Homer: The Iliad
The Plainspoken Classics - Scriptorium Press (First Edition, 2026)
An original AI translation made directly from the source language.
https://openscriptorium.com


======== Book 1 ========

Sing, goddess, the ruinous anger of Achilles, son of Peleus, which cost the Greeks countless pains and hurled down to the House of Death so many mighty souls of heroes, leaving their bodies as spoil for dogs and every scavenging bird. So the will of Zeus was carried out, from the first day a bitter quarrel split the two of them: Agamemnon, lord of men, and the great Achilles.
Which of the gods drove them to fight? Apollo, son of Zeus and Leto. Furious with Agamemnon, he sent a deadly plague through the army, and the men were dying, because Agamemnon had shamed the priest Chryses. Chryses had come to the swift Greek ships to ransom back his daughter, carrying a fortune in gifts and holding in his hands, on a golden staff, the sacred bands of Apollo the Archer. He begged the whole army, but above all the two sons of Atreus, the marshals of the people:
"Sons of Atreus, and all you other Greeks in fine bronze greaves, may the gods who hold the halls of Olympus grant you the sack of Priam's city and a safe voyage home. Only give me back my dear daughter, and accept this ransom, out of reverence for Apollo, son of Zeus, the Archer God."
All the rest of the Greeks shouted their approval — to respect the priest and take the splendid ransom. But this did not please Agamemnon in his heart, and he sent the old man away harshly, with a rough command ringing after him: "Don't let me catch you, old man, lingering by our hollow ships now, or coming back again later, or that staff and the god's sacred bands may do you no good at all. Your daughter I will not release. She will grow old in my house, in Argos, far from her homeland, working the loom and sharing my bed. Now go. Don't provoke me, if you want to get home safe."
So he spoke, and the old man was afraid and obeyed. He walked in silence along the shore of the crashing sea, and when he had gone some way off, he prayed hard to the lord Apollo, son of lovely-haired Leto: "Hear me, god of the silver bow, protector of Chryse and holy Cilla, mighty lord of Tenedos, Smintheus — if I ever roofed a temple that pleased you, if I ever burned for you the fat thighs of bulls and goats, grant me this wish: let the Greeks pay for my tears with your arrows."
So he prayed, and Phoebus Apollo heard him. Down from the peaks of Olympus he came, rage in his heart, his bow and covered quiver on his shoulders. The arrows clattered on the shoulders of the angry god as he moved, and he came on like the night. He sat down apart from the ships and let an arrow fly — a terrible ring rose from that silver bow. First he went after the mules and the swift dogs, but then he turned his sharp arrows on the men themselves and struck, and the funeral pyres burned thick without pause. Nine days the god's arrows ranged through the army, and on the tenth Achilles called the men to assembly, an idea the white-armed goddess Hera put in his mind — for she cared about the Greeks, seeing them die.
When they had all gathered together, Achilles rose among them and spoke: "Son of Atreus, now I think we'll be beaten back and forced home again — if we escape death at all — since war and plague together are crushing the Greeks. Come, let's ask some seer or priest, or even a reader of dreams — for a dream too comes from Zeus — who can tell us why Apollo is so angry: is it a vow he blames us for, or a sacrifice we owe him? Maybe if he tastes the smoke of lambs and choice goats, he'll be willing to lift this plague from us."
Having spoken, he sat down. Then up rose Calchas, son of Thestor, easily the best of the bird-readers, who knew what is, what will be, and what has been, and who had guided the Greek ships to Troy by the gift of prophecy Apollo had given him. With good will toward them all he spoke: "Achilles, dear to Zeus, you ask me to explain the anger of Apollo, lord of the far-shot arrow. I will tell you — but you must promise, swear to me, that you'll stand by me eagerly with word and hand, because I expect to anger a man who rules all the Greeks with great power, whom the Greeks obey. A king is too strong when he holds a grudge against a lesser man;
even if he swallows his anger for that one day, he still nurses the resentment afterward in his chest until he gets even. So tell me — will you keep me safe?"
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Take courage and speak whatever truth you know. For by Apollo, dear to Zeus, the very god to whom you pray, Calchas, when you reveal your prophecies to the Greeks — as long as I am alive and looking on this earth, no one of all the Greeks will lay a heavy hand on you by the hollow ships, not even if you mean Agamemnon,"
"who now claims to be by far the greatest of the Greeks." Then the blameless seer took courage and spoke: "It is not a vow he holds against us, nor a sacrifice, but the priest — Agamemnon dishonored him, refused to free his daughter, and would not accept the ransom. That is why the Archer God has brought pain, and will bring more. He will not lift this ugly plague from the Greeks until we give back the bright-eyed girl to her father, unransomed, with no price, and carry a sacred offering to Chryse. Only then might we appease him and win him over."
Having spoken, he sat down. Then the hero, the son of Atreus, wide-ruling Agamemnon, rose in anger, his heart swollen huge and black with fury, his eyes like blazing fire. He glared first at Calchas and spoke, full of menace: "Prophet of disaster, never once have you told me anything good. Trouble is always dear to your heart to foretell, and you have never yet spoken a helpful word, let alone brought one to pass. And now, prophesying before the Greeks, you claim the Archer God brings us this suffering
because I would not accept the splendid ransom for the girl, Chryses' daughter — because I would rather keep her at home. Yes, I prefer her even to Clytemnestra, my own wife — she is no worse than her, not in figure, not in build, not in mind, not in any skill. Still, I am willing to give her back, if that is better. I want my people safe, not destroyed. But get me a prize at once in her place, so that I alone among the Greeks am not left without one — that would be shameful. All of you can see: my prize is slipping away from me."
Then swift-footed godlike Achilles answered him: "Most honored son of Atreus, greediest of all men — how can the great-hearted Greeks give you a prize now? We have no great store of goods lying in common. What we took from the sacked towns has already been divided, and it isn't right to make the men gather it all back again. No, give the girl back to the god for now, and we Greeks will repay you three, four times over, if Zeus ever grants us to raze the strong walls of Troy."
Agamemnon answered him: "Don't try that trick on me, brave as you are, godlike Achilles — you won't slip past me, you won't win me over. Do you want to keep your own prize while I sit here empty-handed, and you tell me to give mine up? Only if the great-hearted Greeks give me a new prize, one that satisfies me, matching its worth — fine. But if they don't, then I will come myself and take one — yours, or Ajax's, or Odysseus' — I'll seize it and carry it off, and whoever I visit can be furious about it. But we can settle this some other time."
"For now, come — let's drag a black ship down to the bright sea, gather rowers enough for it, load the sacrifice aboard, and put the girl herself on board too, Chryses' fair-cheeked daughter. Let one of our counselor-chiefs command it — Ajax, or Idomeneus, or godlike Odysseus, or you, son of Peleus, most alarming of all men — so you can perform the rites and appease the god who strikes from afar for us." Achilles glared at him from under his brows and answered: "You — wrapped in shamelessness, always scheming for profit — how can any Greek willingly obey your orders,
whether to march on a campaign or fight hard against men? I didn't come here to fight because of the Trojan spearmen — they've done nothing to me. They've never driven off my cattle or my horses, never ravaged my crops in Phthia, land of rich soil and strong men who raise it — too much lies between us, shadowed mountains and the roaring sea. No — you, shameless as you are, we followed here to please you, to win honor for Menelaus and for you, dog-face, from the Trojans. None of that means anything to you, none of it troubles you.
And now you threaten to take my own prize from me with your own hands — the one I worked hard for, that the sons of the Greeks gave to me. I never get a prize equal to yours, whenever the Greeks sack some well-settled Trojan town. My hands do the greater share of the grinding work of battle, but when it comes time to divide the spoils, yours is by far the bigger portion, and I go back to my ships with some small thing, dear as it is to me, worn out from fighting. Now I am going home to Phthia — it's far better to sail home with my curved ships. I don't intend
to stay here disrespected, piling up riches and wealth for you." Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him: "Run, then, if that's what you want. I won't beg you to stay on my account. I have others beside me who will honor me, above all Zeus, whose counsel rules all things. Of all the kings that Zeus has raised, you are the one I hate most. Conflict is always dear to you, and war, and battle. If you are so very strong, some god gave you that gift. Go home, then, with your ships and your companions,
rule your Myrmidons — I don't care about you, and your anger means nothing to me. But hear this threat: since Apollo is taking my Chryseis from me, I will send her back on my own ship with my own men, but I myself will go to your hut and take Briseis, your own prize, your fair-cheeked girl, so you'll understand just how much stronger I am than you, and so that no other man will dare to think himself my equal, my match, to my face."
So he spoke, and pain gripped the son of Peleus, and inside his shaggy chest his heart was torn two ways — whether to draw the sharp sword from his thigh,
scatter the men aside, and cut Agamemnon down, or to hold back his rage and master his fury. While he weighed this in his mind and heart, and had already begun drawing his great sword from its sheath, Athena came down from the sky. White-armed Hera had sent her, loving them both alike and caring for them equally. She stood behind him and took hold of his golden hair, visible to him alone — no one else could see her. Achilles was startled, and turned, and knew her at once,
Pallas Athena — her eyes blazed terribly. He spoke to her, and his words flew fast: "Why have you come now, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis? Is it to watch Agamemnon's arrogance? I tell you plainly, and I think it will come true — his overreaching pride may soon cost him his life." The grey-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "I came down from the sky to check your rage, if you'll listen — sent by white-armed Hera, who loves you both equally and cares for you both. Come, stop this quarrel, don't draw your sword,
but go ahead and abuse him with words instead, as much as you like — that much I allow. And I tell you this, and it will be so: one day gifts three times as splendid will come to you because of this outrage — hold back, and obey us." Swift-footed Achilles answered her: "I must obey your word, goddess, however angry my heart may be — that is the better way. Whoever obeys the gods, the gods listen to as well." With that, he pressed his heavy hand on the silver hilt and thrust the great sword back into its sheath, obeying
Athena's word. She then went back up to Olympus, to the halls of Zeus who bears the aegis, to join the other gods. But the son of Peleus turned again on the son of Atreus with harsh words, and his anger had not yet let go: "You wine-sack, with the eyes of a dog and the heart of a deer — you have never once had the courage to arm for battle alongside the army, or to join the best men of the Greeks on an ambush. That, to you, looks like death itself. It's far easier, isn't it, to stand in the wide Greek camp and strip the prize from anyone who dares speak against you —
a king who feeds on his own people, since the men you rule are worthless. Otherwise, son of Atreus, this insult would be your last. But I tell you this, and I swear a great oath on it: by this staff — which will never again grow leaves or branches, now that it has left its stump on the mountainside for good, and will never sprout again, since the bronze blade stripped it of its bark and leaves — and now the sons of the Greeks carry it in their hands, the judges who guard the laws that come down from Zeus. This will be my great oath to you:
a day will come when every last man of the Greeks will long for Achilles, and on that day you will be powerless, for all your grief, to help them, when many fall dying at the hands of Hector, killer of men. Then you will tear at your heart in anguish, that you dishonored the best of the Greeks." So spoke the son of Peleus, and he flung his staff down on the ground, studded with golden nails, and sat down. Across from him, Agamemnon raged on. But now Nestor rose among them, the sweet-voiced speaker of Pylos, whose voice ran from his tongue sweeter than honey. Already two generations of mortal men
had lived and died who were born and raised alongside him in holy Pylos, and now he ruled among the third. With good will he spoke and said: "What grief has come upon the land of Greece! How Priam would rejoice, and Priam's sons, and all the rest of the Trojans, how glad their hearts would be, if they learned of all this quarreling between you two, who are first among the Greeks in council and first in battle! Listen to me — you are both younger men than I am. In my time I have kept company with better men than even you,
and they never disregarded me. I have never seen men like them, nor will I again — men like Pirithous, and Dryas, shepherd of his people, and Caeneus, and Exadius, and godlike Polyphemus, and Theseus, son of Aegeus, a match for the immortals. These were the strongest men ever raised on this earth — the strongest, and they fought the strongest, the shaggy centaurs of the mountains, and they destroyed them utterly. I was one of that company too, called all the way from Pylos, from a distant land — for they summoned me themselves —
and I fought there as only I could, and there is no man alive on this earth today who could fight men like that. Yet they listened to my counsel and heeded my words. So you too should listen — it is better to listen. You, Agamemnon, strong as you are, do not take the girl from him — leave her be, since the sons of the Greeks gave her to him first as his prize. And you, son of Peleus, do not try to match wills with a king, toe to toe — a scepter-bearing king is never granted honor equal to other men, since Zeus has given him glory. If you are stronger, and a goddess bore you as your mother,
still he outranks you, since he rules over more. Son of Atreus, put down your rage — and I myself beg you to release your anger against Achilles, who stands as a great wall for all the Greeks against the horrors of war." Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him: "Yes, old man, all that you say is fitting and just. But this man wants to stand above everyone else — he wants to rule over all, be lord of all, give orders to everyone — and I don't think there's one man here who will obey him. If the gods who live forever made him a great spearman,
does that give him license to hurl abuse at will?" Godlike Achilles broke in and answered him: "Yes — I would deserve to be called a coward and a nobody if I gave in to your every word, whatever you order. Command that to others, don't try commanding me — I no longer intend to obey you. And I'll tell you one more thing — fix it firmly in your mind: I will not raise my hands to fight over the girl, not with you, not with any other man, since you're the ones taking away what you gave me. But of everything else that is mine, by my swift black ship,
You would not carry anything off from me against my will. But go on and try it, so these men here can see too — your dark blood will come spurting fast around my spear."

So the two of them, hurling these hostile words back and forth, stood up and broke the assembly by the Achaean ships. Achilles went off toward his own tents and shapely vessels with Menoetius' son and his other companions, while Agamemnon had a swift ship hauled down to the sea and picked twenty oarsmen to man it, loaded aboard a hundred cattle for the god, and brought the fair-cheeked daughter of Chryses
aboard as well, and set her there. Resourceful Odysseus went aboard as leader. So they climbed in and set out across the watery ways. Meanwhile Agamemnon ordered the troops to purify themselves. They washed themselves clean and threw the filth into the sea, and offered Apollo full and perfect sacrifices of bulls and goats along the shore of the barren salt water, and the smoke curled up to heaven, rich with the smell of roasting fat. So the army busied itself with these rites. But Agamemnon had not let go of the quarrel, the one he'd first hurled at Achilles as a threat — instead he turned to Talthybius and Eurybates,
his two heralds and ready aides, and said: "Go to the tent of Achilles, son of Peleus. Take Briseis of the lovely cheeks by the hand and bring her here. If he won't hand her over, I'll come myself with more men and take her — and that will be far worse for him." So he sent them off with these harsh words ringing behind them. Unwilling, the two men went along the shore of the barren sea and reached the tents and ships of the Myrmidons. They found Achilles sitting there beside his tent and dark ship. He was not glad to see them coming.
The two men, afraid and full of respect for the king, stood there and said nothing to him, nor did they ask him anything. But he understood in his own heart, and spoke first: "Welcome, heralds, messengers of Zeus and of men. Come closer — you are not to blame in my eyes, but Agamemnon is, who sends you here for the girl Briseis. Come, Patroclus, sprung from Zeus, bring the girl out and give her to them to take away. But let these two stand as witnesses before the blessed gods and before mortal men, and before that harsh king himself, if ever again
there comes a need for me to save the rest of you from ugly ruin. That man's mind is truly running wild with destruction — he doesn't know how to look both forward and back, so that the Achaeans might fight safely by their ships." So he spoke, and Patroclus obeyed his dear companion. He led Briseis of the lovely cheeks out from the tent and gave her over to be taken away. The two heralds went back toward the Achaean ships, and the woman went with them unwillingly. But Achilles, weeping, drew apart from his companions and sat down alone by the shore of the gray sea, gazing out over the boundless water,
and he stretched out his hands and prayed, again and again, to his dear mother: "Mother, since you bore me to a short life, at least Olympian Zeus, thunderer on high, should have granted me some honor in return — but instead he has not honored me even a little. Agamemnon, wide-ruling son of Atreus, has disgraced me — he has taken my prize and keeps it, seized it for himself." So he spoke, pouring out tears, and his revered mother heard him where she sat in the depths of the sea beside her aged father. Quickly she rose up out of the gray water like a mist, and she came and sat down before him as he wept,
and stroked him with her hand, and spoke his name, saying: "Child, why are you crying? What sorrow has come into your heart? Tell me, don't hide it in your mind, so we may both know." And swift-footed Achilles answered her with a heavy groan: "You already know. Why should I tell you everything as though you didn't? We went to Thebe, Eëtion's holy city, sacked it, and brought everything back here. The sons of the Achaeans divided the spoils fairly among themselves, and they chose out fair-cheeked Chryseis for Agamemnon. Then Chryses, priest of Apollo who strikes from afar,
came to the swift ships of the bronze-armored Achaeans, wanting to ransom his daughter, bringing with him a boundless price. He held in his hands the sacred bands of Apollo who strikes from afar, wound on a golden staff, and he begged all the Achaeans, but above all the two sons of Atreus, marshals of the people. Then all the rest of the Achaeans shouted their approval, that the priest should be respected and the splendid ransom accepted — but this did not please Agamemnon, son of Atreus, in his heart, and he sent the man away harshly, adding a stern warning. So the old man went back angry, and Apollo
heard him when he prayed, since Chryses was very dear to him, and he shot a deadly arrow down on the Argives. The people were dying one after another, as the god's shafts ranged everywhere through the wide camp of the Achaeans. But a seer who knew well told us the will of the archer-god. At once I was the first to urge that we appease the god, but then anger seized the son of Atreus, and he stood up at once and spoke a threat that has now come true. The Achaeans with their flashing eyes are sending the girl on a swift ship to Chryse, carrying gifts for the lord Apollo.
But the heralds have just now come from my tent and led away the girl, Briseus' daughter, whom the sons of the Achaeans gave to me. So if you have the power, protect your own son. Go up to Olympus and beg Zeus, if you have ever pleased his heart by word or deed. Many times in my father's halls I have heard you boast that you alone among the immortals saved the son of Cronus, lord of the dark clouds, from shameful ruin, when the other Olympians wanted to bind him — Hera, Poseidon, and Pallas Athena.
You, goddess, went and freed him from those chains, quickly calling up to tall Olympus the hundred-handed one whom the gods call Briareus, but all men call Aigaion, since he is greater in strength than even his own father. He sat down beside the son of Cronus, glorying in his power, and the blessed gods were afraid of him and did not bind Zeus after all. Now go and remind him of this, sit beside him, take hold of his knees, and see whether he is willing to help the Trojans and pin the Achaeans back against the sterns and along the sea, dying, so that all of them may get their fill of their own king,
and so that even wide-ruling Agamemnon may recognize his own blindness, that he showed no honor to the best of the Achaeans." Thetis answered him then, weeping: "Oh, my child, why did I ever raise you, since I bore you to such a bitter fate? If only you could sit by the ships without tears, without grief, since your life is fated to be so brief, not long at all. But now you are doomed both to die young and to suffer more than anyone — it was to an evil fate that I bore you in our halls. I will go myself to snow-capped Olympus and tell all this to Zeus who delights in thunder, in hopes he will listen.
But you, stay here beside your swift ships, keep your anger against the Achaeans, and hold back completely from the fighting. Zeus went yesterday to the Ocean, to the blameless Ethiopians, for a feast, and all the gods went with him. On the twelfth day he will come back again to Olympus, and then I will go to his bronze-floored house and clasp his knees, and I believe I will persuade him." So she spoke and went away, leaving him there, angry in his heart over the fair-belted woman they had taken from him by force against his will. Meanwhile Odysseus
arrived at Chryse, bringing the sacred hundred cattle. When they had come inside the deep harbor, they furled the sails and stowed them in the black ship, lowered the mast quickly into its socket by loosening the forestays, and rowed her forward into the anchorage. They threw out the anchor stones and made the stern lines fast, and the men themselves stepped out onto the breaking surf. They led out the hundred cattle for Apollo who strikes from afar, and Chryseis stepped down from the seagoing ship. Resourceful Odysseus led her up to the altar
and placed her in her father's arms, saying: "Chryses, Agamemnon, lord of men, sent me to bring your daughter back to you, and to offer Phoebus a sacred hundred cattle on behalf of the Danaans, so that we may appease the lord who has now brought grief and lamentation on the Argives." So he spoke, and placed her in his arms, and the old man received his beloved daughter with joy. Quickly they set the sacred cattle in order around the well-built altar, washed their hands, and took up the barley grains. Then Chryses lifted his hands and prayed aloud for them all:
"Hear me, god of the silver bow, you who stand guard over Chryse and holy Killa, and rule Tenedos with your might. Once before you heard my prayer, honored me, and struck the Achaean people hard. Now grant me this wish as well: turn aside the ugly plague from the Danaans." So he prayed, and Phoebus Apollo heard him. When they had finished praying and scattering the barley grains, they drew back the victims' heads, slit their throats, and skinned them. They cut out the thigh bones and wrapped them
in a double fold of fat, laying raw meat over them. The old man burned these on split wood and poured gleaming wine over the flames, while the young men beside him held five-pronged forks in their hands. When the thighs were burned through and they had tasted the inner organs, they cut up the rest of the meat, skewered it on spits, roasted it carefully, and drew it all off the fire. When they had finished the work and prepared the feast, they ate, and no one's heart lacked its fair share of food. When they had satisfied their desire for eating and drinking,
the young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with wine and passed a share to everyone, pouring first from their cups. All day long the young Achaeans appeased the god with song, singing a beautiful hymn of praise to the god who works from afar, and his heart delighted in listening. When the sun went down and darkness came on, they lay down to sleep by the ship's stern cables, and when the early-born, rosy-fingered dawn appeared, they set out again for the wide camp of the Achaeans. Apollo who works from afar sent them a following wind, and they raised the mast and spread the white sails,
and the wind bellied out the sail's middle, and the dark blue wave sang loudly around the prow as the ship went forward, and she ran on cutting through the swell, making her way. When they reached the wide camp of the Achaeans, they hauled the black ship up onto the mainland, high on the sand, and set long props beneath her, and the men themselves scattered among the tents and ships. But Achilles stayed by his swift ships, still nursing his anger — Zeus-born Achilles, son of Peleus, swift of foot. He never went to the assembly where men win glory,
nor ever into battle, but wasted his own heart away staying there, longing for the war cry and the fighting. But when the twelfth dawn since then had come, the gods who live forever went up to Olympus together, with Zeus leading them, and Thetis had not forgotten her son's request. She rose up out of the sea's waves, went up early through the great sky to Olympus, and found the wide-seeing son of Cronus sitting apart from the rest on the topmost peak of many-ridged Olympus. She sat down before him and took hold of his knees,
her left hand, and with her right she cupped his chin, and pleaded with the lord Zeus, son of Cronus, saying: "Father Zeus, if I have ever helped you among the immortals, by word or deed, grant me this wish: honor my son, whose life will be shorter than any other man's. Now Agamemnon, lord of men, has dishonored him — he has taken his prize and keeps it, seized it for himself. But you, Olympian Zeus, wise in counsel, honor him instead — give strength to the Trojans until the Achaeans pay my son back and heap honor upon him."
So she spoke, but the cloud-gathering Zeus said nothing to her, and sat silent a long while. Thetis, just as she had taken hold of his knees, clung there still, and asked him again: "Give me a true promise, nod your assent, or refuse me outright, since you have nothing to fear — so I may know for certain how far I am, among all the gods, the most dishonored." Deeply troubled, cloud-gathering Zeus answered her: "This is a wretched business, if you're going to set me against Hera and make her provoke me with her cutting words —
she is always accusing me, even without cause, before the immortal gods, and saying I help the Trojans in battle. But go back now, so Hera doesn't notice anything. I will see to these matters myself and bring them to pass. Come, I will nod my head to you so you can trust it — this, among the immortals, is my surest sign, for nothing I confirm with a nod of my head can be taken back, or fail, or go unfulfilled." So the son of Cronus spoke and nodded his dark brows, and the immortal locks of hair swung forward from the lord's head, and he made great Olympus shake.
So the two of them, having settled this, parted ways — she leapt down into the deep sea from shining Olympus, and Zeus went to his own hall, and all the gods rose together from their seats before their father as he came; not one dared stay seated as he approached, but they all stood to face him. So he took his seat there on his throne. But Hera had not failed to notice, seeing that silver-footed Thetis, daughter of the old man of the sea, had been plotting with him. At once she spoke sharply to Zeus, son of Cronus: "Which of the gods, you schemer, has been plotting with you now?
It's always your pleasure to keep apart from me and make your secret decisions, and you can never bring yourself to tell me plainly whatever you have in mind." Then the father of gods and men answered her: "Hera, don't expect to know all my plans — they would be too much for you, even as my wife. Whatever is fitting for you to hear, no one, god or man, will learn of before you. But whatever I choose to think through apart from the other gods, don't go probing into each of these things, and don't ask questions."
Then the ox-eyed lady Hera answered him: "Dreadful son of Cronus, what a thing to say! I have never before asked you or pried into your plans — you've always been perfectly free to think through whatever you please. But now I am terribly afraid that silver-footed Thetis, daughter of the old man of the sea, has talked you around. She sat with you early this morning and took hold of your knees. I suspect you gave her a true nod that you will honor Achilles, and destroy great numbers of the Achaeans by their ships." Cloud-gathering Zeus answered her then:
"You strange creature, you're always suspecting, and I can never slip past you. Yet you will accomplish nothing by it, except to grow further from my heart — and that will be worse for you. If this is how it is, then it must be my pleasure that it be so. Now sit down quietly and obey what I tell you, or all the gods on Olympus won't be able to help you when I come near and lay my irresistible hands on you." So he spoke, and the ox-eyed lady Hera was afraid, and sat down in silence, mastering her heart. Throughout the halls of Zeus the heavenly gods were troubled,
and among them Hephaestus, famous craftsman, began to speak, wishing to comfort his dear mother, white-armed Hera: "This will be a wretched business, truly unbearable, if the two of you are going to quarrel like this over mortal men, and stir up strife among the gods — there will be no pleasure left in our fine feasting, since the worse side is winning out. I urge my mother, though she already understands this herself, to make peace with our dear father Zeus, so that he won't scold her again and throw our feast into turmoil. For if the Olympian, lord of the lightning, wants
to knock us from our seats, he could — he is far the strongest of us all. Come, speak to him gently, and at once the Olympian will be gracious to us again." So he spoke, and springing up, he placed a two-handled cup in his dear mother's hand, and said to her: "Be patient, mother, and endure it, grieved though you are, so that I don't see you, dear as you are to me, being beaten before my eyes, and be unable to help you, no matter how much it pains me — the Olympian is a hard one to stand against. Once before, when I tried to defend you,
he seized me by the foot and hurled me from the divine threshold. I fell all day, and as the sun was going down I dropped onto Lemnos, with only a little life left in me. There the Sintian people quickly took me in and cared for me." So he spoke, and the white-armed goddess Hera smiled, and smiling, took the cup from her son's hand. Then Hephaestus went around pouring sweet nectar to all the other gods from the mixing bowl, moving to the right. And unquenchable laughter rose among the blessed gods as they watched Hephaestus bustling busily through the halls.
So they feasted the whole day long, until the sun went down, and no one's heart lacked anything in that fair and equal banquet — nor was there any lack of the beautiful lyre that Apollo held, or of the Muses, who sang in sweet answering voices.
But when the sun's bright light had sunk away, each of them went home to sleep, to the house that the famous crook-legged Hephaestus had built for him with all his cunning skill.
And Zeus, the Olympian lord of the lightning, went to his own bed, the place where he always lay down whenever sweet sleep came over him. There he climbed up and slept, and beside him lay Hera of the golden throne.

======== Book 2 ========

All the other gods and the chariot-driving men slept through the night, but sweet sleep did not hold Zeus. He turned it over in his mind, how he might honor Achilles and destroy many Achaeans at their ships. This was the plan that seemed best to him: to send a treacherous Dream to Agamemnon, son of Atreus. He called to it and spoke winged words:
"Go, ruinous Dream, down to the swift ships of the Achaeans. Enter the hut of Agamemnon and tell him everything, exactly as I command. Order him to arm the long-haired Achaeans at once, all of them together, for now he may take the wide-streeted city of the Trojans. The immortals who hold the halls of Olympus are no longer divided in their counsel; Hera has bent them all to her pleading, and grief hangs now over the Trojans."
So he spoke, and the Dream went on its way once it had heard him. Swiftly it came to the fast ships of the Achaeans, and went to Agamemnon, son of Atreus. It found him asleep in his hut, immortal slumber poured over him. The Dream stood above his head in the shape of Nestor, son of Neleus, the elder Agamemnon honored above all others. Taking on that likeness, the divine Dream spoke to him:
"You are asleep, son of wise, horse-taming Atreus. A man who carries counsel for his people, a man with so much on his hands, should not sleep the whole night through. Listen to me now, quickly — I am a messenger of Zeus, who cares for you and pities you from afar, though he is far away. He orders you to arm the long-haired Achaeans at once, all of them together, for now you may take the wide-streeted city of the Trojans. The immortals who hold the halls of Olympus are no longer divided; Hera has bent them all to her pleading, and grief hangs now over the Trojans, sent from Zeus. Hold this fast in your mind — don't let forgetfulness take you once honey-sweet sleep lets you go."
With these words the Dream departed, leaving Agamemnon there to brood on things that were not, in fact, going to come true. For he believed he would take Priam's city that very day — the fool, not knowing what work Zeus had in his mind. Zeus still meant to lay pain and groaning on both Trojans and Danaans alike, through the grinding of hard battles.
Agamemnon woke from sleep, the divine voice still ringing around him. He sat up, drew a soft tunic over himself, new and finely made, and threw a great cloak around it. He bound fair sandals beneath his smooth feet and slung a silver-studded sword across his shoulders. He took up his father's staff, imperishable forever, and with it went down among the bronze-armored ships of the Achaeans.
Now the goddess Dawn climbed high Olympus to announce daylight to Zeus and the other immortals, while Agamemnon told his clear-voiced heralds to call the long-haired Achaeans to assembly. The heralds cried the summons, and the men gathered quickly. But first Agamemnon seated the council of high-hearted elders beside the ship of Nestor, king born in Pylos. Once he had called them together, he set out his careful plan:
"Listen, friends. A divine Dream came to me in my sleep through the immortal night, and in shape, size, and build it was the very image of noble Nestor. It stood over my head and spoke to me: 'You are asleep, son of wise, horse-taming Atreus. A man who carries counsel for his people, a man with so much on his hands, should not sleep the whole night through. Listen to me now, quickly — I am a messenger of Zeus, who cares for you and pities you from afar, though he is far away. He orders you to arm the long-haired Achaeans at once, all of them together, for now you may take the wide-streeted city of the Trojans. The immortals who hold the halls of Olympus are no longer divided; Hera has bent them all to her pleading, and grief hangs now over the Trojans, sent from Zeus. Hold this fast in your mind.' So he spoke, then flew off, and sweet sleep released me. Come then, let us see if we can arm the sons of the Achaeans. But first, as is right, I will test them with words — I will tell them to flee with their benched ships — and you, each from his own place, hold them back."
So speaking he sat back down, and among them rose Nestor, who ruled over sandy Pylos. With good will toward them all he spoke and said:
"Friends, leaders and rulers of the Argives — if any other Achaean had told us this dream, we might call it a lie and turn away from it all the more. But the man who saw it claims to be far the best of the Achaeans. Come, then, let us see if we can arm the sons of the Achaeans."
With these words he led the way out of the council, and the other scepter-bearing kings rose and obeyed the shepherd of the people, while the troops came streaming after. Like the crowded swarms of bees that pour endlessly out from a hollow rock, clustering in bunches to fly among the flowers of spring, some massing here, some there —
so the many companies of men marched out from the ships and huts, streaming along the deep shore toward the assembly, rank upon rank. And Rumor blazed among them, the messenger of Zeus, driving them on, and they gathered. The assembly ground churned, the earth groaned beneath the men as they took their seats, and there was uproar. Nine heralds shouted to hold them back, to see if they would stop their clamor and listen to the kings whom Zeus had nurtured. At last, with effort, the crowd sat down and the shouting ceased, each man settling into his place.
Then lord Agamemnon rose, holding the staff that Hephaestus himself had labored to make. Hephaestus gave it to Zeus, son of Cronos, the king; Zeus gave it to the messenger Hermes, slayer of Argus; lord Hermes gave it to Pelops, breaker of horses; Pelops in turn gave it to Atreus, shepherd of the people; Atreus, dying, left it to Thyestes, rich in flocks; and Thyestes left it in turn to Agamemnon to carry, so that he might rule over many islands and all of Argos. Leaning on this staff, he spoke to the Argives:
"Friends, Danaan warriors, servants of Ares — Zeus, son of Cronos, has bound me fast in a heavy delusion. Cruel god — once he promised me, and nodded his assent, that I would sack well-walled Troy before sailing home. But now I see it was a wicked deception, and he orders me to return to Argos in disgrace, having lost so many of my men. This must be the pleasure of Zeus, whose might is beyond all others, who has already brought down the high walls of many cities, and will bring down more — his power is the greatest there is. What a shame this will be, for men yet unborn to hear of — that so great and so fine an army of Achaeans fought a war for nothing, to no purpose, battling against fewer men, with no end in sight!
For if we wished — Achaeans and Trojans both — to swear a solemn truce and count our numbers: the Trojans mustered by household, all who live in the city, and we Achaeans formed into groups of ten, and each group chose one Trojan man to pour our wine — many tens of us would go without a wine-pourer, so far do the sons of the Achaeans outnumber the Trojans who dwell in the city. But they have allies from many cities, spearmen who thwart my purpose and will not let me sack the well-peopled stronghold of Troy, no matter how I wish it.
Nine years of great Zeus have already gone by, and the timbers of our ships have rotted, the rigging has come apart. Our wives and young children sit at home waiting for us, while the task we came here for stays unfinished, undone. So come, let us all do as I say: let us flee with our ships to our own dear homeland, for we will never take wide-streeted Troy."
So he spoke, and stirred the hearts in the breasts of all who had not heard the plan — the whole mass of common men. The assembly heaved like the long waves of the Icarian Sea, which the East Wind and the South Wind whip up, rushing down from the clouds of father Zeus. And as the West Wind stirs a deep field of grain, sweeping hard across it so that the ears of wheat bow down — so was the whole assembly stirred. With a great shout the men rushed toward the ships, and the dust rose up beneath their feet and hung there;
they called to each other to lay hold of the ships and drag them down into the bright sea, and they began clearing the launching channels; their shouting reached the sky, so eager were they to go home. They were even pulling the props out from under the ships' hulls.
Then the Argives' homecoming would have come about beyond what fate allowed, had Hera not spoken to Athena:
"How shameful this is, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, tireless one! Will the Argives really flee home this way, over the sea's broad back to their own dear homeland, and leave Helen of Argos — for whose sake so many Achaeans have died in Troy, far from their own dear homeland — as a trophy for Priam and the Trojans to boast over? No — go now among the bronze-armored Achaean host. Hold each man back with your gentle words, and don't let them drag their curved ships down into the sea."
So she spoke, and the bright-eyed goddess Athena did not disobey. She swept down from the peaks of Olympus and came quickly to the swift ships of the Achaeans. There she found Odysseus, a match for Zeus in cunning, standing apart — he had not laid a hand on his black, well-benched ship, for grief had reached his heart and mind. Bright-eyed Athena came close and stood beside him and said:
"Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus — will you all really flee home this way, falling aboard your benched ships, and leave Helen of Argos as a trophy for Priam and the Trojans to boast over — she for whose sake so many Achaeans have died in Troy, far from their own dear homeland? No — go now among the Achaean host, don't hold back any longer. Hold each man back with your gentle words, and don't let them drag their curved ships down into the sea."
So she spoke, and he recognized the goddess's voice. He set off running, throwing aside his cloak, which his herald Eurybates of Ithaca, who attended him, caught up. He himself went straight to Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and took from him the staff of his fathers, imperishable forever, and with it he went among the bronze-armored ships of the Achaeans.
Whenever he came upon a king or a man of standing, he would stand beside him and hold him back with gentle words: "Strange man — it is not fitting to threaten you like a coward. Sit down yourself, and get the rest of the men to sit as well. You don't yet know clearly what is in the son of Atreus's mind. He is testing the Achaeans now, and soon he will come down hard on them. Not all of us heard what he said in council. Watch out he doesn't lose his temper and do the sons of the Achaeans some harm — the pride of kings nurtured by Zeus runs deep, their honor comes from Zeus, and Zeus who devises all things loves them."
But whenever he saw and caught some man of the common people shouting, he would strike him with the staff and rebuke him with words: "Strange man — sit still, and listen to what better men than you have to say. You are no fighter, and count for nothing in battle or in council. We cannot all be kings here, we Achaeans. Rule by the many is no good thing — let there be one ruler, one king, the one to whom the son of crooked-scheming Cronos has given the staff and the right to judge, so that he may take counsel for his people."
So he went through the army, giving orders, and the men rushed back to the assembly from the ships and huts, with a roar, like the roar of a wave of the crashing sea breaking on a long beach, so that the whole sea thunders.
The rest sat down and were held to their places, all but Thersites, who alone kept up his endless babbling. His mind was stuffed with disorderly words, many of them, reckless and without any sense of proper order, spoken only to pick quarrels with the kings — whatever he thought might get a laugh out of the Argives. He was the ugliest man who had come to Troy: bandy-legged, lame in one foot, his shoulders hunched and drawn together over his chest, and above them a head that came to a point, with a thin, patchy scruff of hair on it. He was hated most of all by Achilles and by Odysseus,
for it was those two he liked best to abuse. But now it was godlike Agamemnon he went after, screeching shrilly, flinging insults — and the Achaeans were bitterly angry with him, indignant in their hearts. Yet he, bawling loudly, kept hurling his abuse at Agamemnon:
"Son of Atreus, what is it you're complaining of now, what more do you need? Your huts are full of bronze, and plenty of women sit in your huts, the pick of the lot, that we Achaeans hand over to you first of all whenever we take a town. Or is it gold you're still short of, gold that some Trojan horse-breaker might bring from Troy as ransom for a son I've captured and led off myself, or some other Achaean has? Or is it a fresh young woman, so you can lie with her, keeping her apart from the rest for yourself? It's not right for the man in command to lead the sons of the Achaeans into misery.
You soft creatures, you disgraces — women of Achaea, not men of Achaea any longer — let's just sail home in our ships, and leave this fellow here in Troy to choke on his prizes, so he can find out whether we're worth anything to him or not — the man who has just now dishonored Achilles, a far better man than himself, seizing and keeping his prize with his own hands.
There's no real anger in Achilles' heart — he just lets it go. If there were, son of Atreus, this outrage would be your last."
So spoke Thersites, hurling abuse at Agamemnon, shepherd of the people. But godlike Odysseus quickly came up beside him, and with a black look he laid into him with harsh words:
"Thersites, you babbler, sharp-tongued as you are — hold your peace, and don't try, alone, to pick fights with kings. I say there is no worse man than you among all who came to Troy with the sons of Atreus. So you have no business with the kings' names in your mouth, hurling insults at them and watching for a chance to sail home. We don't yet know clearly how this business will turn out, whether we sons of the Achaeans will make it home well or badly.
And yet here you sit, abusing Agamemnon, son of Atreus, shepherd of the people, because the Danaan warriors give him so much — and all you do is jeer. But I tell you this straight out, and it will be done: if I catch you playing the fool again, as you are now, may Odysseus's head no longer sit on his shoulders, may I no longer be called Telemachus's father,
if I don't grab you, strip the clothes off you — cloak and tunic both, everything that covers your nakedness — and send you off howling to the swift ships, driven from the assembly with shameful blows."
So he spoke, and struck him across the back and shoulders with the staff. Thersites doubled over, and a fat tear fell from his eye; a bloody welt rose up on his back under the golden staff, and he sat down, frightened, and wiped away his tear, wincing in pain, looking helpless. And the rest of the men, though troubled themselves, laughed at him with pleasure,
and one man would say, glancing at another beside him: "Well now — Odysseus has done ten thousand good things before, leading us in good counsel and readying us for war, but this is by far the best thing he's ever done for the Argives — shutting the mouth of that foul-mouthed troublemaker. I don't think his proud spirit will send him back again anytime soon to pick quarrels with kings with his insulting words."
So said the crowd. Then Odysseus, sacker of cities, rose holding the staff, and bright-eyed Athena, in the shape of a herald, stood beside him and told the men to be quiet, so that the sons of the Achaeans, nearest and farthest alike, could hear his words and take in his counsel. With good will toward them all he spoke and said:
"Son of Atreus — now the Achaeans mean to make you, my lord, the most disgraced of all mortal men, and they will not keep the promise they made you when they set out here from horse-pasturing Argos — that you would sack well-walled Troy before sailing home. Like children, like widowed women, they wail to each other about going home.
And truly there is hardship enough in it, to be worn down and go home empty-handed. Any man who stays away from his wife even one month grows restless aboard his many-benched ship, when the winter storms and the heaving sea pen him in. But for us, this is the ninth year turning round, as we linger here. So I do not blame the Achaeans for growing restless beside the curved ships. And yet, all the same, it is a shameful thing to stay so long and go home with nothing.
Bear up, friends, and wait a while longer, so that we may learn whether Calchas prophesies the truth, or whether he does not."
For we know this well in our hearts, and you are all witnesses whom the fates of death have not carried off: yesterday and the day before, when the ships of the Achaeans gathered at Aulis bringing evils to Priam and the Trojans, we stood around a spring, beside the sacred altars, offering the immortals perfect hecatombs, under a fine plane tree from which bright water flowed. There a great sign appeared: a serpent, blood-red on its back and terrible to see, which the Olympian himself had sent up into the light, darted out from under the altar and rushed toward the plane tree.
There were the nestlings of a sparrow, helpless young, huddled under the leaves on the topmost branch, eight of them, and the mother was the ninth, who had hatched them. The serpent devoured them there, cheeping pitifully, while the mother fluttered around them, crying for her dear children; then, coiling itself, it caught her by the wing as she screamed about it. But when it had eaten the sparrow's young and the mother herself, the god who had sent it forth made it a wonder to behold: the son of crooked-scheming Cronus turned it to stone. And we stood there and marveled at what had happened.
So when this dread portent of the gods came in upon our hecatombs, Calchas at once spoke out, declaring the will of the gods: 'Why have you fallen silent, long-haired Achaeans? Zeus the counselor has shown us this great sign, late in coming, late to be fulfilled, and its fame will never die. Just as this serpent devoured the sparrow's young and the mother herself, eight of them, and the mother who bore them the ninth, so shall we make war here for that many years, and in the tenth year we shall take the wide-wayed city.' So he spoke, and now all of this is coming to pass.
'Come, then, stay here, all you well-armored Achaeans, until we take the great city of Priam.' So he spoke, and the Argives shouted greatly, and all around the ships echoed terribly at the Achaeans' cry, as they applauded the words of godlike Odysseus.
Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor spoke among them: 'Shame! You are talking like children, like little boys who care nothing for the work of war. What is to become of our agreements and our oaths? Let the counsels and plans of men go into the fire, and the unmixed libations and the handclasps we trusted in — for we do nothing but quarrel with words, and we can find no remedy for it, though we have been here a long time. Son of Atreus, hold still to your firm resolve as before, and lead the Argives through the fierce battles, and let these men perish, the one or two of them who scheme apart from the rest of the Achaeans — it will come to nothing for them — to go back to Argos before we learn whether the promise of Zeus, who bears the aegis, is false or not. For I say the almighty son of Cronus gave us his nod on that day when the Argives boarded their swift ships, bringing death and doom to the Trojans, flashing his lightning on our right, showing us favorable signs. So let no man hurry to go home until each has lain with some Trojan's wife and avenged the trouble and the sighing over Helen. But if any man longs desperately to go home, let him lay hands on his own black, well-benched ship, so that before the rest of us he may meet his death and doom. But you, my lord, take good counsel yourself, and listen to another man's: what I am about to say will not be a thing to throw away. Separate the men by tribe and by clan, Agamemnon, so that clan may support clan and tribe support tribe. If you do this, and the Achaeans obey you, you will learn then which of the leaders is a coward, and which of the men, and which one is brave, for they will fight each within his own group. And you will learn, too, whether it is by the will of heaven that you fail to sack the city, or by the cowardice of your men and their ignorance of war.'
Then lord Agamemnon answered him: 'Once again, old man, you outdo the sons of the Achaeans in speech. Ah, father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — if only I had ten such counselors among the Achaeans! Then the city of lord Priam would soon bow its head, taken and stripped bare by our hands. But Zeus, son of Cronus, who bears the aegis, has given me grief instead, casting me into fruitless quarrels and strife. For I and Achilles fought over a girl, with hard words on both sides, and it was I who began it in anger. If the two of us should ever again think as one, then there will be no postponing ruin for the Trojans, not for a moment. But now, go to your meal, so that we may join battle. Let each man sharpen his spear well, and set his shield in good order, let each man give his swift-footed horses a good meal, and let each look well to his chariot and turn his mind to war, so that all day long we may fight it out in this hateful battle. For there will be no rest, not for a moment, until night comes down and parts the fury of men. The strap will grow wet with sweat around many a man's chest, the strap of his body-covering shield, and a hand will grow weary about the spear, and a horse will sweat as it strains at the polished chariot. And whatever man I see willing to hang back from the fighting, lingering by the curved ships, for him there will be no escape afterward from the dogs and the birds.'
So he spoke, and the Argives shouted greatly, like a wave against a high headland when the South Wind comes and stirs it up, breaking on a jutting cliff — a cliff the waves never leave, from whatever wind rises, now from here, now from there. They rose up and scattered, hurrying among the ships, lit fires beside their shelters, and took their meal. And one man sacrificed to one of the gods who live forever, another to another, praying to escape death and the grind of war. And Agamemnon, lord of men, slaughtered a fat five-year-old bull to the almighty son of Cronus, and called together the elders, the noblest of the whole Achaean army: Nestor first of all, and lord Idomeneus, and after them the two men named Ajax, and the son of Tydeus, and sixth, Odysseus, the equal of Zeus in cunning. And Menelaus, good at the war cry, came to them unbidden, for he knew in his heart how his brother was burdened. They stood around the bull and took up the barley grains, and among them lord Agamemnon prayed:
'Zeus, most glorious, most great, dwelling in the dark clouds, lord of the sky — do not let the sun go down and darkness come until I have brought crashing down, headlong, the smoke-blackened hall of Priam, and set fire to its doorway with consuming flame, and torn the tunic on Hector's chest, ripped by my bronze; and may many of his companions around him bite the dust, falling face-down in the dirt.'
So he spoke, but the son of Cronus did not yet grant him this; he accepted the offering, but piled up toil beyond measure instead.
When they had prayed and scattered the barley grains, they first drew back the victims' heads, cut their throats, and skinned them; they cut out the thighbones and wrapped them in fat, folding it double, and laid raw strips of meat upon them. These they burned on split, leafless wood, and skewered the inner organs and held them over the flame of Hephaestus. And when the thighs were burned through and they had tasted the inner parts, they carved up the rest of the meat, pierced it on spits, roasted it with care, and drew it all off the fire. And when they had finished the labor and prepared the feast, they ate, and no man's heart lacked its fair share of the meal. And when they had satisfied their desire for food and drink, the Gerenian horseman Nestor began to speak among them: 'Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, let us not sit here talking any longer, nor put off any further the work that the god is now placing in our hands. Come, let the heralds of the bronze-armored Achaeans call the men together throughout the camp, and let us go together, all of us, through the broad ranks of the Achaeans, so that we may rouse sharp-edged war all the sooner.'
So he spoke, and Agamemnon, lord of men, did not refuse him. At once he ordered the clear-voiced heralds to summon the long-haired Achaeans to battle. They gave the call, and the men gathered very quickly. And the kings nurtured by Zeus, around the son of Atreus, hurried about marshaling the ranks, and among them was grey-eyed Athena, carrying the priceless aegis, ageless and undying, from which a hundred tassels of pure gold hang, all tightly woven, each one worth a hundred oxen. With this she darted flashing through the Achaean ranks, driving them on, and she stirred up strength in every man's heart, to fight and make war without ceasing. And at once war grew sweeter to them than sailing home in their hollow ships to their own dear native land.
As ravaging fire sets a vast forest ablaze on a mountain's peaks, and its glow is seen from far away, so, as they marched, the dazzling flash from their bronze went up through the air to the very sky. And as the many tribes of winged birds — geese, or cranes, or long-necked swans — on the Asian meadow, by the streams of the Cayster, fly this way and that, glorying in their wings, and settle ahead of one another with loud cries, so that the whole meadow rings with sound, so did the many tribes of men pour out from the ships and shelters onto the plain of Scamander, and the earth echoed terribly under the feet of men and horses alike. They took their stand in the flowering meadow of Scamander, countless as the leaves and flowers that come with the season.
Like the many crowded tribes of flies that swarm about a shepherd's steading in the season of spring, when milk drenches the pails, just so many long-haired Achaeans stood arrayed against the Trojans on the plain, eager to tear them to pieces.
And as goatherds easily sort out their wide-scattered herds of goats once they have mingled together at pasture, so did the leaders marshal their men this way and that to go into battle, and among them lord Agamemnon, like Zeus who delights in thunder in his eyes and his head, like Ares in his belt, and like Poseidon in his chest. As a bull stands out far above all the rest in a herd, preeminent among the gathered cattle — such did Zeus make the son of Atreus on that day, standing out among the many, foremost among heroes.
Tell me now, Muses, who have your homes on Olympus — for you are goddesses, you are present everywhere, and you know all things, while we hear only rumor and know nothing — who were the leaders and commanders of the Danaans? The mass of the army I could not tell nor name, not even if I had ten tongues and ten mouths, an unbreakable voice, and a heart of bronze within me, unless the Olympian Muses, daughters of Zeus who bears the aegis, should call to mind all those who came beneath Troy. But I will tell of the captains of the ships, and of all the ships together.
Of the Boeotians, Peneleos and Leïtus were the leaders, with Arcesilaus, Prothoenor, and Clonius — men who dwelt in Hyria and rocky Aulis, in Schoenus and Scolus and terraced Eteonus, in Thespeia and Graea and wide-spaced Mycalessus, and those who lived around Harma and Eilesium and Erythrae, and those who held Eleon and Hyle and Peteon, Ocalea and the well-built stronghold of Medeon, Copae and Eutresis and dove-rich Thisbe, and those who held Coronea and grassy Haliartus, and those who held Plataea, and those who dwelt in Glisas, and those who held lower Thebes, a well-built stronghold, and holy Onchestus, Poseidon's shining grove, and those who held vine-rich Arne, and Midea, and holy Nisa, and Anthedon at the world's edge. Of these there came fifty ships, and aboard each one sailed a hundred and twenty young men of the Boeotians.
And the men who dwelt in Aspledon and Orchomenus of the Minyans were led by Ascalaphus and Ialmenus, sons of Ares, whom Astyoche bore in the house of Actor, son of Azeus — a modest young woman who had climbed to the upper chamber, and mighty Ares lay with her there in secret. With these two, thirty hollow ships were ranged in line.
And Schedius and Epistrophus led the men of Phocis, sons of great-hearted Iphitus, son of Naubolus — men who held Cyparissus and rocky Pytho, and holy Crisa, and Daulis, and Panopeus, and those who dwelt around Anemoreia and Hyampolis, and those who lived along the sacred river Cephisus, and those who held Lilaea by the springs of Cephisus. With them followed forty black ships, and their captains busied themselves marshaling the ranks of the Phocians, arraying them and stationing them close beside the Boeotians, on their left.
And Ajax, the swift son of Oileus, led the Locrians — a lesser man, nowhere near as large as Ajax, son of Telamon, but far smaller: small he was, and wore a corselet of linen, but with the spear he surpassed every Greek and every Achaean. His men were those who dwelt in Cynus and Opoeis and Calliarus, in Bessa and Scarphe and lovely Augeae, in Tarphe and Thronium, by the streams of the Boagrius. With him followed forty black ships of the Locrians, who live across the water from holy Euboea.
And the Abantes, breathing fury, who held Euboea — Chalcis and Eretria and vine-rich Histiaea, Cerinthus by the sea, and the steep stronghold of Dium, and those who held Carystus and lived in Styra — these were led by Elephenor, son of Chalcodon, a scion of Ares, chief of the great-hearted Abantes. With him followed the swift Abantes, their hair grown long behind, spearmen eager to tear the corselets from their enemies' chests with outstretched ashen spears. With him followed forty black ships.
And the men who held Athens, the well-built stronghold, the land of great-hearted Erechtheus, whom Athena once nurtured, though the grain-giving earth had borne him, and she set him down in Athens, in her own rich temple — there the young men of Athens win his favor with bulls and rams as the years turn round — these were led by Menestheus, son of Peteos. No man born on earth was ever his equal at marshaling horses and shield-bearing men; only Nestor could rival him, for Nestor was the elder. With him followed fifty black ships.
And Ajax brought twelve ships from Salamis, and stationed them where the Athenian ranks stood.
And the men who held Argos and walled Tiryns, Hermione and Asine on their deep gulf, Troezen and Eionae and vine-clad Epidaurus, and those who held Aegina and Mases, young men of the Achaeans — these were led by Diomedes, good at the war cry, and Sthenelus, the beloved son of famous Capaneus. And with them came a third, Euryalus, a man like a god, son of lord Mecisteus, son of Talaus. But over all of them Diomedes, good at the war cry, held command. With them followed eighty black ships.
And the men who held Mycenae, the well-built stronghold, and wealthy Corinth, and well-built Cleonae, and those who dwelt in Orneae and lovely Araethyrea, and Sicyon, where Adrastus had once been the first king, and those who held Hyperesia and steep Gonoessa, and Pellene, and those who lived around Aegium and the whole stretch of the Aegialus and about wide Helice — of these, a hundred ships were led by lord Agamemnon, son of Atreus. With him followed by far the most men, and the best. And among them he himself put on gleaming bronze, glorying, standing out among all the heroes, because he was the best and led by far the greatest army.
And the men who held hollow Lacedaemon, land of ravines, Pharis and Sparta and dove-rich Messe, and those who dwelt in Bryseae and lovely Augeae, and those who held Amyclae and Helos, a stronghold by the sea, and those who held Laas and lived around Oetylus — these were led by Menelaus, good at the war cry, brother of Agamemnon, with sixty ships, drawn up apart from the rest. And among them he himself went, trusting in his own eagerness, urging his men on to war; and above all, in his heart, he longed to avenge the trouble and the sighing over Helen.
And the men who dwelt in Pylos and lovely Arene, in Thryum, the ford of the Alpheus, and well-built Aepy, and those who lived in Cyparisseis and Amphigeneia, in Pteleum and Helos and Dorium, where the Muses met Thamyris the Thracian, coming from Oechalia, from the house of Eurytus of Oechalia, and stopped his singing — for he had boasted that he would win, even if the Muses themselves, the daughters of Zeus who bears the aegis, should sing against him; and they, in their anger, maimed him, and took away his wondrous gift of song, and made him forget
These men were led by Gerenian Nestor, the old horseman; ninety hollow ships stood in their ranks. Others held Arcadia, under the steep mountain of Cyllene, near the tomb of Aepytus, where men fight hand to hand; they lived in Pheneus and Orchomenus rich in sheep, in Rhipe and Stratie and windy Enispe, and they held Tegea and lovely Mantinea, Stymphelus and Parrhasia. Their leader was Agapenor son of Ancaeus, lord of sixty ships, and in each ship many Arcadian men embarked who knew nothing of war at sea -- for Agamemnon, lord of men, son of Atreus, had given them their well-benched ships to cross the wine-dark water, since seafaring was no concern of theirs.
Others lived in Buprasium and bright Elis, all the land enclosed by Hyrmine and Myrsinus at its edge, the Olenian Rock, and Alesium. Four commanders led these men, and ten swift ships followed each, with many Epeians aboard. Amphimachus and Thalpius led one band -- sons of Cteatus and Eurytus, the two Actorians. Amarynceus's son, mighty Diores, led another, and the fourth was led by godlike Polyxeinus, son of lord Agasthenes, son of Augeias.
Others came from Dulichium and the holy Echinean islands that lie across the sea from Elis. Meges led them, a match for Ares, son of Phyleus, dear to Zeus, who once left for Dulichium in anger at his father. With him came forty black ships. Odysseus led the great-hearted Cephallenians, men who held Ithaca and leaf-shaking Neritum, Crocyleia and rugged Aegilips, Zacynthus and Samos, and the mainland shore opposite the islands. Odysseus, a match for Zeus in cunning, commanded them, and twelve ships with vermilion cheeks followed him.
Thoas son of Andraemon led the Aetolians, men who lived in Pleuron and Olenus and Pylene, Chalcis by the sea and rocky Calydon -- for the sons of great-hearted Oeneus were gone, and Oeneus himself was dead, and fair-haired Meleager was dead, so all rule over the Aetolians had passed to Thoas, and forty black ships followed him.
Idomeneus, famous with the spear, led the men of Crete -- those who held Knossos and walled Gortyn, Lyctus and Miletus and white Lycastus, Phaestus and Rhytium, well-built cities, and all the rest who lived in Crete of the hundred towns. Idomeneus, famous with the spear, led them, together with Meriones, a match for man-slaying Ares. Eighty black ships followed the two of them.
Tlepolemus, son of Heracles, tall and brave, brought nine ships of proud Rhodians out of Rhodes -- men who lived on Rhodes divided into three, Lindos, Ialysus, and white Cameirus. Tlepolemus, famous with the spear, led them, the son Astyocheia bore to the might of Heracles, whom he carried off from Ephyra, by the river Selleis, after sacking many cities of Zeus-nurtured young men. When Tlepolemus had grown to manhood in the strong-built house, he killed his father's own uncle, Licymnius, offshoot of Ares, then already growing old. At once he built ships, gathered a great host of men, and fled over the sea, since the other sons and grandsons of the might of Heracles threatened him. He came wandering to Rhodes, suffering hardship on the way; there his people settled in three tribes and were loved by Zeus, who rules over gods and men, and the son of Cronos poured down wondrous wealth upon them.
Nireus led three trim ships from Syme -- Nireus, son of Aglaea and lord Charopus, Nireus, the handsomest man who came beneath Troy of all the Danaans after the flawless son of Peleus; but he was weak, and few men followed him.
Others held Nisyros, Crapathus, and Casos, and Cos, the city of Eurypylus, and the Calydnian islands. Pheidippus and Antiphus led these, the two sons of lord Thessalus, son of Heracles, and thirty hollow ships stood in their ranks.
Now for all who lived in Pelasgian Argos, in Alos and Alope and Trachis, and those who held Phthia and Hellas of the fair women -- called Myrmidons, and Hellenes, and Achaeans -- of these fifty ships were under the command of Achilles. But they gave no thought to the din of war, for there was no one to lead them into the ranks: swift-footed, godlike Achilles lay among the ships, raging over the girl Briseis of the lovely hair, whom he had won from Lyrnessus after great toil, when he sacked Lyrnessus and the walls of Thebe and struck down the spearmen Mynes and Epistrophus, sons of lord Evenus, son of Selepus. For her sake he lay grieving now, though soon he was to rise again.
Others held Phylace and flowery Pyrasus, sacred ground of Demeter, and Iton mother of flocks, Antron by the sea and grassy Pteleos. Warlike Protesilaus had led these men while he still lived; but now the black earth held him fast. His wife was left behind in Phylace, her cheeks torn in grief, and his house stood half built -- for a Dardanian man killed him as he leapt from his ship, first by far of all the Achaeans. Yet his men were not leaderless, though they missed him: Podarces, offshoot of Ares, marshaled them now, son of Iphiclus, rich in flocks, son of Phylacus, own brother to great-hearted Protesilaus, though younger in birth; the elder man was braver, the warrior Protesilaus. Still his people did not lack a leader, though they longed for the brave man they had lost, and forty black ships followed Podarces.
Others lived by Lake Boebeis, in Pherae, Boebe, and well-built Iolcus. Eumelus led them, dear son of Admetus, whom Alcestis bore to Admetus -- Alcestis, loveliest of the daughters of Pelias. Others held Methone and Thaumacia, Meliboea and rugged Olizon. Philoctetes led these, a master of the bow, seven ships each carrying fifty oarsmen skilled in fighting with the bow. But Philoctetes lay on an island in terrible pain, on holy Lemnos, where the sons of the Achaeans had left him suffering from the wound of a deadly water-snake. There he lay grieving; but soon the Argives by their ships were to remember lord Philoctetes. His men were not leaderless either, though they longed for their king: Medon marshaled them, bastard son of Oileus, whom Rhene bore to Oileus, sacker of cities.
Others held Tricca and terraced Ithome, and Oechalia, city of Eurytus of Oechalia. The two sons of Asclepius led these, skilled healers both, Podalirius and Machaon, and thirty hollow ships stood in their ranks. Others held Ormenium, and the spring of Hypereia, and Asterium, and the white peaks of Titanus. Eurypylus led them, the shining son of Euaemon, and forty black ships followed him.
Others held Argissa and lived in Gyrtone, Orthe, Elone, and white Oloosson. Battle-hungry Polypoites led these, son of Peirithous, whom immortal Zeus had fathered -- Hippodameia, famed in story, bore him to Peirithous on the day her father drove the shaggy Centaurs from Pelion and pressed them back among the Aethices. He did not lead alone; with him was Leonteus, offshoot of Ares, son of proud Coronus, son of Caeneus, and forty black ships followed the two of them.
Gouneus led twenty-two ships from Cyphus. With him came the Enienes and the battle-hungry Perrhaebians, who made their homes around wintry Dodona, and those who worked the fields along lovely Titaresius, whose fair-flowing water runs into the Peneus, yet does not mingle with the silver eddies of the Peneus, but glides above it like oil -- for it is a branch of the water of the Styx, the river of the dread oath. Prothous son of Tenthredon led the Magnesians, who lived around the Peneus and leaf-shaking Pelion. Swift Prothous led them, and forty black ships followed him.
These, then, were the leaders and lords of the Danaans. Now tell me, Muse, who among them all was best -- the men and the horses that followed the sons of Atreus. Best by far were the mares of the son of Pheres, which Eumelus drove, swift as birds, matched in coat and age, level as a builder's line across their backs; silver-bowed Apollo had bred them in Pieria, both mares, and they carried the terror of war with them. Of the men, Telamonian Ajax was far the best, so long as Achilles held back in anger -- for Achilles was far the greatest of all, and so were the horses that carried the flawless son of Peleus.
But Achilles lay among his curved seafaring ships, raging still at Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, son of Atreus, while his men amused themselves along the breaking surf, throwing the discus and the hunting-spear and shooting arrows. The horses stood each beside its own chariot, cropping lotus and marsh parsley, while the chariots, well covered, sat in the huts of their lords. The men missed their war-loving leader and wandered here and there through the camp, taking no part in the fighting.
So the whole army moved forward as though fire were sweeping over the entire earth, and the ground groaned beneath them as it does under Zeus who delights in thunder when he rages around Typhoeus, in the land of the Arimi, where they say Typhoeus has his bed -- so the earth groaned loudly beneath the men's feet as they came on, and very swiftly they crossed the plain.
Now to the Trojans came a messenger, wind-footed swift Iris, from Zeus who bears the aegis, with grim news. The Trojans were gathered in assembly at Priam's gates, all together, young men and old. Swift-footed Iris came close and spoke to them, taking the voice of Priam's son Polites, who sat as a Trojan lookout, trusting to his swift feet, on the topmost mound of old Aesyetes' tomb, watching for the moment the Achaeans might rush from their ships. In his likeness swift-footed Iris spoke:
"Old man, you still love endless talk, as you did once in time of peace; but now pitiless war is upon us. Many times before I have gone into the battles of men, but never have I seen a host so great, so many. They come on like leaves, like grains of sand, marching across the plain to fight before the city. Hector, I charge this above all to you -- do as I say. There are many allies scattered through great Priam's city, and they speak in many different tongues, men gathered from far and wide. Let each captain give orders to his own people, and lead out his own countrymen, marshaled for battle."
So she spoke, and Hector did not fail to know the voice of a goddess. At once he broke up the assembly; men rushed to arms. All the gates were thrown open, and the army poured out, foot soldiers and horsemen together, and a great tumult rose.
There is a steep hill in front of the city, out on the plain, with open ground on every side; men call it Batieia, but the immortals call it the tomb of much-leaping Myrine. There the Trojans and their allies now formed their ranks.
Great Hector of the flashing helmet, son of Priam, led the Trojans; with him marched by far the most and the best of the fighting men, eager with their spears. The noble son of Anchises, Aeneas, led the Dardanians -- Aeneas, whom shining Aphrodite bore to Anchises on the slopes of Ida, a goddess who lay with a mortal man; he did not lead alone, for with him were Antenor's two sons, Archelochus and Acamas, skilled in every kind of fighting.
Others lived in Zeleia, at the foot of Ida, wealthy men who drink the dark water of the Aesepus, Trojans led by the shining son of Lycaon, Pandarus, to whom Apollo himself had given the bow. Others held Adrasteia, the land of Apaesus, Pityeia, and the steep hill of Tereia; Adrastus and Amphius of the linen corselet led these, the two sons of Merops of Percote, who beyond all men understood the art of prophecy and would not let his sons go into man-killing war; but they would not listen to him, for the fates of black death were driving them on.
Others lived around Percote and Practius, and held Sestos and Abydos and holy Arisbe; Asius son of Hyrtacus, a leader of men, led these -- Asius son of Hyrtacus, whom great tawny horses carried from Arisbe, from the river Selleis. Hippothous led the tribes of the spear-fighting Pelasgians, those who lived in deep-soiled Larisa; Hippothous and Pylaeus, offshoot of Ares, led them, the two sons of Lethus the Pelasgian, son of Teutamus.
Acamas and the warrior Peirous led the Thracians, all those enclosed by the strong-flowing Hellespont. Euphemus was captain of the spear-wielding Cicones, son of Troezenus, son of Zeus-nurtured Ceas. Pyraechmes led the Paeonians with their curved bows, from far off, from Amydon, from the wide-flowing Axius -- the Axius, whose water is the fairest that spreads over the earth.
Pylaemenes, his heart shaggy with courage, led the Paphlagonians, from the land of the Eneti, where the breed of wild mules comes from; these were the men who held Cytorus and lived around Sesamon, who made their famous homes along the river Parthenius, in Cromna, Aegialus, and lofty Erythini. Odius and Epistrophus led the Halizones, from far off, from Alybe, where silver is born. Chromis led the Mysians, with Ennomus the augur; but not even his skill in reading birds could save him from black death, for he was cut down by the hands of swift-footed Achilles in the river, where Achilles slaughtered so many other Trojans too.
Phorcys and godlike Ascanius led the Phrygians, from far off, from Ascania, and they were eager for the press of battle. Mesthles and Antiphus led the Maeonians, the two sons of Talaemenes, whom the Gygaean lake bore; they led the Maeonians born beneath Mount Tmolus. Nastes led the Carians of the barbarous tongue, men who held Miletus, the thick-leaved mountain of Phthires, the streams of the Maeander, and the steep peaks of Mycale. Amphimachus and Nastes led them -- Nastes and Amphimachus, the splendid sons of Nomion. Nastes went to war wearing gold like a girl, the fool -- it did nothing to keep off grim destruction, for he too was cut down by the hands of swift-footed Achilles in the river, and shrewd Achilles carried off his gold.
Sarpedon led the Lycians, and blameless Glaucus, from far off, from Lycia, from the swirling Xanthus.

======== Book 3 ========

Once each side had formed up under its own captains, the Trojans came on with shouting and clamor, like a flock of cranes: for when the cranes have fled the winter and its endless rain, they fly screaming toward the streams of Ocean, carrying death and doom down upon the Pygmy men, and in the gray dawn they bring their savage quarrel with them through the air. The Achaeans, by contrast, came on in silence, breathing fury, their hearts set on standing by one another. As when the South Wind pours mist over mountain peaks, mist that shepherds hate but a thief finds better than night, mist so thick a man can see no farther than he can throw a stone — so now a cloud of dust rose beneath the marching feet of the armies as they crossed the plain at a furious pace.
When the two sides had closed to striking distance, Paris, godlike to look at, stepped out in front of the Trojan ranks. A leopard skin was slung across his shoulders, a curved bow at his side, and a sword; and brandishing two bronze-tipped spears, he called out a challenge to every champion among the Argives, daring any one of them to fight him face to face in the terrible press of battle.
Menelaus, dear to the war god, saw him come striding out in front of the throng, and his heart leapt the way a lion's does when it comes upon a great carcass — a horned stag, say, or a wild goat — and, half-starved, tears into it even as swift hounds and strong young hunters come rushing down on it. So Menelaus rejoiced when his eyes fell on godlike Paris, for he was certain now he would make the offender pay. At once he sprang down from his chariot in full armor.
But when Paris saw him appear there among the champions, his heart failed him, and he shrank back into the ranks of his own comrades to escape his fate — the way a man who stumbles on a snake in a mountain glen recoils, trembling seizes his limbs, and he backs away, his cheeks gone pale. Just so, in fear of Menelaus, godlike Paris melted back into the proud crowd of Trojans.
Hector saw it and turned on him with bitter words: "Paris, curse of your good looks, chaser of women, deceiver — better you had never been born, or died before your wedding day! In fact I wish it, and it would have been far better than this shame, this thing you've become that everyone can point at. I can hear the long-haired Achaeans laughing now, certain they'd picked a champion for his handsome face, when there's no strength in you, no courage in your heart at all. Was this the man who once gathered his loyal crew, sailed the sea in his ships, and mingled with a foreign people only to carry off a beautiful woman from a distant land — a woman married into a house of spearmen — bringing ruin on your father, on this whole city, on all your people, joy to your enemies and shame to yourself? And now you won't even stand against Menelaus, dear to the war god? You'd soon learn what kind of man it is whose lovely wife you're holding. Your lyre would be no help to you then, nor Aphrodite's gifts, nor your hair, nor your looks, once you were down there in the dust. No — the Trojans are simply too timid; if they weren't, you'd have been stoned in a coat of rock by now for all the harm you've caused."
And godlike Paris answered him: "Hector, that rebuke of yours was fair, not unfair — your heart is always like an axe that never dulls, that a skilled carpenter drives through timber to shape a ship's plank, giving force to his swing — so unyielding is the spirit in your chest. But don't throw golden Aphrodite's gifts in my face. A god's shining gifts are not something a man can simply toss aside, however much he might want to — no one takes those for himself. Now, though, if you want me to fight and do battle, make the rest of the Trojans sit down, and the Achaeans too, and put Menelaus, dear to the war god, and me alone in the middle to fight over Helen and all her possessions. Whichever of us wins and proves the better man, let him take the woman and all the goods and carry them home; and let the rest of you seal friendship and swear a solid oath — you Trojans to go on living in fertile Troy, and they to return to horse-pasturing Argos and the land of lovely women."
So he spoke, and Hector rejoiced greatly to hear it, and went out into the space between the armies and held back the Trojan ranks, gripping his spear by the middle, and they all sat down where they stood. But the long-haired Achaeans kept aiming arrows and stones at him, until Agamemnon, lord of men, called out in his great voice: "Hold back, Argives! Do not shoot, young men of Achaea! Hector of the flashing helmet wants to say something." So he spoke, and they held off from fighting and fell silent at once, and Hector spoke to both sides: "Hear me, Trojans and well-armored Achaeans, and I will tell you what Paris proposes — he, on whose account this quarrel has arisen. He asks that the rest of the Trojans and all the Achaeans lay their fine weapons down on the bountiful earth, while he and Menelaus, dear to the war god, fight alone in the middle over Helen and all her possessions. Whichever of them wins and proves the better man, let him take the woman and all the goods and carry them home; and let the rest of us seal friendship with a solid oath."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent and still. Then Menelaus, master of the war cry, spoke among them: "Now hear me too, for the grief that has come home to my heart is greater than any man's. I believe the time has come for Argives and Trojans to part ways, since you have all suffered so much on account of my quarrel and the wrong Paris began. Whichever of us two is fated to die, let him die; and let the rest of you part quickly and go your ways. Bring two lambs, one white and one black, for Earth and Sun; and we will bring a third for Zeus. And bring the mighty Priam here himself, so that he may swear the oath in person — since his sons are arrogant and not to be trusted — lest anyone break the oaths of Zeus through treachery. Young men's minds are always unsteady, but when an old man takes part, he looks both ahead and behind, so that the outcome may be the best for both sides."
So he spoke, and Achaeans and Trojans alike rejoiced, hoping now for an end to this miserable war. They reined their horses in along the ranks and climbed down and stripped off their armor, laying it on the ground close together, with only a narrow strip of earth between the two sides. And Hector sent two heralds hurrying to the city to bring the lambs and to summon Priam, while lordly Agamemnon sent Talthybius down to the hollow ships to fetch a lamb, and Talthybius did not disobey noble Agamemnon.
Meanwhile Iris came as a messenger to white-armed Helen, taking the form of her sister-in-law, the wife of Antenor's son — lordly Helicaon's wife, Laodice, loveliest of Priam's daughters. She found her in her chamber, weaving a great double-folded purple cloth, into which she was working the many labors that the horse-taming Trojans and bronze-clad Achaeans were enduring for her sake at the hands of the war god. Swift-footed Iris came and stood close beside her and said: "Come here, dear girl, and see the astonishing thing the horse-taming Trojans and bronze-clad Achaeans are doing — men who a moment ago were carrying tearful war against each other on the plain, longing for the ruin of battle. Now they sit in silence; the fighting has stopped. They lean on their shields, their long spears planted beside them in the ground. But Paris and Menelaus, dear to the war god, are going to fight for you with their long spears, and whoever wins will call you his own dear wife."
So the goddess spoke, and put in her heart a sweet longing for her husband before, and for her city, and for her parents. At once Helen veiled herself in shimmering white linen and hurried from her room, shedding soft tears — not alone, for two attendants went with her, Aethra, daughter of Pittheus, and ox-eyed Clymene. Quickly they reached the Scaean gates.
There, around Priam, sat Panthous and Thymoetes, Lampus and Clytius, and Hicetaon, offshoot of the war god, with Ucalegon and Antenor, both wise men — the elders of the people, seated by the Scaean gates. Age had freed them from war, but they were fine speakers still, like cicadas that perch in the trees of a forest and pour out their delicate song. Such were the leaders of the Trojans as they sat there on the tower. When they caught sight of Helen coming up onto the tower, they murmured softly to one another, winged words: "No one could blame the Trojans and the well-armored Achaeans for suffering so long over a woman like this one — she is terrifyingly like the immortal goddesses to look at. And yet, even so, lovely as she is, let her sail home, rather than stay behind as a curse for us and for our children after us."
So they said; but Priam called out to Helen: "Come here, dear child, and sit in front of me, so you may see your former husband, and your kinsmen, and your friends. You are not to blame in my eyes — the gods are to blame, who set this tearful war against the Achaeans in motion. Come, tell me the name of that huge man over there, that Achaean so fine and so tall. There are others taller by a head, true, but I have never yet set eyes on one so handsome, nor one who carries himself with such dignity — he looks every bit a king."
And Helen, shining among women, answered him: "You are a man I hold in reverence and in dread, dear father of my husband. I wish bitter death had pleased me before I ever came here with your son, leaving behind my marriage bed, my kinsfolk, my beloved daughter, and the sweet company of friends my own age. But that was not to be, and so I waste away in tears. Still, I will tell you what you ask. That man is Agamemnon, son of Atreus, ruler of a vast realm, both a good king and a mighty spearman. He was my brother-in-law once, shameless woman that I am — if he ever truly was."
So she spoke, and the old man marveled at him and said: "O fortunate son of Atreus, child of destiny, blessed by heaven — how many young Achaean men you have under your command! Once I went to vine-rich Phrygia, and there I saw a great host of Phrygian men with their swift horses, the people of Otreus and godlike Mygdon, camped then along the banks of the Sangarius; and I myself was counted among them as an ally, on the day the man-fighting Amazons came. But not even they were as numerous as these bright-eyed Achaeans."
Next, catching sight of Odysseus, the old man asked again: "Come, tell me about this other one too, dear child — who is he? He is shorter than Agamemnon, son of Atreus, by a head, but broader across the shoulders and chest to look at. His armor lies there on the bountiful earth, but he himself moves up and down the ranks of men like the leader of a flock. I would compare him to a thick-fleeced ram, moving through a great flock of white sheep."
And Helen, daughter of Zeus, answered him: "That one is Laertes' son, Odysseus of many wiles, raised in the land of rocky Ithaca, a man who knows every kind of cunning trick and clever plan."
Then wise Antenor spoke up in turn: "Woman, what you have just said is nothing but the truth. Odysseus came here once before, on an embassy concerning you, together with Menelaus, dear to the war god. I welcomed them both as guests in my own house, and came to know their bearing and their shrewd minds. When they stood among the assembled Trojans, Menelaus was the broader across the shoulders; but when the two of them sat, Odysseus had the more commanding presence. And when it came time for each to weave his words and arguments before everyone, Menelaus spoke fluently — few words, but very clear, since he was no man of many words, nor one who missed the mark, though he was the younger of the two. But when Odysseus of the many schemes rose to speak, he would stand still, eyes fixed down on the ground, and neither move the staff backward nor forward, but hold it stiffly, like a man with no idea what he was doing — you would have taken him for some sullen fool. But once that great voice came booming from his chest, and words came pouring down like snow in winter, then no other mortal alive could have matched Odysseus; and none of us, seeing him, still marveled at his looks the way we had before."
Then, catching sight of Ajax a third time, the old man asked: "Who is that other Achaean man, so fine and so tall, towering over the Argives by a head and by the width of his shoulders?" And long-robed Helen, shining among women, answered him: "That huge man is Ajax, bulwark of the Achaeans. And over there, on the far side, standing among the Cretans like a god, is Idomeneus, with the Cretan captains gathered around him. Menelaus, dear to the war god, often hosted him as a guest in our own house, whenever he came from Crete. Now I can see all the rest of the bright-eyed Achaeans, men I could easily recognize and name for you — but there are two I cannot find among the leaders of the people: Castor, breaker of horses, and Polydeuces, the fine boxer, my own brothers, born of the same mother as me. Either they never left lovely Lacedaemon with the rest, or else they came here in the seafaring ships but now refuse to go down into the ranks of fighting men, for fear of the shame and disgrace that fall on me." So she said — but the life-giving earth already held them fast, back there in Lacedaemon, in their own dear native land.
Meanwhile heralds were carrying the sacred pledges of the gods through the city — two lambs, and wine that gladdens the heart, the fruit of the earth, in a goatskin bag — and the herald Idaeus carried a shining bowl and golden cups. He came and stood by the old man and urged him on: "Rise up, son of Laomedon — the leading men of the horse-taming Trojans and the bronze-clad Achaeans are calling for you to come down to the plain and swear a solid oath. For Paris and Menelaus, dear to the war god, are going to fight with their long spears over the woman, and whoever wins will have the woman and the goods that go with her; and the rest of us, once we have sworn friendship on a solid oath, will go on living in fertile Troy, while they sail home to horse-pasturing Argos and the land of lovely women."
So he spoke, and the old man shuddered, but ordered his companions to yoke the horses, and they obeyed at once. Priam mounted the chariot and drew the reins back taut, and Antenor climbed up beside him onto the splendid car, and the two of them drove their swift horses out through the Scaean gates toward the plain. When they had come to where the Trojans and Achaeans stood, they stepped down from the chariot onto the bountiful earth and walked into the space between the two armies. At once Agamemnon, lord of men, rose up, and with him rose Odysseus of many wiles; and the noble heralds gathered the sacred pledges of the gods and mixed wine in the bowl, and poured water over the hands of the kings.
Then the son of Atreus drew with his hand the dagger that always hung beside the great scabbard of his sword, and cut hair from the heads of the lambs, and the heralds distributed it among the leading men of Troy and Achaea. And among them the son of Atreus lifted his hands and prayed aloud: "Father Zeus, who rules from Ida, most glorious, greatest of all; and Helios, who sees all things and hears all things; and you rivers, and you earth, and you powers below who punish the dead who swore falsely in life — be witnesses, and watch over these solid oaths. If Paris kills Menelaus, then let him keep Helen and all her possessions, and we will sail home in our seafaring ships. But if fair-haired Menelaus kills Paris, then let the Trojans give back Helen and all her possessions, and pay the Argives whatever compensation is fitting, a debt that will be remembered even by generations still to come. But if Priam and Priam's sons refuse to pay me that debt once Paris has fallen, then I myself will go on fighting for the payment owed, staying right here, until I reach the end of this war."
With that, he cut the throats of the lambs with the pitiless bronze, and laid them down on the ground, gasping, their life ebbing away — for the bronze had stripped the strength from them. Then, drawing wine from the mixing bowl into their cups, they poured it out and prayed to the gods who live forever. And this is what many a man among the Achaeans and Trojans said: "Zeus, most glorious, greatest of all, and you other immortal gods — whichever side is first to do wrong against these oaths, may their brains spill out on the ground just as this wine now spills—"
...may their own brains spill on the ground like this wine, theirs and their children's, and let their wives be made slaves to other men." So they prayed, but Zeus, son of Cronos, did not yet grant fulfillment to any of it.
Then Priam, son of Dardanus, spoke among them: "Hear me, Trojans and well-greaved Achaeans. I am going back now to windy Troy, since I cannot bear to stand and watch with my own eyes my dear son fighting against Menelaus, whom Ares loves. Zeus surely knows this, and the other deathless gods, which of the two is fated to meet his end."
So speaking, the godlike man set the lambs in his chariot and climbed up himself, and drew the reins back tight; beside him Antenor mounted the splendid car. The two of them turned and rode back toward Troy.
Hector, son of Priam, and godlike Odysseus first paced out the ground, then took the lots and shook them together in a bronze helmet, to decide which of the two champions would be first to hurl his bronze spear. The armies prayed, lifting their hands to the gods, and this is what one would say, Achaean or Trojan alike: "Father Zeus, who rules from Ida, most glorious, greatest of all — whichever man brought this trouble on both our peoples, grant that he die and go down into the house of Hades, and let the rest of us make friendship and oaths of good faith."
So they said, and great Hector of the flashing helmet shook the lots, looking away as he did it, and at once Paris's lot leapt out. Then the men sat down in their ranks, each where his high-stepping horses and gleaming armor lay, and godlike Paris, husband of lovely-haired Helen, began to put on his fine armor.
First he set the fine greaves around his shins, fitted with silver ankle-clasps. Next he strapped on the breastplate of his brother Lycaon around his chest — it fit him well. Over his shoulders he slung his silver-studded bronze sword, and then his great, heavy shield. On his strong head he set a well-made helmet crowned with horsehair, and the plume nodded terribly above it. He took up a sturdy spear that suited his grip. Menelaus, dear to Ares, armed himself the same way.
When each had armed among his own men on his own side, they strode out into the open ground between the Trojans and Achaeans, glaring fiercely, and wonder held all who watched them, the horse-taming Trojans and the well-greaved Achaeans alike. They came close and took their stand in the measured space, brandishing their spears, raging at one another. Paris cast first, hurling his long-shadowed spear, and struck the shield of Atreus's son, evenly balanced on every side, but the bronze did not break through; the point bent back against the strong shield. Then Menelaus, son of Atreus, rose for his own throw, praying to father Zeus:
"Lord Zeus, grant that I punish the man who wronged me first — godlike Paris — and bring him down under my hands, so that even men born in later times will shudder to wrong a host who has offered him friendship."
So speaking, he balanced his long-shadowed spear and threw it, and struck the shield of Priam's son, evenly balanced on every side. The heavy spear drove straight through the shining shield and through the finely worked breastplate as well, slicing the tunic clean along his flank — but the man twisted aside and escaped black death.
Then the son of Atreus drew his silver-studded sword, and rising up he struck the ridge of Paris's helmet; but the sword shattered into three pieces, even four, around it, and fell from his hand. The son of Atreus groaned, looking up at the wide sky: "Father Zeus, no other god is crueler to me than you! I truly thought I would make Paris pay for his wickedness, but now my sword has broken in my hands, and my spear flew from my grip for nothing — I never even hit him." With that he sprang forward and seized Paris by the horsehair crest of his helmet, and swinging him around began to drag him back toward the well-greaved Achaeans.
The finely embroidered strap under Paris's soft chin was choking him, the strap that held the helmet fast beneath his jaw. And now Menelaus would have dragged him off and won glory beyond telling, had Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, not been quick to notice: she snapped the strap, cut as it was from the hide of a slaughtered ox, so that the helmet came away empty in his strong hand. The hero spun it around and flung it among the well-greaved Achaeans, and his devoted comrades gathered it up. Then he sprang back again, eager to kill Paris with his bronze spear — but Aphrodite snatched him away,
easily, as a god can, wrapping him in thick mist, and set him down in his own fragrant bedchamber. Then she went herself to summon Helen, and found her on the high tower, with a crowd of Trojan women gathered around her. Taking hold of her sweet-smelling robe, the goddess shook it, and, disguised as an old woman — an old wool-worker who used to card fine wool for Helen back in Lacedaemon, and whom Helen loved best of all her servants — in that shape she spoke to her: "Come here — Paris is calling you home. He is there in his room, on the inlaid bed, shining with beauty and fine clothes. You would never think he had just come from fighting a man, but rather that he was going to a dance, or had just now risen from one to sit down."
So she spoke, and stirred the heart in Helen's breast. And when Helen noticed the goddess's very beautiful neck, her lovely breasts, and her shining eyes, she was struck with wonder, and spoke to her, calling her by name: "Strange goddess, why do you long to deceive me like this? Will you carry me off even further, to some other populous city, in Phrygia or lovely Maeonia, if there too you have some favorite among mortal men? Is it because Menelaus has now beaten godlike Paris, and means to take hateful me back home with him, that you have come here now with treachery in your heart? Go sit beside him yourself — leave the paths of the gods, never turn your feet back toward Olympus again, but hover over him forever and keep watch over him, until he makes you his wife, or else his slave. I am not going there — it would be shameful for me to share that man's bed now. All the women of Troy would blame me for it afterward, and my heart already carries grief enough."
Then Aphrodite answered her in anger: "Don't provoke me, reckless woman, or in my rage I may abandon you, and hate you as fiercely as I have loved you until now, and stir up terrible hatred between both sides, Trojans and Danaans alike — and you would come to a wretched end." So she spoke, and Helen, daughter of Zeus, grew afraid, and went, wrapping herself in her bright white robe, in silence, and none of the Trojan women noticed her go; the goddess led the way.
When they reached Paris's beautiful house, the attendants quickly turned back to their tasks, while Helen, radiant among women, went up to the high-roofed bedchamber. There smiling Aphrodite herself took a chair and carried it over, setting it before Paris, and Helen, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, sat down facing him, turning her eyes away, and rebuked her husband:
"So you've come back from the fighting. I wish you had died there instead, beaten by that stronger man who used to be my husband. You used to boast that you were better than Menelaus, dear to Ares, in strength and hands and spear. Go on, then — challenge Menelaus, dear to Ares, to fight you again, face to face. No, I tell you to stop, and not to fight Menelaus in single combat, foolishly, without thinking, or you may soon go down under his spear."
Paris answered her: "Wife, don't scold my heart with such harsh words. This time Menelaus has won, with Athena's help; another time I will beat him, for we too have gods on our side. But come, let us go to bed and take our pleasure in love. Never has desire wrapped my senses around like this, not even when I first carried you off from lovely Lacedaemon and sailed away with you in my seafaring ships, and we lay together in love on the island of Cranae — not even then did I want you as I want you now, and sweet longing seizes me." So he spoke, and led the way to the bed, and his wife went with him.
So the two of them lay down together on the polished bed, while the son of Atreus ranged through the crowd like a wild beast, searching everywhere to see if he might catch sight of godlike Paris. But none of the Trojans or their renowned allies could point Paris out to Menelaus, dear to Ares — and it was not out of any love for him that they would have hidden him had they seen him, for he was hated by all of them alike, hated as black death itself.
Then Agamemnon, lord of men, spoke among them: "Hear me, Trojans and Dardanians and allies: the victory clearly belongs to Menelaus, dear to Ares. So now give back Argive Helen, together with all her possessions, and pay the compensation that is fitting, one that will be remembered even among men yet to come." So spoke the son of Atreus, and the rest of the Achaeans shouted their assent.

======== Book 4 ========

The gods sat beside Zeus on the golden floor and held council together, and among them queenly Hebe poured out nectar; they pledged one another in cups of gold, gazing down upon the city of the Trojans. And at once the son of Kronos set about provoking Hera, speaking sidelong words to sting her.
"Two goddesses stand as helpers of Menelaus — Hera of Argos, and Athena who guards Alalkomenai. Yet these two sit apart and simply watch, and take their pleasure in it, while laughter-loving Aphrodite stays forever at his side and wards the death-spirits from him — even now she has snatched him from death when he thought surely to die. Well, the victory belongs to war-loving Menelaus. Let us then consider how these matters shall stand: shall we stir up evil war again and the dread clash of battle, or cast friendship between the two sides? If only this could somehow prove sweet and welcome to us all, then the city of lord Priam could go on standing, and Menelaus could lead Argive Helen home again."
So he spoke, and Athena and Hera muttered at it, sitting close together, plotting evil for the Trojans. Athena kept silent and said nothing, sulking at father Zeus, gripped by a wild anger; but Hera's breast could not contain her fury, and she burst out.
"Most dread son of Kronos, what a thing you have said! How can you wish to make my labor worthless and unfinished — the sweat I sweated in my toil, and my horses worn out gathering the army together, to bring evil on Priam and on Priam's sons? Do as you please — but know that not all the rest of us gods approve."
Deeply stirred, the cloud-gathering Zeus answered her: "Strange creature, what great wrongs can Priam and Priam's sons have done you, that you rage so relentlessly to lay waste the well-built citadel of Ilion? If you could pass through its gates and its long walls and devour Priam raw, and Priam's sons, and the rest of the Trojans besides, then perhaps your fury would be cured. Do as you wish, then — only do not let this quarrel become, hereafter, a great bone of contention between you and me. And I will tell you one more thing, and lay it up in your mind: whenever I in my turn am eager to destroy some city where men dear to you happen to live, do not try to hold back my anger — let me have my way, since I am giving you this now, willingly, though my heart is unwilling. For of all the cities under the sun and starry sky where men on earth make their homes, sacred Ilion was honored by me above all in my heart, and Priam, and the people of Priam of the strong ash spear. Never did my altar lack its due share of the feast, of libation and of the savor of burnt offering — for that is the honor allotted to us gods."
Then ox-eyed queenly Hera answered him: "There are indeed three cities dearest to me by far — Argos, and Sparta, and wide-wayed Mycenae. Lay these waste whenever they grow hateful to your heart — I will not stand in your way, nor begrudge you. Even if I resented it and would not allow their destruction, my resentment would come to nothing, since you are so much stronger. But my labor too must not be left unfinished — for I am a god as you are, and my birth is from the same source as yours, and Kronos of the crooked counsel begot me eldest of all, both by birth and because I am called your wife, while you rule over all the immortals.
So let us yield to one another in this, I to you and you to me, and the other gods will follow our lead. Now, quickly, command Athena to go down into the dreadful clash of Trojans and Achaeans, and contrive it so that the Trojans are the first to violate their sworn oaths and do wrong to the triumphant Achaeans."
So she spoke, and the father of men and gods did not refuse her. At once he spoke winged words to Athena: "Go with all speed into the army, among the Trojans and Achaeans, and contrive it so that the Trojans are the first to violate their sworn oaths and do wrong."
So he spoke, urging on Athena, who was already eager, and she darted down from the peaks of Olympus. Just as the son of crooked-counseling Kronos sends a star as a sign to sailors, or to a wide army of soldiers, a blazing star trailing many sparks behind it — in such a shape Pallas Athena sped down to earth, and leapt into the midst of the armies. Wonder seized all who watched, both the horse-taming Trojans and the well-greaved Achaeans, and men would say to their neighbor standing near.
"Surely evil war and the dread clash of battle will come again, unless Zeus, steward of war for mankind, is setting friendship between the two sides." So one man or another, Achaean or Trojan, would say.
But Athena, taking the shape of a man, plunged in among the Trojan ranks in search of Pandarus, godlike son of Lykaon, hoping to find him somewhere. She found him, blameless and strong, standing there, while around him the sturdy ranks of shield-bearing soldiers who had followed him from the streams of the Aesepos stood close by. Coming near, she spoke winged words to him.
"Would you be persuaded by me now, wise son of Lykaon? Would you dare to let fly a swift arrow at Menelaus? You would win favor and glory from all the Trojans, and most of all from prince Alexander. From him, surely, you would be first of all to carry off splendid gifts, if he should see warlike Menelaus, son of Atreus, brought down by your shaft and mounted on the grievous pyre. Come, then, loose an arrow at glorious Menelaus, and vow to Lykian-born Apollo, glorious archer, that you will offer a splendid hecatomb of firstborn lambs when you return home to the city of holy Zeleia."
So Athena spoke, and persuaded his foolish heart. At once he uncased his polished bow, made from the horns of a wild mountain goat which he himself had once struck beneath the breast as it came out from a rock, lying in wait for it in ambush; he had hit it in the chest, and it fell backward onto the rock. Its horns, growing from its head, measured sixteen palms; a craftsman skilled in horn had worked and fitted them together, smoothed the whole thing well, and set a golden tip upon it. Pandarus strung this bow, bracing it and leaning it against the ground, while his good companions held their shields in front of him, so that the warlike sons of the Achaeans might not leap up before Menelaus, warlike son of Atreus, had been struck.
Then he opened the lid of his quiver and took out an arrow, unshot before, feathered, a bearer of dark pains. Quickly he fitted the bitter shaft to the string, and vowed to Lykian-born Apollo, glorious archer, that he would offer a splendid hecatomb of firstborn lambs when he returned home to the city of holy Zeleia.
He drew the notch and the ox-gut string together; he brought the string to his breast, and the iron head to the bow. And when he had drawn the great bow into a full circle, the horn sang out, the string gave a great cry, and the sharp-pointed arrow leapt away, eager to fly into the crowd.
But you, Menelaus, were not forgotten by the blessed immortal gods, and above all by Zeus's daughter, driver of the spoil, who stood before you and turned aside the piercing shaft. She held it back from your skin just as a mother brushes a fly from her child when it lies in sweet sleep, and she herself guided it to where the golden clasps of the war-belt joined and the doubled breastplate met.
The bitter arrow struck the fitted belt; it drove clean through the finely worked belt and lodged in the elaborately worked breastplate, and in the guard he wore beneath, a defense for the skin, a barrier against spears, which protected him most — even through this it passed. The arrow only grazed the outer skin of the man, yet at once dark blood came flowing from the wound.
As when some woman of Maeonia or Caria stains ivory with crimson dye, to be a cheek-piece for horses; it lies stored in a chamber, and many horsemen have longed to wear it, but it lies there as a treasure for a king, both an ornament for the horse and glory for its rider — so, Menelaus, your well-shaped thighs were stained with blood, and your legs and your fair ankles beneath.
Then Agamemnon, lord of men, shuddered when he saw the dark blood flowing from the wound, and warlike Menelaus himself shuddered too. But when he saw the sinew and the barbs still outside the flesh, his spirit gathered back within his breast. Groaning heavily, lord Agamemnon spoke among them, holding Menelaus by the hand, while his companions groaned along with him.
"Dear brother, it was death I sealed for you in that oath, setting you alone before the Achaeans to fight the Trojans, since the Trojans have struck you down this way and trampled the sworn oaths underfoot. Yet the oath is not made worthless — nor the blood of lambs, nor the unmixed libations, nor the right hands we trusted in. Even if the Olympian does not bring it to pass at once, he brings it to pass late, and men pay a heavy price, with their own heads and their wives and their children.
For I know this well, in mind and in heart: a day will come when holy Ilion will perish, and Priam, and the people of Priam of the strong ash spear, and Zeus, son of Kronos, throned on high, who dwells in the sky, will himself shake his dark aegis over all of them in anger at this deceit — this will not go unfulfilled. But it will be a terrible grief to me over you, Menelaus, if you should die and fill out the full measure of your life.
And I would return to thirsty Argos most despised of men, for at once the Achaeans will remember their fatherland, and we would leave Helen of Argos as a boast for Priam and the Trojans, while your bones rot in the earth of Troy, lying there with our task unfinished. And some overbearing Trojan will say this, leaping upon the tomb of glorious Menelaus: 'May Agamemnon vent his anger this way against everything, just as now he led the Achaean army here for nothing, and has gone home to his own dear fatherland with his ships empty, leaving good Menelaus behind.' So someone will say one day — and on that day may the wide earth open and swallow me."
Then fair-haired Menelaus spoke to him, encouraging him: "Take heart, and do not frighten the army of the Achaeans just yet. The sharp point did not lodge in a mortal spot — my war-belt in front stopped it, the gleaming one, and beneath it the war-kilt and the guard, which men skilled in bronze made for me."
Then lord Agamemnon answered him: "If only it may be so, dear Menelaus! But a healer will feel the wound and lay upon it remedies that will end the dark pains." And he spoke to godlike Talthybius, his herald: "Talthybius, call Machaon here as quickly as you can, the son of Asclepius, the blameless healer, so that he may look at warlike Menelaus, son of Atreus, whom some man skilled with the bow has struck with an arrow — some Trojan or Lycian, glory to him, grief to us."
So he spoke, and the herald did not fail to obey once he had heard; he went among the bronze-armored Achaeans, searching with his eyes for the hero Machaon. He saw him standing there, and around him the sturdy ranks of shield-bearing soldiers who had followed him from horse-pasturing Trikke.
Coming near, he spoke winged words to him: "Rouse yourself, son of Asclepius — lord Agamemnon calls you, so that you may look at warlike Menelaus, leader of the Achaeans, whom some man skilled with the bow has struck with an arrow — some Trojan or Lycian, glory to him, grief to us." So he spoke, and stirred the heart in Machaon's breast, and the two of them went their way through the crowd, along the wide army of the Achaeans.
But when they came to where fair-haired Menelaus lay wounded, with all the best men gathered around him in a circle, the godlike man stepped into their midst and at once drew the arrow out from the well-fitted belt; and as it was drawn out, the sharp barbs bent backward. He loosed the gleaming war-belt from him, and beneath it the war-kilt and the guard which men skilled in bronze had made. But when he saw the wound where the bitter arrow had struck, he sucked out the blood, and then, with sure skill, sprinkled soothing remedies upon it, which Chiron had once given his father out of kindness.
While they were tending to Menelaus, good at the war cry, the ranks of shield-bearing Trojans came on, and the Achaeans put their armor on again and turned their minds back to battle. There you would not have seen godlike Agamemnon dozing, nor cowering, nor unwilling to fight, but hurrying eagerly to the battle that brings men glory. He left his horses and his chariot bright with bronze; his attendant, Eurymedon son of Ptolemaios, son of Peiraeus, held them apart, snorting, and Agamemnon charged him again and again to have them ready at hand whenever weariness should overtake his limbs from directing so many men.
But on foot he made his way among the ranks of men, and wherever he saw men of the swift-horsed Danaans hurrying eagerly, he stood beside them and gave them courage with his words. "Argives, do not slacken your furious courage even a little — for father Zeus will not be a helper to liars. No, the very ones who were first to violate the sworn oaths — vultures will feast on their tender flesh, while we will carry off their dear wives and their infant children in our ships, once we have taken their city."
But whenever he saw men holding back from the hateful war, he would rebuke them harshly with angry words: "Argives, glorious only with the bow, you objects of reproach, have you no shame at all? Why do you stand there stunned, like fawns which, when they have tired themselves running over the wide plain, stop and stand, with no fighting spirit left in their hearts? So you stand there stunned, and do not fight. Are you waiting for the Trojans to come close to where your fair-sterned ships are drawn up on the shore of the gray sea, so that you can see whether the son of Kronos will hold his hand over you?" So he went about directing the ranks of men.
And coming through the crowd of men, he came to the Cretans. Around Idomeneus of the sound mind they were arming themselves; Idomeneus was among the front fighters, like a wild boar in courage, while Meriones was urging on the ranks in the rear. Seeing them, Agamemnon, lord of men, rejoiced, and at once spoke to Idomeneus with gentle words.
"Idomeneus, I honor you above the rest of the swift-horsed Danaans, both in war and in every other task, and at the feast, when the chief men of the Argives mix the gleaming wine of the elders in the mixing bowl. For even if the rest of the long-haired Achaeans drink their portion, your cup always stands full, just as mine does, ready for you to drink whenever your heart desires. Go, then, into battle, and be the man you have always claimed to be."
Then Idomeneus, leader of the Cretans, answered him in turn: "Son of Atreus, I will indeed be a steadfast comrade to you, just as I promised and pledged at the very start. But go and urge on the rest of the long-haired Achaeans, so that we may fight as soon as possible, since the Trojans have broken the sworn oaths. Death and grief will be theirs hereafter, since they were first to violate the sworn oaths."
So he spoke, and the son of Atreus passed on, his heart rejoicing. He came through the crowd of men to where the two Ajaxes stood; the two of them were arming themselves, and a cloud of foot soldiers followed with them. Just as a goatherd watching from a lookout point sees a cloud coming over the sea before the blast of the west wind — from a distance it looks black as pitch as it moves over the sea, bringing a great storm with it, and he shudders at the sight and drives his flocks into a cave — so, moving alongside the two Ajaxes, thick dark ranks of young men nurtured by Zeus surged forward into grim battle, bristling with shields and spears.
Lord Agamemnon rejoiced to see them too, and he spoke winged words to them: "You two Ajaxes, leaders of the bronze-armored Argives, to you two I give no order — it would not be fitting to urge you on, since of your own accord you already command your men to fight with all their strength. If only, father Zeus, and Athena, and Apollo, every man had a spirit like yours in his breast — then the city of lord Priam would soon bow down, captured and sacked by our hands."
So he spoke, and left them there, and went on to others. There he came upon Nestor, the clear-voiced orator of the Pylians, arraying his companions and urging them to fight, around great Pelagon, Alastor, Chromios, lord Haimon, and Bias, shepherd of the people. He set the horsemen first, with their horses and chariots, and behind them the foot soldiers, many and brave, to be a bulwark of war, while he drove the weaker men into the middle, so that even a man unwilling would be forced by necessity to fight.
First Nestor gave his orders to the charioteers: he told them to hold their horses in check and not let the crowd jostle them out of line. No man, trusting in his horsemanship or his own courage, was to charge out alone ahead of the rest to fight the Trojans, and none was to fall back either — that would only weaken the whole line. Whoever left his own chariot to reach another man's should reach out with his spear, since that way is far better. This was how the men of an earlier age sacked cities and broke down walls, keeping this plan and this spirit in their hearts. So the old man urged his men on, schooled in warfare since long ago.
Seeing him, powerful Agamemnon was glad, and called out to him, saying:
“Old man, if only your knees could still keep pace with the spirit in your chest, and your strength stayed as firm as ever — but old age wears you down, the same for everyone. I wish some other man carried that burden, and you could stand among the younger fighters.”
Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor answered him:
“Son of Atreus, I too wish I could be the man I was when I killed godlike Erythalion. But the gods do not give men everything at once. I was young then; now old age has come for me instead. But even so I will stay among the horsemen and guide them with counsel and with words — that is the privilege old men keep. Let the younger men wield the spears, men born after me who still trust their own strength.”
So he spoke, and the son of Atreus went on, glad at heart. He found Menestheus, driver of horses, son of Peteos, standing with the Athenians, masters of the war cry, gathered round him; and nearby stood resourceful Odysseus, and beside him the ranks of the Cephallenians, no weak men, standing there — for the battle cry had not yet reached their ears; only now were the columns of horse-taming Trojans and Achaeans stirring and beginning to move, and these men stood waiting for some other column of Achaeans to advance against the Trojans and open the fighting. Seeing them, Agamemnon, lord of men, rebuked them, and called out, saying:
“Son of Peteos, king cherished by Zeus, and you, master of cunning tricks, schemer — why do you two hang back cringing, waiting for others to lead? You two ought to stand among the foremost and meet the scorching heat of battle, since you are the first to hear my call whenever we Achaeans prepare a feast for the elders. There you're glad enough to eat roasted meat and drink cups of honey-sweet wine as long as you please — but now you'd gladly watch even ten columns of Achaeans fighting in front of you with pitiless bronze.”
Looking at him darkly, resourceful Odysseus answered:
“Son of Atreus, what kind of word has slipped past the fence of your teeth? How can you say we hold back from battle, when the Achaeans are stirring up sharp war against the horse-taming Trojans? Watch, if you care to, and you will see the dear father of Telemachus mixing it up among the front fighters of the horse-taming Trojans. What you say is empty wind.”
Agamemnon smiled at him when he saw how angry he was, and took back his words:
“Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, I do not mean to rebuke you too harshly, nor to order you about — I know the spirit in your own dear chest is kind and knows good sense; you think as I do. Come, we will make amends for this later, if any harsh word has been spoken now; may the gods scatter it all to the winds.”
So saying, he left them there and went on to the others. He found the son of Tydeus, proud Diomedes, standing among his horses and jointed chariot, with Sthenelus, son of Capaneus, beside him. Seeing him, powerful Agamemnon rebuked him too, and called out, saying:
“Ah, son of Tydeus, wise horse-taming Tydeus's son, why do you shrink back, why do you stare at the lanes of battle? It was not Tydeus's way to cower like this — he fought far ahead of his own companions against the enemy, or so say those who saw him at his work. I myself never met him or saw him, but they say he surpassed all others. Once, without any war, he came as a guest to Mycenae, along with godlike Polynices, gathering an army; they were mustering then against the sacred walls of Thebes, and they begged hard for us to give them famous allies. And we were willing to give them, and agreed to what they asked, but Zeus turned us back, showing unfavorable signs. So when they had set out and gotten well along the road, and reached the Asopus, deep in reeds and grassy banks, the Achaeans sent Tydeus ahead of them as a messenger. He went, and found many sons of Cadmus feasting in the hall of mighty Eteocles. There, guest though he was, horse-driving Tydeus felt no fear, alone as he was among so many Cadmeans, but challenged them to contests, and won every one of them easily — such was Athena's help to him. But the Cadmeans, drivers of horses, grew angry, and as he made his way back they set a close ambush, fifty young men, with two leaders: Maeon, son of Haemon, like the immortals, and Polyphontes, son of Autophonus, tireless in battle. But Tydeus brought a shameful death down on them too — he killed them all but one, whom he sent home again, letting Maeon go free in obedience to the gods' own signs. Such a man was Tydeus of Aetolia. But the son he fathered is a lesser man in battle, though better in the assembly.”
So he spoke, and mighty Diomedes said nothing in reply, out of respect for the rebuke of his honored king. But the son of glorious Capaneus answered in his place:
“Son of Atreus, don't tell lies when you know the truth well enough. We claim to be far better men than our fathers. We were the ones who took the seat of seven-gated Thebes, though we led a smaller army against a stronger wall, trusting in the gods' signs and the help of Zeus. They perished through their own recklessness. So don't ever rank our fathers with us in honor.”
Looking at him darkly, mighty Diomedes answered:
“Friend, be quiet and listen to what I say. I don't blame Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, for urging the well-greaved Achaeans into battle — the glory will fall to him if the Achaeans cut down the Trojans and take sacred Troy, and the great grief will be his too if the Achaeans are cut down. But come, let the two of us turn our minds to our own furious strength.”
So saying, he leaped down from his chariot to the ground in his armor, and the bronze on the lord's chest rang terribly as he sprang up — fear would have gripped even a steady-hearted man at that sound. As on a loud-echoing shore the sea's waves rise one after another when the West Wind sets them moving — far out at sea the swell first gathers a crest, then breaks on the land and roars mightily, curling high around the headlands and spitting foam from the brine — so then, wave on wave, the columns of the Danaans moved steadily toward battle. Each captain gave the word to his own men; the rest marched in silence, and you would not have thought so vast a host had voices in their chests, so silent, in awe of their commanders; and around them all their gleaming armor shone as they marched, wrapped in it.
The Trojans, though, were like the countless sheep in a rich man's steading, standing to be milked of their white milk, bleating without end as they hear the cries of their lambs — such was the din that rose from the Trojan host across the wide army; for their voices were not one sound, not a single tongue, but their speech was mixed, since they were men summoned from many lands. Ares drove some of them on, and bright-eyed Athena the others, and Terror and Fear, and Strife raging without limit, sister and companion of man-killing Ares — she who is small at first, but then plants her head in the sky while her feet still walk the earth. She it was who threw down the shared strife between them then, moving through the crowd, piling up the groaning of men.
And when the two sides came together, meeting in one place, they crashed shields, crashed spears, and the fury of bronze-armored men; the bossed shields pressed against each other, and a great roar went up. Then together rose the cries of triumph and the cries of pain from men killing and being killed, and the earth ran with blood. As when two winter torrents, swollen, rushing down from the mountains, pour their mighty waters together where valleys meet, out of their great springs within a hollow ravine, and a shepherd far off in the hills hears their roar — so, as these two forces mingled, rose the shouting and the struggle.
Antilochus was the first to kill a helmeted Trojan, a good man among the front fighters, Echepolus, son of Thalysius. He struck him first on the ridge of his horsehair-crested helmet, and the point fixed in his forehead, and the bronze drove through the bone within, and darkness covered his eyes; he fell like a tower in the fierce press of battle. As he fell, powerful Elephenor, son of Chalcodon, leader of the great-hearted Abantes, caught him by the feet and began to drag him clear of the missiles, eager to strip his armor as quickly as he could — but his effort was short-lived. Great-hearted Agenor saw him dragging the corpse, and as Elephenor bent forward his ribs showed clear past the rim of his shield; Agenor stabbed him there with his bronze-tipped spear, and loosed his limbs. So life left him, and over his body a bitter struggle broke out between Trojans and Achaeans; they fell on one another like wolves, and man grappled with man.
Then Telamonian Ajax struck down the son of Anthemion, the young man Simoeisios in his full bloom, whom his mother had once borne beside the banks of the Simoeis, coming down from Ida, when she had followed her parents to see their flocks — and for that they called him Simoeisios. He never repaid his dear parents for raising him; his life was cut short, brought down by great-hearted Ajax's spear. As he came on, Ajax struck him first in the chest, beside the right nipple, and the bronze spear went clean through his shoulder, and he fell in the dust like a poplar tree, one that grows smooth in the low ground of a great marsh, its branches sprouting only at the very top; a wagon-maker cuts it down with bright iron to bend into a wheel-rim for a fine chariot, and it lies there drying beside the river's banks. So Ajax, sprung from Zeus, cut down Simoeisios, son of Anthemion.
Then Antiphus, of the flashing breastplate, son of Priam, hurled his sharp spear at him across the crowd. He missed Ajax, but struck Leucus, Odysseus's good companion, in the groin, as he was dragging a body off to the other side; he fell across it, and the corpse dropped from his hands. Odysseus, enraged at his friend's death, strode through the front fighters helmeted in gleaming bronze, came up very close, and glancing around him hurled his shining spear; and the Trojans gave ground before the man's throw. His cast did not fly in vain — he struck Priam's bastard son Democoon, who had come from Abydos, from his swift horses. Odysseus, angry over his friend, struck him with his spear in the temple, and the bronze point drove through the other temple as well; darkness covered his eyes, and he fell with a crash, and his armor clattered upon him.
The Trojan front fighters gave ground, even shining Hector, and the Argives shouted loud, and dragged off the bodies, and pushed on much farther forward. But Apollo, watching from Pergamos, grew angry, and cried out to the Trojans:
“Rise up, horse-taming Trojans, don't yield ground in battle to the Argives — their flesh is not stone, nor is it iron, to withstand bronze that cuts flesh when it strikes them. And besides, Achilles, the fair-haired son of Thetis, is not fighting at all, but nurses his heart-sore anger beside the ships.”
So the dread god called from the city. But the daughter of Zeus, most glorious Athena, roused the Achaeans, moving through the crowd wherever she saw men slacking. There fate bound Diores, son of Amarynceus: a jagged stone struck him on the right shin, near the ankle, thrown by Peiros, son of Imbrasus, leader of the Thracian men, who had come from Aenos. The pitiless stone crushed clean through both tendons and the bones there; he fell backward in the dust, both hands flung out to his dear companions, gasping out his life. And Peiros, who had thrown the stone, ran up and stabbed him with his spear beside the navel; all his bowels poured out onto the ground, and darkness covered his eyes.
But as Peiros rushed off, Thoas the Aetolian struck him with his spear above the nipple, in the chest, and the bronze point fixed in his lung; Thoas came up close beside him, wrenched the heavy spear out of his chest, and drew his sharp sword, and struck him full in the belly with it, and took his life. But he did not strip his armor: the Thracians gathered round him, men with hair worn long on the crown, holding their long spears in their hands, and though he was tall and strong and proud, they drove him back from the body; he gave ground, staggering. So the two of them lay stretched in the dust side by side, one the leader of the Thracians, the other of the bronze-armored Epeians; and many others were killed around them besides.
No man could have come upon that work and found fault with it then, no man still unwounded and untouched by sharp bronze, who wandered through the middle of it, even if Pallas Athena took him by the hand and led him and warded off the flying spears — for many Trojans and Achaeans on that day lay stretched face-down in the dust beside one another.

======== Book 5 ========

Then Pallas Athena gave Diomedes, son of Tydeus, strength and courage, so that he would stand out among all the Argives and win glorious fame. She kindled from his helmet and shield a tireless fire, like the star of late summer that shines most brilliantly of all once it has bathed in the ocean's stream; such was the fire she kindled from his head and shoulders, and she drove him into the thick of the fighting, where the largest crowd was struggling.
Now there was among the Trojans a rich and blameless man named Dares, priest of Hephaestus, and he had two sons, Phegeus and Idaeus, both well versed in every kind of combat. These two broke from the ranks and charged straight at Diomedes: one from his chariot, the other rushing forward on foot. When they had closed the distance between them, Phegeus threw first, his long-shadowed spear passing over Tydeus's son's left shoulder without striking him. Then it was Diomedes's turn, and his bronze did not fly wide of the mark: he struck Phegeus square in the chest, between the nipples, and knocked him backward off the chariot. Idaeus leapt down, abandoning the beautiful car, and did not dare to stand over his fallen brother's body.
Not even Idaeus himself would have escaped black death, but Hephaestus rescued him, wrapping him in night so that the old priest would not be utterly overwhelmed with grief. Meanwhile the great-hearted son of Tydeus drove off the horses and gave them to his comrades to lead back to the hollow ships. When the proud Trojans saw one son of Dares in flight and the other dead beside the chariot, every heart among them was shaken. But grey-eyed Athena took furious Ares by the hand and spoke to him:
"Ares, Ares, curse of mortals, blood-soaked stormer of walls, why don't we let the Trojans and Achaeans fight it out however Father Zeus wishes to grant the glory, while we two withdraw and steer clear of the wrath of Zeus?"
So she spoke, and led furious Ares out of the fighting; she seated him on the banks of the Scamander. Then the Danaans bent back the Trojan line, and each of their captains cut down a man. First of all, Agamemnon, lord of men, hurled great Odius, chief of the Halizones, from his chariot: as the man turned to flee, Agamemnon drove his spear into his back between the shoulder blades and it passed clean through his chest. He fell with a crash, and his armor clattered around him.
Idomeneus killed Phaestus, son of Borus the Maeonian, who had come from fertile Tarne. Famous spearman Idomeneus struck him with his long spear as he was mounting his chariot, catching him in the right shoulder; he tumbled from the car, and hateful darkness took hold of him. Idomeneus's attendants stripped his armor. Then Menelaus, son of Atreus, killed Scamandrius, son of Strophius, a man skilled in hunting, striking him with his sharp spear —
a fine huntsman, taught by Artemis herself to bring down every wild creature the forest mountains breed; but neither Artemis who showers arrows, nor the long-range skill in which he had once excelled, could help him now. No — Menelaus, famous spearman, son of Atreus, struck him as he fled before him, driving his spear into his back between the shoulders, and it burst through his chest. He fell face forward, and his armor rang out over him.
Meriones cut down Phereclus, son of Harmon the craftsman, whose hands knew how to build every kind of intricate device, for Pallas Athena loved him above all others; he it was who had built the balanced ships for Paris, the ships that began all the trouble, that brought disaster on all the Trojans and on himself as well, since he knew nothing of the gods' decrees. Meriones caught up with him as he fled and struck him in the right buttock; the spearpoint drove straight through, passing under the bone into the bladder. He fell to his knees with a groan, and death wrapped him round.
Meges killed Pedaeus, son of Antenor — a bastard son, but noble Theano had raised him with care, treating him just like her own children, to please her husband. The son of Phyleus, famous with the spear, came up close and struck him behind the head with his sharp spear; the bronze cut straight through, slicing beneath the tongue and through the teeth. He fell in the dust, gripping the cold bronze in his teeth.
Eurypylus, son of Euaemon, killed godlike Hypsenor, son of proud Dolopion, who had been made priest of the Scamander and was honored by the people like a god. Eurypylus, Euaemon's splendid son, ran him down as he fled before him and slashed his shoulder with his sword, hacking off his heavy arm; the bloody arm fell to the ground, and crimson death and mighty fate seized his eyes.
So they toiled on through the fierce fighting. As for the son of Tydeus, you could not have told which side he fought for — whether he ran with the Trojans or with the Achaeans. He swept across the plain like a river in flood, a winter torrent that in its swift running sweeps away the very bridges built to hold it; no barriers can check it, no fences of the flourishing vineyards can stop it,
when it comes on suddenly, swollen by the rain of Zeus, and beneath it many fine works of strong young men collapse. So the packed ranks of the Trojans gave way before the son of Tydeus, and many as they were, they could not hold against him.
When Pandarus, splendid son of Lycaon, saw him sweeping across the plain, driving whole battle-lines before him, he quickly bent his curved bow against Tydeus's son, and as Diomedes charged forward, he caught him with an arrow in the right shoulder, in the hollow of his breastplate; the bitter shaft flew straight through and out the other side, and the breastplate was spattered with blood.
Then Lycaon's splendid son gave a great shout over him: "Up, great-hearted Trojans, spur your horses on! The best of the Achaeans has been struck, and I do not think he will hold out long against this powerful arrow — if it was truly the lord, the son of Zeus, who roused me to leave Lycia and come here."
So he spoke, boasting; but the swift arrow had not brought Diomedes down. He drew back and took cover in front of his horses and chariot, and said to Sthenelus, son of Capaneus: "Up, dear friend, son of Capaneus — get down from the chariot and draw this bitter arrow out of my shoulder."
So he spoke, and Sthenelus leapt down from the chariot to the ground, stood beside him, and pulled the swift arrow clean through the shoulder; the blood spurted up through the woven tunic. Then Diomedes, master of the war cry, prayed aloud: "Hear me, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, tireless one! If ever you stood by my father with loving heart in the heat of battle, now in turn love me, Athena! Grant that I may kill this man and come within spear's reach of him, who struck me first and now boasts that I will not much longer see the bright light of the sun."
So he prayed, and Pallas Athena heard him. She made his limbs light — his feet and his hands above them — and standing close beside him she spoke winged words: "Take courage now, Diomedes, and fight the Trojans, for I have put in your chest the fearless strength your father had, the shield-wielding horseman Tydeus. And I have lifted the mist from your eyes that was there before, so that you may clearly tell a god from a man.
So if a god comes here now to test you, do not fight head-on against any of the immortal gods — except if Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, enters the battle: her you may wound with your sharp bronze." With these words grey-eyed Athena departed, and the son of Tydeus went back again to mingle with the front fighters.
Eager as he had already been to fight the Trojans, now three times that fury seized him — like a lion that a shepherd in the field has only grazed as it leapt the fence among his fleecy sheep, rousing its strength but not bringing it down; the shepherd then abandons the flock to its fate and takes shelter, while the sheep, deserted, panic and huddle together, piling on one another,
and the lion, driven by its fury, leaps clear out of the deep sheepfold. So, driven by fury, mighty Diomedes flung himself among the Trojans. There he killed Astynous and Hypeiron, shepherd of the people — one he struck above the nipple with his bronze-tipped spear, the other he hit with his great sword on the collarbone by the shoulder, severing the shoulder clean from the neck and back.
Leaving these, he went after Abas and Polyidus, sons of old Eurydamas, the reader of dreams; but the old man had not read any dreams for them before they set out, and mighty Diomedes now cut them both down.
Next he went after Xanthus and Thoon, sons of Phaenops, both born late in his life, his only children; their father was already worn down by grim old age and had fathered no other son to leave behind as heir to his possessions. There Diomedes killed both of them, taking the life from each, leaving their father only grief and bitter sorrow, since he would never welcome them home alive from the war — and distant kin divided up his estate.
Then he caught two sons of Priam, of the line of Dardanus, both riding in the one chariot, Echemmon and Chromius. Just as a lion springs among cattle and breaks the neck of a heifer or a bullock grazing in the woodland thicket, so Tydeus's son wretchedly hurled both men from their chariot, unwilling as they were, and then stripped their armor,
handing the horses over to his comrades to drive back to the ships. Aeneas saw him laying waste the ranks of men, and made his way through the fighting and the storm of spears, searching for godlike Pandarus, hoping to find him somewhere. He found Lycaon's blameless, powerful son, stood before him, and spoke to him directly:
"Pandarus, where is your bow now, and your winged arrows, and your reputation? No man here can rival you at that, and no one in Lycia claims to be better than you. Come now, lift your hands to Zeus and let an arrow fly at this man — whoever he is who has such power and has already done the Trojans so much harm, since he has loosened the knees of many brave men. Unless he is some god angry at the Trojans, furious over sacrifices withheld — and the anger of a god is a dangerous thing."
Then Lycaon's splendid son answered him: "Aeneas, counselor of the bronze-armored Trojans, in every way he seems to me like the battle-hungry son of Tydeus — I recognize him by his shield, his crested helmet, and by his horses, though I cannot say for certain whether he is a god. But if he is the man I think he is, the battle-hungry son of Tydeus, he is not raging like this without some god's help; rather some immortal stands close beside him, his shoulders wrapped in cloud, and turned aside the swift arrow just as it was about to hit him.
For I have already shot an arrow at him, and it struck him square in the right shoulder, clean through the hollow of his breastplate, and I thought for certain I had sent him down to Hades —
yet I did not bring him down. Some angry god must be at work here. And I have no horses or chariot here to mount: back in Lycaon's halls there are eleven fine chariots, newly built, freshly finished, with cloth coverings spread over them; and beside each stands a pair of horses, munching white barley and rye. Truly, old spearman Lycaon gave me strict orders as I was leaving his well-built house:
he told me to mount my chariot and horses and lead the Trojans into the fierce battles — but I would not listen to him, though it would have been far better if I had. I was sparing the horses, afraid they might go hungry among so many men used to eating their fill, when they were shut in by the siege. So I left them behind, and came to Troy on foot, trusting in my bow — but it was not going to do me any good after all.
For I have already shot at two of the best fighters, the son of Tydeus and the son of Atreus, and drawn real blood from both with my shots — but I only roused them further. It was in an evil hour that I took this curved bow down from its peg on that day I led my men to lovely Troy,
doing a favor for godlike Hector. If I ever return home and see with my own eyes my native land, my wife, and my great high-roofed house, may some stranger cut off my head then and there if I do not break this bow with my own hands and throw it into the blazing fire — since it has served me for nothing but wind."
Then Aeneas, leader of the Trojans, answered him: "Don't talk like that. Nothing will change until the two of us go up against this man with horses and chariot and test him at close quarters with our weapons.
Come, mount my chariot, so you can see what the horses of Troy are like — how skilled they are at racing across the plain in pursuit or in retreat. These same horses will carry us both safely back to the city, even if Zeus should once again grant glory to Diomedes, son of Tydeus. Come now, take the whip and the shining reins, and I will step down to fight on foot — or you take him on, and I'll manage the horses."
Then Lycaon's splendid son answered him: "Aeneas, you keep the reins yourself and drive your own team —
the chariot will run better under its usual driver if we do have to flee before the son of Tydeus. I'm afraid the horses might panic without your voice to guide them, and refuse to carry us clear of the fighting, and then the great-hearted son of Tydeus might charge in and kill us both and drive off our sure-footed horses. So you drive your own chariot and your own team, and I will face him coming on with my sharp spear."
With these words agreed, they climbed into the ornate chariot and drove their swift horses eagerly straight at the son of Tydeus. Sthenelus, splendid son of Capaneus, saw them coming and quickly spoke winged words to Diomedes:
"Diomedes, son of Tydeus, dear to my heart, I see two powerful men bearing down on you, eager to fight, men of tremendous strength — one is Pandarus, who prides himself on his archery and claims to be the son of Lycaon; the other, Aeneas, claims to be the son of blameless Anchises, and his mother is Aphrodite herself. Come, let's fall back in the chariot — don't keep charging through the front ranks like this, or you'll lose your life."
Mighty Diomedes looked at him darkly and answered: "Don't talk to me of retreat — I don't think you'll persuade me. It's not in my nature to fight running away, or to cower down; my strength is still steady in me. I'm reluctant even to mount the chariot — I'll go against them just as I am, on foot. Pallas Athena will not let me tremble. Their swift horses won't carry both of these men back again, away from us — even if one of the two should get away.
And I'll tell you something else — keep it in your mind: if all-wise Athena grants me the glory of killing both of them,
then hold our own swift horses here, reins drawn tight to the chariot rail, and charge straight at Aeneas's team, remembering to drive them out from the Trojans and in among the well-greaved Achaeans. They are of that same breed which wide-seeing Zeus gave to Tros in payment for his son Ganymede, since they were the finest horses under the dawn and the sun — from that very stock, Anchises, lord of men, stole a breeding, without Laomedon's knowledge, putting his own mares to them in secret, and from that union six were born to him in his halls.
Four of these he kept for himself and reared at his own manger, and the other two he gave to Aeneas, breeders of panic in war. If we could capture these, we would win ourselves great glory." While they were saying such things to one another, the other two came swiftly on, driving their fast horses close.
Lycaon's splendid son spoke first: "Bold-hearted, battle-hungry son of noble Tydeus, my swift arrow and its bitter point did not bring you down after all — now I'll try my luck with the spear." So saying, he drew back and hurled his long-shadowed spear,
and struck Tydeus's son's shield; the bronze point flew clean through and reached the breastplate. Then Lycaon's splendid son shouted out loudly over him: "You're hit — clean through the side! I don't think you'll hold out much longer now — you've given me great glory."
Unshaken, mighty Diomedes answered him: "You missed — you didn't hit your mark. But I don't think the two of you will stop this fight until one of you falls and gluts Ares, the tireless warrior, with his blood." So saying, he let his spear fly, and Athena guided it
to strike beside the nose, near the eye, and it drove through the white teeth. The tireless bronze sliced through the root of his tongue, and the point came out below his chin. He fell from the chariot, and his gleaming, flashing armor rang out over him; his swift-footed horses shied away in fear, and there his life and strength were undone.
Aeneas leapt down with his shield and long spear, afraid the Achaeans might drag the body away from him. He strode around it like a lion trusting in its strength, holding his spear out before him along with his shield, perfectly balanced on every side,
He came on, eager to kill whoever dared to stand against him, shouting his terrible shout. But Diomedes' hand found a stone lying in the field, a huge thing that two men as they are now could not carry, and he alone swung it easily.
With it he struck Aeneas on the hip, where the thighbone turns in its socket — men call it the hip-cup — and he shattered that socket and tore both tendons besides. The jagged stone ripped the skin away, and the hero went down on one knee, bracing himself with his broad hand against the ground, and black night poured over his eyes.
And now the lord of men Aeneas would have died there, but his mother was quick to see it, Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, who had borne him to Anchises the herdsman. She threw her white arms around her own son and spread a fold of her shining robe in front of him to shield him, so that no bronze-tipped spear thrown by some quick-charging Greek might strike his chest and tear the life from him.
So she began to carry her dear son out of the fighting. But the son of Capaneus had not forgotten the orders Diomedes of the loud war cry had given him. He reined in his own sure-footed horses well clear of the noise, tying the reins to the chariot rail, then dashed forward, seized Aeneas' lovely-maned team, and drove them out from the Trojans to the strong-greaved Greeks. He handed them over to his dear friend Deipylus, whom he prized above all his age-mates because he knew his own mind, and told him to drive them back to the hollow ships. Then the hero climbed into his own car, took up the glittering reins, and drove his strong-hoofed horses hard after the son of Tydeus.
Diomedes, meanwhile, was chasing Aphrodite with pitiless bronze, knowing her for the weak goddess she was — not one of those who rule the battles of men, neither Athena nor Enyo the sacker of cities. When he caught up with her at last in the thick of the crowd, great-hearted Tydeus' son lunged and cut her tender wrist with the point of his spear.
The spear tore straight through the divine robe the Graces themselves had woven for her, cutting the skin above the base of her palm, and the immortal blood of the goddess flowed — the ichor that runs in the blessed gods, since they eat no bread and drink no dark wine, and so have no blood in them and are called deathless.
She screamed aloud and let her son fall from her arms. Phoebus Apollo caught him up in a dark cloud, so that no bronze-tipped spear thrown by some quick-charging Greek might strike his chest and take his life. And over her Diomedes of the loud war cry shouted:
"Keep away, daughter of Zeus, from war and slaughter! Isn't it enough that you lead weak women astray? If you go on meddling in battle, I promise you'll shudder at the very word war, wherever you hear it spoken again."
So he spoke, and she went off in her daze, in terrible pain, her lovely skin gone pale. Iris, swift as the wind, took her by the hand and led her from the crowd, worn down with agony. She found furious Ares sitting apart on the battle's left flank, his spear leaning in a bank of cloud, his swift horses beside him. She dropped to her knees before her own brother and begged him hard for the loan of his gold-bridled team.
"Dear brother, rescue me — give me your horses, so I can reach Olympus, the seat of the deathless gods. I am in agony from this wound a mortal man gave me, Tydeus' son, who by now would fight even against father Zeus."
So she spoke, and Ares gave her his gold-bridled horses. She climbed into the car, her heart heavy with grief, and Iris climbed up beside her and took the reins in her hands, then whipped the horses on, and they flew willingly enough. Soon they came to steep Olympus, seat of the gods, and there wind-footed Iris reined the horses in, loosed them from the chariot, and threw them ambrosial fodder.
Divine Aphrodite fell into her mother Dione's lap, and Dione folded her arms around her daughter, stroked her with her hand, and spoke to her, calling her by name: "Who has treated you this way, dear child, one of the gods of heaven, as if you had done something wrong in plain sight?"
Laughter-loving Aphrodite answered her: "Diomedes wounded me — proud Diomedes, Tydeus' son — because I was carrying my own dear son Aeneas out of the fighting, the man who is dearest to me of all men living. This is no longer a war of Trojans against Greeks; now the Greeks are fighting the very gods."
Then Dione, shining among goddesses, answered her: "Bear up, my child, and endure it, sore as you are. Many of us who hold houses on Olympus have suffered hard pain at the hands of men, dealing it out to one another as well.
Ares bore it, when Otus and mighty Ephialtes, the sons of Aloeus, bound him in cruel chains — he lay shackled in a bronze jar for thirteen months, and Ares, insatiable for war, would have perished there had not their stepmother, lovely Eeriboea, sent word to Hermes, who stole Ares away, worn out as he already was, so cruelly did the chain wear on him.
Hera bore it too, when the mighty son of Amphitryon shot her in the right breast with a three-barbed arrow — an agony beyond healing seized her then. And monstrous Hades among the gods bore a swift arrow, when that same man, the son of Zeus who bears the aegis, struck him among the dead at Pylos and gave him over to pain. He went up to the house of Zeus and towering Olympus, his heart sick with pain, the shaft driven deep in his massive shoulder, and it tormented his spirit, until Paeon spread pain-killing herbs on the wound and healed him, for he was never made to die.
That man was reckless, a doer of violence, who thought nothing of committing outrage, wounding with his arrows the gods who hold Olympus. And now the grey-eyed goddess Athena has set this man Diomedes on you. The fool doesn't understand in his heart that whoever fights the immortals does not live long — no children will ever climb onto his knees calling him father when he comes home from war and the dread of battle.
So let Tydeus' son think hard, strong as he is, that someone better than you may yet fight him, and that Aegialeia, wise daughter of Adrestus, may one day wake her whole household from sleep with her wailing, grieving for the husband of her youth, the best of the Greeks — the noble wife of Diomedes, breaker of horses."
With that she wiped the ichor from her daughter's wrist with both hands; the wound closed, and the terrible pain eased. But Athena and Hera, watching this, tried to provoke Zeus, son of Cronus, with mocking words. The grey-eyed goddess Athena spoke first among them:
"Father Zeus, will you be angry with me for what I'm about to say? I think the Lady of Cyprus has been urging some woman of Greece to run off after the Trojans, whom she now loves so extravagantly — and while petting one of those lovely-robed Greek women, she must have scratched her delicate hand on the woman's golden pin."
So she spoke, and the father of gods and men smiled, and calling golden Aphrodite to him he said: "War is not your business, my child. Go after the sweet works of marriage instead, and leave all this to swift Ares and Athena."
While the gods traded words like these among themselves, Diomedes of the loud war cry charged again at Aeneas, knowing that Apollo himself held his hands over him — yet he did not shrink even from the great god, so set was he on killing Aeneas and stripping his famous armor. Three times he lunged, burning to kill him, and three times Apollo knocked his gleaming shield aside. But when he charged a fourth time, like something more than a man, Apollo the archer god shouted at him in a terrible voice:
"Think, son of Tydeus, and give ground. Don't set your mind level with the gods — the race of immortal gods and men who walk the earth is never the same."
So he spoke, and Diomedes gave a little ground, avoiding the anger of Apollo who strikes from afar. Apollo then set Aeneas apart from the crowd, in his own holy shrine at Pergamus, where his temple stood. There, in the great inner chamber, Leto and arrow-showering Artemis healed him and gave him glory. Meanwhile Apollo of the silver bow made a phantom, shaped exactly like Aeneas and armed just as he was armed, and around this phantom the Trojans and noble Greeks kept hacking at each other's ox-hide shields, the round bucklers and the fluttering light shields.
Then Phoebus Apollo spoke to raging Ares: "Ares, Ares, curse of mankind, blood-drenched stormer of walls, won't you go and pull this man out of the fighting — Diomedes, who by now would fight even father Zeus? First he closed on the Lady of Cyprus and cut her hand at the wrist, then he came on at me himself, like something more than a man."
With these words he took his own seat on the height of Pergamus, while savage Ares went among the Trojan ranks to drive them on, taking the shape of swift Acamas, chief of the Thracians. He called to the god-favored sons of Priam: "Sons of King Priam, favored by god, how much longer will you let your men be slaughtered by the Greeks? Until they're fighting around the well-built gates themselves? A man lies fallen whom we honored as much as noble Hector — Aeneas, son of great-hearted Anchises. Come, let us save our good comrade from the crush of battle." So he spoke, and roused the spirit and courage of every man there.
Then Sarpedon turned on noble Hector with sharp words: "Hector, where has the courage gone that you used to have? You claimed, I remember, that you could hold the city without troops or allies, alone with your brothers-in-law and your brothers. But I can't see a single one of them now — they're all cringing like dogs around a lion, while we do the fighting, we who are only here as your allies.
I myself have come as an ally from very far away — Lycia lies far off, by the swirling waters of the Xanthus, where I left my dear wife and my baby son, and great wealth besides, which any poor man would long for. Yet even so I drive my Lycians on and am eager myself to meet this man in battle, though I have nothing here of my own that the Greeks could carry off or drive away. But you just stand there, and you don't even urge your own troops to hold firm and defend their wives.
Take care, or like men caught in the mesh of an all-catching net, you'll become the prey and plunder of your enemies, and they'll soon sack your well-peopled city. This should be your whole concern, day and night — to beg the leaders of your far-famed allies to hold the line without wavering, and to put aside your harsh reproach of them."
So Sarpedon spoke, and his words bit into Hector's heart. At once he leapt down from his chariot in full armor, and went everywhere through the army brandishing his sharp spears, urging the men to fight, and stirred up the terrible din of battle. They wheeled about and stood facing the Greeks, while the Argives held their ground in close ranks and did not break.
And as the wind carries chaff over the holy threshing floors when men are winnowing, and golden Demeter sorts the grain from the chaff as the winds rush by, and the heaps of straw grow white beneath — so now the Greeks turned white all over with the dust that the horses' hooves kicked up into the bronze sky as the drivers wheeled their chariots back into the crowd. The men bent all their strength straight into the fight, and furious Ares wrapped the battle in night as he lent his aid to the Trojans, ranging everywhere — carrying out the orders of Phoebus Apollo of the golden sword, who had told him to rouse the Trojans' spirit once he saw Pallas Athena had gone, since she had been helping the Greeks.
Apollo himself sent Aeneas out from his rich shrine and put strength into the shepherd of his people's chest. Aeneas took his place again among his comrades, and they rejoiced to see him come back alive and whole, full of good courage — though they did not stop to ask him how, since other work pressed on them, the work that the god of the silver bow and Ares, curse of mortals, and Strife raging without pause were stirring up. The two Ajaxes, Odysseus, and Diomedes were all driving the Greeks on to fight, and they themselves had no fear of the Trojans' strength or their onslaughts.
They stood firm like clouds that the son of Cronus sets on the mountain peaks in still weather, unmoving, while the force of the North Wind and the other wild winds — the ones that scatter the shadowy clouds with their whistling blasts — sleep quietly. So the Greeks stood fast against the Trojans and did not run. And the son of Atreus went through the crowd urging his men on:
"Friends, be men, and take courage in your hearts, and feel shame before each other in the hard press of battle. When men feel shame, more of them come through alive than die; but for men who run, there is no glory won, and no defense either."
With that he threw his spear quickly and struck a leading man, a comrade of Aeneas, great-hearted Deicoon, son of Pergasus, whom the Trojans honored as much as the sons of Priam, because he was always quick to fight in the front ranks. Lord Agamemnon's spear struck his shield, and the bronze drove straight through it and into his lower belly through his belt. He fell with a crash, and his armor clattered over him.
Then Aeneas in turn cut down two of the best men of the Greeks, the sons of Diocles, Crethon and Orsilochus. Their father lived in well-built Pherae, a man rich in livelihood, and his line came down from the river Alpheus, which flows wide through the land of the Pylians. Alpheus fathered Ortilochus, who ruled over many men, and Ortilochus fathered great-hearted Diocles, and from Diocles came twin sons, Crethon and Orsilochus, both well versed in every kind of fighting.
As soon as they came of age they sailed with the Argives to Ilion, land of fine horses, aboard the black ships, to win honor for the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus — but there death's ending covered them both over.
They were like two lions raised together on a mountain peak, nursed by their mother deep in the thick woods, who go plundering cattle and fat sheep from men's farmsteads until at last they too are killed by men's hands with sharp bronze. Just so these two, brought down by the hands of Aeneas, fell like two tall pines.
Menelaus, dear to Ares, pitied them as they fell, and strode through the front fighters helmeted in gleaming bronze, brandishing his spear, for Ares was driving him on, with this thought in mind — that he too might be brought down by the hands of Aeneas. But Antilochus, great-hearted Nestor's son, saw him go and strode through the front fighters as well, afraid for the shepherd of the people, afraid something might happen to him and undo all their labor.
The two of them, Aeneas and Menelaus, stood facing each other with their hands and their sharp spears, eager to fight, but Antilochus came and took his stand very close beside the shepherd of the people. And Aeneas, quick fighter though he was, did not stay when he saw the two men standing side by side.
So they dragged the bodies back to the Greek ranks, and gave the two unlucky brothers into the arms of their comrades, then turned themselves and went to fight again among the front ranks. There they killed Pylaemenes, a match for Ares, leader of the great-hearted Paphlagonian shieldmen. Menelaus, son of Atreus, famous with the spear, caught him standing still and struck him with his spear at the collarbone. And Antilochus struck down Mydon, his attendant and driver, the noble son of Atymnius, just as he was turning his sure-footed horses around — he hit him square on the elbow with a stone, and the white ivory-trimmed reins fell from his hands into the dust.
Antilochus rushed in and struck him on the temple with his sword, and gasping he tumbled from the well-made car headfirst into the dust, landing on his skull and shoulders. He stayed stuck there a good while, for he happened to land in deep sand, until his own horses kicked him down flat and finished him off in the dust. Antilochus lashed the horses and drove them back to the Greek army.
Hector saw the two brothers fall along the ranks and charged straight at the men with a great cry, and behind him came the strong Trojan ranks. Ares led them on, and lady Enyo beside him, she bringing pitiless Rout of battle, and Ares wielding a monstrous spear in his hands, ranging now in front of Hector, now behind him.
Diomedes of the loud war cry shuddered when he saw him coming. As a man crossing a wide plain with no way to help himself comes to a rushing river that pours down to the sea, sees it seething with foam, and shrinks back — so now Diomedes gave ground, and said to his men:
"Friends, no wonder we marvel at godlike Hector as a spearman and a bold fighter — some god always stands beside him to ward off ruin, and now that god is with him: Ares, in the shape of a mortal man. So keep your faces toward the Trojans, but give ground step by step, and don't strain to fight the gods themselves by force."
So he spoke, and the Trojans came close upon them. There Hector killed two men skilled in battle, riding together in a single chariot, Menesthes and Anchialus.
Great Telamonian Ajax pitied the fallen pair. He came in close, hurled his shining spear, and struck Amphius, son of Selagus, a man rich in flocks and fields who lived in Paesus — but fate had drawn him to fight beside Priam and his sons. Ajax's spear caught him at the war-belt and drove deep into his lower belly; he fell with a crash. Shining Ajax ran up to strip his armor, but the Trojans poured their bright, sharp spears down on him, and his shield caught many of them. Planting his heel on the corpse, he wrenched his bronze spear free, but he could not pull the fine armor from the dead man's shoulders — the missiles pressed too hard on him. He feared the strong ring of proud Trojans standing over the body, so many and so good, spears leveled, who, huge and powerful and splendid as he was, forced him back; he gave ground, shaken.
So they labored on in the grim struggle. Meanwhile mighty fate drove Tlepolemus, tall and strong son of Heracles, against godlike Sarpedon. When they came close, advancing on each other — the son and the grandson of Zeus who gathers the clouds — Tlepolemus spoke first:
"Sarpedon, counselor of the Lycians, what forces you to cower here, a man who knows nothing of war? They lie who call you son of Zeus the aegis-bearer, for you fall far short of the men who were born of Zeus in generations past. What a man they say my father was — mighty Heracles, bold-hearted, lion-souled — who once came here for the horses of Laomedon with only six ships and a handful of men, and sacked the city of Troy and left her streets widowed. But your heart is a coward's, and your people are wasting away. I don't think you'll prove any defense for the Trojans, for all you've come from Lycia, however strong you may be — beaten down by me, you'll pass through the gates of Hades."
Sarpedon, leader of the Lycians, answered him: "Tlepolemus, that man of yours destroyed sacred Troy through the folly of proud Laomedon, who repaid him with harsh words for a good deed, and would not give up the horses he had come so far to win. As for you, I tell you death and black doom will come to you from me here, and beaten down beneath my spear, you'll give me glory, and your soul to Hades, lord of famous horses."
So Sarpedon spoke, and Tlepolemus raised his ash spear. Both men's long spears flew from their hands at once. Sarpedon's caught Tlepolemus square in the neck, and the agonizing point drove clean through; black night closed over his eyes. Tlepolemus's long spear struck Sarpedon's left thigh, and the raging point tore through, grazing the bone — but his father still warded off destruction.
His noble comrades carried godlike Sarpedon out of the fighting, the long spear still dragging in his flesh and weighing him down; in their haste no one thought or noticed to pull the ash spear from his thigh so he could stand — the effort of tending him took all their care.
On the other side, the bronze-greaved Achaeans carried Tlepolemus out of the fighting. Enduring Odysseus noticed, and his heart raged within him. He weighed it in his mind: should he press on after the son of thundering Zeus, or should he instead cut down the lives of the common Lycians? But it was not fate for great-hearted Odysseus to kill the mighty son of Zeus with sharp bronze, so Athena turned his fury toward the mass of the Lycians instead.
There he cut down Coeranus, Alastor, Chromius, Alcander, Halius, Noemon, and Prytanis. Godlike Odysseus would have killed still more Lycians, but great Hector of the flashing helmet saw it quickly. He strode through the front fighters, helmeted in gleaming bronze, bringing terror to the Danaans. Sarpedon, son of Zeus, was glad to see him coming, and spoke to him in a voice of pain:
"Son of Priam, don't leave me lying here as plunder for the Danaans — defend me. Then let my life leave me, even in your city, since I was never going to make it home again, to my own dear land, to bring joy to my beloved wife and my infant son."
So he spoke, but Hector of the flashing helmet made no answer; he rushed past, eager to drive back the Argives as quickly as possible and take the lives of many.
His noble comrades set godlike Sarpedon down beneath the beautiful oak tree of Zeus who bears the aegis, and mighty Pelagon, his dear companion, drew the ash spear out from his thigh. His spirit left him and a mist poured over his eyes; but then he was revived, as a breath of the north wind blew over him and brought back to life the spirit that had been failing him painfully.
Under the pressure of Ares and bronze-armored Hector, the Argives were never driven all the way back to their black ships, nor did they ever stand and match them in battle — they kept giving ground, once they learned Ares was fighting on the Trojan side.
Who then was first, who last, that Hector, son of Priam, and bronze Ares struck down? Godlike Teuthras, then horse-driving Orestes, Trechus the spearman from Aetolia, and Oenomaus, Helenus son of Oenops, and Oresbius of the flashing war-belt, who lived in Hyle, devoted to great wealth, close by Lake Cephisis, where the rest of the Boeotians dwelled, holding rich farmland.
When white-armed Hera the goddess saw the Argives being slaughtered in the fierce fighting, she at once spoke winged words to Athena:
"Shame on us, child of Zeus the aegis-bearer, tireless one — the promise we made Menelaus, that he'd go home after sacking well-walled Troy, will come to nothing, if we're going to let destructive Ares rage on like this. Come, let the two of us think of our own furious strength."
So she spoke, and grey-eyed Athena did not disobey. Hera, the venerable goddess, daughter of great Cronus, went herself and harnessed the gold-browed horses, while Hebe quickly fitted the curved wheels to the chariot, bronze, eight-spoked, on their iron axle. Their rims were golden, imperishable, and over them bronze tires were fitted, a wonder to see; the hubs on both sides were silver, running smoothly. The chariot's platform was strung with gold and silver cords, and it had a double rail running around it. From it stretched a silver pole, and at its tip Hera bound a fine golden yoke, and cast on it the fine golden breast-straps. Then she led the swift-footed horses under the yoke, eager for battle-strife and the war-cry.
Meanwhile Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, let fall on her father's floor her soft, embroidered robe, which she herself had made and worked with her own hands, and put on the tunic of Zeus who gathers the clouds, and armed herself for tearful war. Around her shoulders she threw the fringed aegis, a terrible thing crowned all around with Panic; on it were Strife, and Strength, and chilling Pursuit, and the head of the dread Gorgon, a fearsome, terrible monster, the sign of Zeus who bears the aegis. On her head she set a golden helmet with two ridges and four crests, fitted for the footsoldiers of a hundred cities. She stepped onto the blazing chariot and took up her spear, heavy, huge, and solid, with which she beats down the ranks of warriors, of any men against whom the daughter of the mighty father turns her anger.
Hera quickly touched the horses with her whip, and the gates of heaven groaned open on their own — the gates the Hours guard, to whom is entrusted the great sky and Olympus, to open the dense cloud or close it again. Through these they drove their goad-driven horses. They found the son of Cronus sitting apart from the other gods, on the topmost peak of many-ridged Olympus. There white-armed Hera stopped the horses and questioned Zeus, highest son of Cronus, and said:
"Father Zeus, does it not anger you to see these violent deeds of Ares — how many and what fine warriors of the Achaeans he has destroyed, for no reason, against all order? It grieves me, while Aphrodite and Apollo of the silver bow sit at ease enjoying it, having let loose this madman who knows no law at all. Father Zeus, will you be angry with me if I strike Ares hard and drive him out of the battle?"
Zeus who gathers the clouds answered her: "Go on, then — set the war-driver Athena on him; she is the one most used to bringing him face to face with bitter pain."
So he spoke, and white-armed Hera did not disobey. She whipped the horses onward, and they flew willingly between the earth and the starry sky. As far as a man sitting on a lookout post can see into the hazy distance, gazing out over the wine-dark sea, so far in a single bound do the high-stepping horses of the gods leap.
When they reached Troy and the two flowing rivers, where the streams of Simois and Scamander join, white-armed Hera stopped the horses, freed them from the chariot, and poured thick mist around them; and Simois grew ambrosia there for them to graze on.
The two goddesses went on with steps like timid doves, eager to defend the Argive men. And when they reached the place where the greatest and best men stood clustered around mighty Diomedes, tamer of horses, packed together like raw-eating lions or wild boars, whose strength is nothing weak, there white-armed Hera stopped and called out, taking the shape of great-hearted, bronze-voiced Stentor, whose shout was as loud as fifty other men's together:
"Shame, you Argives — disgraceful cowards, splendid only to look at! As long as godlike Achilles used to come out to battle, the Trojans never even ventured beyond the Dardanian gates, so afraid were they of his mighty spear. Now they are fighting far from their city, at your hollow ships."
With these words she stirred up the strength and spirit of every man. Meanwhile grey-eyed Athena rushed to the son of Tydeus, and found their lord beside his horses and chariot, cooling the wound Pandarus had given him with an arrow. Sweat was chafing him under the broad strap of his round shield; it wore on him, his arm was aching, and holding up the strap he was wiping away the dark clotted blood.
The goddess laid her hand on the horses' yoke and spoke: "Tydeus fathered a son little like himself. Tydeus was small in body, but a fighter. Even when I tried to hold him back from fighting, from charging out, that time he went as a messenger alone among the many Cadmeans to Thebes, and I told him to feast quietly in their halls, he kept the same fierce spirit he always had and challenged the young Cadmean men to contests, and beat them all easily — that's how much I stood beside him and helped him. But you — here I stand beside you and watch over you, and I urge you eagerly to fight the Trojans, yet either exhausting weariness has crept into your limbs, or some spiritless fear grips you. If so, you are no true offspring of Tydeus, wise Oeneus's son."
Strong Diomedes answered her: "I know you, goddess, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis — so I will speak my mind to you frankly and hide nothing. No spiritless fear grips me, no hesitation, but I still remember the order you gave me: you told me not to fight the other blessed gods face to face, except that if Zeus's daughter Aphrodite should come into the battle, her alone I might wound with the sharp bronze. That's why I am now falling back myself, and why I told the other Argives to gather here together — because I recognize Ares, lording it over the battlefield."
Then grey-eyed Athena answered him: "Diomedes, son of Tydeus, dear to my heart, do not fear Ares for this, nor any other immortal — that is how strongly I stand behind you. Come, drive your single-hoofed horses straight at Ares first; strike him at close range, and don't hold back from raging Ares, that madman, that crafted evil, that two-faced thing, who not long ago promised me and Hera he would fight against the Trojans and help the Argives — and now he keeps company with the Trojans and has forgotten all that."
With these words she pulled Sthenelus back and pushed him down from the chariot, and he leapt down at once, and the goddess, eager for battle, mounted the car beside godlike Diomedes. The oaken axle groaned loudly under the weight, for it carried a dread goddess and the best of men. Pallas Athena took up the whip and reins, and drove the single-hoofed horses straight at Ares first.
Ares was at that moment stripping the armor of gigantic Periphas, by far the best of the Aetolians, splendid son of Ochesius; blood-stained Ares was killing and despoiling him, while Athena put on the helmet of Hades so that mighty Ares would not see her.
When man-killing Ares caught sight of godlike Diomedes, he left gigantic Periphas lying just where he had first taken his life, and went straight for Diomedes, tamer of horses.
As they came near each other, advancing on one another, Ares struck first, reaching over the yoke and the horses' reins with his bronze spear, eager to take Diomedes's life; but grey-eyed Athena caught it in her hand and shoved it aside, so it flew past the chariot in vain.
Next Diomedes, good at the war cry, thrust with his bronze spear, and Pallas Athena drove it home into Ares's lower flank, where his war-belt was fastened; there she struck and tore his handsome flesh, then wrenched the spear back out. And bronze Ares bellowed as loud as nine thousand or ten thousand men shout in war when they join in the strife of Ares — and both Achaeans and Trojans were seized with trembling fear, so loud did Ares roar, that insatiable warrior.
As a dark haze appears out of the clouds after a scorching wind has been blowing, so bronze Ares appeared to Diomedes, son of Tydeus, rising with the clouds into the wide sky.
Quickly he reached steep Olympus, the home of the gods, and sat down beside Zeus, son of Cronus, his heart grieving, and showed him the immortal blood flowing from his wound, and spoke to him in a voice of complaint, winged words:
"Father Zeus, does it not anger you to see these violent deeds? We gods are always suffering the worst pains at each other's hands, whenever we do favors for mortal men. We all quarrel with you over it — you're the one who fathered that reckless, destructive girl, who's always bent on wicked deeds. All the rest of us, every god on Olympus, obeys you, and each of us submits — but her you never check, in word or deed. You simply let her go, since you yourself fathered this destructive child. It's she who has now driven on Diomedes, Tydeus's insolent son, to rage against the immortal gods. First he went for Aphrodite, wounding her hand near the wrist, then he came at me myself, matched against a god. Only my swift feet carried me away, or I would have suffered agony for a long time there among the grim heaps of the dead, or else lived on helpless from the blows of bronze."
Zeus who gathers the clouds looked at him darkly and said: "Don't sit here beside me whining, you two-faced thing. You are the most hateful to me of all the gods who hold Olympus; strife is always dear to you, and wars, and battles. You have your mother Hera's temper, unmanageable, never yielding — and it is all I can do to keep her in check with words. So I think it is at her urging that you suffer this. But still, I will not go on much longer letting you suffer, for you are my own blood, and your mother bore you to me. If you had been born this destructive to any other god, you would long ago have been thrust down below the sons of Uranus."
So he spoke, and ordered Paeon to heal him. And Paeon spread pain-killing medicines over the wound...
...and healed him, for he was made of no mortal stuff.
As when fig-juice, stirred quickly into white milk, curdles it though it was liquid, and it thickens fast beneath the hand that turns it, so swiftly did the god heal furious Ares.
Hebe bathed him and dressed him in fine clothing, and he sat down beside Zeus, son of Cronus, glorying in his splendor.
And Argive Hera and Alalcomenean Athena went back to the great house of Zeus, their work done: they had stopped Ares, killer of men, from his slaughter.

======== Book 6 ========

Now the grim battle between Trojans and Achaeans was left to itself, and the fighting surged this way and that across the plain as the two sides drove their bronze spears at one another between the Simoeis and the streams of the Xanthus. Ajax son of Telamon, bulwark of the Achaeans, was first to break through a Trojan line and bring light to his comrades, striking down a man who was the best of the Thracians, tall and strong, Acamas son of Eussorus. Ajax hit him first on the ridge of his horsehair helmet, and the point drove into his forehead and on through the bone.
The bronze spearhead went in, and darkness closed over his eyes. Diomedes, loud in the war cry, killed Axylus son of Teuthras, who had lived in well-built Arisbe, a man rich in substance and loved by everyone, for he made a friend of every traveler who passed his house on the road. But not one of them stood before him now to keep off grim destruction; Diomedes took the life of both the man and his attendant Calesius, who was then his chariot driver, and the two of them went down together into the earth. Euryalus cut down Dresus and Opheltius,
and pressed on after Aesepus and Pedasus, sons the river nymph Abarbarea had once borne to blameless Bucolion. Bucolion was the eldest son of proud Laomedon, born to him in secret, for his mother had conceived him unlawfully. While he was tending his flocks he had lain with the nymph in love, and she had conceived and borne him twin sons. And now Euryalus, son of Mecisteus, loosed the strength and shining limbs of both and stripped the armor from their shoulders. Menace-in-battle Polypoetes killed Astyalus, Odysseus cut down Pidytes of Percote
with his bronze spear, and Teucer killed godlike Aretaon. Antilochus son of Nestor brought down Ableros with his gleaming spear, and Agamemnon, lord of men, killed Elatus, who had lived by the fair-flowing banks of the Satnioeis, in steep Pedasus. Leitus the hero caught Phylacus as he fled, and Eurypylus cut down Melanthius. Then Menelaus, loud in the war cry, took Adrestus alive, for the man's two horses, bolting in panic across the plain, caught their chariot pole on a tamarisk branch and snapped it,
and bolted on toward the city, the way all the other frightened horses were running, while Adrestus himself was thrown from the car beside the wheel and fell face down in the dust on his mouth. Menelaus, son of Atreus, came and stood over him, holding his long-shadowed spear. Adrestus caught him by the knees and begged him: "Take me alive, son of Atreus, and accept a fitting ransom. In my father's rich house many treasures lie stored up, bronze and gold and well-worked iron, and my father would gladly give you a boundless ransom for them if he learned I was alive among the Achaean ships."
So he spoke, and he was winning the heart in Menelaus's chest, and Menelaus was on the point of handing him over to an attendant to lead down to the swift Achaean ships. But just then Agamemnon came running up to face him and cried out in rebuke: "Softness, Menelaus? Why show such concern for these men? Has it really gone so well for you at home from the Trojans? No — let not one of them escape sheer destruction at our hands, not even the boy a mother carries still in her womb, not even that one — let all of them together perish out of Troy, unmourned and unremembered."
So the hero spoke, turning his brother's mind, urging what was right, and Menelaus with his own hand shoved the warrior Adrestus away from him, and lord Agamemnon struck him in the flank; he fell backward, and the son of Atreus planted his heel on his chest and wrenched out the ashen spear. Then Nestor called out to the Argives in a great voice: "Friends, warrior Danaans, servants of Ares, let no man now hang back to strip the dead and load himself with plunder, so as to reach the ships bearing the most; let us kill the men first — afterward at your leisure
you can strip the dead bodies all across the plain." So he spoke, and roused the fighting spirit in every man. And now the Trojans, beaten down by their own faintness of heart, would have gone climbing back up into Ilion before the war-loving Achaeans, had not Helenus, son of Priam, far the best of augurs, come and stood by Aeneas and Hector and said to them: "Aeneas and Hector, since the burden of the fighting for Trojans and Lycians falls heaviest on you two, because you are the best at everything, whether it calls for fighting or for thinking — stand your ground here, and range everywhere among the men, holding them back before the gates,
before they go tumbling in flight into the arms of their women, and become a joy to our enemies. Once you have roused all our companies of fighters, we will stand our ground here and fight the Danaans, however hard-pressed we are — necessity drives us to it. But you, Hector, go into the city, and tell our mother, yours and mine, to gather the older women together, and at the temple of grey-eyed Athena high in the city, to open the doors of the sacred house with her key, and take the robe that seems to her the loveliest
and the largest in the great hall, and the one she herself loves best, and lay it on the knees of Athena of the lovely hair, and vow to her that she will sacrifice twelve heifers in her temple, yearlings that have never felt the goad, if only she will take pity on the city, and on the wives of Troy, and on their little children, and hold back from sacred Ilion the son of Tydeus, that savage spearman, that mighty master of the rout, whom I say is the strongest of all the Achaeans. We never feared Achilles so, leader of men though he is,
and they say he was born of a goddess — but this man rages beyond all bounds, and no one can match his fury." So he spoke, and Hector did not disobey his brother. At once he leapt down from his chariot in full armor, and went everywhere through the army brandishing his sharp spears, rousing them to fight, and stirred up the grim battle. And the Trojans wheeled about and stood to face the Achaeans, and the Argives fell back and gave up the slaughter, thinking some immortal had come down from the starry sky
to fight for the Trojans, so suddenly had they turned. And Hector called out to the Trojans in a great voice: "Proud Trojans, and you far-famed allies, be men, my friends, and remember your furious courage, while I go to Ilion and tell the elders of the council and our wives to pray to the gods and vow them offerings." So spoke Hector of the flashing helm, and went off; the black leather rim of his great bossed shield beat against his ankles and his neck as he walked. Meanwhile Glaucus, son of Hippolochus, and the son of Tydeus
came together in the space between the two armies, both eager to fight. And when they had come close, advancing on one another, Diomedes, loud in the war cry, spoke first: "Who are you, brave friend, among mortal men? I have never seen you before in the fighting where men win their glory, yet now you have come forward far ahead of all the rest, daring to face my long-shadowed spear. Unlucky are the fathers whose sons stand up against my fury. But if you are one of the immortals come down from heaven,
I have no wish to fight with the gods of the sky. Not even the strong son of Dryas, Lycurgus, lived long,
once he tried to quarrel with the gods of heaven. He once chased the nurses of raving Dionysus down over the holy mountain of Nysa, and all of them together flung their sacred wands to the ground under the man-killing goad of Lycurgus as he struck them. Dionysus, terrified, plunged beneath the swell of the sea, and Thetis took him into her lap, trembling, for a fierce fear had seized him at the man's onslaught. But then the gods who live at ease grew angry with Lycurgus, and the son of Cronus struck him blind, and he did not live much longer after that,
since he had become hateful to all the immortal gods. So I have no wish to fight with the blessed gods. But if you are one of the mortals who eat the fruit of the earth, come closer, and you will all the sooner reach the limit of death." Then the shining son of Hippolochus answered him: "Great-hearted son of Tydeus, why do you ask about my lineage? Like the generations of leaves, so are those of men. The wind scatters one year's leaves on the ground, but the growing wood puts out others when the season of spring comes again — so it is with the generations of men, one grows while another passes away. But if you wish to learn this too, so that you may know
my lineage well — many men know it — there is a city, Ephyre, in a corner of Argos where horses graze, and there lived Sisyphus, who was the most cunning of men, Sisyphus son of Aeolus. He fathered a son, Glaucus, and Glaucus in turn fathered blameless Bellerophon. To him the gods gave beauty and a winning manliness, but Proitus in his heart devised evil against him and drove him out from his people, since he was far the stronger of the two among the Argives, for Zeus had put them under his scepter. Now Proitus's wife, noble Anteia, fell madly in love with him,
wanting to lie with him in secret passion, but she could not persuade the noble-hearted Bellerophon, a man of sound judgment. So she went to King Proitus with a lie: "Die, Proitus, or kill Bellerophon, who wanted to lie with me against my will." So she spoke, and anger seized the king when he heard it. He shrank from killing the man outright, for his heart recoiled from that, but he sent him off to Lycia, and gave him fatal tokens, scratching many deadly signs on a folded tablet, and told him to show it to his own father-in-law, so that he might be destroyed.
So Bellerophon went to Lycia under the safe escort of the gods, and when he reached Lycia and the flowing Xanthus, the king of wide Lycia received him gladly, and entertained him nine days, sacrificing nine oxen. But when the tenth day came, rosy-fingered, he questioned him then and asked to see the token he was carrying from his son-in-law Proitus. And when he had received the evil token from his son-in-law, first he ordered him to kill the monstrous Chimera, a creature not born of men but of the gods,
lion in front, serpent behind, and goat in the middle, breathing out the terrible force of blazing fire. Bellerophon killed her, trusting in signs from the gods. Next he fought the glorious Solymi, and he said that was the fiercest battle of men he ever entered. Third, he killed the Amazons, women who fight like men. And as he came back from that, the king wove yet another cunning plot against him: he picked out the best men from wide Lycia and set an ambush, but not one of them ever went home again,
for blameless Bellerophon killed them all. When at last the king recognized that he was the true offspring of a god, he kept him there, and gave him his own daughter, and gave him half of all his royal honor besides. And the Lycians cut out for him a fine plot of land, the choicest of all, orchard and plowland, that he might work it. And she bore three children to wise Bellerophon: Isander and Hippolochus and Laodameia. With Laodameia the counselor Zeus himself lay,
and she bore godlike Sarpedon, armored in bronze. But when at last Bellerophon too became hateful to all the gods,
he took to wandering alone over the plain of Aleius, eating his own heart out, shunning the paths of men. And Ares, insatiable in war, killed his son Isander in battle with the glorious Solymi, and Artemis of the golden reins, angry with his daughter, killed her. Hippolochus fathered me, and I claim to be his son. He sent me to Troy and gave me strict orders always to be the best, to hold myself above all others, and never to shame the line of my fathers, who were the greatest men in Ephyre and in wide Lycia.
That is the blood and lineage I claim as mine." So he spoke, and Diomedes, loud in the war cry, was glad. He planted his spear in the bountiful earth and spoke gently to the shepherd of his people: "Then you are truly an old friend of my father's house! For godlike Oeneus once entertained blameless Bellerophon in his halls, and kept him there twenty days, and the two of them gave each other fine gifts of friendship: Oeneus gave a belt bright with crimson dye, and Bellerophon gave a golden two-handled cup,
which I left behind in my house when I set out. But Tydeus I do not remember, since I was still small when he left me, in the time the army of the Achaeans perished at Thebes. So now I am your friend and host in the heart of Argos, and you are mine in Lycia, whenever I come to that land. Let us avoid each other's spears, even in the thick of battle. There are plenty of Trojans and famous allies for me to kill, whomever a god grants me and my feet can overtake, and plenty of Achaeans for you to bring down, whomever you are able. But let us exchange armor with each other, so that these men too
may know we claim to be friends of our fathers' houses." So the two spoke, and leaping down from their chariots, they clasped each other's hands and pledged their faith. But at that moment Zeus, son of Cronus, took the wits from Glaucus, who exchanged his armor with Diomedes son of Tydeus, giving gold for bronze, the worth of a hundred oxen for the worth of nine. And when Hector reached the Scaean gates and the oak tree, the wives and daughters of the Trojans came running around him, asking after their sons, their brothers, their kinsmen,
and their husbands, one after another; and he told each of them in turn to pray to the gods, for many households had sorrow fastened upon them. But when he came to the beautiful house of Priam, built with polished colonnades, and within it were fifty chambers of polished stone, built close beside one another, where Priam's sons slept beside their wedded wives, and across the courtyard, facing them, were twelve roofed chambers of polished stone for his daughters, built close beside one another, where Priam's sons-in-law slept beside their honored wives —
there his mother, gentle in her gifts, came to meet him, bringing with her Laodice, loveliest of her daughters. She took his hand and spoke to him, calling him by name: "My child, why have you left the fierce fighting and come here? Surely the accursed sons of the Achaeans are pressing hard around the city in the battle, and your heart has driven you to come from the citadel to lift up your hands to Zeus. But wait, while I bring you honey-sweet wine, so that you may pour a libation to father Zeus and the other immortals
first, and then refresh yourself as well, if you will drink. Wine builds up great strength in a man worn out with weariness, as you are worn out now defending your people." Then great Hector of the flashing helm answered her: "Do not offer me honeyed wine, my lady mother, or you will unstring my limbs and make me forget my fighting strength. I dare not pour a libation of bright wine to Zeus with unwashed hands; there is no way a man spattered with blood and gore can pray to the dark-clouded son of Cronus. But you — go to the temple of Athena, driver of spoil,
with offerings, gathering the older women together,
and take the robe that seems to you the loveliest and the largest in the great hall, and the one you yourself love best, and lay it on the knees of Athena of the lovely hair, and vow to her that you will sacrifice twelve heifers in her temple, yearlings that have never felt the goad, if only she will take pity on the city, and on the wives of Troy, and on their little children, if she will hold back from sacred Ilion the son of Tydeus, that savage spearman, that mighty master of the rout. Go, then, to the temple of Athena, driver of spoil, while I go find Paris, and summon him,
if he will listen to what I have to say — how I wish the earth would open and swallow him where he stands! The Olympian raised him up as a great affliction to the Trojans, to proud Priam, and to all his sons. If I could see him going down into the house of Hades, I would say my heart had forgotten its bitter grief." So he spoke, and she went into the hall and called to her attendants, and they gathered the older women together throughout the city. She herself went down into her fragrant chamber,
where the robes were kept, richly embroidered work of Sidonian women, which godlike Alexander himself had brought back from Sidon, sailing the wide sea, on the same voyage in which he had carried home high-born Helen. Hecabe took one of these to offer as a gift to Athena, the one that was finest in its embroidery and largest of all, shining like a star, and it lay at the very bottom of the chest. She set out to go, and many of the older women hurried along with her. And when they reached the temple of Athena high in the city, fair-cheeked Theano opened the doors for them,
daughter of Cisseus, wife of Antenor, breaker of horses; for the Trojans had made her priestess of Athena.
The women all raised their hands to Athena with a shout of prayer. Fair-cheeked Theano took up the robe and laid it on the knees of lovely-haired Athena, and prayed, calling on the great daughter of Zeus:
"Lady Athena, guardian of our city, shining among goddesses, break now the spear of Diomedes, and grant that he himself fall face down before the Scaean Gates, so that we may sacrifice to you at once, here in your temple, twelve heifers, yearlings never touched by the goad, if only you will pity our city, and the wives and small children of the Trojans."
So she prayed, but Pallas Athena shook her head, refusing. While the women prayed on to the great daughter of Zeus, Hector made his way to the fine house of Paris, which he himself had built with the help of the best carpenters then in the rich land of Troy, men who had raised him a bedroom, a hall, and a courtyard, close by the houses of Priam and Hector on the citadel height. There Hector, dear to Zeus, went in, carrying in his hand a spear eleven cubits long, its bronze point gleaming ahead of him, ringed round with a golden collar.
He found Paris in his room, busy with his beautiful armor, his shield and breastplate, turning his curved bow in his hands, while Helen of Argos sat among her serving-women directing their fine work. Seeing him, Hector attacked him with shameful words: "You strange man, this sulking is not right. The army is dying around the city and the steep wall, fighting hard, and it is for your sake that this war and its uproar have caught fire around the town. You yourself would pick a fight with any other man you saw shrinking from this hateful war.
Get up, before the city burns down in the enemy's fire!" Godlike Alexander answered him: "Hector, since you rebuke me fairly and not unfairly, I will tell you, and you listen and take it in. It was not so much anger at the Trojans, or resentment, that kept me sitting in this room — I wanted to give myself over to grief. But just now my wife came to me with gentle words and turned me toward the fighting again, and I myself think this way is better too — victory shifts from one man to another. So come, wait a moment while I put on my war-gear —
or go, and I will follow; I think I can catch up to you." So he spoke, but Hector of the flashing helmet said nothing back to him. Then Helen spoke to him with soft words: "Brother — brother of a shameless, scheming bitch that I am — how I wish that on the day my mother first bore me some evil storm-wind had swept me away to a mountain, or into the waves of the crashing sea, so that a wave might have carried me off before all this could happen. But since the gods had already ordained these evils this way, I wish at least I had been wife to a better man,
one who felt the anger and the many insults of other people. But this man's mind has never been steady, not now, and it never will be, and I think he will pay for it yet. But come now, come in and sit on this chair, brother, since it is you above all whom this trouble has wrapped around your heart — because of me, dog that I am, and because of Paris's madness. Zeus has laid a bad fate on the two of us, so that in time to come we may be sung about by men not yet born." Great Hector of the flashing helmet answered her: "Do not ask me to sit, Helen, however kindly you mean it — you will not persuade me.
My heart is already straining to go help the Trojans, who feel my absence badly when I am away. But you — rouse this man, and let him hurry too, to catch me while I am still inside the city. For I myself am going home now, to see my household, my dear wife, and my little son. I do not know whether I will come back to them again, or whether the gods will now bring me down at the hands of the Achaeans."
So Hector spoke and went out, and quickly he reached his own well-built house, but did not find white-armed Andromache inside. She, with the child and a servant in a fine robe, was standing on the tower, weeping and crying aloud. Hector, finding his good wife not at home, stood on the threshold and spoke to the servants: "Come, tell me truly — where has white-armed Andromache gone from the house? To one of my sisters, or to one of my brothers' well-robed wives, or to Athena's temple, where the other Trojan women with their lovely hair are trying to win over the dread goddess?"
The busy housekeeper answered him: "Hector, since you order me to tell the truth, she has not gone to any sister or well-robed sister-in-law, nor to Athena's temple, where the other Trojan women with lovely hair are trying to win over the dread goddess. She has gone up onto the great tower of Troy, because she heard that the Trojans were hard-pressed and the strength of the Achaeans was great. She reached the wall in haste, like a woman gone half-mad, and the nurse carries the child with her." So the housekeeper spoke, and Hector rushed from the house
back the way he had come, down the well-built streets. When he had crossed the great city and reached the Scaean Gates, where he meant to pass out onto the plain, there his wife, rich in dowry, came running to meet him — Andromache, daughter of great-hearted Eëtion, Eëtion who lived below wooded Mount Placus, ruling the Cilicians in Thebe-under-Placus. His daughter was married to bronze-armored Hector. She met him now, and with her came a servant carrying the boy at her breast, still a baby, too young to understand anything,
Hector's beloved son, beautiful as a bright star, whom Hector called Scamandrius, but the rest of the people called Astyanax, "Lord of the City," since Hector alone stood as Troy's defense. Hector looked at his son and smiled, saying nothing. But Andromache came close beside him, weeping, and took his hand in hers and spoke to him, calling him by name:
"You are a strange man — your own courage will destroy you. You have no pity for your infant son or for me, doomed as I am, who will soon be your widow. For soon the Achaeans will kill you, all of them rushing at you together. It would be better for me, if I lose you, to sink into the earth, for there will be no other comfort left once you meet your fate — only grief. I have no father, no honored mother.
My father — godlike Achilles killed him, and sacked the well-built city of the Cilicians, high-gated Thebe. He killed Eëtion, but did not strip his armor from him — he respected him too much in his heart for that — instead he burned him in his own elaborate war-gear and heaped up a grave-mound over him, and around it the mountain nymphs, daughters of Zeus who bears the aegis, planted elm trees.
And the seven brothers I had in our house, all of them went down to the house of Hades on a single day, for swift-footed godlike Achilles killed every one of them, among their shambling cattle and white sheep. And my mother, who was queen below wooded Placus — he brought her here along with the rest of his plunder, then released her again for a boundless ransom, and Artemis who showers arrows struck her down in her father's house. Hector, you are my father and my honored mother now, you are my brother too, and you are my strong husband.
So please, take pity on me now, and stay here on the tower — do not make your child an orphan and your wife a widow. Station the army by the fig tree, where the city is easiest to climb and the wall is most open to assault. Three times now the best of them have come and tried it there — the two Ajaxes, and famous Idomeneus, and the sons of Atreus, and Diomedes' brave son — someone must have told them a prophecy, someone who knows the will of the gods, or else their own hearts drive them and urge them on." Great Hector of the flashing helmet answered her:
"All this concerns me too, wife, but I would feel terrible shame before the Trojans and the Trojan women with their trailing robes if I skulked away from the fighting like a coward. And my own heart will not let me — I have learned to be brave always, and to fight among the front ranks of the Trojans, winning great glory for my father and for myself. For I know this well, in my mind and in my heart: a day will come when sacred Troy will be destroyed, and Priam, and the people of Priam who fights with the strong ash spear. But it is not the suffering of the Trojans still to come that troubles me so much —
not even that of Hecuba herself, or lord Priam, or my brothers, many and brave as they are, who will fall in the dust at the hands of their enemies — as much as the thought of you, when some bronze-armored Achaean leads you away in tears, stripping you of your day of freedom. Then in Argos you will have to weave cloth at another woman's loom, and carry water from Messeis or Hypereia, against your will, under harsh compulsion. And someone, seeing you crying, will say: 'That is the wife of Hector, the best fighter
among the horse-taming Trojans, back when they fought around Troy.' That is what someone will say, and it will be fresh grief for you, to lack such a man to keep you from the day of slavery. But let the piled earth cover me in death before I hear you crying out, before I know you are being dragged away." So speaking, glorious Hector reached out for his son, but the boy shrank back crying against the breast of his well-belted nurse, frightened at the sight of his own father — terrified by the bronze and the horsehair crest
he saw nodding fearfully from the top of the helmet. His father laughed, and his mother laughed too, and glorious Hector at once took the helmet from his head and set it down on the ground, all gleaming. Then he kissed his dear son and tossed him gently in his arms, and prayed aloud to Zeus and the other gods: "Zeus, and all you other gods, grant that this child of mine may become, like me, outstanding among the Trojans, just as strong and brave, and may he rule over Troy with might. And may someone say of him one day, 'This man is far better than his father,' as he comes home from battle, carrying the bloody armor
of an enemy he has killed, and his mother's heart will rejoice." So speaking, he placed his son in his dear wife's arms, and she took him to her fragrant breast, laughing through her tears. Her husband saw it and pitied her, and stroked her with his hand, and spoke to her, calling her by name: "My strange, dear wife, do not grieve for me too much in your heart. No man will send me down to Hades before my time — but fate, I tell you, no man born has ever escaped, whether he is a coward or brave, once he has come into the world. Go home now, and take up your own work,
the loom and the distaff, and tell your servants to get on with their tasks. War will be men's business, all men's business, but mine most of all, of all who live in Troy." So speaking, glorious Hector took up his helmet with its horsehair crest, and his dear wife went back toward home, turning to look back again and again, shedding warm tears. She soon reached the well-built house of Hector, killer of men, and found inside it many of her serving-women, and stirred them all to mourning. So they mourned for Hector while he still lived, in his own house,
for they did not think he would come back again from the fighting, escaping the fury and the hands of the Achaeans. Nor did Paris linger long in his high house. As soon as he had put on his famous armor, bright with bronze, he rushed off through the city, trusting to his swift feet. Just as a stalled horse, well-fed at the manger, breaks its rope and gallops thundering across the plain, used to bathing in some fair-flowing river, exulting, holding his head high, his mane streaming
about his shoulders as he runs, glorying in his own splendor, and his legs carry him lightly to the pastures and haunts of horses — so Priam's son Paris came striding down from the height of Pergamus, his armor shining like the sun, laughing aloud, his swift feet carrying him fast. And soon he came upon his brother, godlike Hector, just as Hector was turning away from the place where he had been talking with his wife. Godlike Alexander spoke to him first: "Brother, I am truly holding you back when you are in a hurry, taking too long, and not arriving in time as you told me to."
Hector of the flashing helmet answered him: "You strange man, no fair-minded man could ever belittle your work in battle, for you are a strong fighter. But you hold back willingly and do not want to fight, and that grieves my heart, when I hear shameful things said about you by the Trojans, who bear such heavy toil because of you. But let us go — we will settle these things between us later, if ever Zeus grants that we set up a bowl of freedom in our halls for the eternal gods of heaven, once we have driven the well-greaved Achaeans out of Troy."

======== Book 7 ========

So he spoke, and glorious Hector burst out through the gates, and beside him went his brother Alexander. Both men's hearts were set on nothing but war and battle, and eager as they were, they came like a wind a god sends to sailors who have prayed for it, after they have worn themselves out driving their smooth oars across the sea, their limbs gone slack with exhaustion — so welcome did the two of them appear to the longing Trojans.
There they killed men. Hector took the son of lord Areithous, Menesthius, who lived in Arne, born to club-wielding Areithous and ox-eyed Phylomedusa. Hector struck him with his sharp spear beneath the crown of his bronze-rimmed helmet, through the neck, and his limbs went loose. Glaucus, son of Hippolochus and leader of the Lycians, speared Iphinous son of Dexius, catching him as he leapt onto his swift chariot, striking him in the shoulder; he fell from the car to the ground, and his limbs went loose.
When the gray-eyed goddess Athena saw the Argives dying in the brutal fighting, she swept down from the peaks of Olympus toward sacred Troy. Apollo rushed to meet her, looking out from Pergamos, wanting victory for the Trojans. The two of them came together beside the oak tree.
Lord Apollo, son of Zeus, spoke first: "Why have you come rushing down from Olympus again, daughter of great Zeus, your proud heart driving you on? Is it to hand the Danaans the balance of victory in this fight? You have no pity at all for the dying Trojans. But listen to me — it would be far better this way. Let us stop the war and the killing for today. They can fight again later, until they reach the destined end of Troy —"
"— since it has pleased your immortal hearts to see this city utterly destroyed."
Gray-eyed Athena answered him: "So be it, Far-shooter. That is exactly what I had in mind when I came down from Olympus to the Trojans and Achaeans. But tell me, how do you mean to stop this war among the men?"
Lord Apollo, son of Zeus, answered her: "Let us stir up the fierce spirit of horse-taming Hector, so that he may challenge one of the Danaans to fight him man to man in the terrible slaughter,"
"and the bronze-shinned Achaeans, stung to it, will send some champion out to face godlike Hector alone." So he spoke, and the gray-eyed goddess Athena did not refuse. Helenus, Priam's beloved son, understood in his heart the plan the two gods had just agreed on, and he went and stood beside Hector and spoke to him:
"Hector, son of Priam, equal to Zeus in cunning — will you listen to me now? I am your brother. Make the other Trojans sit down, and all the Achaeans too, and you yourself challenge whichever of the Achaeans is the best"
"to fight you man to man in the terrible slaughter. It is not yet your fate to die and meet your doom — I have heard this from the voice of the gods who live forever." So he spoke, and Hector rejoiced greatly to hear these words, and he went out into the middle ground and held back the Trojan ranks, gripping his spear at its middle, and they all sat down. Agamemnon made the well-greaved Achaeans sit down too. And Athena and Apollo of the silver bow settled themselves, in the shape of vultures,
on the tall oak tree of their father, aegis-bearing Zeus, delighting in the sight of the men below. The ranks sat close-packed, bristling with shields and helmets and spears. Just as a ripple spreads over the sea when the west wind first rises, and the water darkens beneath it, so the ranks of Achaeans and Trojans sat massed across the plain. And Hector spoke to both armies:
"Hear me, Trojans, and you well-greaved Achaeans, so I may say what the heart in my chest urges me to say. High-throned Zeus, son of Cronus, did not bring our oaths to pass — instead, with evil intent, he marks out suffering for both our peoples"
"until either you take the strong-walled city of Troy, or you yourselves are beaten down beside your seafaring ships. Since the best men of all the Achaeans are here among you, let whichever of you feels his heart urge him to fight me come forward now from all of you, to stand as champion against godlike Hector. And this I proclaim, and let Zeus be our witness: if that man kills me with the long-edged bronze, let him strip my armor and carry it to the hollow ships, but give my body back home, so that the Trojans and their wives may grant me my due of fire when I am dead.
But if I kill him, and Apollo grants me the glory, I will strip his armor and carry it to sacred Troy, and hang it before the temple of far-shooting Apollo, but I will give his body back to the well-benched ships, so that the long-haired Achaeans may bury him with proper rites and heap him a mound beside the broad Hellespont. And someday one of the men born after us, sailing his oar-decked ship over the wine-dark sea, will say:
'That there is the burial mound of a man dead long ago, a champion whom glorious Hector killed in his day.' That is what someone will say — and my glory will never die."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, struck still. They were ashamed to refuse him, yet afraid to accept. At last Menelaus rose among them and spoke, taunting them bitterly, groaning aloud in his heart: "Shame on you, boasters, Achaean women, not Achaean men! This will be a disgrace beyond all disgraces, terrible to the very core,"
"if no one among the Danaans now goes out to face Hector. May every one of you rot into water and earth, sitting there useless, without honor, without glory!"
"I myself will arm and go against him — the threads of victory rest, after all, in the hands of the immortal gods above." So speaking he began to put on his fine armor. And there, Menelaus, your life would have met its end at Hector's hands, since Hector was far the stronger man, had the Achaean kings not leapt up and seized you. Agamemnon himself, son of Atreus, wide-ruling lord, took hold of his right hand and spoke to him, calling him by name:
"You have lost your senses, Menelaus, king cherished by Zeus — there is no need for this madness. Hold yourself back, hard as it is,"
"and do not, out of stubborn pride, choose to fight a better man than you — Hector, son of Priam, whom even other men dread. Even Achilles shudders to meet this man in battle, where men win their glory, and Achilles is far better than you. Go now, sit down among your company of friends. The Achaeans will raise up some other champion to face him. Bold as Hector is, and never sated with the din of battle, I tell you he will be glad enough to bend his knee, if he escapes alive out of this brutal fight and this savage slaughter." So speaking, the hero won his brother over,
turning him with sound advice, and Menelaus yielded. His attendants gladly lifted the armor from his shoulders. Then Nestor rose and spoke among the Argives: "Ah, what great grief has come upon the land of Achaea! How old horseman Peleus would groan aloud — noble counselor and speaker of the Myrmidons —"
"who once, questioning me with delight in his own house, asked me to name the lineage and birth of every one of the Argives. If he heard now that all of them cower before Hector, how he would lift his hands to the immortals, praying"
that his spirit might leave his limbs and go down into the house of Hades! Oh, Father Zeus, and Athena, and Apollo — if only I were young again, as I was when the gathered men of Pylos and the spear-fighting Arcadians fought beside the swift-flowing river Celadon, beneath the walls of Pheia, around the streams of the Iardanus. There stood Ereuthalion before them as their champion, a man like a god,
wearing on his shoulders the armor of lord Areithous — godlike Areithous, whom men and fair-girdled women called by the name Club-man, because he fought neither with bow nor with the long spear,
but shattered the ranks with an iron club. Lycurgus killed him by treachery, not by strength — in a narrow pass, where the iron club could not save him from ruin, for Lycurgus struck first, driving his spear through his middle, and he was pinned on his back to the ground. Lycurgus stripped off his armor, which bronze Ares had given the man, and afterward wore it himself into the crush of battle. But when Lycurgus grew old within his own halls,
he gave it to his dear attendant Ereuthalion to wear. Wearing that armor, Ereuthalion challenged all our best men.
And they all trembled with fear, and none dared face him. But my own stubborn heart drove me to fight him, though I was the youngest of them all in years, trusting to my own courage — and I fought him, and Athena granted me the glory. He was the tallest and strongest man I ever killed; his huge body sprawled this way and that across the ground. If only I were young again, my strength still whole, then helmet-flashing Hector would soon find someone to meet him. But among you, the best men of all the Achaeans,"
not one of you is eager to go and face Hector." So the old man rebuked them, and nine men rose at once. Far first among them rose Agamemnon, lord of men, and after him rose mighty Diomedes, son of Tydeus, and after them the two Ajaxes, clothed in fierce courage, and after them Idomeneus and Idomeneus's companion Meriones, a match for man-slaying Ares, and after them Eurypylus, splendid son of Euaemon, and Thoas son of Andraemon rose, and godlike Odysseus — all of them wanted to fight against godlike Hector. Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, spoke to them again:
"Now shuffle the lots among you, all the way through, whoever draws it will be chosen — for that man will do great good for the well-greaved Achaeans, and he himself will do his own heart good, if he escapes alive out of this brutal fight and this savage slaughter." So he spoke, and each man marked his own lot and threw it into the helmet of Agamemnon, son of Atreus. The soldiers prayed, lifting their hands to the gods, and this is what one of them would say, looking up at the wide sky:
"Father Zeus, let it fall to Ajax, or to the son of Tydeus, or to the king himself of gold-rich Mycenae."
So they spoke, and Gerenian Nestor the horseman shook the helmet, and out leapt the lot the men themselves had been hoping for, Ajax's lot. A herald carried it around through the crowd in every direction, showing it to each of the Achaean champions from right to left, and none of them recognized it and each denied it was his. But when at last the herald reached, carrying it around through the crowd, the man who had marked it and thrown it into the helmet, glorious Ajax, he held out his hand, and the herald came close and placed the lot in it.
Ajax recognized the mark on the lot when he saw it, and his heart rejoiced. He threw it down on the ground at his feet and called out:
"Friends, the lot is mine indeed, and I am glad of it in my own heart, for I believe I will defeat godlike Hector. But come — while I put on my armor of war, all of you pray to lord Zeus, son of Cronus, silently, to yourselves, so that the Trojans do not hear — or openly, if you like, since we fear no one in any case. No man is going to drive me off by force, against my will and by his own choosing, nor by any skill either — I hope I was not born and raised in Salamis to be that much of a novice." So he spoke, and they prayed to lord Zeus, son of Cronus.
And this is what one of them would say, looking up at the wide sky: "Father Zeus, ruling from Ida, most glorious, greatest — grant victory to Ajax, let him win shining glory. But if you love Hector too, and care for him, then grant both men equal strength and equal glory." So they spoke, while Ajax armed himself in gleaming bronze. And when he had put all the armor on his body, he charged forward the way monstrous Ares goes when he strides into war among men whom the son of Cronus has driven together to fight in the fury of heart-devouring strife.
Just so monstrous Ajax rose up, bulwark of the Achaeans, a smile on his grim face, his feet beneath him taking long strides as he went, shaking his long-shadowed spear. The Argives rejoiced as they watched him, but a terrible trembling crept into the limbs of every Trojan, and Hector's own heart pounded in his chest. But there was no way now for him to shrink back or slip away into the crowd of his men, since it was he who had issued the challenge to fight. Ajax came near, carrying his shield like a tower, bronze over seven ox-hides, which Tychius had labored to make for him,
far the best of the leather-workers, who had his house in Hyle. He had made him the glancing shield of seven hides from well-fed bulls, and hammered an eighth layer of bronze on top. Holding it before his chest, Telamonian Ajax came and stood very close to Hector, and spoke to him with a threat: "Hector, now you will learn plainly, man against man, what kind of champions are to be found among the Danaans, even apart from Achilles, breaker of men, the lion-hearted. He lies among his beaked seafaring ships, raging at Agamemnon, shepherd of his people —
but we are men who can stand against you, and there are many of us. So begin the fight, begin the combat."
And tall Hector of the flashing helmet answered him: "Ajax, sprung from Zeus, son of Telamon, leader of men — do not test me as if I were some feeble boy, or a woman who knows nothing of the works of war. I know battles and the killing of men well enough. I know how to swing my ox-hide shield to the right, and how to swing it to the left — that, to me, is what fighting under a shield really means. I know how to charge into the melee of swift horses,
and I know how to tread the measure for deadly Ares in close standing combat. But big as you are, I have no wish to strike you by stealth, watching for my chance — I will do it openly, if I can hit you."
So he spoke, and drawing back his long-shadowed spear he hurled it, and struck Ajax's terrible seven-hide shield on its outermost bronze, the eighth layer that lay upon it. Through six folds the unwearying bronze went shearing, but in the seventh hide it stopped. Then in his turn Ajax, sprung from Zeus, hurled his long-shadowed spear, and struck the son of Priam's shield, balanced evenly on every side.
Through the shining shield the heavy spear drove, and forced its way on through the richly worked breastplate; straight on, along his flank, the spear sheared through his tunic — but Hector swerved aside and escaped black death. Then the two of them, wrenching the long spears out with their hands, fell on each other like flesh-eating lions, or wild boars, whose strength is not easily worn down. The son of Priam then stabbed the middle of Ajax's shield with his spear, but the bronze did not break through, and the point was bent back. Ajax leapt in and stabbed at Hector's shield, and straight through it
the spear went, and it staggered him in his eagerness; it slashed into his neck as it passed, and the dark blood came welling up. But even then Hector of the flashing helmet did not break off the fight. Falling back, he seized in his thick hand a stone that lay on the plain, black and rough and huge, and with it he struck Ajax's terrible seven-hide shield square on the boss, and the bronze rang out all around it. Then in his turn Ajax lifted a far bigger stone, whirled it, and let it fly, putting immeasurable force behind it, and the millstone of a rock smashed the shield inward,
and Hector's knees gave way beneath him; he was stretched flat on his back, pinned under his shield — but Apollo quickly set him on his feet again. And now they would have been hacking at each other hand to hand with swords, had not the heralds, messengers of Zeus and of men, come between them, one from the Trojans, one from the bronze-clad Achaeans — Talthybius and Idaeus, both men of good sense. They held out their staffs between the two fighters, and the herald Idaeus, whose mind was full of wise counsel, spoke: "Fight no longer, dear sons — do not go on with this battle. Zeus the cloud-gatherer loves you both,
Both are spearmen — that much we all know. Night is already coming on, and it is good to yield to night.
So spoke Telamonian Ajax in answer: "Idaeus, tell Hector to say these things himself — it was he who called out all our best men to fight. Let him begin, and I will gladly follow whatever he decides."
And tall Hector of the flashing helmet answered him: "Ajax, since a god has given you size and strength and good sense, and with the spear you are the best of the Achaeans, let us break off the fighting and the killing for today. We will fight again another time, until some power decides between our armies and grants the victory to one side or the other. Night is already coming on, and it is good to yield to night — go and gladden all the Achaeans by the ships, above all your own kinsmen and companions who belong to you, and I for my part will go through the great city of lord Priam and gladden the Trojans and the Trojan women who trail their long robes, the women who go to pray for me in the sacred assembly. But come, let us each give the other a splendid gift, so that Achaeans and Trojans alike may say: 'These two fought each other in heart-devouring hatred, and then parted again in friendship.'"
With these words he gave Ajax his silver-studded sword, together with its sheath and its well-cut sword belt, and Ajax gave him a war belt bright with purple dye. So the two parted, one going back to the ranks of the Achaeans, the other to the crowd of Trojans, who rejoiced to see him coming toward them alive and unhurt, having escaped the fury and the unconquerable hands of Ajax. They led him toward the city, scarcely believing he was safe.
On the other side the well-armed Achaeans led Ajax to godlike Agamemnon, glad in his victory. When they had come to the tents of the son of Atreus, the lord of men, Agamemnon, sacrificed a five-year-old bull in his honor to the almighty son of Cronus. They flayed it and dressed it, cutting the whole carcass apart, then skillfully sliced it into pieces and skewered them on spits, roasted them with care, and drew everything off the fire. When the work was finished and the meal prepared, they feasted, and no man's appetite went without its fair share.
The warrior son of Atreus, wide-ruling Agamemnon, honored Ajax with long strips cut from the loin. When they had put aside their desire for food and drink, old Nestor, whose counsel had always proved best before, began to weave his plan for them. Thinking of their good, he spoke and said to them:
"Son of Atreus, and you other chiefs of all the Achaeans, many long-haired Achaeans have died, whose dark blood fierce Ares has now scattered around the fair-flowing Scamander, and whose spirits have gone down to the house of Hades. So at daybreak you should call a halt to the Achaeans' fighting, and we ourselves will gather and haul the dead here on wagons drawn by oxen and mules. We will burn them a little way off from the ships, so that each man may carry the bones home to his children when we return again to our native land. And around the pyre let us build a single burial mound, heaping it up from the plain without distinction of rank, and next to it let us quickly raise high walls to shelter both the ships and ourselves. Let us build well-fitted gates in the walls, so that a road wide enough for chariots may run through them,
and outside, close by, let us dig a deep trench, which will hold back both horses and men and keep the proud Trojans' war from ever bearing down on us too hard."
So he spoke, and all the kings approved his words.
Meanwhile the Trojans held an assembly on the height of Ilion, before Priam's doors, a fierce and troubled gathering. Wise Antenor was the first to speak among them: "Hear me, Trojans and Dardanians and allies, so that I may say what the heart in my chest urges me to say. Come, let us give back Argive Helen and the treasure with her for the sons of Atreus to take away. As it stands we are fighting after breaking our sworn oaths, and I do not expect anything good to come of it for us unless we do as I say."
When he had spoken this and sat down, godlike Alexander, husband of fair-haired Helen, rose and answered him: "Antenor, what you propose no longer pleases me. You know how to find a better plan than this one. But if you are truly speaking in earnest, then the gods themselves must have destroyed your wits.
As for me, I will speak plainly before the horse-taming Trojans: I flatly refuse to give back the woman. But as for the treasure I brought from Argos to our house, all of it I am willing to give back, and I will add more from my own stores besides."
When he had spoken this and sat down, Priam, son of Dardanus, a counselor equal to the gods, rose and spoke among them, thinking of their good: "Hear me, Trojans and Dardanians and allies, so that I may say what the heart in my chest urges me to say. For now, take your evening meal throughout the city as before,
and remember to keep watch, and let each man stay alert. At dawn let Idaeus go to the hollow ships to tell the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus, Alexander's offer, the very cause of this quarrel — and let him also carry this careful proposal, that if they are willing, we should stop the grim, echoing war until we have burned our dead. Afterward we will fight again, until some power decides between us and grants the victory to one side or the other."
So he spoke, and they listened closely and did as he said. Then they took their evening meal by companies throughout the camp.
At dawn Idaeus went to the hollow ships. He found the Danaans, servants of Ares, gathered in assembly beside Agamemnon's ship, and standing among them the loud-voiced herald called out: "Son of Atreus, and you other chiefs of all the Achaeans, Priam and the rest of the noble Trojans bid me tell you, if it should be welcome and pleasing to you, Alexander's message, the very cause of this quarrel. The treasure that Alexander brought to Troy in his hollow ships — and better if he had perished before ever bringing it —
all of it he is willing to give back, and add more from his own house besides. But his lawful wife, wedded to glorious Menelaus, he says he will not give back, though the Trojans urge him to do so. They also bid me say this: if you are willing, stop the grim, echoing war until we have burned our dead. Afterward we will fight again, until some power decides between us and grants the victory to one side or the other."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, saying nothing. At last Diomedes, good at the war cry, spoke among them: "Let no man now accept Alexander's treasure,
nor Helen either. It is plain, even to the simplest mind, that the cords of destruction now hang over the Trojans."
So he spoke, and all the sons of the Achaeans shouted their approval, marveling at the words of horse-taming Diomedes. Then lord Agamemnon spoke to Idaeus: "Idaeus, you have yourself heard the Achaeans' answer, how they respond to you, and it pleases me as well. As for the dead, I do not grudge the burning of them at all — there should be no stinting toward corpses once they are dead; let them be swiftly appeased with fire.
Let Zeus, the loud-thundering husband of Hera, witness the truce." So saying, he raised his scepter before all the gods, and Idaeus went back again toward sacred Ilion. There the Trojans and Dardanians sat gathered in assembly, all of them together, waiting for Idaeus to return. He came and delivered his message, standing in their midst, and at once they armed themselves in haste, some to bring in the dead, others to gather wood. And on the other side the Argives too, from their well-benched ships, set out both to bring in the dead and to gather wood.
The sun was just striking the fields with new light, rising out of the deep, quietly flowing stream of Ocean into the sky, when the two sides met each other. Then it was hard to tell each man apart, but they washed the clotted blood from the bodies with water, shedding hot tears, and lifted them onto the wagons. Great Priam would not allow loud weeping, and in silence, grieving in their hearts, they piled the dead upon the pyre, and when they had burned them in the fire they went back to sacred Ilion. In the same way, on the other side, the well-armed Achaeans
piled their own dead upon a pyre, grieving in their hearts, and when they had burned them in the fire they went back to the hollow ships. While it was not yet dawn, but still the twilight edge of night, a chosen band of Achaeans rose around the pyre, and around it they built a single mound, heaping it up from the plain without distinction, and next to it they raised a wall,
with high towers to shelter both the ships and themselves. In the wall they set well-fitted gates, so that a road for chariots might run through them, and outside it, close by, they dug a deep trench,
wide and great, and in it they planted sharp stakes. So the long-haired Achaeans labored, while the gods, seated beside Zeus who hurls the lightning, watched the great work of the bronze-armored Achaeans in wonder. Poseidon, shaker of the earth, was the first among them to speak: "Father Zeus, is there any mortal left on the boundless earth who will still tell the immortals his plans and his purposes?
Do you not see that once more the long-haired Achaeans have built a wall to guard their ships, and drawn a trench around it, without offering the gods any splendid sacrifice?
The fame of this wall will spread as far as the light of dawn reaches, and men will forget the one that Phoebus Apollo and I built with such labor for the hero Laomedon."
Deeply troubled, Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered him: "Ah, mighty shaker of the earth, what a thing you have said. Some other god, one far weaker than you in hand and strength, might fear this notion — but your own fame will spread as far as the light of dawn reaches. Come now — once the long-haired Achaeans
have gone with their ships back to their own dear homeland,
break the wall apart and pour it all into the sea, and bury the great shore again under sand, so that this great wall of the Achaeans may be wiped away completely."
So the two gods spoke to each other of such things. Meanwhile the sun went down, and the Achaeans' work was finished. They slaughtered cattle throughout the camp and took their evening meal. Ships came in from Lemnos bringing wine,
many of them, sent by Jason's son Euneus, whom Hypsipyle had borne to Jason, shepherd of his people. Apart from the rest, the son of Jason had sent
a thousand measures of wine to be brought specially to Agamemnon and Menelaus. From these ships the long-haired Achaeans bought their wine, some with bronze, some with gleaming iron, some with hides, some with whole cattle, and some with slaves — and they laid out a rich feast. All that night the long-haired Achaeans feasted, and the Trojans and their allies feasted too throughout the city, and all that night Zeus the counselor devised evil for them, thundering terribly, and pale fear seized them. They poured wine from their cups onto the ground, and no man dared
to drink before he had poured an offering to the almighty son of Cronus. Then at last they lay down and took the gift of sleep.

======== Book 8 ========

Dawn spread her saffron robe over all the earth, and Zeus who delights in thunder called the gods to assembly on the highest peak of many-ridged Olympus. He himself spoke to them, and all the gods listened.
"Hear me, every god and every goddess, while I speak what my heart within my breast commands. Let no goddess, and no god either, try to cut across this word of mine — all of you agree to it together, so that I may bring these matters to their end as quickly as possible. Whichever one I catch trying to go off apart from the gods,
meaning to help either the Trojans or the Danaans, that one will come back to Olympus beaten in a way that brings no honor. Or I will seize him and hurl him down into misty Tartarus, far, far away, where the deepest pit lies beneath the earth, where the gates are iron and the threshold bronze, as far below Hades as the sky is above the earth — then he will learn how far I am the strongest of all the gods. Come, test me if you like, gods, so you may all know for certain: hang a golden rope down from the sky, and all of you, every god and every goddess, take hold of it and pull.
You could not drag Zeus, the highest counselor, down from the sky to the plain, no matter how hard you strained. But whenever I truly wished to pull with all my strength, I could haul you up, earth and sea together, and then I would tie that rope around a peak of Olympus and leave the whole world dangling in the air. That is how far I surpass gods and men alike." So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, struck dumb, amazed at his words — for he had spoken with tremendous force. At last the bright-eyed goddess Athena spoke up.
"Father, son of Cronus, highest of all rulers, we too know well that your strength cannot be resisted. Yet even so we grieve for the Danaan spearmen, who are doomed to fill out a wretched fate and perish. We will hold back from the fighting, as you command — but let us at least offer the Argives one piece of counsel that will help them, so that not all of them die from your anger." Zeus who gathers the clouds smiled at her and answered.
"Courage, Athena, dear child. I do not speak this with any real hostility in my heart — I mean to be gentle with you."
With these words he yoked his two bronze-hoofed horses beneath his chariot, swift-flying horses with flowing golden manes. He himself put on gold about his body, took up his well-made golden whip, and mounted his chariot. He struck the horses to drive them, and they flew on eagerly, neither unwilling, midway between the earth and the starry sky. He came to Ida, rich in springs and mother of wild beasts, to Gargaron, where his sacred ground and smoking altar stand. There the father of gods and men reined in the horses, unyoked them, and poured thick mist around them.
He himself sat down on the peaks, glorying in his splendor, gazing out over the city of the Trojans and the ships of the Achaeans. Meanwhile the long-haired Achaeans took their meal quickly at their huts and armed themselves straight afterward. On the other side, in the city, the Trojans armed too — fewer in number, but eager even so to meet the battle's test, driven by necessity, fighting for their children and their wives. Every gate swung open, and the whole host poured out, foot soldiers and chariot-fighters, and a great roar rose up. When the two sides came together, meeting in a single space,
shield crashed on shield, and spears and the fury of men in bronze armor met as one; the bossed shields ground against each other, and a huge roar went up. Then there was at once the groaning and the boasting of men, of those killing and those being killed, and the earth ran with blood. As long as it was morning and the sacred daylight kept growing, the missiles of both sides found their mark and the men kept falling. But when the sun stood astride the middle of the sky, then the father took out his golden scales,
and in them he placed two fates of grinding death, one for the horse-taming Trojans, one for the bronze-armored Achaeans; he took the balance by the middle and lifted it, and the day of doom for the Achaeans sank down. The Achaean fates settled on the nourishing earth, while the Trojan fates rose toward the wide sky. Then Zeus himself thundered a great crash from Ida and sent a blazing bolt of lightning down among the Achaean host — and at the sight of it they were struck with awe, and pale terror gripped them all. Then neither Idomeneus dared to hold his ground, nor Agamemnon, nor did the two Ajaxes stand firm, attendants of Ares that they were. Only Nestor, guardian of the Achaeans, stood his ground —
not by choice, but because his horse was in trouble, wounded by an arrow that godlike Paris, husband of lovely-haired Helen, had shot straight into the crown of its head, where the first hairs grow out from a horse's skull, and where the wound is most fatal. Stung with pain, the horse reared up as the arrow sank into its brain, and it threw the other horses into confusion, thrashing about the chariot pole. While the old man was cutting the trace-horse free with his sword, rushing to do it, Hector's swift horses came bearing their bold driver, Hector himself, straight through the chaos of battle — and the old man would have lost his life there and then,
had not Diomedes, good at the war cry, been quick to see it. He gave a terrible shout, urging Odysseus on: "Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, where are you running, turning your back like a coward in the crowd? Watch that no one plants a spear between your shoulders as you flee! Stay, so that we can drive this savage man away from the old man." So he called, but long-suffering, godlike Odysseus did not hear him, and rushed on past toward the hollow Achaean ships. But the son of Tydeus, alone as he was, plunged in among the front fighters and took his stand before the horses of the old man, son of Neleus,
and spoke winged words to him. "Old man, truly the young warriors wear you down badly. Your strength has failed you, harsh old age weighs on you, your attendant is feeble, and your horses are slow. Come, mount my chariot, so you can see what the horses of Tros are like — how skilled they are at racing this way and that across the plain, whether chasing or fleeing. I took them from Aeneas, that master of terror. Let our attendants look after these two horses of yours, while these two of mine carry us straight at the horse-taming Trojans, so that Hector too
will learn whether even my spear rages madly in my hands." So he spoke, and the Gerenian horseman Nestor did not refuse. Then his own horses were taken in hand by his attendants, mighty Sthenelus and noble Eurymedon, while the two old warriors both climbed up into Diomedes's chariot. Nestor took the shining reins into his hands and lashed the horses on, and quickly they drew near to Hector. As Hector charged straight at them, the son of Tydeus let fly his spear, and missed him — but struck his driver instead, the attendant holding the reins,
Eniopeus, brave-hearted son of Thebaeus, right in the chest beside the nipple as he held the horses' reins. He toppled from the chariot, and the swift-footed horses shied back, and there his life and strength were undone. Bitter grief for his driver clouded Hector's heart, but though he mourned for his companion, he left him lying there and went after another bold charioteer — nor did his horses go long without a master, for at once he found Archeptolemus, bold son of Iphitus, and set him on the swift-footed horses, and put the reins into his hands.
Then ruin would have come and unmanageable things would have happened, and the Trojans might have been penned up inside Ilion like sheep, had not the father of gods and men been quick to see it. With a terrible crash he let loose a bolt of blazing lightning and drove it into the ground right in front of Diomedes's horses. A fearful flame rose up from the burning sulfur, and the two horses, terrified, cowered back beneath the chariot. The shining reins slipped from Nestor's hands, and fear seized his heart, and he spoke to Diomedes.
"Son of Tydeus, come now, turn the sure-footed horses toward flight. Don't you see that strength from Zeus does not follow you? Today, at least, the son of Cronus grants glory to that man — later he will grant it to us too, if he wishes. No man, however strong, can turn aside the will of Zeus, since he is by far the mightier." Diomedes, good at the war cry, answered him.
"Yes, old man, all that you have said is entirely fitting. But this is the bitter grief that reaches my heart and spirit: someday Hector will say, speaking among the Trojans, 'The son of Tydeus fled before me, back to the ships.' That's how he'll boast one day — and when he does, may the wide earth open and swallow me." Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor answered him.
"Ah, son of brave Tydeus, what a thing you've said! Even if Hector should call you a coward and no fighter, the Trojans will not believe him, nor will the Dardanians, nor the wives of the great-hearted, shield-bearing Trojans, whose vigorous husbands you have laid in the dust." With these words he wheeled the sure-footed horses back into flight, back through the chaos of battle, while the Trojans and Hector, with a tremendous roar, poured their groan-bringing missiles after them. Great Hector of the flashing helmet shouted a great cry after them.
"Son of Tydeus, the swift-horsed Danaans used to honor you above others, with the best seat and the choicest meat and full cups of wine — now they will scorn you. You've turned out no better than a woman! Go on, crawl away, worthless puppet — you will never climb our walls while I stand against you, never lead our women off in your ships. I'll give you death first!" So he spoke, and the son of Tydeus wavered, torn two ways, whether to wheel his horses around and fight him face to face.
Three times he weighed it in his heart and mind, and three times wise Zeus thundered down from the mountains of Ida,
giving the Trojans a sign, that the tide of battle would turn in their favor. And Hector called out to his Trojans in a great voice: "Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians who fight hand to hand — be men, my friends, remember your furious courage! I know that the son of Cronus has nodded his favor to me, granting me victory and great glory, and ruin for the Danaans — fools, to build these flimsy walls, worth nothing, that will never hold back our strength. Our horses will leap easily over the ditch they dug.
But once I reach their curved ships, let someone remember to bring me blazing fire, so I can set the ships ablaze and cut down the Argives themselves beside their vessels, choking in the smoke." So he spoke, and called out to his horses.
"Xanthus, and you, Podargus, and Aithon, and noble Lampus — now repay me the care Andromache, daughter of great-hearted Eetion, gave you, when she used to set out honey-sweet grain for you before all others, and mixed wine for you to drink whenever the mood took you, before she ever thought of me, though I claim to be her strong husband.
Press on now, hurry, so that we may seize Nestor's shield, whose fame reaches the sky, said to be solid gold, both the rim and the shield itself, and strip from the shoulders of horse-taming Diomedes his cunningly wrought breastplate, which Hephaestus himself labored to make. If we could take these two things, I would have real hope of driving the Achaeans onto their swift ships this very night." So he spoke, boasting — and this angered queenly Hera,
who shook on her throne so that great Olympus trembled, and she spoke straight to the mighty god Poseidon.
"Ah, shame on you, wide-ruling shaker of the earth — even you feel no pity in your heart for the Danaans as they perish. Yet they bring you many splendid gifts at Helice and at Aegae — you ought to wish them victory. If all of us who favor the Danaans wanted to, we could drive the Trojans back and hold wide-thundering Zeus in check, and leave him sitting there on Ida, alone, nursing his anger." Deeply troubled, the lord who shakes the earth answered her.
"Hera, reckless in speech, what a thing you have said! I for one would not want the rest of us to fight against Zeus, son of Cronus,
since he is far too powerful." So the two of them talked together in this way. Meanwhile the whole space stretching from the ships up to the wall, hemmed in by the ditch, was packed with horses and shield-bearing men, crowded together — pressed in by Hector, son of Priam, a match for swift Ares, now that Zeus had granted him glory.
And he would have set the trim ships ablaze with consuming fire, had not queenly Hera put it into Agamemnon's mind to rouse the Achaeans himself, hurrying swiftly among them. He strode off along the huts and ships of the Achaeans,
holding a great purple cloak in his powerful hand, and took his stand on Odysseus's huge black ship, which lay in the middle, so that a shout from there could carry to both ends — to the huts of Ajax, son of Telamon, on one side, and to those of Achilles on the other, since these two, trusting their courage and the strength of their arms, had drawn their trim ships up at the furthest edges. He shouted out, his voice carrying far to the Danaans.
"Shame on you, Argives, disgraceful cowards, fine to look at and nothing more! Where have your boasts gone, when we used to claim we were the best — those boasts you flung around so emptily on Lemnos,
eating great quantities of beef from straight-horned cattle, drinking bowls brimming with wine, boasting that each one of you would stand up against a hundred or two hundred Trojans in battle? Now we're not worth one — not even Hector, who will soon set our ships ablaze with consuming fire. Father Zeus, was there ever before a mighty king you struck down with such utter ruin, and stripped him of so much glory? Yet I say that I never once passed by your beautiful altar in my benched ship on this miserable voyage, without burning the fat and thighbones of oxen on every one of them,
so eager was I to raze well-walled Troy. But Zeus, grant me at least this one prayer: let us at least escape and get away safely, and do not let the Achaeans be beaten down so completely by the Trojans." So he spoke, and the father pitied him as he wept, and nodded that his people would be kept safe and not destroyed. At once he sent an eagle, most reliable of all birds, holding in its claws a fawn, the young of a swift deer; it dropped the fawn beside the beautiful altar of Zeus, where the Achaeans used to offer sacrifice to Zeus who speaks through every sign.
When the men saw that the bird had come from Zeus, they threw themselves at the Trojans with fresh force and remembered their fighting spirit. Then, though there were many Danaans, no man could claim to have driven his swift horses across the ditch and closed with the enemy face to face before the son of Tydeus did — far ahead of all the rest he brought down a helmeted Trojan warrior, Agelaus, son of Phradmon. As the man wheeled his horses around to flee, Diomedes drove his spear into his back, between the shoulders, as he turned, and drove it clean through his chest.
He toppled from his chariot, and his armor clattered on him as he fell.
After him came the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus, and after them the two Ajaxes, clothed in furious courage, and after them Idomeneus and Idomeneus's companion, Meriones, a match for man-slaying Ares, and after them Eurypylus, splendid son of Euaemon. Ninth came Teucer, stringing his curved bow, and took his stand behind the shield of Ajax, son of Telamon. There Ajax would lift the shield aside a little, and the hero would peer out, and whenever he had shot someone in the crowd and struck him down,
the man would fall on the spot and lose his life, while Teucer
would slip back like a child behind its mother, back behind Ajax, who would hide him again behind his shining shield. Who was the first Trojan noble Teucer killed there? Orsilochus first, and Ormenus, and Ophelestes,
Daetor, and Chromius, and godlike Lycophontes, and Amopaon, son of Polyaemon, and Melanippus — one after another he laid them all low on the nourishing earth. Seeing him, Agamemnon, lord of men, rejoiced, watching him wreck the Trojan ranks with his powerful bow, and came and stood beside him and spoke to him.
"Teucer, dear friend, son of Telamon, leader of men, keep shooting like this — you may yet become a light for the Danaans, and for your father Telamon, who raised you when you were small and cared for you in his own house, though you were born outside marriage. Bring him glory now, even far away as he is. And I will tell you this, and it will be done:
if Zeus who bears the aegis and Athena grant that I raze the well-built citadel of Ilion, I will place the next prize of honor into your hands after my own — a tripod, or two horses with their chariot,
or a woman, to share your bed." Noble Teucer answered him in turn.
"Most honored son of Atreus, why urge me on when I am already eager myself? As long as I have strength in me I will not stop — from the moment we drove them back toward Ilion, I have been waiting with my bow and cutting men down. I have already let fly eight long-barbed arrows,
and every one has lodged in the flesh of some quick young fighter — but this mad dog here I cannot hit." So saying, he sent yet another arrow flying from the bowstring,
"Teucer, dear friend, son of Telamon, captain of men, shoot like that! You may yet be a light for the Danaans, and for your father Telamon too, who raised you from a small boy and looked after you in his own house, though you were born to him outside the marriage bed. Bring him glory now, far off as he is. And I will tell you plainly how it will be done. If Zeus who bears the storm-shield and Athena grant me to sack the well-built citadel of Troy, the first prize of honor I put into your hand, after my own, will be a tripod, or two horses with their chariot, or a woman who will climb into bed beside you."
Answering him, blameless Teucer said: "Great son of Atreus, why do you urge me on when I am already eager? I am not slacking off, not as far as my strength allows. From the moment we drove them back toward Troy, I have been waiting with my bow and cutting men down. Eight long-barbed arrows I have already loosed, and every one has stuck in the flesh of some quick young fighter. But this mad dog here I cannot hit." So saying he sent another arrow from the string, straight at Hector, his heart set on striking him, but he missed his man, and instead the arrow struck noble Gorgythion in the chest, Priam's own son, whom his mother had borne after her marriage brought her from Aesyme — lovely Castianeira, built like a goddess. As a poppy droops its head to one side, heavy with seed and the rains of spring, so his head fell sideways, weighed down by his helmet.
Teucer sent another arrow from the string, straight at Hector again, his heart set on striking him, but he missed once more — Apollo turned the shot aside — and instead it struck bold Archeptolemus, Hector's charioteer, as he drove eagerly into the fighting; it caught him in the chest beside the nipple. He toppled from the car, and his fast-footed horses shied back, and there his life and strength dissolved. Grief for his driver clouded Hector's heart like a dark mist, but he let him lie, sorry as he was for his companion, and called to Cebriones, his brother who was near at hand, to take the horses' reins — and Cebriones, hearing him, obeyed at once. Hector himself leaped down from the gleaming chariot to the ground with a terrible shout, snatched up a stone in his hand, and went straight for Teucer, his heart driving him to strike. Teucer had just pulled a bitter arrow from his quiver and set it on the string, when Hector, with his helmet flashing, struck him as he drew back the bow, right at the shoulder where the collarbone divides neck from chest — the deadliest spot — and the jagged stone caught him just as he strained to shoot. It snapped his bowstring, numbed his hand at the wrist, and he dropped to his knees where he stood, the bow falling from his fingers. Ajax did not forget his brother when he saw him fall.
He ran and stood over him, shielding him with his great shield. Then two loyal companions, Mecisteus son of Echius and godlike Alastor, stooped and lifted him, and carried him groaning heavily back to the hollow ships. And now the Olympian roused fresh fury in the Trojans once more, and they drove the Achaeans straight back to the deep trench. Hector went among the foremost, glorying in his strength. As a hound harries a wild boar or a lion from behind with quick feet, snapping at its haunches and hindquarters, watching for it to turn — so Hector harried the long-haired Achaeans, always cutting down the last man, and they fled before him. When they had crossed the stakes and the trench in their flight, and many had gone down under Trojan hands, the rest held their ground and rallied by the ships, calling to one another, and every man lifted his hands and prayed loudly to every god there was. And Hector wheeled his fine-maned horses this way and that, his eyes like the Gorgon's, like Ares the bane of men. White-armed Hera, the goddess, watched them and pitied them.
At once she spoke winged words to Athena: "Oh, this is shameful, daughter of Zeus who bears the storm-shield! Are we really going to let the Danaans die, now, at the very end, when they've come to this? They will fill up their share of misery and be destroyed by the rush of one man alone, who rages now beyond all bearing — Hector, son of Priam. He has already done more than enough harm."
The goddess grey-eyed Athena answered her: "Yes — and I wish his strength and his life would be lost just that way, cut down by Argive hands in his own fatherland. But my father is raging with a mind gone bad,
stubborn, always wrong, standing in the way of everything I mean to do. He remembers nothing of how often I saved his own son when he was worn down by the labors Eurystheus set him. He would cry out to the sky, and Zeus would send me down from heaven to stand by him. If only I had known this back then, in my own clever mind, when he sent Heracles down through the tight gates of Hades to fetch the hound of loathed Hades up out of Erebus — he would never have escaped the steep waters of the Styx. But now Zeus hates me, and he has gone and done what Thetis wanted,
she who kissed his knees and took hold of his chin, begging him to honor Achilles, sacker of cities. Well — there will come a time again when he calls me his own grey-eyed darling. But for now, harness our single-hoofed horses for us, while I go into the house of Zeus who bears the storm-shield and arm myself for war, so we can see whether Hector, Priam's son, with his flashing helmet, will be glad to see the two of us appear along the causeways of battle, or whether some Trojan, instead, will glut the dogs and birds with his fat and flesh, fallen by the ships of the Achaeans."
So she spoke, and white-armed Hera did not refuse her. She went and harnessed the gold-bridled horses, Hera, the queenly goddess, daughter of great Cronus, while Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the storm-shield, let fall onto her father's threshold the soft robe she had made and worked with her own hands, and put on instead the tunic of cloud-gathering Zeus, and armed herself for tearful war. She stepped up into the flaming chariot and took hold of her spear — heavy, huge, and solid, with which she beats down the ranks of warriors
whom she, daughter of a mighty father, holds in anger. And Hera swiftly touched the horses with her whip, and the gates of heaven groaned open on their own — the gates the Hours keep, to whom is entrusted great heaven and Olympus, whether to roll back the thick cloud or shut it in place. Through these the goddesses drove their goaded horses. But Father Zeus, watching from Ida, was seized with terrible anger, and sent gold-winged Iris to carry his message: "Go, swift Iris, turn them back, don't let them come further — this meeting of ours will not end well.
Here is exactly how it will go, and it will be carried out. I will cripple their swift horses under the yoke, throw the two of them from the chariot, and smash the car itself. Not in ten full turning years will they heal the wounds my lightning bolt will leave on them — so that the grey-eyed one will learn what it means to fight her own father. Hera I hold no such grudge against, no such anger; she is always contrary, whatever I decide." So he spoke, and storm-footed Iris rose up to carry the message, and went from the mountains of Ida to tall Olympus.
At the outermost gates of many-folded Olympus she met them and held them back, and told them the word of Zeus: "Where are you two rushing? What madness has seized your hearts? The son of Cronus forbids you to help the Argives. This is his threat, and he will carry it out: he will cripple your swift horses under the yoke, throw the two of you from the chariot, and smash the car itself. Not in ten full turning years will you heal the wounds his lightning bolt will leave on you — so that you, grey-eyed one, will learn what it means to fight your own father.
As for Hera, he holds no such grudge, no such anger — she is always contrary, whatever he decides. But you, you dreadful thing, you shameless bitch, if you really dare to raise that monstrous spear against Zeus himself—" So speaking, swift-footed Iris went away, and Hera then spoke to Athena: "Oh, this is shameful, daughter of Zeus who bears the storm-shield! I for one will no longer let the two of us fight Zeus for the sake of mortal men. Let them die or live as fate allows, whoever draws the lot, while he, sitting there working out in his own mind whatever he pleases,
decides between the Trojans and the Danaans, as is only right." So she spoke, and turned the single-hoofed horses back around. The Hours unyoked the fine-maned horses for them, tethered them at their ambrosial mangers, and tipped the chariot back against the shining inner wall. The two goddesses themselves sat down on golden couches among the other gods, their hearts heavy within them. Meanwhile Father Zeus drove his smooth-wheeled chariot and horses from Ida up to Olympus and came to the seats of the gods. The famous Earthshaker unyoked his horses
and set the chariot on its stand, spreading a cloth over it. And far-seeing Zeus himself sat down on his golden throne, and beneath his feet great Olympus shook. Athena and Hera sat apart from him, off by themselves, saying nothing to him, asking him nothing. But he understood in his own heart, and spoke: "Why are you two sulking like this, Athena, Hera? Surely you didn't tire yourselves out in the glorious fighting, killing Trojans, whom you hate so bitterly. Whatever the case — such is my strength, such my unstoppable hands,
that not all the gods on Olympus together could turn me aside. As for you two — trembling seized your shining limbs even before you saw the fighting and its grim work. And I tell you plainly, and it would have been carried out: struck by my lightning, you would never have made it back to Olympus in your own chariot, to where the gods have their seats." So he spoke, and Athena and Hera muttered under their breath, sitting close together, plotting harm for the Trojans. Athena stayed silent and said nothing,
sulking at her father Zeus, wild anger gripping her. But Hera's chest could not contain her fury, and she burst out: "Terrible son of Cronus, what is this you are saying? We know very well that your strength is not to be trifled with. All the same, we grieve for the Danaan spearmen, who are going to fill out their doom in misery and die. Very well then — we will hold ourselves back from the fighting, since you order it. But let us suggest some plan to the Argives that will do them good, so they don't all perish under your anger." Cloud-gathering Zeus answered her:
"Tomorrow, ox-eyed lady Hera, if you care to watch, you will see the mighty son of Cronus destroying still more of the Argive spearmen's great army. Furious Hector will not draw back from the fighting until the swift son of Peleus rises up beside the ships, on the day they fight over the sterns in the tightest, grimmest press, around the body of Patroclus once he's dead. So it is fated. And I care nothing for your anger, not even if you should travel to the farthest bounds of earth and sea, where Iapetus and Cronus sit,
finding no joy in the rays of Hyperion the sun, nor in the winds, with deep Tartarus all around them. Not even if you wandered off to there would I care about your endless sulking — there is nothing more shameless than you." So he spoke, and white-armed Hera answered him nothing. And now the sun's bright light sank into Ocean, dragging black night behind it over the grain-giving earth. The Trojans were sorry to see the light go, but for the Achaeans the dark night came as a welcome, prayed-for thing. Then glorious Hector called a Trojan assembly,
leading them apart from the ships to a clear space by the swirling river, where the ground showed bare of the dead. They climbed down from their chariots to hear him speak, and Hector, dear to Zeus, addressed them, holding in his hand an eleven-cubit spear, its bronze point gleaming ahead of him, ringed with a golden collar. Leaning on this, he spoke among the Trojans: "Hear me, Trojans, Dardanians, and allies! Just now I thought I would destroy the ships and every last Achaean before returning home to windy Troy. But darkness came first, and it is darkness, more than anything else, that has saved
the Argives now and their ships drawn up on the shore. Well then — for tonight let us give way to the black night and get our supper ready. Unyoke your fine-maned horses from the chariots and throw down fodder before them. Bring cattle and fat sheep quickly from the city, fetch sweet wine and bread from your own halls, and gather plenty of firewood, so that all night long, until the early-born dawn, we can burn many fires, their glow reaching up to the sky — so that the long-haired Achaeans won't try, in the dark,
to slip away over the broad back of the sea. Let none of them climb aboard ship easily and at their leisure — let every man carry home a wound to nurse, hit by an arrow or a sharp spear as he jumps for the rail, so that others will dread bringing tearful war against the horse-taming Trojans. And let the heralds, dear to Zeus, announce through the city that the boys just coming into their strength and the grey-templed old men should take their posts around the city on the god-built walls, and that the women, each one in her own house,
should keep a great fire burning. And let a steady watch be kept, so no ambush slips into the city while the fighting men are away. Let it be exactly as I say, great-hearted Trojans. As for the plan that is sound advice now, let it stand; and what I have more to say I will say tomorrow to the horse-taming Trojans. I hope, praying to Zeus and the other gods, to drive out from here these death-doomed dogs the fates are carrying off in their black ships. But tonight let us keep watch over ourselves, and in the morning, armed at dawn in full gear,
let us wake sharp war beside the hollow ships. I will find out whether mighty Diomedes, son of Tydeus, drives me back from the ships to the wall, or whether I cut him down with bronze and carry off his bloody spoils. Tomorrow he will learn his own worth, whether he can stand against my spear when it comes at him. No — I think he will lie among the first to fall, wounded, with many of his comrades around him, when the sun rises tomorrow. I wish I were as sure of being immortal and ageless all my days, honored just as Athena and Apollo are honored,
as I am sure that this coming day will bring disaster on the Argives." So Hector spoke, and the Trojans roared their approval. They unyoked their sweating horses from under the yoke and tethered them each beside his own chariot with leather straps. They brought cattle and fat sheep quickly from the city, fetched sweet wine and bread from their own halls, and gathered plenty of firewood. The savor of roasting meat drifted up from the plain into the sky on the wind. And they, full of high spirits, sat all night long along the causeways of war, and many fires burned around them.
As when in the sky the stars around the bright moon shine out clear, when the air falls windless, and every peak and headland and mountain glen stands out, and the boundless sky breaks open from above, and every star is visible, and the shepherd's heart is glad — so many were the fires that shone between the ships and the streams of the Xanthus, lit by the Trojans in front of Troy. A thousand fires were burning on the plain, and beside each one sat fifty men in the glow of the blazing fire. And the horses, champing white barley and oats, stood beside their chariots and waited for the fair-throned Dawn.

======== Book 9 ========

So the Trojans kept their watch through the night. But the Achaeans were seized by a monstrous panic, the sister of chilling terror, and grief beyond bearing struck down every one of their best men. As two winds churn the sea where the fish swarm, the North Wind and the West Wind blowing together out of Thrace, coming on suddenly, and at once the dark wave rears up and heaps the shore with seaweed - so the heart in the Achaeans' chests was torn apart.
Agamemnon, son of Atreus, struck to the heart with great sorrow, went among them, ordering his clear-voiced heralds to summon each man by name to the assembly, but not to shout it aloud, and he himself worked among the foremost. They sat in the assembly, broken men, and Agamemnon rose among them, shedding tears like a spring of dark water pouring its gloomy stream down some sheer rock face. Groaning heavily he spoke to the Argives:
"Friends, leaders and rulers of the Argives, Zeus, son of Cronus, has bound me fast in cruel ruin - the merciless god, who once promised me and bowed his head that I would sack well-walled Troy before sailing home, but now he has plotted a wicked deception, and he is driving me to return to Argos in disgrace, having lost so many of my people. This, it seems, is the pleasure of Zeus in his overwhelming might, who has already toppled the crowns of many cities, and will topple more - for his power is greatest of all. Come, then, let us all obey what I say: let us flee with our ships to our own dear homeland, for we will never take Troy of the wide streets."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, struck dumb. For a long while the sons of the Achaeans sat there without a word, broken men, until at last Diomedes, master of the war cry, spoke up:
"Son of Atreus, I will be the first to oppose your folly, as is my right, lord, in this assembly - and you must not be angered by it. You were the one who mocked my courage before the Danaans, calling me unwarlike and weak, and all the Argives know it, young and old alike. But the son of crooked-counseling Cronus gave you a divided gift: he gave you the scepter, to be honored above all men, but he did not give you courage, which is the greatest power of all. Poor fool - do you really believe the sons of the Achaeans are as unwarlike and weak as you say?
If your own heart is set on going home, then go - the way is open, and your ships stand near the sea, the many ships that followed you from Mycenae. But the rest of us, the long-haired Achaeans, will stay until we bring down Troy. And if the others too wish to flee homeward with their ships, let them go. Sthenelus and I will fight on until we find the destined end of Troy - for it was with a god's help that we came here."
So he spoke, and all the sons of the Achaeans shouted approval, marveling at the words of Diomedes, tamer of horses. Then Nestor the horseman rose among them and spoke:
"Son of Tydeus, in battle you are mighty beyond all others, and in council too you stand first among men of your age. No Achaean here will scorn your words or speak against them - and yet you have not brought your speech to its full conclusion. You are young still - you might even be my own son, my youngest-born, and yet you speak with good sense to the kings of the Argives, for what you said was fitting. But let me, who claim to be older than you, speak fully and go through everything - and no one, not even lord Agamemnon, will hold my words in contempt.
A man without clan, without law, without a hearth is he who longs for the horror of war among his own people. But for now let us obey the coming of dark night and prepare our supper, and let the guards each take their posts along the ditch dug outside the wall. This I lay upon the young men. But you, son of Atreus, must take the lead, for you are the most kingly among us. Give a feast for the elders - that is fitting for you, no shame in it at all.
Your shelters are full of wine, which the ships of the Achaeans bring daily from Thrace over the wide sea. You have every means of hospitality, for you rule over many men. When many are gathered, you will follow the counsel of whoever offers the best plan - and the Achaeans have great need now of wise and careful counsel, since the enemy is burning countless fires close by our ships. Who could take pleasure in that sight? This night will either destroy our army or save it."
So he spoke, and they listened closely and did as he said. The sentries went out under arms, gathered around Thrasymedes, son of Nestor, shepherd of the people, and around Ascalaphus and Ialmenus, sons of Ares, and around Meriones, and Aphareus, and Deipyrus, and around Lycomedes, the noble son of Creon. Seven were the captains of the watch, and with each marched a hundred young men carrying long spears in their hands. They went and took their places between the ditch and the wall, and there they lit fires and each made ready his supper.
Meanwhile Agamemnon led the elders of the Achaeans together to his shelter and set before them a feast to warm their hearts. They reached out their hands to the good food laid ready before them. When they had satisfied their desire for food and drink, old Nestor, whose counsel had always proven best before, began to weave his plan for them. With good will he spoke and addressed the assembly:
"Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, I will end with you, and I will begin with you, since you are lord over many peoples, and Zeus has put into your hand the scepter and the laws, so that you may take counsel for them. Therefore it falls to you above all to speak and also to listen, and to grant another man his say too, whenever his heart moves him to speak for the common good - for what follows from it will rest with you.
I will tell you now what seems best to me. No other man will devise a better plan than the one I have had in mind, both long ago and still now, from the very time, son of Zeus, when you went to Achilles' shelter and took the girl Briseis from him in your anger - not at all with our approval, for I myself argued strongly against it. But you gave way to your own proud heart and dishonored the best of men, one whom even the immortals have honored - for you seized his prize and still hold it. Even now, though, let us think how we might appease him and win him back with pleasing gifts and gentle words."
Then Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him: "Old man, you have not spoken falsely in listing my follies. I was blind, and I do not deny it myself. A man that Zeus loves in his heart is worth many others - and so now he has honored this man, and has crushed the army of the Achaeans. But since I was blind and yielded to my wretched heart, I am willing now to make amends and to give back gifts beyond counting.
Before you all I will name the glorious gifts: seven tripods never touched by fire, ten talents of gold, twenty gleaming cauldrons, and twelve strong racing horses that have won prizes with their speed. No man who possessed as much as these horses have won for me would be poor, nor lacking in precious gold. And I will give seven women skilled in fine handiwork, women of Lesbos, whom I chose for myself when he himself took well-built Lesbos - women who surpassed all others in beauty.
These I will give him, and among them will be the one I took from him before, the daughter of Briseus. And I will swear a great oath that I have never gone up into her bed nor lain with her, as is the natural right between men and women. All this will be his at once. And if the gods grant that we sack the great city of Priam, let him come in and load his ship with gold and bronze when we Achaeans divide the spoil, and let him himself choose twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Argive Helen.
And if we return to Argos, the richest land on earth, he shall become my son by marriage - I will honor him as I honor Orestes, my own son who is growing up in great comfort. I have three daughters in my well-built hall, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; let him take whichever one he wishes, without bride-price, to the house of Peleus, and I will add a dowry, more than any man has ever given with his daughter. I will give him seven well-peopled cities,
Cardamyle, Enope, and grassy Hire, holy Pherae, deep-meadowed Antheia, fair Aepea, and vine-rich Pedasus - all of them near the sea, at the far edge of sandy Pylos. The men who live there are rich in flocks and cattle; they will honor him with gifts as if he were a god, and under his scepter they will pay him rich tribute. All this I will do for him, if only he lays down his anger. Let him submit - Hades alone is pitiless and unyielding, and for that reason he is the most hated of all gods by mortals - and let him yield to me, since I am the greater king
and since I claim to be older by birth."
Then Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, answered him: "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, the gifts you offer to lord Achilles are no longer anything to scorn. Come, then, let us send chosen men to go with all speed to the shelter of Achilles, son of Peleus. Let me choose the men, and let them agree to go. Let Phoenix, dear to Zeus, lead the way, and after him great Ajax and noble Odysseus, and let the heralds Odius and Eurybates go with them.
Bring water for our hands, and call for silence, so that we may pray to Zeus, son of Cronus, that he take pity on us." So he spoke, and his words pleased them all. At once the heralds poured water over their hands, and the young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with wine and served it to everyone, pouring first the portion of libation. When they had poured out their offerings and drunk as much as their hearts desired, they set out from the shelter of Agamemnon, son of Atreus.
Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, gave them many instructions, glancing meaningfully at each man, and especially at Odysseus, urging them to find some way to persuade the blameless son of Peleus. So the two went along the shore of the loud-crashing sea, praying earnestly to the Earthshaker who holds the earth in his embrace, that they might easily win over the great heart of the grandson of Aeacus. They came to the shelters and ships of the Myrmidons, and found Achilles delighting his heart with a clear-toned lyre, a beautiful instrument, finely wrought, with a silver crossbar, which he had taken from the spoils when he destroyed the city of Eetion. With it he was delighting his heart, singing of the glorious deeds of men. Patroclus alone sat across from him in silence,
waiting for Achilles to finish his singing. The two men came forward, with noble Odysseus leading, and stood before him. Achilles sprang up in astonishment, lyre still in hand, leaving the seat where he had been sitting. Patroclus likewise rose when he saw the men. Achilles, swift of foot, greeted them and said:
"Welcome - truly you are dear friends who have come, and there must be great need, since even in my anger you are the Achaeans dearest to me." So speaking, noble Achilles led them forward and seated them on couches spread with purple rugs,
and at once he called to Patroclus, who was nearby: "Bring out a bigger mixing bowl, son of Menoetius, and mix the wine stronger, and set out a cup for each man, for these who have come under my roof are the dearest of my friends." So he spoke, and Patroclus obeyed his dear companion. He threw down a great chopping block in the firelight, and laid on it the back of a sheep and of a fat goat, and the chine of a well-fed hog, rich with fat. Automedon held the meat steady while noble Achilles carved it, and he cut it well into pieces and pierced them on spits,
and Patroclus, godlike in his brightness, built up a great fire. When the fire had burned down and the flame had died away, he spread out the embers and stretched the spits above them, and sprinkled the meat with sacred salt, resting the spits on supports. When he had roasted it and heaped it onto platters, Patroclus took bread and set it out on the table in fine baskets, while Achilles served the meat. He himself sat down across from godlike Odysseus, against the far wall, and told his companion Patroclus to make sacrifice to the gods; and Patroclus threw the first offerings into the fire.
They reached out their hands to the good food laid ready before them. When they had satisfied their desire for food and drink, Ajax nodded to Phoenix, but noble Odysseus caught the sign; he filled his cup with wine and raised it to Achilles: "Your health, Achilles! We have no lack of an equal feast, either back in the shelter of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, or here now, for there is plenty here to satisfy the heart. But it is not the pleasures of a fine feast that concern us now - no, lord, we look on a disaster too great to bear, and we are afraid. It hangs in the balance whether we save our well-benched ships
or lose them, unless you put on your strength again. For close by our ships and wall the proud Trojans and their far-famed allies have made their camp, lighting many fires across the plain, and they say they can no longer be held back, but will fall upon our black ships. And Zeus, son of Cronus, sends them lightning on their right hand as a sign of favor, and Hector, glorying in his tremendous strength, rages beyond all bounds, trusting in Zeus, and honors neither men nor gods - so fierce is the madness that has taken hold of him. He prays for the bright dawn to come quickly,
for he boasts he will hack off the high stern-horns of our ships and burn them with consuming fire, and slaughter the Achaeans as they stumble in confusion through the smoke. This is what I fear terribly in my heart - that the gods will bring his threats to fulfillment, and that it will be our fate to die here at Troy, far from horse-pasturing Argos. Up, then, if you are willing, even now, late as it is, to save the sons of the Achaeans as they are worn down by the Trojan onslaught.
You yourself will suffer grief for it afterward, and there will be no remedy to find once the harm is done. No - think now, before it is too late, how you will ward off this evil day from the Danaans. Friend, surely your father Peleus charged you, on the day he sent you from Phthia to Agamemnon: 'My son, strength Athena and Hera will give you, if they wish it, but you must hold your proud heart in check within your chest, for kindness is the better path. Put an end to the destructive strife that breeds only harm, so that the young and the old among the Argives may honor you all the more.'
So the old man charged you, but you have forgotten. Even now, though, stop - let go of the anger that eats at your heart. Agamemnon offers you gifts worthy of your worth, if you will lay aside your wrath. If you will hear me out, I will list for you all that Agamemnon promised in his shelter as gifts: seven tripods never touched by fire, ten talents of gold, twenty gleaming cauldrons, and twelve strong racing horses that have won prizes with their speed. No man who possessed as much as these horses have won would be poor, nor lacking in precious gold - as much as the horses of Agamemnon have won with their speed. And he will give seven women skilled in fine handiwork,
women of Lesbos, whom he chose for himself when you yourself took well-built Lesbos - women who surpassed all others in beauty. These he will give you, and among them will be the one he took from you before, the daughter of Briseus. And he will swear a great oath that he has never gone up into her bed nor lain with her, as is the natural right, lord, between men and women. All this will be yours at once. And if the gods grant that we sack the great city of Priam, you may come in and load your ship with gold and bronze when we Achaeans divide the spoil,
and you may choose for yourself twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Argive Helen. And if we return to Argos, the richest land on earth, you would become his son by marriage - he will honor you as he honors Orestes, his own son who is growing up in great comfort. He has three daughters in his well-built hall, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; take whichever one you wish, without bride-price, to the house of Peleus, and he will add a dowry, more than any man has ever given with his daughter.
He will give you seven well-peopled cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and grassy Hire, holy Pherae, deep-meadowed Antheia, fair Aepea, and vine-rich Pedasus - all of them near the sea, at the far edge of sandy Pylos. The men who live there are rich in flocks and cattle; they will honor you with gifts as if you were a god, and under your scepter they will pay you rich tribute. All this he will do for you, if only you lay down your anger. But if the son of Atreus has grown too hateful to your heart -
"— you yourself, and gifts from him along with you. But still, take pity on the rest of the Achaeans, worn down across the camp, who will honor you like a god. You would win very great glory from them, for you might kill Hector now, since he would come right up close to you in his deadly frenzy — he claims no other Danaan brought here by the ships is his equal."
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Odysseus, son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful man of many turns — I must give you my answer plainly, exactly what I intend and how it will be, so that you don't sit around me, one after another, muttering the same thing at me. I hate that man like the gates of Hades who hides one thing in his heart and says another. I will tell you what seems best to me. I don't think Agamemnon son of Atreus will win me over, nor will the rest of the Danaans, since there was never any thanks for fighting the enemy without end, on and on. The man who stays back gets the same share as the man who fights hardest — coward and hero are held in the same honor. The man who does nothing dies the same as the man who has done a great deal.
Nothing extra comes to me for it, since I have suffered pain in my heart, forever staking my life on the fighting. Like a bird that brings food to her unfledged chicks whenever she catches any, and goes hungry herself — that is how I have spent so many sleepless nights and passed so many bloody days fighting men in battle for the sake of other men's women. I have sacked twelve cities from my ships, and eleven more on foot, I count, across the rich land of Troy. From all of them I took many fine treasures and carried them off and gave every one to Agamemnon son of Atreus. And he, staying behind by the fast ships, would take them in, hand out a few, and keep the most for himself. He gave prizes to the other chiefs and kings, and theirs remain untouched — but from me alone of all the Achaeans he took mine back, and he keeps the woman who pleased my heart. Let him sleep beside her and enjoy her. Why do the Argives have to fight the Trojans at all? Why did Agamemnon gather an army and bring it here? Wasn't it for the sake of fair-haired Helen? Are the sons of Atreus the only men alive who love their wives? Any man who is good and sound of mind loves his own woman and cares for her, and so I loved mine with my whole heart, even though she was a spear-won prize.
But now that he has torn my prize out of my hands and cheated me, let him not test me again — he knows well enough what I am. He will not win me over. No, Odysseus — let him plot with you and the other kings how to keep the killing fire from the ships. He has certainly done a great deal already without my help: he has built a wall, and driven a ditch beside it, wide and deep, and planted stakes in it. But even so it cannot hold back man-killing Hector's strength. While I was still fighting among the Achaeans, Hector had no wish to carry the battle far from the wall — he would come only as far as the Scaean gates and the oak tree. There he once waited for me alone, and barely escaped my charge. But now, since I have no wish to fight glorious Hector, tomorrow, once I have made sacrifice to Zeus and all the gods, and loaded my ships well and hauled them down to the sea, you will see — if you care to, if it matters to you — my ships sailing at dawn on the fish-filled Hellespont, my men straining eagerly at the oars. And if the famous Earthshaker grants a fair crossing, on the third day I will reach the rich soil of Phthia.
I left a great deal behind there when I sailed off, to my ruin — and from here I will carry off still more: gold, red bronze, well-girdled women, and gray iron, whatever fell to my share. But the prize he himself gave me, lord Agamemnon son of Atreus has taken back again, and insolently too. So tell him everything exactly as I command, openly, so that the rest of the Achaeans will be angry at him too, if he still hopes to cheat some other Danaan, wrapped forever in his shamelessness. He would not dare look me in the face, shameless dog that he is. I will join him in no plan and no deed of his — he has already cheated me and wronged me, and he will not fool me a second time with words. That is enough of him. Let him go to his ruin in peace; wise Zeus has stripped his sense from him. His gifts are hateful to me, and I weigh him at a hair's worth. Not even if he offered me ten times, twenty times all he now possesses, and whatever else might come to him from anywhere — not all the wealth that flows into Orchomenos, not all that goes into Egyptian Thebes, where the richest treasures of all lie stored in houses, that city of a hundred gates, from each of which two hundred men ride out with horses and chariots — not even if he gave me as much as the sand and dust of the earth, not even then would Agamemnon win over my heart, not until he has paid me back in full for all the heart-rending outrage.
And I will not marry the daughter of Agamemnon son of Atreus, not even if she rivaled golden Aphrodite in beauty and matched gray-eyed Athena in skill — not even then would I marry her. Let him choose some other Achaean, one who suits him, one who is more of a king than I am. For if the gods spare me and I make it home, Peleus himself will find me a wife in time. There are many Achaean women throughout Hellas and Phthia, daughters of chieftains who guard their cities — I will take whichever of them pleases me as my own wife. Many times my proud heart has longed, once I had married a fitting wife there, to settle down and enjoy the wealth that old Peleus gathered. For nothing is worth my life to me — not all they say the well-built city of Troy possessed before, in peacetime, before the sons of the Achaeans came, nor all that the stone threshold of the Archer god holds within it at rocky Pytho. Cattle and fat sheep can be plundered, tripods and tawny-headed horses can be won, but a man's life cannot be plundered back or won back once it has passed the barrier of his teeth.
My mother, the goddess silver-footed Thetis, tells me that I carry two different fates toward the end of death. If I stay here and fight around the city of Troy, my homecoming is lost, but my glory will never die. If I go home to my own dear country, my noble glory is lost, but I will have a long life, and death's end will not come to me quickly. And I would urge the rest of you, too, to sail home, since you will never find the end of steep Troy — Zeus who sees far has held his hand over it, and its people have taken heart. So go, and carry my message back to the chiefs of the Achaeans — that is the privilege due to elders — so that they can work out some better plan in their minds, one that will save their ships and their army by the hollow hulls, since the plan they have just devised will not work, now that I refuse to give up my anger. But let Phoenix stay here and sleep among us, so that he can sail with me on my ships to my own dear country tomorrow, if he wishes — I will not force him to come."
So he spoke, and they all fell silent, saying nothing, struck by his words, for he had refused them very forcefully. At last the old horseman Phoenix spoke among them, breaking into tears, for he was deeply afraid for the ships of the Achaeans.
"If it is truly a homecoming you are set on in your heart, shining Achilles, and you have no wish at all to defend the fast ships from the ravaging fire, since anger has settled into your heart — then how could I stay behind here without you, dear child, alone? Old horseman Peleus sent me with you on the day he sent you from Phthia to Agamemnon, a mere boy who knew nothing yet of grim war, nor of the assemblies where men make their names. That is why he sent me — to teach you all these things, to be a speaker of words and a doer of deeds. So I would never wish, dear child, to be left behind here without you, not even if a god himself promised to scrape the old age off me and make me young again, as young as I was when I first left Hellas, land of lovely women, fleeing a quarrel with my father Amyntor, son of Ormenus, who grew furious with me over his lovely-haired mistress — he loved her himself, and treated his own wife, my mother, with contempt.
She kept begging me, clasping my knees, to lie with the mistress first, so that the woman would come to hate the old man. I gave in and did it. My father found out at once and cursed me bitterly, calling on the hateful Furies that no son born of me should ever sit upon his knees — and the gods fulfilled his curse, Zeus of the underworld and dread Persephone. After that I could no longer bear, in my heart, to go on living under my raging father's roof. My kinsmen and cousins gathered around me from every side, begging me, holding me back in the halls; they slaughtered many fat sheep and shambling curved-horned cattle, and many pigs rich with fat were singed and stretched over the flame of Hephaestus, and much wine was drunk from that old man's jars. Nine whole nights they slept around me in turns, keeping watch — the fire never went out, one watch-fire under the gallery of the well-fenced courtyard, another in the porch before the doors of my chamber. But when the tenth dark night came upon me, I broke down the tightly fitted doors of my chamber and went out, and leapt over the courtyard fence easily, slipping past the guards and the serving men and women unseen.
Then I fled far off through spacious Hellas, and came to Phthia, rich soil, mother of flocks, and to lord Peleus. He received me kindly, and loved me as a father loves his own son, his only cherished child amid great wealth. He made me a rich man, and gave me many people to rule — I lived on the border of Phthia, lord of the Dolopians. And it was I who made you what you are, godlike Achilles, loving you from my heart, since as a boy you would go with no one else to feasts, and would not eat in the halls, until I had sat you on my knees and cut your meat for you and given you wine. Many times you soaked the tunic on my chest, spitting up wine in your painful infancy. So I suffered a great deal for you, and worked hard, knowing that the gods would never grant me a son of my own from my own body — so I made you my son instead, godlike Achilles, so that someday you might keep disgraceful ruin away from me.
So master your great heart, Achilles. You must not have a pitiless spirit — even the gods themselves can be swayed, though their excellence, honor, and strength are far greater than ours. Men turn them aside with sacrifices, gentle prayers, libation, and the smoke of offering, when someone has overstepped and gone wrong. For Prayers are the daughters of great Zeus — lame, wrinkled, and squinting in both eyes — and they take great care to follow after Ruin wherever she goes. But Ruin is strong and swift on her feet, so she far outruns them all, and reaches every corner of the earth first to do men harm, while the Prayers come behind, healing what she has done. Whoever respects the daughters of Zeus when they draw near, him they help greatly, and they listen when he prays. But whoever refuses them and stubbornly turns them away, they go to Zeus, son of Cronus, and beg that Ruin follow that man, so that he is harmed and made to pay for it. So you too, Achilles, should grant the daughters of Zeus the honor that bends the minds of other noble men.
If Agamemnon were not bringing gifts and naming still more to come, but only kept raging on without end, I would not urge you to cast off your anger and defend the Argives, no matter how badly they need you. But as it stands he is giving much right now, and has promised more later, and he has sent the finest men to beg you, choosing them out of the whole Achaean army, men who are dearest to you yourself among the Argives. Do not scorn their words, or their journey here — before this, no one could blame you for being angry. This is how we have heard, too, of the glorious deeds of the heroes of old, when fierce anger came upon one of them — they could still be won over by gifts and turned aside by words. I remember one such deed myself, an old story, not a new one, and I will tell it now to all of you, my friends.
The Curetes were fighting the steadfast Aetolians around the city of Calydon, and killing one another — the Aetolians defending lovely Calydon, the Curetes eager to lay it waste in war. For golden-throned Artemis had stirred up trouble among them, angry that Oeneus had not offered her the first fruits of his orchard. The other gods feasted on his hecatombs, but to the daughter of great Zeus alone he made no offering — he forgot, or simply failed to think of it, a grave mistake of the heart. Enraged, the archer goddess, child divine, sent against him a fierce wild boar with gleaming white tusks, which did great damage, ravaging Oeneus's orchard again and again — it tore up whole tall trees by the roots and flung them to the ground, blossoms and all. Meleager, son of Oeneus, killed the beast, gathering hunters and hounds from many cities, for it could not be brought down by a few men — it was that huge, and it had already sent many men up onto the grievous funeral pyre.
But the goddess stirred up a great uproar and quarrel over the boar's head and shaggy hide, between the Curetes and the great-hearted Aetolians. Now as long as Meleager, beloved of Ares, kept fighting, things went badly for the Curetes, and many as they were, they could not hold their ground outside the walls. But when anger crept into Meleager — the same anger that swells the hearts even of other men who think carefully — he lay there brooding, raging at his own mother Althaea, beside his wedded wife, lovely Cleopatra, daughter of fair-ankled Marpessa, child of Evenus, and of Idas, who was once the strongest man alive on earth, and who even raised his bow against the lord Phoebus Apollo for the sake of that fair-ankled bride. Her father and honored mother used to call her Alcyone in their halls, a name given because her own mother, suffering the fate of the mournful halcyon bird, wept when far-shooting Phoebus Apollo had snatched her daughter away.
Beside her Meleager lay, brooding on his heart-eating anger, enraged over his mother's curses. For she, grieving bitterly over her brother's murder, had prayed to the gods, beating the all-nourishing earth with her hands as she knelt, calling on Hades and dread Persephone, her lap soaked with tears, to bring death down upon her own son — and the Fury who walks in darkness heard her from Erebus, her heart unyielding. Soon the roar and crash of battle rose around the gates as the walls were assaulted, and the elders of the Aetolians begged Meleager to come out and defend them, sending the finest priests of the gods, and promising him a great gift: wherever the richest ground lay in lovely Calydon's plain, there they told him to take a magnificent estate of fifty acres, half of it vineyard, half bare plowland to be cut from the plain. Many times old horseman Oeneus begged him, standing on the threshold of his high-roofed chamber, rattling the fastened doors, pleading with his son. Many times too his sisters and his honored mother begged him, but he only refused all the more.
And his companions, the closest and dearest of all to him, begged too — yet even they could not persuade the heart in his chest, not until his chamber was being battered hard, and the Curetes were already climbing the walls and setting the great city on fire. Then at last his well-girdled wife begged Meleager, weeping, and laid out before him all the miseries that fall on people whose city is taken — the men are killed, the city is burned to ashes, and strangers carry off the children and the deep-girdled women. His heart was stirred as he heard of these evils, and he rose and went, and put on his gleaming armor. So he drove the day of disaster away from the Aetolians, yielding at last to his own change of heart — but by then they no longer paid him the many lovely gifts they had promised; still, he warded off the disaster, gift or no gift.
But you — do not let your mind turn that way, do not let some spirit lead you down that same road, dear friend. It would be far worse to defend the ships only once they are already burning. No — go now, for the sake of the gifts; the Achaeans will honor you as a god. But if you go into the man-destroying war without gifts —"
You will never keep the honor you have, though you drive the war back.
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Phoenix, old father, cherished by Zeus, I have no need of that kind of honor. I trust I am honored already by the will of Zeus, which will hold me here by my curved ships as long as breath stays in my chest and my knees still move under me. But I will tell you something else — fix it in your mind. Do not trouble my heart with grieving and weeping on behalf of the son of Atreus, out of favor to that man. You should not love him, or you will make yourself hateful to me, who love you.
It would be a fine thing for you to hurt whoever hurts me, side by side with me. Rule as an equal with me and take half my honor. These men will carry my answer back; you will stay here and sleep, on a soft bed. At dawn tomorrow we will decide together whether to sail for home or to remain."
So he spoke, and he nodded silently to Patroclus, a signal to make up a thick bed for Phoenix, so that the others might think quickly of leaving the hut and going home. Then Ajax, godlike son of Telamon, spoke among them: "Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, let us go — I do not think our errand will reach its end by this road. We must report the message to the Danaans quickly, bad as it is, for they sit waiting for us even now. But Achilles has made the great proud heart in his chest savage — hard man, and he takes no account of the love his companions gave him, honoring him beside the ships above all others — pitiless. And yet a man will accept payment even from the killer of his brother, or of his own dead son, and the killer, having paid a great price, remains on among his people,
and the other's heart and proud spirit are checked once he has taken the payment. But the gods have set in your chest a heart that will not rest, harsh, all because of one girl — one alone! And now we offer you seven, the best there are, and much more besides. Make your heart kindly, then, and respect your own roof. We are guests under it, sent from the mass of the Danaans, and we wish to be closer to you and dearer than any other Achaeans."
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Ajax, sprung from Zeus, son of Telamon, lord of your people, everything you have said seems to speak to my own heart. But my heart still swells with fury whenever I remember how the son of Atreus treated me with contempt before the Argives, as if I were some dishonored vagabond. Go now, and carry back my answer — I will not turn my mind to the bloody work of war again until Hector, son of wise Priam, comes as far as the huts and ships of the Myrmidons, killing Argives as he comes, and sets the ships ablaze with fire. But around my own hut and my black ship,
I think Hector will be stopped, however eager he is for battle."
So he spoke, and each of them took up a two-handled cup, poured out their offering, and went back to the ships; Odysseus led the way. Patroclus told his companions and the serving women to make up a thick bed for Phoenix as quickly as they could, and they obeyed and spread the bed as he told them, with fleeces, a blanket, and a fine linen sheet. There the old man lay down and waited for shining dawn. But Achilles slept in the inner chamber of his well-built hut, and beside him lay the woman he had brought from Lesbos,
Diomede, fair-cheeked daughter of Phorbas. And on the other side Patroclus lay down, and beside him too lay fair-girdled Iphis, whom godlike Achilles had given him when he took steep Scyros, the city of Enyeus.
Now when the envoys had come to the huts of the son of Atreus, the sons of the Achaeans rose one after another from their places and greeted them with golden cups, and questioned them. First to ask was Agamemnon, lord of men: "Tell me, Odysseus, much-praised, great glory of the Achaeans, is he willing to keep the hostile fire from our ships,
or does he refuse, and does anger still hold his great heart?"
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, that man is not willing to quench his anger — quite the opposite, he is filled with rage more than ever, and he rejects you and your gifts. He tells you to decide for yourself, together with the Argives, how you will save the ships and the army of the Achaeans. As for himself, he threatened that at dawn tomorrow he will drag his well-benched, curved ships down into the sea. And he said he would advise the rest of us too
to sail home, since you will no longer find an end to steep Troy — for far-seeing Zeus has spread his hand wide over that city, and its people have taken courage. So he spoke — and these men here can confirm it, who came with me, Ajax and the two heralds, both wise men. Old Phoenix has lain down to sleep there, as Achilles bid him, so that he might sail with him in his ships to his own dear homeland tomorrow, if he wishes — but he will not force him to go."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, saying nothing, in awe of his words — for he had spoken with great force.
For a long time the sons of the Achaeans sat speechless, downcast; but at last Diomedes, good at the war cry, spoke among them: "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, you should not have begged the noble son of Peleus, offering him countless gifts — he is proud enough as it is, and now you have driven him even further into his pride. Let us leave him alone, whether he goes or stays — he will fight again whenever the heart in his chest tells him to, and a god rouses him. Come, let us all do as I say.
For now, let us go to rest, once we have satisfied our hearts with bread and wine, for these are strength and courage. But as soon as fair rose-fingered Dawn appears, muster the men and the horses quickly before the ships, urging them on, and take your own place fighting among the foremost."
So he spoke, and all the kings applauded, in awe of the words of horse-taming Diomedes. Then they poured their offerings and went, each man, to his own hut, and there they lay down to rest and took the gift of sleep.

======== Book 10 ========

The rest of the Achaean captains slept the whole night through beside the ships, mastered by soft sleep. But Agamemnon, son of Atreus, shepherd of his people, could not find sweet rest, his mind churning with too many thoughts. As when the husband of fair-haired Hera flashes lightning, readying an enormous downpour or hail beyond telling, or snow, when the white flakes powder the fields, or somewhere the wide jaws of bitter war, so thick and fast the groans broke from Agamemnon's chest, welling up from the depths of his heart, and the flesh shook within him.
Whenever he looked out across the Trojan plain he marveled at the many fires burning before Troy, and the sound of pipes and flutes, and the murmur of men. But when he turned his eyes back to the ships and the army of the Achaeans, he tore great handfuls of hair out by the roots, looking up to Zeus on high, and his proud heart groaned within him. And this at last seemed to his mind the best plan: to go first of all to Nestor, son of Neleus, and see whether together with him he might work out some plan beyond reproach, one that could turn aside disaster from all the Danaans.
He sat up and pulled a tunic over his chest, bound fine sandals beneath his shining feet, then threw over his shoulders the tawny hide of a huge, fierce lion, reaching to his heels, and took up his spear. Fear gripped Menelaus too in the very same way, for sleep would not settle on his eyes either — he feared for the Argives, who for his sake had crossed so much open water to Troy, bent on reckless war. First he covered his broad back with a leopard skin, richly patterned, then lifted a bronze helmet and set it on his head,
and took his sturdy spear in his powerful hand. He set off to rouse his brother, who ruled all the Argives and was honored by his people like a god. He found him beside the stern of his ship, buckling his fine armor about his shoulders, and Agamemnon was glad to see him come. Menelaus, good at the war cry, spoke first: "Why are you arming, dear brother? Do you mean to send one of our comrades to spy on the Trojans? I am terribly afraid no one will dare take on that task — to go out alone through the immortal night and scout the enemy lines.
Any man who tried it would need a very bold heart." Then powerful Agamemnon answered him: "Menelaus, you and I, both nurtured by Zeus, need some cunning plan — one that will rescue and save the Argives and their ships, since the mind of Zeus has swung against us. His heart, it seems, is bent now more toward Hector's offerings. I have never seen, nor heard tell of any man, working so much havoc in a single day as Hector, dear to Zeus, has worked against the sons of the Achaeans —
and not even the son of a goddess or a god at that. He has done deeds the Argives, I think, will feel the sting of for a long, long time — so much harm has he devised against the Achaeans. But go now, call Ajax and Idomeneus, running swiftly by the ships, and I will go to godlike Nestor and urge him to rise, in case he is willing to go to the sacred watch and give his orders there. He is the one the guards will listen to most readily, for it is his own son who commands the watchmen, and Meriones, comrade of Idomeneus — we entrusted the guard to those two above all." Then Menelaus, good at the war cry, answered him:
"How exactly do you want me to carry out this order? Should I stay there among the guards, waiting until you come, or run back to you once I have given the command?" Then Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him again: "Stay there, in case we miss each other on the way — there are many paths through the camp. Call out wherever you go, and tell the men to stay awake, naming each one by his father's line and lineage, giving every man his due honor. Do not stand on your pride —
let us both do our share of the hard work ourselves. This is the heavy trouble Zeus has laid on us at our birth." So he spoke, and sent his brother off with clear instructions, and went himself to find Nestor, shepherd of his people. He found him beside his hut and his black ship, lying on a soft bed; and near him lay his gleaming armor — shield, two spears, and a shining helmet. Beside him too lay his war belt, richly worked, with which the old man girded himself whenever he armed for battle that wastes men, leading his troops — for grim old age had not yet made him give that up. He raised himself on his elbow, lifted his head,
and spoke to the son of Atreus, questioning him: "Who are you, walking alone among the ships through the camp, in the black of night, while other men sleep? Are you looking for a stray mule, or for one of your comrades? Speak, do not come up to me in silence — what do you need?" Then Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him: "Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaeans, you will recognize Agamemnon, son of Atreus, whom Zeus has plunged into more toil than any other man, for as long as breath
stays in my chest and my knees still hold me up. I wander like this because sweet sleep will not rest on my eyes — my mind is fixed on the war and the troubles of the Achaeans. I am terribly afraid for the Danaans; my heart will not settle, but is shaken with dread, and it leaps out of my chest, and my strong limbs tremble beneath me. But if you mean to do something too, since sleep will not come to you either, let us go down to the guard posts, so we can see
whether the men, worn out with weariness and sleep, are drowsing off and have utterly forgotten to keep watch. The enemy lies camped close by — and we have no way of knowing whether, even in the dark of night, they mean to attack." Then Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, answered him: "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon — Zeus, the great planner, will not carry out for Hector all that he now hopes for. No, I think Hector himself will face far more trouble yet, and even greater, if Achilles
ever turns his heart away from his bitter anger. I will gladly go with you — and let us go rouse the others too, both Diomedes, famous for his spear, and Odysseus, and swift Ajax, and the strong son of Phyleus.
But someone should also go and call the godlike Ajax and lord Idomeneus, for their ships lie farthest off, not nearby at all. As for Menelaus — dear and honored as he is to me — I will find fault with him, even if you take it amiss, and I will not hide it: he is asleep, and has left all the work to you alone. He ought by now to be going round begging help from every one of our best men — for the need has grown past bearing." Then Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him again: "Old man, at other times I myself have told you to find fault with him,
for often he lets things slide and is unwilling to work — not from cowardice, nor from any dullness of mind, but because he looks to me and waits for me to make the first move. But this time he woke before I did and came to me himself; I have already sent him ahead to call the men you now ask about. So let us go — we will find them already before the gates, among the guards, for that is where I told them to gather." Then Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, answered him: "If that is so, no Argive will find fault with him or refuse him,
whenever he gives an order or urges a man on." So saying, he pulled a tunic over his chest, bound fine sandals beneath his shining feet, and fastened about himself a purple cloak, doubled and full, with a thick nap of wool upon it. He took up his sturdy spear, tipped with sharp bronze, and set off walking among the bronze-armored Achaean ships. First of all Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, roused Odysseus, the equal of Zeus in cunning, from his sleep, calling out to him; and the sound at once reached his wakened mind, and he came out of his hut and spoke to them:
"Why are you two wandering alone like this among the ships, through the camp, in the immortal night? What need presses so hard?" Then Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, answered him: "Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, do not be angry — such grief has overwhelmed the Achaeans. But come with us, so we may rouse another man too, one fit to help us decide whether to flee or to fight." So he spoke, and resourceful Odysseus went back into his hut, slung his richly worked shield about his shoulders, and came along with them. Next they went to find Diomedes, son of Tydeus, and found him
outside his hut, in full armor; around him his comrades slept, their shields beneath their heads, their spears planted upright by the butt-spikes, the bronze catching the light far off like the lightning of father Zeus. The hero himself lay sleeping, with the hide of a wild ox spread beneath him, and under his head a bright rug was stretched. Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, came up and roused him, nudging him with his foot, and stirred him, taunting him to his face: "Wake up, son of Tydeus! Why sleep the whole night through? Do you not know that the Trojans are camped on the rise of the plain,
close by our ships, with only a narrow strip of ground still holding them back?" So he spoke, and Diomedes sprang up at once from sleep, very quickly, and spoke to him, and his words flew like arrows: "You are a hard man, old sir — you never let up on your labors. Are there not younger men among the Achaeans who could go around and rouse each of the kings, going everywhere themselves? There is no stopping you, old man." Then Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, answered him in turn: "Yes, dear friend, all that you say is fair and true.
I do have blameless sons, and I do have troops enough,
many of them — any one of them could go round and call the men. But a very great need has come down hard upon the Achaeans. Now everything for every one of us stands balanced on a razor's edge — either grim destruction for the Achaeans, or life. But come now, go rouse swift Ajax and the son of Phyleus — you are younger than I am, so have pity on me and do it." So he spoke, and Diomedes threw over his shoulders the hide of a huge, tawny lion, reaching to his heels, and took up his spear. He went off, and roused the two, and led them, once risen, back with him. And when they had come and joined the gathered watchmen,
they did not find the leaders of the guard asleep — all of them sat awake, weapons in hand. As dogs keep an uneasy watch over sheep in a fold, hearing some fierce beast come down through the woods from the mountains, and a great clamor of men and dogs rises against it, and sleep is driven from them, so sleep had fled from the eyelids of these men as they kept their grim watch through the night, forever turning toward the plain, listening for any sound of the Trojans coming on. The old man was glad to see them and spoke to encourage them,
and his words flew to them like arrows: "Keep the watch just like this, dear sons, and let sleep take none of you, or we will become a joy to our enemies." So he spoke, and passed on across the ditch; and with him went the Argive kings who had been summoned to the council, and along with them went Meriones and Nestor's own gleaming son, for they too had been called to share in the planning. They crossed the dug ditch and sat down together on open ground, a clear space where the corpses of the fallen still showed pale — the place from which mighty Hector had at last turned back
from destroying the Argives, once night had spread its covering over all. There they sat down and spoke to one another, and Nestor of Gerenia, the horseman, opened the council: "Friends, is there no man here who trusts his own bold heart enough to go among the great-hearted Trojans, in hope of catching some straggler at the outer edge of their line, or perhaps overhearing some word passed among them — what they mean to do among themselves, whether they intend to hold their ground here by the ships, far from the city, or to fall back within the walls, now that they have beaten down the Achaeans?
If a man could learn all this and come back to us again unharmed, his fame would rise to the very sky before all men, and he would receive a fine reward. For every one of the captains who command the ships will give him a black ewe, still nursing her lamb — no gift can equal that — and he will always have a place at feasts and banquets." So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, saying nothing. Then Diomedes, good at the war cry, spoke among them: "Nestor, my own heart and proud spirit urge me on
to slip into the enemy camp, the Trojans, so close at hand. But if another man would come with me, there would be more comfort in it, and more courage. When two go together, one sees before the other what will serve them best; but a man alone, even if he does see something, is slower in thought, and his judgment is thin." So he spoke, and many were eager to go with Diomedes. The two Ajaxes, henchmen of Ares, were eager; Meriones was eager; Nestor's son was very eager; Menelaus, son of Atreus, famous for his spear, was eager;
and long-suffering Odysseus too was eager to slip into the throng of the Trojans, for his heart was always daring within him. Then Agamemnon, lord of men, spoke among them: "Diomedes, son of Tydeus, dearest to my heart, choose then the comrade you wish, whichever is best of those who offer themselves, since many are eager. And do not, out of some misplaced deference, pass over the better man and take a lesser one instead, giving way to modesty, or looking to a man's rank, even if he is more of a king." So he spoke, fearing for fair-haired Menelaus.
Then Diomedes, good at the war cry, spoke among them again: "If you truly tell me to choose my own comrade, how could I then forget godlike Odysseus, whose heart and proud spirit are so ready in every hardship, and whom Pallas Athena loves? With him at my side, we could come back even out of blazing fire, both of us, for his judgment surpasses all others." Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "Son of Tydeus, do not praise me too highly, nor blame me either — you are speaking before Argives who already know all this.
But let us go — the night is far gone, dawn is near, the stars have moved on, and more than two of the night's three watches have already passed, only the third still remains." So saying, the two of them put on their fearsome war-gear. Thrasymedes, staunch in battle, gave Diomedes a two-edged sword — for his own had been left by his ship — and a shield, and set on his head a helmet of bull's-hide, without ridge or crest, the kind men call a skull-cap, which guards the heads of vigorous young men. Meriones gave Odysseus a bow and a quiver,
and a sword, and set on his head a helmet made of leather; inside it many straps were stretched tight to hold it firm, while on the outside the white teeth of a bright-tusked boar ran close-set, this way and that, skillfully and cunningly worked, and in the middle was fitted a cap of felt. This helmet, long ago, Autolycus had carried off from Eleon, breaking through the sturdy walls of Ormenus's son Amyntor's house, and had given it to Amphidamas of Cythera, in Scandeia; Amphidamas gave it to Molus as a guest-gift, and Molus gave it to his own son Meriones to wear.
And now it was fitted, covering Odysseus's head. So when the two of them had put on their fearsome war-gear, they set out, leaving all the other chiefs behind there. And Pallas Athena sent them, close by their path, a heron on the right; they could not see it with their eyes through the black night, but they heard its cry. Odysseus rejoiced at the omen and prayed to Athena: "Hear me, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, you who always stand beside me in every hardship, and I never move without your notice —
now, Athena, be my friend more than ever, and grant that we come back to the ships in glory, having done some great deed that will trouble the Trojans." Then, second, Diomedes, good at the war cry, prayed too: "Hear me now as well, child of Zeus, unwearied one. Stand by me now, as once you stood by my father, godlike Tydeus, when he went to Thebes as a messenger from the Achaeans. He left the bronze-armored Achaeans behind at the Asopus, and carried a gentle message to the Cadmeans there,
but on his way back he carried out fearsome deeds, with your help, bright goddess, since you stood by him then, ready to aid him. So now, be willing to stand by me too, and guard me. And in return I will offer you a yearling heifer, broad-browed, unbroken, one no man has yet led beneath the yoke — I will offer her to you, her horns sheathed in gold." So they prayed, and Pallas Athena heard them. And when they had finished praying to the daughter of great Zeus, they went off like two lions through the black night,
through slaughter, among corpses, through weapons and dark blood. Nor did Hector let the proud Trojans sleep either, but called together all their best men,
all the leaders and counselors of Troy. Gathering them, he laid out a careful plan: "Who among you would take on this task for a great reward, and carry it through? His pay will be sure. I will give him a chariot and two strong-necked horses, the finest to be found by the swift ships of the Greeks, whoever dares to go — and he will win glory for himself besides — to slip close to the fast ships and find out whether they still keep watch as before, or whether, already beaten down by our hands, they are plotting flight among themselves, unwilling to keep the night watch, worn out with terrible weariness."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, saying nothing. Now there was among the Trojans a man named Dolon, son of Eumedes, the godlike herald, rich in gold and bronze. He was ugly to look at, but fast on his feet, and he was the only son among five sisters. He spoke up then to the Trojans and to Hector: "Hector, my heart and my proud spirit drive me to go close to the fast ships and find out the truth.
But come, hold up the scepter for me, and swear that you will give me the horses and the bronze-trimmed chariot that carry Achilles's flawless son — I will not be a useless scout for you, nor fall short of your hopes. I will go straight through the camp until I reach Agamemnon's ship, where the leaders will likely be debating whether to flee or to fight." So he spoke, and Hector took the scepter in his hands and swore to him: "Let Zeus himself bear witness, the thundering husband of Hera — no other man of Troy will ever ride behind those horses.
I swear you alone will glory in them forever." So he spoke, and swore an oath that would not be kept, but it spurred Dolon on. At once he slung the curved bow over his shoulders, threw over himself the pelt of a gray wolf, set a cap of weasel-skin on his head, took up a sharp javelin, and set off from the camp toward the ships. But he was never to return from the ships and bring Hector word.
He left behind the crowd of men and horses and set out along the road, moving fast — but godlike Odysseus caught sight of him coming and said to Diomedes: "Diomedes, here comes a man from the camp — I don't know whether he means to spy on our ships, or to strip the bodies of the dead. Let's let him pass us a little way out onto the plain first; then we'll rush him and seize him quickly. But if he outruns us on foot, keep driving him toward the ships, away from the camp, with your spear, so he doesn't slip back to the city."
So they spoke and dropped down off the path among the corpses, and Dolon ran past them quickly, suspecting nothing. But when he had gone about as far as the range mules can plow furrows in a day — for mules outdo oxen at dragging the jointed plow through deep fallow ground — the two men ran after him, and he stopped, hearing the noise of their feet, thinking in his heart that they were comrades sent back by Hector to call him home. But when they were a spear's throw away, or less, he recognized them as enemies, and his legs moved fast to flee. At once the two took off after him.
As two sharp-toothed hounds skilled in hunting press hard, without a break, after a fawn or a hare through wooded ground, and it runs on screaming ahead of them, so Diomedes, sacker of cities, and Odysseus cut Dolon off from his own men and chased him without letup. But just as he was about to run into the sentries near the ships, Athena put fury into Diomedes, so that no other bronze-armored Greek could claim the glory of striking first, leaving him only second. Rushing at him with his spear, mighty Diomedes called out: "Stop, or my spear will catch you — and I promise you won't escape sheer destruction at my hand for long."
So he spoke, and threw his spear, but missed the man on purpose — the polished spearhead flew over his right shoulder and stuck fast in the ground. Dolon stopped, terrified, stammering, his teeth chattering in his mouth, pale with fear. The two men caught up to him, gasping for breath, and seized his hands. He burst into tears and said: "Take me alive, and I will ransom myself — I have bronze, gold, and worked iron at home, and my father would gladly give you a fortune in ransom for them, if he learns I am alive among the ships of the Greeks."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Take heart — don't let death weigh on your mind. But come, tell me this and answer truly: why are you going alone toward the ships, away from the camp, through the murky night, when other mortals are asleep? Do you mean to strip the dead? Or did Hector send you to spy out everything at the hollow ships? Or did your own heart drive you to it?" Trembling in every limb, Dolon answered him:
"Hector led me far astray with promises I should never have believed — he swore he would give me the sure-footed horses of proud Achilles's son, and the bronze-trimmed chariot too, and he ordered me to go through the swift dark night, close to the enemy, and find out whether the fast ships are still guarded as before, or whether, already beaten down by our hands, you are plotting flight among yourselves, unwilling to keep the night watch, worn out with terrible weariness." Odysseus smiled and answered him:
"Your heart really did reach for a great prize — the horses of warlike Aeacus's grandson. They are hard for mortal men to master or drive, for any man but Achilles, whom an immortal mother bore. But come, tell me this and answer truly: where did you leave Hector, shepherd of his people, when you set out? Where does his war-gear lie, and where are his horses? How are the other Trojans posted for watch and sleep? What are they planning among themselves — do they mean to hold their position by the ships, far off as they are, or fall back to the city
now that they've beaten the Greeks?" Dolon, son of Eumedes, answered him: "I will tell you all this, truly and exactly. Hector is meeting with the other counselors beside the tomb of godlike Ilus, away from the noise of the camp. As for the guards you ask about, hero, there is no chosen watch keeping the camp — only where the Trojans themselves have their fires, there necessity forces them to stay awake and stand guard, calling to one another. But the allies, gathered from many lands,
are asleep — they leave the watch to the Trojans, since their own children and wives are not close by." Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "How then — are they sleeping mixed in among the horse-taming Trojans, or apart? Tell me clearly, so I understand." Dolon, son of Eumedes, answered him: "I will tell you this too, truly and exactly. Toward the sea are the Carians, the Paeonians with their curved bows, the Leleges, the Cauconians, and the noble Pelasgians; toward Thymbra fall the Lycians, the proud Mysians,
the horse-fighting Phrygians, and the helmeted Maeonians. But why do you press me on every detail? If you two mean to slip down into the Trojan ranks, there are the Thracians, newly arrived, set apart from the rest, at the outer edge — and among them is Rhesus, their king, son of Eioneus. I have seen his horses — the finest and biggest I know — whiter than snow, and swift as the wind. His chariot is finely worked with gold and silver, and he came bearing golden armor, huge, a wonder to behold —
armor no mortal man should wear, but only the immortal gods. Now, bring me down to the swift ships, or leave me here bound tight and helpless, until you come back and test whether I have told you the truth or not." Mighty Diomedes looked at him darkly and answered: "Don't let your mind dwell on escape, Dolon, even though you have brought us good news, now that you have fallen into our hands.
If we release you now, or let you go, you will surely come again later to the fast ships of the Greeks, either to spy on us or to fight us face to face. But if I kill you with my own hands, you will never again be a torment to the Greeks." With that — just as Dolon reached up to touch his chin with a heavy hand and beg for mercy — Diomedes struck him across the neck with his sword, cutting through both tendons; his head was still speaking when it rolled into the dust. They stripped from his head the weasel-skin cap,
took the wolf-pelt, the curved bow, and the long spear, and radiant Odysseus held them up high in his hand as an offering to Athena, goddess of spoils, saying: "Hail, goddess — of all the immortals on Olympus, you are the first we will offer these to. Now guide us once more to the horses and beds of the Thracian men." So he spoke, and lifting the spoils high, he set them upon a tamarisk bush and marked the place clearly, gathering reeds and leafy branches of tamarisk, so they would not miss it coming back through the swift dark night.
Then the two moved on through the weapons and the dark blood, and soon reached the camp of the Thracian men. They were asleep, worn out with weariness, and their fine war-gear lay beside them on the ground, neatly arranged in three rows, with a pair of horses beside each man. Rhesus slept in the middle, and beside him his swift horses were tied by their reins to the rail of his chariot. Odysseus saw him first and pointed him out to Diomedes: "There is the man, Diomedes, and there are the horses that Dolon, whom we killed, told us about.
Now put your strength to use — there's no reason to stand idle in your armor. Loose the horses — or else kill the men, and I'll see to the horses." So he spoke, and gray-eyed Athena breathed fury into Diomedes, and he began killing on every side. Ugly groans rose up from men struck down by the sword, and the earth ran red with blood. As a lion falls upon an unguarded flock — sheep or goats — with murder in mind, so Tydeus's son fell upon the Thracian men,
until he had killed twelve. Meanwhile resourceful Odysseus, whenever Diomedes struck a man down beside him with his sword, would grab him by the foot from behind and drag him out of the way,
thinking to himself how the fine-maned horses might pass through easily, without shying — they were not yet used to stepping over corpses. But when Tydeus's son reached the king, he took the sweet life from him as the thirteenth man, gasping his last — for a wicked dream had stood over his head that night, sent by the scheme of Athena, granddaughter of Zeus. Meanwhile brave Odysseus was loosing the sure-footed horses, tying them together with their reins, and driving them out from the crowd,
striking them with his bow, since he had not thought to snatch the bright whip from the ornate chariot. Then he gave a whistle, a signal to godlike Diomedes. But Diomedes stood there, weighing in his mind what boldest thing he might yet do — whether to take hold of the chariot where the fine gear lay, and drag it out by the pole, or lift it up and carry it off, or take still more of the Thracians' lives. While he turned this over in his heart, Athena came and stood close beside him and said to godlike Diomedes: "Think now of returning, great-hearted son of Tydeus,
back to the hollow ships — or you may find yourself driven there in flight, if some other god should rouse the Trojans against you." So she spoke, and he recognized the voice of the goddess speaking, and quickly mounted the horses. Odysseus struck them with his bow, and they flew on toward the swift ships of the Greeks. But Apollo of the silver bow was not keeping careless watch — he saw Athena at the side of Tydeus's son, and in his anger at her he plunged into the great crowd of Trojans and roused Hippocoon, a Thracian counselor,
a noble cousin of Rhesus. Starting up out of sleep, he saw the empty space where the swift horses had been standing, and the men gasping in the agony of slaughter, and he cried aloud and called his dear comrade's name. A clamor rose among the Trojans, and terrible confusion, as they crowded together and stared in horror at the grim work the two men had done before making their way back to the hollow ships. And when the two reached the place where they had killed Hector's watchman, Odysseus, dear to Zeus, reined in the swift horses there, while Tydeus's son leapt down to the ground, put the bloody spoils into Odysseus's hands, and mounted the horses again; he lashed them on, and they flew, not unwilling,
toward the hollow ships, for that was where his heart longed to be. Nestor was the first to hear the sound and spoke: "Friends, leaders and counselors of the Greeks, am I wrong, or do I speak the truth? My heart tells me to say it — the sound of swift-footed horses strikes my ears. If only Odysseus and mighty Diomedes were driving sure-footed horses out of the Trojan camp this very moment! But I fear terribly in my heart that the bravest of the Greeks may have come to harm in the Trojan uproar."
He had not finished speaking when the two men themselves arrived. They climbed down to the ground, and the others, overjoyed, welcomed them with handclasps and gentle words. Gerenian Nestor, master of horsemen, was first to question them: "Tell me, Odysseus, great glory of the Greeks, whom all men praise — how did you two capture these horses? Did you slip down into the Trojan ranks, or did some god meet you and give them as a gift? They are astonishingly like rays of the sun. I am always mixing it up with the Trojans, and I don't think I linger by the ships, old warrior as I am —
but I have never before seen or imagined horses like these. No, I think some god must have met one of you and given them." — for the cloud-gathering son of Cronus loves you both, and so does his daughter, gray-eyed Athena." Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Greeks, a god, if he wished, could easily give even finer horses than these, since the gods are far mightier than we are. But these horses, old man, that you now ask about, are newly arrived — Thracian. Mighty Diomedes killed their master,
and beside him twelve of his best comrades. A thirteenth man we killed was a scout close by the ships, whom Hector and the other proud Trojans had sent out to spy on our camp." So speaking, he drove the sure-footed horses across the trench, laughing with triumph, and the other Greeks went along beside him, rejoicing. When they reached the well-built shelter of Diomedes, they tied the horses with well-cut leather straps at the manger where Diomedes's own horses stood, eating sweet grain. And Odysseus set the bloody spoils of Dolon in the stern of his ship,
so that they might prepare them as an offering to Athena. Then the two men waded into the sea and washed off the heavy sweat, from their shins, their necks, and around their thighs. When the sea's waves had washed the thick sweat from their bodies and refreshed their spirits, they went and bathed in smooth-polished tubs. And once they had bathed and rubbed themselves with rich oil, they sat down to a meal, and from a full mixing-bowl they drew off sweet wine and poured it out to Athena.

======== Book 11 ========

Dawn rose from her bed beside noble Tithonus, to bring light to the immortals and to mortal men, and Zeus sent harsh Strife toward the swift ships of the Achaeans, carrying in her hands the sign of war. She took her stand on Odysseus's black ship, huge-bellied, which lay in the middle of the line so her voice could reach both ends, to Ajax son of Telamon's huts on one side and to Achilles's on the other — for these two had drawn their trim ships up at the farthest points, trusting their courage and the strength of their arms. There she stood and cried out, terrible and loud,
a high shrill cry, and she flung great strength into the heart of every Achaean, to fight without ceasing, without end. At once war grew sweeter to them than sailing home in their hollow ships to their own dear land.
Agamemnon shouted and ordered the Argives to arm, and he himself put on the gleaming bronze. First he strapped the greaves around his shins, fine ones, fitted with silver ankle-clasps. Next he pulled the corselet over his chest, the one Cinyras had once given him as a guest-gift.
For word had reached Cyprus, the great rumor, that the Achaeans meant to sail against Troy, and so Cinyras gave it to him, currying favor with the king. It had ten bands of dark blue enamel, twelve of gold, and twenty of tin, and dark blue serpents reared up toward the neck, three on each side, like the rainbows the son of Cronos sets in the clouds as a sign to mortal men. Across his shoulders he slung the sword, its golden studs flashing, and the scabbard around it
was silver, fitted with golden hangers. Then he took up the great shield that covered a man from head to foot, richly worked, a fine and terrible thing, with ten circles of bronze running round it, and twenty bosses of pale tin set upon it, and in the very center one of dark blue enamel. On it, crowning it all, was the grim-eyed Gorgon glaring her terrible glare, and Fear and Panic flanked her on either side. Its strap was silver, and coiled along it was a dark blue serpent with three heads twisting from a single neck.
On his head he set a helmet with two ridges and four plates and a horsehair crest, and the plume nodded fearsomely above it. He took up two strong spears, tipped with sharp bronze, and their bronze points flashed far up toward the sky. Athena and Hera thundered in answer, honoring the king of gold-rich Mycenae. Then each man gave his charioteer orders to hold the horses in good order there by the trench, while the footmen themselves, buckled into their armor, rushed forward, and a great, unquenchable shouting rose before the dawn.
They were formed up at the trench well ahead of the chariots; the chariots followed close behind. And the son of Cronos stirred up an evil confusion among them, and sent down from the upper air a dew drenched with blood, since he meant to send many strong men's souls down to the House of Hades.
The Trojans, on the far side, gathered on the rise of the plain around great Hector and blameless Polydamas and Aeneas, whom the Trojan people honored like a god, and the three sons of Antenor — Polybus and noble Agenor — and young Acamas, like the immortals.
Hector, in the front ranks, carried his shield, perfectly round on every side. As a baleful star shines out from among the clouds, blazing, then plunges again into the shadowed clouds, so Hector now appeared among the foremost fighters, now was seen ordering the rearmost, and everywhere the bronze on him flashed like the lightning of father Zeus who bears the aegis. And as reapers, working opposite each other, drive their swaths through a rich man's field of wheat or barley, and the cut handfuls fall thick and fast, so the Trojans and Achaeans, leaping at one another,
cut each other down, and neither side gave a thought to ruinous flight. The battle line held level, heads bowed to the work, and the men surged like wolves. And Strife, sorrow-bringer, watched and rejoiced, for she alone of the gods was present at the fighting — the other gods were absent, sitting at ease each in his own great hall, built along the folds of Olympus. All of them blamed the son of Cronos, shrouded in dark cloud, because he meant to grant the Trojans glory. But the Father paid them no heed. He had drawn apart
from the others and sat by himself, glorying in his power, looking out over the city of the Trojans and the ships of the Achaeans, the flash of bronze, men killing and men dying. As long as it was morning and the sacred daylight still grew, the weapons of both sides found their marks and men fell. But at the hour when a woodcutter prepares his meal in a mountain glen, when his arms have grown tired from felling tall trees and weariness comes over his spirit, and the desire for sweet food grips his heart — at that hour the Danaans, by their courage, broke through the enemy ranks,
calling to their comrades down the lines. Agamemnon was first to charge, and he brought down a man, Bianor, shepherd of his people, and then his companion Oileus, driver of horses. Oileus had leapt down from his chariot and stood to face him; as he came on eagerly Agamemnon stabbed him in the forehead with his sharp spear, and the bronze rim of his helmet did not hold the spear back — it drove straight through, through bone as well, and the brains inside were all spattered; so he brought the eager man down. Agamemnon, lord of men, left these two lying there,
their chests gleaming bare, for he had stripped off their tunics, and went on to strip Isus and Antiphus, two sons of Priam, one a bastard and one born in wedlock, both riding in a single chariot. The bastard son was driving; famous Antiphus rode beside him as fighter. Achilles had once caught this same Antiphus on the slopes of Ida, tying him with pliant willow shoots while he herded his sheep, and had let him go for ransom. Now Agamemnon, wide-ruling son of Atreus,
struck the one above the nipple, through the chest, with his spear, and drove his sword through Antiphus by the ear and threw him from the chariot. He quickly stripped the fine armor from the two of them,
recognizing them — for he had seen them before, by the swift ships, when swift-footed Achilles had brought them down from Ida. As a lion easily crushes in its strong jaws the newborn young of a swift deer, coming upon its lair, and tears out the tender life, while the mother, even if she happens to be very near, cannot help them, for a terrible trembling seizes her too, and she darts swiftly away through the thick brush and woodland, sweating, driven by the onrush of the mighty beast — so no man among the Trojans could save these two from death,
and the Trojans themselves fled before the Argives. Then Agamemnon took Peisander and stout-hearted Hippolochus, sons of wise Antimachus, who most of all, having taken glittering gifts of gold from Paris, had refused to let Helen be given back to fair-haired Menelaus. It was the two sons of this same Antimachus that lord Agamemnon caught, both riding in a single chariot, struggling together to hold their swift horses, for the shining reins had slipped from their hands, and the two of them were thrown into confusion. Against them Agamemnon rose up like a lion, the son of Atreus, and the two of them begged him from the chariot, on their knees:
"Take us alive, son of Atreus, and accept a worthy ransom. Great treasures lie stored in the house of Antimachus — bronze and gold and cunningly worked iron — and our father would gladly give you a boundless ransom from them, if he learns we are alive among the ships of the Achaeans."
So the two of them, weeping, spoke to the king with soft words, but the answer they heard was not soft at all: "If you are indeed the sons of wise Antimachus, who once, in the assembly of the Trojans, urged that Menelaus, who had come as an envoy with godlike Odysseus,
be killed there on the spot and never allowed to return to the Achaeans — now you shall pay the shameful price for your father's outrage."
So he spoke, and shoved Peisander down from the chariot to the ground, striking him with his spear in the chest, and he was flung backward onto the earth. Hippolochus leapt down, and Agamemnon killed him too on the ground, cutting off his hands with the sword and slicing off his head, and sent it rolling through the crowd like a stone mortar. He left those two and rushed to where the ranks of fighters were thickest in confusion, and with him the other well-greaved Achaeans. Footmen cut down footmen as they fled, forced to it,
and horsemen cut down horsemen, and beneath them the dust rose up from the plain, stirred by the thundering hooves of the horses, as the bronze dealt death; and lord Agamemnon, always killing, pressed on, urging the Argives forward. As when ruinous fire falls upon a dense, untended wood, and the whirling wind carries it every way, and the bushes are uprooted and fall, driven down by the onrush of the fire, so beneath Agamemnon, son of Atreus, the heads of fleeing Trojans fell, and many strong-necked horses
rattled their empty chariots along the lanes of battle, missing their blameless drivers, who lay now on the ground, far dearer now to the vultures than to their own wives. But Zeus drew Hector out of the missiles, out of the dust, out of the slaughter of men, out of the blood, out of the uproar, while the son of Atreus pressed on furiously, urging the Danaans forward. They streamed past the tomb of ancient Ilus, son of Dardanus, across the middle of the plain, past the wild fig tree,
eager to reach the city, while the son of Atreus followed, shouting all the while, his invincible hands spattered with gore. But when they reached the Scaean gates and the oak tree,
there at last they stood their ground and waited for one another. But some of them were still fleeing across the middle of the plain, like cattle that a lion, coming in the dead of night, has scattered — all of them; and to one alone appears sudden, steep death: first he breaks her neck, seizing it in his strong jaws, and then gulps down the blood and all the entrails — so the son of Atreus, lord Agamemnon, drove the Trojans before him, always killing the hindmost man, and they fled. Many pitched forward or backward off their chariots,
struck down by Agamemnon's hands, for he raged with his spear far out in front of the rest. But when he was on the point of reaching the city and its steep wall, then the father of gods and men came down from heaven and sat on the peaks of many-fountained Ida, holding the thunderbolt in his hands. He sent golden-winged Iris to carry a message: "Go, swift Iris, and take this word to Hector: as long as he sees Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, raging among the front fighters, cutting down the ranks of men,
let him hold back, and order the rest of his men to fight the enemy in the fierce battle. But once Agamemnon, struck by a spear or hit by an arrow, springs onto his chariot, then I will grant Hector the strength to kill until he reaches the well-benched ships, and the sun goes down and sacred darkness comes."
So he spoke, and wind-footed swift Iris did not disobey; she went down from the mountains of Ida to sacred Ilion. She found the son of wise Priam, godlike Hector, standing among his horses and jointed chariot, and coming close beside him, swift-footed Iris spoke: "Hector, son of Priam, equal to Zeus in counsel,
Father Zeus has sent me to tell you this: as long as you see Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, raging among the front fighters, cutting down the ranks of men, hold back from the fight, and order the rest of your men to fight the enemy in the fierce battle. But once Agamemnon, struck by a spear or hit by an arrow, springs onto his chariot, then Zeus will grant you the strength to kill, until you reach the well-benched ships, and the sun goes down and sacred darkness comes."
So having spoken, swift-footed Iris departed,
and Hector leapt down from his chariot to the ground in full armor, and brandishing his sharp spears he went everywhere through the army, rousing the men to fight, and stirred up grim battle. They wheeled around and stood facing the Achaeans, and the Argives on their side strengthened their ranks. The battle was set, they stood facing each other, and Agamemnon charged first of all, wishing to fight far out ahead of everyone.
Tell me now, Muses, who hold the halls of Olympus, who was the first man to come against Agamemnon, either of the Trojans themselves or their famed allies?
It was Iphidamas, son of Antenor, fine and tall, who had been raised in Thrace, rich in soil, mother of flocks. Cisseus had reared him in his house as a small child, Cisseus his mother's father, who had fathered fair-cheeked Theano. But when he reached the measure of glorious youth, Cisseus kept him there and gave him his own daughter in marriage. But newly wed, straight from the bridal chamber, he set out to win fame among the Achaeans, with twelve curved ships that followed him. He left these trim ships at Percote, and made his way on foot to Ilion.
He was the one who now came against Agamemnon, son of Atreus. When the two of them had come close, advancing on each other, Agamemnon's throw went wide, the spear turning aside from him, and Iphidamas stabbed him below the corselet, at the belt, and threw his weight behind it, trusting his heavy hand. But he did not pierce the gleaming war-belt; long before that the spear point, meeting the silver, bent back like lead. Then wide-ruling Agamemnon seized it with his hand and dragged it toward him, eager as a lion, wrenching it from his grip, and struck him on the neck with his sword, and loosed his limbs.
So Iphidamas fell there and slept a sleep of bronze, pitiful, having come to the aid of his countrymen, far from his wedded wife, of whom he had known no joy, though he had given much for her — a hundred cattle first, and then he had pledged a thousand more, goats and sheep together, from the countless flocks he tended. Now Agamemnon, son of Atreus, stripped him of his fine armor and went carrying it back through the crowd of Achaeans. When Coon, most notable of men, saw this — the eldest-born son of Antenor — a bitter grief covered his eyes at the sight of his brother fallen.
He came up sideways with his spear, unseen by godlike Agamemnon, and stabbed him in the forearm, below the elbow, and the bright spearhead drove clean through the other side. Then lord Agamemnon shuddered, but even so he did not give up the fight and the battle; he charged at Coon holding his wind-toughened spear. Coon was dragging away Iphidamas, his own brother by the same father, eager to save him, calling to all the bravest men; but as he dragged him through the crowd, Agamemnon stabbed him under his bossed shield
with his bronze-shod spear, and loosed his limbs,
and stepping close, cut off his head over the body of Iphidamas. So the sons of Antenor, brought down by lord Agamemnon, met their doom and went down into the house of Hades. Agamemnon went ranging on among the other ranks of men, with spear and sword and great stones, as long as the blood still ran warm from his wound. But when the wound dried and the bleeding stopped, sharp pains began to pierce the strength of the son of Atreus. As sharp as the arrow that pierces a woman in labor,
the piercing pain the Ilithyiae send, daughters of Hera, who hold the bitter pangs of childbirth — so sharp were the pains that now pierced the strength of the son of Atreus. He sprang up onto his chariot and ordered his driver to make for the hollow ships, for his heart was sick within him. He called out, his voice carrying far to the Danaans: "Friends, leaders and rulers of the Argives, you must now defend the seafaring ships from the harsh battle yourselves, since Zeus the counselor has not allowed me to fight the Trojans the whole day through."
So he spoke, and the driver whipped the fine-maned horses
toward the hollow ships, and the two of them flew on, not unwilling. Foam covered their chests, and the dust below spattered them, as they carried their suffering king away from the battle. And Hector, when he saw Agamemnon departing, cried out in a great voice to the Trojans and Lycians: "Trojans and Lycians and Dardanians who fight hand to hand, be men, my friends, remember your fighting fury. The best of them has gone; Zeus, son of Cronos, has granted me great glory. Now drive your single-hoofed horses straight at the mighty Danaans, and win still greater glory for yourselves."
So speaking, he roused the strength and spirit of every man. As when some hunter sets his white-toothed hounds against a wild boar or a lion, so Hector, son of Priam, equal to man-destroying Ares, set the great-hearted Trojans against the Achaeans. He himself strode among the foremost, filled with high purpose, and fell upon the battle like a raging storm-wind that swoops down and churns the violet sea. Who then was the first, who the last, that Hector, son of Priam, brought down, when Zeus granted him glory?
First he killed Asaeus, then Autonous and Opites, Dolops son of Clytius, Ophelтius and Agelaus, Aesymnus and Orus and Hipponous, steady in battle. These captains of the Danaans he cut down, and after them the mass of common men, the way the West Wind batters banks of cloud driven by a deep squall out of the clear South Wind—the heavy swell rolls on and the spray flies up, scattered by the wandering wind's blast—so did the heads of soldiers fall thick under Hector's hand.
There ruin would have come then, and the Achaeans would have been trapped and helpless, driven in flight back to their ships, had not Odysseus called out to Diomedes, son of Tydeus: "Son of Tydeus, what has come over us, that we forget our fighting strength? Come, stand here beside me, friend—it will be a disgrace if Hector of the flashing helmet takes the ships."
Mighty Diomedes answered him: "I will stand my ground and hold, yes—but our relief will not last long, since Zeus who gathers the clouds means to give victory to the Trojans now, and not to us."
So saying, he threw Thymbraeus down from his chariot to the ground, striking him with his spear through the left breast, while Odysseus killed Molion, godlike attendant of that same lord. The two of them then let those bodies lie, done with them, and went raging through the crowd of battle like two wild boars that fall upon a pack of hunting dogs in their fierce pride. So turning back they slaughtered Trojans, and the Achaeans, glad to escape, caught their breath from godlike Hector.
Then they took a chariot and two of the best men of the district, the two sons of Merops of Percote, who above all men understood prophecy and would not let his sons go to war, the war that wastes men—but the two would not listen to him, for the fates of black death led them on. Diomedes, spearman famous in war, son of Tydeus, stripped them both of life and breath and took their fine armor, while Odysseus killed Hippodamus and Hypeirochus.
There the son of Cronus stretched the battle even between the two sides, watching down from Ida, and they went on killing one another. The son of Tydeus wounded the hero Agastrophus, son of Paeon, with his spear in the hip; his horses were not near enough for him to flee, and in his heart's blindness he suffered greatly for it, for his attendant kept them apart while he himself went raging on foot through the front ranks, until he lost his dear life.
But Hector saw sharply across the ranks and rushed at them with a cry, and the Trojan battalions followed behind him. Diomedes, loud in the war cry, saw him coming and shuddered, and at once called out to Odysseus who was near: "Here rolls down on the two of us this disaster, mighty Hector. Come, let us stand and hold our ground against him."
He spoke, and balancing his long-shadowed spear he let it fly and did not miss, aiming at Hector's head—
it struck the very top of his helmet, but the bronze was turned aside by the bronze and never reached the fair skin, for the triple-ridged helmet with its face-guard held it off, the gift Phoebus Apollo had given him. Hector sprang back a great distance and mingled with the crowd, then dropped to his knees and braced himself with his heavy hand upon the earth, and black night covered his eyes. And while the son of Tydeus went off after the flight of his spear, far through the front ranks to where it had struck and stuck in the ground, Hector got his breath back, sprang again into his chariot, and drove out into the crowd, escaping black death.
Diomedes rushed at him with his spear and shouted: "Dog, once more you have escaped death! Ruin came very close to you indeed—but this time Phoebus Apollo saved you again, the one you no doubt pray to whenever you go into the crash of spears. I will finish you yet, when next we meet, if I too have some god standing by my side. For now I will go after the rest, whoever I can catch." So saying, he stripped the armor from the famous son of Paeon.
But Alexander, husband of fair-haired Helen, was drawing his bow against Diomedes, shepherd of his people, leaning against the pillar on the man-built mound of Ilus, son of Dardanus, an elder of old.
While Diomedes was pulling the corselet off the chest of strong Agastrophus, and his gleaming shield from his shoulders, and his heavy helmet, Paris drew the bow's grip back and let fly, and the arrow did not leave his hand for nothing—it struck the flat of Diomedes' right foot, and the shaft drove clean through and fixed itself in the ground. Laughing with great pleasure, Paris leaped up from his hiding place and spoke boasting words:
"You are hit, and my arrow was not wasted! I wish instead I had struck you in the lower belly and taken your life. Then the Trojans would have had some relief from their misery, they who shudder at you as bleating goats shudder at a lion."
Unafraid, mighty Diomedes answered him: "Archer, you insult with your bow, proud of your curled hair, ogler of girls—if you tried me face to face with real weapons, your bow and your quiver of arrows would do you no good at all. As it is you have scratched the flat of my foot and boast over nothing. I care no more for it than if a woman or a witless child had struck me. A blunt weapon it is, from a man who is nothing, a coward.
"But when a shaft leaves my hand, even a light graze is sharp and lays a man dead at once. His wife tears her cheeks in grief, his children are left orphans, and he rots there reddening the earth with his blood, with more birds of prey gathered around him than women."
So he spoke, and Odysseus, famed for his spear, came up close and stood in front of him; Diomedes sat down behind him and pulled the swift arrow from his foot, and sharp pain ran through his flesh. He sprang up into his chariot and ordered his driver to head for the hollow ships, for his heart was sick with grief.
Odysseus, famed for his spear, was left alone; not one of the Argives stayed beside him, for fear had taken hold of them all. Troubled, he spoke to his own great heart: "What is to become of me? It will be a great evil if I run, afraid of their numbers, but worse still if I am caught alone—the son of Cronus has driven the rest of the Danaans to flight. But why does my heart debate this with me? I know that cowards leave the fighting, but the man who means to be best in battle must hold his ground firmly, whether he is struck or strikes another."
While he turned this over in his mind and heart, the ranks of the shield-bearing Trojans came on and hemmed him in the middle, setting their own doom in the midst of them. As when dogs and vigorous young men close in around a wild boar that comes out from deep woodland whetting his white tusks in his curved jaws, and they rush at him from every side, and the grinding of his tusks sounds out, and still they hold their ground before him for all his terror—so then the Trojans, dear to Zeus, pressed in around Odysseus. He first wounded noble Deiopites,
lunging with his sharp spear into the top of his shoulder, and then he killed Thoon and Ennomus. Next he stabbed Chersidamas as he leapt down from his chariot, striking him under the navel-bossed shield through the belly, and the man fell in the dust and clawed the earth with his hand. He left those men and struck Charops, son of Hippasus, brother of wealthy Socus, with his spear. Socus, a man like a god, came to defend him, stood very close, and spoke to him: "Odysseus, famed in every story, tireless in cunning and in toil—
today you will either boast over the two sons of Hippasus, having killed such men as these and taken their armor, or struck down by my spear you will lose your own life." So saying he struck him on the perfectly balanced shield. The mighty spear went through the bright shield and drove on through the finely wrought corselet, tearing the flesh clean away from his ribs, but Pallas Athena did not let it mix with his vitals. Odysseus knew the blow had not reached anything fatal, and stepping back he spoke to Socus:
"Poor fool, now steep death has truly caught up with you. You have stopped me fighting the Trojans, yes—but I tell you that death and black doom will come to you here this day, brought down by my spear, and you will give the glory to me, and your life to Hades, famed for his horses." He spoke, and Socus had already turned to flee, but as he turned away Odysseus drove the spear into his back between the shoulders and sent it through his chest, and he fell with a thud. Then godlike Odysseus boasted over him: "Socus, son of wise Hippasus, tamer of horses—
death's end has overtaken you first, and you could not escape it. Poor fool—your father and honored mother will not close your eyes in death; instead the birds that eat raw flesh will tear at you, beating their thick wings around you. But when I die, the godlike Achaeans will still give me proper burial."
So saying, he pulled the heavy spear of wise Socus out of his flesh and out of the bossed shield, and blood spurted out as the spear was drawn, and pain gripped his heart. When the great-hearted Trojans saw Odysseus's blood they shouted to one another through the crowd and all came on at him together.
He began to give ground, and shouted for his comrades. Three times he called out as loud as a man's throat could hold, and three times Menelaus, dear to Ares, heard him cry. At once he spoke to Ajax, who was near: "Ajax, son of Zeus, lord of the sons of Telamon, the cry of steadfast Odysseus rings around me—it sounds as though the Trojans have cut him off alone in the fierce fighting and are overpowering him. Let us go into the crowd; it is better to help him. I fear he may come to harm out there among the Trojans, alone though he is a good man, and it would be a great loss to the Danaans."
So saying he led the way, and the godlike man followed with him. They found Odysseus, dear to Zeus, with the Trojans pressing around him like tawny jackals in the mountains around a wounded horned stag that a man has struck with an arrow from the string—the stag escapes him at first, running on his feet, so long as the blood is warm and his knees still move, but once the swift arrow finally overcomes him, the flesh-eating jackals tear him apart in the mountains, in some shady glen. But then some power brings a lion there,
a raider—the jackals scatter in fear, and the lion feeds. So then the Trojans, many and brave, pressed around wise, resourceful Odysseus, while the hero, lunging with his spear, fought off his pitiless day of death. Then Ajax came near, carrying his shield like a tower, and stood beside him, and the Trojans scattered in every direction. Warlike Menelaus led Odysseus out of the crowd, holding his hand, until his attendant drove the chariot up close. Ajax then leapt at the Trojans and killed Doryclus,
a bastard son of Priam, then wounded Pandocus, and wounded Lysander and Pyrasus and Pylartes as well. As when a river in flood comes down onto a plain, a winter torrent sent from the mountains by the rain of Zeus, and sweeps along many dry oaks and many pines, carrying a great mass of debris down into the sea—so did shining Ajax then drive across the plain in a rout, cutting down horses and men. Hector still knew nothing of it, for he was fighting on the far left of the whole battle, along the banks of the river Scamander, where men's heads were falling thickest and the cry of battle rose unceasing
around great Nestor and warlike Idomeneus. Hector moved among that fighting, working havoc with his spear and his horsemanship, breaking apart the young men's ranks. The godlike Achaeans would not have given up that ground at all, had not Alexander, husband of fair-haired Helen, stopped Machaon, shepherd of his people, in the middle of his valor, striking him with a three-barbed arrow in the right shoulder. The Achaeans, breathing hard with fury, were seized with dread for him, fearing that as the fighting turned they might lose him. At once Idomeneus spoke to godlike Nestor:
"Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaeans, come, mount your chariot, and let Machaon climb up beside you, and drive your strong-hoofed horses to the ships as fast as you can. A healer is worth many other men together, for cutting out arrows and spreading soothing medicines."
So he spoke, and the Gerenian horseman Nestor did not refuse. At once he mounted his chariot, and Machaon, son of blameless healer Asclepius, climbed up beside him. He whipped the horses on, and they flew willingly toward the hollow ships, for that was where their hearts wanted to go.
Cebriones, standing beside Hector in his chariot, saw the Trojans in confusion and spoke to him: "Hector, the two of us are engaging the Danaans here on the fringe of this roaring battle, while the rest of the Trojans are thrown into confusion everywhere, horses and men together. Ajax son of Telamon is driving them in rout—I know him well, for he carries that broad shield across his shoulders. Let us turn our horses and chariot that way too, where horsemen and foot soldiers alike, locked in bitter strife, are slaughtering one another and the cry of battle never dies."
So speaking he lashed the fine-maned horses with his sharp whip, and feeling the blow they swiftly pulled the fast chariot on among Trojans and Achaeans, trampling over the dead and the shields; the axle beneath was spattered all over with blood, and the chariot rail around the car, splashed by the flying drops from the horses' hooves and from the wheel rims. Hector was eager to break into the crowd of men and burst through it, and he brought grim confusion down on the Danaans, hardly resting from his spear at all.
He went on ranging through the ranks of other men with spear and sword and great stones, but he avoided fighting Ajax, son of Telamon. Father Zeus, throned on high, stirred fear in Ajax then—he stood stunned, slung his sevenfold ox-hide shield behind him, and gave ground, glancing about him at the crowd like a wild animal, turning constantly, moving one knee slowly past the other.
As when dogs and men of the field drive a tawny lion away from a cattle pen, keeping watch all night so he cannot carry off the fat of their herd—the lion, hungry for meat, charges forward but achieves nothing, for the thick spears fly to meet him from bold hands, and the blazing torches too, which he fears for all his fury, and at dawn he goes off, sullen at heart—so Ajax then, heavy at heart, drew back from the Trojans against his will, in great fear for the Achaean ships.
As when a stubborn donkey, going along beside a field, overpowers the boys driving him, and though many sticks are broken over his back he goes in and grazes down deep in the standing grain while the boys beat him with their sticks, their strength too feeble to stop him,
and only drive him out at last once he has eaten his fill—so then the proud Trojans and their many allies from far off kept jabbing at great Ajax, son of Telamon, with their spears at the center of his shield, following him all the while. Ajax would at times remember his fighting strength and wheel around again, holding back the ranks of the horse-taming Trojans, and at other times he would turn again to give ground. He kept all of them from reaching the fast ships, and stood there himself between Trojans and Achaeans, raging in the middle, while spears from bold hands
struck fast in his great shield as they flew at him, and many others stuck in the ground before ever reaching his white flesh, still eager to taste it. Seeing him hard pressed under that storm of spears, the shining son of Euaemon, Eurypylus, came and stood beside him, hurled his bright spear, and struck Apisaon, son of Phausius, shepherd of his people, in the liver beneath the midriff, and at once loosed the strength of his knees. Eurypylus rushed forward and began stripping the armor from his shoulders. But when godlike Alexander saw him
stripping the armor from Apisaon, he at once drew his bow against Eurypylus and struck him with an arrow in the right thigh; the reed shaft snapped, but the arrowhead weighed down his thigh. He drew back into the crowd of his comrades to escape his death, and shouted out piercingly, calling to the Danaans: "Friends, leaders and rulers of the Argives, turn and stand your ground, and beat off Ajax's pitiless day of death—he is hard pressed by spears, and I do not think he will escape this roaring battle. Stand fast, face them, all around great Ajax, son of Telamon."
So spoke wounded Eurypylus, and they came and stood close beside him, leaning their shields against their shoulders and holding their spears upraised. Ajax came to meet them and turned to make his stand once he had reached the crowd of his comrades. So they fought there like a blazing fire. Meanwhile Nestor's Neleian mares, sweating, carried him out of the battle, bringing with him Machaon, shepherd of his people. Swift-footed, godlike Achilles saw him and understood, for he was standing on the stern of his huge-hulled ship, watching the grim toil and the tearful rout of battle.
At once he called out to his companion Patroclus, shouting from the ship. Patroclus heard him from inside the hut and came out like the war-god Ares himself — and this was the beginning of his ruin. Menoetius's brave son spoke first: "Why do you call me, Achilles? What do you need from me?"
Swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Son of Menoetius, dearest to my heart, now I think the Achaeans will be standing at my knees begging — the need that has come on them is no longer bearable. But go now, Patroclus, dear to Zeus, ask Nestor
who this man is that he is bringing back wounded from the fighting. From behind he looked exactly like Machaon, son of Asclepius, but I never saw the man's face — the horses tore past me at a run, straining ahead."
So he spoke, and Patroclus obeyed his dear companion and set off running along the huts and ships of the Achaeans. When they reached the hut of Nestor, son of Neleus, the two climbed down onto the bountiful earth, and Eurymedon, the old man's attendant, freed the horses from the chariot. The men cooled the sweat from their tunics
standing against the sea breeze along the shore, then went into the hut and sat down on chairs. Fair-haired Hecamede mixed them a drink — the woman old Nestor had won from Tenedos when Achilles sacked it, the daughter of great-hearted Arsinous, whom the Achaeans had chosen out for him because he surpassed everyone in counsel. She first set before them a table,
handsome, with legs of dark blue enamel, well polished, and on it a bronze basket, and onion to go with the drink, and pale honey, and meal ground from sacred barley,
and beside it a magnificent cup the old man had brought from home, studded with gold nails. It had four handles, and on each side two golden doves fed, and beneath were two stands. Anyone else would have strained to lift it full from the table, but old Nestor raised it without effort. In this cup the woman, lovely as a goddess, mixed them a drink
with Pramnian wine, and grated in goat's-milk cheese with a bronze grater, and sprinkled white barley meal over it, and bid them drink once she had prepared the mixture.
When the two men had drunk and quenched their burning thirst, they were taking pleasure talking to one another, when Patroclus, a man like a god, appeared in the doorway. Seeing him, the old man rose from his gleaming chair, took him by the hand, led him in, and urged him to sit. But Patroclus, standing across from him, refused, and said:
"I cannot sit, old man, cherished by Zeus — you will not persuade me. The one who sent me to find out who this wounded man is that you're bringing back deserves respect, and I would not want to anger him. But I already see for myself — I recognize Machaon, shepherd of his people.
Now I must go back and report to Achilles. You know well, old man, cherished by Zeus, what a fearsome man he is — he might even blame someone who is innocent."
Then Nestor of Gerenia, driver of horses, answered him: "Why does Achilles grieve so for the sons of the Achaeans, for all the men who have been struck by spears? He has no idea how much sorrow has risen through the camp. Our best men are lying among the ships, hit by arrows or wounded by spears. Diomedes, mighty son of Tydeus, has been struck; Odysseus, famous for his spear, has been wounded, and Agamemnon too;
Eurypylus here has been shot in the thigh with an arrow — and this other one I have just brought back from the fighting, hit by an arrow from a bowstring. And yet Achilles, brave as he is, feels no concern for the Danaans, no pity for them at all. Is he waiting until the swift ships, right at the water's edge, burn with hostile fire in spite of the Argives, and until we ourselves are cut down one after another? My strength is no longer what it once was in my supple limbs. If only I were young again, my power still unshaken, as it was that time a quarrel broke out between us and the men of Elis
over cattle-raiding, when I killed brave Itymoneus, son of Hypeirochus, who lived in Elis. I was driving off cattle in reprisal, and as he defended his herds he was struck among the front ranks by a spear from my own hand, and he fell, and the country folk around him scattered in fear. We drove off a huge amount of plunder from that plain — fifty herds of cattle, as many flocks of sheep, as many droves of swine, as many wide-ranging herds of goats, and a hundred and fifty tawny horses, all mares, many of them with foals still at their side.
And we drove these back into Neleian Pylos by night, into the city, and Neleus rejoiced in his heart that so much had fallen to me, young as I was, going out to war. At dawn the heralds called out, summoning all to whom a debt was owed in sacred Elis. The leading men of Pylos gathered together and divided the spoil, for the Epeians owed a debt to many of us, since we in Pylos were few and had suffered badly — mighty Heracles had come in former years and mistreated us, and all our best men had been killed.
Twelve sons had blameless Neleus, and I alone was left of them; all the rest perished. Because of this the bronze-armored Epeians grew arrogant and treated us with contempt, plotting outrages against us. So the old man took for himself a herd of cattle and a great flock of sheep, choosing three hundred head and their herdsmen, for a great debt was owed to him too in sacred Elis — four prize-winning horses with their chariot, which had gone to compete for a tripod in the games. But their driver, Augeas, lord of men, kept them there
and sent the charioteer away grieving for his horses. Angry at these words and deeds, the old man took an enormous amount for himself, and gave the rest to the people to divide, so that no one might go away cheated of a fair share. We settled each matter and performed sacrifices to the gods throughout the city. But on the third day the Epeians all came together, both the men themselves and their sure-footed horses, in full force, and among them the two sons of Molione armed for war, still boys, not yet skilled in the fury of battle. There is a city called Thryoessa, on a steep hill,
far off on the Alpheus, at the far edge of sandy Pylos. They laid siege to it, eager to destroy it. But when they had crossed the whole plain, Athena came to us by night as a messenger from Olympus, telling us to arm, and she gathered the people through Pylos — not unwilling men, but ones eager to fight. Neleus would not let me arm, though; he hid my horses away, for he said I did not yet know anything of the work of war. But even so, I stood out among our horsemen,
even though I went on foot, since it was Athena herself who led us into the quarrel. There is a river called the Minyeius that flows into the sea near Arene, and there we, the horsemen of Pylos, waited for the bright dawn, while the ranks of foot soldiers streamed in to join us. From there, in full force, armed with our weapons, we came at midday to the sacred stream of the Alpheus. There we made fine sacrifices to mighty Zeus, a bull to the Alpheus, a bull to Poseidon, and a cow from the herd to grey-eyed Athena, and then we took our meal by companies through the camp,
and lay down to sleep, each man in his own gear, along the banks of the river. But the great-hearted Epeians were already gathered around the city, eager to destroy it. Before that could happen, though, a great work of war appeared before them. For as soon as the shining sun rose over the earth, we joined battle, praying to Zeus and Athena. And when the fighting between the men of Pylos and the Epeians had begun, I was the first to bring down a man, and I took his sure-footed horses —
the spearman Mulius. He was son-in-law to Augeas, married to his eldest daughter, fair-haired Agamede, who knew every healing herb that the wide earth grows.
As he came at me I struck him with my bronze-tipped spear, and he fell in the dust; I leapt into his chariot and took my place among the front fighters. But the great-hearted Epeians scattered in every direction when they saw their leader of horsemen fall, the best fighter among them. Then I swept forward like a dark storm-cloud, and took fifty chariots, and beside each one two men bit the dust, brought down by my spear. And I would have killed the two young sons of Actor, the Moliones, too,
if their father, the wide-ruling Earth-shaker himself, had not saved them from the battle, wrapping them in a thick mist. There Zeus granted the men of Pylos a great victory, for we pressed on across the wide plain, killing men and gathering up their fine armor, until we drove our horses all the way to Buprasium, rich in wheat, and to the Olenian rock, and to the place called the Hill of Alesion — there Athena turned the army back. There I killed my last man and left him, and the Achaeans drove their swift horses back from Buprasium to Pylos, and all of them gave thanks to Zeus among the gods, and to Nestor among men.
That is how I was — if I ever truly was — among fighting men. But Achilles will enjoy his courage alone; I think he will weep bitterly for it later, once the army has been destroyed. Ah, young man — surely Menoetius gave you this order, on the very day he sent you from Phthia to Agamemnon. We were both there, I and godlike Odysseus, and we heard everything he told you in the hall. We had come to the well-built house of Peleus,
gathering troops through the length of fertile Achaea, and there we found the hero Menoetius inside,
and you with him, and Achilles too. Old Peleus, driver of chariots, was burning the fat thigh-pieces of an ox to Zeus who delights in thunder, in the courtyard of the house, and holding a golden cup, pouring gleaming wine over the burning offerings. You two were busy with the meat of the ox, and we came and stood in the doorway. Achilles jumped up in surprise,
took us both by the hand, led us in, urged us to sit, and set before us the hospitality due to guests. When we had had our fill of food and drink, I began to speak, urging you both to come with us, and you were both eager to go, and your fathers gave you both much advice.
Old Peleus told his son Achilles to always be the best and to hold himself above all others. But to you Menoetius, son of Actor, gave this charge: "My child, Achilles is nobler than you by birth, but you are older. In strength he is far the better man. Still, speak good sense to him, advise him, and guide him, and he will listen, for it will be for his own good." That is what the old man told you, but you have forgotten it. Even now, though, you might still say these things to fiery Achilles, and he may listen.
Who knows whether, with a god's help, you might stir his heart by pleading with him? A friend's persuasion is a powerful thing. But if he is avoiding some prophecy he knows in his heart, some word his honored mother has brought him from Zeus, then at least let him send you out, and let the rest of the Myrmidon army follow with you, in case you can bring some light to the Danaans. And let him give you his fine armor to wear into battle, so that the Trojans, mistaking you for him, might hold back from the fighting, and the hard-pressed sons of the Achaeans might catch their breath — even a brief respite is precious in war.
Fresh troops could easily push men already worn down back toward the city, away from the ships and the huts." So he spoke, and stirred the heart in Patroclus's chest, and he set off running along the ships toward Achilles, grandson of Aeacus. But when Patroclus, running, reached the ships of godlike Odysseus, where the assembly and the place of judgment were, and where altars to the gods had been built,
there he met Eurypylus, wounded, the godborn son of Euaemon, limping back from the battle with an arrow in his thigh, sweat pouring in streams down his shoulders and head,
and dark blood still oozing from his painful wound, though his mind remained clear. Seeing him, Menoetius's brave son felt pity, and spoke to him in a burst of grief:
"Ah, poor leaders and commanders of the Danaans — so this is how it was fated for you, far from your loved ones and your homeland, to glut the fast dogs of Troy with your white fat. But tell me this, Eurypylus, hero cherished by Zeus — will the Achaeans still be able to hold monstrous Hector back, or will they now be destroyed, brought down under his spear?"
Then wounded Eurypylus answered him: "There will be no holding him back any longer, godborn Patroclus — the Achaeans will fall back onto the black ships. For all the men who used to be our best now lie among the ships, hit by arrows or wounded by spears at the hands of the Trojans, whose strength keeps growing. But save me — take me to my black ship, cut the arrow out of my thigh, wash the dark blood from it with warm water, and spread on it the soothing herbs, the good ones they say you learned from Achilles,
who himself learned them from Chiron, most righteous of the Centaurs. As for the healers, Podalirius and Machaon — one, I think, is lying in his hut with a wound of his own, needing a healer himself, and the other is out on the plain still facing the fury of the Trojans."
Menoetius's brave son answered him: "How can this be? What are we to do, hero Eurypylus? I am on my way to bring word to fiery Achilles, the message Nestor of Gerenia, guardian of the Achaeans, charged me with. But even so I will not leave you here in your suffering."
With that, he put his arm under the shepherd of the people and led him to his hut, and his attendant, seeing them, spread out ox-hides on the ground. There Patroclus laid him down and cut the sharp, biting arrow out of his thigh with a knife, and washed the dark blood from the wound with warm water, and crushed a bitter root between his hands and pressed it into the wound to kill the pain — a root that stopped all his pain. The wound began to dry, and the bleeding stopped.

======== Book 12 ========

So the strong son of Menoetius tended wounded Eurypylus there in the huts, while the rest fought on, Argives and Trojans, mingled in a single roaring mass. And the Danaans' ditch was not going to hold much longer, nor the wall above it, the broad wall they had built to guard the ships, with the ditch running round it -- though they had not given the gods any splendid offerings for it, so that it might shelter their swift ships and the great plunder they held inside. It had been built against the will of the immortal gods, and so it was not fated to stand firm for long. While Hector still lived, and Achilles still nursed his anger, and the city of lord Priam still stood untaken, so long the great wall of the Achaeans also stood firm.
But once the best of the Trojans had died, and many of the Argives had fallen and many were left alive, and Priam's city was sacked in the tenth year, and the Argives sailed back in their ships to their own dear land, then at last Poseidon and Apollo took counsel to wear the wall away, bringing against it the force of every river that runs down from the mountains of Ida to the sea: the Rhesus and the Heptaporus, the Caresus and the Rhodius,
the Grenicus and the Aesepus, and shining Scamander, and the Simois, where many oxhide shields and helmet-crests had fallen in the dust, and the race of men half-divine along with them. Phoebus Apollo turned the mouths of all these rivers together into one stream, and for nine days he drove the flood against the wall, and all the while Zeus rained without a break, so that the wall might sooner be swept under the sea. Meanwhile the Earthshaker himself, trident in hand, led the work, sending into the waves every footing of timber and stone that the toiling Achaeans had laid, and leveling everything smooth again along the fast-running Hellespont,
and covering the great beach once more with sand, once he had worn the wall away. And he turned the rivers back to flow along the course down which their clear water had run before. So Poseidon and Apollo meant to do this in time to come; but for now, war and its din blazed on around the well-built wall, and the timbers of the towers rang as they were struck, while the Argives, beaten down under the lash of Zeus, huddled by the hollow ships, penned in and holding back, afraid of Hector, that great master of the rout. But Hector himself fought on as before, like a whirlwind.
As when among hounds and huntsmen a boar or a lion wheels about, glorying in his strength, and the men, forming themselves into a wall, stand up to face him and hurl their spears thick and fast from their hands, yet his proud heart never trembles nor takes fright, though his own daring is what kills him in the end -- again and again he wheels to test the line of men, and wherever he charges, there the line gives way -- so Hector went through the crowd, wheeling among his companions and urging them to cross the ditch. But his own swift-footed horses would not dare it,
and they only whinnied loudly, standing at the very lip, for the broad ditch frightened them: it was not easy to leap over it from close by, nor to cross it, for steep banks overhung it on both sides all the way round, and above, it bristled with sharp stakes that the sons of the Achaeans had planted there, thick and tall, a defense against enemy men. No horse could easily get down into that place hauling a smooth-running chariot, but the footsoldiers were eager to try it, if it could be done. Then Polydamas came up beside bold Hector and spoke:
"Hector, and the rest of you Trojan and allied captains -- we are being foolish, driving our swift horses across the ditch. It's a hard place to cross: sharp stakes stand planted in it, and right behind them, the wall of the Achaeans. There is simply no way for horsemen to get down there and fight -- the ground is too narrow, and I think we'd only get ourselves wounded. If Zeus who thunders on high truly means to crush the Achaeans down to nothing, wishing only to help the Trojans, then I too would gladly see it happen right now -- the Achaeans perishing here, far from Argos, without even a name left behind.
But if instead they turn on us, and we get driven back from the ships and thrown into confusion at the dug ditch, then I don't think a single messenger would even make it back to the city, once the Achaeans rallied against us. So come, let us all do as I say. Let the drivers hold the horses back here at the ditch, and let us all go forward on foot, armed in our gear, following close behind Hector in a single mass -- and the Achaeans will not be able to hold, if the cords of their doom are already drawn tight." So spoke Polydamas, and his safe counsel pleased Hector,
who at once leapt down from his chariot to the ground in full armor. Nor did the other Trojans stay mounted either -- all of them sprang down together, once they saw godlike Hector do the same. Each man then ordered his own driver to hold the horses in good order there at the ditch, while the rest, drawing apart and forming themselves up, arranged themselves in five companies and followed their leaders. The largest and best group went with Hector and blameless Polydamas, most eager of all to break through the wall and fight beside the hollow ships.
Cebriones went with them as third in command; Hector had left another man, a lesser one than Cebriones, in charge of his chariot. Of the second company Paris led, with Alcathous and Agenor. Of the third, Helenus and godlike Deiphobus led, two sons of Priam; and the third captain among them was the hero Asius -- Asius son of Hyrtacus, whom tall, tawny horses had carried from Arisbe, from the river Selleis. Of the fourth company the noble son of Anchises led, Aeneas, together with the two sons of Antenor, Archelochus and Acamas, both skilled in every kind of fighting.
Sarpedon led the far-famed allies, and he chose Glaucus and warlike Asteropaeus to stand beside him, for these seemed to him by far the best of all the rest -- though he himself outshone them all. And when they had fitted their oxhide shields close together, they went straight for the Danaans, burning to fight, no longer thinking they could be held back -- certain they would soon be falling upon the black ships. Now the rest of the far-famed Trojans and their allies followed the plan of blameless Polydamas; but Asius son of Hyrtacus, lord of men, would not.
He would not leave his horses and his driver there, but drove them straight up toward the swift ships, the fool -- he was not fated to escape his evil doom and come back again to windy Troy exulting in his horses and chariot from the ships. For death, unspeakable death, had already closed around him first, by the spear of proud Idomeneus, son of Deucalion. He drove toward the left side of the ships, the side by which the Achaeans used to come in from the plain with their horses and chariots, thinking to find the gate there
still standing open with its long bar drawn back, for the men guarding it kept it open, in case they might save some comrade fleeing the battle back to the ships. Straight for that gate he drove his horses, meaning to get through, and his men followed him, shouting fiercely, for they thought the Achaeans could hold out no longer and would soon be falling on the black ships -- fools that they were. For at the gate they found two men, the best of all, standing firm: the proud sons of the spear-fighting Lapiths, mighty Polypoetes, son of Pirithous, and Leonteus, a match for man-killing Ares.
These two stood before the high gate like tall oaks on a mountain ridge, which day after day withstand wind and rain, held fast by their great deep roots -- so these two, trusting to their own hands and strength, stood their ground against great Asius as he bore down on them, and did not flee. Straight at the well-built wall the Trojans came on, holding their dried oxhide shields high over their heads, shouting a great war-cry, all around lord Asius and Iamenus and Orestes, Adamas son of Asius, and Thoon, and Oenomaus.
Now the two Lapiths had been inside, urging on the well-greaved Achaeans to defend the ships; but when they saw the Trojans rushing at the wall, and heard the Danaans cry out in panic, the two of them burst out and fought in front of the gate, like two wild boars in the mountains that stand and face the onrush of men and dogs, wheeling sideways to snap the underbrush around them, tearing it out by the roots, and the gnash of their tusks sounds beneath, until someone's spear-throw takes the life from them --
so the bronze on their chests rang out as the enemy's blows came in against them, and they fought on very fiercely, trusting in the men above them on the wall and in their own strength. And those men hurled down stones from the well-built towers to defend themselves, their huts, and their swift ships -- the stones fell like snowflakes, which a howling wind, driving the shadowy clouds before it, pours thick and fast on the bountiful earth; so the missiles poured from the hands of Achaeans and Trojans both, and helmets rang out dully
as they were struck by rocks, and so did the bossed shields. Then Asius son of Hyrtacus groaned aloud and struck his own thighs, and cried out in bitter frustration: "Father Zeus, so you too, it seems, have turned out to be a lover of lies, through and through! I never imagined the Achaean fighters could hold back our strength and our irresistible hands. But here they are, like wasps of the tawny kind, or bees that build their nest along a rocky path -- they will not leave their hollow home, but stand their ground
and fight off the hunters to defend their young -- just so these two men, though only two, refuse to give ground from the gate until they either kill or are killed." So he spoke, but his words did not move the mind of Zeus, for Zeus's heart wished to grant glory to Hector instead. Meanwhile the rest fought battles, each company at its own gate around the wall -- it would be hard for me to tell it all, as if I were a god myself, for everywhere around the wall a fire not of this world was raging over the stone, and the Argives, grieving though they were, defended the ships because they had no choice; and the gods who stood beside the Danaans in this fight were all troubled at heart.
Then the Lapiths joined battle and slaughter. There strong Polypoetes, son of Pirithous, struck Damasus with his spear through his bronze-cheeked helmet -- the bronze cap did not hold, but the spearpoint drove straight through and shattered the bone, and the brain within was all spattered about; so he brought down Damasus in the very act of charging. After him he killed Pylon and Ormenus as well. Leonteus, offshoot of Ares, struck Antimachus's son Hippomachus with his spear, catching him at the belt. Then, drawing his sharp sword from its sheath,
he charged first through the crowd at Antiphates and struck him at close range, and the man fell backward to the ground. After him he brought down Menon, Iamenus, and Orestes, one after another, laying them low on the bountiful earth. While the two Lapiths were stripping the gleaming armor from these men, the young warriors following Polydamas and Hector -- the largest and finest company, most eager to breach the wall and set fire to the ships -- still stood hesitating at the ditch, holding back. For a bird sign had come to them just as they burned to cross it:
a high-flying eagle, skirting the army on the left, carrying in its talons a huge blood-red serpent, still alive, still writhing, not yet giving up the fight -- for the serpent twisted back and struck the bird that held it, on the chest, near the neck, and the eagle, stung with pain, let it drop to the ground, dropping it into the middle of the crowd, and flew off itself, screaming, on the wind's breath. And the Trojans shuddered when they saw the writhing snake lying there among them, a portent of aegis-bearing Zeus. Then Polydamas came up beside bold Hector and said:
"Hector, you're always quick to rebuke me in our assemblies when I speak good sense, since it isn't fitting, they say, for a man of the people to speak against you, whether in council or in war -- it's your authority that should always be built up. Even so, I will say now what seems best to me. Let us not go forward to fight the Danaans for the ships. For this, I think, is how it will turn out, if this bird sign that came to the Trojans just now, as they burned to cross, really means what I believe -- a high-flying eagle, skirting the army on the left, carrying in its talons a huge blood-red serpent,
still alive -- but then it let the thing drop before it reached its own nest, and did not manage to carry it home and give it to its young. So it will be with us: even if we break through the Achaean gates and wall by sheer force, and the Achaeans give way, we will not come back from the ships by the same road in good order -- for we will leave many Trojans behind, whom the Achaeans will cut down with bronze in defending their ships. This is how a seer would read it, one who truly understood omens in his heart, and whom the people would trust." But Hector, helmet flashing, looked at him darkly and answered:
"Polydamas, what you're saying now doesn't please me at all. You know how to think of a better speech than that. But if you're really serious in saying this, then the gods themselves must have destroyed your good sense -- telling me to forget the counsel of loud-thundering Zeus, which he himself promised me and confirmed with his nod. And you tell me instead to trust birds, spreading their long wings -- I don't care about them in the least, whether they fly off to the right, toward the dawn and the sun, or off to the left, toward the murky dark.
No -- let us trust the will of great Zeus instead, who rules over every mortal and every immortal. One omen is best: to fight for your own country. Why are you so afraid of war and slaughter? Even if the rest of us are all cut down by the Argive ships, you have nothing to fear -- your own death, I mean -- for your heart was never one to stand and hold in battle, was never a fighter's heart. But if you shrink back from the fighting yourself, or talk some other man out of it with your smooth words, then my own spear will strike you down on the spot and take the life from you."
So he spoke, and led the way, and the rest followed with a tremendous roar. And Zeus who delights in thunder stirred up a blast of wind sweeping down from the mountains of Ida, carrying dust straight against the ships -- and it dazed the wits of the Achaeans, while it gave glory to the Trojans and to Hector. Trusting in these omens and in their own strength, they set about trying to break through the great wall of the Achaeans. They tore at the battlements of the towers, they pulled down the parapets, and they pried loose the jutting corner-posts that the Achaeans had first set into the earth as buttresses for their towers --
these they now heaved out, hoping thereby to break through the Achaean wall. Still the Danaans did not give ground, but fenced their battlements with oxhide shields and hurled missiles down from behind them at the enemy approaching under the wall. And the two Ajaxes ranged everywhere along the towers, urging on the Achaean fighters, calling out to each man, some with gentle words, some with hard ones, whichever man they saw giving up the fight entirely: "Friends -- whether an Argive of great standing, of middling rank, or of lesser account, since not all men are equal
in war -- now there is work here for every one of you, and you know this well enough yourselves. Let no man turn back toward the ships at the sound of some man's rebuke, but press onward instead, and call each other on, in hope that Olympian Zeus, lord of the lightning, may grant us to drive back this attack and push the enemy toward the city." So the two of them, shouting ahead of the rest, spurred on the fighting of the Achaeans. And as the snowflakes fall thick on a winter day, when Zeus the counselor stirs himself to snow, revealing his weapons to mankind,
and having lulled the winds he pours it down steadily, until he has covered the peaks of the high mountains and their jutting headlands, the flowering plains and the rich farmland of men, and it is scattered even over the harbors and shores of the gray sea -- though the waves lapping in hold it back there -- while everywhere else all things lie wrapped beneath it, once the storm of Zeus bears down; so thick, from both sides, flew the stones, some against the Trojans, some from the Trojans against the Achaeans, as they hurled them at each other, and a great din rose up over the whole length of the wall.
Yet even then the Trojans and shining Hector would not have broken down the gates of the wall and its long bar, if Zeus the counselor had not roused his own son Sarpedon against the Argives, like a lion let loose upon curved-horned cattle. At once Sarpedon held before him his shield, round on every side, a fine bronze shield beaten out by the smith, who had lined it inside with a thick layer of oxhide, stitched with golden rods running unbroken around the rim. Holding this shield before him, and brandishing two spears, he strode forward like a mountain-bred lion, who has gone long without meat and whose proud heart drives him on
Once the winds are lulled, the snow pours down steadily, burying the high mountain peaks and the jutting crags, the clover meadows and the rich farmland of men, spilling out over the gray sea's harbors and shores — only the surf, breaking against it, holds it back, while everything else lies wrapped beneath it when the storm of Zeus bears down. So the stones flew thick from both sides, some against the Trojans, some from the Trojans against the Achaeans, as the two armies pelted each other, and the din rose over the whole wall. Yet not even then would the Trojans and shining Hector have broken the gates and the long bar of the wall, had not resourceful Zeus roused his own son Sarpedon against the Argives, like a lion loosed on curved-horned cattle.
At once he brought his round shield in front of him, a fine bronze shield beaten out by a smith, who had stitched ox-hides thick within it, running gold wire round the rim in unbroken bands. Holding this before him and shaking two spears, he strode forward like a mountain-bred lion who has gone long without meat and whose proud heart drives him to try
the flocks and break into a well-built fold. Even if he finds herdsmen there guarding the sheep with dogs and spears, he has no mind to be driven from the steading untested — either he leaps and snatches a beast, or he himself is struck by a swift spear from the first thrower's hand. So now his heart drove godlike Sarpedon to charge the wall and tear through its battlements. At once he spoke to Glaucus, son of Hippolochus:
"Glaucus, why is it that we two are given the greatest honor in Lycia — the best seats, the choicest meat, the full cups — and all men look on us as if we were gods? Why do we hold that great estate along the banks of the Xanthus, fine orchard land and wheat-bearing fields? For this very reason we must now stand among the foremost Lycians and face the scorching heat of battle, so that a man among the close-armored Lycians may say: 'Truly our kings who rule in Lycia are not without glory — they eat fat sheep and drink the finest honeyed wine — but their strength too
is noble, since they fight among the foremost Lycians.' My friend, if escaping this war we could live forever, ageless and undying, I myself would not fight among the front ranks, nor would I send you into the battle that brings men glory. But now — since ten thousand fates of death stand over us regardless, fates no mortal can flee or escape — let us go forward, whether we shall give glory to another or another give it to us." So he spoke, and Glaucus did not turn away or refuse him, and the two went straight ahead, leading the great host of the Lycians.
Seeing them, Menestheus, son of Peteos, shuddered, for it was toward his tower that they came bringing ruin. He scanned along the wall for some leader of the Achaeans who might ward off harm from his men, and caught sight of the two Ajaxes standing there, never sated with war, and Teucer, just come from his hut, close by. But there was no way to shout and be heard, so great was the roar that rose to heaven from shields and horse-crested helmets being struck, and from the gates — for all of them were blocked, and the enemy
pressed against them, trying by force to break their way in. At once he sent the herald Thoötes to Ajax: "Go, noble Thoötes, and call Ajax — both of them, rather, for that would be far the best of all, since utter destruction is about to be worked here very soon. So hard have the Lycian captains pressed us, men who have always been fierce in the grip of violent battles. But if trouble and strife have risen there too, at least let brave Ajax son of Telamon come alone, and let Teucer, skilled with the bow, follow with him."
So he spoke, and the herald, hearing him, did not disobey, but ran off along the wall of the bronze-armored Achaeans, and coming up stood beside the Ajaxes and spoke at once: "Ajaxes, leaders of the bronze-armored Argives, the dear son of Peteos, nurtured by Zeus, bids you come there, both of you if you can, if only briefly, to meet the danger together — for that would be far the best of all, since utter destruction is about to be worked there very soon. So hard have the Lycian captains pressed them, men who have always been fierce in the grip of violent battles.
But if war and strife have risen here too, at least let brave Ajax son of Telamon come alone, and let Teucer, skilled with the bow, follow with him." So he spoke, and great Telamonian Ajax did not refuse. At once he spoke winged words to the son of Oïleus: "Ajax, you and mighty Lycomedes stay here and rouse the Danaans to fight with all their strength, while I go there and meet the fighting. I will come back quickly once I have given them good help." With these words Telamonian Ajax went off,
and Teucer went with him, his brother by the same father, and Pandion carried Teucer's curved bow along with them. When they reached the tower of great-hearted Menestheus, going in along the inside of the wall, they found the defenders hard pressed — for the mighty Lycian leaders and captains were already climbing onto the battlements like a black storm-blast. The two sides closed in fighting face to face, and the war-cry rose. Ajax, Telamon's son, was the first to kill a man — Epicles, great-hearted companion of Sarpedon —
striking him with a jagged block of stone that lay huge beside the battlement, at the very top. Not easily could a man hold it in both hands, not even one in the prime of youth, of the men who live now — but Ajax lifted it high and hurled it down, shattering the four-ridged helmet and crushing the bones of his whole skull together. Like a diver, Epicles fell headlong from the high tower, and the life left his bones. Teucer struck mighty Glaucus, son of Hippolochus, with an arrow as he came rushing at the high wall, catching him where he saw the arm laid bare, and put an end to his fighting. Glaucus leapt back from the wall unseen, so that none of the Achaeans
would see him struck and boast over him with words. Sarpedon felt grief when he noticed Glaucus withdrawing, but even so he did not forget the fight. Instead he caught Alcmaon, son of Thestor, with his spear, drove it in, and pulled the weapon out again; Alcmaon fell forward following the spear, and his bronze armor rang about him. Then Sarpedon, seizing the battlement with his powerful hands, pulled hard, and the whole length of it gave way, laying the top of the wall bare and opening a path for many. Ajax and Teucer, coming at him together, let fly — Teucer with an arrow that
struck the gleaming baldric across his chest, the strap that held his body-covering shield, but Zeus warded off the fates of death from his son, unwilling that he fall by the ships' sterns. Ajax lunged and struck the shield, but the spear did not pass clean through, though it jarred Sarpedon back in his eager charge. He gave a little ground from the battlement, but did not retreat entirely, for his heart still hoped to win glory. Wheeling about, he called to the godlike Lycians: "Lycians, why do you slacken now in your furious courage? It is hard for me, mighty as I am,
to break through alone and clear a path to the ships. Come, follow with me — the work of many hands is better." So he spoke, and they, fearing their lord's rebuke, pressed harder still around their counsel-giving king. On the other side the Argives strengthened their ranks within the wall, and the struggle before them looked grim — for the mighty Lycians could not break through the wall of the Danaans and clear a path to the ships, nor could the Danaan spearmen ever drive the Lycians
back from the wall, once they had first closed with them. But just as two men quarrel over a boundary line, measuring rods in hand, on a shared field, contending over equal shares in a narrow strip of ground — so the battlements kept the two sides apart, and across them they hacked at each other's round ox-hide shields and fluttering light bucklers, striking at one another's chests. Many were wounded in the flesh by pitiless bronze, some turning and baring their backs to a blow amid the fighting, many struck straight through their very shields. Everywhere the towers and battlements were splattered with the blood of men,
spilled on both sides, from Trojans and Achaeans alike. Even so they could not put the Achaeans to rout — the battle held level, like the scales a hard-working widow holds, weighing wool and a counterweight together, balancing them evenly, so as to win some meager wage for her children. So evenly was the fight and the battle stretched between them, until Zeus gave the greater glory to Hector, son of Priam, who was the first to leap inside the wall of the Achaeans. He gave a piercing shout that carried to the Trojans: "Charge, horse-taming Trojans! Break through the Achaean wall,
and throw blazing fire on their ships!" So he spoke, urging them on, and all of them heard with their ears, and rushed at the wall in a mass. They began to climb up over the parapets, spears with sharpened points in hand, while Hector snatched up and carried a stone that stood before the gates, thick at the base but tapering to a sharp point at the top — a stone that two men, the strongest in a town, could not easily heave from the ground onto a wagon, of the men who live now — yet he alone swung it easily, for the son of crooked-counseled Cronus made it light for him.
As a shepherd easily carries the fleece of a ram, holding it in one hand, so light a burden it is, so Hector carried the stone straight at the door-planks, lifting it high — the planks that fenced the gates, close-set and firmly joined, tall double doors, with two bars crossing inside them, held fast by a single bolt. He came up very close, planted his feet wide for a firm throw, and struck the middle of the doors, so that the blow would not fall weak, and shattered both hinges at once. The stone crashed inward
under its own weight, and the gates groaned loudly all around, and the bars did not hold — the door-planks flew apart on either side under the impact of the stone. Then shining Hector leapt inside, his face like swift night, and the bronze blazed terribly on his body, the armor he wore, and he held two spears in his hands. No one could have stood against him and held him back once he had leapt through the gates — no one but a god — and his eyes burned like fire. Wheeling round to the Trojan throng, he called on them
to cross over the wall, and they obeyed his urging. At once some of them scaled the wall, while others poured in through the well-built gates themselves, and the Danaans fled in terror
back among the hollow ships, and an unceasing uproar broke out.

======== Book 13 ========

Now that Zeus had driven the Trojans and Hector up against the ships, he left them there to bear the toil and suffering without end, and turned his shining eyes away, gazing instead upon the land of the horse-breeding Thracians, the Mysians who fight hand to hand, the proud mare-milking Hippemolgoi who live on milk, and the Abioi, most just of all men. Toward Troy he no longer turned his gaze at all, for he did not imagine in his heart that any god would still go there to help either the Trojans or the Greeks. But the mighty Earthshaker was not keeping blind watch.
He too sat marveling at the war and the fighting, high on the topmost peak of wooded Samothrace, from where all of Ida could be seen, and Priam's city, and the ships of the Greeks. There he had come up out of the sea to sit, and he pitied the Greeks being beaten down by the Trojans, and he was fiercely angry at Zeus. At once he came down from the rugged mountain, striding swiftly on his feet, and the tall peaks and the forest trembled beneath the immortal footsteps of Poseidon as he went.
Three strides he took, and with the fourth he reached his goal: Aegae, where his famous palace stands deep in the waters, gleaming gold, built to last forever. There he arrived and yoked to his chariot his two bronze-hoofed horses, swift of wing, their manes flowing gold. He clothed himself in gold, took up his gold whip, finely made, and mounted his chariot, and drove out over the waves. Sea beasts came playing up around him from every hiding place, for they knew their lord well, and the sea parted in joy before him. The horses flew on swift and light, and the bronze axle beneath was never wetted.
So his prancing horses bore him on to the ships of the Greeks. There is a wide cave deep in the waters, between Tenedos and rugged Imbros, and there Poseidon the Earthshaker stopped the horses, loosed them from the chariot, and threw down ambrosial fodder for them to eat, and bound their feet with golden hobbles, unbreakable, that could not be slipped, so that they would stay there steady awaiting their lord's return. Then he went on to the army of the Greeks.
The Trojans, like a blazing fire or a storm-wind, followed Hector son of Priam in one close mass, raging without pause, shouting, howling, expecting to seize the ships of the Greeks and kill all their best men right there beside them. But Poseidon, who holds and shakes the earth, came up out of the deep sea and roused the Argives, taking the shape and the tireless voice of Calchas. First he spoke to the two men named Ajax, who were already eager for battle:
"You two Ajaxes, you can save the army of the Greeks, if you remember your courage and put aside cold panic. Anywhere else along the wall I would not fear the irresistible hands of the Trojans who have climbed over our great rampart in their numbers, for the well-greaved Greeks will hold them all back. But here is where I dread most terribly that we may suffer harm — here where that madman leads them on like a blazing fire, Hector, who boasts he is the son of mighty Zeus. May some god put it into your hearts to stand firm yourselves and urge the others on as well. Then you could drive him back from the swift ships even in his fury, even if it is the Olympian himself who is stirring him up."
So saying, the Earthshaker who holds the earth struck them both with his staff and filled them with fierce strength, and made their limbs light, their feet and the hands above them. Then, like a swift-winged hawk that rises from a sheer, towering cliff and swoops down over the plain chasing another bird, so Poseidon the Earthshaker darted away from them. Ajax son of Oileus, quick of foot, was the first of the two to recognize him, and at once he spoke to Ajax son of Telamon:
"Ajax, since one of the gods who hold Olympus, wearing the shape of the prophet, is urging us to fight beside the ships — and this is not Calchas the seer who reads the birds, for I knew him at once by his tracks and the set of his legs and calves as he went away; the gods are easy to recognize — even now the heart in my own chest is roused all the more to fight and do battle, and my feet below are eager, and my hands above."
Ajax son of Telamon answered him: "So too my hands are raging now, unstoppable, around my spear, and my strength has risen, and beneath me both my feet are straining to run. I am eager to fight Hector son of Priam, raging as he is, even alone."
So the two spoke to each other, rejoicing in the battle-lust the god had cast into their hearts. Meanwhile the Earthshaker roused the men behind them, who were resting their hearts beside the swift ships. Their limbs were loosened by grievous weariness, and grief filled their hearts as they watched the Trojans who had swarmed over the great wall. Watching them, tears fell from beneath their brows, for they did not think they would escape the disaster. But the Earthshaker moved easily among them and roused their strong ranks.
He came first to Teucer and Leitus, urging them on, and to the hero Peneleos, and Thoas, and Deipyrus, and Meriones, and Antilochus, masters of the war cry. Urging them he spoke winged words: "Shame, you Argives, you young men! I trust that if you fight, you can save our ships. But if you give way to this wretched war, then this very day it will be clear the Trojans have beaten us. Ah, what a great and terrible wonder I see before my eyes — a thing I never thought could come to pass —
the Trojans coming against our ships, they who before were like fleeing deer, that in the forest become the prey of jackals and leopards and wolves, running about helplessly, with no fight in them at all. So it was that the Trojans before would not stand and face the strength and hands of the Greeks, not even for a moment. But now, far from their city, they are fighting beside our hollow ships, and it is because of the cowardice of our leader and the slackness of our men, who quarrel with him and are unwilling to defend the swift ships, but instead are being killed among them.
But even if it is altogether true that the hero, wide-ruling Agamemnon son of Atreus, is to blame, because he dishonored the swift-footed son of Peleus, still it is not right for us to hold back from the fighting. Let us make amends quickly instead — the hearts of good men can be healed. But you, all of you, the best men in the whole army, can no longer rightly hold back your furious courage. I myself would not quarrel with a man who held back from war if he were a coward by nature, but at you I am bitterly indignant in my heart. My friends, soon you will bring about some worse disaster
through this very slackness. Let each of you set in his heart shame and indignation — for indeed a great struggle has risen up. Hector, good at the war cry, is fighting fiercely beside the ships. He has broken the gates and the great bar." So urging them the Earthshaker roused the Greeks. Around the two Ajaxes the strong ranks took their stand, ranks that not even Ares coming among them could find fault with, nor Athena who drives men to battle. For the chosen best men awaited the Trojans and shining Hector, fencing spear against spear, shield against overlapping shield,
buckler leaning on buckler, helmet on helmet, man on man; the horsehair crests on the gleaming ridges of their helmets touched as they nodded, so closely packed did they stand against one another; the spears shook and quivered in their bold hands as they brandished them; and their minds were fixed straight ahead, and they longed to fight. Then the Trojans surged forward in a mass, and Hector led them, driving straight on, like a great boulder that a river swollen with rain has torn loose from a cliff-face, bursting the bank's hold with its terrible flood — the boulder leaps up and flies as it bounds, and the forest crashes beneath it,
and it runs on steadily and surely, until it reaches level ground, and then it rolls no more for all its speed. So Hector for a time threatened that he would easily sweep through the huts and ships of the Greeks all the way to the sea, killing as he went. But when he ran into the packed ranks, he stopped, forced to a halt hard against them, and the sons of the Greeks facing him, thrusting with swords and double-edged spears, drove him back from among them, and he gave ground, staggering. Then he cried out, shouting far and wide to the Trojans:
"Trojans, and Lycians, and Dardanians who fight hand to hand, hold your ground! The Greeks will not keep me back for long, even though they have set themselves in a wall like a tower — no, I think they will give way before my spear, if truly the greatest of the gods, the loud-thundering husband of Hera, is driving me on." So saying he roused the strength and spirit of each man.
Among them Deiphobus son of Priam strode forward, thinking great thoughts, holding before him his shield that covered him all around, stepping lightly and advancing behind his shield's cover. Meriones aimed his shining spear at him and threw, and did not miss — he struck the round shield made of bull's hide, but did not drive through it; instead, well before that, the long shaft snapped at the socket. Deiphobus held the bull's-hide shield away from himself, afraid in his heart of the spear of bold Meriones, and the hero drew back into the crowd of his comrades,
raging bitterly at the double loss, both of victory and of his broken spear. He went off along the huts and ships of the Greeks to fetch the long spear that had been left behind in his hut. The rest went on fighting, and the unquenchable war cry rose up. Teucer son of Telamon was the first to kill a man there — the spearman Imbrius, son of Mentor rich in horses.
He had lived in Pedaeum before the sons of the Greeks came, and he held Medesicaste, a bastard daughter of Priam, as his wife. But when the curved ships of the Danaans arrived, he went back to Ilium, where he was prominent among the Trojans, and lived with Priam, who honored him equal to his own children. Now the son of Telamon struck him beneath the ear with his long spear and pulled the spear back out, and Imbrius fell like an ash tree that on a mountain peak, visible from far off,
is cut down by bronze and brings its tender leaves down to the earth — so he fell, and around him his armor rang out, wrought bright with bronze. Teucer rushed forward, eager to strip his armor, but as he rushed in Hector threw his shining spear at him. Teucer, watching him, dodged the bronze spear just barely, but it struck Amphimachus, son of Cteatus, grandson of Actor, in the chest with the spear as he was coming into the fight;
he fell with a crash, and his armor clattered upon him. Hector rushed forward to snatch from great-hearted Amphimachus's head the helmet that fit close to his temples, but as he rushed in, Ajax thrust with his shining spear at Hector, though it did not reach his flesh, for he was wholly covered in terrible bronze — instead it struck the boss of his shield and drove him back with great force, and he gave ground away from the two corpses, which the Greeks then dragged off.
Amphimachus was carried back among the ranks of the Greeks by Stichius and noble Menestheus, leaders of the Athenians. Imbrius the two Ajaxes carried off, both eager for furious battle — like two lions that snatch a goat from sharp-toothed hounds and carry it off through the dense brush, holding it high above the ground in their jaws — so the two Ajaxes, armored for war, held him up high
and stripped his armor. Then the son of Oileus, enraged over Amphimachus, cut the head from Imbrius's soft neck, and sent it spinning like a ball through the crowd, until it fell in the dust before Hector's feet.
Then indeed Poseidon was angered to the heart, for his grandson had fallen in the grim slaughter, and he went off along the huts and ships of the Greeks to rouse the Danaans further, and to work grief for the Trojans. Idomeneus, famed for his spear, met him there,
coming from a comrade who had just come back from the fighting, struck behind the knee by sharp bronze. His comrades had carried him back, and Idomeneus, having given orders to the healers, was making his way to his hut, for he still longed to face the war. Then the mighty Earthshaker spoke to him, taking on the voice of Thoas son of Andraemon, who ruled over all Pleuron and steep Calydon among the Aetolians, and was honored by his people like a god:
"Idomeneus, counselor of the Cretans, where have your threats gone now — the threats the sons of the Greeks made against the Trojans?"
Idomeneus, leader of the Cretans, answered him: "Thoas, no man is to blame now, as far as I can tell — we all know how to fight. No fear holds any man frozen, nor does anyone shrink back from this wretched war out of cowardice. It seems, rather, that this is simply how it must please the almighty son of Cronus — that the Greeks should perish here far from Argos, unremembered. But Thoas, you were always steady in battle before, and you rouse others too wherever you see a man slacking. So now do not give up — call on every man you see."
Then Poseidon the Earthshaker answered him: "Idomeneus, may that man never return home from Troy, but may he become sport for the dogs right here, whoever willingly gives up the fight this day. Come now, take up your armor and follow me — we must hurry, if the two of us together are to do any good. Even weak men gain strength joined together, and the two of us know how to fight even against strong men." So saying the god went back again into the toil of men, and Idomeneus, when he reached his well-built hut,
put on his fine armor about his body, took up his two spears, and went out looking like a lightning bolt that the son of Cronus grasps in his hand and hurls flashing from bright Olympus, showing a sign to mortals, its rays plain to see — so the bronze flashed about his chest as he ran. Meriones, his good attendant, met him still near his hut, coming to fetch a bronze spear, and the strength of Idomeneus spoke to him:
"Meriones son of Molus, swiftest of feet, dearest of my comrades, why have you come, leaving the war and the fighting?
Are you wounded, does the point of some weapon trouble you, or have you come with some message for me? I myself have no wish to sit in the huts — I want to fight."
Wise Meriones answered him in turn: "Idomeneus, counselor of the bronze-clad Cretans, I have come to see if you have a spear left in your hut to fetch, for the one I had before I broke, striking the shield of overbearing Deiphobus." Idomeneus, leader of the Cretans, answered him: "Spears — if you want them, you will find one and twenty
standing in my hut against the gleaming inner wall — Trojan spears, which I take from men I kill, for it is not my way to fight standing far off from my enemies. So I have spears, and bossed shields, and helmets, and breastplates bright with polish." Wise Meriones answered him in turn: "I too have plenty of spoils from Trojans in my own hut and by my black ship, but they are not near at hand to take. For I do not think that I myself have forgotten my courage either —
I stand among the foremost in the battle that brings men glory, whenever the strife of war rises up. Perhaps some other bronze-clad Greek fails to notice me fighting, but I think you know it well yourself." Idomeneus, leader of the Cretans, answered him: "I know the kind of courage you have — why do you need to say this? For if now, beside the ships, all the best men were being chosen for an ambush, where a man's courage shows itself most clearly —
there the coward and the brave man both stand revealed. The coward's color changes from one moment to the next, and his heart will not let him sit still, but he shifts from foot to foot, crouching first on one and then the other, and his heart pounds hard in his chest as he imagines death, and his teeth chatter. But the brave man's color does not change, and he feels no great fear once he has taken his place in the ambush, and he prays only to be plunged as quickly as possible into grim battle —
no one could find fault then with your strength or your hands. For even if you were struck or wounded while at your work, the blow would not land in the back of your neck or your back, but would meet you full in the chest or belly
as you pressed forward among the champions in close combat. But come, let us stand here no longer talking like children, lest someone grow angry at our delay. Go to the hut and take your heavy spear." So he spoke, and Meriones, a match for swift Ares, quickly went to the hut and took up a bronze spear, and followed after Idomeneus, his heart set on war. Just as man-destroying Ares goes out to battle, and with him goes his son Panic, dear to him, strong and fearless, who can put to flight even a hardy warrior —
Together they went off toward the Ephyrians of Thrace, or toward the great-hearted Phlegyans -- but neither of them listened to both sides; they simply handed victory to one or the other. Such were Meriones and Idomeneus, leaders of men, as they went into battle armored in gleaming bronze. Meriones spoke first to Idomeneus:
"Son of Deucalion, where do you mean to plunge into the crowd -- on the right of the whole army, or through the center, or on the left? Nowhere else, I think, do the long-haired Achaeans need help so badly."
Idomeneus, leader of the Cretans, answered him: "At the ships in the middle there are others to defend us -- the two Ajaxes and Teucer, best of the Achaeans with the bow, and no mean man in close combat either. They will give Hector son of Priam all the fighting he wants, strong as he is. Steep will be his climb, however hard he burns to fight, to beat down their strength and their unstoppable hands and set fire to the ships -- unless Zeus himself hurls a burning brand down on the swift hulls.
"Great Ajax son of Telamon would yield to no man who is mortal and eats the grain of Demeter and can be broken by bronze or by great stones -- not even to Achilles, breaker of men, would he give ground in a stand-up fight, though in speed of foot no one can match Achilles. So turn us now toward the left of the army, so that we may quickly see whether we hand glory to some other man, or some other man hands it to us."
So he spoke, and Meriones, swift as fierce Ares, led the way until they reached the part of the army he had told him to reach. And when the Trojans saw Idomeneus, like a flame in his fury,
himself and his attendant in their intricate armor, they shouted to one another through the crowd and all bore down on him together. And the fighting rose to meet them there by the sterns of the ships. As when gales driven by shrill winds rage on a day when the dust lies thickest on the roads, and together they raise a great cloud of it -- so now the battle came together, and men's hearts burned to cut each other down in the crowd with sharp bronze. The man-killing battle bristled with the long spears men gripped for tearing flesh, and the eyes were dazzled
by the bronze glare flashing off polished helmets and fresh-scoured breastplates and gleaming shields as the fighters came on together. Only a very hard heart could have looked on that struggle and felt joy rather than grief. And the two mighty sons of Cronus, working against each other, were forging bitter pains for the fighting men. Zeus willed victory for the Trojans and for Hector, to glorify swift-footed Achilles -- yet he did not want the Achaean army to perish utterly before Troy; he only meant to honor Thetis and her strong-hearted son.
Poseidon, for his part, came up secretly from the gray sea and stirred the Argives on, for he was angry to see them beaten down by the Trojans, and he raged bitterly at Zeus. The two gods were of one stock and one lineage, but Zeus was born first and knew more. For this reason Poseidon avoided helping the Achaeans openly, but kept stirring them up in secret, going among the ranks disguised as a man. So the two gods stretched between the armies the taut rope of fierce strife and grinding war, unbreakable, unloosable, that undid the strength in many men's knees.
There, though his hair was already gray, Idomeneus rallied the Danaans and charged among the Trojans, driving fear before him. He cut down Othryoneus, who lived in Cabesus and had come only lately, drawn by the fame of the war. He had asked for the loveliest of Priam's daughters, Cassandra, without bride-price, and had promised a great feat in return -- to drive the sons of the Achaeans, against their will, out of Troy. Old Priam had agreed and given his word to grant her to him, and Othryoneus fought on, trusting to that promise. Idomeneus took aim at him with his shining spear
and struck him as he strode along in his pride, and found his mark; the bronze breastplate he wore did not stop it, and the spear fixed itself in the middle of his belly. He fell with a crash, and Idomeneus exulted over him and cried out: "Othryoneus, I honor you above all mortal men now -- if you really mean to fulfill everything you promised Priam, son of Dardanus, in return for his daughter's hand. We too would have made good on such a promise, and would have offered you the loveliest of Agamemnon's daughters,
bringing her from Argos to be your wife, if you had helped us sack the well-built city of Troy.
"But come with me to the seafaring ships, so that we may settle the marriage there together -- we are not stingy when it comes to bride-gifts." So saying, the hero Idomeneus dragged him by the foot through the fierce fighting. But Asius came up to defend him, on foot, in front of his own chariot, while his charioteer kept the panting horses close behind his shoulders; and Asius longed with all his heart to strike Idomeneus down. But Idomeneus was quicker, and struck him first with his spear
under the chin, driving the bronze straight through his throat. Asius fell like an oak, or a white poplar, or a towering pine tree that carpenters up in the mountains
cut down with new-whetted axes to make ship-timber -- so he lay stretched out before his chariot and horses, groaning and clawing at the bloody dust. His charioteer was struck senseless with fear and did not dare to turn the horses back and escape the enemy's hands, and so Antilochus, staunch in battle, hit him square with his spear; the bronze breastplate he wore did not stop it, and the spear fixed itself in the middle of his belly. Gasping, he tumbled from the well-built chariot, and Antilochus, son of great-hearted Nestor,
drove the horses out from among the Trojans, toward the well-armored Achaeans. Deiphobus, grieving for Asius, came very close to Idomeneus and hurled his shining spear at him. But Idomeneus saw it coming and dodged the bronze point, sheltering behind his shield, round on every side,
which he carried built of oxhide and gleaming bronze, fitted with two cross-bars. Beneath it he crouched entirely, and the bronze spear flew over him, and his shield gave a dry ring as the spearhead grazed across it. Still, it was no wasted throw from that heavy hand --
it struck Hypsenor son of Hippasus, shepherd of his people, under the midriff, in the liver, and instantly loosed his knees beneath him. Deiphobus gave a terrible shout of triumph, crying aloud: "Asius does not lie unavenged after all -- I say that even as he goes down to the House of Hades, that strong keeper of the gate, his heart will rejoice, since I have given him an escort."
So he spoke, and grief seized the Argives at his boast, and it stirred the heart of battle-minded Antilochus above all; yet grieving as he was, he did not forget his comrade, but ran to stand over him and covered him with his shield.
Then two trusted companions stooped and lifted him, Mecisteus son of Echius and godlike Alastor, and carried him, groaning heavily, to the hollow ships. Idomeneus did not slacken his great fury; he was still eager either to wrap some Trojan in black night or himself to fall with a crash while warding off ruin from the Achaeans. Then he struck down the beloved son of Zeus-nurtured Aesyetes, the hero Alcathous, who was son-in-law to Anchises, having married his eldest daughter, Hippodameia, whom her father and lady mother had loved dearly in the house,
beyond all her agemates, for she outshone them all in beauty and skill and wit, and so the best man in wide Troy had married her. Idomeneus now brought him down through Poseidon's hand, dazzling his bright eyes and pinning his shining limbs, so that he could neither flee backward nor dodge aside, but stood stock-still like a pillar or a tall leafy tree while the hero Idomeneus drove his spear into the middle of his chest, and it tore the bronze tunic about him that had always before kept death from his body.
Now it rang out dry as it was torn by the spear. He fell with a crash, and the spear stuck fast in his heart, which still throbbed and shook the butt-end of the shaft, until at last mighty Ares let its force die away. And Idomeneus shouted in triumph, crying aloud: "Deiphobus, shall we call this a fair trade after all -- three men killed for one? Since that is how you boast. Come, madman, stand and face me yourself,
so that you may see what kind of offspring of Zeus has come here -- Zeus, who first fathered Minos to watch over Crete;
Minos fathered a son, blameless Deucalion, and Deucalion fathered me, to be lord over many men in wide Crete. And now my ships have carried me here, to be a curse to you and your father and the rest of the Trojans." So he spoke, and Deiphobus weighed two courses in his mind -- whether to fall back and find some great-hearted Trojan as an ally, or to try Idomeneus alone. As he pondered, it seemed to him the better plan to go find Aeneas, whom he found standing at the very back of the crowd,
for he was always angry at godlike Priam, because, worthy as he was, Priam gave him no honor among the men.
Deiphobus came close and spoke to him in winged words: "Aeneas, counselor of the Trojans, now you must truly stand by your kinsman, if any care for him touches you. Come, let us defend Alcathous, your sister's husband, who raised you in his house when you were small, as your brother-in-law -- and now spear-famed Idomeneus has cut him down." So he spoke, and stirred the heart in Aeneas's chest, and he went after Idomeneus, his mind set hard on war. But fear did not take hold of Idomeneus as if he were some soft boy;
instead he stood his ground, like a wild boar in the mountains, trusting his own strength, who waits for the great roiling crowd of men bearing down on him in some lonely place, his back bristling, his eyes flashing fire, whetting his tusks, eager to fend off both dogs and men. So spear-famed Idomeneus stood firm and did not give way before Aeneas rushing to help his friend, but shouted for his comrades, watching for Ascalaphus and Aphareus and Deipyrus,
and Meriones and Antilochus, all masters of the war-cry; these he urged on, speaking winged words:
"Here, friends, help me -- I stand alone, and I am badly afraid of Aeneas swift of foot bearing down on me, a man very strong at killing men in battle, and he has the full bloom of youth, which is the greatest strength there is. If we were of the same age, with this same spirit, soon either he would carry off great glory, or I would." So he spoke, and all of them, one heart in their breasts, came and stood close by him, resting their shields on their shoulders. Aeneas, on his side, called to his own companions,
watching for Deiphobus and Paris and godlike Agenor,
who were fellow leaders of the Trojans with him; and behind them the troops followed, as sheep follow the ram out from pasture to drink, and the shepherd's heart is glad -- so Aeneas's heart rejoiced in his chest when he saw the mass of troops following after him. Then around Alcathous they closed in hand to hand with their long spears, and the bronze on their chests rang terribly as they aimed at one another through the crowd. And two men bold in war stood out beyond the rest,
Aeneas and Idomeneus, each a match for Ares,
eager to slash each other's flesh with pitiless bronze. Aeneas cast first at Idomeneus, but Idomeneus saw it coming and dodged the bronze spear, and Aeneas's point, quivering, drove into the ground, spent uselessly from his strong hand. Idomeneus struck Oenomaus square in the belly, shattering the plate of his breastplate, and the bronze spilled out his entrails; he fell in the dust and clawed the earth with his hand. Idomeneus pulled his long-shadowed spear
out of the body, but could not manage to strip the fine armor from the man's shoulders too, for he was hard pressed by missiles.
His legs no longer held steady under him for a quick charge after his own throw, nor for dodging another man's; and so, standing his ground, he could still fend off the pitiless day of death, but his feet could no longer carry him swiftly out of the fight. As he withdrew step by step, Deiphobus, who had held a bitter grudge against him all along, hurled his shining spear -- but he missed again, and struck Ascalaphus instead, son of Enyalius; the heavy spear caught him clean through the shoulder,
and he fell in the dust and clawed the earth with his hand.
But thundering Ares had not yet heard that his own son had fallen in the grinding battle; he sat on the peak of Olympus under golden clouds, penned there by the will of Zeus, along with the other immortal gods, all kept back from the fighting. Around Ascalaphus's body men now closed in hand to hand. Deiphobus tore the shining helmet from Ascalaphus's head, but Meriones, swift as fierce Ares, lunged in and struck him in the arm with his spear, and from his hand
the crested helmet dropped, clanging as it hit the ground.
Meriones sprang forward again, like a vulture, and pulled his heavy spear out of the man's upper arm, then fell back into the ranks of his comrades. Polites, Deiphobus's own brother, threw both arms around his waist and led him out of the din of that dreadful battle, until they reached the swift horses waiting behind the fighting with their driver and their gorgeous chariot. These carried him toward the city, groaning heavily,
worn out with pain, blood still running from the fresh wound in his arm. The rest fought on, and the war-cry rose unquenched.
Then Aeneas rushed at Aphareus, son of Caletor, and struck him in the throat as he turned to face him with his sharp spear; his head lolled to one side, his shield and helmet dropped with him, and death that destroys the spirit poured over him. Antilochus watched Thoon as he turned to flee, lunged, and struck him, slicing clean through the vein that runs the whole length of the back up to the neck; he cut it entirely through, and Thoon fell backward in the dust,
both hands stretched out to his comrades. Antilochus rushed at him and began stripping the armor from his shoulders,
glancing about warily, while the Trojans closed in from every side, stabbing at his broad, dazzling shield, but they could not manage to reach Antilochus's soft flesh with the pitiless bronze inside it, for Poseidon, shaker of the earth, was guarding Nestor's son closely even amid that storm of spears. Antilochus was never free of the enemy, but kept wheeling among them, and his spear was never still; he was forever poised in his mind
either to throw it at someone or to charge in close. But as he took aim through the crowd, Adamas
son of Asius saw him, and rushed in close and struck the middle of his shield with sharp bronze; but Poseidon of the dark hair robbed the spearpoint of its force, grudging Adamas Antilochus's life. Part of the spear stuck there like a fire-hardened stake in Antilochus's shield, and the other half lay on the ground; Adamas fell back into the ranks of his comrades, shrinking from death. But Meriones followed after him as he retreated and struck him with his spear
between the genitals and the navel, where wounds bring the most grievous pain to wretched mortals. There the spear fixed itself, and Adamas, impaled on the shaft, writhed
as an ox writhes when mountain herdsmen bind it with cords and drag it off against its will -- so he, struck, writhed for a little while, though not for long, until the hero Meriones came up close and wrenched the spear out of his flesh; and darkness covered his eyes. Helenus struck Deipyrus close up with his great Thracian sword on the temple, and knocked off his helmet, which flew off and fell to the ground,
and one of the fighting Achaeans caught it as it rolled between men's feet. But black night covered Deipyrus's eyes.
Grief seized the son of Atreus, Menelaus good at the war-cry; he strode forward, threatening the lord Helenus, brandishing his sharp spear, while Helenus drew back the bowstring. And so together, at the same moment, one of them made ready to hurl a sharp spear, the other to loose an arrow from the bowstring. Priam's son let fly his arrow, striking Menelaus in the chest, on the plate of his breastplate, but the bitter arrow bounced away. As when beans or dark-skinned chickpeas leap from a broad winnowing shovel across a great threshing floor,
driven by the shrill wind and the thresher's swing --
just so the bitter arrow, glancing far off the breastplate of glorious Menelaus, flew wide. Then the son of Atreus, Menelaus good at the war-cry, struck the hand that held the polished bow; clean through the hand and into the bow itself the bronze spear drove. Helenus fell back into the ranks of his comrades, shrinking from death, his hand hanging useless at his side, the ashen spear dragging from it. Great-hearted Agenor drew the spear out of his hand,
and bound the hand itself tightly in a sling of well-twisted sheep's wool, which his attendant, a shepherd of the people, carried for him.
Pisander went straight for glorious Menelaus, but an evil fate was leading him on to the finish of death, for you, Menelaus, were to bring him down in the grim press of battle. When the two had closed and come near each other, the son of Atreus missed his cast and his spear turned aside, while Pisander struck the shield of glorious Menelaus but could not drive the bronze all the way through, for the broad shield held it, and the spearhead snapped off at the socket. Still his heart lifted and he hoped for victory. But the son of Atreus drew his silver-studded sword and sprang at Pisander, who under his shield snatched up a fine bronze-headed axe on its long, smooth handle of olive wood, and the two struck at each other in the same instant. Pisander's blow landed on the ridge of the horsehair-crested helmet, right at the base of the plume, while Menelaus, as his man came on, struck him above the nose, on the bridge, and the bones cracked, and his two eyes fell bloodied at his feet into the dust, and he doubled over and dropped. Menelaus planted his heel on his chest, stripped his armor, and cried out in triumph:
"So you will leave the ships of the fast-horsed Danaans this way, you arrogant Trojans, never sated with the terror of war! You are not short of other outrage and shame, the shame you piled on me, you vile dogs, and you never feared in your hearts the heavy wrath of thundering Zeus, guardian of guests, who will one day tear down your steep city — you who carried off my wedded wife and much of my wealth for no cause at all, once she had welcomed you under her own roof. And now you are bent on hurling ruinous fire on our seafaring ships, on killing the Achaean fighters. But somewhere you will be checked, for all your lust for war. Father Zeus, they say you surpass all others, men and gods alike, in wisdom, yet all this comes from you: how can you show such favor to men of violence like these, to the Trojans, whose fury is forever reckless, and who never can get their fill of the din and grief of a war that touches all alike? Of everything else there comes satiety — of sleep, of love, of sweet song and the flawless dance — things a man might crave to have his fill of even more than of war. But the Trojans can never be sated with battle."
So Menelaus spoke, and stripping the bloodied gear from the body he gave it to his companions to carry, then went forward again himself and mixed once more among the front fighters.
There the son of King Pylaemenes sprang at him, Harpalion, who had followed his own father to Troy to fight, and never came home again to his father's land. He struck the middle of the shield of the son of Atreus with his spear, close in, but could not drive the bronze all the way through, and he shrank back into the crowd of his companions, warding off death, glancing all around lest anyone's bronze should graze his flesh. But as he was pulling back, Meriones let fly a bronze-tipped arrow and struck him in the right buttock, and the arrow drove straight through, under the bone, into the bladder. He sank down where he was, in the arms of his own comrades, breathing out his life, stretched on the ground like a worm, and his dark blood ran out and soaked the earth. The great-hearted Paphlagonians gathered around him, lifted him onto a chariot, and drove him grieving toward sacred Troy, and his father walked among them shedding tears, but there was no payment to be had for a son now dead.
Paris was seized with rage at heart for his killing, for Harpalion had been his guest-friend among the many Paphlagonians, and in his fury he let fly a bronze-tipped arrow.
There was a man named Euchenor, son of the seer Polyidus, wealthy and noble, whose home was in Corinth, and he had boarded his ship knowing full well the deadly fate before him. Many times good old Polyidus had told him he would waste away from a grievous sickness in his own halls, or else go down at the ships of the Achaeans, beaten by the Trojans. So he chose to escape both the heavy Achaean war-fine and the hateful sickness, so that his heart would not suffer that pain instead. Paris struck him below the jaw, under the ear, and swiftly the life went out of his limbs, and hateful darkness seized him.
So they fought on like a raging fire. But Hector, dear to Zeus, had not yet learned or heard that on the left of the ships his men were being cut down by the Argives, and the glory might soon have gone entirely to the Achaeans — such was the strength with which the earth-shaker who holds the world in his embrace was urging the Argives on, adding his own power besides. But Hector held to the place where he had first burst through the gates and the wall, breaking the packed ranks of the Danaan shield-bearers, where the ships of Ajax and Protesilaus were drawn up along the shore of the gray sea, and above them the wall had been built lowest of all, and there the fighting of men and horses alike grew fiercest.
There the Boeotians and the trailing-tunicked Ionians, the Locrians, the Phthians, and the shining Epeians struggled hard to hold back godlike Hector as he stormed against the ships like a blazing fire, yet they could not drive him off from among them. Chosen men of Athens led the way, and among them Menestheus, son of Peteos, commanded, with Pheidas, Stichius, and brave Bias at his side; of the Epeians, Meges son of Phyleus, Amphion, and Dracius; and before the Phthians, Medon and steadfast Podarces. Medon was the bastard son of godlike Oileus, brother of Ajax, but he lived in Phylace, far from his fatherland, because he had killed a kinsman of Eriopis, his stepmother, the wife of Oileus; while Podarces was the son of Iphiclus, son of Phylacus. Armed before the great-hearted Phthians, these fought alongside the Boeotians in defense of the ships.
But Ajax the swift son of Oileus would no longer stand apart, not even a little, from Ajax son of Telamon. Like two wine-dark oxen straining together with one will to drag a jointed plow through fallow ground, sweat streaming thick around the roots of their horns, held apart only by the smooth-polished yoke as they labor along the furrow until the plow cuts to the edge of the field — so the two men stood close beside each other. Around the son of Telamon followed many brave companions who took up his shield whenever weariness and sweat came upon his knees, but the Locrians did not follow the great-hearted son of Oileus in the same way, for their hearts did not hold firm in a standing fight — they had no bronze horsehair-crested helmets, no round shields, no ash spears, but had come to Troy trusting in bows and in slings of twisted wool, and with these, shooting again and again, they broke apart the Trojan ranks. So the one group fought in front, armored in gleaming bronze, against the Trojans and bronze-helmed Hector, while the others shot from behind unseen, and the Trojans, harried by the arrows, gave no thought to the joy of open combat.
And now the Trojans would have fallen back in misery from the ships and huts, all the way to windy Troy, had not Polydamas come up and spoken to bold Hector:
"Hector, you are a hard man to persuade by any counsel. Because a god has given you mastery in the work of war beyond others, you think you must also outdo all others in judgment — but you cannot have every gift at once, all in yourself alone. To one man a god gives skill in war, to another the dance, to another the lyre and song, and in the heart of another far-seeing Zeus sets a keen mind, from which many men profit, and it saves whole peoples, and the man himself knows best of all that he has it. But I will tell you what seems best to me. All around you the ring of battle is ablaze. The great-hearted Trojans, now that they are over the wall, stand apart, some still armed, others fighting, fewer against more, scattered among the ships. Draw back, then, and call all our best men here, and from that point we can consider the whole plan together — whether we should fall upon the many-benched ships, in case a god is willing to grant us the mastery, or whether we should come away from the ships unharmed. For I fear the Achaeans may pay back yesterday's debt, since beside the ships there waits a man never sated with war, and I do not think he will hold back from the fighting much longer."
So Polydamas spoke, and his sound counsel pleased Hector, who at once leapt down from his chariot in full armor to the ground, and speaking to him in winged words said:
"Polydamas, you hold all our best men here, while I go there and face the fighting. I will come back at once when I have given them their orders."
So he spoke, and set off looking like a snow-covered mountain, shouting as he went, and sped through the ranks of Trojans and allies. And they all rushed toward Polydamas, Panthous' noble son, when they heard Hector's call. Meanwhile Hector himself ranged along the front ranks in search of Deiphobus, mighty Helenus, Asius' son Adamas, and Asius son of Hyrtacus, wherever he might find them. He found them no longer wholly unharmed and untouched by death — some already lay dead by the sterns of the Achaean ships, killed by Argive hands, others lay wounded, struck within the wall. But on the left of the tearful battle he soon found godlike Alexander, husband of lovely-haired Helen, cheering on his comrades and urging them to fight, and coming close beside him spoke shameful words:
"Paris, curse of beauty, woman-mad deceiver, where is Deiphobus, and mighty Helenus, and Adamas son of Asius, and Asius son of Hyrtacus? Where is Othryoneus? Now steep Ilion is utterly ruined from its very height — now your own sheer destruction is certain."
Godlike Alexander answered him: "Hector, since your heart is bent on blaming one who is blameless — there may be other times when I hold back more from the fighting, since my mother did not bear me a total coward. From the moment you rallied our comrades to fight beside the ships, we have been here without a break, matched against the Danaans. Our friends whom you ask after have been killed. Only Deiphobus and mighty Helenus have left the field, both struck in the arm by long spears — but the son of Cronus warded off their death. Now lead on, wherever your heart and spirit bid you, and we will follow eagerly, and I do not think we will fall short in courage, so far as our strength allows — and beyond strength a man cannot fight, however eager he is."
With these words the hero won over his brother's heart, and they went where the fighting and the war-cry were fiercest, around Cebriones and blameless Polydamas, Phalces, Orthaeus, godlike Polyphetes, Palmys, Ascanius, and Morys son of Hippotion, who had come as reliefs from rich Ascania only the morning before, and now Zeus roused them to battle. On they went like a blast of violent winds that sweeps down to the plain beneath the thunder of father Zeus, and with a tremendous roar mingles with the sea, where the many waves of the crashing sea boil up, arching and white-crested, one before another, wave upon wave — so the Trojans came on, rank before rank, some in front, some behind, flashing with bronze, following their leaders. Hector led them, like man-destroying Ares, Priam's son, holding before him his shield, evenly balanced on every side, thick with hides and plated over with much bronze, and around his temples his shining helmet shook as he moved. Everywhere along the ranks he tested his way forward, to see if they would give ground before him as he advanced under cover of his shield, but he could not shake the courage in the hearts of the Achaeans.
Ajax was first to challenge him, striding forward with great steps: "Madman, come closer. Why do you try to frighten the Argives like this? We are not unskilled in war — it is only the cruel lash of Zeus that has beaten us Achaeans down. Your heart, no doubt, hopes to lay waste our ships, but we too have hands ready to defend them. Long before that your own well-peopled city will be captured and sacked by our hands. And I tell you, the time is near when you yourself, running in flight, will pray to father Zeus and the other immortals that your fine-maned horses may be swifter than falcons, as they carry you in a cloud of dust back toward your city."
Even as he spoke, a bird flew past on the right, a high-soaring eagle, and the Achaean army shouted in encouragement at the omen. But shining Hector answered: "Ajax, you blustering fool, what nonsense you speak. If only I could be, for all my days, as surely the son of aegis-bearing Zeus, born of queenly Hera, and honored as Athena and Apollo are honored, as surely as this day now brings disaster on the Argives, every one of them — and you will die among them, if you dare to stand and face my long spear, which will tear that lily-white skin of yours, and you will glut the dogs and birds of Troy with your fat and flesh, fallen by the ships of the Achaeans."
With these words he led the way, and his men followed with a tremendous roar, and the army shouted behind him. The Argives on their side shouted back, and did not forget their courage, but held their ground against the best of the oncoming Trojans. And the clamor of both sides reached the bright sky and the light of Zeus.

======== Book 14 ========

The shouting did not escape Nestor, though he sat there drinking. He turned to Asclepius's son and spoke winged words: "Think, noble Machaon, what is to be done. The cry of strong young men grows louder by the ships. Sit here a while longer and drink your dark wine, until lovely-haired Hecamede warms a bath and washes the clotted blood from your wound. I will go out myself and see what is happening."
So he spoke, and took up the well-made shield of his son, the shield that lay in the tent of Thrasymedes, breaker of horses, gleaming with bronze — for Thrasymedes carried his father's shield instead. Nestor took a strong spear tipped with sharp bronze and went out from the tent. At once he saw a shameful sight: the Achaeans driven back in confusion, the proud Trojans pressing after them, and the wall of the Achaeans broken down.
As when the great sea swells with a soundless heaving wave, sensing the swift paths of shrieking winds still to come, and does not yet roll forward one way or the other until some clear gust falls from Zeus to decide it — so the old man's heart was torn as he weighed two courses:
whether to go among the horse-driving Danaans, or to seek out Agamemnon son of Atreus, shepherd of the people. And as he turned it over, this seemed to him the better plan — to go to the son of Atreus. Meanwhile the armies kept cutting each other down as they fought; the tireless bronze rang around their bodies as they stabbed with swords and double-edged spears.
Nestor met the god-nurtured kings coming up from the ships, all those who had been struck by bronze — Diomedes, Odysseus, and Agamemnon son of Atreus. Their ships had been hauled up far from the battle,
drawn onto the shore of the grey sea, for these were the first ships brought in, and the wall had been built in front of their sterns. Even though the beach was wide, it could not hold all the ships, and the men were crowded, so they had drawn the ships up in rows, filling the whole long mouth of the shore between the two headlands that closed it in. So the three kings came together, leaning on their spears to look at the fighting, their hearts grieving within their chests. Old Nestor met them, and the spirit of the Achaeans shrank within them at the sight,
and lord Agamemnon spoke to him and said: "Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaeans, why have you left the man-killing battle to come here? I fear that violent Hector will make good the threat he once shouted before the Trojan assembly — that he would not return from the ships to Ilion until he had burned the ships with fire and killed us all. That is what he said, and now it is all coming true. I ask you — do the other well-greaved Achaeans, like Achilles, hold anger against me in their hearts,
and refuse to fight for the ships' sterns?" Then Gerenian Nestor, driver of horses, answered him: "These things have already come to pass; even Zeus who thunders on high could not now build it otherwise. The wall has fallen — the wall we trusted would be an unbreakable shelter for our ships and for ourselves. The Trojans now hold an unrelenting battle at the swift ships, and you could no longer tell, however hard you looked,
from which side the Achaeans are being driven in confusion — they are being killed all mixed together, and the shouting reaches the sky.
Let us think how these things are to end, if any plan will help — though I do not urge us to go down into the fighting ourselves, for a wounded man has no business in battle." Then Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him again: "Nestor, since they are fighting now at the sterns of the ships, and the wall we built did not help, nor the ditch either, over which the Danaans suffered so much, trusting in their hearts
that it would be an unbreakable shelter for the ships and for us — it seems this must be the will of overmastering Zeus, that the Achaeans should perish here, nameless, far from Argos.
I knew it well when he was willing to defend the Danaans, and I know it now, when he lifts the Trojans up to the level of the blessed gods, while he has bound our strength and our hands. Come then, let us all do as I say. Let us drag down to the sea all the ships drawn up nearest the water, all of them, and launch them onto the bright sea, and moor them out on their anchor-stones until the immortal night comes — if even then the Trojans will hold back from battle. Then we might drag down the rest of the ships as well. There is no shame in fleeing ruin, not even by night —
better a man run from harm than be caught by it."
Then resourceful Odysseus looked at him darkly and said: "Son of Atreus, what is this word that has slipped past the fence of your teeth? Ruinous man — I wish you commanded some other, worthless army instead of ruling over us, we to whom Zeus has given it, from youth to old age, to wind out hard wars to their end, until each of us dies. Is this truly how you mean to abandon the wide streets of Troy, for which we have suffered so much misery? Be silent, in case some other Achaean hears
this thing you have said — a word no man should ever let pass his lips, no man who knows how to speak sound sense in his heart and who carries the scepter, whom peoples as many as you rule among the Argives obey. Now I find fault with your whole way of thinking, for what you have just said — you who tell us, with the battle raging and the fighting still fierce, to drag our well-benched ships down to the sea, so that the Trojans should have even more of what they already wish for, victorious as they already are, while sheer destruction tips down upon us. For the Achaeans will not hold the battle line while the ships are being dragged to sea,
but will keep glancing about instead, and will give up the fight. That is when your counsel will destroy us, lord of men." Then Agamemnon, lord of men, answered him: "Odysseus, you have struck me hard with this harsh rebuke. And yet I was not commanding the sons of the Achaeans to drag their well-benched ships to sea against their will. Now let someone come forward with a better plan than this one, young or old — I would welcome it gladly." Then Diomedes, good at the war cry, spoke among them: "That man is near — we will not have to search long, if only you are willing
to listen, and none of you resent it out of anger because I am the youngest born among you. I too claim to be born of a noble father, Tydeus, whom the heaped earth now covers at Thebes. Portheus had three sons without blame, and they lived in Pleuron and steep Calydon —
Agrios, and Melas, and the third, horseman Oeneus, my father's father, and he was foremost of them all in courage. He stayed there, but my father settled in Argos, having wandered — for so Zeus and the other gods willed it, it seems.
He married one of Adrastus's daughters, and he lived in a house rich with substance, with plenty of wheat-bearing fields around it and many rows of orchard trees, and he had many flocks besides, and he surpassed all the Achaeans with the spear — you must have heard this, if it is true. So you cannot call my birth base or cowardly and dismiss the word I speak plainly and well. Come, let us go down to the fighting, wounded as we are, since we must. Once there, let us keep ourselves out of the range of missiles, so that no one adds a new wound to a wound already taken,
but let us drive the others on, those who up to now have been giving in to their own comfort and standing apart, not fighting." So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed him. They set off, and Agamemnon, lord of men, led the way.
Nor did the famous shaker of the earth keep a blind watch. He came among them in the likeness of an old man, took the right hand of Agamemnon son of Atreus, and spoke to him with winged words: "Son of Atreus, now surely the deadly heart of Achilles
rejoices in his chest at the sight of the Achaeans in slaughter and flight, since there is not the least sense in him. But let him perish as he is, let a god bring him to nothing! As for you, the blessed gods are not yet altogether angry with you — no, the leaders and rulers of the Trojans will yet raise the dust wide across the plain, and you yourself will watch them fleeing toward the city, away from the ships and the huts."
So saying, he gave a great shout and rushed across the plain. Loud as the cry of nine thousand men, or ten thousand, raised together in the strife of war — so mighty was the shout the lord who shakes the earth
sent up from his chest, and he cast great strength into the heart of every Achaean, to fight without ceasing and without rest.
Golden-throned Hera, standing on a peak of Olympus, saw with her own eyes her own brother and her husband's brother busy in the battle where men win glory, and her heart rejoiced. But then she saw Zeus sitting on the highest peak of Ida of the many springs, and he was hateful to her heart. And ox-eyed lady Hera pondered
how she might deceive the mind of aegis-bearing Zeus.
And this seemed to her, turning it over in her heart, the best plan: to go to Ida, having adorned herself well, in hope that Zeus might long to lie beside her in love, to cover her body, and that she might then pour a warm and gentle sleep over his eyelids and his cunning mind. So she went to her chamber, which her own son Hephaestus had built for her, with close-fitting doors set into their posts
and a secret bolt that no other god could open. There she went in and closed the shining doors behind her. First, with ambrosia she wiped every trace
of dirt from her lovely body, then anointed herself richly with oil, ambrosial, sweet, the same oil that was kept perfumed for her alone; when it was merely stirred within the bronze-floored house of Zeus, its fragrance reached all the way to earth and sky. With this she anointed her beautiful skin, and combed her hair, and with her own hands braided her shining locks,
lovely and immortal, falling from her deathless head. Then she put on an ambrosial robe that Athena had worked and finished for her, smoothing it and setting many fine designs into it, and she pinned it across her breast with golden clasps.
She girded herself with a belt fitted with a hundred tassels, and hung from her pierced ears earrings with three drops each, like mulberries, catching the light with a rich glow. Then the shining goddess covered her head with a veil,
a beautiful veil, newly made, white as the sun, and under her smooth feet she bound fair sandals. When she had put on all this adornment over her body, she went out from her chamber, and calling Aphrodite apart from the other gods, she spoke to her: "Will you do something for me now, dear child, whatever I ask,
or will you refuse me, angry in your heart because I favor the Danaans while you favor the Trojans?" Then Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, answered her: "Hera, honored goddess, daughter of great Cronus, say what is on your mind — my heart bids me carry it out, if I am able to carry it out, and if it can be done at all." Then, with cunning in her heart, lady Hera said to her: "Give me now the desire and longing with which you master
all the immortals and mortal men alike. For I am going to visit the ends of the fruitful earth,
and Ocean, forefather of the gods, and mother Tethys, who raised me kindly in their own house and cared for me, having taken me from Rhea, when far-seeing Zeus thrust Cronus down beneath the earth and the barren sea. I am going to visit them, and I will settle their bitter quarrel between them; for it is a long time now since they have kept apart from each other's bed and love, ever since anger fell upon their hearts. If I could persuade their dear hearts with words and bring them back together in bed, in love, I would be called dear to them, and honored, forever."
Then laughter-loving Aphrodite answered her again: "There is no way, nor is it right, to refuse what you ask, since you sleep in the arms of Zeus, greatest of all." And with that, she loosed from her breast the embroidered girdle, into which every kind of enchantment had been woven: in it was love, and longing, and the whisper of lovers,
seduction, which steals away the wits even of the wise. This she placed in Hera's hands and spoke, calling her by name: "Here, take this girdle now and hide it in your bosom, this embroidered girdle in which everything has been fashioned. I do not think
you will come back with your purpose unaccomplished, whatever it is your heart desires." So she spoke, and ox-eyed lady Hera smiled, and smiling, tucked it into her bosom. Then Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, went back to her own house, while Hera darted down and left the peak of Olympus. She passed over Pieria and lovely Emathia, and sped on over the snowy mountains of the horse-herding Thracians,
over their highest peaks, and her feet never touched the ground. From Athos she stepped down onto the swelling sea, and came at last to Lemnos, city of godlike Thoas.
There she met Sleep, brother of Death, and she took his hand and spoke to him, calling him by name: "Sleep, lord over all gods and all men alike, if ever before you listened to a word of mine, obey me now too, and I will owe you thanks for all my days. Lull the shining eyes of Zeus to rest beneath his brows, the moment I lie down beside him in love. I will give you gifts in return — a beautiful throne, imperishable forever,
golden, that my own son Hephaestus, the crook-legged god, will make with skill, and set beneath it a footstool,
so that you may rest your gleaming feet on it when you feast." Then sweet Sleep answered her and said: "Hera, honored goddess, daughter of great Cronus, any other of the eternal gods I could put to sleep easily, even the streams of the river Ocean, who is the source of them all —
but I would not go near Zeus, son of Cronus, nor lull him to sleep, unless he himself commanded it. Once before, your own request taught me a hard lesson, on that day when Heracles, the high-hearted son of Zeus,
sailed off from Ilion, having sacked the city of the Trojans. That time I poured myself sweetly over the mind of aegis-bearing Zeus and lulled him, while you were plotting evil in your heart, raising the blasts of harsh winds over the sea, and afterward carrying Heracles away to well-settled Cos,
far from all his friends. Zeus woke and was furious, hurling the gods about his hall, searching above all for me — and he would have flung me out of sight, from the sky into the sea, had Night, who masters gods and men, not saved me. I fled to her, and Zeus stopped, angry as he was,
for he was in awe of doing anything to displease swift Night. And now you ask me again to carry out this other impossible task." Then ox-eyed lady Hera answered him: "Sleep, why do you turn these thoughts over in your heart? Do you really think far-seeing Zeus will help the Trojans as fiercely as he raged over his own son Heracles? Come now — I will give you one of the younger Graces to marry, and she shall be called your wife." So she spoke, and Sleep rejoiced, and answered her: "Come then, swear to me now by the inviolable water of the Styx,
and grip the teeming earth with one hand, and the shimmering sea with the other, so that all the gods below with Cronus may be witnesses between us, that you will truly give me one of the younger Graces, Pasithea, whom I myself have longed for all my days." So he spoke, and the white-armed goddess Hera did not refuse; she swore as he asked, and named all the gods
who dwell below in Tartarus, who are called Titans. And when she had sworn and finished the oath, the two of them set out, leaving behind the city of Lemnos and Imbros,
clothed in mist, moving swiftly along their way. They came to Ida of the many springs, mother of wild beasts, at Lectum, where they first left the sea; from there they went on over the land, and the topmost forest shook beneath their feet. There Sleep stopped, before Zeus could catch sight of him, and climbed a towering fir tree, the tallest that then grew on Ida, rising through the mist to reach the sky. There he sat, hidden among the fir branches,
like the shrill-voiced bird that the gods call chalcis, and men call cymindis.
But Hera swiftly climbed to the topmost peak of high Ida, Gargaron, and the cloud-gatherer Zeus caught sight of her. And the moment he saw her, desire wrapped around his cunning heart, just as it had the first time they came together in love, stealing to bed without their parents' knowledge. He stood before her and spoke, calling her by name: "Hera, where are you hurrying from Olympus to come here? You have no horses, no chariot to ride." Then, with cunning in her heart, lady Hera answered him: "I am going to visit the ends of the fruitful earth,
...Ocean, the wellspring of the gods, and mother Tethys, who raised me well in their own halls and cared for me as a child. I am going now to see them, and I will settle their endless quarrel, for it has been a long time since they have kept apart from one another's bed and love — anger fell between their hearts. My horses stand at the foot of Ida of the many springs, ready to carry me over dry land and sea. It is for your sake that I have come down here from Olympus, so that you will not be angry with me afterward if I slip away in silence to the house of deep-running Ocean.
Cloud-gathering Zeus answered her: "Hera, there will be time enough later to go there. Come, let us turn instead to love, and lie down together. Never has desire for a goddess or a mortal woman so flooded over me and mastered the heart in my chest — not even when I loved Ixion's wife, who bore Pirithous, a match for the gods in counsel; not when I loved Danae of the lovely ankles, Acrisius's daughter, who bore Perseus, most renowned of all men; not the daughter of far-famed Phoenix, who bore me Minos and godlike Rhadamanthys; not Semele, not Alcmene in Thebes, who bore Heracles the great-hearted, while Semele bore Dionysus, joy to mortals; not Demeter, the queen with the lovely hair; not glorious Leto; not even you yourself, before now — as I desire you at this moment, and as sweet longing takes hold of me."
Then, weaving her deception, the lady Hera answered him: "Most dread son of Cronus, what a thing you have said. If you truly long to lie with me in love here on the peaks of Ida, where everything lies open to view — what if one of the gods who live forever should see us sleeping and go and tell it to all the others? I could never rise from such a bed and walk back into your house; it would be shameful. But if this is truly your wish, if your heart is set on it, there is a chamber which your own dear son Hephaestus built for me, and fitted its doors firmly into their posts. Let us go there and lie down, since the bed pleases you so."
Cloud-gathering Zeus answered her: "Hera, do not fear that any god or any man will see us. I will wrap us both in such a cloud of gold that not even the Sun could pierce it with his gaze, though his light is the keenest of all for seeing."
So speaking, the son of Cronus caught his wife in his arms. Beneath them the good earth sent up fresh grass, and dewy clover, crocus, and hyacinth, thick and soft, that lifted them clear of the ground. There they lay down together, and drew over themselves a beautiful golden cloud, from which glistening drops of dew fell away. So the father slept peacefully on the peak of Gargarus, overcome by sleep and by love, holding his wife in his arms.
Then sweet Sleep went running to the ships of the Achaeans to carry his message to the Earthshaker who holds the world. Standing close beside him he spoke winged words: "Now, Poseidon, help the Danaans with a willing heart, and grant them glory, even if only for a little while, while Zeus still sleeps — for I have poured soft slumber over him, and Hera has beguiled him into lying with her in love."
So saying, Sleep went off to the famous tribes of men, and stirred Poseidon on even more eagerly to defend the Danaans. At once the god sprang forward among the front ranks and cried out: "Argives, are we really going to yield the victory to Hector, son of Priam, once again, so that he can take our ships and win the glory? That is what he says, what he boasts, since Achilles stays back by the hollow ships, sulking in his heart. But there will be little enough need to miss him, if the rest of us rouse ourselves to help one another. Come, let us all do as I say. Let every man take up the largest, strongest shield in the whole army, cover his head with a gleaming helmet, take the longest spear his hand can wield, and let us advance. I myself will lead the way, and I say Hector, son of Priam, will not stand his ground for long, however eager he is for battle. Any man who is steady in the fight but carries only a small shield on his shoulder — let him hand it to a weaker man and take up a bigger one himself."
So he spoke, and they listened to him closely and obeyed. The kings themselves, wounded as they were, set the ranks in order — Diomedes son of Tydeus, Odysseus, and Agamemnon son of Atreus. They went among all the men and had them exchange their armor for war: the good armor went to the good fighter, the poorer to the poorer man. And when they had put the gleaming bronze around their bodies, they set out marching, with Poseidon the Earthshaker leading them, holding a terrible long sword in his heavy hand, like a bolt of lightning — a thing no man may come near in the grim press of battle, for fear holds men back from it. And on the other side, shining Hector arrayed the Trojans.
Then Poseidon of the dark hair and shining Hector stretched the fiercest strife of war taut between them, the one helping the Trojans, the other the Argives. The sea surged up against the huts and ships of the Argives, and the two armies came together with a great roar. Not so loud is the wave of the sea when it crashes on the shore, driven landward from the deep by the harsh breath of the North Wind; not so loud is the roar of fire blazing through a mountain forest when it springs up to devour the timber; not so loud does the wind howl through the tall leafy oaks when its fury is at its worst — as loud was the cry that rose from Trojans and Achaeans, shouting terribly, as they charged upon each other.
Shining Hector was the first to hurl his spear at Ajax, since Ajax stood facing him straight on, and Hector did not miss — he struck him where two baldrics crossed over his chest, one holding his shield, the other his silver-studded sword. These saved his soft skin. Hector was furious that his swift spear had leapt from his hand for nothing, and drew back into the crowd of his own men to escape death. But as he was retreating, great Telamonian Ajax caught up a stone — one of the many that lay heaped as props beneath the swift ships, rolling about the feet of the fighters — and with this he struck him on the chest, above the rim of his shield, close to the neck, and sent him spinning like a top; he reeled all around from the blow.
As when an oak tree falls uprooted beneath a stroke from father Zeus, and a terrible smell of sulfur rises from it, and no man standing near who sees it can help but feel his courage fail — for the thunderbolt of great Zeus is a fearsome thing — so did mighty Hector fall suddenly to the ground in the dust. The spear dropped from his hand, and his shield and helmet crashed down over him, and his ornate bronze armor clattered around him. The sons of the Achaeans ran up shouting loudly, hoping to drag him away, and hurled a thick rain of spears at him, but not one of them could wound or strike the shepherd of his people — for the best of the Trojans closed around him first: Polydamas, Aeneas, and godlike Agenor, and Sarpedon, leader of the Lycians, and noble Glaucus. And none of the others failed to care for him either; they all held their round shields close over him. His companions lifted him in their arms and carried him out of the fighting, until they reached his swift horses, which stood behind the battle line with their driver and their richly worked chariot, and these bore him toward the city, groaning heavily.
But when they reached the ford of the fair-flowing river, the whirling Xanthus, whom immortal Zeus fathered, they set him down from the chariot onto the ground and poured water over him. He revived and opened his eyes to look up, and sinking to his knees he vomited dark blood; then he sank back again onto the ground, and black night covered his eyes — the blow still overpowered him.
When the Argives saw Hector going off out of the fight, they pressed harder still upon the Trojans and remembered their eagerness for battle. Then far in front of them all, swift Ajax son of Oileus rushed forward and wounded Satnios, son of Enops, with his sharp spear — a son borne to Enops the herdsman by a fair river-nymph beside the banks of the Satnioeis. Coming close, the famous son of Oileus struck him in the flank, and he toppled backward, and around his body Trojans and Danaans joined in fierce combat.
Then Polydamas, son of Panthous, wielder of the spear, came to defend him, and struck Prothoenor, son of Areilycus, in the right shoulder — the heavy spear went clean through the shoulder, and he fell in the dust and clutched at the earth with his hand. Polydamas boasted over him loudly and terribly: "I think that spear did not fly in vain again from the sturdy hand of great-hearted Panthous's son — some Argive has taken it into his body, and I think he will use it as a staff on his way down into the house of Hades."
So he spoke, and grief seized the Argives at his boasting. It stirred the heart of warlike Ajax son of Telamon most of all, for Prothoenor had fallen closest to him. As Polydamas drew back, Ajax hurled his shining spear after him at once. Polydamas himself escaped black death by leaping aside, but Antenor's son Archelochus caught the blow instead, for the gods had decreed his destruction. The spear struck him where head and neck join, at the topmost joint, and sliced through both tendons, so that when he fell, his head, mouth, and nose struck the ground well before his shins and knees did.
Then Ajax shouted across to noble Polydamas: "Think it over, Polydamas, and tell me truly — is this man not worth killing in exchange for Prothoenor? He does not look to me like a common man, nor born of common stock — he is either the brother of horse-taming Antenor, or his son, for he looks very much like him in build." Ajax knew well who he was as he spoke, and grief seized the hearts of the Trojans.
Then Acamas, standing over his brother's body, struck Promachus of Boeotia with his spear, as Promachus tried to drag the corpse away by the feet. Acamas boasted over him loudly and terribly: "You Argive braggarts, never satisfied with threats — it will not be only us who bear toil and grief; you too will be killed just the same, sooner or later. Look how your Promachus lies asleep, brought down by my spear, so that the price for my brother will not go unpaid for long. That is why a man prays to leave behind a kinsman in his household, to avenge him when he falls."
So he spoke, and grief seized the Argives at his boasting. It stirred the heart of warlike Peneleos most of all. He charged at Acamas, but Acamas did not wait to face the attack of lord Peneleos, who instead struck down Ilioneus, son of Phorbas the rich in flocks, whom Hermes loved above all the Trojans and gave him wealth — though his mother had borne Phorbas only this one son, Ilioneus. Peneleos struck him beneath the brow, at the roots of the eye, and drove the eyeball out; the spear passed straight through the eye and out through the back of the neck, and he sat down with both hands spread wide. Then Peneleos drew his sharp sword and cut clean through the middle of his neck, so that head and helmet together fell to the ground while the heavy spear still stood fixed in the eye. Lifting the head up like a poppy-head, he displayed it to the Trojans and cried out in triumph:
"Trojans, tell the dear father and mother of noble Ilioneus, for me, to weep for him in their halls. For the wife of Promachus, son of Alegenor, will not be gladdened by her husband's homecoming either, on the day we sons of the Achaeans sail back from Troy."
So he spoke, and trembling seized the limbs of all of them, and each man looked about for a way to escape sheer destruction.
Tell me now, Muses who hold the halls of Olympus, who was the first of the Achaeans to strip bloody spoils from a fallen man, once the famous Earthshaker had turned the tide of battle. Ajax son of Telamon was the first: he wounded Hyrtius, son of Gyrtias, leader of the stout-hearted Mysians. Antilochus stripped Phalces and Mermerus. Meriones killed Morys and Hippotion. Teucer brought down Prothoon and Periphetes. Then Agamemnon, son of Atreus, struck Hyperenor, shepherd of his people, in the flank, and the bronze tore through his bowels and let his life run out; his spirit rushed out in haste through the wound, and darkness covered his eyes. But it was Ajax, swift son of Oileus, who killed the most of all, for no man matched him in speed of foot for chasing down the Trojans in their terror, when Zeus drove panic among them.

======== Book 15 ========

But once the Trojans, still fleeing, had crossed the stakes and the ditch, and many had gone down under Greek hands, the rest checked their flight and stood by their chariots, pale and shaking with terror. And now Zeus woke, on the peaks of Ida, beside Hera of the golden throne. He sprang up and stood, and saw the Trojans and the Achaeans, the one side in rout, the Argives driving them on from behind, and among them lord Poseidon. He saw Hector too, lying on the plain, his companions gathered around him while he lay gasping for breath, his mind gone, spitting up blood, for it was no weakling among the Achaeans who had struck him down.
Seeing him, the father of gods and men pitied him, and with a terrible look he turned on Hera and said, "This is your doing, Hera — some wretched, incurable scheme of yours has driven godlike Hector from the battle and sent his men running in terror. I wonder whether you won't be the first to reap the fruits of your own vicious plotting, when I take a whip to you. Have you forgotten when I hung you up on high, and fastened two anvils to your feet, and bound your wrists with a golden chain that could not be broken? There you hung, among the clouds and the upper air,
and the gods on tall Olympus raged at the sight, but none of them could come near enough to set you free. Any one I caught, I seized and hurled from the threshold, until he came crashing down to earth, all his strength gone. Even so, my heart never rested from grief for godlike Heracles, whom you, with the North Wind's help, drove with cruel storms across the barren sea, scheming evil against him, and swept him at last to well-peopled Cos. I rescued him from there and brought him home again to horse-pasturing Argos, though he had suffered greatly.
I remind you of this now, so that you will give up your deceptions, and learn what good your love-making did you, that time you came to me from among the gods and beguiled me with it."
So he spoke, and the ox-eyed lady Hera shuddered at his words, and answered him, saying, "Now let Earth be my witness to this, and the wide Heaven above, and the down-flowing water of the Styx — the greatest and most solemn oath a blessed god can swear — and your own sacred head, and our marriage bed, which I would never invoke lightly:
it is not through any wish of mine that Poseidon, the Earth-shaker, harms the Trojans and Hector and helps the other side. His own heart must be driving him, urging him on — he saw the Achaeans suffering by their ships and pitied them. But I myself would gladly advise him to go wherever you, lord of the dark clouds, lead the way."
So she spoke, and the father of gods and men smiled, and answered her with winged words: "If from now on, ox-eyed lady Hera, you would sit among the immortals thinking as I think,
then Poseidon, however much he wants otherwise, would soon turn his mind to match yours and mine. But if what you say now is true and sincere, go among the gods, and call Iris to come here to me, and Apollo the famous archer, so that Iris may go to the bronze-armored Achaean host and tell lord Poseidon to stop fighting and return to his own halls, while Phoebus Apollo rouses Hector to battle again, breathes fresh strength into him, and makes him forget the pain
that now wears down his heart. And Apollo shall turn the Achaeans back once more, stir up a cowardly panic and send them running, until they fall back among the many-benched ships of Achilles, son of Peleus. Then Achilles will send out his companion Patroclus, and glorious Hector will kill him with his spear before Ilion, after Patroclus has cut down many strong young men — and among them my own son, godlike Sarpedon. In anger at this, godlike Achilles will kill Hector. From that point on I will make the Trojans give ground steadily before the ships,
until the Achaeans take steep Ilion by Athena's counsel. Until then I will not check my anger, nor will I let any other god come to help the Danaans here, not until the wish of Peleus's son is fulfilled, just as I promised him at the start, and bowed my head to it, on the day the goddess Thetis clasped my knees and begged me to honor Achilles, sacker of cities." So he spoke, and the white-armed goddess Hera did not disobey, but went from the mountains of Ida up to great Olympus.
As swift as the mind of a man who has traveled over much land and thinks, in his quick understanding, "I wish I were here, or there," and turns over many plans — just as swiftly, eager to be gone, the lady Hera flew on her way. She reached steep Olympus and came upon the immortal gods gathered together in the halls of Zeus, and all of them, at the sight of her, rose and greeted her with raised cups. She let the others be, and took the cup from fair-cheeked Themis, for Themis was the first to run and meet her, and spoke to her with winged words: "Hera, why have you come? You look shaken.
Surely the son of Cronus has frightened you — he is your husband, after all." And the white-armed goddess Hera answered her: "Do not ask me this, goddess Themis. You know yourself how overbearing and harsh his temper is. Instead, take your place presiding over the equal feast among the gods in these halls — you and all the immortals will hear soon enough what wicked plans Zeus is announcing. I do not think everyone alike will find joy in them, neither mortals nor gods, however happily some may still be feasting now." With these words the lady Hera sat down,
and the gods throughout the hall of Zeus grew uneasy. Her lips smiled, but no warmth touched the brow above her dark eyebrows, and, filled with anger at them all, she spoke: "Fools, that we rage against Zeus in our folly! We still think we can go up and stop him, by argument or by force — but he sits apart and pays us no mind, no regard at all. He says he is, in strength and power, by far the best of all the immortal gods. So bear whatever evil he sends each of you. Already, I think, disaster has come to Ares —
his son has died in battle, the man he loved best of all, Ascalaphus, whom violent Ares calls his own." So she spoke, and Ares struck his sturdy thighs with his open palms, and cried out in grief: "Do not blame me now, you who hold the halls of Olympus, if I go to the ships of the Achaeans to avenge my son's death, even if it is my fate to be struck by the thunderbolt of Zeus and lie among the corpses, in blood and dust." So he spoke, and ordered Terror and Fear to yoke his horses, while he himself put on his blazing armor.
Then an even greater and more terrible anger and wrath would have arisen between Zeus and the immortals, if Athena, in fear for all the gods, had not sprung up from her seat and rushed out through the porch. She snatched the helmet from Ares' head and the shield from his shoulders, and took the bronze spear from his powerful hand and set it down, and then rebuked the raging god: "Madman, out of your mind, you are ruined! Do you have ears only for hearing, while sense and shame are gone from you? Do you not hear what the white-armed goddess Hera says,
fresh from the presence of Olympian Zeus himself? Or do you want to pile up more suffering for yourself and be forced back to Olympus in grief, and at the same time sow great trouble for all the rest of us? For at once Zeus will abandon the proud Trojans and the Achaeans and come storming after us on Olympus, and he will seize whoever is guilty, and whoever is not, without distinction. So I tell you now, give up your anger over your son. Better men than he, in strength and in the work of their hands, have already died, or will die later — it is a hard thing
to save the life and offspring of every man on earth." With these words she made the raging Ares sit back down on his throne. Meanwhile Hera called Apollo outside the hall, along with Iris, who serves as messenger among the immortal gods, and spoke to them both with winged words: "Zeus commands you both to go to Ida as fast as you can. When you arrive and look upon the face of Zeus, do whatever he urges and commands." With these words the lady Hera went back and sat down on her throne, and the two of them sprang up and flew off.
They came to Ida of the many springs, mother of wild beasts, and found the wide-seeing son of Cronus sitting on the peak of Gargarus, a fragrant cloud wreathed around him. The two came before Zeus, gatherer of clouds, and stood there, and he was not angry at the sight of them, since they had obeyed his dear wife's words so quickly. He spoke first to Iris, with winged words: "Go now, swift Iris, and carry this whole message to lord Poseidon, and be no false messenger.
Tell him to stop his fighting and his war, and go among the tribes of the gods, or into the bright sea. If he refuses to listen to my words and disregards them, then let him consider carefully in his heart and mind whether, strong as he is, he dares to wait for me when I come against him — for I claim to be far mightier than he,
and older by birth. Yet his heart does not shrink from claiming to be my equal, though the other gods hold him in dread." So he spoke, and wind-footed swift Iris did not disobey, but went down from the mountains of Ida to sacred Ilion. As when snow or hail flies down from the clouds, driven by the blast of the North Wind born in bright air,
just as swiftly, eager to be gone, swift Iris sped on her way, and coming close she spoke to the famous Earth-shaker: "I have come here, Earth-holder of the dark hair, bringing you a message from Zeus who bears the aegis. He orders you to stop your fighting and your war, and to go among the tribes of the gods, or into the bright sea. If you refuse to listen to his words and disregard them, he himself threatens to come here and fight against you face to face, and he tells you to keep out of the way
of his hands, since he claims to be far mightier than you, and older by birth. Yet your heart does not shrink from claiming to be his equal, though the other gods hold him in dread."
Then, greatly troubled, the famous Earth-shaker answered her: "Ah, but this is outrageous — however great he is, he speaks with such arrogance, that he would restrain me by force against my will, when I am his equal in honor. For we are three brothers born of Cronus, whom Rhea bore: Zeus, and myself, and Hades, third, lord of the dead below. All was divided three ways, and each of us received his portion of honor. When the lots were shaken and drawn, I received the gray sea as my everlasting home,
Hades drew the murky darkness, and Zeus drew the wide heaven, among the bright air and the clouds. But the earth is still shared by all of us, and tall Olympus too. So I will not live by the will of Zeus — let him, strong as he is, stay content with his own third share. And let him not try to frighten me with his hands as though I were some coward. He would do better to threaten his own sons and daughters with his violent words — the children he fathered himself — for they must obey him, whether they like it or not."
Then wind-footed swift Iris answered him: "Earth-holder of the dark hair, is this really the message, harsh and unyielding, that you want me to carry back to Zeus? Or will you soften it a little? The minds of the great can bend. You know how the Furies always follow the elder-born." Then Poseidon, the Earth-shaker, answered her again: "Goddess Iris, what you have said is well and fitly spoken. It is a fine thing indeed when a messenger has such good judgment. But this is a bitter grief that touches my heart and spirit,
whenever he tries to rebuke, with angry words, one who is his equal in rank and destined portion. Still, angry as I am, I will give way this time. But I tell you this, and I make this threat in earnest: if he spares steep Ilion against my will, and against the will of Athena driver of spoils, of Hera, of Hermes, and of lord Hephaestus, and refuses to let it be sacked, and instead gives great victory to the Argives, then let him know that between us there will be a wound of anger that will not heal."
With these words the Earth-shaker left the Achaean army and plunged into the sea, and the Achaean warriors missed him sorely. And then Zeus, gatherer of clouds, spoke to Apollo: "Go now, dear Phoebus, to Hector of the bronze helmet. Already the Earth-holder, the Earth-shaker, has gone off into the bright sea, avoiding my heavy anger — for otherwise even the gods below, who dwell around Cronus, would have heard the sound of our quarrel. It was far better for both of us, for me and for him, that in spite of his anger he gave way
to my hands, since this would not have been settled without a struggle. But now, take up the tasseled aegis in your hands, and shake it hard to strike terror into the Achaean warriors.
And you yourself, far-shooting one, take care of glorious Hector. Rouse great strength in him, until the Achaeans run in flight to their ships and the Hellespont. From that point on I myself will see to how things unfold, in deed and in word, so that the Achaeans may once more catch their breath from their suffering." So he spoke, and Apollo did not disobey his father, but went down from the mountains of Ida like a hawk, the swift dove-killer, swiftest of winged things. He found Hector, wise son of Priam, godlike Hector,
sitting up now, no longer lying down — he had just begun to gather his wits, recognizing the comrades around him, while the gasping and the sweat had eased, since the will of Zeus who bears the aegis was reviving him. Apollo, who strikes from afar, came close and spoke: "Hector, son of Priam, why do you sit apart from the others, so weak? Has some trouble come upon you?" And Hector of the flashing helm, his strength still faint, answered him: "Who are you, best of the gods, who ask me this face to face?
Have you not heard that Ajax, good at the war cry, struck me with a rock full in the chest, by the sterns of the Achaean ships, as I was killing his comrades, and stopped my furious onslaught? I truly thought that today I would go down among the dead and the house of Hades, since I felt my life breath failing." Then lord Apollo, who strikes from afar, answered him: "Take heart now — such a helper has the son of Cronus sent from Ida to stand beside you and defend you,
Phoebus Apollo of the golden sword, who has guarded you before, both yourself and your steep city. Come now, urge your many horsemen to drive their swift horses against the hollow ships, while I go on ahead and smooth the whole road
for the horses, and turn the Achaean warriors back in flight." So saying, he breathed great strength into the shepherd of his people. And as when a stalled horse, well fed at the manger, breaks his halter and gallops thundering across the plain, used to bathing in the sweet-flowing river, exulting, holding his head high, his mane streaming about his shoulders as he runs, trusting in his own splendor, his legs carrying him swiftly to the pastures and haunts of horses —
just so Hector moved his feet and knees swiftly, urging on his horsemen, once he had heard the voice of the god. And as when hounds and country men chase a horned stag or a wild goat, but a steep cliff and shadowy woods save it from them, since it is not fated for them to catch it — then, roused by their shouting, a bearded lion appears in the path, and at once turns all of them back, eager as they were —
just so the Danaans, for a while, kept pressing on in a mass, thrusting with swords and double-edged spears, but when they saw Hector moving among the ranks of men, they were struck with fear, and the heart sank at the feet of every one of them.
Then Thoas, son of Andraemon, spoke among them, far the best of the Aetolians, skilled with the javelin and strong in close combat too — and in the assembly few Achaeans could outdo him, when young men vied with one another in speech. With good will he spoke and addressed them: "Ah, what a great wonder I see now with my own eyes — Hector has risen again, escaping the spirits of death! Surely every man's heart hoped that he would die
at the hands of Ajax, son of Telamon. Yet some god has rescued him and saved Hector once again, the very man who has already loosed the knees of so many Danaans — and I think he will do so again now, for it is not without the thunder of Zeus that he stands so eager in the front ranks. Come then, let us all do as I say. Let us order the mass of men to fall back to the ships, but let those of us who claim to be the best in the army
take our stand, and see whether, meeting him first, we can hold him off, spears raised — I think that even in his fury he will fear in his heart to plunge into the Danaan ranks." So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed him.
They gathered, some around Ajax and lord Idomeneus, Teucer and Meriones and Meges, a match for the war-god, calling the bravest to knot the battle-line against Hector and the Trojans; and behind them the mass of the army drew back toward the ships. But the Trojans surged forward in a mass, and Hector led them with long strides. Ahead of him went Phoebus Apollo, his shoulders wrapped in cloud, holding the dread, tasseled aegis, terrible and bright, which the smith Hephaestus had given to Zeus to carry, to rout men in battle.
This Apollo held in his hands and led the armies on. The Argives stood their ground in a mass, and a sharp cry rose from both sides, and arrows leapt from bowstrings. Many spears from bold hands stuck fast in the flesh of quick young fighters, and many more, before they could taste white skin, stood planted in the ground between the lines, hungry still for flesh. As long as Phoebus Apollo held the aegis still in his hands, missiles from both sides found their mark and men kept falling. But once he looked the fast-horsed Danaans full in the face
and shook it, and himself gave a great war-cry, he stole the courage from the hearts within their chests, and they forgot their battle-fury. As when two beasts of prey scatter a herd of cattle or a great flock of sheep, falling on them suddenly in the black dead of night while no herdsman is there, so the Achaeans fled in terror, stripped of courage — for Apollo sent panic among them and gave glory to the Trojans and to Hector. Then, as the battle line broke apart, man cut down man. Hector killed Stichius and Arcesilaus, one the leader of the bronze-shirted Boeotians,
the other the trusted companion of great-hearted Menestheus. Aeneas stripped the armor from Medon and Iasus. Medon was the bastard son of godlike Oileus, brother to Ajax, though he lived away from his own country, in Phylace, for he had killed a kinsman of his stepmother, Eriopis, whom Oileus had married. Iasus, for his part, had become a leader of the Athenians, and was called son of Sphelus, son of Bucolus. Polydamas cut down Mecisteus, and Polites killed Echius in the front rank of the fighting, and shining Agenor killed Clonius.
Paris struck Deiochus with a spear low through the shoulder from behind as he fled among the front-fighters, and drove the bronze clean through. While they were stripping the armor from these fallen men, the Achaeans, driven back against the dug trench and its stakes, fled this way and that, and were forced by necessity to crowd inside the wall. Hector shouted to the Trojans, calling out loud and long, to press on to the ships and let the bloody spoils be — "Any man I see hanging back from the ships, keeping apart, I will find a way to kill him on the spot, and neither his kinsmen, male or female, will give his corpse its due fire when he is dead —
the dogs will drag him instead, in front of our own city." So he spoke, and struck his horses' backs with the whip, calling out to the Trojans down the ranks, and they all cried out together and drove their chariot-horses on with him, a tremendous roar. Ahead of them Phoebus Apollo easily kicked down the banks of the deep ditch with his feet, and threw the earth into the middle, bridging a road long and wide, as far as a spear can fly when a man throws it to test his strength. Along this the Trojans poured forward in ranks, and ahead of them went Apollo,
holding the priceless aegis. He tore down the wall of the Achaeans with total ease, the way a boy at the edge of the sea knocks down a sandcastle he built for fun, then scatters it again with his hands and feet, just playing. So did you, Phoebus, scatter all the long labor and grief of the Argives, and stir panic in the men themselves. So they were driven back and held their ground beside their ships, calling to one another and to all the gods, lifting their hands and praying loud and hard, every man of them. Nestor of Gerenia, the guardian of the Achaeans, prayed hardest of all,
stretching his hand toward the starry sky: "Father Zeus, if ever any man of us in wheat-rich Argos burned the fat thighs of an ox or sheep and prayed for a safe return home, and you nodded your promise to him — remember that now, Olympian, and drive off this pitiless day. Do not let the Trojans crush the Achaeans so completely."
So he prayed, and Zeus the counselor thundered loud, hearing the prayers of the old son of Neleus. But when the Trojans heard the thunder of aegis-bearing Zeus, they leapt on the Argives all the harder, remembering their lust for battle. As a great wave of the wide sea breaks over a ship's rails when the force of the wind drives it — for that is what most swells the waves —
so the Trojans came over the wall with a great roar. They drove their chariots in and fought beside the sterns of the ships hand-to-hand with double-pointed spears, some from their chariots, others climbing up onto the black ships themselves, wielding the long pikes kept there for sea-fighting, jointed and tipped with bronze at the point. Now while the Achaeans and Trojans were still fighting for the wall, away from the swift ships,
Patroclus sat in the tent of gracious Eurypylus, keeping him company with talk and spreading medicine on his grim wound to ease the dark pain. But when he saw the Trojans surging over the wall, and heard the Danaans' cries of panic, he groaned aloud, struck both his thighs with the flat of his hands, and cried out in grief:
"Eurypylus, I can't stay here with you any longer, much as you need me — a great struggle has broken out.
Let your attendant see to you now; I must hurry to Achilles and spur him to fight. Who knows — with some god's help I might stir his heart by pleading with him? A friend's persuasion carries weight."
So he spoke and his feet carried him off, while the Achaeans held firm against the oncoming Trojans, and even though they were fewer, could not be pushed back from the ships; nor could the Trojans, for their part, break the Danaan ranks and force their way in among the tents and ships. But just as a carpenter's chalk-line straightens a ship's timber
in the hands of a skilled shipwright who knows his whole craft well through the guidance of Athena, so evenly was the battle and the war stretched taut between them. Different men fought around different ships. Hector made straight for glorious Ajax. The two of them struggled over a single ship, and neither could drive the other off — Hector could not push Ajax back and set the ship ablaze, nor could Ajax force Hector away, since a god had brought him there. Then shining Ajax struck Caletor, son of Clytius, in the chest with his spear as he carried fire toward the ship.
He fell with a crash, and the torch dropped from his hand. When Hector saw his cousin fall in the dust in front of the black ship, he shouted loud to the Trojans and Lycians:
"Trojans, Lycians, Dardanians who fight hand to hand — don't give ground now, not in this narrow place. Save the son of Clytius, or the Achaeans will strip his armor now that he's fallen among the ships."
So saying he threw his shining spear at Ajax. He missed, but struck Lycophron instead, son of Mastor,
Ajax's attendant from Cythera, who lived with him after killing a man on holy Cythera. The bronze struck him above the ear as he stood near Ajax, and he fell backward in the dust from the ship's stern, and his limbs went slack. Ajax shuddered and spoke to his brother:
"Teucer, dear friend, our loyal companion is dead — Mastor's son, whom we honored in our house like our own parents, when he lived with us, a man from Cythera. Great-hearted Hector has killed him. Where now are your swift, deadly arrows,
and the bow Phoebus Apollo gave you?"
So he spoke, and Teucer understood and ran to stand beside him, holding his curved bow and quiver full of arrows, and quickly began loosing shafts at the Trojans. He struck Cleitus, splendid son of Peisenor, companion of proud Polydamas son of Panthous, as he held the reins — busy managing the horses, driving them where the ranks were thickest, doing a favor for Hector and the Trojans. But evil came to him swiftly, and no one, however eager, could ward it off,
for a groan-bringing arrow struck him from behind in the neck. He toppled from the chariot, and the horses swerved aside, rattling the empty car. Lord Polydamas saw it at once and was the first to step in front of the horses. He gave them to Astynous, son of Protiaon, telling him firmly to keep them close by and watch, while he himself went back to join the front fighters. Then Teucer reached for another arrow against bronze-helmed Hector, and would have stopped him fighting beside the Achaean ships
if he had struck him down at the height of his glory and taken his life. But Zeus's watchful mind did not miss it — he was guarding Hector, and instead robbed Teucer, son of Telamon, of his triumph: he snapped the tightly twisted string on Teucer's flawless bow just as he drew it. The bronze-weighted arrow flew wide, and the bow dropped from his hand. Teucer shuddered and spoke to his brother:
"Ah, look how completely some god is cutting off the plans of our battle — he's knocked the bow from my hand, and snapped the newly twisted string I tied on this morning, so it could bear the arrows leaping from it again and again."
Great Ajax, son of Telamon, answered him: "Well then, friend, let the bow and the many arrows lie, since a god has ruined them, spiting the Danaans. Take up a long spear in your hands instead, and a shield on your shoulder, and fight the Trojans, and rouse the rest of the men. They will not take our well-benched ships without a hard fight, even if they beat us down — let's remember our battle-fury."
So he spoke, and Teucer set his bow down in the tent, and slung a four-layered shield across his shoulders, and set a well-made helmet with a horsehair crest on his sturdy head
— the crest nodding grim above it — and took up a strong spear tipped with sharp bronze, and went to stand quickly at Ajax's side. When Hector saw that Teucer's arrows had been foiled, he shouted loud to the Trojans and Lycians:
"Trojans, Lycians, Dardanians who fight hand to hand, be men, my friends, and remember your battle-fury here among the hollow ships — I have seen with my own eyes how Zeus has foiled the arrows of their best warrior. It's easy to see when Zeus gives strength to men,
whether to those he grants the greater glory, or to those whose might he diminishes and refuses to help — as now he diminishes the Argives' strength and helps us. So fight on beside the ships, all together. Whoever among you is struck by an arrow or spear and meets his death, let him die — it is no shame for a man to die defending his country. His wife will be safe and his children after him, and his house and inheritance untouched, if the Achaeans and their ships sail off for their own native land."
So he spoke, and roused the strength and spirit of every man. On the other side, Ajax called out to his comrades:
"Shame on you, Argives! Now it is life or death — either destruction, or safety and driving this evil back from the ships. Do you really think that if crested Hector takes the ships, you'll each walk home to your own country? Don't you hear him urging on his whole army,
Hector, who is burning to set our ships on fire? He isn't calling them to a dance, but to battle. There's no better plan or thought for us now than to close with them at once, hand to hand, with all our strength.
Better to die at once, or live, than to be worn down slowly in grim slaughter here beside the ships, beaten by lesser men." So he spoke, and roused the strength and spirit of every man. Then Hector killed Schedius, son of Perimedes, leader of the Phocians, and Ajax killed Laodamas, commander of the foot soldiers, splendid son of Antenor.
Polydamas killed Otus of Cyllene, companion of Meges' kinsman Phyleus, leader of the great-hearted Epeians. Meges rushed at him when he saw, but Polydamas ducked aside
and dodged him — Apollo would not let Panthous' son fall among the front fighters — but Meges' spear caught Croesmus square in the chest instead. He fell with a crash, and Meges began stripping the armor from his shoulders. Just then Dolops rushed at him, a skilled spearman,
son of Lampus, whom Lampus, son of Laomedon, had fathered as his finest son, well versed in furious battle. He struck the middle of Phyleus' son's shield with his spear, closing in from near range, but the close-fitted breastplate he wore protected him — the one Phyleus once
brought from Ephyre, from the river Selleis. A guest-friend, Euphetes, lord of men, had given it to him to wear in war as protection against enemy spears — and now it saved his son's life once again. Meges struck the very peak of Dolops' bronze horsehair helmet with his sharp spear,
and tore the horsehair crest right off, so that it fell whole into the dust, still fresh with its bright crimson dye. While Dolops kept fighting on, still hoping for victory, warlike Menelaus came up to help Meges,
and stood unseen to the side with his spear, and struck him in the shoulder from behind. The spearpoint drove eagerly through his chest, pressing forward, and he pitched face-down. The two of them rushed to strip the bronze armor from his shoulders, but Hector called out to all his brothers,
scolding them one and all, and first of all he rebuked mighty Melanippus, son of Hicetaon. He had once herded shambling cattle in Percote, far from the enemy, but when the Danaans' curved ships arrived, he came back to Troy, where he stood out among the Trojans,
and lived in the house of Priam, who honored him like his own sons. Hector rebuked him now, and spoke his name:
"So we're just going to let this go, Melanippus? Doesn't your heart care at all that your cousin has been killed? Don't you see them fighting over Dolops' armor? Follow me — there's no more room now for the Argives to fight us from a distance. We must either kill them, or they will tear steep Troy down from its heights and kill its people."
So saying he led on, and the godlike man followed close behind. Meanwhile great Ajax, son of Telamon, urged on the Argives:
"Friends, be men — hold shame in your hearts, and feel shame before one another in the thick of this hard fighting. More men live who feel shame than are killed; but in men who flee, no glory rises, and no strength either."
So he spoke, and they too were already burning to defend themselves; they took his words to heart, and fenced the ships in a wall of bronze. And Zeus stirred the Trojans on against them. Then Menelaus, good at the war cry, urged on Antilochus:
"Antilochus, no other Achaean is younger than you, none faster on his feet or braver in a fight —
if only you would leap out and bring down some Trojan."
So saying he darted back, but had already spurred Antilochus on. He sprang out from the front ranks, glanced around him, and threw his shining spear. The Trojans fell back before the throw, and his shot did not fly for nothing —
it struck proud Melanippus, son of Hicetaon, in the chest beside the nipple, just as he was coming into the fight. He fell with a crash, and darkness covered his eyes. Antilochus rushed forward like a hound that leaps on a wounded fawn
just as a hunter, springing from its lair, has struck it and loosed its limbs — so, Melanippus, did battle-staunch Antilochus leap on you
to strip your armor. But he did not escape the notice of shining Hector, who came running to meet him through the fighting. Antilochus, quick fighter though he was, did not stand his ground, but fled like a wild beast that has done some harm,
killed a dog or a herdsman among his cattle, and runs before a crowd of men can gather — so Nestor's son fled, and the Trojans and Hector, with a tremendous roar, poured a hail of groaning missiles after him,
and he turned and stood only once he had reached the ranks of his own comrades. And the Trojans, like raw-flesh-eating lions, rushed on against the ships, fulfilling the commands of Zeus, who kept stirring their great strength ever higher, and bewitched the hearts of the Argives, robbing them of glory while he spurred the Trojans on. For his heart wished to give glory to Hector,
son of Priam, so that he might throw unwearying, wondrous fire on the curved ships, and thus bring to full completion Thetis's monstrous prayer. This alone Zeus the counselor was waiting for — to see with his own eyes the glare of a burning ship.
For from that moment the tide was meant to turn — the Trojans driven back from the ships in flight, and glory given over to the Danaans. With this in mind Zeus roused Hector, son of Priam, against the hollow ships, eager as the man already was of himself. He raged like Ares who shakes the spear, or like ruinous fire raging on the mountains in the dense thickets of a deep wood. Foam gathered about his mouth, his two eyes blazed under his grim brows, and around his temples the helmet shook terribly as he fought — for Hector had a helper out of heaven itself.
Zeus was that helper, who honored and glorified him alone among the many men fighting there, though his time was to be short. Already Pallas Athena was stirring against him the day of his death, to come by the hand of Peleus's son. He wanted now, testing his strength, to break the ranks of men wherever he saw the thickest press and the finest armor, but for all his fury he could not break them. They held firm, packed close like a tower, like a great sheer cliff standing near the gray sea, which withstands the swift paths of the shrieking winds and the swollen waves that come roaring against it — so the Danaans held against the Trojans, unmoved, unfleeing.
But Hector, blazing with fire on every side, leapt into the crowd of them and fell upon it as a wave, swollen by the wind under storm-clouds, crashes down upon a swift ship. The whole ship is buried under spray, a dreadful gust of wind roars in the sail, and the sailors' hearts tremble with fear, for they are carried only a little way from death. So were the hearts torn apart in the breasts of the Achaeans.
And Hector came on like a ravening lion falling upon cattle that graze by the thousand in the low ground of some great marsh, with a herdsman among them who does not yet know well how to fight a beast for the killing of a horned cow — he keeps pace always at the head of the herd, or at its tail, while the lion springs into the middle, seizes an ox, and devours it, and all the rest scatter in terror. So then were the Achaeans driven in terrible rout by Hector and father Zeus, all of them together — but Hector alone struck down the Mycenaean Periphetes, dear son of Copreus, who used to go on King Eurystheus's errands in the face of mighty Heracles.
From a father far lesser had come a son far better in every kind of excellence, in speed of foot and in fighting alike, and in judgment he ranked among the first of the Mycenaeans. It was he who now gave over the higher glory to Hector — for as he wheeled backward he tripped on the rim of his own shield, the long shield that reached to his feet and served him as a fence against spears, and caught in it he fell on his back, and around his temples the helmet rang terribly as he fell. Hector saw it in an instant, ran up close, and stood over him, and drove his spear into his chest, killing him there before the eyes of his own dear companions, who for all their grief could not help him, so afraid were they themselves of the great Hector.
Now they were within sight of the ships, and the outermost hulls that had been drawn up first hemmed them in, and the enemy poured over them. The Argives gave ground before the ships, driven back of necessity from the first line, but they held together beside their own huts and did not scatter through the camp — shame and fear held them, since again and again they called out to one another to stand. Above all, Nestor the Gerenian, watchman of the Achaeans, begged them, pleading with each man in the name of his parents:
"Friends, be men, and set shame in your hearts before the eyes of others, and let every one of you remember his children, his wife, his possessions, and his parents — whether they still live or have already died. For their sake, though they are far away, I beg you here to stand fast and strong, and not to turn your backs in flight."
So he spoke, and roused the strength and spirit of each man. And Athena drove from their eyes a wondrous cloud of mist, and a great light broke on both sides — toward the ships and toward the fighting that engulfed them equally.
They now made out Hector, good at the war cry, and his companions — both those who hung back behind the fighting and those who fought the swift battle by the ships. Ajax the great-hearted could no longer bear to stand where the other sons of the Achaeans had drawn back; instead he strode with long steps along the ships' decks, wielding in his hands a great pike for sea-fighting, jointed with rivets, twenty-two cubits long. As a man skilled in riding horses, who yokes together four chosen from many and drives them from the plain toward a great city along the public road, while many men and women look on in wonder, and he leaps steadily and surely from one horse's back to another as they gallop on — so Ajax ranged over the decks of the swift ships with long strides, and his voice reached to the very sky as he shouted terribly again and again, urging the Danaans to defend their ships and huts.
Nor did Hector stay back among the crowd of well-armored Trojans. As a tawny eagle swoops upon a flock of winged birds feeding by a river — geese, or cranes, or long-necked swans — so Hector rushed straight at a dark-prowed ship, charging head-on, and Zeus behind him pushed him forward with a mighty hand and roused the host along with him.
Once more bitter battle broke out beside the ships. You would have said that men unwearied and unworn met each other fresh to the fight, so fiercely did they fight. And this was the thought in the minds of those who struggled: the Achaeans did not believe they could escape the disaster, but must die there, while the heart in every Trojan's breast hoped to burn the ships and kill the Achaean warriors. Such were the thoughts with which they stood against one another.
Then Hector laid hold of the stern of a seafaring ship, a fine, swift one, the very ship that had carried Protesilaus to Troy but never carried him home again to his own land. Around this ship Achaeans and Trojans now cut each other down at close range — no longer did either side hold off with arrows or javelins, but standing near one another, with a single fury,
they fought with sharp axes and hatchets, with great swords, and with double-edged spears. Many fine swords, black-hilted, bound at the grip, fell from men's hands to the ground, or from their shoulders as they fought, and the black earth ran with blood. Hector, once he had taken hold of the stern, would not let go, gripping the ornamented stern-post in his hands, and he called to the Trojans: "Bring fire, and all together raise the war cry as one! Now Zeus has given us a day worth all the rest, to take these ships that came here against the will of the gods and have brought us so much grief — through the cowardice of our elders, who held me back when I was eager to fight beside the ships' sterns, and restrained the army. But if far-thundering Zeus was clouding our minds then, now he himself drives us on and commands us."
So he spoke, and they surged harder against the Argives. Ajax could no longer hold his ground, hard-pressed by the missiles; he gave a little ground, expecting to die, backing onto the seven-foot bench and leaving the deck of the trim ship. There he stood watching, and with his spear he kept beating back any Trojan who came carrying tireless fire toward the ships, and all the while he shouted terribly, calling to the Danaans:
"Friends, Danaan heroes, servants of Ares, be men, my friends, and remember your furious courage! Do we suppose we have any helpers behind us, or any wall stronger than this to keep off disaster from us? There is no city nearby, built with towers, where we might take refuge and find some people to defend us on equal terms. No — we are set here on the plain of the well-armored Trojans, pinned against the sea, far from our own homeland.
So our safety lies in our hands, not in any gentleness of war." He spoke, and pressed on, raging, with his sharp spear. And whatever Trojan came against the hollow ships carrying blazing fire, to please Hector who urged them on, that man Ajax met and struck down with his long spear. Twelve men he wounded there, at close quarters, before the ships.

======== Book 16 ========

So they fought on around the well-benched ship. But Patroclus came and stood beside Achilles, shepherd of his people, shedding hot tears, like a spring of dark water pouring its shadowed stream down some sheer rock face. Seeing him, swift-footed godlike Achilles pitied him, and spoke to him, and his words flew fast:
"Why are you crying, Patroclus, like some little girl who runs after her mother and begs to be picked up, tugging at her dress, holding her back as she hurries along, looking up at her through tears until she is lifted? You're just like her, Patroclus, letting fall those soft tears. Have you got some word for the Myrmidons, or for me alone? Or has news come to you from Phthia, from someone else? They say Menoetius, Actor's son, is still alive, and Peleus, son of Aeacus, still alive among his Myrmidons — if either of them had died, we would grieve hard for that. Or are you weeping for the Argives, seeing how they're dying by the hollow ships, paying for their own arrogance? Tell me, don't hide it in your heart, so we both may know."
Groaning heavily, you answered him, horseman Patroclus: "Achilles, son of Peleus, far the greatest of the Achaeans, don't be angry — such grief has broken the Achaeans. All those who were once our best now lie among the ships, hit by spears or struck by arrows. Diomedes, Tydeus's strong son, has been hit; Odysseus, famous with the spear, and Agamemnon too have been wounded; Eurypylus has taken an arrow in the thigh. The healers, skilled in many medicines, are busy over them, tending their wounds. But you, Achilles — no one can reach you, no one can move you. May this anger you're nursing never take hold of me,
this deadly excellence of yours! What good will it do anyone born after you, if you won't fight off this shameful ruin from the Argives? You have no pity. Peleus the horseman was never your father, nor Thetis your mother — the grey sea bore you, and the sheer cliffs, so hard is the mind in you. But if you're avoiding some prophecy your heart knows, some word your honored mother brought you from Zeus, then at least send me — send me quickly, and give me the rest of the Myrmidon soldiers with me, so I may become some light for the Danaans. And let me put your armor on my shoulders,
so the Trojans, mistaking me for you, will hold back from the fighting, and the hard-pressed sons of the Achaeans can catch their breath — worn out as they are, even a short breath is something. And we, fresh, could easily drive men already exhausted by battle back toward the city, away from the ships and the huts." So he begged, the great fool — he was, in fact, begging for his own death and evil doom. Deeply troubled, swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Ah, Patroclus, what have you said! I care nothing for any prophecy I might know,
nor has my honored mother brought me any word from Zeus. But this grief cuts into my heart and spirit — when a man tries to rob his equal, to take back a prize, simply because he holds more power. That is a bitter grief to me, after all I've suffered in my heart. The girl the sons of the Achaeans chose for me as my prize, that I won myself, by my own spear, sacking a well-walled city — lord Agamemnon tore her back out of my hands, Atreus's son, as if I were some worthless drifter with no rights. But let's let what's past be past — there was no way
to stay angry forever in my heart. And yet I did say I would not let go of my wrath until the war and its noise reached my own ships. So — put my glorious armor on your shoulders, and lead the war-loving Myrmidons into battle, since the black cloud of Trojans has closed hard around the ships, and the Argives are pinned against the sea's edge, holding only a thin strip of ground, while the whole city of Troy has come pouring out against them, bold — because they can't see the front of my helmet
flashing near them. They'd soon flee, and choke the ditches with their dead, if only lord Agamemnon were kind to me — but instead they're fighting all around our camp. For Diomedes, Tydeus's son, isn't out there driving Achaeans' ruin off with his raging spear, nor have I heard the voice of Atreus's son shouting from that hateful head of his — only Hector's voice, calling his Trojans on, rings out everywhere, and they, howling, hold the whole plain, beating the Achaeans in battle. Still, Patroclus — go, drive that ruin from the ships,
go in hard, before they set the blazing fire to the ships and take from us our hope of getting home. But listen — do exactly as I set out in my mind, so that you win me great honor and glory from all the Danaans, and they send that beautiful girl back to me again, and give splendid gifts besides. Once you've driven them from the ships, come back — and if the thundering husband of Hera should grant you glory besides, don't let your heart run wild and fight the Trojans without me,
the war-loving Trojans — that would only strip me of honor. And don't, carried away by the joy of war and slaughter, drive on toward Ilion killing Trojans as you go — some god from Olympus might step in against you; Apollo who strikes from afar loves them dearly. No — turn back once you've brought light to the ships, and leave the rest of them to fight it out on the plain. Oh, Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — if only none of the Trojans could escape death, not one of them, and none of the Argives either, and we two alone could survive this slaughter, so that we alone might tear down Troy's sacred crown of walls!"
While the two of them spoke like this to each other, Ajax could hold no longer — the weapons were too much for him. Zeus's will and the proud Trojans' spears were breaking him down; his shining helmet, struck again and again around his temples, rang out with each blow, and the metal bosses kept taking hits. His left shoulder ached from holding his glittering shield steady, yet for all their battering they could not shake it loose from him. His breath came in painful gasps, and sweat streamed down over every limb; he had no chance
to catch his breath — trouble was piled on trouble everywhere. Tell me now, Muses who hold your homes on Olympus, how fire first fell upon the Achaeans' ships. Hector came up close to Ajax's ash spear and struck it with his great sword, just behind the spearhead, and sheared it clean through. Telamonian Ajax was left holding a useless stump in his hand, while far off the bronze spearhead fell ringing to the ground. Ajax knew it in his heart and shuddered at the gods' handiwork — how Zeus, thundering on high, was cutting off
all his plans for battle, wanting victory for the Trojans instead. He fell back out of range. Then they threw unquenchable fire onto the fast ship, and at once the unstoppable flame poured over it. As fire wrapped around the ship's stern, Achilles slapped his thighs and called out to Patroclus: "Rise up, Patroclus, rider of horses born of Zeus! I can see the blaze of ravaging fire by the ships — if they take the ships, there'll be no way out left. Put on the armor, quickly — I'll gather the men." So he spoke, and Patroclus armed himself in gleaming bronze.
First he set the greaves on his legs, fine ones, fitted with silver ankle-clasps. Next he put on the breastplate over his chest, the richly worked, star-studded armor of swift Achilles. Over his shoulders he slung the silver-studded bronze sword, then the great heavy shield. On his strong head he set the well-made helmet crested with horsehair, and its plume nodded fearsomely above. He took two strong spears that fit well in his hands, but he did not take the spear of blameless Achilles,
heavy, huge, and solid — no other Achaean could wield it; only Achilles knew how to handle it, that Pelian ash spear, which Chiron had given his father from the peak of Pelion, to be death for warriors. He told Automedon to yoke the horses quickly — after battle-breaking Achilles, Automedon was the man he honored most, the most loyal at standing by him when the fighting-cry rang out. So Automedon led beneath the yoke Xanthus and Balius, swift horses that flew as fast as the wind, whom the Harpy Podarge bore to the West Wind Zephyr,
grazing in a meadow beside the stream of Ocean. And in the side-harness he yoked the fine horse Pedasus, whom Achilles had once taken when he captured Eëtion's city — a mortal horse, yet he could keep pace with the immortal team. Meanwhile Achilles went among the Myrmidons and armed them all, through every hut, in full gear. Like wolves that tear raw flesh, with untold fury in their hearts, that have brought down some huge antlered stag in the mountains
and tear it apart, their jaws all red with blood, then go in a pack to drink from some dark spring,
lapping the black water with their thin tongues, belching up the blood of the kill, their hearts fearless in their chests though their bellies are swollen tight — so gathered the leaders and captains of the Myrmidons around Achilles's brave companion, and among them stood warlike Achilles himself, urging on both horses and shield-bearing men. Fifty were the swift ships that Achilles, beloved of Zeus, had led to Troy, and in each ship fifty men sat at the oarlocks, his comrades.
He appointed five commanders he trusted to give orders, while he himself ruled over them all as supreme lord. The first company was led by Menesthius of the flashing breastplate, son of Spercheius, the river fed by Zeus's rain — whom Peleus's daughter, beautiful Polydora, bore to tireless Spercheius, a woman bedded by a god, though by name he was called son of Borus, Perieres's son, who married her openly and gave a bride-price beyond counting. The second company was led by warlike Eudorus,
born out of wedlock, whom lovely Polymele bore, dancer, daughter of Phylas — the mighty slayer of Argus fell in love with her, seeing her among the dancers in the chorus of Artemis, golden-shafted, sounding goddess of the hunt. At once he went up secretly to her upper room and lay with her, kindly Hermes, and he gave her a fine son, Eudorus, exceptional in speed of foot and in fighting. But once Eileithyia, goddess of the pains of childbirth, had brought him out into the light and he saw the sun's rays, the strong warrior Echecles, Actor's son, brought Polymele home as his bride, after giving countless gifts,
and old Phylas raised the boy well, and cherished him, loving him dearly as if he were his own true son. The third company was led by warlike Pisander, son of Maemalus, who stood out among all the Myrmidons for fighting with the spear, second only to Achilles's own companion. The fourth was led by old Phoenix, master of horses, and the fifth by blameless Alcimedon, son of Laerces. When Achilles had arranged them all with their leaders, ranked in good order, he gave them a stern command:
"Myrmidons, let none of you forget the threats you hurled at the Trojans by the swift ships, all through the time of my anger, when each of you blamed me, saying: 'Hard man, son of Peleus, your mother must have raised you on gall, pitiless as you are, holding your comrades against their will by the ships. Let's sail home again over the sea, since this evil rage has gripped your heart.' You said this to me often, gathered together — well, now the great work of battle you longed for before has appeared before you. Let every man with a brave heart fight the Trojans now." So he spoke, rousing the strength and spirit of every man.
And their ranks closed tighter still, once they heard their king. As when a man builds a wall of close-fitting stones for a tall house, to keep out the force of the winds, so tightly did the helmets and bossed shields lock together — shield pressed against shield, helmet against helmet, man against man; the horsehair crests on the bright helmet-ridges touched as the men nodded, so closely did they stand packed together. In front of them all, two men armed themselves, Patroclus and Automedon, of one mind, eager to lead the Myrmidons into the fight ahead of them. But Achilles
went into his hut and opened the lid of a fine, ornate chest that silver-footed Thetis had put aboard his ship for him to take, filled full with tunics, wind-proof cloaks, and thick woolen rugs. In it he kept a beautifully made cup, and no man ever drank the gleaming wine from it but Achilles, nor did he pour libation from it to any god but Father Zeus. He took this now from the chest, first cleaned it with sulfur,
then rinsed it in fresh-flowing streams of water, washed his own hands, and drew the sparkling wine.
Then, standing in the middle of the courtyard, he prayed, pouring the wine and looking up to the sky — and Zeus who delights in thunder did not fail to notice: "Zeus, lord of Dodona, Pelasgian, dwelling far off, ruler over harsh, wintry Dodona — around you live the Selli, your interpreters, their feet unwashed, sleeping on the ground — you heard my prayer once before, and honored me, and struck the Achaean army hard. Grant me now this wish as well: I myself will stay here where the ships are gathered, but I am sending my companion out among the many Myrmidons
to fight. Send glory with him, far-thundering Zeus, and put courage in his heart, so that Hector too may learn whether my attendant knows how to fight alone, or whether his hands only rage unstoppably when I myself go down into the grinding work of war. But once he has driven the fighting and its noise away from the ships, let him come back to the swift ships unharmed, with all his armor, and his close-fighting comrades." So he prayed, and Zeus of the counsels heard him. Part of it the Father granted, part he refused:
he granted that Patroclus should drive the war and battle back from the ships, but refused that he should come safely back out of the fighting. So Achilles, once he had poured the wine and prayed to Father Zeus, went back inside his hut and put the cup away in the chest, then came and stood before the hut, still longing in his heart to watch the terrible clash of Trojans and Achaeans. Meanwhile the men armed with great-hearted Patroclus marched out, until they charged the Trojans, full of high spirit. At once they poured out like wasps
that live by the roadside, wasps that children love to provoke, foolish boys, always teasing them where they have their nest by the road — a common trouble they stir up for many. If some traveler passing by should disturb them without meaning to, they all fly out with brave hearts to defend their young, swarming forward as one. Just so did the Myrmidons pour out from the ships then, hearts and spirits alike stirred, and their war-cry rose unquenched. Patroclus shouted to his comrades, calling out loud:
"Myrmidons, comrades of Achilles, son of Peleus! Be men, my friends, remember your furious courage,
so that we may bring honor to the son of Peleus, who is far the best of the Argives by the ships, and so that his close-fighting men may honor him too, and Atreus's son, wide-ruling Agamemnon, may see his own madness — how he gave no honor at all to the best of the Achaeans." So he spoke, rousing the strength and spirit of every man, and they fell on the Trojans in one mass. The ships around them rang terribly with the Achaeans' shout. When the Trojans saw Menoetius's brave son,
him and his attendant, both blazing in their armor, every heart among them was shaken, and their ranks stirred,
for they thought that swift-footed Achilles by the ships had cast off his anger and chosen friendship again — each man looked around for some way to flee sheer destruction. Patroclus struck first, hurling his bright spear straight into the thick of the crowd, where the most men were struggling, by the stern of great-hearted Protesilaus's ship, and hit Pyraechmes, who had led the horse-fighting Paeonians there from Amydon, from the wide-flowing Axius — he struck him in the right shoulder, and he fell backward with a cry into the dust, and his comrades, the Paeonians, scattered around him in fear,
for Patroclus had struck panic into all of them by killing their leader, who had been their best fighter. He drove them from the ships and put out the burning fire; the half-burnt ship was left there abandoned, and the Trojans fled in a great uproar, while the Danaans poured back in among the hollow ships, and the noise of battle would not let up. As when Zeus who gathers the lightning stirs a thick cloud away from some tall mountain's high peak, and every lookout point and jutting crag and glen springs into view, and from the sky the boundless upper air breaks open —
So the Danaans, having pushed the killing fire back from the ships, caught a little breath, but the fighting did not slacken. The Trojans were not yet driven in headlong flight from the black ships by the war-loving Achaeans -- they still held their ground, though yielding before the ships under compulsion. Then, as the battle-line broke apart, man killed man among the captains. First Menoetius' stalwart son, as Areilycus wheeled around, struck him in the thigh with his sharp spear and drove the bronze clean through: the spear shattered the bone, and he fell face-down on the ground.
Meanwhile warlike Menelaus stabbed Thoas where his chest showed bare beside the rim of his shield, and loosed his limbs. And Meges, son of Phyleus, watching Amphiclus charge in, was quicker -- he reached him first in the upper leg, where a man's muscle is thickest; the spear-point sliced through the sinews there, and darkness covered his eyes. Of the sons of Nestor, Antilochus stabbed Atymnius with his sharp spear, driving the bronze clean through his flank, and he pitched forward. But Maris rushed at Antilochus with his spear at close range, enraged for his brother, standing over the body. Yet godlike Thrasymedes was quicker, striking before Maris could strike, and did not miss -- square in the shoulder; the spear's point tore the upper arm away from the muscle and split the bone clean through. He fell with a crash, and darkness covered his eyes. So the two brothers, brought down together, went down into the dark -- good comrades of Sarpedon, javelin-throwing sons of Amisodarus, who had raised the monstrous Chimera, a plague to many men.
Ajax, son of Oileus, rushed in and took Cleobulus alive, stumbling in the crush. But right there he loosed his strength, striking his neck with his hilted sword. The whole blade grew warm with blood, and dark death and mighty fate seized his eyes. Peneleos and Lycon closed with each other -- both had missed with their spears, throwing in vain, and now they closed again with swords. Lycon struck the ridge of his helmet's horsehair crest, and his sword shattered at the hilt; but Peneleos struck him in the neck below the ear, and the whole blade sank in, held only by the skin -- the head hung loose to one side, and his limbs gave way.
Meriones, catching Acamas with swift feet just as he was mounting his chariot, stabbed him in the right shoulder; he tumbled from the car, and mist poured over his eyes. Idomeneus drove the pitiless bronze into Erymas' mouth; the bronze spear passed clean through beneath the brain and shattered the white bone; his teeth were shaken out, and both his eyes filled with blood; he blew it out through mouth and nostrils, gaping, and a black cloud of death wrapped him round.
So each of these captains of the Danaans brought down his man. And as ravening wolves fall upon lambs or kids, snatching them from the flock when a careless shepherd has let them scatter on the hillside, and the wolves, seeing it, quickly tear apart the helpless creatures -- so the Danaans fell upon the Trojans, who thought only of ugly, screaming flight and forgot their battle-fury.
But great Ajax kept trying to hurl his spear at bronze-armored Hector; Hector, skilled in war, kept his broad shoulders covered by his bull's-hide shield, watching for the whir of arrows and the thud of javelins. He knew well enough that the battle's fortune had turned against him, but he stood his ground even so, to save his loyal comrades. And as a cloud moves in from Olympus into the sky, out of the bright upper air, when Zeus stretches out a storm, so out of the ships came shouting and panic, and the Trojans did not cross back in any order. Hector's swift horses carried him away, armor and all, and he left behind the Trojan host, trapped against their will by the dug trench. Many chariot-horses, swift in the traces, broke their pole-tips off in the front of the yoke and left their masters' chariots behind.
But Patroclus pressed on, shouting fierce commands to the Danaans, his mind set on harm for the Trojans; and the Trojans, shouting and fleeing, filled every road once their ranks broke; a storm-cloud of dust rose scattering beneath the clouds, and the single-hoofed horses strained back toward the city, away from the ships and huts. Wherever Patroclus saw the crowd surging thickest, there he drove, shouting his commands; men fell headlong from their chariots under the axles, and the cars overturned with a crash. Straight on, leaping clean over the trench, raced the swift immortal horses that the gods had given as splendid gifts to Peleus, straining ever forward, for Patroclus's heart was set on Hector -- he longed to strike him down, but Hector's swift horses carried him clear away.
And as the whole dark earth groans under a storm on an autumn day, when Zeus pours down his fiercest rain, angered and enraged at men who in the assembly, by force, hand down crooked judgments and drive justice out, caring nothing for the gods' watching eyes -- and then all their rivers run swollen in flood, and the torrents cut away many a hillside, and pour roaring down headlong from the mountains into the wine-dark sea, and the works of men waste away -- so the Trojan horses groaned loudly as they ran.
And Patroclus, once he had cut through the front ranks, drove the Trojans back again toward the ships, and would not let them, eager as they were, reach the city; instead, between the ships and the river and the high wall, he ranged and killed, exacting payment for many dead. There first he struck Pronous with his shining spear, in the chest where it showed bare beside the shield-rim, and loosed his limbs; he fell with a crash. Then he charged Thestor, son of Enops, next -- the man crouched, shrunken, in his polished chariot, out of his wits with terror, and the reins slipped from his hands. Patroclus came up beside him and stabbed him in the right jaw with his spear, driving it clean through his teeth, then hooked him by the spear and hauled him over the chariot rail -- as when a man sitting on a jutting rock hauls a sacred fish out of the sea on line and gleaming bronze hook -- so he hauled him gaping from the car on his shining spear, and shoved him down on his face; and as he fell, the life left him.
Next, as Erylaus charged, he struck him full on the head with a stone; the skull split clean apart inside the heavy helmet, and he pitched face-down on the ground, and death that shatters the spirit poured over him. After that Erymas, Amphoterus, Epaltes, Tlepolemus son of Damastor, Echius, Pyris, Ipheus, Euippus, and Polymelus son of Argeas -- Patroclus brought them all down, one after another, to the earth that feeds so many.
And Sarpedon, when he saw his kilted comrades brought low under the hands of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, called out, rallying his godlike Lycians:
"Shame, Lycians! Where are you running? Be swift now! I myself will go meet this man, so I may learn who he is, this one who has such power and has already done the Trojans so much harm -- he has already loosed the knees of many brave men."
So he spoke, and leapt down from his chariot to the ground, armor and all. Patroclus, seeing him, sprang down from his own car on the other side. And as two vultures, hook-clawed and curve-beaked, fight screaming on a high rock, so the two men rushed at each other with cries.
Seeing them, the son of crooked-scheming Cronus felt pity, and spoke to Hera, his sister and wife: "Ah, sorrow -- Sarpedon, dearest of men to me, is fated to be brought down by Patroclus, son of Menoetius. My heart is split two ways as I turn it over in my mind: shall I snatch him up alive out of the tearful battle and set him down in the rich land of Lycia, or shall I let him be brought low now, under the hands of the son of Menoetius?"
Then the ox-eyed lady Hera answered him: "Most dread son of Cronus, what is this you have said? A man who is mortal, long ago marked out by fate -- do you wish to pull him back out of miserable death? Do it, then; but not all the rest of us gods will approve. And I'll tell you something else -- lay it up in your heart: if you send Sarpedon home alive, be careful, or some other god may wish to send his own dear son as well, away from the hard fighting. For many sons of the immortals are fighting around the great city of Priam, and you will plant terrible resentment in them. But if he is dear to you, and your heart grieves for him, then let him be, in the fierce fighting, brought low under the hands of Patroclus, son of Menoetius; but once his life and breath have left him, send Death and gentle Sleep to carry him away, until they bring him to the land of wide Lycia, where his brothers and kinsmen will bury him, with mound and pillar -- for that is the honor due the dead."
So she spoke, and the father of gods and men did not disobey. But he rained down drops of blood upon the earth, honoring his dear son, whom Patroclus was soon to destroy in Troy's rich soil, far from his own fatherland.
As the two of them came near one another, Patroclus struck famous Thrasymelus, the good henchman of lord Sarpedon, low in the belly, and loosed his limbs. Sarpedon, charging in turn, missed with his shining spear but struck the horse Pedasus in the right shoulder; the horse screamed as the life left him, and fell in the dust, moaning, and his spirit flew away. The other two horses reared apart, the yoke creaked, and the reins tangled, since the trace-horse lay sprawled in the dust. But Automedon, famed spearman, found a quick remedy: drawing his long sharp sword from beside his thick thigh, he leapt and cut the trace-horse free, and did not fumble it; the other two straightened out and pulled taut in the reins, and the two champions closed again in soul-devouring combat.
There Sarpedon again missed with his shining spear -- the point flew over Patroclus's left shoulder and did not strike him. Then Patroclus rose to throw his bronze, and the missile did not fly from his hand in vain, but struck him where the midriff closes around the beating heart. He crashed down, as an oak falls, or a white poplar, or a slender pine, which craftsmen on the mountains have felled with freshly whetted axes to make ship-timber -- so he lay stretched out before his chariot and horses, roaring, clawing at the bloody dust. As when a lion comes among a herd of shambling cattle and kills a tawny, proud-hearted bull, and it dies groaning under the lion's jaws -- so, under Patroclus, the Lycian leader of shield-bearing men
raged even as he died, and called out to his dear comrade: "Glaucus, dear friend, fighter among men -- now above all you must be a spearman and a bold warrior. Now let hateful war be your heart's desire, if you are indeed swift. First go everywhere and rouse the leaders of the Lycians to fight around Sarpedon's body; and then you yourself, too, fight for me with your bronze. For I will be a reproach and a disgrace to you forever, all your days, if the Achaeans strip my armor from me here where I have fallen among the ships. Hold on firmly, and rouse the whole army."
Even as he spoke, the end of death closed over his eyes and nostrils. Patroclus, planting his heel on his chest, drew the spear out of his flesh, and the midriff came with it; so he drew out both the man's life and the spear's point together. The Myrmidons held back the snorting horses there, which were straining to bolt now that they had left their masters' chariot.
But for Glaucus, hearing that voice, a terrible grief arose; his heart was stirred, because he could not come to his aid. He gripped his arm with his hand and pressed it, for it pained him -- the wound Teucer had given him with an arrow as he charged the high wall, warding harm off from his comrades. He prayed, and spoke to Apollo the far-shooter:
"Hear me, lord, wherever you are -- in the rich land of Lycia, or in Troy; for you can hear a man in trouble from anywhere, as trouble has now come upon me. I carry this grievous wound, and my arm is racked through and through with sharp pain; my blood will not stop flowing, and my shoulder is heavy with it. I cannot even hold my spear steady, nor go forward to fight against the enemy. And the best of men has perished, Sarpedon, son of Zeus -- and Zeus does not even defend his own son! But you, lord, heal this grievous wound of mine, lull my pains to sleep, and give me strength, so that I may call out to my Lycian comrades and drive them on to fight, and myself do battle over my fallen friend's body."
So he spoke in prayer, and Phoebus Apollo heard him. At once he stilled his pain, dried the dark blood from the terrible wound, and put strength into his heart. And Glaucus knew it in his own mind, and rejoiced that the great god had so swiftly heard his prayer.
First he went everywhere rousing the Lycian leaders to fight around Sarpedon's body; then he strode with long steps among the Trojans, to Polydamas son of Panthous and noble Agenor, and went on to Aeneas and bronze-armored Hector, and standing close beside him spoke winged words:
"Hector, now you have utterly forgotten your allies, who for your sake are wasting their lives far from their loved ones and their fatherland, while you refuse to help them. Sarpedon lies dead, leader of the Lycian shield-men, who guarded Lycia with his own justice and strength; bronze Ares has brought him down under Patroclus's hand. Come, friends, stand by him -- let your hearts feel the shame of it -- or the Myrmidons will strip his armor and defile his body, in their fury for all the Danaans we have killed with our spears beside the swift ships."
So he spoke, and grief seized the Trojans from head to foot, unbearable, not to be checked -- for Sarpedon had been a pillar of their city, though he came from a foreign land; for many troops had followed him, and he himself had always been among the best fighters. So they charged straight at the Danaans, eager for battle, with Hector leading them, enraged for Sarpedon's sake.
And the shaggy heart of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, roused the Achaeans in turn. He spoke first to the two Ajaxes, already eager: "Ajaxes, now let it be your pleasure to defend yourselves as you have always been among men, or even braver still. The man who was first to break through the Achaean wall lies dead -- Sarpedon. If only we could seize him, defile him, strip the armor from his shoulders, and bring down with our pitiless bronze some comrade of those defending him, as they fight to keep him."
So he spoke, and they too were eager to defend themselves. And when both sides had strengthened their ranks -- Trojans and Lycians, Myrmidons and Achaeans -- they clashed to fight around the dead man's body, shouting terribly; loudly the armor of the fighters clanged. And Zeus stretched deadly night over the fierce battle, so that the toil of fighting over his own dear son might be deadly indeed.
The Trojans pushed the bright-eyed Achaeans back first; for a man struck down was no coward among the Myrmidons -- it was Epeigeus, son of great-hearted Agacles, who once ruled in well-settled Boudeion; but after he killed a noble kinsman of his, he came as a suppliant to Peleus and silver-footed Thetis, and they sent him to follow man-breaking Achilles to Troy of the fine horses, that he might fight the Trojans. As he now laid hold of the body, glorious Hector struck him on the head with a stone; his skull split clean apart inside the heavy helmet, and he fell face-down upon the corpse, and death that shatters the spirit poured over him.
Grief seized Patroclus for his fallen comrade, and he drove straight through the front fighters like a swift hawk that puts jackdaws and starlings to flight -- so straight at the Lycians and Trojans you drove, Patroclus, master of horses, your heart enraged for your comrade. He struck Sthenelaus, dear son of Ithaemenes, in the neck with a stone, and tore the sinews from it. The front fighters gave ground, and glorious Hector with them.
As far as the cast of a light javelin carries, when a man throws it, testing his strength, either in a contest or against enemies who shatter men's spirits in war -- so far the Trojans gave ground, and the Achaeans pushed them back. Glaucus, leader of the Lycian shield-bearers, was the first to turn and kill great-hearted Bathycles, dear son of Chalcon, who lived in a home in Hellas and was foremost among the Myrmidons for wealth and prosperity. Glaucus, wheeling suddenly as Bathycles caught up with him in the chase, stabbed him full in the chest with his spear; he fell with a crash. Deep grief seized the Achaeans at the fall of so good a man, but the Trojans rejoiced greatly,
They gathered around him in a crowd, and the Achaeans did not forget their courage either — their fury drove straight at the enemy. Then Meriones cut down a helmeted Trojan, Laogonus, bold son of Onetor, who had been a priest of Zeus of Ida and was honored by his people like a god. Meriones struck him under the jaw and ear, and at once life left his limbs, and hateful darkness took him. Aeneas then hurled his bronze spear at Meriones, hoping to catch him as he came on behind his shield. But Meriones saw it coming and dodged the bronze point — he ducked forward, and the long spear drove into the ground behind him and stood there quivering at the butt until Ares' violent force spent itself. Aeneas' spearhead, still shivering, sank into the earth, thrown in vain from his powerful hand.
Aeneas said in anger, "Meriones, you're a fine dancer, but my spear would have stopped you cold forever, if I had hit you."
Meriones, famous with the spear, answered him, "Aeneas, strong as you are, it would be hard for you to snuff out the strength of every man who comes to fight you — you too were born mortal. If I hit you square with sharp bronze, strong as you are and sure of your hands, you would give the glory to me and your soul to Hades, lord of famous horses."
So he spoke, and the brave son of Menoetius rebuked him: "Meriones, why talk this way, good as you are? Friend, the Trojans won't back off from the corpse just because you taunt them — the earth will hold some of them first. War is decided by hands, talk by council. So there's no need to pile up words — fight."
With that he led on, and Meriones followed, a man like a god. And as the din of woodcutters rises in the mountain glens, heard from far off, so the noise rose up from the wide earth — bronze, leather, and well-made oxhide shields, struck by swords and double-edged spears. By now not even a sharp-eyed man could have picked out godlike Sarpedon, since he was covered from head to foot in spears, blood, and dust. Men crowded around his body like flies buzzing in a farmyard around the pails brimming with milk in springtime, when the milk drenches the pans — so they crowded around the corpse.
And Zeus never turned his shining eyes from the fierce battle. He watched them constantly, turning it over in his heart, weighing many things about the killing of Patroclus — whether now, right here in this fierce fight, over godlike Sarpedon, glorious Hector should cut him down with bronze and strip the armor from his shoulders, or whether he should let him pile up still more brutal toil for others. As he thought it over, this seemed the better course to him: that the brave attendant of Achilles, son of Peleus, should once more drive the Trojans and bronze-helmeted Hector back toward the city, and take the life from many of them.
He put a coward's spirit into Hector first of all. Hector climbed into his chariot and turned to flee, calling to the other Trojans to run as well, for he recognized the scales of Zeus. Then not even the brave Lycians stood their ground, but all fled in fear when they saw their king struck through the heart, lying in the heap of the dead — for many had fallen on top of him once the son of Cronos stretched the fierce battle taut. Then the Greeks stripped the shining bronze armor from Sarpedon's shoulders, and the brave son of Menoetius gave it to his companions to carry to the hollow ships.
And then Zeus who gathers the clouds spoke to Apollo: "Come now, dear Phoebus, go and wipe the dark blood from Sarpedon, clear of the missiles, and carrying him far away, wash him in the river's streams, anoint him with ambrosia, and clothe him in garments that never fade. Then send him to be carried by swift escorts, Sleep and Death, twin brothers, who will set him down quickly in the rich land of wide Lycia, where his kinsmen and countrymen will bury him with a mound and a pillar — for that is the honor due the dead."
So he spoke, and Apollo did not disobey his father. He went down from the mountains of Ida into the terrible clash of battle, and at once lifted godlike Sarpedon clear of the missiles, carried him far away, washed him in the river's streams, anointed him with ambrosia, and clothed him in garments that never fade. He sent him to be carried by swift escorts, Sleep and Death, twin brothers, who quickly set him down in the rich land of wide Lycia.
Patroclus, meanwhile, urged on his horses and Automedon and pressed after the Trojans and Lycians — a fatal mistake, poor fool. If he had kept to the word of the son of Peleus, he would have escaped the black doom of death. But the mind of Zeus is always stronger than the minds of men: he frightens even a brave man and snatches away his victory easily, and at other times he himself drives a man on to fight — and so it was that day, when he roused the fury in Patroclus' chest.
Who was the first man you killed, and who the last, Patroclus, when the gods called you to your death? Adrestus first, then Autonous and Echeclus, Perimus son of Megas, Epistor and Melanippus, then Elasus, Mulius, and Pylartes — these he killed, and the rest turned each to his own flight.
Then the sons of the Achaeans would have taken high-gated Troy by the hands of Patroclus, so fiercely did he rage with his spear, had not Phoebus Apollo taken his stand on the well-built tower, plotting ruin for him, and helping the Trojans. Three times Patroclus climbed onto the angle of the high wall, and three times Apollo thrust him back, striking his shining shield with his immortal hands. But when he charged a fourth time, like something more than a man, Apollo shouted at him terribly and spoke winged words:
"Fall back, Patroclus, sprung from the gods! It is not fated for the proud city of the Trojans to fall before your spear, nor even before Achilles', who is far better than you."
So he spoke, and Patroclus gave ground, well back, avoiding the anger of the far-shooting god.
Hector held his sure-footed horses at the Scaean gates, uncertain whether to drive back into the crush of battle again or call the troops to gather inside the walls. As he pondered this, Phoebus Apollo came and stood beside him, taking the form of a strong young man, Asius, who was Hector's uncle, brother of Hecuba, son of Dymas, and lived in Phrygia by the streams of the Sangarius. In this guise Apollo, son of Zeus, spoke to him: "Hector, why have you stopped fighting? It isn't right for you. If only I were as much stronger than you as I am weaker, you would soon pull back from the war in misery. Come now, drive your strong-hoofed horses against Patroclus, in hope of killing him, and Apollo may grant you the glory."
With that the god went back into the toil of men, and glorious Hector ordered fiery Cebriones to whip the horses into the fight. Apollo went in among the crowd and stirred up an evil confusion among the Argives, and gave glory to the Trojans and to Hector. Hector let the other Danaans be, killing none of them, and drove his strong-hoofed horses straight at Patroclus.
Patroclus, on his side, leapt down from his chariot to the ground, spear in his left hand, and in the other hand he took up a jagged white stone that his hand could just cover. He set his feet and threw it with all his strength, and it did not miss its mark for long — he struck Hector's charioteer, Cebriones, bastard son of proud Priam, full on the forehead as he held the horses' reins. The stone crushed both his eyebrows together, and the bone could not hold; his eyes fell out and dropped in the dust right at his feet. He tumbled from the well-built car like a diver, and life left his bones.
Mocking him, horseman Patroclus said, "Well now, what a light and nimble man — see how easily he tumbles! If he were out on the fish-filled sea, this fellow could feed a crowd, diving for oysters, jumping from a ship even in rough water, the way he dives so easily from his chariot onto the plain now. So the Trojans have their acrobats too."
With these words he went at the hero Cebriones like a lion that has been savaging farmyards and is struck in the chest, its own courage destroying it — so fiercely did Patroclus spring upon Cebriones. And Hector, for his part, leapt down from his chariot on the other side. The two of them fought over Cebriones like two lions on a mountain ridge, both starving, both fierce with pride, fighting over a slain deer. So over Cebriones the two masters of the war cry, Patroclus son of Menoetius and glorious Hector, strained to cut each other's flesh with pitiless bronze. Hector had hold of the head and would not let go; Patroclus held the foot from the other side, while all around them Trojans and Danaans locked in brutal combat.
As the East Wind and the South Wind fight each other in a mountain forest, shaking the deep woods — oak and ash and rough-barked cornel tree, their long branches clashing against one another with a tremendous roar, a crash of splintering wood — so the Trojans and Achaeans leapt at each other and struck each other down, and neither side gave a thought to disastrous flight. Many sharp spears stuck fast around Cebriones, and winged arrows leaping from bowstrings, and many great stones battered against shields of the men fighting around him — while he lay there in the whirling dust, huge and hugely fallen, all thought of horsemanship forgotten.
As long as the sun climbed the middle of the sky, the missiles from both sides found their mark and the men kept falling. But when the sun turned toward the hour of unyoking oxen, then beyond what was fated the Achaeans grew stronger. They dragged the hero Cebriones clear of the weapons, out of the shouting of the Trojans, and stripped the armor from his shoulders. Then Patroclus, planning harm for the Trojans, charged in. Three times he charged like swift Ares, screaming terribly, and three times he killed nine men. But when he charged a fourth time, like something more than a man — then, Patroclus, the end of your life appeared. For Phoebus met him in the fierce fight, a terrible god. Patroclus did not see him coming through the confusion, for the god came at him wrapped in thick mist. Apollo stood behind him and struck his back and broad shoulders with a flat hand, and his eyes spun.
Phoebus Apollo knocked the helmet from his head, and it rolled clattering under the horses' hooves — the crested helmet with its cheek pieces, and its plumes were fouled with blood and dust. Never before had that horsehair helmet been allowed to touch the dust — it had guarded the head and handsome brow of a godlike man, of Achilles. But now Zeus gave it to Hector to wear on his head, though death was close upon him. And the whole long-shadowed spear in Patroclus' hands was shattered, heavy, huge, thick, tipped with bronze, and the fringed shield fell from his shoulders to the ground with its strap, and lord Apollo, son of Zeus, loosed his breastplate.
Ruin seized his mind, and his shining limbs went slack beneath him, and he stood there dazed. Then from behind, at close range, a Dardanian man struck him between the shoulders with a sharp spear — Euphorbus, son of Panthous, who surpassed men of his age with the spear, in horsemanship, and in speed of foot. He had already that day unhorsed twenty men, coming with his chariot for the first time to learn the ways of war. He was the first to throw a spear at you, horseman Patroclus, but he did not bring you down — he pulled his ashen spear back out of your flesh and ran back into the crowd, not daring to face Patroclus even unarmed as he was, in close combat.
Patroclus, beaten down by the god's blow and by the spear, fell back among the crowd of his companions, avoiding death. And when Hector saw great-hearted Patroclus falling back, wounded by sharp bronze, he came up close to him through the ranks and stabbed him with his spear, low in the flank, driving the bronze clean through. He fell with a crash, and the army of the Achaeans grieved bitterly.
As when a lion overpowers a tireless boar in combat, when the two of them fight fiercely on a mountain ridge over a little spring, both wanting to drink, and the lion beats down the boar for all its heavy panting — so Hector, son of Priam, took the life with his spear at close range from the brave son of Menoetius, who had killed so many, and boasted over him with winged words:
"Patroclus, you thought, no doubt, that you would sack our city, strip the Trojan women of their day of freedom, and carry them off in your ships to your own dear homeland — fool! Before that could happen, Hector's swift horses strained their legs to defend it, and I myself excel with the spear among the war-loving Trojans, and I ward off their day of doom. As for you, the vultures will eat you here. Poor wretch — not even Achilles, brave as he is, could help you. He must have told you many things when he sent you off and stayed behind himself: 'Don't come back to me, Patroclus, master of horses, at the hollow ships, until you've torn the bloody shirt on Hector's chest.' That's surely what he said to you, and he talked your foolish mind into it."
Then, his strength failing, horseman Patroclus answered him: "Boast away for now, Hector — Zeus, son of Cronos, and Apollo have given you the victory; they beat me down easily, and it was they who stripped the armor from my shoulders. Even if twenty men like you had faced me, they would all have died right there, brought down by my spear. No — deadly fate and the son of Leto killed me, and of men, Euphorbus; you are only the third to have a share in killing me. But I will tell you something else, and you should take it to heart: you yourself will not live long either. Already death and mighty fate stand close beside you, to bring you down at the hands of Achilles, the noble son of Aeacus."
Even as he spoke, the end of death covered him over, and his soul fled from his limbs and went down to the house of Hades, mourning its fate, leaving behind manhood and youth.
Glorious Hector spoke to him even though he was dead: "Patroclus, why do you prophesy my sheer destruction to me? Who knows whether Achilles, son of lovely-haired Thetis, might be struck by my spear first and lose his life before mine?"
So saying, he planted his foot on the body and pulled his bronze spear out of the wound, and pushed the corpse over onto its back away from the spear. At once, spear in hand, he went after Automedon, the godlike attendant of swift-footed Achilles, meaning to strike him down — but Automedon's swift immortal horses, the splendid gift the gods gave to Peleus, carried him away.

======== Book 17 ========

Menelaus, dear to Ares, did not fail to notice that Patroclus had fallen to the Trojans in the fighting. He strode out through the front ranks, armored in gleaming bronze, and stood over the body the way a mother stands over her firstborn calf, moaning, new to the pains of birth. So the red-haired Menelaus stood over Patroclus, holding his spear and his round shield before him, ready to kill any man who came against him.
Nor did Panthous's son, Euphorbus of the strong ash spear, forget that noble Patroclus had fallen. He came close and stood over him, and spoke to Menelaus, dear to Ares: "Son of Atreus, Menelaus, king raised by Zeus, fall back — leave the corpse, let go the bloodied spoils. No other Trojan or famous ally struck Patroclus with a spear before I did in the hard crush of battle. So let me win noble glory among the Trojans, or I will strike you and take that sweet life from you."
Deeply troubled, red-haired Menelaus answered him: "Father Zeus, it is not right to boast so arrogantly. Not the leopard has such fury, nor the lion, nor the savage wild boar, whose heart inside his chest swells fiercest with his own strength, as the sons of Panthous, men of the strong ash spear, think of themselves. Yet young Hyperenor, breaker of horses, got no joy from his own youth either, when he mocked me and stood against me, calling me the sorriest fighter among the Greeks. I do not think he walked home on his own feet to bring joy to his dear wife and honored parents. So I will break your strength too, if you stand against me. I tell you, fall back into the crowd, and do not face me, before you come to harm — only a fool learns from what has already happened."
So he spoke, but he did not persuade him. Euphorbus answered: "Now indeed, Menelaus, king raised by Zeus, you will pay for my brother, whom you killed and now boast about, leaving his wife a widow in the depths of their new bridal chamber, and giving his parents unbearable grief and mourning. I would be some comfort to those poor people in their sorrow if I brought your head and your armor and set them in the hands of Panthous and shining Phrontis. But this contest of ours will not go untried much longer, nor be left undecided, for victory or for rout."
So he said, and struck Menelaus's round shield, but the bronze did not break through — the point of his spear bent back against the strong shield. Then Menelaus, son of Atreus, rushed in second, praying to father Zeus, and as Euphorbus fell back, he struck low in the hollow of his throat, driving hard and trusting his heavy hand behind the thrust. The spearpoint went clean through the soft neck, and he fell with a crash, his armor clattering on him. His hair, lovely as the Graces', was soaked with blood, and the braids bound tight with gold and silver.
As a man tends a fine young shoot of an olive tree in some lonely place where the water rises plentifully — a beautiful, thriving thing, stirred by breezes from every quarter, bursting with white blossom — and then a sudden wind comes with a great storm, tears it from its trench, and stretches it out on the ground: such was Euphorbus, son of Panthous, of the strong ash spear, when Menelaus, son of Atreus, killed him and began to strip his armor.
As when a mountain-bred lion, trusting in his strength, snatches the best cow from a grazing herd — first he breaks her neck, gripping it in his powerful jaws, then gorges on the blood and all the entrails, tearing her apart, while around him the dogs and the herdsmen raise a great outcry from a distance but will not come close to face him, for pale fear grips them — so no man there had the heart in his chest to go up against glorious Menelaus.
And now the son of Atreus would easily have carried off the famous armor of Panthous's son, had Phoebus Apollo not grudged it and stirred up Hector, swift as Ares, against him, taking the shape of a man, Mentes, leader of the Cicones. He spoke and his words flew swift: "Hector, now you run in chase of a thing you cannot catch — the horses of wise-hearted Achilles. They are hard for mortal men to master or drive, for anyone but Achilles, whom an immortal mother bore. And meanwhile Menelaus, warlike son of Atreus, standing guard over Patroclus, has killed the best of the Trojans, Euphorbus son of Panthous, and stopped his furious fighting for good."
So speaking, the god went back into the toil of men, and grim grief covered Hector's dark heart all around. He looked along the ranks at once and saw one man stripping the famous armor, the other lying on the ground, blood flowing from the open wound. He strode through the front fighters, armored in gleaming bronze, shouting sharply, like the flame of Hephaestus that cannot be quenched. Nor did his piercing cry escape the son of Atreus, who, troubled, spoke to his own great heart:
"What now — if I leave behind this fine armor and Patroclus, who lies here for my honor's sake, I fear some Greek who sees it will hold it against me. But if, alone, out of shame, I fight Hector and the Trojans, they will surround me, one against many — for Hector of the flashing helmet is bringing every Trojan here. But why does my heart debate this within me? When a man tries to fight another whom a god honors, against the god's own will, ruin quickly rolls down on him. So no Greek who sees it will hold it against me if I give ground before Hector, since he fights with a god's help behind him. Yet if only I could find Ajax, good at the war cry — the two of us could turn again and take up the fight, even against a god's will, if somehow we might drag the body back to Achilles, son of Peleus. That, out of all these evils, would be the best."
While he turned these things over in his mind and heart, the Trojan ranks came on, Hector leading them. Menelaus drew back, giving up the corpse, but kept turning to look behind him, like a bearded lion driven from a farmyard by dogs and men with spears and shouting, whose brave heart in his chest goes cold, and who leaves the yard against his will — so red-haired Menelaus went from Patroclus. He stopped and turned once he reached the ranks of his companions, searching for great Ajax, son of Telamon.
Very quickly he spotted him on the far left of the whole battle, cheering his men on and urging them to fight, for Phoebus Apollo had cast a terrible panic over them. He ran to him and, coming close, spoke: "Ajax, friend, come here — let us hurry for the sake of dead Patroclus, so we may at least bring his stripped body back to Achilles, since Hector of the flashing helmet holds the armor."
So he spoke, and stirred the heart in brave Ajax. He strode through the front fighters, and red-haired Menelaus went with him. Hector, once he had stripped Patroclus of his famous armor, was dragging at him to cut off his head with sharp bronze and drag the body away to give to the dogs of Troy. But Ajax came near, carrying his shield like a tower, and Hector fell back into the crowd of his companions and leaped onto his chariot, giving the fine armor to the Trojans to carry to the city, to be a great glory for himself.
Ajax, covering Menoetius's son with his broad shield, took his stand like a lion standing over its cubs, when hunters come upon it in the woods leading its young — the lion glares in the fullness of its strength, its brow drawn low over its eyes. So Ajax stood guard over the hero Patroclus. And on the other side stood Menelaus, dear to Ares, son of Atreus, his heart swelling with great grief.
Then Glaucus, son of Hippolochus, leader of the Lycians, looked hard at Hector and rebuked him with harsh words: "Hector, so fine in looks, how far short you fall in battle! Your good name rests only on your running from danger. Think now how you and your people alone, without allies, will save your city and your town — for no Lycian is willing to go on fighting the Greeks for your city's sake, since we have earned no thanks at all for battling the enemy relentlessly. How could you save some lesser man in the crowd, hard-hearted as you are, when you left Sarpedon, your guest-friend and comrade, to be spoils and plunder for the Argives — Sarpedon, who did you great service, both your city and yourself, while he lived, and now you had not the courage to keep the dogs off him? So now, if any of my Lycian men will listen to me, we are going home, and steep ruin will appear over Troy. For if the Trojans had that bold, unshaken courage that fills men who fight and struggle without end for their own country against their enemies, we could quickly drag Patroclus inside Ilium. And if he — dead as he is — were brought within the great city of lord Priam, and we dragged him from the fight, then the Argives would quickly give back the fine armor of Sarpedon, and we could carry him too within Ilium, for the man whose comrade this was is far the best of the Argives by their ships, he and his close-fighting companions. But you did not dare to stand and face great-hearted Ajax eye to eye in the roar of battle, nor fight him directly, since he is stronger than you."
Looking hard at him, Hector of the flashing helmet answered: "Glaucus, why do you, being the man you are, speak so overbearingly? Friend, I always thought you had more sense than any other man from fertile Lycia — but now I find fault with your judgment entirely, for saying what you said, that I did not stand up to giant Ajax. I have never shrunk from battle, nor the thunder of horses. But the will of Zeus who bears the aegis is always stronger — he turns even a brave man to flight and snatches away victory easily, and then again he himself drives men on to fight. Come here, friend, stand by me and watch what I do — see whether I will be a coward all day long, as you claim, or whether I will stop some Greek, however hard he fights, from defending dead Patroclus."
So he spoke, and called loudly to the Trojans: "Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, close fighters all — be men, my friends, remember your furious courage, while I put on the fine armor of noble Achilles, which I stripped from mighty Patroclus when I killed him." So speaking, Hector of the flashing helmet went out from the grim battle. Running swiftly, he soon caught up with his companions, not far off, who were carrying the famous armor of the son of Peleus toward the city. Standing apart from the tearful fighting, he changed his own gear: he gave his own armor to the war-loving Trojans to carry back to sacred Ilium, and he put on the immortal armor of Achilles, son of Peleus, which the heavenly gods had given to Peleus, his father — and Peleus, growing old, had passed it on to his son. But the son did not grow old wearing his father's armor.
When Zeus who gathers the clouds saw him from afar, arming himself in the divine armor of the son of Peleus, he shook his head and spoke to his own heart: "Poor man — death is nowhere in your thoughts, though it draws near you now. You put on the immortal armor of the best of men, one whom even others tremble before. You have killed his comrade, gentle and strong, and stripped the armor from his head and shoulders in a way that was not right. Yet for now I will grant you great strength, to make up for the fact that you will not come home from this battle, nor will Andromache receive from you the famous armor of the son of Peleus." So the son of Cronos spoke, and nodded his dark brows in assent.
He made the armor fit Hector's body, and Ares the terrible war-god entered into him, and his limbs were filled inside with courage and strength. He went out among his famous allies with a great shout, and to all of them he seemed, in that gleaming armor, like the great-hearted son of Peleus himself. He went about urging on each man with words — Mesthles, Glaucus, Medon, Thersilochus, Asteropaeus, Deisenor, Hippothous, Phorcys, Chromius, and Ennomus the bird-reader — and stirring them, he spoke to them, his words flying swift:
"Hear me, you countless tribes of allies who dwell around us. It was not because I wanted numbers, or was in need of them, that I gathered each of you here from your own cities, but so that you would gladly defend the wives and small children of the Trojans from the war-loving Achaeans. With this in mind I wear out my people with gifts and food, to keep the spirit high in each of you. So now let each man turn straight ahead and either die or be saved — such is the give and take of war. Whoever drags Patroclus to the horse-taming Trojans, dead though he is, and makes Ajax give way, I will give him half the spoils and keep half myself — and his glory will be as great as my own."
So he spoke, and they went straight at the Greeks in full weight, spears raised, and their hearts hoped greatly to drag the body from under Ajax, son of Telamon — fools, for he took the life from many of them over that very body. And then Ajax spoke to Menelaus, good at the war cry: "Friend, Menelaus, king raised by Zeus, I no longer expect the two of us to come home safe from this war. I am not so afraid for Patroclus's body — he will soon glut the dogs and birds of the Trojans — as I fear for my own life, that harm may come to it, and to yours as well, since Hector, like a storm cloud, covers everything in war, and sheer destruction looms over us. Come, call the best of the Greeks, if any will hear."
So he spoke, and Menelaus, good at the war cry, did not disobey. He shouted, his voice carrying far and clear to the Greeks: "Friends, leaders and rulers of the Argives, all who drink at public expense with the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus, and command your own troops — honor and glory from Zeus attend each of you. It is hard for me to make out each captain individually, so fierce does the fire of battle blaze. Let each man come forward on his own, and feel it shame in his heart that Patroclus should become sport for the dogs of Troy."
So he spoke, and swift Ajax, son of Oïleus, heard him sharply, and was the first to come running through the battle to meet him, and after him Idomeneus, and Meriones, Idomeneus's companion, a match for man-slaying Ares. As for the rest, who could name from memory all who then rallied the Achaeans to the fight? The Trojans surged forward in a mass, Hector leading them.
As at the mouth of a heaven-fed river a great wave roars against the current, and all along the shore the headlands bellow as the sea surges out — so loud was the cry of the advancing Trojans. But the Achaeans stood around the son of Menoetius, all of one mind, fenced in by their bronze shields, and around their bright helmets the son of Cronos poured a thick mist, for he had never hated the son of Menoetius before, while he lived and served as companion to the grandson of Aeacus — and now Zeus hated the thought that he should become sport for the dogs of his enemies, the Trojans, and so he roused his comrades to defend him.
At first the Trojans pushed back the bright-eyed Achaeans, who gave ground, abandoning the body, though the proud Trojans, eager as they were with their spears, killed none of them — instead they dragged at the corpse. But the Achaeans were not to stay far from it for long, for Ajax quickly rallied them again — Ajax, who surpassed all the other Danaans, after the great son of Peleus, both in looks and in deeds. He drove straight through the front fighters like a wild boar in strength, the kind that in the mountains easily scatters hounds and strong young hunters as it wheels through the glens — so the son of glorious Telamon, shining Ajax, easily scattered the Trojan ranks that had gathered around Patroclus, all intent above all on dragging him back to their own city and winning glory.
Now Hippothous, shining son of Lethus the Pelasgian, was dragging the body by the foot through the hard crush of battle, having tied a strap around the ankle and tendons, to please Hector and the Trojans. But evil came upon him quickly, and no one, eager as they were, could keep it off. The son of Telamon, rushing through the crowd, struck him close up through his bronze-cheeked helmet. The horsehair-crested helmet split around the spearpoint, struck by the great spear and heavy hand, and the brain ran out along the spear-socket, mixed with blood, from the wound. His strength gave out at once, and his hands let fall the foot of great-hearted Patroclus, and he dropped to the ground, falling face down on the corpse.
far from rich Larisa, and he never repaid his dear parents for rearing him — his life was cut short beneath the spear of great-hearted Ajax. Hector then hurled his shining spear at Ajax, but Ajax, watching him come, ducked aside and the bronze shaft grazed past. It struck Schedius instead, son of great-hearted Iphitus, far the best of the Phocians, who had made his home in famous Panopeus, ruling over many men. The point caught him under the collarbone and drove clean through, the bronze spearhead coming out low by the shoulder.
He fell with a crash, and his armor clattered around him. Then Ajax struck down Phorcys, wise son of Phaenops, as he stood over the body of Hippothous, catching him full in the belly. The bronze tore through the hollow of his corselet and ripped out his guts; he fell in the dust and clawed at the earth. The front fighters gave ground, and shining Hector with them. The Argives shouted loud and dragged off the bodies of Phorcys and Hippothous, and stripped the armor from their shoulders.
Then the Trojans, beaten down by their own faintheartedness, would have been driven back into Troy by the Achaeans who love war, and the Argives would have won glory beyond even what Zeus had allotted, by their own strength and courage — but Apollo himself roused Aeneas, taking the shape of Periphas, son of Epytus, the herald who had grown old serving as herald beside Aeneas's aged father, a man wise in his thinking. In this likeness Apollo, son of Zeus, spoke to him:
"Aeneas, how could you and your men save steep Troy even against a god's will? I have seen other men trust in their own strength and courage, their numbers, their fighting spirit even when their people are few. But Zeus wants victory for us far more than for the Danaans — yet you yourselves cower back and will not fight."
So Apollo spoke, and Aeneas, looking him in the face, knew the Far-shooter, and he called out loudly to Hector: "Hector, and all you other leaders of the Trojans and their allies — this is shameful, that we should be driven back into Troy beaten down by faintheartedness before men who love war. No — a god has just come and stood beside me and told me that Zeus, highest counselor, is still backing us in this fight. Let us go straight at the Danaans, and not let them carry off the body of Patroclus to their ships in peace."
So he spoke, and sprang out well ahead of the front ranks and stood there. The Trojans wheeled around and faced the Achaeans again. Then Aeneas wounded Leiocritus with his spear, son of Arisbas, a good comrade of Lycomedes. War-loving Lycomedes pitied him as he fell, and coming close he hurled his own bright spear and struck Apisaon, son of Hippasus, shepherd of his people, beneath the midriff in the liver, and loosed his knees at once — he who had come from rich Paeonia,
and was the best fighter among them after Asteropaeus. Warlike Asteropaeus pitied him as he fell and charged forward, eager himself to fight the Danaans, but he could not — shields hedged him in on every side where men stood guard around Patroclus, and spears bristled in front of them. For Ajax was ranging along the whole line, giving many orders: he told no man to fall back from the corpse, and no man to fight far out ahead of the rest, but to stand close around it, right there, and fight hand to hand. So huge Ajax commanded, and the earth
grew wet with dark purple blood, and bodies piled up thickly one on another, Trojans and their mighty allies together, and Danaans too — for they did not fight bloodlessly either, though far fewer of them died, for each remembered always to guard his neighbor against grim death in the crush. So they fought like a raging fire, and you would not have said the sun still stood in the sky, or the moon — for a mist covered the whole battle, wherever the bravest men stood around the dead son of Menoetius. The rest of the Trojans and the well-armed Achaeans
fought at their ease under open sky, the sun's sharp light spread wide, and no cloud showed anywhere over the land or the mountains; they fought with pauses between, drawing apart from each other and dodging the arrows that bring grief, keeping their distance. But the men in the middle suffered — trapped in the mist and the war together, worn down by the pitiless bronze, all the best of them. Only two men had not yet learned that noble Patroclus was dead — Thrasymedes and Antilochus, both glorious warriors — but still believed him alive,
fighting the Trojans in the front of the din. Watching for their comrades' death or rout, the two of them fought apart, off to the side, just as Nestor had ordered when he sent them out from the black ships to war. And all day long a great and bitter struggle of hatred rose among the rest; sweat and toil without pause wore down the knees, the shins, the feet beneath every man, the hands and eyes as they fought over the good attendant of swift-footed Achilles. As when a man gives the hide of a great bull
to his people to stretch, soaked through with fat — they take it, spread out in a circle, and pull, until the moisture leaves it and the fat sinks in, with so many hands hauling, and it stretches out taut through and through — so they, this side and that, dragged the corpse back and forth in the cramped space between them, both sides hoping hard in their hearts, the Trojans to haul it back to Troy, the Achaeans to their hollow ships. A savage struggle rose around it,
wild — not even Ares who drives men on, not even Athena, could have found fault watching it, however great their anger. Such was the grim labor over men and horses that Zeus stretched out that day over Patroclus. And godlike Achilles did not yet know that Patroclus was dead, for they were fighting far off from the swift ships, under the wall of Troy. He never imagined in his heart that Patroclus had died, but thought he would come back alive, once he had pressed close to the gates,
since he never thought at all that Patroclus would sack the city without him, or even with him — his mother had often told him this in private, reporting to him the mind of great Zeus. But this time she had not told him of the disaster that had actually happened,
that his dearest companion by far had been destroyed. The men kept crowding around the body, spears sharpened for killing, thrusting at each other without pause, cutting each other down. And one man among the bronze-armored Achaeans would say: "Friends, there would be no glory for us in going back to the hollow ships — better the black earth swallow us all right here, than we give this man up to the horse-taming Trojans to drag back to their city and win the glory." And one of the great-hearted Trojans would say the same in answer:
"Friends, even if it is fated that all of us die beside this man together, still let no one give ground in the fight." So each man spoke, and stirred the fighting spirit in the other. So they fought on, and the iron din rose up through the barren air to the bronze sky. Meanwhile the horses of the son of Aeacus, standing apart from the battle, wept, since they had learned that their charioteer had fallen in the dust beneath man-killing Hector. Automedon, brave son of Diores,
lashed at them again and again with the quick whip, and spoke to them again and again, now gently, now harshly — but they would not go back to the ships by the broad Hellespont, nor forward into battle among the Achaeans. They stood fast like a pillar that stands firm on the grave-mound of a dead man or woman, holding the fine chariot motionless, heads bowed to the ground. Hot tears ran down from their eyes and fell to the earth as they mourned
their longing for their charioteer, and their rich manes grew soiled, spilling out from under the yoke-pad on either side of the yoke. The son of Cronus saw them mourning and pitied them, and shaking his head he said to his own heart: "Poor creatures — why did we give you to lord Peleus, a mortal man, when you yourselves are ageless and immortal? Was it only so you might suffer grief among wretched men? For there is nothing anywhere more miserable than man, of all things that breathe and move upon the earth.
But Hector son of Priam will not ride behind you in that gleaming chariot — I will not allow it. Is it not enough already that he holds Achilles's armor and boasts of it? No — I will put strength into your knees and your hearts, so that you may carry Automedon safely out of the fighting to the hollow ships. I will still grant the Trojans the glory of killing, until they reach the well-benched ships and the sun goes down and sacred darkness comes."
So he spoke, and breathed strong spirit into the horses. They shook the dust from their manes down to the ground and swiftly bore the fast chariot in among Trojans and Achaeans. Automedon fought on from behind them, grieving for his comrade, swooping in with the horses like a vulture among geese —
easily he would flee out from the roar of the Trojans, and easily he would charge back in, driving through the great crowd chasing them down. But he could not kill any man when he charged, for it was not possible, alone as he was in the sacred chariot, to hurl his spear and hold the swift horses at the same time. At last a comrade saw him with his own eyes, Alcimedon, son of Laerces, son of Haemon; he came up and stood behind the chariot and spoke to Automedon:
"Automedon, which of the gods has put this useless plan in your heart and taken away your good sense — that you fight the Trojans alone, out at the front of the crowd? Your comrade is dead, and Hector himself is wearing Achilles's armor on his own shoulders, glorying in it." Automedon, son of Diores, answered him: "Alcimedon, what other Achaean could handle the reins and the spirit of these immortal horses
as well as you — except Patroclus, a match for the gods in counsel, while he lived? Now death and fate have caught him. Take the whip and the shining reins yourself, and I will get down from the chariot to fight." So he spoke, and Alcimedon leapt onto the fast chariot and quickly took whip and reins in his hands, and Automedon jumped down. But shining Hector saw them, and at once spoke to Aeneas who stood nearby: "Aeneas, counselor of the bronze-armored Trojans, I see the two horses of swift-footed Achilles
coming out into battle now with weak drivers. I believe we could take them, if you are willing in your heart, since those two would never dare to stand against us and fight face to face if we both charge them." So he spoke, and the brave son of Anchises did not refuse. The two of them went straight forward, their shoulders wrapped in dry, tough oxhide overlaid with plenty of bronze. Chromius and godlike Aretus went with them,
both together, their hearts hoping hard to kill the two men themselves and drive off the high-necked horses — fools, for they were not going to come back from Automedon bloodlessly. Automedon prayed to father Zeus, and at once his dark heart filled with courage and strength, and he spoke at once to his loyal comrade Alcimedon:
"Alcimedon, don't hold the horses far off from me, but keep them breathing right at my back — for I don't think anything will hold back the fury of Hector, son of Priam, until he has either mounted the beautiful-maned horses of Achilles himself, killing the two of us, and routed the ranks of Argive men, or been struck down himself among the front fighters." So saying, he called out to the two Ajaxes and Menelaus: "You Ajaxes, leaders of the Argives, and Menelaus — leave the body to the best men there are, to stand guard around it and fight off the ranks of the enemy,
and drive off this pitiless day of death from us two who are still alive — for Hector and Aeneas, the best of the Trojans, are pressing hard on us here in this tearful battle. But all this lies on the knees of the gods; I will throw my spear too, and Zeus will see to the rest." So he spoke, and swinging back his long shadowed spear, he hurled it and struck the perfectly balanced shield of Aretus. The shield did not stop the spear — the bronze drove straight through it and through his belt into his lower belly. Just as when a strong young man swings a sharp axe
and strikes behind the horns of a field-ox to cut clean through the sinew, and the ox leaps forward and collapses — so Aretus leapt forward and fell backward, and the spear, quivering sharp in his guts, loosed his limbs. Hector then hurled his shining spear at Automedon, but Automedon, watching him come, ducked forward and dodged the bronze shaft; it flew past and stuck fast in the ground behind him, the butt-end of the spear still quivering
until powerful Ares let its force die away. Then the two of them would have closed and fought sword to sword, had not the two Ajaxes come pushing through the crowd and forced them apart, answering their comrade's call. Hector, Aeneas, and godlike Chromius, in awe of them, drew back again, leaving Aretus lying there with his heart torn open. Automedon, a match for swift Ares, stripped his armor and spoke in triumph:
"Well, this has eased my grief a little for the death of the son of Menoetius, even though the man I killed was far less than him." So saying, he lifted the bloody spoils into his chariot and climbed up himself, his feet and hands smeared with blood like a lion that has just fed on a bull. Then again the fierce, hard-fought, tear-soaked battle closed in over Patroclus, for Athena came down from heaven and stirred up the strife there — far-seeing Zeus had sent her
to rouse the Danaans, since his mind had now turned that way. Just as Zeus stretches a purple rainbow across the sky for mortal men as a sign either of war or of a bitter storm that stops men's work upon the earth and troubles the flocks — so Athena wrapped herself in a purple cloud and went down into the mass of the Achaeans, stirring each man to fight. First she came to the son of Atreus and spoke to rouse him,
to brave Menelaus, since he was near at hand — she took the shape and tireless voice of Phoenix, and said: "Menelaus, it will be your shame and disgrace if the swift dogs tear apart the loyal comrade of great Achilles under the wall of Troy. Hold fast with all your strength, and rouse the whole army." Menelaus, good at the war cry, answered her:
"Phoenix, old father, if only Athena would grant me strength and keep the flying spears away — then I would gladly stand by Patroclus and defend him, for his death has touched my heart deeply. But Hector holds the terrible fury of fire and does not stop cutting men down with his bronze, for Zeus grants him the glory." So he spoke, and the bright-eyed goddess Athena was glad that he had prayed to her first of all the gods. She put strength into his shoulders and his knees,
and set in his chest the boldness of a fly, which, driven off again and again from a man's skin, still keeps trying to bite, since human blood tastes sweet to it. With such boldness she filled his dark heart, and he went to stand by Patroclus and hurled his shining spear. Among the Trojans there was a man named Podes, son of Eetion, rich and brave, whom Hector honored above all others among his people, since he was his dear friend and drinking companion. Fair-haired Menelaus struck him with his spear through the belt
as he turned to flee, and drove the bronze clean through. He fell with a crash, and Menelaus, son of Atreus, dragged the body away from the Trojans, back to his own men. Apollo, standing close by Hector, urged him on, taking the shape of Phaenops, son of Asius, who was dearest to him of all his guest-friends, living in his house at Abydos. In this likeness the Far-worker Apollo spoke to him:
"Hector, what other Achaean will fear you now, when you shrink back before Menelaus, who up to now was only a soft spearman? Now he has gone off alone and carried away a body from among the Trojans, and has killed your loyal comrade, a brave man in the front ranks — Podes, son of Eetion." So he spoke, and a black cloud of grief covered Hector, and he strode through the front fighters armored in gleaming bronze. Then the son of Cronus took up his tasseled aegis,
glittering bright, and covered Mount Ida with clouds; he flashed lightning and thundered mightily, shaking the aegis, and gave victory to the Trojans, driving the Achaeans to rout. Peneleos of Boeotia was the first to break and run — struck in the shoulder by a spear as he stood turned always toward the enemy, a glancing blow, but the spear-point of Polydamas had grazed the bone to the quick, for he had struck him from close range.
Close by, Hector stabbed Leitus, son of great-hearted Alectryon, wounding him in the wrist and driving him out of the fighting. Leitus glanced about him and shrank back, for his heart no longer trusted the spear in his hand to face the Trojans. As Idomeneus went after Hector, who had turned on Leitus, he struck him on the breastplate near the nipple, but the long shaft snapped off at the socket, and the Trojans shouted. Hector hurled back at Idomeneus, who was standing on his chariot, and missed him only by a little, but struck down Coeranus, the follower and charioteer of Meriones,
Coeranus, who had come with him from well-built Lyctus. He had left the curved ships on foot at first, and would have given the Trojans a great triumph had not Coeranus quickly driven up his swift horses. He brought light to Idomeneus and warded off the pitiless day of death, but himself lost his life beneath man-slaying Hector, who struck him under the jaw and ear, so that the spearhead knocked his teeth out at the root and split his tongue down the middle. He toppled from the car, and the reins spilled to the ground.
Meriones stooped and gathered them up from the plain with his own hands, and spoke to Idomeneus: "Whip the horses on now, until you reach the swift ships. You yourself see well enough that the strength has gone out of the Achaeans."
So he spoke, and Idomeneus lashed the fair-maned horses back toward the hollow ships, for fear had fallen on his heart. Nor did it escape great-hearted Ajax and Menelaus that Zeus was now giving the Trojans the upper hand in the battle. Great Ajax, son of Telamon, was the first of them to speak: "Ah, by now even the greatest fool could see that father Zeus himself is helping the Trojans.
Every spear that leaves a hand finds its mark, whether thrown by a coward or a brave man — Zeus guides them all straight to the target — while ours, every one, falls useless to the ground. Come, then, let us work out the best plan ourselves, both how we may drag off the body and how we ourselves may bring joy to our friends by returning home safe, for they must be watching from over there in anguish, thinking that the fury and untouchable hands of man-slaying Hector can no longer be held back, that he will fall upon the black ships. If only some comrade would carry the news at once
to the son of Peleus — for I do not think he has even heard the grim news yet, that his dear companion has been killed. But I cannot make out any such man among the Achaeans; they are all wrapped in mist, both men and horses alike. Father Zeus, free the sons of the Achaeans from this mist, make the sky clear, and grant our eyes the power to see. Destroy us in the light, since it pleases you to destroy us now."
So he spoke, and the Father pitied him as he wept and shed tears; at once he scattered the mist and drove away the fog, the sun shone out, and the whole battle was lit up.
Then Ajax said to Menelaus, good at the war cry: "Look about now, Menelaus, favored of Zeus, and see if you can catch sight of Antilochus, great-hearted Nestor's son, still alive. Rouse him and send him quickly to tell keen-minded Achilles that his dearest companion by far has been killed."
So he spoke, and Menelaus, good at the war cry, did not refuse. He went off like a lion from a farmyard, one that has tired itself out harassing dogs and men, who will not let it carry off the choicest of the herd, keeping watch all night; but the lion, hungry for meat, keeps
charging forward, yet gains nothing, for thick javelins fly at it from bold hands, and blazing torches too, which it fears despite its fury, and at dawn it slinks away, sullen at heart. So it was that Menelaus, good at the war cry, left Patroclus's body very much against his will, for he was terribly afraid the Achaeans might abandon it to the enemy in the grim rout that had seized them. He gave many instructions to Meriones and the two Ajaxes: "You two, Ajaxes, leaders of the Argives, and you, Meriones — now let each of you
remember the kindness of poor Patroclus, for while he lived he knew how to be gentle to everyone. Now death and fate have overtaken him." So spoke fair-haired Menelaus, and went off, glancing everywhere like an eagle, which men say has the keenest sight of all birds beneath the sky, one that even from high up does not fail to notice a hare crouched beneath a leafy bush, but swoops down on it, seizes it swiftly, and tears the life from it. So then, Menelaus, favored of Zeus, your bright eyes
swept everywhere over the crowded ranks of your comrades, searching to see if you might spot Nestor's son still alive. He caught sight of him at once, over on the left of the whole battle, cheering on his companions and urging them to fight, and fair-haired Menelaus came up close and said to him: "Antilochus, come here, favored of Zeus, so you may learn grim news — news I wish had never had to happen.
You must already see for yourself, I think, that a god is rolling disaster down on the Danaans, and victory to the Trojans. Patroclus has been killed, the best of the Achaeans, and a terrible loss it is to the Danaans. Run quickly to the ships and tell Achilles, so he may hurry to save the naked corpse to his ship — his armor is held by Hector of the flashing helmet."
So he spoke, and Antilochus was horrified to hear the words. For a long while speechlessness gripped him, his eyes filled with tears, and his strong voice was choked. Yet even so he did not neglect Menelaus's charge — he set off running, after giving his armor to his blameless companion Laodocus, who was wheeling his sure-footed horses close by. His feet carried him weeping out of the battle,
to bring the grim news to Achilles, son of Peleus. Nor, Menelaus favored of Zeus, did your heart wish to stand by your worn companions where Antilochus had left them — a bitter loss it was to the men of Pylos — but he sent godlike Thrasymedes to them, while he himself went back to stand by the hero Patroclus, ran up beside the two Ajaxes, and spoke to them at once: "I have sent that man off to the swift ships to go to Achilles, swift of foot, but I do not think
he will come now, however furious he may be with godlike Hector, for he could hardly fight the Trojans without his armor. Let us ourselves work out the best plan, both how we may drag the body away and how we ourselves may escape death and doom amid the Trojan onslaught." Great Ajax, son of Telamon, answered him then: "Everything you have said is exactly right, glorious Menelaus. So you and Meriones stoop down quickly,
lift the body, and carry it out of the struggle, while the two of us behind you fight off the Trojans and godlike Hector, sharing one spirit as we share one name, we who have already stood
side by side before this, holding our ground against fierce war." So he spoke, and they gathered the body up from the ground, lifting it high with all their strength. Behind them the Trojan host cried out as they saw the Achaeans raising the corpse. They rushed forward like hounds that spring at a wounded boar ahead of the young hunters — for a while they run on eager to tear it apart, but when the boar wheels around among them, trusting its strength,
they fall back and scatter in flight, each man his own way. So the Trojans for a time kept following in a mass, thrusting with swords and double-edged spears, but whenever the two Ajaxes wheeled around to face them and made a stand, their color changed and none dared rush forward to fight over the body. So the two, straining hard, carried the corpse out of the battle toward the hollow ships, while behind them the fighting stretched out fierce as fire, the kind that suddenly springs up and rages through a city of men, and houses collapse in the great blaze, roaring under the force of the wind — so the relentless din of horses and spearmen
pressed upon them as they went. Like mules that throw their whole massive strength together and drag down a rugged mountain path some great beam or ship's timber, their hearts worn out together with toil and sweat as they strain — so the two men, straining hard, carried the corpse. Behind them the two Ajaxes held the enemy back, as a wooded ridge holds back a flood, running crosswise over a plain, one that even checks the raging streams of mighty rivers,
turning them aside so that its strength breaks the flow of every river alike, and none of them can burst through it — so the two Ajaxes forever kept pushing the Trojan attack back, though the Trojans kept following, and two among them most of all, Aeneas, son of Anchises, and glorious Hector. And as a cloud of starlings or jackdaws goes shrieking in terror when they see a hawk coming, one that brings death to little birds, so under the assault of Aeneas and Hector the young men of the Achaeans went off shrieking in terror, forgetting their will to fight. Many fine weapons fell around and beside the ditch
as the Danaans fled — but the fighting had no letup.

======== Book 18 ========

So the men fought on, like a raging fire, while Antilochus went as a messenger, running on quick feet, to Achilles. He found him in front of his high-beaked ships, turning over in his heart the very thing that had already happened. Groaning, he spoke to his own great heart: "Why now are the long-haired Achaeans again driven in confusion across the plain back toward the ships? I am afraid the gods have brought to pass the terrible grief my mother once described to me, when she told me that while I still lived, the best of the Myrmidons would lose the light of the sun at the hands of the Trojans. Surely by now the brave son of Menoetius is dead — reckless man, I told him to beat back the deadly fire and come back to the ships, not to fight Hector head to head."
While he turned these things over in his mind and heart, the son of noble Nestor came near him, shedding hot tears, and spoke his grievous message: "Ah, son of wise Peleus, you are about to hear terrible news — news I wish had never happened. Patroclus lies dead, and now they are fighting over his naked corpse. Hector of the flashing helmet holds his armor."
So he spoke, and a black cloud of grief settled over Achilles. With both hands he took the grimy dust and poured it over his head, defiling his handsome face; the black ash settled on his fragrant tunic. He himself, great in his greatness, lay stretched out in the dust, tearing at his own hair with his own hands. The women Achilles and Patroclus had taken captive cried out loudly in their grief and ran outside around warlike Achilles, all of them beating their breasts, and the strength went out of each of their limbs.
On the other side Antilochus grieved, shedding tears, holding Achilles' hands as he groaned in his proud heart, for Antilochus feared he might cut his own throat with iron. Achilles gave a terrible cry, and his queenly mother heard it as she sat in the sea's depths beside her aged father. She cried out in answer, and around her gathered the goddesses, all the Nereids who dwelt in the depths of the sea.
There were Glauce and Thalia and Cymodoce, Nesaea and Speio and Thoe and ox-eyed Halia, Cymothoe and Actaea and Limnoreia, Melite and Iaera and Amphithoe and Agave, Doto and Proto and Pherusa and Dynamene, Dexamene and Amphinome and Callianeira, Doris and Panope and glorious Galatea, Nemertes and Apseudes and Callianassa. There too were Clymene and Ianeira and Ianassa, Maera and Orithyia and fair-haired Amatheia, and the rest of the Nereids who lived in the sea's depths. The silvery cave was filled with them, and all together they beat their breasts, and Thetis led their lament.
"Hear me, sister Nereids, so that you may all know well the sorrows in my heart. Ah, wretched me, ah, the misery of bearing the finest of sons — since I bore a son who was blameless and strong, the best of heroes, and he shot up like a young sapling. I raised him like a shoot on the rich soil of an orchard and sent him off in the curved ships to Troy, to fight the Trojans — but I will never welcome him home again, returning to the house of Peleus.
"While he still lives and looks on the light of the sun, he suffers, and I can do nothing to help him, though I go to him. But I will go, to see my dear child and hear what grief has come to him, though he stays far from the fighting."
So she spoke, and left the cave; and the others went with her weeping, and around them the sea's waves broke apart. When they reached the fertile land of Troy, they climbed up the shore in a line, to where the many ships of the Myrmidons were drawn up around swift Achilles. There his queenly mother stood beside him as he groaned heavily, and with a sharp cry she took her son's head in her hands, and spoke to him in winged words of lament: "Child, why are you weeping? What grief has come into your heart? Speak, do not hide it. What you prayed for has been granted you by Zeus — that all the sons of the Achaeans, in want of you, should be pinned back against the sterns of their ships and suffer terrible things."
Groaning heavily, swift-footed Achilles answered her: "Mother, indeed the Olympian has granted me all this — but what joy is it to me, now that my dear companion is dead — Patroclus, whom I honored above all my companions, as much as my own life? I have lost him, and Hector, who killed him, has stripped from him that huge and wondrous armor, beautiful to look upon, which the gods gave to Peleus as a shining gift on the day they placed you in the bed of a mortal man. I wish you had stayed there among the immortal sea-nymphs, and Peleus had married a mortal wife. But as it is, so that your heart too may hold endless grief for your son's death, you will never welcome him home again, since my own heart no longer urges me to live or remain among men, unless Hector is struck down first by my spear and loses his life, paying the price for stripping Patroclus, son of Menoetius."
Then Thetis answered him, shedding tears: "Then you will be short-lived, my child, by what you say — for your death is fated to come right after Hector's."
Deeply troubled, swift-footed Achilles answered her: "Then let me die at once, since I was not there to defend my companion when he was killed. He died far from his homeland, and he needed me there to shield him from ruin. Now, since I am not going home to my own dear country, and I was no light of safety for Patroclus, nor for my other companions, so many of whom were beaten down by godlike Hector — instead I sit here by the ships, a useless burden on the earth, though I am such a man as no other bronze-clad Achaean is in war, even if in council others are better.
"I wish that strife could vanish from among gods and men, and anger too, which drives even a wise man to fury — anger that rises sweeter than dripping honey in the hearts of men, and spreads like smoke. Just so did Agamemnon, lord of men, provoke my anger. But let us set that behind us, grieved as we are, mastering our hearts under necessity. Now I am going, to find the man who destroyed the one dear to me — Hector; and I will accept my own death whenever Zeus wishes to bring it about, and the other immortal gods with him.
"Not even the great strength of Heracles escaped death, though he was dearest of all to lord Zeus, son of Cronus — fate and the harsh anger of Hera brought even him down. So too, if a like fate has been prepared for me, I will lie dead when I die. But now let me win noble glory, and make some deep-bosomed woman of Troy or Dardania, wiping the tears from her soft cheeks with both hands, cry out in grief, and let them know that I have been kept from war for far too long. Do not hold me back from battle, though you love me — you will not persuade me."
Then the silver-footed goddess Thetis answered him: "Yes, my child, what you say is true — it is no bad thing to defend one's beleaguered companions from sudden destruction. But your fine armor, the bronze that gleams, is in the hands of the Trojans; Hector of the flashing helmet wears it himself on his own shoulders and glories in it — though I do not think he will glory in it long, since his own death draws near. But you must not yet plunge into the struggle of war, until you see me return here with your own eyes; for at dawn, at sunrise, I will come back bringing you fine armor from lord Hephaestus."
So speaking she turned away from her son, and turning to her sister nymphs of the sea she said: "Now dive down into the broad lap of the sea to see the old man of the sea and our father's house, and tell him everything. I am going to high Olympus, to Hephaestus, the famous craftsman, to see if he will give my son splendid, gleaming armor."
So she spoke, and at once they plunged beneath the waves of the sea, while the silver-footed goddess Thetis went on to Olympus, to bring back famous armor for her dear son. Her feet carried her to Olympus; meanwhile the Achaeans, fleeing before man-killing Hector with a terrible din, reached the ships and the Hellespont.
Not even then could the well-greaved Achaeans drag Patroclus, the attendant of Achilles, clear of the weapons, for the Trojan men and horses caught up with him again, and Hector, son of Priam, fierce as flame. Three times glorious Hector seized him from behind by the feet, eager to drag him off, calling loudly to the Trojans; and three times the two Ajaxes, clothed in furious strength, beat him back from the corpse. But Hector, trusting steadily in his own strength, kept charging into the fray one moment, and the next standing his ground, shouting loudly — but never once did he give way and retreat.
As shepherds in the field cannot drive a tawny, ravenous lion from a carcass, so the two armored Ajaxes could not frighten Hector, son of Priam, away from the body. And now he would have dragged it off and won unspeakable glory, had not wind-footed swift Iris come running as a messenger from Olympus to Achilles, telling him to arm — sent secretly from Zeus and the other gods, for Hera had sent her. Standing close beside him she spoke winged words: "Rise up, son of Peleus, most terrible of all men!
"Defend Patroclus, for whose sake the dread battle now rages before the ships. Men are killing each other there, some defending the dead body, others — the Trojans — pressing to drag it away into windy Troy. Glorious Hector is most eager of all to drag it off; his heart urges him to cut the head from the soft neck and fix it on a stake. Get up, lie there no longer — let shame fill your heart at the thought of Patroclus becoming sport for the dogs of Troy. Disgrace will be yours if his corpse comes to them defiled."
Then swift Achilles, godlike, answered her: "Goddess Iris, which of the gods sent you to me as a messenger?" Wind-footed swift Iris answered him in turn: "Hera sent me, the glorious wife of Zeus. The son of Cronus who sits on high does not know of it, nor does any other of the immortals who dwell around snow-capped Olympus." Then swift-footed Achilles answered her: "But how can I go into the battle? They hold my armor. My own dear mother would not let me arm myself until I see her return with my own eyes,
"for she promised to bring me fine armor from Hephaestus. I know of no other armor I could put on, except the shield of Ajax, son of Telamon. But I think Ajax himself is out among the front ranks, fighting with his spear over the fallen body of Patroclus." Then wind-footed swift Iris answered him: "We too know well that they hold your famous armor. But go as you are to the trench, and show yourself to the Trojans, so that they may be struck with fear of you and hold back from battle, and the warlike sons of the Achaeans may catch their breath,
worn out as they are — even a brief respite from war is welcome." So speaking, swift-footed Iris departed. And Achilles, dear to Zeus, rose up; and Athena threw the fringed aegis around his mighty shoulders, and the shining goddess crowned his head with a golden cloud, and from it kindled a blazing, radiant fire.
As when smoke rises from a city and reaches the sky, from a far island under siege by enemies — and the people fight all day long in the hateful struggle of war, from their own city; but as the sun goes down, the signal fires blaze thick and fast, their glow shooting upward for the neighboring people to see, in hope that they may come with ships to defend them from ruin — so the gleam from Achilles' head reached the sky. He went and stood by the trench, away from the wall, but did not mingle with the other Achaeans, for he was mindful of his mother's wise command.
There he stood and shouted, and from a distance Pallas Athena added her own cry, and stirred unspeakable panic among the Trojans. As clear as the sound of a trumpet, blown out by enemies besieging a city that destroys men's lives — so clear then rang out the voice of the grandson of Aeacus.
When they heard the brazen voice of the grandson of Aeacus, the hearts of all were shaken. The fine-maned horses turned the chariots back, for they sensed disaster coming in their hearts. The charioteers were struck with terror when they saw the tireless, terrible fire blazing above the head of great-hearted Achilles, kindled there by the bright-eyed goddess Athena. Three times godlike Achilles shouted greatly across the trench, and three times the Trojans and their famous allies were thrown into confusion. Then and there twelve of their best men perished,
tangled among their own chariots and spears. But the Achaeans, gladly drawing Patroclus clear of the weapons, laid him upon a bier; and his dear companions stood around him mourning. Swift Achilles followed among them, shedding hot tears, when he saw his loyal companion lying on the bier, torn by the sharp bronze — the man he had sent off to war with his horses and chariot, but never welcomed home again. And ox-eyed queenly Hera sent the tireless sun, unwilling, down to the streams of Ocean to set.
So the sun set, and the godlike Achaeans ceased from the fierce fighting and the leveling war. On the other side the Trojans, drawing back from the hard-fought battle, unyoked their swift horses from the chariots, and gathered in assembly before thinking of supper. They held the assembly standing, and no one dared to sit, for fear gripped them all, because Achilles had appeared again, after so long a time away from grim battle.
Among them wise Polydamas, son of Panthous, was first to speak, for he alone looked both ahead and behind. He was Hector's companion, born on the same night as he, but while one excelled with words, the other far excelled with the spear. With good will he addressed the assembly and said: "Consider carefully, my friends. I myself urge that we go back into the city now, and not wait for bright dawn out here on the plain by the ships — we are too far from the wall.
"As long as this man was angry at godlike Agamemnon, the Achaeans were easier to fight; and I myself was glad to sleep by the swift ships, hoping we would capture their curved vessels. But now I am terribly afraid of the swift son of Peleus — his spirit is so violent that he will not be content to stay on the plain, where Trojans and Achaeans alike share out the fury of war between them; he will fight instead for our city and our women.
"Come, let us go back to the city — trust me, for this is how it will be. For now night has stopped the swift son of Peleus, immortal night; but if he catches us still here tomorrow, when he charges out in his armor, everyone will come to know him well — glad indeed will be the man who escapes and reaches sacred Troy, for many Trojans will be food for the dogs and vultures.
"May such a word stay far from my ears! But if we listen to my advice, grieved though we are, we will keep our strength in the assembly through the night, and the city's towers and high gates, with their long, well-fitted, polished doors, will protect us. Then early in the morning, armed in our gear, we will take our stand upon the towers. So much the worse for him, if he chooses to come from the ships and fight us around the wall — he will go back to the ships
after wearing out his high-necked horses, driving them every which way beneath the city walls in vain pursuit. His spirit will not allow him to force his way inside, nor will he ever sack it — sooner will the swift dogs eat him." But Hector of the flashing helmet looked at him darkly and said: "Polydamas, what you now propose no longer pleases me — you who tell us to go back and pen ourselves inside the city again. Are you not yet tired of being cooped up within the walls?
"Before now, all men on earth used to speak of Priam's city as rich in gold and rich in bronze; but now the fine treasures have vanished from our houses,
and much of our wealth has gone to be sold off in Phrygia and lovely Maeonia, ever since great Zeus grew angry with us. But now, when the son of crooked-scheming Cronus has granted me to win glory at the ships and pin the Achaeans against the sea, fool, do not voice such thoughts among the people any longer — for no Trojan will listen to you; I will not allow it. Come, let us all do as I say. Now take your supper throughout the camp by companies, and remember to keep watch, and let every man stay alert. And whoever among the Trojans is overly anxious about his possessions,
"Let it be gathered and given to the army to share out — better the army profit from it than the Achaeans do. At dawn, armed for battle, let us rouse sharp war beside the hollow ships. And if it is true that godlike Achilles has risen again by the ships, so much the worse for him if he wishes it — I will not run from grim battle for him, but will stand and face him, whether he carries off the great victory or I carry it off myself. The war-god deals fairly to all, and the killer is often killed in turn."
So Hector spoke, and the Trojans roared their approval — fools, for Pallas Athena had stolen away their wits. They applauded Hector, whose counsel was ruinous, and no one praised Polydamas, though his advice was sound. Then they took their supper through the camp. But the Achaeans mourned Patroclus the whole night through, weeping.
Among them the son of Peleus led the passionate lament, laying his man-killing hands on the chest of his companion, groaning again and again, like a bearded lion whose cubs a deer-hunter has snatched away out of the thick woods — the lion returns too late and grieves, and ranges through many mountain glens tracking the man's scent, hoping to find him, for a bitter fury has seized him. So Achilles groaned heavily and spoke among the Myrmidons:
"What an empty thing I said that day, trying to comfort the hero Menoetius in his hall — I told him I would bring his glorious son home to Opoeis after he had sacked Troy and taken his share of the spoil. But Zeus does not bring all men's plans to fulfillment. It is fated that both of us redden the same earth here at Troy, since I too will never return, and old Peleus, breaker of horses, will not welcome me home in his hall, nor will my mother Thetis — the earth here will hold me instead.
But now, Patroclus, since I go beneath the earth after you, I will not bury you until I have brought here the armor and the head of Hector, who slew you, great-hearted as you were. And before your pyre I will cut the throats of twelve splendid sons of the Trojans, in my fury at your death. Until then you will lie as you are, beside the curved ships, and around you the women of Troy and the deep-bosomed daughters of Dardanus will weep, night and day, shedding tears — women we won ourselves by strength and the long spear, sacking rich cities of mortal men."
So speaking, brilliant Achilles ordered his companions to set a great tripod over the fire, so that as quickly as possible they might wash the clotted blood from Patroclus. They set the water-heating tripod over the blazing fire, poured water into it, and took wood and kindled it beneath. The fire wrapped around the belly of the tripod and the water grew warm, and when it boiled in the gleaming bronze, they washed the body and anointed it richly with oil, filling the wounds with nine-year-old ointment. They laid him on a bed and covered him from head to foot in soft linen, and over that a white cloak. Then all night long the Myrmidons mourned swift-footed Achilles' companion Patroclus, weeping around him.
And Zeus spoke to Hera, his sister and wife:
"So you have had your way after all, ox-eyed lady Hera — you have roused swift-footed Achilles. One would think the flowing-haired Achaeans had truly been born of you."
Ox-eyed lady Hera answered him:
"Most dread son of Cronus, what a thing to say. Even a mere mortal manages to do a favor for another man, mortal as he is and far short of our wisdom — how then should I, who claim to be the greatest of goddesses, both by birth and because I am called your wife, and you rule over all the immortals — how should I not weave harm for the Trojans, since I am angry at them?"
So the two of them spoke to each other. Meanwhile silver-footed Thetis reached the house of Hephaestus, imperishable, starry, standing out among the homes of the immortals — a house of bronze that the crook-footed god had built with his own hands.
She found him sweating, turning about among his bellows, hard at work, for he was making twenty tripods all at once to stand around the wall of his well-built hall. He had set golden wheels beneath the base of each, so that they could roll on their own into the gathering of the gods and then return home again — a wonder to see. They were finished except for their handles, which he had not yet fitted; these he was now shaping, and hammering the joints. While he labored at this with his skilled mind, the goddess Thetis, silver-footed, came near him.
Charis came forward to meet her, the lovely goddess of the shining headdress whom the famous strong-armed god had married. She took Thetis by the hand and spoke to her, calling her by name:
"Why have you come to our house, Thetis of the long robe, honored and dear as you are? You do not visit often. Come further in, so that I may set refreshment before you."
So speaking, the shining goddess led her inside and seated her on a chair, richly wrought and studded with silver, with a footstool beneath it. Then she called to Hephaestus, the famous craftsman, and said:
"Hephaestus, come here — Thetis has need of you."
And the famous strong-armed god answered her:
"Then a dread and honored goddess is under our roof indeed — she who saved me when I fell far from heaven in pain, through the will of my own shameless mother, who wanted to hide me for being lame. I would have suffered greatly then, had not Eurynome and Thetis taken me into their arms — Eurynome, daughter of the back-flowing stream of Ocean. With them I worked in bronze for nine years, forging many fine things — brooches, spiral bracelets, rosettes, necklaces — in a hollow cave, while around it the stream of Ocean flowed on, foaming and murmuring without end. No one knew of it, neither god nor mortal man — only Thetis and Eurynome knew, the two who saved me. And now she has come to our house — so I owe it to lovely-haired Thetis to repay her fully for saving my life. Set before her now the finest hospitality I have, while I put away my bellows and all my tools."
So he spoke, and rose up from his anvil block, a huge, gasping figure, limping — his thin legs moved swiftly beneath him. He set the bellows away from the fire, and gathered up all the tools he had been working with into a silver chest. Then he wiped his face and both hands with a sponge, and his sturdy neck and hairy chest, put on a tunic, took up a thick staff, and went out through the door, limping. Handmaids of gold moved quickly to support their lord, made in the likeness of living young women — they have minds within them, and voices, and strength, and they have learned skills from the immortal gods.
These bustled along beside their lord, and he made his halting way to where Thetis sat, and took a shining chair beside her. He clasped her hand and spoke to her, calling her by name:
"Why have you come to our house, Thetis of the long robe, honored and dear as you are? You do not visit often. Tell me what is on your mind — my heart urges me to grant it, if I am able, and if it can be done at all."
Thetis answered him, shedding tears:
"Hephaestus, is there any goddess on Olympus who has borne in her heart such grief as Zeus, son of Cronus, has heaped on me alone, beyond all others? Of all the daughters of the sea he bent me alone to a mortal man, Peleus, son of Aeacus, and I endured a man's bed, much against my will. Now he lies in his halls, worn down by grim old age, but I have other sorrow now.
He gave me a son to bear and raise, outstanding among heroes, and he shot up like a young tree. I raised him like a shoot in a rich orchard plot, then sent him off in the curved ships to Troy, to fight the Trojans — and I will never welcome him home again, back to the house of Peleus. And while he still lives and looks on the light of the sun, he suffers, and I can do nothing to help him, though I go to him.
The girl the sons of the Achaeans chose for him as his prize, lord Agamemnon tore back out of his hands. His heart was wasting away with grief over her. But then the Trojans penned the Achaeans in against their ships' sterns and would not let them come out, and the elders of the Argives begged him, offering many splendid gifts. At that he himself refused to fight off their ruin, but he put his own armor on Patroclus and sent him into battle, and gave him a great force to lead. All day long they fought around the Scaean gates, and they would have sacked the city that very day, had not Apollo killed the brave son of Menoetius in the front ranks, after he had done much harm, and given the glory to Hector.
So now I have come to your knees, to ask whether you are willing to give my son, doomed to die so soon, a shield and helmet, and fine greaves fitted with ankle-guards, and a breastplate — for the armor he had was lost with his loyal companion, who fell to the Trojans, and now my son lies on the ground, his heart broken."
And the famous strong-armed god answered her:
"Take heart — let this not trouble your mind. I only wish I could hide him as surely from grim death, when his cruel fate comes upon him, as I can give him armor so fine that everyone who sees it, out of all mankind, will marvel."
So speaking he left her there and went to his bellows, turned them toward the fire, and ordered them to work. Twenty bellows all together blew into the smelting-pots, sending out blasts of every strength — now hard for the work at hand, now gentler, however Hephaestus wished it, to match the work in progress. He threw bronze that does not wear into the fire, and tin, and precious gold and silver. Then he set his great anvil on its block and took in one hand his mighty hammer, in the other his tongs.
First he made a shield, great and heavy, working every part of it, and around it he set a bright rim, triple-layered and gleaming, with a silver strap. The shield itself was made of five layers, and on it he worked many wonders with his skilled mind.
On it he made the earth, and the sky, and the sea, the tireless sun and the full moon, and all the constellations that crown the heavens — the Pleiades and the Hyades and mighty Orion, and the Bear, which men also call the Wagon, which turns in place and watches Orion, and alone has no share in the baths of Ocean. And on it he made two cities of mortal men, both beautiful.
In one there were weddings and wedding feasts — brides were being led through the city from their chambers by the light of blazing torches, and the wedding song rose loud around them. Young men whirled in the dance, and among them flutes and lyres sounded, and the women stood each at her doorway, marveling. The people had gathered in the assembly place, where a dispute had arisen — two men were quarreling over the blood-price for a man who had been killed. One claimed he had paid it all, declaring this to the people, but the other denied he had received anything.
Both were eager to bring the case before an arbiter for a ruling. The people cheered for both sides, taking sides, while heralds held the crowd back. The elders sat on polished stone seats in the sacred circle, holding in their hands the staffs of the clear-voiced heralds. With these they rose in turn and gave judgment. In the middle lay two bars of gold, to be given to whichever elder spoke the straightest judgment among them.
Around the other city sat two armies of men, gleaming in their armor. They were divided on which course to follow — whether to sack the city outright, or to divide in half all the wealth the lovely town held within it. But the besieged would not yield, and were secretly arming for an ambush. Their dear wives and little children stood guard on the wall, along with the old men, while the fighting men went out — Ares led them, and Pallas Athena, both worked in gold, wearing golden clothing, beautiful and huge in their armor, as befits gods, standing out clearly, for the men beside them were smaller. When these reached the place that seemed fit for an ambush,
along a river, where there was a watering place for all the herds, there they settled down, wrapped in gleaming bronze. Apart from them sat two scouts of the people, watching for when the sheep and shambling cattle should appear. These soon came on, with two herdsmen following behind, delighting themselves with pipes, suspecting nothing of the trap. The men in ambush saw them coming and rushed out, quickly cutting off the herds of cattle and fine flocks of white sheep on both sides, and killing the herdsmen too. And when the besiegers heard the great uproar
rising from the cattle as they sat before their council, they at once mounted their swift horses and went in pursuit, and soon arrived. They took their stand and fought a battle along the river's banks, striking each other with bronze-tipped spears. Strife and Uproar mingled among them, and deadly Fate, gripping one man alive still freshly wounded, another unhurt, and dragging a third, already dead, by the feet through the carnage — the cloak on her shoulders was stained red with the blood of men. They clashed like living men and fought, and dragged away each other's dead.
On it he also set a soft field newly plowed, rich and wide, tilled a third time, where many plowmen drove their teams back and forth across it. And whenever they turned and reached the edge of the field, a man would come up and put in their hands a cup of honey-sweet wine, and they would turn back along the furrows, eager to reach the end of the deep field. Behind them the earth grew dark, as though truly plowed, though it was made of gold — that was the wonder of the working. On it, too, he set a king's estate, where laborers were reaping,
holding sharp sickles in their hands. Some armfuls fell to the ground one after another along the swath, while others were bound into sheaves with twisted bands by the binders. Three binders stood ready, and behind them boys gathered the cut grain, carrying it in their arms and steadily supplying it to them. Among them the king stood in silence, staff in hand at the edge of the swath, rejoicing in his heart. Off to the side, under an oak tree, heralds were preparing a feast, having slaughtered a great ox and dressing it, while the women sprinkled abundant white barley over the meal for the workers.
On it, too, he set a vineyard heavy with clusters, beautiful and golden, its black grapes hanging, held up throughout on silver poles. Around it he drove a dark trench, and around that a fence of tin, and a single path led to it, along which the carriers went when they gathered the vintage. Young girls and boys, light-hearted, carried the honey-sweet fruit in woven baskets. Among them a boy played a clear, enchanting tune on a lyre, and sang the lovely dirge of Linos
in a delicate voice, while the others, keeping time together, followed with singing and shouting, their feet dancing in step. On it he also made a herd of straight-horned cattle. The cattle were fashioned of gold and tin, and lowing they hurried from farmyard to pasture, along a rushing river, along the waving reeds. Golden herdsmen went along with the cattle, four of them, and nine swift-footed dogs followed them. But two fearsome lions had seized a bellowing bull among the leading cattle, and it was dragged off, loudly bawling,
while the dogs and the young men rushed after it. The two lions had torn open the great bull's hide and were gulping down its entrails and dark blood, while the herdsmen tried in vain to drive them off, urging on their swift dogs. But the dogs shrank from actually biting the lions, and stood very close, barking, then sprang away again. And the famous strong-armed god set on it a pasture in a lovely valley, a great pasture of white sheep, with steadings and roofed huts and folds. And the famous strong-armed god also worked into it a dancing-floor,
like the one Daedalus once fashioned in broad Knossos for lovely-haired Ariadne. There young men and girls, worth many oxen in bride-price, danced, holding one another by the wrist. The girls wore fine linen, and the young men wore well-woven tunics, faintly gleaming with oil. The girls wore lovely garlands, and the young men carried golden daggers hung from silver belts. Now they would run around with skilled, practiced feet, very easily, as when a potter
A seated potter will test, to see if it spins true — that was how easily they wheeled. Then again they would run in rows, crossing toward one another. And a great crowd stood around the lovely dance, taking their pleasure in it, while two tumblers spun and somersaulted through the middle of them, leading the song.
On the shield he set the great strength of the river Ocean, running along the outermost rim of that sturdy, well-made work. And when he had finished the shield, huge and heavy, he forged for Achilles a breastplate brighter than the blaze of fire, and he made him a heavy helmet, fitted close to the temples, beautiful and finely worked, and set on it a crest of gold. He made him greaves too, of pliant tin.
When the famous god of the two strong arms had finished the whole armor, he lifted it and laid it down before the mother of Achilles. And she, like a hawk, sprang down from snowy Olympus, carrying that gleaming armor from Hephaestus's hands.

======== Book 19 ========

Dawn rose in her saffron robe from the streams of Ocean, bringing light to gods and mortals alike, and Thetis came down to the ships bearing the god's gifts. She found her dear son lying fallen across Patroclus, weeping bitterly, and around him his many comrades mourned. The shining goddess stood among them, took his hand in hers, and spoke his name.
"My child, grievous as it is, we must let this man lie as he is — he was brought down first by the will of the gods. But you, take from Hephaestus these splendid armor, so fine that no man has ever worn the like on his shoulders."
So the goddess spoke, and set the armor down before Achilles, and all its cunning work rang out. Fear seized every one of the Myrmidons; none dared look it in the face, but shrank back. Achilles alone, when he saw it, felt his fury swell higher, and his eyes blazed beneath his lids like a burst of fire. He held the god's glorious gift in his hands and rejoiced. And when he had feasted his heart on gazing at the fine work, at once he spoke winged words to his mother.
"Mother, the god has given me armor fit for the work of the immortals — no mortal man could have made it. Now I will arm myself for war. But I am dreadfully afraid that meanwhile flies will settle in the wounds cut by bronze in Menoetius's brave son, breed worms there, defile his body — for the life has been struck out of him — and all his flesh will rot."
Then the silver-footed goddess Thetis answered him: "Child, do not let this trouble your heart. I myself will try to keep off from him the fierce swarms that devour men killed in battle. Even should he lie here a full year's turn, his flesh will stay sound the whole while, or even better than it is now. But you — call the Achaean warriors to assembly, renounce your anger against Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, and arm yourself for war at once, and put on your strength."
So she spoke, and filled him with bold courage, and into Patroclus she let fall ambrosia and red nectar, drop by drop, through his nostrils, so that his flesh would stay sound.
And godlike Achilles strode along the shore of the sea, crying out a terrible cry, and roused the Achaean warriors. Even those who before had always stayed among the ships — the helmsmen who held the steering-oars, and the stewards who stayed by the ships handing out food — even these now came to the assembly, since Achilles had appeared, after so long a time away from grim battle. Two men came limping, leaning on their spears, servants of Ares still nursing painful wounds — Diomedes son of Tydeus, steadfast in battle, and godlike Odysseus — and they went and sat down in the front of the gathering.
Last of all came the lord of men, Agamemnon, himself carrying a wound, for Coon son of Antenor had struck him with his bronze-tipped spear in the thick of the fighting. When all the Achaeans had gathered together, swift-footed Achilles rose among them and spoke:
"Son of Atreus, was it truly better for either of us — for you or for me — that we two, our hearts eaten with grief, quarreled in soul-devouring strife over a girl? I wish Artemis had struck her down with an arrow among the ships on the day I took her for my own, when I destroyed Lyrnessus. Then so many Achaeans would not have bitten the vast earth at the hands of the enemy, while I stayed apart in my anger. It was Hector and the Trojans who profited from that; and I think the Achaeans will long remember this quarrel of yours and mine. But let us let the past be past, grievous as it is, and master the heart in our chests, since we must. Now I am putting away my anger — it is not right to rage on forever without end. Come, quickly rouse the long-haired Achaeans to battle, so that I may go out again and test the Trojans, and see whether they still wish to spend the night by the ships. I think there is more than one among them who will be glad to bend the knee, whoever escapes the deadly fighting under my spear."
So he spoke, and the well-greaved Achaeans rejoiced that the great-hearted son of Peleus had renounced his anger. Then the lord of men, Agamemnon, spoke among them, from where he sat, without rising to stand in their midst.
"Friends, Danaan warriors, servants of Ares — it is good to listen to a man standing, and it is not fitting to interrupt him — that is hard even for a skilled speaker. In a great crowd of men, how could anyone hear or be heard? Even a clear-voiced speaker is hindered by the noise. I will make my case to the son of Peleus, but let the rest of you Argives listen, and each of you take my words well to heart.
"Many times the Achaeans have said this to me, and blamed me for it — yet I am not to blame, but Zeus, and Fate, and the Fury who walks in mist, who in the assembly cast a savage blindness on my mind, on the day I myself took Achilles's prize from him. But what could I do? A god brings all things to their end. Ruin, eldest daughter of Zeus, who blinds all men — accursed she is. Her feet are delicate; she never touches the ground, but walks over the heads of men, doing them harm, and traps one or another in her snare.
"Once she blinded even Zeus himself, though he is said to be greatest of gods and men. Even him Hera tricked, woman that she is, with her cunning treachery, on the day when Alcmene was to bear the mighty Heracles in well-crowned Thebes. Zeus stood then and boasted before all the gods: 'Hear me, all you gods and goddesses, while I tell you what the heart in my chest bids me say. This day Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth pangs, will bring into the light a man who will rule over all his neighbors — one of the race of men who spring from my own blood.'
"Then, with cunning intent, queenly Hera spoke to him: 'You will prove a liar, and you will not accomplish this word after all. Come now, Olympian, swear me a strong oath — swear that the man born this day, who falls between a woman's feet, of the men who come from your own blood-line, shall indeed rule over all his neighbors.'
"So she spoke, and Zeus, suspecting nothing of her trick, swore the great oath — and afterward was greatly blinded by it. For Hera darted away, left the peak of Olympus, and quickly came to Argos of the Achaeans, where she knew the noble wife of Sthenelus, son of Perseus, was carrying a child. She was in her seventh month, and Hera brought the child into the light before its time, though it was too early, and stopped Alcmene's labor, holding back the goddesses of childbirth.
"Then she went herself and brought the news to Zeus, son of Cronus: 'Father Zeus, lord of the bright thunderbolt, I have a word to put in your heart. A noble man has now been born who will rule over the Argives — Eurystheus, son of Sthenelus, son of Perseus, of your own blood. It is no shame for him to be lord of the Argives.'
"So she spoke, and sharp grief struck Zeus deep in his heart. At once he seized Ruin by her bright-braided hair, raging in his mind, and swore a mighty oath that never again should Ruin, who blinds all men, come to Olympus and the starry heaven. So he spoke, and whirled her in his hand and flung her down from the starry sky, and she came quickly to the works of men.
"Zeus always groaned over her when he saw his own dear son laboring at some shameful task set by Eurystheus. And so it was with me — whenever great Hector of the flashing helm was destroying the Argives by the sterns of our ships, I could not forget Ruin, who blinded me from the start. But since I was blinded, and Zeus took my wits from me, I am willing now to make amends, and to give boundless recompense. Rouse yourself for battle, and rouse the rest of your men as well. As for gifts, I am ready to give you all that godlike Odysseus promised in your tent yesterday. Or, if you wish, wait a while, eager as you are for battle, and my attendants will bring the gifts from my ship, so that you may see with your own eyes what I mean to give you, gifts to warm your heart."
Then swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon — whether you wish to give me these gifts, as is fitting, or to keep them, is up to you. But now let us turn our minds to battle at once. We should not waste time chattering here, nor delay — there is still great work left undone. Let every man see Achilles again among the front ranks, cutting down the Trojan ranks with his bronze spear. Let each of you remember to fight his man in the same spirit."
Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Not so, brave as you are, godlike Achilles — do not send the sons of the Achaeans against Troy to fight the Trojans while they are still fasting, for the battle will not be a short one, once the ranks of men meet and a god breathes fury into both sides. Instead, tell the Achaeans to take their fill of bread and wine beside the swift ships — for that is strength, that is courage.
"No man can fight on, facing the enemy, all day until sundown, if he goes without food. Even if his heart is eager for war, his limbs grow heavy without his knowing it, and thirst and hunger overtake him, and his knees fail as he walks. But the man who has had his fill of wine and food, and fights the enemy the whole day through, keeps a bold heart in his chest, and his limbs do not tire until all draw back from the fighting.
"Come then, dismiss the army and order them to prepare their meal. And let the lord of men, Agamemnon, bring the gifts to the middle of the assembly, so that all the Achaeans may see them with their own eyes, and your heart may be glad. Let him stand up among the Argives and swear an oath that he never went up into her bed nor lay with her, as is right and just, whether for a man or a woman. And let your own heart within you be softened, and be at peace. Then afterward let him make amends to you with a rich feast in his tent, so that you lack nothing that is your due. And you, son of Atreus, will be more just to others hereafter too — no one holds it against a king when he makes amends to a man he wronged first."
Then the lord of men, Agamemnon, answered him: "I am glad, son of Laertes, to hear these words of yours — you have gone through everything rightly and set it out well. This oath I am willing to swear, and my heart bids me to; I will not swear falsely before the god. But let Achilles wait here a while, eager as he is for battle, and let the rest of you all wait together, until the gifts come from my tent and we cut the sacrifice to seal our oaths.
"And to you yourself I give this charge and command: choose the finest young men of all the Achaeans, and bring the gifts from my ship — all that we promised yesterday to give Achilles — and bring the women too. And let Talthybius quickly prepare a boar for me among the wide camp of the Achaeans, to sacrifice to Zeus and to Helios."
Then swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon — it would be better to see to these matters at some other time, whenever there comes a pause in the fighting, and the fury in my chest is not so great as now. As it is, the men who fell lie there torn by Hector, son of Priam, when Zeus gave him glory — and you two urge us on to eating! No, I say let the sons of the Achaeans go into battle now, fasting, without food, and only when the sun goes down shall we prepare a great supper, once we have avenged this outrage. Until then, no food or drink shall pass down my throat, not while my comrade lies dead,
cut apart by sharp bronze, lying in my tent, turned toward the doorway, with my companions mourning around him. Such things are far from my mind now — only slaughter and blood and the harsh groaning of men."
Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Achilles, son of Peleus, far the greatest of the Achaeans — you are stronger than I am, and better by no small measure with the spear, but I could outmatch you by far in judgment, since I was born before you and know more of the world. So let your heart submit to my words.
"Men grow quickly weary of battle, when the bronze pours down the most stubble on the ground and the harvest is scantiest, once Zeus tips the scale — Zeus, who is the steward of men's wars. It is not right for the Achaeans to mourn the dead with their bellies — too many fall, thick and fast, day after day; when would anyone catch his breath from labor? No, we must bury whoever dies, and steel our hearts, weeping for one day only; but all who are left over from the hateful fighting
must remember food and drink, so that we may fight the enemy still more, without rest, forever, clothed in tireless bronze. Let no man hold back, waiting for some other summons to arms — this very summons will bring harm to whoever is left behind by the ships. No, let us all rush forward together and rouse sharp Ares against the horse-taming Trojans."
He spoke, and took with him the sons of glorious Nestor, and Meges son of Phyleus, and Thoas, and Meriones, and Lycomedes son of Creon, and Melanippus,
and they went their way to the tent of Agamemnon, son of Atreus. At once, as the word was spoken, the deed was done: seven tripods they carried out of the tent, all that he had promised him, and twenty gleaming cauldrons, and twelve horses; and they quickly led out the women skilled in fine handwork, seven of them, and the eighth was fair-cheeked Briseis. And Odysseus weighed out ten full talents of gold and led the way, while the other chosen young Achaeans carried the rest of the gifts behind him.
These they set down in the middle of the assembly, and Agamemnon stood up, while Talthybius, whose voice rang like a god's, stood by the shepherd of the people holding the boar in his hands. The son of Atreus drew with his hands the knife that always hung beside the great sheath of his sword, and cutting first hairs from the boar, lifted his hands to Zeus and prayed, while all the Argives sat in silence in their places, listening to their king as was fitting. And praying he spoke, looking up at the wide heaven:
"Let Zeus be my witness first, highest and best of gods, and Earth, and the Sun, and the Furies, who beneath the earth take vengeance on men who swear a false oath — that I never laid a hand on the girl Briseis, neither on the pretext of her bed nor for any other cause, but she remained untouched in my tent. And if any word of this oath is false, may the gods give me griefs in full measure, all that they give to those who sin and swear falsely."
So he spoke, and cut the boar's throat with the pitiless bronze. Talthybius swung the body and flung it into the great depths of the gray sea, food for the fish. Then Achilles rose and spoke among the war-loving Argives: "Father Zeus, truly you give men great blindness of mind —
never otherwise would the son of Atreus have stirred such wrath in my chest, nor stubbornly taken the girl against my will — no, some purpose of Zeus must have willed death for many of the Achaeans. But now, go to your meal, so that we may join battle at last."
So he spoke, and broke up the assembly quickly. The men scattered, each to his own ship, but the great-hearted Myrmidons took charge of the gifts and carried them off to the ship of godlike Achilles. They set them down in the tents and seated the women there, while the proud attendants drove the horses off to the herd.
Then Briseis, like golden Aphrodite herself, when she saw Patroclus lying there torn by sharp bronze, threw herself upon him and cried out shrilly, tearing with her hands at her breast, her soft throat, and her lovely face. And the woman, like a goddess, spoke through her tears:
"Patroclus, dearest to my wretched heart of all men — I left you alive when I went from this tent, and now I find you dead, O leader of men, when I return. So evil always follows evil for me.
The man to whom my father and honored mother gave me, I saw torn by sharp bronze before our city, and my three brothers, whom the same mother bore with me, dear to me all, met their day of doom together. Yet you would not let me weep, when swift Achilles killed my husband and sacked the city of godlike Mynes — you told me instead that you would make me the wedded wife of godlike Achilles, that he would carry me on his ships to Phthia, and hold a wedding feast among the Myrmidons. So I weep for you now without end, since you were always gentle to me, and now you are dead."
So she wept, and the women groaned around her — for Patroclus, they said, but each mourned her own sorrow besides. The old men of the Achaeans gathered about Achilles, begging him to eat, but he refused them, groaning:
"I beg you, if any of my dear companions will listen to me, do not urge me to fill my heart with food or drink — a terrible grief has come over me. I will hold out until the sun goes down, and endure it as I must."
So he spoke, and sent the other kings away, but the two sons of Atreus stayed, and noble Odysseus, Nestor, Idomeneus, and old Phoenix the horseman, trying with all their care to comfort him in his grief. But his heart would not be comforted, not until he plunged his mouth into the bloody mouth of war. Remembering, he groaned heavily and cried out:
"There was a time, my poor unlucky friend, dearest of all my companions, when you yourself, quick and eager, set out a good meal for me in this hut, whenever the Achaeans hurried to carry tearful war against the horse-taming Trojans. But now you lie here torn open, and my heart goes without food and drink, though both are here within reach, longing for you. Nothing worse could happen to me — not even news that my own father has died, he who now, I suppose, sheds soft tears back in Phthia for lack of a son like me, while I fight the Trojans in a foreign land for the sake of hateful Helen — nor even news of the son I am raising on Scyros, if godlike Neoptolemus is still alive. For until now my heart hoped that I alone would perish far from the horse-pastures of Argos, here in Troy, and that you would return home to Phthia, and in your swift black ship bring my son out of Scyros, and show him everything — my possessions, my slaves, my great high-roofed house. For by now I think Peleus has either died outright, or else still lives on a little, worn down by hateful old age, and always waiting for the grim news that I too have died."
So he spoke, weeping, and the old men groaned in answer, each remembering what he himself had left behind in his own halls. And seeing them mourning like this, the son of Cronus took pity, and quickly spoke winged words to Athena:
"My child, have you truly abandoned this good man altogether? Does Achilles no longer concern you at all? There he sits before the high-horned ships, mourning his dear companion, while all the others have gone off to eat, and he alone goes without food or drink. Go now, drop nectar and sweet ambrosia into his chest, so that hunger does not overtake him."
So speaking he spurred on Athena, who was already eager, and she, like a shrill-crying hawk with long wings outstretched, shot down from heaven through the bright air. At once the Achaeans armed themselves throughout the camp, and Athena dropped nectar and sweet ambrosia into Achilles' chest, so that joyless hunger would not weaken his knees, and then went back to the strong-built house of her mighty father, while the Achaeans poured out from their swift ships.
And just as thick snowflakes fly down from Zeus, cold beneath the blast of the clear-sky North Wind, so now, thick and gleaming, helmets streamed out from the ships, and shields bossed with bronze at their centers, and breastplates with their strong metal plates, and ashwood spears. The gleam reached the sky, and all the earth around laughed with the flash of bronze, and a thunder rose beneath the feet of the men.
And in their midst noble Achilles armed himself. His teeth ground together, his two eyes blazed like the glare of fire, and into his heart sank unbearable grief; raging now against the Trojans, he put on the god's gifts, which Hephaestus had labored to make for him. First he fastened the greaves about his shins, fine ones, fitted with silver ankle-guards. Next he put the breastplate on around his chest. Over his shoulders he slung the bronze sword, studded with silver, and then he took up the great, heavy shield, which cast a glow around it like the moon.
As when a fire's glare shows itself to sailors far out at sea, a fire burning high in the hills at a lonely sheepfold, and the winds carry the sailors off, unwilling, over the fish-filled sea, far from their friends — so the glare from Achilles' shield, beautiful and finely worked, reached up to the sky.
Then he lifted his heavy helmet and set it upon his head. The horsehair-crested helmet shone like a star, and the golden plumes that Hephaestus had set thick around the crest streamed and swayed. And noble Achilles tested himself in his armor, to see whether it fitted him and his splendid limbs moved freely within it — and it became like wings to him, lifting the shepherd of his people. From its case he drew out his father's spear, heavy, huge, and strong, which no other Achaean could wield; Achilles alone knew how to handle it — the ash spear from Pelion, which Chiron had given to his dear father off the peak of Pelion, meant to be death for heroes.
Meanwhile Automedon and Alcimus busied themselves yoking the horses; they fastened the fine harness-straps about them, threw the bits into their jaws, and drew the reins back tight to the joined chariot-rail. Automedon took the bright whip, fitted well to his hand, and leapt up onto the chariot; behind him Achilles mounted too, armed and blazing in his gear like radiant Hyperion, and shouted terribly to his father's horses:
"Xanthus and Balius, famous children of Podarge, this time see that you bring your charioteer back safe to the ranks of the Danaans, once we have had our fill of battle — don't leave him there dead, the way you left Patroclus."
And from beneath the yoke, swift-footed Xanthus answered him, suddenly dipping his head so that his whole mane spilled out of the yoke-pad and touched the ground — for white-armed Hera had given him a human voice:
"Yes, mighty Achilles, we will still keep you safe for now. But your day of death is near, and it is not our fault, but a great god and strong Fate. It was not through our slowness or sluggishness that the Trojans stripped the armor from Patroclus' shoulders, but the best of the gods, whom fair-haired Leto bore, killed him among the front fighters and gave the glory to Hector. We two could run as fast as the breath of the West Wind, which they say is the swiftest of all winds — but it is fated for you yourself to be brought down by force, by a god and by a man."
When he had said this, the Furies stopped his voice. Deeply troubled, swift-footed Achilles answered him:
"Xanthus, why do you prophesy my death to me? There is no need. I know well enough myself that it is my fate to die here, far from my dear father and mother. But even so, I will not stop until I have driven the Trojans to their fill of war."
So he spoke, and shouting, drove his single-hoofed horses forward among the front ranks.

======== Book 20 ========

So the Achaeans armed beside their curved ships around you, son of Peleus, never sated with battle, and the Trojans on the other side, up on the rise of the plain. And Zeus told Themis to summon the gods to assembly, calling from the many-folded height of Olympus; and she went everywhere and told them to come to the house of Zeus. No river was absent except Ocean, and no nymph either, of those who haunt the lovely groves, the springs of rivers, and the grassy meadows. They came to the hall of Zeus who gathers the clouds and took their seats in the polished colonnades that Hephaestus had built for father Zeus with his cunning skill.
So they gathered inside the house of Zeus, and the Earthshaker did not fail to heed the goddess either, but came up out of the sea to join them, and sat down in their midst, and asked Zeus his purpose: "Why have you called the gods to assembly again, lord of the bright thunderbolt? Is it something about the Trojans and Achaeans you're pondering? For their battle and their war are blazing very close now."
Answering him Zeus who gathers the clouds said: "You have seen into my mind, Earth-shaker, and know why I gathered them — even in their ruin, they concern me. But I myself will stay here on a fold of Olympus, sitting where I can watch and please my heart. The rest of you, go down until you reach the Trojans and Achaeans, and help each side as each of you is minded. For if Achilles fights the Trojans alone, unhelped, they will not hold out even a little against the swift son of Peleus — before now they trembled just at the sight of him, and now that his heart rages so terribly over his friend, I fear he may raze the wall itself, beyond what fate allows."
So spoke the son of Cronus, and roused war that would not be checked. And the gods went down to the war, their hearts split between the two sides: Hera went to the ships, with Pallas Athena, and Poseidon who holds the earth, and the helpful god Hermes, who excels in shrewd thoughts; and Hephaestus went with them too, glorying in his strength, limping, though his thin legs moved him quickly. But toward the Trojans went Ares of the flashing helm, and with him unshorn Phoebus, and Artemis showering arrows, and Leto, and the river Xanthus, and laughing Aphrodite.
Now as long as the gods stayed apart from mortal men, the Achaeans gloried greatly, since Achilles had appeared again, after being so long kept from grim battle; but a terrible trembling came over every Trojan limb as they took fright, seeing the swift son of Peleus blazing in his armor, a match for man-killing Ares. But when the Olympians came in among the throng of men, mighty Strife who drives men on rose up, and Athena cried out, standing now beside the dug trench outside the wall, now shouting long and loud along the echoing shore. And on the other side Ares cried out, like a black storm-wind, urging the Trojans on shrilly from the city's height, then again running along the Simois by Kallikolone.
So the blessed gods drove the two sides together and clashed, and broke a heavy quarrel open between them. The father of gods and men thundered terribly from above, while below Poseidon shook the boundless earth and the steep heads of the mountains. All the roots of many-fountained Ida shook, and its peaks, and the city of the Trojans, and the ships of the Achaeans. And Hades, lord of the dead below, was afraid — he leapt in fear from his throne and cried out, lest Poseidon the Earth-shaker split the earth open above him and lay bare to mortals and immortals alike his house, dank and dreadful, which even the gods shudder at. So great was the crash that rose when the gods came together in strife.
For against lord Poseidon stood Phoebus Apollo with his winged arrows, and against Enyalius stood the gray-eyed goddess Athena; against Hera stood Artemis of the golden distaff, showering arrows, sister of the Far-shooter; against Leto stood the strong, helpful god Hermes; and against Hephaestus stood the great river of deep eddies whom the gods call Xanthus, and men call Scamander.
So the gods went against gods. But Achilles longed above all to plunge into the crowd against Hector, Priam's son — it was his blood, more than any other's, that his heart drove him to give to Ares, that tireless warrior. But Apollo, who drives men on, sent Aeneas straight against the son of Peleus, filling him with strong courage, and made his voice sound like that of Priam's son Lycaon. In that likeness Apollo, son of Zeus, spoke to him:
"Aeneas, counselor of the Trojans, where now are the threats you made over your wine, promising the Trojan lords you would stand and fight the son of Peleus, Achilles, face to face?"
Then Aeneas answered him: "Son of Priam, why do you urge me to this, against my will, to fight the proud son of Peleus face to face? This would not be the first time I stood against swift Achilles — once before his spear routed me, from Ida, when he came upon our cattle and sacked Lyrnessus and Pedasus. But Zeus saved me then, and gave strength to my knees and speed to my feet, or I would have gone down under the hands of Achilles and Athena, who went before him giving him light and urging him to cut down the Leleges and Trojans with his bronze spear. No man can stand against Achilles and live, for always some god is at his side warding off ruin. And besides, his spear flies straight and does not stop until it has driven through a man's flesh. If only a god would hold the outcome of the fight level, he would not win so easily, even boasting that he is bronze all over."
Then lord Apollo, son of Zeus, said to him: "Then you too, hero, call on the gods who live forever. They say you were born of Zeus's daughter, Aphrodite, while his mother comes from a lesser god — one is Zeus's daughter, the other the daughter of the old man of the sea. Carry your tireless bronze straight at him, and do not let him turn you back with his cruel and threatening words."
So he spoke, and breathed great strength into the shepherd of the people, and Aeneas strode through the front ranks, armed in gleaming bronze.
Nor did white-armed Hera fail to notice Anchises' son going through the ranks of men against the son of Peleus. She gathered the gods together and spoke among them: "Consider now, both of you, Poseidon and Athena, in your hearts, how these things will turn out. Here is Aeneas, gone out armed in gleaming bronze against the son of Peleus, sent by Phoebus Apollo. Come, let us turn him back where he stands, or else let one of us go stand by Achilles and give him great strength, so that he knows the best of the immortals love him, and that those others are nothing but wind who have long defended the Trojans from war and ruin. All of us came down from Olympus to take part in this battle, so that Achilles takes no harm today at Trojan hands — later he will suffer whatever fate spun for him with her thread when his mother bore him. But if Achilles does not learn this from the voice of the gods, he will be afraid whenever a god comes against him face to face in battle — it is a hard thing for gods to appear plainly to men."
Then Poseidon the Earth-shaker answered her: "Hera, do not rage beyond reason — it does not become you. I myself would not wish to drive the gods, us here, into conflict with the others, since we are far stronger. Instead let us go and sit ourselves down on a lookout away from the path, and leave the war to men. But if Ares or Phoebus Apollo begin the fighting, or hold Achilles back and won't let him fight, then at once a quarrel of battle will rise between us too, and I think they will very quickly be driven apart and go back up to Olympus, to the gathering of the other gods, beaten down under the force of our hands."
So speaking, the dark-haired god led the way to the built-up rampart of godlike Heracles, high and steep, which the Trojans and Pallas Athena had made for him, so that he could flee there and escape the sea-monster whenever it drove him from the shore toward the plain. There Poseidon sat down, and the other gods with him, and wrapped an unbreakable cloud about their shoulders; while the others took their seats on the other side, along the ridges of Kallikolone, around you, Phoebus, and Ares, sacker of cities. So the gods sat apart on either side, weighing their plans, both sides reluctant to begin the grim fighting, while Zeus, sitting on high, urged them on.
Meanwhile the whole plain was filled with them and shone with bronze — men and horses — and the earth rang under the feet of those rushing together. And two men, far the best, came together in the space between the two armies, eager to fight: Aeneas, son of Anchises, and godlike Achilles.
Aeneas came forward first with threats, nodding his heavy helmet; he held his strong shield in front of his chest and brandished his bronze spear. On the other side the son of Peleus rose to meet him like a lion, a marauder that a whole gathered village of men is bent on killing; at first he goes on scorning them, but when one of the quick young men has struck him with a spear, he crouches open-mouthed, foam gathers around his teeth, his brave heart groans within him, and he lashes his ribs and flanks on both sides with his tail, working himself up to fight, and glaring, he charges straight on in his fury, to kill some man or himself die in the first rush. So Achilles' strength and proud heart drove him on to meet great-hearted Aeneas.
When they had come close, advancing on each other, swift godlike Achilles spoke first to him: "Aeneas, why have you come out so far ahead of the crowd and taken your stand? Does your heart urge you to fight me in hope of ruling the horse-taming Trojans with Priam's honor? Even if you were to kill me, Priam would not for that place the prize in your hand — he has sons of his own, and he is sound of mind, not foolish. Or have the Trojans marked out for you a fine plot of orchard and plowland, better than the rest, to hold if you kill me? I think you will find that a hard thing to do. I say I have already routed you once before with my spear. Or do you not remember when I chased you alone away from your cattle, down the slopes of Ida, on my swift feet, running hard? You didn't turn to look back then as you fled. From there you escaped to Lyrnessus — but I stormed after and sacked it, with Athena and father Zeus at my side, and led off the captive women, stripped of their day of freedom; you, though, Zeus and the other gods saved. I don't think they will shield you now, as you imagine in your heart they will. No — I tell you, go back into the crowd, and do not stand against me, before you come to harm. Even a fool learns once the deed is done."
Then Aeneas answered him: "Son of Peleus, do not hope to frighten me with words as if I were a child — I know well enough myself how to speak both taunts and insults. We each know the other's lineage, we each know the other's parents, from what we have heard told by mortal men, in famous stories — though with our own eyes neither of us has seen the other's parents. They say you are the offspring of blameless Peleus, and that your mother is Thetis of the lovely hair, from the sea; and I claim to be the son of great-hearted Anchises, and my mother is Aphrodite. One pair or the other will mourn a beloved son today — for I do not think we two will part from this battle and go home again with nothing more than childish words between us. But if you wish to learn this too, so that you know well our lineage — for many men know it — Zeus who gathers the clouds first fathered Dardanus, who founded Dardania, since sacred Ilium was not yet built in the plain as a city of speaking men, and they still dwelt on the slopes of many-fountained Ida. And Dardanus fathered a son, king Erichthonius, who became the richest of mortal men: he had three thousand mares that grazed in the marshland, mares with their tender foals, delighting in them. And the North Wind fell in love with them as they grazed, and took the shape of a dark-maned stallion and lay with them, and they conceived and bore twelve foals. And when these pranced over the grain-giving plowland, they ran over the topmost ears of grain and did not break them; and when they pranced over the broad back of the sea, they ran along the topmost edge of the foaming surf. And Erichthonius fathered Tros, king of the Trojans, and from Tros in turn came three blameless sons, Ilus, Assaracus, and godlike Ganymede, who became the most beautiful of mortal men, so that the gods carried him off to pour wine for Zeus, for the sake of his beauty, so that he might live among the immortals. And Ilus fathered a son, blameless Laomedon, and Laomedon fathered Tithonus, and Priam, and Lampus, and Clytius, and Hicetaon, offshoot of Ares; and Assaracus fathered Capys, and he fathered his son Anchises; and Anchises fathered me, and Priam fathered godlike Hector. This is the lineage and blood I claim as my own. But Zeus increases or diminishes a man's strength as he wills, for he is mightiest of all. Come, let us no longer talk like children, standing here in the midst of this grim fighting. There are insults enough for both of us to hurl at each other, more than a ship of a hundred oars could carry as cargo. The tongue of mortals turns easily; there are many kinds of words stored up in it, ranging far and wide. Whatever kind of word you speak, such a one you are likely to hear back. But why must we two quarrel and trade insults with each other like women, who, angered by some heart-devouring feud, go out and hurl abuse at each other in the middle of the street, one true thing and many false — for anger drives them to it. You will not turn me back from my courage with words, not before we have fought it out with bronze, face to face. Come, let us taste each other's bronze-tipped spears at once."
With that he drove his heavy spear into the terrible, dreadful shield, and the point of the spear rang loud against the great shield. The son of Peleus held the shield away from him with his broad hand, afraid, for he thought the long-shadowed spear of great-hearted Aeneas would pass easily through — poor fool, not understanding in his mind and heart that the gods' glorious gifts do not yield or give way so easily to mortal men. And this time the heavy spear of bold Aeneas did not break through the shield, for the gold, the god's own gift, held it back; it drove through two layers, but three still remained, for the crook-footed god had hammered five layers onto it, two of bronze, two of tin within, and one of gold, and it was this that stopped the ashen spear. Then Achilles in turn let fly his own long-shadowed spear, and struck Aeneas's perfectly balanced shield at the very rim, where the bronze ran thinnest and the ox-hide backing it was thinnest too; the Pelian ash spear tore straight through, and the shield cracked under its force. Aeneas crouched down and held the shield out and away from him, afraid; and the spear passed over his back and stuck fast in the ground, still quivering, after tearing through both circles of the man-shielding shield. He escaped the long spear and stood there, and boundless grief poured over his eyes, terrified that the weapon had struck so close to him. But Achilles, raging, rushed at him, drawing his sharp sword and shouting terribly. Then Aeneas seized a stone in his hand — a massive thing, which two men, as men are now, could not carry — but he swung it easily, alone.
Then Aeneas would have struck the charging Achilles with the stone, on his helmet or his shield, which would have warded off grim death from him, and Achilles would have closed in and taken his life with the sword — had not Poseidon the Earth-shaker seen it sharply in time. At once he spoke among the immortal gods: "Ah, what grief I feel for great-hearted Aeneas, who will soon go down to the house of Hades, beaten by the son of Peleus, because he trusted the words of Apollo who shoots from afar — poor fool, and Apollo will do nothing to save him from grim destruction. But why should this innocent man suffer pain now, uselessly, for others' griefs, when he has always given pleasing gifts to the gods who hold the wide heaven? Come, let us lead him ourselves out from under death,
"Let it not happen that the son of Cronus grows angry, if Achilles kills this man now. It is fated that he escape, so that the line of Dardanus not perish root and branch and vanish from sight — Dardanus, whom the son of Cronus loved beyond all the sons born to him from mortal women. For Cronus's son has already come to hate the line of Priam, and now the strength of Aeneas will rule the Trojans, he and his sons' sons who are yet to come."
Then the ox-eyed lady Hera answered him: "Shaker of Earth, weigh this yourself in your own mind. Either you pull Aeneas free, or you leave him to be beaten down by Achilles, son of Peleus, brave as he is. For the two of us, Pallas Athena and I, have sworn many oaths before all the immortals, never to ward off the evil day from the Trojans — not even when all Troy burns in raging fire, set ablaze by the warlike sons of the Achaeans."
When Poseidon, shaker of the earth, heard this, he went off through the fighting and the storm of spears, and came to where Aeneas and glorious Achilles stood. At once he poured a mist over the eyes of Achilles, son of Peleus, and pulled the bronze-tipped ash spear from the shield of great-hearted Aeneas, and set it down before the feet of Achilles. Then he lifted Aeneas high off the ground and sent him flying. Aeneas soared over many ranks of warriors and many ranks of horses, hurled onward by the god's hand, and came down at the far edge of the raging battle, where the Cauconians were arming themselves for war. Poseidon, shaker of the earth, came close beside him there,
and spoke to him, and his words flew fast: "Aeneas, which of the gods commands you to be so reckless as to fight face to face with the proud son of Peleus, who is both stronger than you and dearer to the immortals? Draw back whenever you meet him, or you may go down to the house of Hades before your fated day. But once Achilles meets his death and doom, then take heart and fight among the foremost, for no other Achaean will be able to cut you down."
With these words he left him there, once he had made everything clear. And at once he swept the strange mist from Achilles's eyes. Achilles stared hard, and, troubled, spoke to his own great heart: "Ah, here is a marvel I see before my eyes! My spear lies here on the ground, but I cannot see the man I hurled it at, meaning to kill him. So Aeneas really is dear to the immortal gods after all — and I thought his boasting was empty. Let him go. His heart won't want to test me again, since he was glad enough to escape death just now.
"But come — let me call to the Danaans who love the din of war, and go up against the rest of the Trojans, and test them." So saying, he leaped along the ranks, and called out to each man: "No longer stand apart from the Trojans, brilliant Achaeans — let man go against man, and let each be eager to fight! Hard it is for me, strong as I am, to press so many men and fight them all. Not even Ares, immortal god that he is, not even Athena, could range the mouth of so vast a battle and labor through it. But whatever I can do with my hands, my feet, and my strength,
that I will do without holding back, not even a little — I will drive straight through their line, and I don't think any Trojan who comes near my spear will be glad of it." So he spoke, urging them on. And on the other side glorious Hector shouted to the Trojans, calling them to battle, and declared he would go against Achilles himself: "Proud-hearted Trojans, do not fear the son of Peleus. I too could fight even the immortals with words, but with the spear it is hard, since they are far stronger. Achilles will not bring every one of his boasts to pass — some he will accomplish, but others he will cut short midway.
"I will go against him even if his hands are like fire — even if his hands are like fire, and his fury like blazing iron!" So he spoke, urging them on, and the Trojans raised their spears against the enemy, and their fury mingled together, and the war-cry rose. Then Phoebus Apollo came and stood beside Hector and said: "Hector, do not fight Achilles out in front any longer — hold back within the crowd, out of the roar of battle, or he may strike you with a spear-throw, or catch you close and cut you down with his sword." So he spoke, and Hector shrank back again into the mass of men, seized with fear once he heard the voice of the god speaking.
Then Achilles leaped among the Trojans, his heart clothed in fury, screaming his terrible war-cry, and first he cut down Iphition, brave son of Otrynteus, leader of many people, whom a water-nymph bore to Otrynteus, sacker of cities, beneath snowy Tmolus in the rich land of Hyde. As he charged straight at him, godlike Achilles struck him with his spear full in the head, and it split clean apart. He fell with a crash, and godlike Achilles boasted over him: "You lie there, son of Otrynteus, most terrible of all men! Here is your death, though you were born beside the lake
of Gyge, where your father's estate lies, by the fish-filled Hyllus and the swirling Hermus." So he spoke in triumph, and darkness covered the dead man's eyes. The chariots of the Achaeans tore his body apart with their wheel-rims in the first shock of the fight. Next Achilles struck down Demoleon, son of Antenor, a brave defender in battle, stabbing him through the temple, through his bronze-cheeked helmet. The bronze helm did not hold — the spear-point drove straight through, shattered the bone, and his brains were splattered all inside. So he brought down a man still eager for the fight.
Then he struck Hippodamas with his spear in the back as he leaped down from his chariot and fled before him. Hippodamas gasped out his life and bellowed, as a bull bellows when young men drag it around the altar of the Lord of Helicon, and the Earth-Shaker delights in it. So his proud spirit left his bones as he bellowed there. Then Achilles went with his spear after godlike Polydorus, son of Priam. His father would not let him fight at all, since he was the youngest-born of all his sons and the dearest to him, and he outran everyone on foot.
But now, in his youthful folly, showing off the speed of his feet, he ran wild through the front ranks, until he lost his own life. Swift-footed godlike Achilles struck him with a javelin square in the back as he raced past, where the golden clasps of his belt met and the double breastplate joined. The spear-point drove straight through and out beside his navel, and he fell to his knees with a groan, and a dark cloud wrapped around him as he sank down, clutching his spilling guts in his hands. When Hector saw his brother Polydorus
holding his own guts in his hands as he sank to the ground, a mist poured down over his eyes; he could no longer bear to circle at a distance, but went straight at Achilles, shaking his sharp spear like a tongue of flame. When Achilles saw him, he sprang up, and cried out in triumph: "Here is the man who has wounded my heart the most — the one who killed my beloved companion. No longer will we shrink from each other along the causeways of war!" So he spoke, and with a dark glance he called out to godlike Hector: "Come closer, so you may sooner reach the end that is death."
Hector of the flashing helmet, unafraid, answered him: "Son of Peleus, do not hope to frighten me with words as though I were a child — I too know well how to speak taunts and insults. I know that you are strong, and that I am far weaker than you. Yet even so, this lies in the knees of the gods — that I, weaker as I am, might still take your life with a cast of the spear, since my point too has been sharp before now." So he spoke, and drew back his arm and hurled his spear — but Athena turned it aside from glorious Achilles with a light breath,
and it drifted back to godlike Hector and fell there before his feet. Then Achilles rushed at him, his heart clothed in fury, eager to kill, screaming his terrible war-cry — but Apollo snatched Hector away, easily, as a god can, and wrapped him in thick mist. Three times swift-footed godlike Achilles charged forward with his bronze spear, and three times he struck only the deep mist. But when he charged a fourth time, like something more than mortal, he shouted a terrible threat and his words flew fast: "Dog, this time again you have escaped death — and it came close to you indeed. But now Phoebus Apollo has saved you again,
the god you must pray to whenever you walk into the crash of spears. I will finish you yet, be sure of it, when we meet again — if I too have some god on my side to help me. For now I will go after the rest, whoever I can catch." So saying, he stabbed Dryops through the middle of the neck with his javelin, and Dryops fell before his feet; Achilles left him lying there, and struck Demouchos, son of Philetor, a big, fine man, in the knee with his spear and stopped him in his tracks; then he finished him off with a great sword-thrust and tore the life from him. Then he charged Laogonus and Dardanus, the sons of Bias,
and knocked them both down from their chariot to the ground — one struck with the spear, the other cut down close with the sword. And Tros, son of Alastor, came up and clasped his knees, begging that he might somehow be spared and let go alive, and not be killed — hoping Achilles might pity a man his own age. Foolish man, he did not know there was no persuading Achilles now — for he was not a man of gentle heart or kindly mind, but altogether savage. Tros clutched at his knees with both hands, longing to plead with him, but Achilles drove his sword into his liver;
the liver slid out, and dark blood poured from it and soaked his lap, and darkness covered his eyes as his life left him. Then Achilles came up beside Mulius and stabbed him through the ear with his spear, and the bronze point drove clean through and out the other ear. Then he struck Echeclus, son of Agenor, full on the head with his hilted sword, and the whole blade grew hot with blood; and the purple hand of death and mighty fate seized him by the eyes. Next he pierced Deucalion through the arm, where the tendons of the elbow join,
there through his own hand, right through with the bronze point; and Deucalion stood waiting for death, his arm made heavy and useless, watching death come on before him — and Achilles struck his neck with the sword and sent his head flying far off, helmet and all. The marrow spurted out from his spine, and he lay stretched on the ground. Then Achilles went after the blameless son of Peires, Rhigmus, who had come from the rich soil of Thrace; he struck him in the middle with his javelin, and the bronze lodged in his belly, and he fell headlong from his chariot. And as his attendant Areithous wheeled the horses around to flee, Achilles stabbed him in the back with his sharp spear and threw him off the chariot, and the horses bolted in confusion.
As a raging fire sweeps through the deep gorges of a parched mountain and the thick forest burns, and the wind whips the flame on every side and drives it whirling — so Achilles raged everywhere with his spear, like something more than mortal, hunting down the men he killed, and the black earth ran with blood. And as a man yokes broad-browed oxen to thresh white barley on a well-built threshing floor, and the grain is quickly husked beneath the feet of the bellowing oxen — so, under great-hearted Achilles, his single-hoofed horses trampled the dead and their shields together, and the axle beneath the chariot was all splattered with blood, and the rails that ran around the car as well,
spattered by drops flung up from the horses' hooves and from the chariot wheels. And the son of Peleus pressed on, straining to win glory, his invincible hands smeared and fouled with gore.

======== Book 21 ========

But when they reached the ford of the fair-flowing river, the whirling waters of Xanthus, whom immortal Zeus had fathered, there Achilles split the Trojans apart and drove some across the plain toward the city, the very ground where the Achaeans had fled in terror the day before, when glorious Hector had raged. Along that path the Trojans now poured out in flight, and Hera spread a thick mist before them to hold them back. But half of them were driven into the deep-flowing river with its silver eddies, and they plunged in with a great crash, and the steep banks echoed around them, and they swam here and there crying out, spun about in the whirling currents.
As when locusts driven by a sudden blast of fire take wing and flee toward a river, while the tireless flame springs up behind them and they cower down into the water — so before Achilles the roaring stream of deep-whirling Xanthus was choked with a tangle of horses and men. And Achilles, sprung from Zeus, left his spear leaning against a tamarisk on the bank and leapt into the river like something more than mortal, armed only with his sword, and his heart was set on grim work. He struck out on every side, and an ugly groaning rose from men cut down by the blade, and the water ran red with blood.
As small fish flee before a huge dolphin and fill the coves of a snug harbor in terror, for it devours whatever it catches — so the Trojans cowered beneath the banks along that dreadful river's course. And when his arms grew weary with killing, Achilles picked out twelve young men alive from the river as payment for the death of Patroclus, son of Menoetius. He led them out dazed like fawns, bound their hands behind them with well-cut leather straps — the very straps they wore around their own tunics — and gave them to his companions to lead down to the hollow ships.
Then he sprang back again, eager for more slaughter. There he came upon a son of Priam, Lycaon, fleeing from the river — the same young man Achilles had once taken by force from his father's orchard, catching him there at night as he was cutting young fig-tree shoots with sharp bronze to make the rails of a chariot. That time disaster had come upon him unlooked for at the hands of godlike Achilles, who had sold him across the sea to well-built Lemnos, and the son of Jason had paid the price for him.
From there a guest-friend had ransomed him and given much for his freedom — Eetion of Imbros — who sent him on to sacred Arisbe; and from there, slipping away, he had made his way back to his father's house. For eleven days he had taken joy in his heart among his own people, home from Lemnos; but on the twelfth day a god cast him once more into the hands of Achilles, who was fated to send him down to the house of Hades though he had no wish to go. Swift-footed godlike Achilles saw him now, stripped of helmet and shield, carrying no spear at all —
for he had flung everything to the ground, since sweat wore him down as he fled the river, and exhaustion had loosened his knees beneath him. Achilles, troubled, spoke to his own great heart: "By the gods, this is a marvel I see with my own eyes! Surely the great-hearted Trojans I have cut down will now rise again out of the murky dark, since here this one comes back, having escaped his pitiless day of doom, sold away to sacred Lemnos — the gray sea that holds back so many against their will did not hold him. Come then, he shall taste the point of my spear as well, so that I may see for myself and learn
whether he will come back from there too, or whether the life-giving earth will hold him down, as it holds even the strong." So he pondered as he waited, while Lycaon came near him, dazed, longing to clasp his knees — for above all he wanted with his whole heart to escape wretched death and black fate. Godlike Achilles raised his long spear, eager to strike, but Lycaon ducked beneath it and ran in to grasp his knees, crouching low, and the spear passed over his back and stood fixed in the earth, hungry still to taste human flesh.
With one hand Lycaon clutched Achilles' knees, beseeching him, while with the other he held the sharp spear fast and would not let it go. And he spoke to him, calling out winged words: "I beg you by your knees, Achilles — respect me and pity me. I stand before you as a suppliant worthy of honor, sprung from Zeus. For it was at your table that I first tasted the grain of Demeter, on the day you captured me in my father's well-worked orchard, and carried me off far from my father and my friends, and sold me away to sacred Lemnos, and I brought you the price of a hundred oxen. Now I have paid three times that to be freed — and this is only
my twelfth dawn since I came back to Troy, after suffering much. And now again cruel fate has thrown me into your hands. I must be hateful to father Zeus, who has given me to you a second time. My mother bore me for a short life — Laothoe, daughter of old Altes, Altes who rules the war-loving Leleges, holding steep Pedasus above the river Satnioeis. Priam took his daughter as one wife among many, and she bore two sons, both of whom you will cut down. One you already killed among the front ranks of the foot soldiers —
godlike Polydorus, when you struck him with your sharp spear. And now evil will come to me here as well, for I do not think I can escape your hands, since some god has brought me close to you again. But I will tell you one more thing, and lay it to heart: do not kill me, for I am not born of the same womb as Hector — the man who killed your gentle, mighty friend." So the shining son of Priam spoke, pleading with these words, but he heard back a pitiless voice in answer:
"Fool, do not speak to me of ransom, do not go on about it. Before Patroclus met his fated day, it was somewhat dearer to my heart to spare the Trojans, and many I took alive and sold away. But now not one will escape death, whomever god delivers into my hands before the walls of Troy — none of the Trojans, and least of all the sons of Priam. No, friend, you too must die. Why do you weep like this? Patroclus died too, and he was a far better man than you. And look at me — do you not see how large and handsome I am? My father is a noble man, and a goddess bore me as my mother —
yet even over me hang death and mighty fate. There will come a dawn, or an evening, or a noontime, when someone will take my life too in battle, whether with a spear-cast or an arrow loosed from the string." So he spoke, and Lycaon's knees and heart gave way beneath him. He let go of the spear and sat back, spreading both his hands wide, and Achilles drew his sharp sword and struck him by the collarbone, at the neck, and the double-edged blade sank in entirely. He fell face down on the ground and lay stretched out, and black blood ran out and soaked the earth. Achilles seized him by the foot and flung him into the river to be carried off,
and boasting over him he spoke winged words: "Lie there now among the fish, who will lick the blood clean from your wound without a care. Your mother will not lay you on a bier and mourn you — no, Scamander will carry you spinning down into the wide gulf of the sea, and some fish leaping under a wave will dart through the dark ripple to eat the white fat of Lycaon. Perish, all of you, until we reach the city of sacred Troy — you fleeing before me, and I cutting you down from behind. Not even your fair-flowing river with its silver eddies
will save you, for all the bulls you have long sacrificed to it, and the live horses you have thrown into its whirling pools. Even so you will perish a wretched death, until every one of you has paid for the killing of Patroclus and the ruin of the Achaeans that you dealt beside the swift ships while I was absent." So he spoke, and the river grew still angrier at heart, and turned over in his mind how he might stop godlike Achilles from his work and ward destruction off from the Trojans. Meanwhile the son of Peleus, holding his long-shadowed spear, sprang at Asteropaeus, son of Pelegon, eager to kill him,
grandson of the river Axius, wide-flowing, who had fathered him with Periboea, eldest daughter of Acessamenus — for the deep-whirling river had lain with her. Achilles rushed at him, and he stood his ground before the river, holding two spears; for Xanthus had put strength into his heart, angered over the young men Achilles had cut down all along his stream without pity. When the two came near each other, swift-footed godlike Achilles spoke first: "Who are you, and from where, that you dare to come and face me? Wretched are the sons who meet my fury."
And the shining son of Pelegon answered him: "Great-hearted son of Peleus, why ask about my lineage? I have come from rich Paeonia, a land far off, leading Paeonian spearmen with long lances, and this is now my eleventh dawn since I came to Troy. My descent is from the wide-flowing river Axius — Axius, whose water runs the fairest over the earth — who fathered famed Pelegon with the spear, and they say he fathered me. Now let us fight, shining Achilles."
So he spoke in threat, and godlike Achilles raised the Pelian ash spear. But the hero Asteropaeus, being able with both hands, hurled with both spears at once. With one he struck the shield but did not pierce it through, for the gold, the god's own gift, held it back; with the other he grazed Achilles' right forearm, and dark blood spurted out, and the spear stuck fast in the ground beyond him, still hungry to taste flesh. Then Achilles in turn hurled his straight-flying ash spear at Asteropaeus, eager to kill him,
but he missed his mark, and struck the high riverbank, driving the ashwood spear halfway into the earth of the bank. Then the son of Peleus drew his sharp sword from beside his thigh and leapt at him in fury; and Asteropaeus could not pull Achilles' spear free from the bank with his powerful hand. Three times he shook it, straining to draw it out, and three times his strength gave way; a fourth time his heart urged him to bend and snap the ashwood shaft of the grandson of Aeacus, but before he could, Achilles closed in and took his life with the sword. He struck him in the belly beside the navel, and all his entrails
spilled out onto the ground, and darkness covered his eyes as he gasped for breath. Achilles sprang upon his chest, stripped his armor, and cried out in triumph: "Lie there like that — it is a hard thing to match the children of the almighty son of Cronus, even for one born of a river. You claimed your descent from a wide-flowing river; I claim mine from great Zeus himself. My father is a man who rules over many Myrmidons, Peleus, son of Aeacus, and Aeacus was born of Zeus. So as Zeus is mightier than rivers that flow to the sea,
so too is the offspring of Zeus mightier than the offspring of a river. Indeed you have a great river beside you now, if it can do you any good — but there is no fighting against Zeus, son of Cronus. Not even lord Achelous can match him, nor the great strength of deep-flowing Ocean himself, from whom all rivers and every sea and all springs and deep wells flow — even he fears the lightning of great Zeus and his dread thunder, when it crashes down from the sky." So he spoke, and pulled his bronze spear out of the bank,
and left the body lying there where its life had been taken from it, on the sand, with the dark water washing over it. Eels and fish crowded around it, tearing at and stripping the fat from around its kidneys. Then Achilles went after the horse-driving Paeonians, who were still cowering by the whirling river, since they had seen their best man brought down in the fierce struggle by the hands and sword of the son of Peleus. There he killed Thersilochus, Mydon, Astypylus, Mnesus, Thrasius, Aenius, and Ophelestes.
And swift Achilles would have killed still more of the Paeonians, but the deep-whirling river, angered, called out to him in the likeness of a man, speaking from deep within his eddies: "Achilles, you surpass all men in strength, and you surpass them too in the terrible things you do, for the gods themselves are always at your side to help you. If the son of Cronus has granted you to destroy all the Trojans, then drive them out of my waters and do your terrible work on the plain. My lovely streams are choked with corpses now,
and I cannot pour my current forward into the bright sea, so crowded am I with the dead, while you go on killing without mercy. Come now, let it be enough — I am seized with horror, lord of men." And swift-footed Achilles answered him: "So it shall be, Scamander, nurtured by Zeus, just as you ask. But I will not stop cutting down these arrogant Trojans until I have driven them into their city and tested myself against Hector face to face, to see whether he brings me down, or I bring down him."
So saying he rushed at the Trojans like something more than mortal. Then the deep-whirling river spoke to Apollo: "Shame on you, lord of the silver bow, son of Zeus — you have not kept the command of the son of Cronus, who charged you strictly
to stand by the Trojans and defend them until evening falls late and darkness shadows the rich farmland." So he spoke, and spear-famed Achilles leapt down into the middle of the river, springing from the bank. And the river rushed at him swollen with fury, churning all his streams into turmoil, and shoved aside the many corpses that lay thick within him, the ones Achilles had killed — these he cast out onto dry land, bellowing like a bull, while he kept the living safe within his fair waters, hiding them in his deep, wide pools. And a terrible wave rose seething around Achilles,
the current beating against his shield and pushing him back, so that his feet could find no footing. He caught hold of a great, well-grown elm tree with his hands, but it tore up by the roots, dragging the whole bank down with it, and dammed the fair stream with its thick branches, bridging it entirely as it fell in. Achilles sprang up out of the whirling water and dashed off across the plain on flying feet, in fear, but the great god did not let him go, and rose up after him,
crested with a dark, foaming crown, to stop godlike Achilles from his work and ward destruction off from the Trojans. The son of Peleus sprang back the distance of a spear-throw, with the swoop of a black eagle, the hunter, which is both the strongest and the swiftest of winged things — like that he darted away, and the bronze on his chest clashed terribly. He swerved aside and fled beneath the flood, and it came pouring after him with a great roaring crash. As when a man who tends the water channels leads a stream from a dark spring among his plants and gardens, mattock in hand, clearing the blockage from the ditch —
and as it runs forward all the pebbles are swept along beneath it, and it goes rushing swiftly downhill, murmuring, over sloping ground, and outruns even the man who guides it — so the wave of the river's current kept overtaking Achilles again and again, swift as he was; for the gods are stronger than men. As often as swift-footed godlike Achilles tried to make a stand and face him, to learn whether all the immortals who hold the wide heavens were driving him in terror, just so often the great wave of the sky-fed river
struck him about the shoulders from above, and he leapt up high with his feet, his heart in anguish, while the river wore away the ground beneath his knees, rushing beneath him violently and sweeping the dirt from under his feet. Then the son of Peleus groaned aloud, looking up at the wide heavens: "Father Zeus, is there truly no god willing to pity me and save me from this river? After that, let anything happen to me. None of the heavenly gods is as much to blame for this as my own dear mother, who beguiled me with lies —
she told me I would die beneath the walls of the armored Trojans, struck down by the swift arrows of Apollo. I wish Hector had killed me, the best man raised in this land — then a brave man would have slain me, and a brave man would have stripped my armor. But now it seems I am fated to die a miserable death, trapped in this great river, like a boy tending pigs who is swept away by a torrent while trying to cross it in a storm." So he spoke, and at once Poseidon and Athena came swiftly
and stood close beside him, taking the shape of men, and clasping his hand in theirs they reassured him with their words. Poseidon, shaker of the earth, spoke first among them: "Son of Peleus, do not tremble so, and do not be afraid, for we two are such helpers sent to you from among the gods, with the approval of Zeus — I, and Pallas Athena.
It is not your fate to be brought down by a river; he will soon subside, as you yourself will see. But we will give you sound advice, if you will listen to it: do not hold back your hands from this leveling war until you have penned the Trojan army, all who escape you, within the famed walls of Troy. Then, once you have taken Hector's life, go back to the ships — we grant you the glory of that victory." So having spoken the two of them went back among the immortals; and Achilles went on, for the command of the gods had roused him greatly,
out onto the plain, and it was all filled with water pouring everywhere,
Fine armor floated everywhere, the gear of young men killed in battle, and corpses drifted with it. His knees leaped high against the current as he charged straight upstream, and the river, wide as it ran, could not hold him back — Athena had thrown enormous strength into him. Nor did Scamander let his fury slacken; he grew angrier still at the son of Peleus, reared up the crest of his stream, and shouted a summons to Simoeis: "Dear brother, the two of us together must check this man's strength, or soon he will tear down great Priam's city, and the Trojans will not hold their ground in battle any longer.
Come to my aid at once — fill your channels with water from your springs, rouse every stream to flood, raise a great wave, stir up a huge crash of timber and stone, so that we can stop this savage man who now holds the mastery and rages like the gods themselves. I tell you, neither his strength nor his beauty will save him, nor that fine armor, which will lie sunk deep in the marsh, buried in mud. I will wrap the man himself in sand, pour endless shingle over him, so much that the Achaeans won't even be able
to gather his bones, I will bury him so deep in silt. That will be his grave — he'll need no mound heaped up when the Achaeans bury him." So he spoke, and rose up against Achilles, seething and swollen, roaring with foam and blood and corpses. The dark purple wave of the god-fed river towered up and reared, and it was pulling the son of Peleus under. Hera cried out loudly, terrified for Achilles, afraid the great deep-swirling river would sweep him away, and at once she spoke to her own dear son, Hephaestus:
"Rouse yourself, Crookfoot, my child — we have long believed that swirling Xanthus was a match for you in battle. Come to his aid at once, show a great blaze of fire. I will go raise a fierce storm out of the sea, from the West Wind and the bright South Wind, one strong enough to burn the Trojans' heads and armor with an evil blaze — and you, along the banks of Xanthus, burn the trees, throw the river itself into the fire. Don't let him turn you aside with soft words or with threats,
and don't let up your fury until I call out and shout to you — only then hold back the tireless fire." So she spoke, and Hephaestus kindled his terrible blaze. First the fire caught across the plain and burned the many corpses that lay piled there, the men Achilles had killed; the whole plain dried out, and the bright water was checked. Just as the North Wind in autumn quickly dries a freshly watered orchard, and the man who tends it rejoices — so the whole plain dried out, and Hephaestus burned up the corpses, then turned his blazing flame upon the river itself. Elms burned, and willows, and tamarisks,
the lotus burned, and the rushes and the galingale, all the plants that had grown thick along the lovely banks of the river. The eels and fish that lived in the eddies writhed in pain, diving this way and that through the fair currents, tormented by the blast of the clever Hephaestus. And the river's own strength burned too, and it cried out, saying: "Hephaestus, no god can match you in strength — I could never fight against you when you blaze like this with fire. Stop this quarrel. Let brilliant Achilles drive the Trojans out of their city right now, if he wants — what do I have to do with strife or aid to anyone?"
So he spoke, scorched by the fire, and his lovely waters boiled and bubbled. As a cauldron boils inside, driven hard by a great fire, melting the fat of a well-fed hog, bubbling up on every side, with dry logs stacked beneath it — so the river's fair waters burned in the fire, and the water boiled; it would not flow on but stood checked, tormented by the blast of skillful Hephaestus. And so, begging hard, the river spoke winged words to Hera:
"Hera, why has your son come to torment my stream above all others? I'm not so much to blame as all the other gods who help the Trojans. But I will stop, since you command it — only let him stop too. And I will swear this oath besides: never will I turn aside the evil day from the Trojans, not even when all Troy burns in the raging fire, burned by the warlike sons of the Achaeans." When the white-armed goddess Hera heard this, she spoke at once to her own dear son, Hephaestus: "Hephaestus, glorious child, hold back — it isn't right to batter an immortal god so brutally for the sake of mortals."
So she spoke, and Hephaestus quenched his terrible fire, and the flood went rushing back down its lovely channels. Once Xanthus's fury was broken, the two of them stopped — Hera held back Hephaestus, angry though she still was. But among the other gods a heavy, bitter quarrel fell, and their hearts were driven in opposite directions. They clashed together with a huge crash, the wide earth groaned, and the great heaven trumpeted around them. Zeus heard it as he sat on Olympus, and his heart laughed with joy to see the gods driving together in strife.
They did not stand apart for long, for Ares, piercer of shields, opened the fight — he charged first at Athena, bronze spear in hand, and spoke a taunting word: "Why now, dogfly, do you drive the gods together in strife again, with that reckless daring of yours, while your proud heart urges you on? Don't you remember when you drove Diomedes, son of Tydeus, to wound me, and you yourself took up a spear all could see and drove it straight at me, tearing my beautiful skin? Now I think you'll pay for everything you've done." So he spoke, and struck her tasseled aegis,
that terrible aegis that not even Zeus's thunderbolt can defeat — there the bloodstained Ares struck her with his long spear. But she stepped back and, with her strong hand, snatched up a stone lying on the plain, black, jagged, huge — men of an earlier age had set it there to mark a field's boundary — and with this she struck raging Ares on the neck and loosed his limbs. He fell and covered seven acres of ground, fouled his hair with dust, and his armor clattered around him. Pallas Athena laughed, and spoke to him boastfully, winged words:
"Fool — even now you have not learned how much stronger I claim to be, that you would match your strength against mine. This way you'll pay off your mother's curses in full, for she rages against you and plots evil because you deserted the Achaeans to help the arrogant Trojans." So speaking she turned her bright eyes away, and Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, took Ares by the hand and led him off, groaning heavily, his spirit barely gathered back together. When the white-armed goddess Hera saw her, she spoke at once to Athena, winged words:
"Ah, no — daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, tireless one, look — that dogfly is leading man-killing Ares out of the deadly battle, right through the chaos. Go after her!" So she spoke, and Athena rushed after, glad at heart, caught up to Aphrodite and struck her hard on the chest with her strong hand — and her knees and heart gave way beneath her. So both of them lay together on the bountiful earth, and Athena spoke boastfully over them, winged words: "Let all who help the Trojans be like this,
whenever they fight the armored Argives — as bold and as reckless as Aphrodite was when she came to help Ares, facing my fury. If she had, we would long ago have ended this war, having sacked Troy's well-built citadel." So she spoke, and the white-armed goddess Hera smiled. Then the mighty Earthshaker spoke to Apollo: "Phoebus, why do the two of us stand apart? It isn't fitting, now that the others have started this — it would be shameful if we went back to Olympus, to Zeus's bronze-floored house, without a fight. Begin — you are younger by birth; it wouldn't be right for me, since I was born first and know more.
Fool — what a mindless heart you have. Have you forgotten all the hardships we two suffered around Ilion, alone among the gods, when we came at Zeus's command and served proud Laomedon for a full year at a set wage, and he gave the orders? I built the Trojans a wall around their city, wide and very fine, so the city would be unbreakable, while you, Phoebus, herded his shambling, curved-horned cattle in the folds of wooded, many-valed Ida. But when the joyful seasons brought the time
for our wages to be paid, the terrible Laomedon robbed us of everything owed and sent us off with threats. He threatened to bind our feet and hands together and sell us off to islands far away, and swore he would cut off both our ears with bronze. So we went back with hearts full of bitter anger, cheated of the wages he had promised and never paid. And now you show favor to his people, instead of joining with us to make sure the arrogant Trojans die miserably, they and their children and their honored wives."
Lord Apollo, who strikes from afar, answered him: "Earthshaker, you would not call me sound of mind if I fought you over mortals — pitiful creatures who are like leaves, blazing with life one moment as they eat the fruit of the fields, and the next moment withering away, lifeless. Let's stop this fight at once — let mortals settle it themselves." So speaking he turned away, ashamed to come to blows with his own father's brother.
But his sister, mistress of wild creatures, huntress Artemis, scolded him harshly and spoke a taunting word: "So you're running away, Far-Striker, and handing Poseidon the whole victory, giving him glory for nothing? Fool, why do you even carry that bow, if it's useless as the wind? Don't let me hear you boasting again in our father's halls, the way you used to among the immortal gods, that you would fight Poseidon face to face." So she spoke, but Apollo, who strikes from afar, said nothing back to her. Instead it was Zeus's honored wife who, in anger, scolded the archer-goddess with taunting words:
"How dare you now, shameless dog, stand up against me? I would be hard for you to match in strength, even with your bow, since Zeus has made you a lion among women and lets you kill whichever one you please. Truly it's better to hunt wild beasts and deer on the mountains than to fight face to face with stronger powers. But if you want to learn war, so you know clearly how much mightier I am, since you dare match your strength with mine —" With that she seized both Artemis's wrists in her left hand,
and with her right hand stripped the bow from her shoulders, and, smiling, boxed her ears with it as Artemis twisted to escape, and the swift arrows spilled out. Weeping, the goddess fled from under her, like a dove that flies into a hollow rock, a cleft, to escape a hawk — for it was not her fate to be caught. So Artemis fled in tears, leaving her bow behind. Then the Guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to Leto: "Leto, I will not fight you at all — it is a dangerous thing to come to blows with the wives of cloud-gathering Zeus. Go, and gladly boast among the immortal gods
that you defeated me by brute force." So he spoke, and Leto gathered up the curved bow and arrows, scattered here and there in the swirling dust. She took the bow and went back to her daughter, who had already reached Olympus, Zeus's bronze-floored house, and sat weeping on her father's knees, her divine robe trembling around her. Her father, the son of Cronus, drew her close and asked her, laughing gently: "Which one of the heavenly gods has done this to you, dear child, so recklessly, as though you had been caught doing something wrong, in plain sight?"
The fair-crowned goddess of the loud hunting-cry answered him: "It was your wife who struck me, father — white-armed Hera, from whom strife and quarreling fall upon the immortals." So the two of them spoke to each other of such things. Meanwhile Phoebus Apollo went into sacred Troy, for he was anxious for the wall of the well-built city, afraid the Danaans might sack it before its fated day. The rest of the gods, who live forever, went back to Olympus, some angry, some glorying greatly — and they sat down beside their father, lord of the dark clouds. But Achilles
went on killing Trojans, men and their single-hoofed horses alike. As when smoke rises up into the wide sky from a burning city, driven by the anger of the gods, bringing labor to everyone and grief to many — so Achilles brought labor and grief to the Trojans. Old Priam stood on the sacred tower and caught sight of monstrous Achilles; before him the Trojans were driven headlong in panicked flight, with no strength left in them. Groaning, Priam came down from the tower to the ground, urging the famous gatekeepers along the wall:
"Hold the gates open wide in your hands until the people come fleeing back into the city — for Achilles is close, driving them before him. Now, I think, disaster is coming. But once they are inside the wall and can catch their breath, shut the doors again, bar them fast — I'm afraid that murderous man may burst in through the wall." So he spoke, and they threw open the gates and pulled back the bars, and the open gates let in the light. But Apollo darted out to meet the Trojans, to ward off ruin from them. Straight toward the city and its high wall,
parched with thirst, coated in dust from the plain, they fled, and Achilles pressed hard after them with his spear — a raging fury held his heart always, and he burned to win glory. And then the sons of the Achaeans would have taken high-gated Troy, if Phoebus Apollo had not roused godlike Agenor, the noble and strong son of Antenor. He put courage into his heart and stood beside him himself to ward off the heavy hands of death, leaning against an oak tree, hidden in a thick mist. When Agenor saw Achilles, sacker of cities,
he stopped, and his heart churned with turmoil as he waited. Troubled, he spoke to his own proud heart: "No — if I flee before mighty Achilles, the way the others are driven in panic, he will still catch me and cut my throat like a coward. But if I let these men be routed by Achilles, son of Peleus, and myself run on foot away from the wall, toward the plain of Ilion, until I reach the slopes of Ida and can hide in its thickets — then in the evening, after bathing in the river
and cooling off from my sweat, I could make my way back to Troy. But why does my heart even discuss such things with me? He might notice me slipping away from the city toward the plain, and come after me and catch me with his swift feet — then there will be no escaping death and destruction, for he is far stronger than any man alive. But what if I go out and face him before the city, in the open? His flesh, too, can surely be pierced by sharp bronze — there is only one life in him, and men say he is mortal, though Zeus, son of Cronus, gives him glory."
So speaking, he gathered himself and stood his ground, waiting for Achilles, his brave heart set on fighting and battle. As a leopard comes out from the deep brush to face a hunter, and its heart feels no fear, no urge to flee, even when it hears the baying of hounds — even if the man strikes first, wounding it with a thrust or a throw, still, pierced through by the spear, it does not give up its fighting spirit until it has closed with him or been brought down — so Agenor, son of noble Antenor, was unwilling to flee until he had tested Achilles.
He held his round shield in front of him and aimed his spear at Achilles, shouting loudly: "No doubt you're hoping deep in your heart, glorious Achilles, to sack the city of the proud Trojans this very day. Fool — there is still much suffering in store before that happens, for we are many strong men inside, ready to defend Ilion in front of our dear parents, our wives, and our sons — while you, for all your terrible boldness, will meet your death right here." So he spoke, and hurled his sharp javelin from his heavy hand,
and struck him on the shin below the knee — the throw did not miss. The greave of newly forged tin rang out terribly around his leg, but the bronze bounced back off the man it struck, failing to pierce through, held off by the god's gift. Then the son of Peleus charged at godlike Agenor in turn, but Apollo did not let him win that glory — he snatched Agenor away, hid him in a thick mist, and sent him quietly out of the battle to go his way. Then the god drew the son of Peleus off away from the Trojan ranks by a trick, for taking on Agenor's likeness completely,
Apollo, wearing Agenor's shape, stood there before Achilles' feet, and Achilles sprang forward on foot to run him down. He chased him across the wheat-bearing plain, Apollo veering him aside along the deep-swirling Scamander, always letting him show just a little ahead, tricking him so that Achilles kept hoping to catch him with the next stride. Meanwhile the rest of the Trojans, driven by terror, came pouring into the city in a crowd, glad to be inside its walls, and the town filled up with men crushing together. None of them dared wait outside the city and its wall any longer to find out who had gotten away and who had died in the fighting; they rushed headlong
into the city, every man whose legs and knees could still carry him to safety.

======== Book 22 ========

So the Trojans, driven in panic through the city like fawns, cooled the sweat on their bodies and drank to slake their thirst, leaning against the fair battlements, while the Achaeans came up close under the wall, shields slung against their shoulders. But deadly fate bound Hector to stay where he was, in front of Troy, before the Scaean Gates.
Then Phoebus Apollo spoke to the son of Peleus: "Why do you chase me, son of Peleus, with your swift feet — you a mortal, chasing a god who cannot die? You still haven't recognized that I am a god, so relentlessly you rage."
Deeply troubled, swift-footed Achilles answered him: "You have cheated me, Apollo, most destructive of all the gods, turning me aside here, away from the wall. Many more would have bitten the dust before ever reaching Troy. Now you have robbed me of great glory and saved them without a thought, since you had nothing to fear in payment. I would pay you back, if only the power were mine."
With that he strode toward the city, his heart set high, surging forward like a champion chariot-horse that runs easily at full stretch across the plain. So Achilles worked his swift feet and knees.
Old Priam was the first to catch sight of him with his own eyes, blazing across the plain like the star that rises in autumn, its rays clear and bright among the many stars of the deep night — the one men call the Dog of Orion. It is the brightest of all, but it is set as a sign of evil, and it brings much fever to wretched mortals. So the bronze on Achilles' chest shone as he ran.
The old man groaned aloud and beat his head with his hands, raising them high, and cried out in loud lament, begging his own son — who stood before the gates, immovable, burning to fight Achilles.
Stretching out his hands, the old man spoke to him in pity: "Hector, my child, do not wait for this man alone, cut off from the others, or you will quickly meet your doom, brought down by the son of Peleus, since he is far stronger than you — pitiless as he is. I wish the gods loved him no more than they love me! Then dogs and vultures would soon eat him where he lay, and the terrible grief would lift from my heart. He has robbed me of many brave sons, killing them or selling them off to islands far away. Even now I cannot see two of my sons among the Trojans crowded into the city — Lycaon and Polydorus, whom Laothoe, queen among women, bore to me. If they are still alive in the camp, we will ransom them yet with bronze and gold, for there is plenty stored within, since old, famous Altes gave much to his daughter as her dowry. But if they are already dead and in the house of Hades, then it is a grief to me and to their mother who bore them; for the rest of the people the grief will be shorter-lived, unless you too are killed, brought down by Achilles. Come inside the wall, my child, so that you may save the men and women of Troy, and not hand great glory to the son of Peleus while you yourself are robbed of your own life. And have pity on me too, wretched as I am, while I still have my senses — a broken old man, whom Father Zeus will destroy by a hard fate on the threshold of old age, after watching every kind of horror: sons slaughtered, daughters dragged away, bedchambers ransacked, little children hurled to the ground in the terrible carnage, and my sons' wives dragged off by the merciless hands of the Achaeans. And I myself, last of all, will be torn apart at my own front door by ravening dogs, once someone has stabbed or struck the life out of my limbs with sharp bronze — the very dogs I raised in my halls to guard my table and my doors, who will then drink my blood, and lie in my gateway, their hearts gone wild. For a young man, everything is fitting when he lies mangled by the sharp bronze after battle — cut to pieces, he lies there, and whatever men see is honorable in death. But when dogs defile the grey head and grey beard and the nakedness of an old man who has been killed — that is the most pitiful thing that comes to suffering mortals."
So spoke the old man, tearing the white hair from his head with his hands. But he did not sway Hector's heart.
On the other side his mother wailed, shedding tears, loosening her robe and holding out her breast with the other hand. Weeping, she spoke winged words to him: "Hector, my child, respect this, and pity me — if ever I gave you this breast to soothe your cares. Remember it, dear child, and drive off this deadly man from inside the wall — do not stand and face him in the open. Pitiless as he is — if he kills you, I will never lay you on a bier and weep for you, dear branch I bore myself, nor will your richly-dowered wife; but far away from us both, the swift dogs will devour you by the ships of the Argives."
So the two of them, weeping, pleaded with their own son, begging him again and again. But they did not sway Hector's heart, and he stood his ground waiting for Achilles, monstrous in size, as he came closer.
As a mountain serpent at its den awaits a man, having fed on poisonous herbs, and a terrible fury has entered it, and it looks about with a dreadful glare, coiled at its lair — so Hector, his fury unquenched, would not give ground, but leaned his bright shield against a jutting tower.
Deeply troubled, he spoke to his own great heart: "This is grim. If I go in through the gates and the wall, Polydamas will be the first to heap shame on me, since he urged me to lead the Trojans back into the city on that fatal night when godlike Achilles rose to fight. But I would not listen — and how much better it would have been if I had. Now that I have destroyed my army through my own recklessness, I feel shame before the men and women of Troy, in case someone lesser than I says, 'Hector trusted his own strength and destroyed his people.' That is what they will say. So it would be far better for me now to face Achilles and either kill him and come home, or die gloriously myself before the city. But if I set down my bossed shield and my heavy helmet, and lean my spear against the wall, and go myself to meet blameless Achilles face to face, and promise him that we will give back Helen and all her possessions with her — everything Paris brought to Troy in his hollow ships, which was the beginning of this quarrel — to be led away to the sons of Atreus, and besides that divide with the Achaeans everything else the city holds; and if I take an oath from the Trojan elders afterward that they will hide nothing but will divide fairly all the wealth this lovely city contains within it — but why does my heart debate this with me? I must not go to him and have him show no mercy and no respect for me at all, but kill me unarmed, like a woman, once I have stripped off my armor. This is no time to chatter with him from oak tree or from rock, the way a young man and a young woman murmur to one another. Better to clash in combat as soon as we can, and see to which of us the Olympian grants the victory."
So he pondered, standing his ground, while Achilles came near him, like Enyalius, the warrior of the flashing helm, brandishing over his right shoulder the terrible Pelian ash spear, and the bronze around him flashed like blazing fire or the rising sun.
When Hector saw him, trembling seized him; he could not bear to stay there any longer, but left the gates behind him and ran, terrified. And the son of Peleus surged after him, trusting to his swift feet.
As a hawk in the mountains, swiftest of winged things, swoops easily after a trembling dove — she darts away beneath him in terror, but he, screaming shrilly, keeps close and strikes at her again and again, his heart driving him to seize her — so Achilles flew straight on in fury, and Hector fled in terror beneath the wall of Troy, working his swift knees.
They ran past the lookout point and the windswept fig tree, always along the wagon-track under the wall, and came to the two fair-flowing springs where the two fountains of swirling Scamander rise. One flows with warm water, and steam rises from it all around as if from a blazing fire; the other, even in summer, runs cold as hail, or as snow, or as ice formed from water. There, close beside them, are wide washing-troughs, fine ones, built of stone, where the wives and lovely daughters of Troy used to wash their bright clothing, in the old days of peace, before the sons of the Achaeans came. Past these they ran, one fleeing, the other chasing behind him. In front a good man fled, but a far better one pursued him swiftly, since it was not some sacrificial beast or oxhide they were racing for — the usual prizes for men's swiftness of foot — but they were running for the life of Hector, breaker of horses.
As when prize-winning horses run hard around the turning-post, sweeping wide, and a great prize awaits them — a tripod, or a woman — in honor of a dead man, so the two of them circled three times around the city of Priam at full speed. All the gods were watching.
And the father of gods and men spoke first among them: "Look — this is a man I love, whom I watch being chased around the wall before my own eyes, and my heart grieves for Hector, who has burned for me many thighs of oxen, on the peaks of many-folded Ida, and other times on the city's height. Now noble Achilles chases him with swift feet around the city of Priam. Come now, gods, think this over and decide together — whether we should save him from death, or now, at last, let him be brought down by Achilles, son of Peleus, good man though he is."
Then the goddess grey-eyed Athena answered him: "Father of the bright bolt, lord of the dark cloud, what have you said? Do you truly wish to snatch back from harsh death a mortal man, one long ago marked out by fate? Do it, then — but the rest of us gods do not approve."
Cloud-gathering Zeus answered her and said: "Take heart, Tritogeneia, dear child — I did not speak in earnest, and I wish to be kind to you. Do as your mind pleases, and hold back no longer."
So he spoke, urging on Athena, who was already eager, and she went darting down from the peaks of Olympus.
And swift Achilles kept driving Hector on relentlessly, harrying him. As when a hound in the mountains starts a fawn from its lair and chases it through glens and hollows — and even if the fawn crouches and hides beneath a thicket, the hound keeps tracking it, running steadily until it finds it — so Hector could not escape the notice of swift-footed Achilles. Every time he tried to dash toward the Dardanian Gates, toward the strong-built towers, hoping that men above might help him with their weapons, that many times Achilles would head him off and turn him back toward the plain, while he himself always flew along on the side toward the city. As in a dream, when a man cannot catch another who flees before him — the one cannot escape, nor the other overtake — so Achilles could not catch Hector by running, nor could Hector get away.
And how could Hector have escaped the fates of death, if Apollo had not come to him one last, final time, close beside him, rousing his strength and the swiftness of his knees? And noble Achilles shook his head at his own men, not allowing them to hurl their bitter weapons at Hector, in case someone else won the glory by hitting him, and he himself came only second.
But when they reached the springs for the fourth time, then the Father held up his golden scales, and set on them two fates of death that lays men low — one for Achilles, one for Hector, breaker of horses — and he took the balance by the middle and raised it. Down sank the day of doom for Hector, down toward Hades, and Phoebus Apollo left him.
Then the goddess grey-eyed Athena came to the son of Peleus, and standing close beside him she spoke winged words: "Now at last, glorious Achilles, dear to Zeus, I think the two of us will carry off great glory for the Achaeans by their ships, once we have brought down Hector, insatiable as he is for battle. He can no longer escape us now, not even if Apollo the far-worker should suffer greatly, groveling before father Zeus who bears the aegis. But you — stand still now and catch your breath, while I go to him and persuade him to stand and fight you face to face."
So spoke Athena, and Achilles obeyed her, glad at heart, and stood still, leaning on his bronze-tipped ashen spear.
She left him there and went after godlike Hector, taking the shape and the tireless voice of Deiphobus. Standing close beside him, she spoke winged words: "Dear brother, truly swift Achilles is pressing you hard, chasing you around the city of Priam with his swift feet. Come, let us make a stand and beat him back."
Then great Hector of the flashing helm answered her: "Deiphobus, you were always by far the dearest of my brothers, of all the sons that Hecabe and Priam bore — but now I honor you even more in my heart, since you have dared, for my sake, to come outside the wall when you saw me, while the others all stay within."
Then the goddess grey-eyed Athena answered him: "Dear brother, truly our father and honored mother begged me hard, one after another, embracing my knees, and my comrades too, to stay inside — such terror grips them all. But my heart within was worn down with bitter grief. Now let us go straight at him and fight with all our might, and spare no spears, so that we may find out whether Achilles will kill the two of us and carry our bloodied spoils to the hollow ships, or whether he will fall to your spear."
So speaking, Athena led him on with cunning treachery. And when the two men had come close, advancing on each other, great Hector of the flashing helm spoke first: "I will not run from you any longer, son of Peleus, as I did before, three times around the great city of Priam, not daring to stand and face you coming on. Now my heart urges me to stand against you — let me kill or be killed. But come, let us call the gods here to witness, for they will be the best witnesses and guardians of any pact: I will not mistreat you cruelly, if Zeus grants me the staying power and I take your life; but once I have stripped your famous armor, Achilles, I will give your body back to the Achaeans. Do the same for me."
But swift-footed Achilles looked at him darkly and answered: "Hector, do not speak to me of pacts, you who I can never forgive. As there are no oaths of trust between lions and men, and wolves and lambs have no meeting of hearts but plot evil against each other without end, so there can be no love between you and me, and there will be no oaths between us, until one or the other of us has fallen and glutted Ares, the tireless warrior, with his blood. Call to mind now every kind of courage you possess. Now above all you must be a spearman and a fearless fighter. There is no escape for you any longer — very soon Pallas Athena will bring you down beneath my spear. Now you will pay all at once for the griefs of my comrades, whom you killed in your spear's fury."
With that he balanced his long-shadowed spear and hurled it. Watching it come, shining Hector dodged it — he had seen it coming and crouched down, and the bronze spear flew over him and stuck fast in the ground. But Pallas Athena snatched it up and gave it back to Achilles, unseen by Hector, shepherd of his people.
Then Hector spoke to the blameless son of Peleus: "You missed — so you did not, after all, godlike Achilles, learn my fate from Zeus, as you claimed. You were only a smooth talker, a clever speaker of words, hoping that in fear of you I would forget my strength and courage. You will not plant your spear in my back as I run — drive it through my chest instead, straight on, if the god has granted you that. But now avoid my bronze spear in turn — how I wish you would take the whole of it into your body! The war would be lighter for the Trojans then, with you dead, since you are their greatest torment."
With that he balanced his long-shadowed spear and hurled it, and struck the middle of the shield of the son of Peleus, missing nothing — but the spear bounced far off the shield. Hector was furious that the swift weapon had flown from his hand in vain, and he stood there downcast, for he had no second ashen spear. He shouted loudly, calling for Deiphobus of the white shield, and asked him for a long spear — but Deiphobus was nowhere near him.
And Hector understood in his heart, and said: "No — the gods are truly calling me to my death. I thought the warrior Deiphobus was beside me, but he is inside the wall, and Athena has deceived me. Now evil death is close to me indeed, no longer far away, and there is no escape."
"No — you were always a smooth-tongued liar, a thief with words, hoping that fear of you would make me forget my strength and my courage. You will not plant your spear in my back as I run — drive it through my chest instead, straight on, if a god has granted you that. But now, dodge this — my bronze spear. I pray your whole body may swallow it. The war would go easier for the Trojans if you were dead — you are their greatest torment."
So he spoke, and balancing his long-shadowed spear he hurled it, and struck Achilles' shield full in the center — he did not miss. But the spear bounced far off the shield, and Hector was furious that his swift throw had flown from his hand for nothing. He stood there stricken, for he had no other ash spear to throw. He shouted loudly for Deiphobus of the white shield, and asked him for a long spear — but Deiphobus was nowhere near him. Then Hector understood in his heart, and said:
"No use — the gods are truly calling me to my death. I thought the warrior Deiphobus was beside me, but he is behind the wall, and Athena has tricked me. Now evil death is close to me, and no longer far away, and there is no escaping it. This must have long been the pleasure of Zeus and his son the archer god, though before now they were eager to protect me. Now my fate has found me. Still, let me not die without a struggle, without glory, but doing some great deed that men to come will hear of."
So he spoke, and drew the sharp sword that hung at his side, huge and heavy, and gathering himself he swooped like a high-flying eagle that plunges down to the plain through the dark clouds to snatch a soft lamb or a cowering hare —
so Hector swooped, brandishing his sharp sword. And Achilles charged too, his heart filled with a wild fury. In front of his chest he held his shield, beautiful and intricately worked, and on his head his bright four-plated helmet nodded, and the golden crest-plumes that Hephaestus had set thick around its ridge streamed about him. Like the star that moves among the other stars in the dead of night, the evening star, the most beautiful star that stands in the sky — so the light flashed from the fine point of the spear that Achilles balanced in his right hand, with murder in his heart for godlike Hector,
searching his beautiful body for the place where it would yield most easily. Everywhere else his skin was covered by the fine bronze armor he had stripped from mighty Patroclus when he killed him, but there was a gap where the collarbones divide the neck from the shoulders, at the throat, where the life is quickest to be destroyed. There, as Hector charged, godlike Achilles drove his spear, and the point went straight through the soft neck. Yet the heavy bronze-weighted ash spear did not cut through the windpipe, so that Hector could still speak, could still answer him with words. He fell in the dust, and godlike Achilles exulted over him:
"Hector, when you were stripping Patroclus you must have thought you would be safe — you gave no thought to me, since I was far away. Fool. Far behind him there was an avenger, far better than he, and I was left behind at the hollow ships — I am the one who has loosened your knees. Now the dogs and birds will drag you and tear you shamefully, while the Achaeans give him a proper burial."
And Hector, his strength failing, said to him:
"I beg you, by your life, by your knees, by your parents — do not let the dogs devour me by the ships of the Achaeans. Take instead all the bronze and gold you wish, gifts that my father and my honored mother will give you, and send my body home again, so that the Trojans and the wives of the Trojans may give me my due of fire when I am dead."
Looking at him darkly, swift-footed Achilles answered:
"Beg me no beggings, dog, by my knees or by my parents. I only wish my fury and my heart could drive me to carve your flesh and eat it raw myself, for what you have done to me. No one exists who could keep the dogs off your head — not if they brought me ransom ten times over, twenty times over, and weighed it out right here, and promised still more —
not even if Priam son of Dardanus ordered your weight paid out in gold. Not even then will your honored mother lay you on a bed and mourn the son she bore. No — the dogs and the birds will tear you apart, all of you."
And dying, Hector of the flashing helmet said to him:
"I know you well, I see what you are, and I see now — I never had a hope of moving you. Truly the heart in your chest is iron. But think of this: I may become the cause of the gods' anger against you, on the day when Paris and Phoebus Apollo destroy you, brave as you are, at the Scaean Gates."
Even as he spoke, the end that is death closed over him, and his soul flew from his limbs down to the house of Hades, mourning its fate, leaving behind youth and manhood. And godlike Achilles spoke to him, though he was dead now:
"Die. As for my own death, I will accept it whenever Zeus wishes to bring it about, and the other immortal gods."
So he spoke, and pulled his bronze spear from the corpse, and set it aside, and began to strip the bloodied armor from Hector's shoulders. The rest of the sons of the Achaeans came running up, and they too gazed in wonder at the build and the astonishing beauty of Hector, and none of them came near him without driving a blow into him. And glancing at the man beside him, one would say:
"Look now — Hector is far softer to handle than he was when he was setting our ships on fire."
So each man would say, and step up and stab the body. And when swift-footed godlike Achilles had finished stripping him, he stood among the Achaeans and spoke winged words:
"Friends, leaders and rulers of the Argives, since the gods have let us bring down this man, who did more harm than all the rest of them put together —
come, let us go in arms around the city and test them, to learn what the Trojans mean to do now — whether they will abandon the high city now that this man has fallen, or whether they still mean to hold out, even with Hector gone. But why does my heart turn over these thoughts? There by the ships lies a corpse unwept, unburied — Patroclus. I will not forget him as long as I remain among the living and my knees still carry me. Even if the dead forget one another in the house of Hades, even there I will remember my dear companion.
Now, young men of the Achaeans, let us go back to the hollow ships, singing the victory hymn, and bring this man with us. We have won ourselves great glory — we have killed godlike Hector, whom the Trojans in their city honored like a god."
So he spoke, and thought of a shameful deed to do to godlike Hector. He cut through the sinews of both feet, behind, from heel to ankle, and drove ox-hide straps through them, and bound him to his chariot, letting the head drag. Then he mounted the chariot, and lifting up the famous armor, whipped the horses on, and they flew on eagerly.
As Hector was dragged, the dust rose around him, and his dark hair spread out on either side, and his head, once so handsome, lay in the dirt — for now Zeus had given him over to his enemies, to be disgraced in his own native land. So his whole head was fouled with dust. And now his mother tore her hair, and flung her shining veil far from her, and cried out in a great wail at the sight of her son. His dear father groaned pitifully, and all around him the people were seized with wailing and lament throughout the city — it was as if all
steep Troy itself were being burned to ashes from its heights. The people could barely restrain the old man, frantic with grief, from rushing out through the Dardanian gates. He begged them all, rolling in the filth, calling out to each man by name:
"Let me go, friends — much as you care for me, let me alone, let me go out of the city and reach the ships of the Achaeans. Let me beg this man, this reckless doer of monstrous deeds — perhaps he will respect my age, and take pity on my gray hairs. He too has a father like me,
Peleus, who fathered him and raised him to become a curse to the Trojans — but to me most of all, above everyone, he has brought grief. So many of my sons in their prime he has killed! And for all of them together I do not grieve as much, sharp as that grief is, as I grieve for this one — for Hector — whose loss will carry me down to the house of Hades in sorrow. If only he had died in my arms! Then we might have wept our fill of him and mourned him, his mother, who bore him to her sorrow, and I myself."
So he spoke, weeping, and the citizens groaned along with him. And among the Trojan women Hecuba led the passionate lament:
"My child, wretched as I am — how shall I go on living now, in my terrible suffering, now that you are dead? You were my pride night and day throughout the city, and a blessing to all — to the men and women of Troy alike, who honored you like a god. For truly you were their great glory while you lived. But now death and fate have found you."
So she spoke, weeping. But Hector's wife had not yet heard anything — no true messenger had come to tell her that her husband remained outside the gates. She was weaving a web in the depths of the high house,
a double purple cloth, and working intricate flowers into it. She had called to her fair-haired maids throughout the house to set a great tripod over the fire, so that there would be a warm bath ready for Hector when he came home from the fighting — poor woman, she did not know that, far from any bath, gray-eyed Athena had brought him down at the hands of Achilles. She heard the sound of wailing and lament from the tower, and her limbs shook, and the shuttle fell from her hands to the ground, and she spoke again to her fair-haired serving women:
"Come, two of you follow me — let me see what has happened.
I heard the voice of my honored mother-in-law, and now my own heart is pounding up in my throat, and my knees are frozen beneath me — something terrible is close at hand for the children of Priam. I pray this news may never reach my ears — but I am dreadfully afraid that godlike Achilles may have cut brave Hector off alone from the city and driven him onto the plain, and put an end at last to that reckless courage of his that always drove him — for he never held back among the crowd of men, but always ran out far ahead, giving way to no one in his fury."
So she spoke, and rushed through the hall like a woman gone mad,
her heart pounding, and her maids went with her. But when she reached the tower and the crowd of men, she stopped and looked around from the wall, and saw him
being dragged in front of the city — the swift horses were dragging him without mercy toward the hollow ships of the Achaeans. Darkness like night fell over her eyes, and she collapsed backward, and her spirit fled from her. Far from her head she flung the shining headbands, the diadem and net and woven band, and the veil that golden Aphrodite had given her
on the day when Hector of the flashing helmet led her from the house of Eetion, after he had paid a bride-price beyond counting. Around her stood her husband's sisters and his brothers' wives in a crowd, holding her up among them, for she was out of her senses, near to death. But when she caught her breath again and her spirit gathered back into her chest, she cried out among the Trojan women, sobbing in bursts:
"Hector — wretched as I am! We were born, it seems, to the same fate, both of us — you in Troy, in the house of Priam, and I in Thebe, under wooded Placus,
in the house of Eetion, who raised me when I was small — unlucky father of an unlucky daughter — how I wish he had never fathered me. Now you go down to the house of Hades, beneath the hidden places of the earth, and you leave me behind in hateful grief, a widow in your halls. And our son is still only a baby, the child we bore, you and I, doomed as we both are. You will be no help to him now that you are dead, Hector, nor he to you. Even if he escapes this war that costs the Achaeans so many tears, still there will always be hardship and grief in store for him afterward, for other men will seize his lands. The day that orphans a child cuts him off from all his friends —
he goes about with his head bowed, his cheeks wet with tears, and in his need he comes up to his father's companions, tugging at one man's cloak, another man's tunic, and those who pity him may hold out a cup for a moment — enough to wet his lips, but not enough to wet the roof of his mouth. And a boy who still has both his parents will drive him from the feast, striking him with his hands and taunting him with insults: 'Get out — your father does not eat with us.' And the boy will go crying back to his widowed mother — Astyanax, who used to sit on his father's knees
and eat nothing but marrow and the rich fat of sheep. And whenever sleep took him, and he had had enough of his childish play, he would sleep in a bed, in the arms of his nurse, on a soft couch, his heart filled with good things. But now that he has lost his dear father, he will suffer greatly — Astyanax, as the Trojans call him, because you alone guarded their gates and their long walls. And now, by the curved ships, far from your parents, the squirming worms will eat you, once the dogs have had their fill of your naked body — though fine clothes lie ready for you in your house,
delicate, beautiful, made by the hands of women. But I will burn all of these now in the blazing fire — they can do you no good, since you will never lie in them — but let it be an honor paid to you before the Trojans and the women of Troy."
So she spoke, weeping, and the women groaned along with her.

======== Book 23 ========

So the Trojans mourned throughout the city. But the Achaeans, once they reached their ships and the Hellespont, scattered, each man to his own ship — all except the Myrmidons. Achilles would not let them scatter, but spoke instead to his war-loving companions:
"Swift-horsed Myrmidons, my trusted friends, let us not yet unyoke our sure-footed horses from the chariots. Let us drive them close, horses and cars together, and mourn Patroclus — that is the honor due the dead. When we have had our fill of grim lamenting, we will unyoke the horses and all take supper here together."
So he spoke, and they cried out together in grief, Achilles leading them. Three times they drove their sleek-maned horses around the corpse, wailing, and Thetis stirred in them a longing to weep still more. The sand grew wet, the men's armor grew wet with tears — such was the loss of the man who had driven fear before him.
Among them Achilles led the thick, throbbing lament, laying his man-slaying hands on his companion's chest:
"Farewell to you, Patroclus, even in the house of Hades. Everything I promised you before, I am now making good — I have dragged Hector here to give raw to the dogs to tear apart, and I will cut the throats of twelve splendid sons of the Trojans before your pyre, in fury at your killing."
So he spoke, and plotted shameful treatment for godlike Hector, stretching him face down in the dust beside the bier of Menoetius' son. The rest of them each took off their gleaming bronze armor and unyoked their high-necked horses, and sat down in their thousands beside the ship of swift-footed Achilles, grandson of Aeacus, who gave them a rich funeral feast. Many white oxen bellowed as the iron cut their throats around the body, many sheep and bleating goats, and many white-tusked hogs rich with fat were stretched out to singe over the flame of Hephaestus. All around the corpse, blood ran in pools thick enough to fill a cup.
But the kings of the Achaeans led the swift-footed son of Peleus, their lord, to godlike Agamemnon, working hard to win him over, for his heart was still raging over his friend. When they came to Agamemnon's shelter, he ordered his clear-voiced heralds at once to set a great cauldron over the fire, so they might persuade the son of Peleus to wash the clotted blood from his body.
But Achilles refused flatly, and swore an oath besides: "No, by Zeus, highest and greatest of the gods — it is not right for water to come near my head until I have laid Patroclus on the fire and heaped up his grave-mound and cut my hair, since no second grief like this will ever again reach my heart while I live among the living. Still, for now let us give in to this grim feast. At dawn, lord of men Agamemnon, rouse the men to bring wood and to provide all that is fitting for a corpse to have on its way down into the misty dark, so that the tireless fire may burn him quickly out of our sight, and the army may turn back to its work."
So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed him. Eagerly they each made ready their supper and ate, and no man's appetite lacked its fair share of the feast. When they had put away their desire for food and drink, the rest went off to their shelters to sleep, each man to his own, but the son of Peleus lay groaning heavily among his many Myrmidons, on the shore of the crashing sea, in a clear space where the waves washed up on the beach.
There sleep seized him, loosening the cares from his heart, pouring sweetly over him — for his shining limbs were worn out with chasing Hector toward windy Troy. Then the spirit of unhappy Patroclus came to him, in every way like the living man himself — the same stature, the same fine eyes, the same voice, and wearing the same clothes on his body. It stood over Achilles' head and spoke to him:
"You sleep, Achilles, and you have forgotten me. You never neglected me while I lived, only now that I am dead. Bury me as quickly as you can, so I may pass through the gates of Hades. The spirits, the phantoms of the dead who have finished with toil, keep me at a distance and will not let me join them beyond the river, and I wander aimlessly through the wide gates of the house of Hades. Give me your hand, I beg you — for once you have given me to the fire, I will never come back again from Hades. No longer will we sit apart from our other companions and make our plans together, alive; the hateful fate that was mine from birth has swallowed me. And you too, Achilles, equal of the gods — it is your fate to die beneath the walls of the wealthy Trojans."
"One more thing I will say, and ask of you, if you will grant it: do not let my bones be laid apart from yours, Achilles, but together, just as we were raised together in your house — when Menoetius brought me, still a small boy, from Opoeis to your home, because of a grim killing, the day I killed the son of Amphidamas — a child, and unwilling, but enraged over a game of dice. Then the horseman Peleus took me into his house and raised me kindly and named me your attendant. So let one urn hold both our bones together — the golden two-handled urn your queenly mother gave you."
Achilles answered him: "Why have you come to me here, dear life, with all these instructions? I will carry out everything for you, and obey all that you ask. But come closer — let us hold each other, if only for a moment, and take what comfort we can in grim lamenting."
So saying he reached out with his own hands, but could not take hold — the spirit went below like smoke, gibbering faintly. Achilles sprang up in amazement, struck his hands together, and cried out in grief:
"So it is true — even in the house of Hades something remains, a spirit and an image, though the mind is not in it at all. All night long the spirit of unhappy Patroclus stood over me, weeping and grieving, and gave me each instruction — it was wonderfully like the man himself."
So he spoke, and stirred in all of them a longing to weep. Rosy-fingered Dawn found them still mourning around the pitiful corpse. Then lord Agamemnon sent men and mules out from every shelter to gather wood, with a good man in charge, Meriones, attendant of brave Idomeneus. They went out carrying axes for cutting timber and well-woven ropes, the mules going ahead of them. Up and down, across and slanting, they made their way, and when they reached the foothills of many-fountained Ida, they set at once to felling tall-crowned oaks with the sharp bronze, working fast — and the trees fell with a great crash. The Achaeans split them and lashed them to the mules, who tore up the earth with their hooves, eager to reach the plain through the dense undergrowth. All the woodcutters carried logs, as Meriones, attendant of brave Idomeneus, had ordered.
They threw the wood down on the shore in a long row, at the place where Achilles had planned a great burial mound for Patroclus and for himself. When they had piled the vast wood everywhere, they sat down together and waited there. And at once Achilles gave orders to his war-loving Myrmidons to strap on their bronze and each yoke his horses to the chariots.
The men rose and armed themselves, and mounted the chariots, drivers and fighting-companions together, the charioteers in front and behind them a cloud of foot soldiers, thousands of them, and in their midst the companions carried Patroclus. They covered the whole body with the locks of hair they cut and threw upon it, and behind, godlike Achilles held the head, grieving — for he was sending a noble companion down to Hades. When they reached the place Achilles had marked out, they set the body down and quickly heaped up a great pile of wood.
Then swift Achilles thought of one more thing. Standing apart from the pyre, he cut off the golden lock of hair he had grown long in offering to the river Spercheius, and looking out over the wine-dark sea he said with feeling:
"Spercheius, my father Peleus prayed to you in vain, that when I returned home to my own dear country I would cut this hair for you and offer a sacred hundred head, and fifty rams besides, unmated, at your springs, where you have your sacred ground and smoking altar. So the old man prayed, but you did not grant his wish. Now, since I will never return to my own dear country, let me give this hair to the hero Patroclus to carry with him."
So saying, he placed the lock of hair in his dear companion's hands, and stirred in all of them a longing to weep. And the light of the sun would have gone down on their mourning, had Achilles not quickly stepped up to Agamemnon and said:
"Son of Atreus, since the army of the Achaeans will obey your word before any other's, they have had their fill of weeping now — send them away from the pyre and tell them to prepare their meal. We who are closest to the dead man will see to the rest of this; let the chief men stay here with us."
When Agamemnon, lord of men, heard this, he sent the army away at once to their ships, while the mourners who were closest stayed behind and piled up the wood, building a pyre a hundred feet on each side, and on its top, grieving in their hearts, they laid the body. In front of the pyre they skinned and dressed many fat sheep and shambling, curved-horned cattle, and great-hearted Achilles took the fat from all of them and wrapped the corpse in it from head to foot, then heaped the flayed carcasses around it. He set jars of honey and oil leaning against the bier, and flung four proud-necked horses onto the pyre with a heavy groan.
The lord had nine dogs that fed from his table, and of these he slit the throats of two and threw them on the pyre as well. And twelve noble sons of the great-hearted Trojans he killed with bronze — his heart set on cruel work — and let loose the iron fury of the fire to feed on all of it. Then he cried aloud and called his dear companion by name:
"Farewell to you, Patroclus, even in the house of Hades. Everything I promised you before, I am now making good. Twelve noble sons of the great-hearted Trojans — the fire is devouring them all now with you. But Hector, son of Priam, I will not give to the fire to feed on — the dogs will have him instead."
So he spoke in threat, but the dogs never came near Hector's body, for Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, kept the dogs away from him day and night, and anointed him with rose-sweet, immortal oil, so that Achilles would not tear his skin as he dragged him. And Phoebus Apollo brought down a dark cloud from the sky over the plain, and covered the whole space where the corpse lay, so that the sun's fierce heat would not shrivel the flesh on his sinews and limbs before its time.
But the pyre with Patroclus' body would not catch fire. Then swift-footed, godlike Achilles thought of another plan. Standing apart from the pyre, he prayed to the two winds, the North Wind and the West Wind, promising them handsome offerings, and poured many libations from a golden cup, begging them to come, so that the wood might quickly catch and blaze and burn the bodies. Iris heard his prayers and went swiftly as a messenger to the winds.
They were gathered together in the halls of the blustering West Wind, feasting, when Iris came running and stood on the stone threshold. The moment they saw her with their eyes, they all sprang up, and each called her to sit by him. But she refused to sit, and said:
"I cannot stay — I am off again to the streams of Ocean, to the land of the Ethiopians, where they are offering hundred-fold sacrifices to the gods, so that I too may share in the sacred feast. But Achilles is praying to the North Wind and the loud West Wind to come, and promises fine offerings, if you will stir up the fire of the pyre where Patroclus lies, mourned by all the Achaeans."
So she spoke and departed, and the winds rose up with an unearthly roar, driving the clouds before them. Quickly they reached the sea and blew across it, and the wave rose under their shrill blast; they came to fertile Troy and fell upon the pyre, and the fire roared up tremendously. All night long together they beat the flame of the pyre, blowing hard and shrill, and all night long swift Achilles, drawing wine from a golden mixing-bowl in a two-handled cup, poured it on the ground, drenching the earth, and called out to the spirit of unhappy Patroclus.
As a father grieves burning the bones of his son, a bridegroom newly married, whose death has brought grief to his poor parents, so Achilles grieved as he burned his companion's bones, dragging himself around the pyre, groaning heavily. At the hour when the morning star rises to bring light over the earth, and after it saffron-robed dawn spreads over the sea, at that hour the fire died down and the flame went out. The winds turned back again to go home over the Thracian sea, and it groaned, churning with a heavy swell.
The son of Peleus then moved away from the burnt-out pyre and lay down, worn out, and sweet sleep fell upon him. But the others gathered together around the son of Atreus, and the noise and tramp of their approach woke him. He sat up straight and spoke among them:
"Son of Atreus, and the rest of you, finest men of the Achaeans — first put out with dark wine every part of the pyre the fire's fury has reached, and then let us gather the bones of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, picking them out carefully — they are easy to tell apart, for he lay in the middle of the pyre while the others burned separately at the edges, horses and men mixed together. Let us lay his bones in a golden urn, wrapped in a double fold of fat, until I myself am hidden away in Hades. As for the mound, I do not ask you to labor over it greatly — just a fitting one — but later the Achaeans can build it broad and high, those of you who are left behind me in the many-benched ships."
So he spoke, and they obeyed the swift son of Peleus. First they put out with dark wine every part the flame had reached, as far as the fire had burned, and the deep ash settled.
Weeping, they gathered the white bones of their gentle companion into a golden urn, wrapped in a double fold of fat, and set them in the shelter, covering them with a fine linen cloth. They marked out the circle of the tomb and laid its foundation around the pyre, and at once heaped up the piled earth. Once they had raised the mound, they turned to go back. But Achilles kept the army there and made them sit down in a wide assembly, and brought out prizes from his ships — cauldrons and tripods, horses and mules, strong-headed cattle, well-girdled women, and grey iron.
For the swift charioteers he set out splendid prizes first: for the winner, a woman skilled in fine handwork to lead away, and an eared tripod holding twenty-two measures. For the man who came second he set a mare, six years old, unbroken, carrying a mule foal in her womb. For the third he set down a fine untouched cauldron, still bright, holding four measures. For the fourth he set two talents of gold, and for the fifth an unfired two-handled bowl.
Then he stood up and spoke among the Argives: "Son of Atreus, and the rest of you well-greaved Achaeans — these are the prizes waiting in the field for the charioteers. If we Achaeans were holding these games for some other man, I myself would drive off with the first prize to my shelter — you know how far my horses surpass all others in excellence, for they are immortal, and Poseidon gave them to my father Peleus, who in turn gave them to me. But I will hold back, and my sure-footed horses too, since they have lost the glory of so gentle a driver, one who so often poured smooth oil on their manes after washing them in clear water."
"For him they stand grieving, and their manes trail in the dust, and they stand there with heavy hearts. But the rest of you, take your places throughout the camp — whichever of the Achaeans trusts his horses and his well-fitted chariot." So spoke the son of Peleus, and the swift charioteers gathered.
By far the first to rise was Eumelus, lord of men, dear son of Admetus, a master of horsemanship. After him rose Diomedes, mighty son of Tydeus, leading under the yoke the Trojan horses he had once taken from Aeneas, when Apollo snatched the man himself to safety.
After him rose fair-haired Menelaus, son of Atreus, sprung from Zeus, and led under the yoke his swift horses, Aithe, Agamemnon's mare, and his own horse Podargus. Aithe had been given to Agamemnon by Echepolus, son of Anchises, as a gift, so that he would not have to follow him to windy Troy but could stay behind and enjoy himself — for Zeus had given him great wealth, and he lived in spacious Sicyon. This mare, straining to run, Menelaus now led under the yoke.
Antilochus, fourth, made ready his long-maned horses—the shining son of proud old Nestor, of the line of Neleus. His swift-footed team, bred at Pylos, drew the chariot, and his father came close beside him, giving good advice to a mind already sound.
"Antilochus, young as you are, Zeus and Poseidon have loved you and taught you every kind of horsemanship, so there's little need for me to instruct you further—you already know well how to turn the post. But your horses are the slowest in the field, and I fear this race will go badly for you.
The other men's horses are faster, but the men themselves know no more than you do how to plan a race. So come, dear boy, put every kind of cunning in your heart, so the prize doesn't slip past you. It's skill, not strength, that makes the better woodsman; skill lets a helmsman steer his swift ship straight though the winds batter it on the wine-dark sea; and skill lets one driver beat another.
A man who trusts to his horses and chariot alone swings wide and careless, first this way, then that, and his horses wander all over the course—he can't hold them in check. But the man who knows his tricks, even driving weaker horses, keeps his eye always on the turning-post and cuts it close, never forgetting how to give his horses rein from the very start, holding them firm and watching the man in front.
Now I'll tell you a landmark, and you won't mistake it. There stands a dry stump, about a fathom above the ground, oak or pine—it hasn't rotted in the rain—and two white stones lean against it, one on each side, at the narrowing of the road, with smooth going for chariots all around it.
It's either some dead man's grave-marker from long ago, or else it was a turning-post in the days of men before us, and now swift-footed godlike Achilles has made it the mark for this race. Press close against it and drive your chariot and horses right by it, and lean yourself a little to the left in your well-built car, while you goad the right-hand horse on with a shout and give him rein.
Let your left-hand horse hug the post so close that the hub of your well-made wheel seems to graze it—but take care not to touch the stone,
or you'll hurt your horses and wreck your chariot. That would delight the others and shame you. So keep your wits about you and be careful. If you can pass the post first in the tight turn, no one will catch you from behind or overtake you, not even if he drove godlike Arion himself in pursuit—Adrastus's swift horse, sprung from the gods—or the horses of Laomedon, the best ever bred here."
So spoke Nestor, son of Neleus, and sat back down in his place, having told his son the secrets of the race.
Meriones, fifth, made ready his long-maned horses. They mounted their chariots and threw in the lots. Achilles shook them, and out leaped the lot of Antilochus, Nestor's son; after him drew mighty Eumelus; then the son of Atreus, spear-famed Menelaus; then Meriones was given his place; and last of all, best of them by far, Tydeus's son Diomedes drew to drive.
They took their places in a row, and Achilles pointed out the turning-post, far off on the level plain, and set old Phoenix, his father's companion, there as an observer to watch the running and report the truth.
Then all together they raised their whips over the horses, snapped the reins against them, and shouted them on eagerly, and the horses swiftly covered the plain, leaving the ships behind. Under their chests the dust rose up like a cloud or a whirlwind, and their manes streamed back on the rushing wind.
The chariots now hugged the bountiful earth, now leaped into the air, and the drivers stood braced in their cars, each man's heart pounding
with the hunger for victory, each shouting on his own team, and the horses flew on, raising dust across the plain. But when the swift horses had run the last stretch of the course, back toward the grey sea, then each team's true strength showed itself, and suddenly the race grew fierce. First to pull ahead were the fleet-footed mares of the son of Pheres. Right behind them came Diomedes's Trojan stallions, not far off at all but close on their heels, always seeming about to step up onto Eumelus's very car, and their breath warmed Eumelus's broad back and shoulders
as they raced with heads lowered right above him. And now Diomedes would have passed him, or at least made it a dead heat, if Phoebus Apollo, still angry at the son of Tydeus, had not struck the shining whip out of his hands. Tears of rage sprang from Diomedes's eyes, seeing the mares still pulling further and further ahead while his own team, without the goad, lost ground running.
But Apollo's trick on Diomedes did not escape Athena's notice. She hurried at once to the shepherd of his people, gave him back his whip, and put fresh spirit into his horses.
Then, furious, she went after the son of Admetus and shattered his chariot yoke—his mares bolted apart off the road, the pole crashed to the ground, and Eumelus himself was flung from the car beside the wheel, scraping his elbows, mouth, and nose raw and bruising his forehead above the eyebrows. His eyes filled with tears and his strong voice caught in his throat.
Diomedes swerved his sure-footed horses around him and shot far out ahead of the rest, for Athena had put strength into his team and set glory on him.
Behind him came fair-haired Menelaus, son of Atreus. But Antilochus called out to his father's horses: "You two, get moving—stretch out now, as fast as you can! I'm not asking you to race against those horses of brave Diomedes, since Athena has just now given them speed and set glory on their driver.
But catch the horses of the son of Atreus—don't fall behind, and quickly, or that mare Aithe, female that she is, will heap shame on you both! Why are you falling back, my best ones? I tell you plainly, and it will happen just as I say:
there'll be no more care for you from Nestor, shepherd of his people—he'll cut you down with the sharp bronze at once, if through your carelessness we bring home the lesser prize! So come on, press hard, hurry all you can—I'll work out the trick myself, to slip past him where the road narrows. It won't get past me."
So he spoke, and the horses, fearing their master's rebuke, ran harder for a little while. Soon battle-hardy Antilochus saw a narrow place where the road sank low—a gully in the earth, where the winter rains had gathered
and broken through the roadway, hollowing out the whole hollow there. Menelaus was driving through it, avoiding the risk of wheel colliding with wheel. But Antilochus veered his sure-footed horses off the road there, cutting slightly to the side, and drove on in pursuit.
The son of Atreus took fright and shouted at him: "Antilochus, you're driving recklessly—rein in your horses! The road is narrow here, though it opens wider further on for passing. You'll wreck us both if you ram your chariot into mine!"
So he spoke, but Antilochus drove on even harder, plying the goad, as if he hadn't heard a word.
For about as far as a discus flies from a strong man's shoulder, thrown by a young man testing his strength, that far they raced side by side—then Menelaus's team fell back, for he himself deliberately eased off the reins, afraid the sure-footed horses might collide there on the road, overturn the well-built chariots, and send the drivers sprawling in the dust in their eagerness for victory.
Then fair-haired Menelaus called out to him in anger: "Antilochus, no man alive is more reckless than you! Go, and be damned—we Achaeans were wrong to call you wise after all.
But even so, you won't carry off the prize without swearing an oath." With that he called out to his own horses: "Don't hold back now, don't stand there heartsick! Their legs and knees will tire before yours do—they're both past their youth."
So he spoke, and the horses, fearing their master's rebuke, ran harder still and soon closed the gap. Meanwhile the Argives, sitting in the gathering place, watched the horses come flying, raising dust across the plain. Idomeneus, lord of the Cretans, was the first to make out the leaders,
for he sat apart from the crowd, up high with a clear view over everything. Hearing a driver's shout from far off, he recognized it, and picked out a horse in front, a splendid animal, chestnut all over except for a round white mark on its forehead, bright as the moon.
He stood up straight and spoke among the Argives: "Friends, leaders and captains of the Argives, am I the only one who can make out the horses, or can you too? It looks to me like a different team is now in front, and a different driver shows up in the lead—those mares that were ahead
must have come to grief out on the plain, for I saw them clearly rounding the turning-post first, and now I can't spot them anywhere, though my eyes keep sweeping the whole Trojan plain looking for them. Either the reins slipped from the driver's hands and he couldn't hold his team steady around the post and missed the turn there—
I'd guess he was thrown out there and smashed his chariot, while the mares bolted away, overcome with panic. But get up and look for yourselves—I can't make it out clearly. The man in front looks to me like
an Aetolian by birth, who rules among the Argives—Diomedes, mighty son of horse-taming Tydeus." Swift Ajax, son of Oileus, rebuked him crudely: "Idomeneus, why must you always run your mouth? Those high-stepping horses are still far off, out on the wide plain.
You're not so much younger than the rest of us here, nor are your eyes the sharpest in any head, and yet you're always talking out of turn. There's no need for you to run on like this—there are better men here than you. The horses in front are the same ones they were before,
Eumelus's mares, and he's the one standing in the car holding the reins." The Cretan leader answered him angrily: "Ajax, best at quarrels, worst at judgment, in everything else you fall behind the other Argives, for your mind is stubborn as stone. Come now, let's wager a tripod or a cauldron on it,
and let Agamemnon, son of Atreus, judge between us, so you'll learn by paying up which team is really ahead." So he spoke, and swift Ajax, son of Oileus, sprang up at once, furious, ready to answer with harsh words in return, and the quarrel between the two would have gone further still,
had not Achilles himself stood up and spoken: "No more now, Ajax and Idomeneus, trading these bitter words back and forth—it isn't fitting. You'd be angry yourselves at anyone else who acted this way. Sit down instead in the gathering place and watch the horses—
they're pressing hard for victory and will soon be here themselves, and then each of you will see for himself which Argive team is in front and which behind." So he spoke, and just then Diomedes, son of Tydeus, came driving up close, plying the whip steadily from the shoulder, and his horses
lifted high, eating up the road at a swift pace. Flecks of dust kept striking the driver, and the chariot, plated with gold and tin, sped along behind his flying horses—so light was the wheel-track their rims left behind them in the thin dust, so swiftly did the pair go flying. He drew up in the middle of the gathering place, sweat pouring in streams down from the horses' necks and chests onto the ground.
He himself leaped down from the gleaming chariot to the earth and leaned his whip against the yoke. Nor did stalwart Sthenelus waste any time, but at once claimed the prize, giving it to his high-spirited comrades to lead away—the woman—and to carry off the eared tripod, while he himself unyoked the horses.
After him came Antilochus, grandson of Neleus, driving his horses in—he'd passed Menelaus by cunning, not by speed—yet even so Menelaus kept his swift horses close behind. As close as a horse runs behind the wheel when it strains at the chariot, pulling its master across the plain—the tip hairs of its tail brush the wheel-rim as it runs right behind, with hardly any
gap between them as it races across the open plain—so close was Menelaus now behind peerless Antilochus. At first he'd trailed by a discus-throw, but he quickly closed the distance, for the fine spirit of Agamemnon's lovely-maned mare, Aithe, kept rising. Had the course run on any longer, he would have passed him and left no doubt at all about it.
Meriones, brave Idomeneus's attendant, trailed noble Menelaus by a spear-cast, for his lovely-maned horses were the slowest of all
and he himself was the poorest driver in the field. Last of all came the son of Admetus, dragging his fine chariot and driving his horses on ahead of it. Swift-footed godlike Achilles saw him and pitied him, and stood up among the Argives to speak winged words:
"The best man drives his sure-footed horses in last. Come, let's give him a prize, as is fitting—second place—but let the son of Tydeus take the first." So he spoke, and they all agreed, just as he asked. And he would have given him the horse, since the Achaeans approved,
had not Antilochus, great-hearted Nestor's son, risen and answered Achilles, son of Peleus, with justice on his side: "Achilles, I'll be very angry with you if you carry through with this. You mean to take my prize away, on the grounds that his chariot and swift horses were wrecked—
and he's a fine man himself. Well, he should have prayed to the immortals—then he wouldn't have come in dead last of all. If you pity him, and he's dear to your heart, you have plenty of gold in your hut, and bronze, and sheep, and slave women too, and sure-footed horses.
Take some of those later and give him an even greater prize, or do it right now, so the Achaeans will praise you for it. But the mare I won't give up—let any man who wants her try me for her with his fists!" So he spoke, and swift-footed godlike Achilles smiled,
pleased with Antilochus, since he was a dear friend of his, and answered him with winged words: "Antilochus, since you ask me to give Eumelus something else from my own stores, I'll do that too. I'll give him the breastplate I stripped from Asteropaeus,
bronze, with a bright casting of tin running all around it—it will be worth a great deal to him." So he spoke, and told his dear comrade Automedon to fetch it from his hut. Automedon went and brought it back, and put it into Eumelus's hands, who received it gladly.
Then Menelaus, too, rose up, his heart sore, still bitterly angry at Antilochus. The herald put the staff in his hand and called for silence among the Argives, and then the godlike man spoke: "Antilochus, you used to have sense—look what you've done now!
You've disgraced my skill and fouled my horses by cutting yours in front of them, though yours were far the worse. Come now, leaders and captains of the Argives, judge between the two of us, fairly, with no favoritism, so that none of the bronze-armored Achaeans will ever say:
'Menelaus beat Antilochus by force with lies and made off with the mare, though his own horses were far worse, since he himself outranks him in strength and standing.' No—I'll judge the matter myself, and I don't think any other Danaan will find fault with me, for my judgment will be fair.
Antilochus, come here, prince that you are, as custom demands—stand in front of your horses and chariot, take in your hand the slender whip you drove with before, lay your hand on your horses, and swear by the Earth-shaker who holds and shakes the earth that you did not deliberately foul my chariot by trickery." Then wise Antilochus answered him: "Bear with me now—I'm a good deal younger
than you, lord Menelaus, and you're my elder and my better. You know how a young man's offenses tend to go—his mind is quicker, but his judgment thinner.
So let your heart be patient with me. The mare I won, I'll give to you myself, freely. And if you asked me for something even greater from my own house, I'd rather give it to you at once than fall out of your favor forever, prince, and be guilty in the eyes of the gods." So speaking, great-hearted Nestor's son led the mare
and put her into Menelaus's hands, and Menelaus's heart warmed with joy, as when the dew settles on the ears of a ripening crop, while the fields stand thick with grain—so, Menelaus, your heart warmed within you.
He spoke, calling to him with winged words: “Antilochus, this once I yield to you, angry though I am, since you were never a reckless or thoughtless man before now — it was youth that got the better of your judgment this time. Be careful in future not to outwit your betters again. No other man of the Achaeans would have won me over so quickly. But you have suffered much and toiled much, you and your good father and your brother, for my sake, so I will give way to your pleading. I will even give you the mare, mine though she is, so that these men here may know that my heart was never arrogant or unyielding.”
So he spoke, and gave the mare to Antilochus' companion Noemon to lead away; and Antilochus then took the shining cauldron for himself. Meriones, who had come in fourth, lifted the two talents of gold. The fifth prize was left over, a two-handled bowl, and Achilles carried it through the gathering of Argives and gave it to Nestor, saying as he stood beside him,
“Here, old man, let this too be a treasure for you, a memorial of Patroclus' burial — for you will never see him again among the Argives. I give you this prize outright, since you will not box or wrestle for it, nor enter the javelin-throwing, nor race on foot; harsh old age already presses hard upon you.”
So saying he set it in Nestor's hands, and the old man received it gladly, and spoke to him with winged words: “Yes, my son, all you have said is fitting and true. My limbs are no longer steady, my feet, nor do my arms fly out light and quick from either shoulder as they once did. How I wish I were young again, and my strength as sure as it was on the day the Epeians buried lord Amarynceus at Buprasium, and his sons set out prizes for the king.
“There no man was my equal, neither among the Epeians nor the Pylians themselves nor the great-hearted Aetolians. In boxing I beat Clytomedes son of Enops, in wrestling Ancaeus of Pleuron, who stood up against me; in the footrace I outran Iphiclus, good man though he was, and with the spear I threw farther than Phyleus and Polydorus. Only in the chariot race did the two sons of Actor beat me, by crowding ahead of me, jealous for the victory, because the greatest prizes had been left there for that event.
“They were twins, and one always held the reins steady, held them steady, while the other plied the whip. So it was with me then; but now younger men must take on such contests. I must yield to grim old age, though once I stood out among the heroes. Go now, and honor your companion with these games. This gift I accept gladly, and my heart rejoices that you remember me with such kindness, and do not forget the honor that is my due among the Achaeans. May the gods grant you a rich return for it.”
So he spoke, and the son of Peleus made his way back through the great crowd of Achaeans, once he had heard out the whole speech of the son of Neleus. Next he set out the prizes for painful boxing: he led out and tethered in the gathering a hard-working mule, six years old and unbroken, the hardest kind to break, and for the man who was beaten he set out a two-handled cup. Then he stood up and spoke among the Argives:
“Son of Atreus, and all you other well-greaved Achaeans, for this contest we call for two men, the best there are, to raise their fists high and strike — whichever man Apollo grants the endurance to win, and all the Achaeans see it, shall lead the hard-working mule back to his tent; but the loser shall carry off the two-handled cup.”
So he spoke, and at once a big, fine man stood up, skilled in boxing, Epeius son of Panopeus; he laid his hand on the hard-working mule and said, “Let the man who wants that two-handled cup come closer — I say no other Achaean will lead off that mule by beating me at boxing, since I claim to be the best. Isn't it enough that I fall short of you all in battle? No man can be skilled in every kind of work.
“I tell you plainly, and it will be done: I will tear his flesh open and crack his bones. Let his kinsmen stay close together here, ready to carry him off once my fists have brought him down.”
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent. Only Euryalus rose to face him, a godlike man, son of lord Mecisteus, son of Talaus — the man who once went to Thebes, after Oedipus had fallen, for his funeral games, and there beat all the Cadmeans.
Famed Diomedes, son of Tydeus, took him in hand, encouraging him with words, and wanted badly for him to win. He threw a loincloth around him first, and then gave him well-cut leather straps cut from the hide of a field-ox. The two of them, girded now, went out into the middle of the gathering, faced each other, raised their heavy fists together, and fell to it, their heavy hands crashing together. A terrible grinding of jaws rose up, and sweat streamed from every limb; then brilliant Epeius rushed in and caught him with a blow to the cheek as he looked for an opening — he could not stand up under it much longer,
for his shining limbs gave way beneath him at once. As a fish leaps up on a weed-strewn beach when the north wind's chill ruffles the water, and then the dark wave covers it again, so Euryalus leapt up under the blow; but great-hearted Epeius caught him in his arms and set him upright. His companions crowded around him and led him through the gathering, his feet trailing, spitting thick blood, his head lolling to one side; they carried him off, his senses gone, and set him down among them, and went themselves and fetched the two-handled cup.
Then the son of Peleus at once set out the prizes for the third contest, for painful wrestling, showing them to the Danaans: for the winner a great tripod to stand over the fire, which the Achaeans valued among themselves at twelve oxen; and for the loser he brought out a woman skilled in many crafts, valued at four oxen. He stood up and spoke among the Argives:
“Rise, you two who will try this contest as well.” So he spoke, and great Telamonian Ajax rose up, and crafty Odysseus rose too, a man who knew every trick. Girded now, the two of them went out into the middle of the gathering,
and gripped each other in their strong arms, like rafter-beams that a skilled builder locks together to brace a high roof against the force of the winds. Their backs creaked under the strong grip of their bold hands, and sweat ran down in streams; welts sprang up thick and red with blood along their ribs and shoulders. Both strained hard, ever eager for the victory and the finely wrought tripod, and neither Odysseus could throw and bring Ajax down, nor could Ajax throw him — Odysseus' strength held firm.
But when they had tired out the well-greaved Achaeans watching, great Telamonian Ajax said to him, “Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, either lift me, or I will lift you — the rest will be Zeus' concern.” So saying he lifted him; but Odysseus did not forget his cunning: he struck him behind the knee, caught him off balance, loosened his legs, and threw him backward, so that Odysseus fell on top of his chest. The onlookers watched in wonder and amazement.
Then in his turn much-enduring Odysseus tried to lift him, and moved him a little off the ground, but could not lift him fully; he hooked a knee behind Ajax's, and both men fell to the ground together, close beside one another, and were soiled with dust. And now they would have leapt up and wrestled a third time, but Achilles himself rose and held them back:
“Strain no more, wear yourselves out no further with this hard struggle. The victory belongs to you both alike; take equal prizes and go, so that other Achaeans may have their turn at the games.” So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed, and wiping the dust from themselves, put their tunics back on.
Then the son of Peleus at once set out the prizes for the footrace: a mixing bowl of silver, finely wrought, holding six measures, and far the most beautiful on the whole earth, since skilled Sidonian craftsmen had made it well, and Phoenician traders had carried it over the misty sea and set it down in harbor, and given it as a gift to Thoas; Euneus son of Jason had paid it as ransom to Patroclus the hero for Lycaon, son of Priam. This bowl Achilles set out as a prize in honor of his friend, for whichever man proved swiftest of foot in the race; for second place he set out a great ox, fat with suet;
and for last place, half a talent of gold. Then he stood up and spoke among the Argives: “Rise, you who will try this contest too.” So he spoke, and at once swift Ajax son of Oileus rose up, and crafty Odysseus, and after them Nestor's son Antilochus, who could outrun every young man there. They stood in a row, and Achilles showed them the turning point. The course stretched out from the starting line, and at once Ajax, son of Oileus, shot into the lead; and close behind him ran godlike Odysseus,
as close as the weaving-rod lies to a well-girdled woman's breast when she draws it skillfully in her hands, pulling the spool of thread out past the warp, and holds it close to her breast — so close behind ran Odysseus, his feet striking in Ajax's own footprints before the dust could even settle there, and his breath came down warm on Ajax's head as he ran on, light and swift; and all the Achaeans shouted encouragement as he strained for the victory, urging him on hard as he ran. But when they were coming to the end of the course, Odysseus prayed in his heart to grey-eyed Athena:
“Hear me, goddess; come to my aid now and speed my feet.”
So he prayed, and Pallas Athena heard him, and made his limbs light — his feet, and his arms above them. And just when they were about to make their final dash for the prize, Ajax slipped as he ran — Athena tripped him — right where the dung lay scattered from the bellowing cattle that swift-footed Achilles had slaughtered in honor of Patroclus; his mouth and nose filled with cattle dung. So much-enduring godlike Odysseus, arriving first, snatched up the mixing bowl, and glorious Ajax took the ox. He stood there, holding the horn of the field-ox in his hands,
spitting out the dung, and said to the Argives, “Ah, the goddess tripped up my feet — she who always stands by Odysseus and helps him, like a mother.” So he spoke, and all of them laughed heartily at him. Then Antilochus, smiling, carried off the last prize, and spoke among the Argives: “I will tell you all something you already know, friends — that the gods still honor the older generation, even now. Ajax is only a little older than I am, but this man belongs to an earlier generation, to men of an earlier age —
they call him a green old man; and it is a hard thing for an Achaean to race against him, except for Achilles.” So he spoke, giving honor to the swift-footed son of Peleus. And Achilles answered him, saying, “Antilochus, your praise of me will not go unrewarded — I will add half a talent of gold to your prize.” So saying he placed it in his hands, and Antilochus received it gladly.
Then the son of Peleus carried out a long-shadowed spear and set it down in the gathering, and with it a shield and a bright helmet — the armor of Sarpedon, which Patroclus had stripped from him. He stood up and spoke among the Argives:
“For this contest we call two men, the best there are, to put on their armor, take up the bronze that cuts flesh, and test each other before the whole assembly. Whichever of the two is first to reach the other's fair flesh, drawing blood through armor to the dark blood within, to him I will give this fine silver-studded sword, a handsome Thracian blade I took from Asteropaeus; but the armor the two of them shall share between them, and we will set a good feast before them in our tents.”
So he spoke, and great Telamonian Ajax rose up, and Diomedes, mighty son of Tydeus, rose as well. When the two of them had armed themselves apart on either side of the crowd, they came together in the middle, eager to fight, glaring terribly at one another, and wonder held all the Achaeans. When they had closed the distance between them,
three times they rushed at each other, three times they closed in hard combat. Then Ajax struck the perfectly round shield but did not reach the flesh, for the corselet within held firm; and Diomedes, reaching over the great shield, kept aiming the point of his gleaming spear again and again at Ajax's neck. Then the Achaeans, fearing for Ajax, called out for them to stop and share the prizes equally.
Even so, the hero gave the great sword to the son of Tydeus, together with its sheath and its well-cut baldric. Then the son of Peleus set out a lump of raw pig iron, which the great strength of Eetion used to hurl, before swift-footed godlike Achilles killed him and carried it off in his ships along with his other possessions. He stood up and spoke among the Argives:
“Rise, you who will try this contest too. Even if the winner's fertile fields lie very far off, he will have enough iron here to supply him for five full years going round; for his shepherd or his plowman will have no need to go into town for iron — this will provide it.” So he spoke, and Polypoetes, staunch in battle, rose up, and mighty Leonteus, a match for the gods, and Ajax son of Telamon, and godlike Epeius. They took their places in a row, and godlike Epeius took hold of the mass and hurled it, spinning; and all the Achaeans laughed at the throw.
Leonteus, scion of Ares, threw second; and third, great Telamonian Ajax hurled it from his strong hand, and it flew past every other man's mark. But when staunch Polypoetes took up the mass, he threw it as far again as a herdsman throws his crook, and it goes whirling on through a herd of grazing cattle — so far beyond the whole field did his throw carry, and the crowd roared out. Polypoetes' strong companions stood up and carried the king's prize back to the hollow ships.
Then Achilles set out dark iron for the archers: he laid down ten double axes and ten single ones, and set up the mast of a dark-prowed ship far off in the sand; to its top he tied a trembling dove by a slender cord, and told the archers to shoot at that. “Whoever hits the trembling dove shall take all ten double axes home with him; whoever misses the bird but hits the cord — since his aim falls short of the mark — shall carry off the single axes.”
So he spoke, and mighty lord Teucer rose up, and Meriones, brave attendant of Idomeneus, rose with him. They shook lots in a bronze helmet and drew them, and Teucer's lot came out first. At once he loosed an arrow with all his strength, but he did not vow to Apollo that he would offer a splendid sacrifice of firstborn lambs;
and he missed the bird, for Apollo begrudged him that — but he struck the cord by the bird's foot, where it was tied, and the sharp arrow cut the cord clean through. The dove shot up into the sky, and the cord fell loose to the ground; and the Achaeans shouted. Meriones, eager now, snatched the bow quickly from Teucer's hand
— he had held an arrow ready all along, while Teucer took his aim — and at once he vowed to Apollo, lord of the far-flying arrows, that he would offer a splendid sacrifice of firstborn lambs. High up under the clouds he spotted the trembling dove; there, as it circled, he struck it underneath the wing, and the arrow passed clean through and fell back to earth, fixing itself in the ground at Meriones' feet; but the bird, perching on the mast of the dark-prowed ship,
let its neck droop and its thick feathers fell loose around it; its life fluttered swiftly out of its limbs, and it dropped far from where it had been struck, and the people watched in wonder and amazement. Meriones took up all ten double axes, and Teucer carried the single axes back to the hollow ships.
Then the son of Peleus carried in a long-shadowed spear and set it down, together with an unfired cauldron worked with flowers, worth an ox, and brought them into the gathering; and the spearmen stood up — mighty wide-ruling Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and Meriones, brave attendant of Idomeneus. But swift-footed godlike Achilles spoke among them: “Son of Atreus, we all know how far you surpass every man here,
and how far you excel all others in strength and in the power of the spear; so take this prize and go back to the hollow ships, and let us give the spear to the hero Meriones instead, if you are willing in your heart — that is what I ask of you.” So he spoke, and Agamemnon, lord of men, did not refuse; he gave the bronze spear to Meriones, and the hero handed his own splendid prize to the herald Talthybius.

======== Book 24 ========

The assembly broke up, and the men scattered, each to his own swift ship, thinking of supper and of sweet sleep's comfort. But Achilles wept, remembering his dear companion, and sleep that conquers all would not take him. He tossed from side to side, longing for Patroclus' manhood and his splendid strength, remembering all they had endured together, the wars they had fought and the grim waves they had crossed. Remembering these things he let fall warm tears, lying now on his side, now on his back, now face down; then rising to his feet he would wander in distress along the shore of the sea, and never did the dawn, rising over sea and shore, find him at rest. But when he had yoked his swift horses to the chariot, he would tie Hector behind it to be dragged, and after dragging him three times around the tomb of dead Menoetius' son, he would rest again in his hut, leaving the body stretched face down in the dust. Yet Apollo kept all disfigurement from his flesh, pitying the man even in death, and covered him all around with the golden aegis, so that Achilles would not tear his skin as he dragged him.
So, in his fury, Achilles kept defiling godlike Hector. But the blessed gods pitied him as they watched, and urged the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus to steal the body away. This pleased all the others, but never Hera, nor Poseidon, nor the grey-eyed maiden; they still held the hatred they had felt from the start for sacred Troy, for Priam, and for his people, because of the blind folly of Paris, who insulted the goddesses when they came to his steading, and praised the one who offered him ruinous desire.
But when the twelfth dawn had come since that day, Phoebus Apollo spoke among the immortals: "You are pitiless, you gods, destroyers all! Did Hector never burn for you the thighbones of oxen and unblemished goats? Yet now you cannot bring yourselves to save even his corpse, so his wife might see him, and his mother, and his child, and his father Priam and his people, who would swiftly burn him on the pyre and give him his due rites. No, it is cursed Achilles you gods wish to favor, a man whose mind knows no justice, whose heart in his chest will not bend, but who, like a lion turned savage, gives way to his own great strength and proud spirit and falls upon the flocks of men to make himself a feast. So Achilles has destroyed all pity, and feels no shame, though shame does men both great harm and great good. Surely a man may lose someone dearer still, a brother born of the same womb, or a son, and yet, having wept and grieved, he lets him go, for the Fates gave men hearts that can endure. But this man, after tearing the life from godlike Hector, ties him behind his chariot and drags him around the tomb of his beloved companion. This brings him no honor, no advantage at all. Let him beware, good as he is, that we gods grow angry with him, for in his fury he outrages the senseless earth."
Then white-armed Hera answered him in anger: "That might even be true, lord of the silver bow, if you gods meant to give Achilles and Hector equal honor. But Hector is mortal, and sucked at a woman's breast, while Achilles is the son of a goddess, one I myself raised and nursed and gave in marriage to a man, to Peleus, who became dear to the immortals' hearts. All of you gods attended their wedding feast, and you sat among them with your lyre, friend of the wicked, forever faithless!"
Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: "Hera, do not be so utterly angry with the gods. Their honor will not be equal, it is true, yet Hector too was dearest to the gods of all mortal men in Troy. So he was to me as well, for he never failed to bring me pleasing gifts. My altar never lacked its share of the feast, the libation and the savor of sacrifice, for that is the honor allotted to us. But as for stealing the body, we will let that go, for it cannot be done, not with bold Hector hidden from Achilles, since his mother is always beside him, night and day alike. But let one of you call Thetis to my side, so that I may speak a careful word to her, that Achilles may accept ransom from Priam and give Hector back."
So he spoke, and storm-footed Iris rose to carry his word. Between Samos and rugged Imbros she plunged into the dark sea, and the water groaned as she struck it. Down she sank to the depths like a lump of lead, which, fastened to the horn of a grazing ox, goes down bearing death to the ravenous fish. She found Thetis in a hollow cave, and around her sat the other sea-goddesses gathered together; and Thetis, in their midst, wept for the doom of her flawless son, who was fated to die in Troy, in that rich land far from his home.
Standing close beside her, swift-footed Iris spoke: "Rise, Thetis. Zeus of the undying counsels calls you."
Then the goddess Thetis, silver-footed, answered her: "Why does that great god summon me? I am ashamed to mingle with the immortals, for I carry griefs beyond counting in my heart. Still, I will go; his word will not be spoken for nothing."
So speaking, the shining goddess took up her dark veil, blacker than which no garment could be found. She set out to go, and before her went wind-footed, swift Iris leading the way, and around them the waves of the sea parted. Stepping up onto the shore they shot up into the sky, and found the wide-seeing son of Cronus, and around him all the other blessed gods who live forever sat gathered together. She sat down beside father Zeus, and Athena made way for her. Hera placed a fine golden cup in her hand and spoke to comfort her; Thetis drank, and gave it back.
Then the father of gods and men began to speak among them: "You have come to Olympus, goddess Thetis, for all your sorrow, bearing an unforgettable grief in your heart — I know it well myself. Even so, I will tell you why I called you here. For nine days now a quarrel has risen among the immortals over Hector's corpse and over Achilles, sacker of cities. They urge the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus to steal the body away, but I grant this honor instead to Achilles, guarding your regard and friendship for time to come. Go quickly to the camp and give your son this charge: tell him the gods are angry with him, and that I am enraged beyond all the immortals, because in his raging heart he keeps Hector by the curved ships and will not release him — so that, in fear of me, he may give him back. And for my part, I will send Iris to great-hearted Priam, to bid him ransom his dear son, going to the Achaean ships, and bring gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart."
So he spoke, and silver-footed Thetis did not disobey; she went darting down from the peaks of Olympus and came to her son's hut. There she found him groaning heavily, and around him his dear companions were busy hurrying to prepare their morning meal, for a great shaggy sheep had just been slaughtered in the hut. His honored mother sat down close beside him, stroked him with her hand, and spoke, calling him by name: "My child, how long will you waste your heart in grief and mourning, remembering neither food nor rest? It is a good thing even to lie with a woman in love, for you will not live long — already death and mighty fate stand close beside you. But listen to me now, and quickly, for I come to you as a messenger from Zeus. He says the gods are angry with you, and that he himself is enraged beyond all the immortals, because in your raging heart you keep Hector by the curved ships and will not release him. Come, give him up, and accept ransom for the body."
Then swift-footed Achilles answered her: "So be it. Let whoever brings the ransom take the body away, if the Olympian himself commands it with a willing heart."
So, there among the gathered ships, mother and son spoke many winged words to one another.
Then the son of Cronus sent Iris to sacred Troy: "Go, swift Iris, leave your seat on Olympus and carry this message into Troy, to great-hearted Priam: tell him to ransom his dear son, going to the Achaean ships, and to bring gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart — alone, with no other Trojan man beside him. Let some herald attend him, an older man, to guide the mules and the smooth-wheeled wagon, and to bring the body back to the city, the one that godlike Achilles killed. Let no thought of death trouble his heart, no fear of any kind, for such a guide we will give him, the slayer of Argus, who will lead him until he brings him close to Achilles. And once he has led him inside Achilles' hut, Achilles himself will not kill him, but will hold back all the others, for he is not senseless, nor careless, nor lawless, but will show every kindness in sparing a man who comes as a suppliant."
So he spoke, and storm-footed Iris rose to carry his word. She came to Priam's house, and found there wailing and lament. His sons sat around their father inside the courtyard, drenching their clothing with tears, and the old man sat among them, wrapped close in his cloak, and much filth covered the old man's head and neck, gathered by his own hands as he rolled upon the ground. His daughters and his sons' wives wailed throughout the halls, remembering all the many brave men who lay dead, their lives taken by Argive hands.
Zeus's messenger stood beside Priam and spoke to him, her voice hushed, and trembling seized his limbs. "Take courage, Priam, son of Dardanus, and do not be afraid. I have not come here foreseeing harm for you, but with good will. I am a messenger from Zeus, who though far away cares greatly for you and pities you. The Olympian bids you ransom godlike Hector, and bring gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart — alone, with no other Trojan man beside you. Let some herald attend you, an older man, to guide the mules and the smooth-wheeled wagon, and to bring the body back to the city, the one that godlike Achilles killed. Let no thought of death trouble your heart, no fear of any kind, for such a guide will go along with you, the slayer of Argus, who will lead you until he brings you close to Achilles. And once he has led you inside Achilles' hut, Achilles himself will not kill you, but will hold back all the others, for he is not senseless, nor careless, nor lawless, but will show every kindness in sparing a man who comes as a suppliant."
So speaking, swift-footed Iris went on her way. And Priam ordered his sons to make ready the smooth-wheeled mule-wagon, and to bind the wicker box upon it. He himself went down to his fragrant chamber, high-roofed and built of cedar, which held many treasures, and called to his wife Hecuba and spoke to her: "My poor wife, a messenger has come to me from Zeus on Olympus, telling me to ransom my dear son, going to the Achaean ships, and to bring gifts to Achilles that will warm his heart. Come, tell me — what does your heart make of this? For as for me, some terrible strength and longing drives me to go there, to the ships, into the vast camp of the Achaeans."
So he spoke, and his wife cried out and answered him: "Oh, where has your good sense gone, the sense that once made you renowned among strangers and among your own people? How can you wish to go alone to the ships of the Achaeans, before the eyes of a man who has killed so many of your fine sons? Your heart must be iron. For if he seizes you, and looks upon you with his own eyes, that savage, faithless man will show you no mercy, no respect at all. No, let us weep for him instead, sitting apart in our hall. That is how mighty Fate spun the thread for him at his birth, when I myself bore him — to glut the swift-footed dogs, far from his parents, in the house of a violent man, whose liver I wish I could fasten on and eat! Then his deeds would be repaid for my son, since it was not as a coward that Achilles killed him, but as he stood before the Trojans and the deep-robed women of Troy, with no thought of flight or retreat."
Then old, godlike Priam answered her in turn: "Do not hold me back when I wish to go, and do not become yourself an evil omen in my own halls; you will not persuade me. For if it were some other man on earth who bade me do this, one of the seers who read the sacrifices, or one of the priests, we might call it false and turn away from it all the more. But now, since I myself heard the god and looked upon him face to face, I will go, and his word will not be spoken for nothing. And if it is my fate to die beside the ships of the bronze-clad Achaeans, I am willing; let Achilles kill me at once, once I have taken my son in my arms, once I have had my fill of grief."
He spoke, and lifted the fine lids of his chests; from within he took twelve very beautiful robes, twelve single-fold cloaks, as many carpets, as many white mantles, and as many tunics besides. He weighed out and brought ten full talents of gold, and brought out two gleaming tripods, four cauldrons, and one very beautiful cup, which Thracian men had given him when he went to them on an embassy, a great treasure — not even this did the old man spare in his house, so greatly did he wish in his heart to ransom his dear son. And he drove all the Trojans from his portico, scolding them with harsh words: "Get out, you disgraces, you shameful men! Have you no grief of your own at home, that you have come here to trouble me? Or do you think it a small thing that the son of Cronus, Zeus, has given me such pain, taking from me the best of my sons? You too will come to know it — you will find it far easier for the Achaeans to kill you now that he is dead. But as for me, before I see with my own eyes this city plundered and laid waste, let me go down into the house of Hades."
So he spoke, and drove the men off with his staff, and they went outside before the old man's urgency. Then he turned on his own sons, scolding Helenus and Paris and godlike Agathon, Pammon and Antiphonus and Polites, good at the war cry, Deiphobus and Hippothous and godlike Agavus — nine of them the old man scolded, and commanded: "Hurry, you wretched children, you disgraces! I wish all of you had been killed together at the swift ships instead of Hector. How wholly unlucky I am, since I fathered the finest sons in wide Troy, and not one of them, I say, is left to me — godlike Mestor, and Troilus, glorious in the chariot, and Hector, who was a god among men and seemed no mortal's son, but a god's. All these Ares destroyed, and only the disgraces are left to me — liars, dancers, champions of the stamping feet, plunderers of their own people's lambs and kids. Will you not make the wagon ready for me at once, and load all these things upon it, so that we may be on our way?"
So he spoke, and they, fearing their father's rebuke, brought out the smooth-wheeled mule-wagon, fine and newly built, and bound the wicker box upon it. They took down from its peg the mule-yoke, made of boxwood, fitted with a knob and well-set guiding rings; they brought out too the yoke-band, nine cubits long, together with the yoke. This they fitted carefully to the polished pole, at its very end, set the ring upon the pin, wound the band three times around the knob on each side, then lashed it in order and turned the end under the hook. Then, bringing out from the chamber the boundless ransom for Hector's head, they heaped it on the polished wagon, and yoked the strong-hooved, hard-working mules, which the Mysians had once given Priam as splendid gifts. And they led out for Priam his horses, which the old man had himself kept and reared at the polished manger.
While these were being yoked before the high house by the herald and Priam, both with careful thoughts in mind, Hecuba came near them, heavy at heart, holding in her right hand honey-sweet wine in a golden cup, so that they might pour libation before setting out. She stood before the horses and spoke, calling him by name: "Here, pour libation to father Zeus, and pray that you return home again from among your enemies, since your heart drives you to the ships, though I am against it. Pray then to the dark-clouded son of Cronus of Ida, who watches over all of Troy, and ask for a swift bird, his own messenger, the one dearest to him of all birds and greatest in strength, on the right hand, so that seeing it with your own eyes you may trust in it and go to the ships of the swift-horsed Danaans. But if far-seeing Zeus does not send you his own messenger, then I would not urge you, nor advise you, to go to the ships of the Argives, however eager you are."
Then godlike Priam answered her: "Wife, I will not refuse you in what you ask."
For it is a fine thing to lift one's hands to Zeus, if he will show mercy." So the old man spoke, and he told the housekeeper to pour clean water over his hands, and she came to his side holding the basin and the pitcher together. When he had washed, he took the cup from his wife's hands, and then, standing in the middle of the courtyard, he prayed and poured out wine, looking up to the sky, and he cried aloud:
"Father Zeus, who rule from Ida, most glorious, greatest of gods, grant that I come to Achilles as a man he will welcome and pity, and send me a swift bird, that best of omens, the one dearest to your own heart and mightiest in strength, flying to the right, so that I may see it with my own eyes and trust it as I go to the ships of the fast-horsed Greeks."
So he prayed, and Zeus the counselor heard him. At once he sent an eagle, most perfect of winged things that fly, the dark hunter men also call the black eagle. Wide as the door of a rich man's high-roofed chamber is made, fitted with its close-set bolt, so wide were the eagle's wings on either side. It swept to the right over the city, and when they saw it, everyone's heart lifted with joy.
The old man hurried to mount his chariot and drove out through the gateway and the echoing colonnade. In front the mules pulled the four-wheeled wagon, driven by wise Idaeus, and behind came the horses, which the old man drove on with his whip, urging them swiftly through the city, and all his household followed after him, weeping without end, as if he were going to his death.
But when they had gone down from the city and come out onto the plain, the sons and sons-in-law turned back toward Troy, while the two of them, going on across the plain, did not escape the notice of far-seeing Zeus. Seeing the old man, he pitied him, and at once spoke to his own son Hermes:
"Hermes, since it is you above all who love to be a companion to men, and you listen to whomever you wish, go now and lead Priam to the hollow ships of the Greeks in such a way that no one of the other Greeks sees or notices him, until he reaches the son of Peleus."
So he spoke, and the guide, the slayer of Argus, did not disobey. At once he bound beneath his feet the beautiful sandals, immortal and golden, which carry him over water and over the boundless earth alike, swift as a gust of wind. And he took up his wand, with which he charms the eyes of men, of whomever he wishes, and wakes others again from sleep. Holding this in his hands the strong slayer of Argus flew on his way.
Quickly he reached Troy and the Hellespont, and went forward in the likeness of a young prince, just growing his first beard, in the fairest bloom of youth. Now when the travelers had driven past the great mound of Ilus, they stopped the mules and horses to let them drink at the river, for by now darkness had come down over the land.
Looking closely, the herald caught sight of Hermes approaching, and spoke to Priam, saying, "Take care, son of Dardanus, this calls for a wary mind. I see a man, and I think we may soon be torn apart. Come, let us flee on the chariot, or else clasp his knees and beg for mercy, in case he pities us."
So he spoke, and the old man's mind grew faint with fear; the hair stood up on his bent limbs, and he stood there stunned. But the kindly god himself came near, took the old man's hand, and questioned him, saying, "Father, where are you driving your horses and mules like this through the divine night, while other mortals sleep? Have you no fear of the fierce-breathing Greeks, who are your enemies and stand so near? If one of them should see you carrying such treasures through the swift black night, what then would be in your mind? You yourself are no longer young, and this man who follows you is old too, hardly able to fight off anyone who moves against you first. But I will do you no harm — indeed I would keep off anyone else who tried; I take you for a father dear to me."
Then the old godlike Priam answered him: "All this is indeed as you say, dear child. But still some god has held out a hand over me even now, sending such a traveler to meet me, one so fortunate — you, so fine in body and looks, so wise in mind, and surely born of blessed parents."
Then the guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to him again: "Yes indeed, old man, all you say is fitting. But come, tell me this and speak it truly — are you sending all these many rich treasures away to foreign men, so that they may be kept safe for you there? Or are you all now abandoning holy Troy in fear, since the best man among you has fallen, your own son, who was second to none of the Greeks in battle?"
Then the old godlike Priam answered him: "Who are you, best of men, and whose son are you, that you speak so fairly of my ill-fated son's fate?"
Then the guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to him again: "You are testing me, old man, asking about noble Hector. Him I have seen many times with my own eyes in battle where men win glory, and I saw him too when he drove the Greeks to their ships and cut them down with his sharp bronze; and we stood by in wonder, for Achilles would not let us fight, being angry at the son of Atreus. I am his attendant — the same well-built ship brought us both. I am one of the Myrmidons, and my father is Polyctor. He is a rich man, and old now like yourself; he has six sons, and I am the seventh. I cast lots among them and it fell to me to come here. Now I have come out to the plain from the ships, for at dawn the bright-eyed Greeks will set their battle around the city. They grow restless sitting idle, and the kings of the Greeks cannot hold them back from fighting."
Then the old godlike Priam answered him: "If indeed you are the attendant of Achilles, son of Peleus, then come, tell me the whole truth — is my son still there by the ships, or has Achilles by now cut him limb from limb and thrown him to his dogs?"
Then the guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to him again: "Old man, no dogs or birds have yet eaten him. He still lies there by Achilles' ship, just as he was, in the huts; and this is now the twelfth day he has lain there, yet his flesh does not decay, nor do worms devour it, the kind that feed on men slain in war. It is true Achilles drags him without pity round the tomb of his dear companion, every day when dawn appears, yet he does not disfigure him. You would marvel yourself to see him, could you go there — how fresh with dew he lies, washed clean of blood, with no stain anywhere; and every wound has closed, though many drove their bronze into him. So it is that the blessed gods care for your son, even dead as he is, for he was dear to their hearts."
So he spoke, and the old man rejoiced, and answered, "My child, how good it is to give the immortals their due gifts! For never, while he lived, did my son forget the gods who hold Olympus in his own house — and so they remembered him even in the fate of death. But come, accept this fine cup from my hands, and keep me safe, and grant me passage, with the gods' help, until I reach the hut of the son of Peleus."
Then the guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to him again: "You are testing me, old man, since I am younger, but you will not persuade me to take gifts from you behind Achilles' back. I fear him too much, and I would be ashamed in my heart to rob him, in case some harm should come to me afterward. But as your guide I would go with you even to famous Argos, faithfully, whether by swift ship or on foot beside you, and no one would attack you for scorning your escort."
With that the kindly god sprang up onto the chariot, quickly seized the whip and reins in his hands, and breathed great strength into the horses and mules. When they reached the towers and the ditch that guarded the ships, the sentries were just then busy with their evening meal, and over all of them the guide, the slayer of Argus, poured sleep; then at once he opened the gates and pushed back the bars, and led in Priam and the glittering gifts upon the wagon.
But when they reached the lofty hut of the son of Peleus, which the Myrmidons had built for their lord, cutting timbers of fir, and roofed above with shaggy thatch they had gathered from the meadow — and around it they had made a great courtyard for their lord with close-set stakes, whose gate was barred by a single bolt of pine, which it took three Greeks to ram shut and three to draw back that great bar of the door — three of the rest, that is, for Achilles alone could ram it shut by himself — there the kindly Hermes opened the gate for the old man, and led in the glorious gifts to the swift-footed son of Peleus. Then he stepped down from the chariot to the ground and said,
"Old man, it is I, an immortal god, who have come to you — Hermes, for my father sent me to be your guide. But now I will go back again; I will not go before Achilles' eyes, for it would bring shame for an immortal god to welcome mortal men so openly, face to face. You, go in yourself, and clasp the knees of the son of Peleus, and beg him by his father and his fair-haired mother and by his child, so that you may move his heart."
With these words Hermes went off toward high Olympus. Priam leapt down from the chariot to the ground, leaving Idaeus there, who stayed behind holding the horses and mules, while the old man went straight to the house where Achilles, dear to Zeus, was accustomed to sit. There he found him inside; his companions sat apart from him, and only two, the warrior Automedon and Alcimus, offshoot of Ares, were busy attending him nearby, for he had just finished eating and drinking, and the table still stood beside him.
Great Priam came in without their noticing, and, standing close to Achilles, he clasped his knees and kissed his hands — those terrible hands that had killed so many of his sons. As when a heavy madness seizes a man who, having killed someone in his own country, comes to a foreign land, to the house of some rich man, and wonder seizes those who look on him — so Achilles wondered to see godlike Priam before him, and the others wondered too, and looked at one another.
Then Priam spoke to him, pleading: "Remember your own father, godlike Achilles, a man my own age, standing on the grim threshold of old age. Perhaps those living around him now wear him down, and there is no one there to defend him from ruin and harm. Yet he, at least, hearing that you are still alive, rejoices in his heart, and hopes every day to see his beloved son coming home from Troy. But I am utterly unfortunate, for I fathered the best sons in wide Troy, and not one of them, I think, is left to me. I had fifty when the sons of the Greeks came — nineteen born of a single womb, the rest borne to me by other women in my halls. Furious Ares has loosened the knees of most of them, and the one who alone stood by me, who defended the city and its people — him you killed a few days ago as he fought for his homeland, Hector. It is for his sake that I have come now to the ships of the Greeks, to win him back from you, and I bring a ransom beyond counting.
"Achilles, honor the gods, and take pity on me, remembering your own father. I am more pitiable still, for I have endured what no other mortal on this earth has ever endured — I have brought to my lips the hand of the man who killed my sons."
So he spoke, and stirred in Achilles a longing to weep for his own father. Taking the old man's hand, he gently pushed him back. And the two of them remembered — Priam, huddled at Achilles' feet, wept bitterly for man-slaying Hector, while Achilles wept for his own father, and then again for Patroclus, and the sound of their grieving rose through the house.
But when great Achilles had had his fill of weeping, and the longing for it had passed from his heart and limbs, he rose at once from his seat and raised the old man by the hand, pitying his gray head and gray beard, and spoke to him, saying, "Ah, poor man, you have indeed borne much sorrow in your heart. How did you dare to come alone to the ships of the Greeks, into the sight of the man who has killed so many of your brave sons? Your heart must be made of iron. But come now, sit on this chair, and though we grieve, let us let our sorrows lie quiet in our hearts for now, for there is no profit to be had from chilling grief. This is the fate the gods have spun for wretched mortals, to live in sorrow, while they themselves are free of care.
"Two jars stand on the floor of Zeus's palace, filled with the gifts he gives, one of evils, the other of blessings. The man to whom Zeus who delights in thunder gives a mixture of both meets sometimes with evil and sometimes with good; but the man to whom he gives only from the jar of sorrows, that man he makes an outcast, and cruel hunger drives him over the bright earth, and he wanders honored by neither gods nor men.
"So too the gods gave splendid gifts to Peleus from his very birth, for he surpassed all men in prosperity and wealth, and ruled over the Myrmidons, and though he was mortal, the gods gave him a goddess for a wife. But even upon him the gods laid an evil too, for no line of sons to rule after him was born to him in his halls — he had only one son, doomed to an untimely end, and I am not there to care for him in his old age, since I sit here far from my homeland, in Troy, bringing grief to you and your children.
"And you too, old man, we hear, were once fortunate. Over all the land bounded by Lesbos, seat of Macar, and Phrygia above, and the boundless Hellespont, over all this, they say, you were foremost, old man, in wealth and in sons. But since the gods of heaven brought this affliction on you, there has been nothing round your city but battle and the killing of men. Bear it, and do not grieve without end in your heart, for you will gain nothing by mourning for your son; you will not bring him back to life, and before that you may suffer some other evil still."
Then the old godlike Priam answered him: "Do not yet make me sit on a chair, my lord, while Hector lies uncared for among the huts, but quickly free him, so that I may see him with my own eyes, and accept the ransom, the great ransom, that we bring you. May you have joy of it, and may you return to your own homeland, since you have allowed me, at least, to live and to see the light of the sun."
Then swift-footed Achilles looked at him darkly and said, "No longer provoke me, old man. I have already resolved on my own to free Hector for you; a messenger came to me from Zeus — my mother, who bore me, daughter of the old man of the sea. And I know well, Priam, and it is no secret to me, that some god has led you here to the swift ships of the Greeks. For no mortal, however young and strong, would dare come into our camp — he could not escape the notice of the guards, nor could he easily force back the bar of our gate. So now, do not stir my heart further in my grief, or I may not spare even you, old man, suppliant though you are, within these huts, and I may sin against the commands of Zeus."
So he spoke, and the old man grew afraid and obeyed his word. Then the son of Peleus sprang out of the hut like a lion, not alone, for two attendants went with him, the warrior Automedon and Alcimus, whom Achilles honored most among his companions after the death of Patroclus. These now loosed the horses and mules from their harness, and led in the herald, the old man's crier, and set him on a stool; and from the polished wagon they lifted the boundless ransom brought for Hector's head.
But they left behind two robes and a well-woven tunic, so that Achilles might wrap the body in them to be carried home. Then he called out the serving women and told them to wash the body and anoint it, carrying it apart first, so that Priam would not see his son — lest, seeing his child, he could not hold back his anger in his grieving heart, and it would stir Achilles' own heart to fury, and he might kill him and sin against the commands of Zeus.
So when the serving women had washed the body and anointed it with oil, and wrapped it round in a fine robe and a tunic, Achilles himself lifted it and laid it on a bier, and his companions helped him raise it onto the polished wagon. Then he groaned aloud and called on his dear companion by name: "Do not be angry with me, Patroclus, if you learn, even there in the house of Hades, that I have given back noble Hector to his dear father, for he has paid me no unworthy ransom. And I will give you your due share of this too, as much as is fitting."
So he spoke, and godlike Achilles went back into the hut and sat down on the richly worked chair from which he had risen, against the opposite wall, and spoke his words to Priam: "Your son, old man, has been given back to you as you asked; he lies upon a bier, and at dawn, when it appears,
—you shall see him yourself when I bring him to you. But now let us think of supper. Even Niobe, with her lovely hair, remembered food, though twelve children had died in her halls—six daughters and six strong sons. The sons Apollo killed with his silver bow, angry at Niobe, and the daughters Artemis, showering arrows, because Niobe had set herself against fair-cheeked Leto, boasting that Leto had borne only two children while she herself had borne many—yet those two destroyed all of hers. Nine days the dead lay in their blood, and no one was left to bury them, for the son of Cronos turned the people to stone; but on the tenth day the gods of heaven buried them. Niobe, worn out with weeping, remembered food at last. And now, somewhere among the rocks, on the lonely mountains of Sipylus, where they say the nymphs who dance beside the river Achelous have their beds, there, though she is stone, she still broods on the sorrows the gods gave her.
But come, noble old man, let us too think of food. Afterward you may weep for your dear son again, once you have brought him into Troy—he will be much wept for.
So speaking, swift Achilles sprang up, killed a white sheep, and his companions skinned it and dressed it well, in proper order. They cut it skillfully into pieces, spitted them, roasted them with care, and drew all off the spits. Automedon took bread and set it out on the table in fine baskets, while Achilles served the meat. They reached out their hands to the good things laid ready before them.
When they had put aside their desire for food and drink, Priam, son of Dardanus, gazed at Achilles in wonder, seeing how great he was and what he looked like—for he seemed like the gods themselves. And Achilles in turn gazed at Priam, son of Dardanus, wondering at his noble looks and listening to his words.
When they had had their fill of looking at one another, old godlike Priam spoke first: “Put me to bed quickly now, cherished by Zeus, so that at last we may lie down and take our pleasure in sweet sleep. My eyes have not closed beneath my eyelids since my son lost his life at your hands. I have done nothing but groan and brood over countless griefs, rolling in the dung of my courtyard. But now at last I have tasted bread and let gleaming wine pass down my throat—before this I had tasted nothing.”
So he spoke, and Achilles ordered his companions and the serving-women to set up beds beneath the portico, to lay fine purple blankets on them, spread coverlets over these, and put thick woolen cloaks on top for warmth. The women went out of the hall carrying torches in their hands, and quickly made up two beds, working briskly. Then swift-footed Achilles said to Priam, teasing him: “Sleep outside, dear old man, in case some counselor of the Achaeans comes here
—as they always do, sitting beside me to plan our strategy, as is right. If one of them should see you here through the swift black night, he would go at once and tell Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, and then the return of the body might be delayed. But come, tell me this exactly, and speak the truth: how many days do you intend for burying godlike Hector, so that for that time I may hold myself back and restrain the army?”
Then old godlike Priam answered him: “If you are truly willing to let me carry out the full burial for godlike Hector
—then you would do me a kindness, Achilles, by acting this way. You know how we are penned within the city, and the timber must be hauled from the mountain far away, and the Trojans are very much afraid. Nine days we would mourn him in our halls, and on the tenth we would bury him and the people would feast, and on the eleventh we would build a mound over him, and on the twelfth we would fight again, if fight we must.”
Then swift godlike Achilles answered him in turn: “This too shall be granted you, old Priam, just as you ask. I will hold back the war for as long a time as you require.”
So speaking, he took the old man's hand at the wrist, on the right side, so that his heart would feel no fear. Then the herald and Priam lay down to sleep there in the porch of the house, their minds full of careful thoughts, while Achilles slept in the innermost chamber of his well-built hut, and Briseis of the lovely cheeks lay down beside him.
Now all the other gods, and the men who fight from chariots, slept the whole night through, overcome by soft sleep. But sleep did not catch hold of Hermes, guide and helper, as he turned over in his mind how he might lead King Priam away from the ships without the sacred gatekeepers noticing
—Standing over Priam's head, he spoke to him and said: “Old man, you have no fear at all of danger, sleeping on like this among enemy men, now that Achilles has spared you. You have ransomed your dear son, true, and paid a great price for him—but for your own life, three times as much again would your sons still living pay in ransom, should Agamemnon, son of Atreus, learn who you are, and should all the other Achaeans learn it too.”
So he spoke, and the old man was afraid, and roused the herald. Then Hermes yoked their horses and mules for them
—and drove them himself briskly through the camp, and no one noticed. But when they reached the ford of the fair-flowing river, the swirling Xanthus, whom immortal Zeus had fathered, Hermes departed for towering Olympus, while Dawn in her saffron robe was spreading over the whole earth. They drove the horses toward the city, groaning and wailing, and the mules carried the body. No one else noticed them, none of the men or fair-girdled women—only Cassandra, lovely as golden Aphrodite, who had climbed up to Pergamus and caught sight of her dear father
—standing in the chariot, and the herald who cried through the city. And she saw Hector too, lying on the mules' litter. Then she wailed aloud, and her cry rang out through the whole city: “Come, Trojans, men and women, look upon Hector, if ever before you rejoiced to see him come home alive from battle—for he was a great joy to the city and to all the people.” So she spoke, and no man or woman was left within the city, for unbearable grief had seized them all. They met the crowd bringing the corpse near the gates. First his beloved wife and his honored mother
—flung themselves upon the smooth-wheeled wagon, tearing their hair, clutching at his head, while the crowd stood weeping around them. And now they would have mourned Hector there before the gates the whole day long, weeping until the sun went down, had not the old man spoken from his chariot to the people: “Make way for me to pass through with the mules; you may have your fill of weeping afterward, once I have brought him home.” So he spoke, and they parted and made way for the wagon. When they had brought him into the famous house, they laid him on a corded bed, and set beside him singers
—to lead the dirges, men who sang the mournful song, while the singers led the lament and the women wailed in answer. Among them white-armed Andromache led the keening, holding the head of man-slaying Hector in her hands: “Husband, you have died young, and left me a widow in your halls. Our child is still a mere infant, the one we bore, you and I, doomed as we are—and I do not think he will reach manhood, for before that this city will be utterly destroyed from its heights. For you, its guardian, are dead—you who protected it, who kept safe its faithful wives and its little children
—who will soon be carried off in the hollow ships, and I among them. And you, my child, will either come with me, to labor at degrading tasks, toiling for a harsh master, or else some Achaean will seize you by the arm and hurl you from the tower to a wretched death, in anger because Hector killed his brother, or his father, or his son—for many Achaeans indeed bit the vast earth at Hector's hands. Your father was never gentle in the grim work of war. That is why the people mourn him throughout the city
—and you have brought unspeakable grief and mourning to your parents, Hector; but to me most of all will be left bitter sorrow. You did not die reaching your hands to me from your bed, nor did you speak to me some final word I might remember always, weeping, night and day.” So she spoke, weeping, and the women wailed in answer. Then Hecuba in turn led their thick lament: “Hector, dearest to my heart of all my children, while you lived you were beloved by the gods, and even now, in the fate of death, they have cared for you
—for the others among my sons, swift-footed Achilles used to sell, whenever he caught them, across the barren sea, to Samos, to Imbros, and to smoky Lemnos; but you—when he took your life with the sharp bronze, he dragged you again and again around the tomb of his companion Patroclus, whom you had killed—yet even so he could not bring him back to life. But now you lie in our hall fresh and dewy, like one whom Apollo of the silver bow has come upon and slain with his gentle arrows.” So she spoke, weeping, and stirred an unceasing lament.
Then, third, Helen led them in mourning: “Hector, dearest by far to my heart of all my husband's brothers—for indeed my husband is godlike Paris, who brought me to Troy: would that I had died before that day! For this is now the twentieth year since I went away from there and left my own homeland, yet never once did I hear an unkind or bitter word from you. And if anyone else in the halls reproached me—one of your brothers, or your sisters, or your brothers' fair-robed wives, or your mother—though your father was always as gentle as if he were my own
—you would speak out and hold them back with your words, with your own gentle spirit and your gentle speech. So I weep for you and for my own wretched self, grieving in my heart, for I have no one else now in all wide Troy who is kind or friendly to me—everyone shrinks from me in horror.” So she spoke, weeping, and the vast crowd of people groaned in answer. Then old Priam spoke a word among the people: “Trojans, now bring wood into the city, and have no fear in your hearts of an Achaean ambush lying in wait; for Achilles, sending me off from the black ships, promised me
—that he would do us no harm before the twelfth dawn should come.” So he spoke, and they yoked oxen and mules to their wagons, and quickly gathered before the city. For nine days they hauled in a vast store of timber. But when the tenth dawn appeared, bringing light to mortals, then they carried out bold Hector, weeping, and laid the body on the top of the pyre, and cast fire upon it. When Dawn appeared again, rosy-fingered, born early, then the people gathered once more around the pyre of glorious Hector. And when they had assembled, all gathered together
—first they quenched the burning pyre with gleaming wine, wherever the fire's force had reached; then his brothers and companions gathered the white bones, weeping, and warm tears ran down their cheeks. They took the bones and placed them in a golden chest, wrapping them in soft purple robes. Quickly they laid this in a hollow grave, and over it heaped a covering of great close-set stones. Swiftly they raised a mound above it, while watchers sat all around, everywhere, lest the well-greaved Achaeans should attack before their time.
When they had heaped up the mound, they went back again; and then, gathering together properly, they held a glorious funeral feast in the halls of Priam, king cherished by Zeus. So they carried out the burial of Hector, tamer of horses.