Sing, goddess, the rage of Achilles son of Peleus — the destructive rage that put countless pains on the Achaeans, and sent many strong souls of heroes down to Hades, and made their bodies spoil for the dogs and for every bird, and Zeus’s will was being fulfilled, from the first moment those two stood apart in quarrel: Atreus’s son, lord of men, and godlike Achilles.
Which of the gods set them to clash in strife? Leto’s and Zeus’s son: angry at the king, he raised a foul disease through the camp, and the people were dying, because the son of Atreus had dishonored Chryses the priest. For Chryses had come to the Achaeans’ swift ships to free his daughter, bringing boundless ransom, holding in his hands the wreaths of far-shooting Apollo on a golden staff, and he begged all the Achaeans — and above all the two sons of Atreus, marshals of the people:
“Sons of Atreus, and you other well-greaved Achaeans: may the gods who hold Olympian homes grant you to sack Priam’s city and come home safe. But free my dear child to me, and take this ransom, showing reverence to Zeus’s son, far-shooting Apollo.”
Then all the other Achaeans cried out to respect the priest and take the splendid ransom. But it did not please Agamemnon son of Atreus in his heart; he sent him away harshly and laid a strong word on him:
“Never let me find you, old man, by the hollow ships — lingering now or coming back later — or the staff and the god’s wreaths will not protect you. I will not free her. Old age will come on her first in my house in Argos, far from her country, working the loom and sharing my bed. Go — do not provoke me — and you will go safer.”
So he spoke. The old man was afraid and obeyed the word. He walked in silence by the shore of the loud-roaring sea, and then, when he had gone far off, the old man prayed hard to lord Apollo, whom lovely-haired Leto bore:
“Hear me, god of the silver bow, who stand over Chryse and holy Cilla and rule Tenedos with force — Smintheus: if ever I roofed a shrine that pleased you, or if ever I burned rich thigh-bones of bulls and goats for you, fulfill this wish for me: make the Danaans pay for my tears with your arrows.”
So he spoke in prayer, and Phoebus Apollo heard him. He came down from the peaks of Olympus, angry at heart, with his bow and covered quiver on his shoulders. The arrows clashed on his shoulders as he moved in his rage; he came like night. Then he sat far from the ships and shot an arrow — and a terrible clang went up from the silver bow. First he attacked the mules and the quick dogs, and then he launched a sharp shaft at the men themselves, and kept shooting. The crowded pyres of the dead burned without pause.