Book I (Opening Passage)

Sing, O goddess, of the dreadful wrath of glorious Achilles,
a curse that brought uncounted grief upon the Achaeans.
It sent the valiant souls of countless heroes down to Hades,
while their lifeless bodies were left for dogs to tear apart
and for every bird beneath the sky to feast upon.
Thus the will of Zeus was fulfilled,
from the moment when the mighty son of Atreus, lord of armies,
and great Achilles first stood divided in bitter strife.

Which of the gods drove them into so fierce a quarrel?

It was the son of Zeus and Leto. Enraged with the king,
he loosed a deadly plague upon the host,
and the warriors perished in great numbers,
because Agamemnon, son of Atreus, had dishonored Chryses,
the priest of Apollo.

The old priest had come to the swift Achaean ships,
bringing a rich ransom to redeem his daughter.
In his hands he bore the sacred garlands
of Apollo, the far-shooting god, fastened upon his golden staff.
Standing before all the Achaeans,
and especially before the two sons of Atreus,
the leaders of the people, he pleaded:

> “Sons of Atreus, and all you brave Achaeans,
> may the gods who dwell upon Olympus grant you
> the strength to overthrow the city of Priam
> and return safely to your beloved homes.
> But release my dear daughter to me,
> and accept this ransom with reverence
> for Apollo, the far-shooting son of Zeus.”

At once the other Achaeans cried out in agreement.
They wished to honor the priest
and gladly accept the splendid ransom he had brought.

But Agamemnon, son of Atreus, would hear none of it.
He drove the old man away with harsh words
and added an even harsher threat:

> “Old man, let me never find you again beside our hollow ships,
> whether lingering here today
> or returning another time.
> Neither your staff nor the sacred garlands of your god
> will protect you.
> I will not release your daughter.
> She will grow old in my house at Argos,
> far from her native land,
> working at the loom by day
> and sharing my bed by night.
> Go now, and do not provoke my anger further,
> if you wish to leave here alive.”

So he spoke.

The old priest trembled, obeyed the king's command,
and walked away in silence along the shore
of the loud-roaring sea.

When he had gone far from the ships,
he lifted his voice in heartfelt prayer
to Apollo, son of lovely-haired Leto:

> “Hear me, Lord of the Silver Bow,
> guardian of Chryse, sacred Cilla,
> and mighty ruler of Tenedos.
> O Smintheus, if ever I roofed a pleasing temple in your honor,
> or burned upon your altar the rich thigh-bones
> of bulls and goats,
> grant me this one prayer:
> let the Danaans pay for my tears
> beneath the sting of your arrows.”

Apollo heard the old man's plea.

Filled with wrath,
he descended from the peaks of Olympus,
his bow upon his shoulder
and his quiver heavy with arrows upon his back.

As the angry god advanced,
the arrows rattled against his shoulders,
and he came on like the gathering darkness of night.

Then he sat apart from the ships,
drew his bow,
and released his first arrow.

Terrible rang the twang
of the silver bow.