For nine days the god’s arrows rained on the camp. On the tenth, Achilles called the people to assembly — Hera of the white arms put it in his mind, for she pitied the Danaans as she watched them die. When they had gathered and the assembly was set, swift-footed Achilles stood among them and spoke:
“Son of Atreus, I think we will be driven back — wandering home again, if we escape death at all — if war and plague together are to crush the Achaeans. Come, let us ask some seer or priest, or even a reader of dreams — for dreams too come from Zeus — who can say why Phoebus Apollo is so angry: whether he faults us for a vow or a hecatomb, and whether he might be willing to take the savor of lambs and unblemished goats and ward the plague off us.”
He sat down when he had spoken. Among them stood Calchas son of Thestor, by far the best of bird-readers, who knew what is, what will be, and what was before — who had led the Achaeans’ ships to Ilios by the gift of prophecy Phoebus Apollo gave him. He meant them well, and he spoke out:
“Achilles, dear to Zeus, you tell me to speak of the rage of lord Apollo, the far-shooter. So I will speak. But you must listen and swear to me that you will be ready, with words and with hands, to stand by me. For I think I will anger a man who holds great power over all the Argives, and the Achaeans obey him. A king is stronger when he is angry with a lesser man: even if he swallows his rage for the day, he still holds the grudge afterward in his chest until he can pay it out. Speak — will you protect me?”
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: “Take heart; speak out whatever oracle you know. By Apollo, dear to Zeus, to whom you pray, Calchas, when you reveal oracles to the Danaans: while I live and see the light on earth, no one of all the Danaans will lay heavy hands on you by the hollow ships — not even if you mean Agamemnon, who now claims to be far the best of the Achaeans.”