[Sample from the Opening of the Poem]

Sing, Goddess, sing of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus—
that murderous anger which condemned Achaeans
to countless agonies and threw many warrior souls
deep into Hades, leaving their dead bodies
carrion food for dogs and birds—
all in fulfilment of the will of Zeus.

Start at the point where Agamemnon, son of Atreus,
that king of men, quarrelled with noble Achilles.
Which of the gods incited these two men to fight?

That god was Apollo, son of Zeus and Leto.
Angry with Agamemnon, he cast plague down 
onto the troops—deadly infectious evil.
For Agamemnon had dishonoured the god’s priest,
Chryses, who’d come to the ships to find his daughter,
Chryseis, bringing with him a huge ransom.
In his hand he held up on a golden staff
the scarf sacred to archer god Apollo.
He begged Achaeans, above all the army’s leaders,
the two sons of Atreus:

            “Menelaus, Agamemnon, sons of Atreus,
all you well-armed Achaeans, may the gods 
on Olympus grant you wipe out Priam’s city,
and then return home safe and sound.
Release my dear child to me. Take this ransom.
Honour Apollo, far-shooting son of Zeus.”

All the Achaeans roared out their support:

         “Respect the priest. Take the generous ransom.”

Displeased, Agamemnon dismissed Chryses roughly:

                                                            “Old man,
don’t let me catch you by our hollow ships, 
sneaking back here today or later on.
Who cares about Apollo’s scarf and staff? 
I’ll not release the girl to you, no, not before
she’s grown old with me in Argos, far from home,
working the loom, sharing my bed. Go away. 
If you want to get home safely, don’t anger me.”

The old man, afraid, obeyed his words, walked off in silence,
along the shore by the tumbling, crashing surf. 
Some distance off, he prayed to lord Apollo, 
Leto’s fair-haired child:

                   “God with the silver bow,
protector of Chryse, sacred Cilla,
mighty lord of Tenedos, Sminthean Apollo,
hear my prayer: If I’ve ever pleased you 
with a holy shrine, or burned bones for you—
bulls and goats well wrapped in fat—
grant me my prayer. Force the Danaans
to pay full price for my tears with your arrows.”

So Chryses prayed. Phoebus Apollo heard him. 
He came down from Olympus top enraged,
carrying on his shoulders bow and covered quiver,
his arrows rattling in anger against his arm.
So the god swooped down, descending like the night. 
He sat some distance from the ships, shot off an arrow—
the silver bow reverberating ominously.

First, the god massacred mules and swift-running dogs,
then loosed sharp arrows in among the troops themselves.
Thick fires burned the corpses ceaselessly.

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