The Iliad, Page 42

  But he quickly found one more, on the left flank

  of the heart-wrenching carnage--royal Paris,

  fair-haired Helen's consort was rousing comrades,

  driving them back to battle. Once he gained his side

  Hector raked his brother with insults, stinging taunts:

  "Paris, appalling Paris! Our prince of beauty--

  mad for women, you lure them all to ruin!

  Where's Deiphobus? Helenus, rugged warlord?

  Adamas, Asius' son, and Asius son of Hyrtacus--

  where's Othryoneus, tell me.

  Now all towering Troy is ruined top to bottom!

  Now one thing's certain--your own headlong death!"

  And Paris, magnificent as a god, replied,

  "Hector, bent on faulting a man without a fault?

  At other times I might have shrunk from the fighting,

  true, but not today. Mother bore me--even me--

  not to be a coward through and through. Think,

  since you fired our comrades' fury against the ships,

  from that hour we've held our ground right here,

  taking the Argives on, and nonstop, no rest.

  Our comrades are dead, Hector,

  those you inquire about with such concern ...

  Only Deiphobus and the rugged warlord Helenus

  have made it back alive, wounded with sturdy spears,

  both in the hand too, but Zeus beat off their deaths.

  Now lead the way, wherever your fighting spirit bids you.

  All of us right behind you, hearts intent on battle.

  Nor do I think you'll find us short on courage,

  long as our strength will last. Past his strength

  no man can go, though he's set on mortal combat."

  That brought his brother's warrior spirit round.

  On they went where the thickest fighting broke,

  churning round Cebriones, dauntless Polydamas,

  Phalces, Orthaeus and veteran Polyphetes,

  Palmys, Hippotion's two sons--Ascanius, Morys--

  fresh reserves just come from Ascania's fertile soil,

  just last morning, but now great Zeus incited all-out war.

  Down the Trojans came like a squall of brawling gale-winds

  blasting down with the Father's thunder, loosed on earth

  and a superhuman uproar bursts as they pound the heavy seas,

  the giant breakers seething, battle lines of them roaring,

  shoulders rearing, exploding foam, waves in the vanguard,

  waves rolling in from the rear. So on the Trojans came,

  waves in the vanguard, waves from the rear, closing,

  bronze men glittering, following captains, closing

  and Hector led the way, a match for murderous Ares--

  Priam's son holding his balanced shield before him,

  tough with oxhides, studded thick with bronze

  and round his temples the flashing helmet shook.

  He plowed forward, testing enemy lines at all points

  to see if they'd crack before him--charging under his shield

  but he could not overpower the Argives' stiff resolve

  and Ajax hulking forward with big strides, the first

  to challenge Hector: "Madman! Here, come closer--

  trying to frighten Argives? Why waste your breath?

  No, no, it's not that we lack the skill in battle,

  it's just the brutal lash of Zeus that beats us down.

  Your hopes soar, I suppose, to gut and crush our ships?

  Well we have strong arms too, arms to defend those ships--

  and long before that your city packed with people

  will fall beneath our hands, plundered to rubble.

  And you, I say, the day draws near when off you run

  and pray to Father Zeus and the other deathless gods

  to make your full-maned horses swifter than hawks--

  whipping dust from the plain to sweep you back to Troy!"

  Clear on the right a bird winged past to seal those words,

  a soaring eagle swooping. Spirits high with the sign,

  the Argive armies cheered. But bent on glory

  Hector answered the giant Ajax taunt for taunt:

  "Enough of your blustering threats, you clumsy ox--

  what loose talk, what rant!

  I wish I were as surely the son of storming Zeus

  for all my days--and noble Hera gave me birth

  and I were prized as they prize Athena and Apollo-

  as surely as this day will bring your Argives death,

  down to the last man. And you will die with the rest.

  If you have the daring to stand against my heavy spear

  its point will rip your soft warm skin to shreds!

  Then, then you'll glut the dogs and birds of Troy

  with your fat and flesh--cut down by the beaked ships!"

  And loosing a savage yell, Hector led the way

  and his captains followed close with unearthly cries

  and Trojan ranks behind them crying shrill.

  But facing them the Achaean ranks cried back,

  not forgetting their courage, braced hard for assault

  as the Trojans' bravest charged and roars from both armies

  struck the high clear skies, the lightning world of Zeus.

  BOOK FOURTEEN

  Hera Outflanks Zeus

  But the mounting cries of war could not escape old Nestor,

  pausing over his wine. He turned to Asclepius' son

  with an urgent, winged word:

  "Think, noble Machaon, what shall we do now?

  The cries are fiercer--fighters beside the ships!

  You sit here, keep drinking the shining wine now,

  till well-kempt Hecamede draws you a warm bath,

  steaming hot, and washes away that clotted blood.

  But I am off to a lookout point to learn the truth."

  With that he seized the well-wrought shield of his son,

  Thrasymedes breaker of horses--it lay in a comer,

  all glowing bronze, while the boy used his father's.

  Gripping a sturdy spear, bronze-edged and sharp,

  he no sooner left his tent than stopped at once--

  what a grim, degrading piece of work he saw.

  Friends routed, enemies harrying friends in panic,

  the Trojans riding high--the Argive wall in ruins.

  Nestor stood there, stunned.

  As a huge ground swell boils up on the open seas,

  soundless, foreboding a hurricane's howling onslaught,

  rearing but never rolling back or forth ... all adrift

  till one steady, decisive blast comes down from Zeus--

  so the old man thrashed things out, torn two ways,

  to join his Argives fast with chariot-teams

  or go and find Agamemnon lord of armies.

  His mind in turmoil, this way seemed the best:

  he'd head for Atreus' son. But other soldiers

  kept on flailing, cutting each other to pieces,

  the tough bronze casing their bodies clanging out,

  fighters stabbing with swords, flinging two-edged spears.

  And now the royal kings fell in with Nestor.

  Back they came, trailing along the shipways,

  all who had taken wounds from the sharp bronze,

  Diomedes, Odysseus, and Atreus' son Agamemnon.

  Their ships were drawn up far away from the fighting,

  moored in a group along the gray churning surf--

  first ships ashore they'd hauled up on the plain

  then built a defense to landward off their stems.

  Not even the stretch of beach, broad as it was,

  could offer berths to all that massed armada,

  troops were crammed in a narrow strip of coast.

  So they had hauled their vessels inland, row on row,

 
while the whole shoreline filled and the bay's gaping mouth

  enclosed by the jaws of the two jutting headlands.

  Now up they came for a better view of the battle,

  a slow file of kings, leaning on their spears,

  hearts in their chests weighed down with anguish--

  and the sight of the old horseman coming toward them

  struck them all with a sharper sense of dread.

  The king of men Agamemnon hailed him quickly:

  "Nestor, son of Neleus, great pride of Achaea,

  why turn your back on the lines where men are dying?

  Why come back here to shore? I'm filled with fear

  that breakneck Hector will bring his word to pass--

  the threat he hurled against me once in a Trojan muster

  that he would never leave our ships and return to Troy

  till he'd torched our hulls and slaughtered all our men.

  That was the prince's threat ...

  and now, look, by god, it all comes to pass!

  How shameful--and now the rest of our men-at-arms

  must harbor anger against me deep inside their hearts,

  just like Achilles. And they have no stomach left

  to fight to the end against the warships' sterns,"

  The noble old horseman could only bear him out:

  "True, too true. A disaster's right upon us.

  Not even thundering Zeus himself could turn the tide.

  The rampart's down, there, the great wall we trusted,

  our impregnable shield for the ships and men themselves.

  The enemy storms down on the rolling hulls nonstop,

  desperate, life or death. Hard as you scan the lines,

  there's no more telling from which side we're harried--

  carnage left and right. Death-cries hit the skies!

  Put heads together--what shall we do now?--

  if strategy's any use. Struggle's clearly not.

  The last thing I'd urge is to throw ourselves into battle.

  How on earth can a wounded man make war?"

  So the lord of men Agamemnon staged the action:

  "Since they are fighting against the sterns, old friend,

  and the wall we built is useless, the trench a waste

  where our Argive forces took such heavy losses ... so

  always hoping against hope it was indestructible,

  our impregnable shield for ships and men themselves--

  so it must please the Father's overweening heart

  to kill the Achaeans here, our memory blotted out

  a world away from Argos! I knew it then,

  even when Zeus defended us with all his might,

  and I know it now, when he glorifies these Trojans--

  he lifts them high as the blessed deathless gods

  but ties our hands and lames our fighting spirit.

  So come, follow my orders. All obey me now.

  All vessels beached on the front along the shore--

  haul them down and row them out on the bright sea,

  ride them over the anchor-stones in the offshore swell

  till the bracing godsent night comes down and then,

  if the Trojans will refrain from war at night,

  we haul down all the rest. No shame in running,

  fleeing disaster, even in pitch darkness.

  Better to flee from death than feel its grip."

  With a dark glance the shrewd tactician. Odysseus

  wheeled on his commander: "What's this, Atrides,

  this talk that slips from your clenched teeth?

  You are the disaster.

  Would to god you commanded another army,

  a ragtag crew of cowards, instead of ruling us,

  the men whom Zeus decrees, from youth to old age,

  must wind down our brutal wars to the bitter end

  until we drop and die, down to the last man.

  So this is how you'd bid farewell to Troy,

  yearning to kiss her broad streets good-bye--

  Troy that cost our comrades so much grief?

  Quiet!

  What if one of the men gets wind of your brave plan?

  No one should ever let such nonsense pass his lips,

  no one with any skill in fit and proper speech--

  and least of all yourself, a sceptered king.

  Full battalions hang on your words, Agamemnon--

  look at the countless loyal fighters you command!

  Now where's your sense? You fill me with contempt--

  what are you saying? With the forces poised to clash

  you tell us to haul our oar-swept vessels out to sea?

  Just so one more glory can crown these Trojans--

  god help us, they have beaten us already--

  and the scales of headlong death can drag us down.

  Achaean troops will never hold the line, I tell you,

  not while the long ships are being hauled to sea.

  They'll look left and right--where can they run?--

  and fling their lust for battle to the winds. Then,

  commander of armies, your plan will kill us all!"

  At that the king of men Agamemnon backed down:

  "A painful charge, Odysseus, straight to the heart.

  I am hardly the man to order men, against their will,

  to haul the oar-swept vessels out to sea. So now,

  whoever can find a better plan, let him speak up,

  young soldier or old. I would be pleased to hear him."

  And Diomedes lord of the war cry stepped forward,

  "Here is your man. Right here, not far to seek.

  If you'll only hear me out and take my lead,

  not glare at me in resentment, each of you,

  since I am the youngest-born in all our ranks.

  I too have a noble birth to boast--my father,

  Tydeus, mounded over now by the earth of Thebes.

  Three brave sons were bom of the loins of Portheus:

  they made their homes in Pleuron and craggy Calydon,

  Agrius first, then Melas, the horseman Oeneus third,

  my father's father, the bravest of them all.

  There Oeneus stayed, on his own native soil,

  but father wandered far, driven to live in Argos ...

  by the will of Zeus, I suppose, and other deathless gods.

  He married one of Adrastus' daughters, settled down

  in a fine wealthy house, with plenty of grainland

  ringed with row on row of blooming orchards

  and pastures full of sheep, his own herds.

  And he excelled all Argives with his spear--

  you must have heard the story, know it's true.

  So you cannot challenge my birth as low, cowardly,

  or spurn the advice I give, if the plan is really sound.

  I say go back to the fighting, wounded as we are--

  we must, we have no choice. But once at the front,

  hold off from the spear-play, out of range ourselves

  since who of us wants to double wounds on wounds?

  But we can spur the rest of them into battle,

  all who had nursed some private grudge before,

  kept to the rear and shunned the grueling forays."

  The others listened closely and fell in line,

  moving out, and marshal Agamemnon led them on.

  But the famous god of earthquakes was not blind.

  No, Poseidon kept his watch and down he came

  to the file of kings like an old veteran now,

  he tugged at the right hand of Atreus' son

  and sent his message flying: "Agamemnon--

  now, by heaven, Achilles' murderous spirit

  must be leaping in his chest, filled with joy

  to behold his comrades slain and routed in their blood.

  That man has got no heart in him, not a pulsebeat.

  So let him die, outright--let a god
wipe him out!

  But with you the blessed gods are not enraged,

  not through and through, Agamemnon ...

  A day will come when the Trojan lords and captains

  send an immense dust storm swirling down the plain--

  with your own eyes you'll see them break for Troy,

  leaving your ships and shelters free and clear!"

  A shattering cry, and he surged across the plain,

  thundering loud as nine, ten thousand combat soldiers

  shriek with Ares' fury when massive armies clash--so huge

  that voice the god of the earthquake let loose from his lungs,

  planting enormous martial power in each Achaean's heart

  to urge the battle on, to fight and never flinch.

  Now Hera poised on her golden throne looked down,

  stationed high at her post aloft Olympus' peak.

  At once she saw the sea lord blustering strong

  in the war where men win glory, her own brother

  and husband's brother too, and her heart raced with joy.

  But then she saw great Zeus at rest on the ridge

  and the craggy heights of Ida gushing cold springs

  and her heart filled with loathing. What could she do?--

  Queen Hera wondered, her eyes glowing wide ...

  how could she outmaneuver Zeus the mastermind,

  this Zeus with his battle-shield of storm and thunder?

  At last one strategy struck her mind as best:

  she would dress in all her glory and go to Ida--

  perhaps the old desire would overwhelm the king

  to lie by her naked body and make immortal love

  and she might drift an oblivious, soft warm sleep

  across his eyes and numb that seething brain.

  So off she went to her room,

  the chamber her loving son Hephaestus built her,

  hanging the doors from doorposts snug and tight,

  locked with a secret bolt no other god could draw.

  She slipped in, closing the polished doors behind her.

  The ambrosia first. Hera cleansed her enticing body

  of any blemish, then she applied a deep olive rub,

  the breath-taking, redolent oil she kept beside her ...

  one stir of the scent in the bronze-floored halls of Zeus

  and a perfumed cloud would drift from heaven down to earth.

  Kneading her skin with this to a soft glow and combing her hair,

  she twisted her braids with expert hands, and sleek, luxurious,

  shining down from her deathless head they fell, cascading.

  Then round her shoulders she swirled the wondrous robes

  that Athena wove her, brushed out to a high gloss

  and worked into the weft an elegant rose brocade.

  She pinned them across her breasts with a golden brooch

  then sashed her waist with a waistband

  floating a hundred tassels, and into her earlobes,

  neatly pierced, she quickly looped her earrings,

  ripe mulberry-clusters dangling in triple drops

  and the silver glints they cast could catch the heart.

  Then back over her brow she draped her headdress,