus and Iapetus make their beds of pain,
where not a ray of the Sun can warm their hearts,
not a breeze, the depths of Tartarus wall them round.
Not if you ventured down as far as the black abyss Itself—
I care nothing for you, you and your snarling anger,
none in the world a meaner bitch than you."
So he
erupted
but the white-armed goddess Hera answered not a word . . .
Now down in the Ocean sank the fiery light of day,
drawing the dark night across the grain-giving earth.
For the men of Troy the day went down against their will
but not the Argives—what a blessing, how they prayed
for the nightfall coming on across their lines.
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