The Iliad, Page 22

  by the god of the silver bow and man-destroying Ares

  and Strife flaring on, headlong on.

  The Achaeans?

  The two Aeantes, Tydides and Odysseus spurred them

  on to attack. The troops themselves had no fear,

  no dread of the Trojans' power and breakneck charges,

  no, they stood their ground like heavy thunderheads

  stacked up on the towering mountaintops by Cronus' son,

  stock-still in a windless calm when the raging North Wind

  and his gusty ripping friends that had screamed down

  to rout dark clouds have fallen dead asleep. So staunch

  they stood the Trojan onslaught, never shrinking once

  as Atrides ranged the ranks, shouting out commands:

  "Now be men, my friends! Courage, come, take heart!

  Dread what comrades say of you here in bloody combat!

  When men dread that, more men come through alive--

  when soldiers break and run, good-bye glory,

  good-bye all defenses!"

  A flash, a sudden hurl

  and Atrides speared a champion out in front--

  it was Prince Aeneas' comrade-in-arms Deicoon,

  Pergasus' son the Trojans prized like Priam's sons,

  quick as he always was to join the forward ranks.

  Now his shield took powerful Agamemnon's spear

  but failed to deflect it, straight through it smashed,

  bronze splitting his belt and plunging down his guts--

  he fell, thundering, armor ringing against him.

  There-

  Aeneas replied in kind and killed two Argive captains,

  Diodes' two sons, Orsilochus flanking Crethon.

  Their father lived in the fortress town of Phera,

  a man of wealth and worth, bom of Alpheus River

  running wide through Pylian hills, the stream

  that sired Ortilochus to rule their many men.

  Ortilochus sired Diocles, that proud heart,

  and Diocles bred Orsilochus twinned with Crethon

  drilled for any fight. And reaching their prime

  they joined the Argives sailing the black ships

  outward bound for the stallion-land of Troy,

  all for the sons of Atreus,

  to fight to the end and win their honor back--

  so death put an end to both, wrapped them both in night.

  Fresh as two young lions off on the mountain ridges,

  twins reared by a lioness deep in the dark glades,

  that ravage shepherds' steadings, mauling the cattle

  and fat sheep till it's their turn to die--hacked down

  by the cleaving bronze blades in the shepherds' hands.

  So here the twins were laid low at Aeneas' hands,

  down they crashed like lofty pine trees axed.

  Both down

  but Menelaus pitied them both, yes, and out for blood

  he burst through the front, helmed in fiery bronze,

  shaking his spear, and Ares' fury drove him, Ares

  hoping to see him crushed at Aeneas' hands.

  Antilochus marked him now, great Nestor's son

  went racing across the front himself, terrified

  for the lord of armies--what if he were killed?

  Their hard campaigning just might come to grief.

  As Aeneas and Menelaus came within arm's reach,

  waving whetted spears in each other's faces,

  nerved to fight it out, Antilochus rushed in,

  tensing shoulder-to-shoulder by his captain now--

  and Aeneas shrank from battle, fast as he was in arms,

  when he saw that pair of fighters side-by-side,

  standing their ground against him ...

  Once they'd dragged the bodies back to their lines

  they dropped the luckless twins in companions' open arms

  and round they swung again to fight in the first ranks.

  And next they killed Pylaemenes tough as Ares,

  a captain heading the Paphlagonian shieldsmen,

  hot-blooded men. Menelaus the famous spearman

  stabbed him right where he stood, the spearpoint

  pounding his collarbone to splinters. Antilochus

  killed his charioteer and steady henchman Mydon,

  Atymnius' strapping son, just wheeling his racers round

  as Antilochus winged a rock and smashed his elbow--

  out of his grip the reins white with ivory flew

  and slipped to the ground and tangled in the dust.

  Antilochus sprang, he plunged a sword in his temple

  and Mydon, gasping, hurled from his bolted car facefirst,

  head and shoulders stuck in a dune a good long time

  for the sand was soft and deep--his lucky day--

  till his own horses trampled him down, down flat

  as Antilochus lashed them hard and drove them back

  to Achaea's waiting ranks.

  But Hector marked them

  across the lines and rushed them now with a cry

  and Trojan shock troops backed him full strength.

  And Ares led them in with the deadly Queen Enyo

  bringing Uproar on, the savage chaos of battle--

  the god of combat wielding his giant shaft in hand,

  now ranging ahead of Hector, now behind him.

  Ares there--

  and for all his war cries Diomedes shrank at the sight,

  as a man at a loss, helpless, crossing a vast plain

  halts short at a river rapids surging out to sea,

  takes one look at the water roaring up in foam

  and springs back with a leap. So he recoiled,

  shouting out to comrades, "Oh my friends,

  what fools we were to marvel at wondrous Hector,

  what a spearman, we said, and what a daring fighter!

  But a god goes with him always, beating off disaster--

  look, that's Ares beside him now, just like a mortal!

  Give ground, but faces fronting the Trojans always--

  no use trying to fight the gods in force."

  So he warned

  as the Trojans charged them, harder--and Hector, lunging,

  leveled a pair of men who knew the joy of battle,

  riding a single chariot, Menesthes and Anchialus.

  Down they went and the Great Ajax pitied both,

  he strode to their side and loomed there,

  loosed a gleaming spear and struck down Amphius,

  Selagus' son who had lived at ease in Paesus,

  rich in possessions, rich in rolling wheatland ...

  But destiny guided Amphius on, a comrade sworn

  to the cause of Priam and all of Priam's sons.

  Now giant Ajax speared him through the belt,

  deep in the guts the long, shadowy shaft stuck

  and down he fell with a crash as glorious Ajax rushed

  to strip his armor--Trojans showering spears against him,

  points glittering round him, his shield taking repeated hits.

  He dug his heel in the corpse, yanked his own bronze out

  but as for the dead man's burnished gear--no hope.

  The giant was helpless to rip it off his back.

  Enemy weapons beating against him, worse,

  he dreaded the Trojans too, swarming round him,

  a tough ring of them, brave and bristling spears,

  massing, rearing over their comrade's body now

  and rugged, strong and proud as the Great Ajax was,

  they shoved him back--he gave ground, staggering, reeling.

  So fighters worked away in the grim shocks of war.

  And Heracles' own son, Tlepolemus tall and staunch ...

  his strong fate was driving him now against Sarpedon,

  a man like a god. Closing quickly, coming head-to-head

  the son and the son's son of Ze
us who marshals storms,

  Tlepolemus opened up to taunt his enemy first:

  "Sarpedon, master strategist of the Lycians,

  what compels you to cringe and cower here?

  You raw recruit, green at the skills of battle!

  They lie when they say you're born of storming Zeus.

  Look at yourself. How short you fall of the fighters

  sired by Zeus in the generations long before us!

  Why, think what they say of mighty Heracles--

  there was a man, my father,

  that dauntless, furious spirit, that lionheart.

  He once sailed here for Laomedon's blooded horses,

  with just six ships and smaller crews than yours, true,

  but he razed the walls of Troy, he widowed all her streets.

  You with your coward's heart, your men dying round youl

  You're no bulwark come out of Lycia, I can tell you--

  no help to Trojans here. For all your power, soldier,

  crushed at my hands you'll breach the gates of Death!"

  But Sarpedon the Lycian captain faced him down:

  "Right you are, Tlepolemus! Your great father

  destroyed the sacred heights of Troy, thanks,

  of course, to a man's stupidity, proud Laomedon.

  That fool--he rewarded all his kindness with abuse,

  never gave him the mares he'd come so far to win.

  But the only thing you'll win at my hands here,

  I promise you, is slaughter and black doom.

  Gouged by my spear you'll give me glory now,

  you'll give your life to the famous horseman Death!"

  In fast reply Tlepolemus raised his ashen spear

  and the same moment shafts flew from their hands

  and Sarpedon hit him square across the neck,

  the spear went ramming through--pure agony--

  black night came swirling down across his eyes.

  But Tlepolemus' shaft had struck Sarpedon too,

  the honed tip of the weapon hitting his left thigh,

  ferocious, razoring into flesh and scraping bone

  but his Father beat off death a little longer.

  Heroic Sarpedon--

  his loyal comrades bore him out of the fighting quickly,

  weighed down by the heavy spearshaft dragging on.

  But hurrying so, no one noticed or even thought

  to wrench the ashen javelin from his thigh

  so the man could hobble upright. On they rushed,

  bent on the work of tending to his body.

  Tlepolemus--

  far across the lines the armed Achaeans hauled him

  out of the fight, and seasoned Odysseus saw it,

  his brave spirit steady, ablaze for action now.

  What should he do?--he racked his heart and soul--

  lunge at Prince Sarpedon, son of storming Zeus,

  or go at the Lycians' mass and kill them all?

  But no, it was not the gallant Odysseus' fate

  to finish Zeus's rugged son with his sharp bronze,

  so Pallas swung his fury against the Lycian front.

  Whirling, killing Coeranus, Chromius and Alastor,

  killing Alcander and Halius, Prytanis and Noemon--

  and stalwart Odysseus would have killed still more

  but tall Hector, his helmet flashing, marked him quickly,

  plowed through the front, helmed in fiery bronze,

  filling the Argives' hearts with sudden terror.

  And Zeus's son Sarpedon rejoiced to see him

  striding past and begged him in his pain,

  "Son of Priam, don't leave me lying here,

  such easy prey for the Danaans--protect me!

  Later I'll bleed to death inside your walls.

  Clearly it's not my fate

  to journey home again to the fatherland I love,

  to bring some joy to my dear wife, my baby son."

  But Hector,

  his helmet flashing, answered nothing--he swept past him,

  Hector burning to thrust the Argives back at once

  and tear the life and soul out of whole battalions.

  But Sarpedon's loyal comrades laid him down,

  a man like a god beneath a fine spreading oak

  sacred to Zeus whose shield is banked with clouds.

  The veteran Pelagon, one of his closest aides,

  pushed the shaft of ashwood out through his wound--

  his spirit left him--a mist poured down his eyes . . .

  but he caught his breath again. A gust of the North Wind

  blowing round him carried back the life breath

  he had gasped away in pain.

  But the Argive fighters?

  Facing Ares' power and Hector helmed in bronze,

  they neither turned and ran for their black ships

  nor traded blows with enemies man-to-man.

  Backing over and over, the Argives gave ground,

  seeing the lord of battles lead the Trojan onset.

  Who was the first they slaughtered, who the last,

  the brazen god of war and Hector son of Priam?

  Teuthras first, Orestes lasher of stallions next,

  an Aetolian spearman Trechus, Oenomaus and Helenus,

  Oenops' son, and Oresbius cinched with shining belt

  who had lived in Hyle hoarding his great wealth,

  his estate aslope the shores of Lake Cephisus,

  and round him Boeotians held the fertile plain.

  But soon as the white-armed goddess Hera saw them

  mauling Argive units caught in the bloody press,

  she winged her words at Pallas: "What disaster!

  Daughter of storming Zeus, tireless one, Athena--

  how hollow our vow to Menelaus that he would sack

  the mighty walls of Troy before he sailed for home--

  if we let murderous Ares rampage on this way. Up now,

  set our minds on our own fighting-fury!"

  Hera's challenge--

  and goddess Athena, her eyes afire, could not resist.

  Hera queen of the gods, daughter of giant Cronus,

  launched the work, harnessed the golden-bridled team

  and Hebe quickly rolled the wheels to the chariot,

  paired wheels with their eight spokes all bronze,

  and bolted them on at both ends of the iron axle.

  Fine wheels with fellies of solid, deathless gold

  and round them running rims of bronze clamped fast--

  a marvel to behold! The silver hubs spin round

  on either side of the chariot's woven body,

  gold and silver lashings strapping it tight,

  double rails sweeping along its deep full curves

  and the yoke-pole jutting forward, gleaming silver.

  There at the tip she bound the gorgeous golden yoke,

  she fastened the gorgeous golden breast straps next

  and under the yoke Queen Hera led the horses, racers

  blazing for war and the piercing shrieks of battle.

  Then Athena, child of Zeus whose shield is thunder,

  letting fall her supple robe at the Father's threshold--

  rich brocade, stitched with her own hands' labor--

  donned the battle-shirt of the lord of lightning,

  buckled her breastplate geared for wrenching war

  and over her shoulders slung her shield, all tassels

  flaring terror--Panic mounted high in a crown around it,

  Hate and Defense across it, Assault to freeze the blood

  and right in their midst the Gorgon's monstrous head,

  that rippling dragon horror, sign of storming Zeus.

  Then over her brows Athena placed her golden helmet

  fronted with four knobs and forked with twin horns,

  engraved with the fighting men of a hundred towns.

  Then onto the flaming chariot Pallas set her feetr />
  and seized her spear--weighted, heavy, the massive shaft

  she wields to break the battle lines of heroes

  the mighty Father's daughter storms against.

  A crack of the whip--

  the goddess Hera lashed the team, and all on their own force

  the gates of heaven thundered open, kept by the Seasons,

  guards of the vaulting sky and Olympus heights empowered

  to spread the massing clouds or close them round once more.

  Now straight through the great gates she drove the team,

  whipping them on full tilt until they came to Zeus

  the son of Cronus sitting far from the other gods,

  throned on the topmost crag of rugged ridged Olympus.

  And halting her horses near, the white-armed Hera

  called out at once to the powerful son of Cronus,

  pressing home her questions: "Father Zeus, look--

  aren't you incensed at Ares and all his brutal work?

  Killing so many brave Achaeans for no good reason,

  not a shred of decency, just to wound my heart!

  While there they sit at their royal ease, exulting,

  the goddess of love and Apollo lord of the silver bow:

  they loosed this manic Ares--he has no sense of justice.

  Father Zeus . . . I wonder if you would fume at me

  if I hurled a stunning blow at the god of war

  and drove him from the fighting?"

  Zeus the Father

  who marshals ranks of storm clouds gave commands,

  "Leap to it then. Launch Athena against him--

  the queen of plunder, she's the one--his match,

  a marvel at bringing Ares down in pain."

  So he urged and the white-armed goddess Hera

  obeyed at once. And again she lashed her team

  and again the stallions flew, holding nothing back,

  careering between the earth and starry skies as far

  as a man's glance can pierce the horizon's misting haze,

  a scout on a watchtower who scans the wine-dark sea--

  so far do the soaring, thundering horses of the gods

  leap at a single stride. And once they reached

  the plains of Troy where the two rivers flow,

  where Simois and Scamander rush together,

  the white-armed goddess Hera reined her team,

  loosing them from the chariot-yoke and round them

  poured a dense shrouding mist and before their hoofs

  the Simois sprang ambrosial grass for them to graze.

  The two immortals stepped briskly as wild doves,

  quivering, keen to defend the fighting men of Argos.

  Once they gained the spot where the most and bravest stood,

  flanking strong Diomedes breaker of wild stallions--

  massed like a pride of lions tearing raw flesh

  or ramping boars whose fury never flags--

  the white-armed goddess Hera rose and shouted

  loud as the brazen voice of great-lunged Stentor

  who cries out with the blast of fifty other men,

  "Shame! Disgrace! You Argives, you degraded--

  splendid in battle dress, pure sham!

  As long as brilliant Achilles stalked the front

  no Trojan would ever venture beyond the Dardan Gates,

  they were so afraid of the man's tremendous spear.