Forgotten Ground Regained
An Alliterative Iliad Fragment
Michael Champagne
Of rage unrivalled of wroth Achilles,Peleus’ son, that Pátroklos loved,Sing, Muse: the murderous furyThat cost the Achaeans countless lives,Hurled to Hades their howling shades,Their bodies a feast for death-fowl and dogs,And the will of Zeus was worked thereby.Tell us, Muse, of the Tyrant and Runner,How their harsh words hastened the doomOf that mighty city remembered no longer.What god goaded their fiery feud?Leto’s son, beloved of Zeus,Apollo, the lord of lyre and plague.Wroth with Atreides, he ravaged the ranksOf the Argives, all because AgamemnonSpat in the face of Phoebus’ priest.Chryses had fallen at the feet of the kingWith winsome gifts, gold for ransom,His staff wreathed with royal laurel.He’d begged the men, but most of allThe Atreides brothers, tried in battle.“Agamemnon, Menelaus!All you Argives geared for war!Would by Olympus you lay wasteTo Priam’s city, set it ablaze,Reap of its wealth the richest plunderAnd by safe seas sail home.But release my daughter, my little Chryseis!Here! I will pay a heavy ransom.Honor the god. The gift is worthy!”The Akhaians shouted sure assent:“Respect the priest! His price is enough.”But Agamemnon, mad with lust,With scarring contempt scorned the man:“Priest of Rats, pray to your GodAnd get out of my sight. If I see you everSlinking between the sleek shipsI’ll- but as for your girl: she’s gone. She’s mine.I won’t return her. She’ll wither with ageIn the halls of my home, far from fatherland,A slave at the loom, a lust-toy by night.Now get. I’ll let you live this once.”In awful terror the old man fled,Fleeing the fleet of ships and shores.He walked in silence past whispering surfAnd at a safe distance sent prayersTo Leto’s son, the Lord Apollo:“Bend your ears, hear me Bow-Master,Who guard Tenedos and the towns around it,I’ve built you temples, burned offeringsOf rich, long bones and bull flesh,If ever you were pleased by the pleasant odorGrant this wish: Would that the ArgivesBe smote by arrows as oft as I’ve criedIn anguish and anger for my dearest daughter.”His voice carried through the vaults of heavenAnd Phoebus Apollo felt his tears.His heart was torn for the taken girlAnd he seethed as knocked his silver bow,Descending by night, he sent his arrows,Tipped with rot and rat-gore plague,Down to the camps of the Danaan hoard.He smote the pigs, smeared in blood,The pilfering dogs in the pits of the slain,And the men at last. They languished and died,The sickly pyres were piled with corpses,Burning by day, burning by night.
Copyright © Michael Champagne, 2025
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