Read Online Ilium by Dan Simmons - Free Book Online

“Or you, Aphrodite, with your constant laughter, always standing by that pretty-boy Paris, driving away evil spirits and deflecting well-cast spears. How can the will of the gods—and more important, of Zeus—be clear, even here, if you meddling goddesses keep protecting your favorites at the expense of Fate? Despite all your machinations, Hera, Menelaus may yet lead Helen home . . . or perhaps, who knows, Ilium may prevail. It is not for a few female gods to decide these things.”
    Hera folds her slender arms. So frequently in the poem is Hera referred to as “the white-armed goddess” that I half expect her arms to be whiter than the other goddesses’ arms, but although Hera’s skin is milky enough, it’s no visibly milkier than that of Aphrodite or Hera’s daughter Hebe or any of the other female gods I can see from my vantage point here near the image pool . . . except for Athena, that is, who looks strangely tanned. I know that these descriptive passages are a function of Homer’s type of epic poetry; Achilles is referred to repeatedly as “swift-footed,” Apollo as “one who shoots from afar,” and Agamemnon’s name is usually preceded by “wide ruling” or “lord of men”; the Achaeans are “strong-greaved” and their ships “black” or “hollow” and so forth. These repeated epithets met the heavy demands of dactylic hexameter more than mere description, and were a way for the singing bard to meet metric requirements with formulaic phrases. I’ve always suspected that some of these ritual phrases—such as Dawn stretching forth her rosy fingertips—were also verbal placeholders, buying the bard a few seconds to remember, if not invent, the next few lines of action.
    Still, as Hera begins to retort to her husband, I am looking at her arms. “Son of Kronos—dreaded majesty,” she says, white arms folded, “what in the hell are you talking about? How dare you consider making all of my labors pointless? I’m talking sweat here—immortal sweat—poured out launching Achaea’s armies, stroking these male hero’s egos just to keep them from killing each other before they kill Trojans, and taking great pains— my pains, O Zeus—in heaping greater pains on King Priam and the sons of Priam and the city of Priam.”
    Zeus frowns and leans forward on his uncomfortable-looking throne, his huge white hands clenching and unclenching.
    Hera unfolds her arms and throws up her hands in exasperation. “Do what you please—you always do—but don’t expect any of us immortals to praise you.”
    Zeus stands. If the other gods are eight or nine feet tall, Zeus must stand twelve feet high. His brow is more folded than furrowed now, and I am using no metaphor when I say that he thunders:
    “Hera—my dear, darling, insatiable Hera! What has Priam or the sons of Priam ever done to you that you have become so furious, so relentless to bring down Priam’s city of Ilium?”
    Hera stands silent, hands at her side. This seems only to increase Zeus’s royal fury.
    “This is more appetite than anger with you, Goddess!” he roars. “You won’t be satisfied until you knock down the Trojans’ gates, breach their walls, and eat them raw.”
    Hera’s expression does nothing to deny this charge.
    “Well . . . well . . .” thunders Zeus, almost spluttering in a way all too familiar to husbands across the millennia, “do as you please. But one more thing—and remember it well, Hera—when there comes a day that I am bent on destroying a city and consuming its inhabitants—a city you love, as I love Ilium—then don’t even think about attempting to oppose my fury.”
    The goddess takes three quick steps forward and I am reminded of a predator pouncing, or some chess master seeing his opening and taking it. “Yes! The three cities I love best are Argos and Sparta and Mycenae of the wide ways, its streets as broad and regal as ill-fated Ilium’s. All these you can sack to your vandal’s