The Iliad

BOOK ELEVEN

Agamemnon’s Day of Glory

Now Dawn rose up from bed by her lordly mate Tithonus,

bringing light to immortal gods and mortal men.

But Zeus flung Strife on Achaea’s fast ships,

the brutal goddess flaring his storm-shield,

his monstrous sign of war in both her fists.

She stood on Odysseus’ huge black-bellied hull,

moored mid-line so a shout could reach both wings,

upshore to Telamonian Ajax’ camp or down to Achilles‘—

trusting so to their arms’ power and battle-strength

they’d hauled their trim ships up on either flank.

There Strife took her stand, raising her high-pitched cry,

great and terrible, lashing the fighting-fury

in each Achaean’s heart—no stopping them now,

mad for war and struggle. Now, suddenly,

battle thrilled them more than the journey home,

than sailing hollow ships to their dear native land.

Agamemnon cried out too, calling men to arms

and harnessed up in gleaming bronze himself.

First he wrapped his legs with well-made greaves,

fastened behind the heels with silver ankle-clasps,

and next he strapped the breastplate round his chest

that Cinyras gave him once, a guest-gift long ago.

The rousing rumor of war had carried far as Cyprus—

how the Achaean ships were launching war on Troy—

so he gave the king that gear to please his spirit.

Magnificent! Ten bands of blue enamel spanned it,

spaced by twelve of gold and twenty of beaten tin

and dark blue serpents writhed toward the throat,

three each side, shimmering bright as rainbows arched

on the clouds by Cronus’ son, a sign to mortal men.

Then over his shoulder Agamemnon slung his sword,

golden studs at the hilt, the blade burnished bright

and the scabbard sheathed in silver swung on golden straps,

and he grasped a well-wrought shield to encase his body,

forged for rushing forays—beautiful, blazoned work.

Circling the center, ten strong rings of bronze

with twenty disks of glittering tin set in,

at the heart a boss of bulging blue steel

and there like a crown the Gorgon’s grim mask—

the burning eyes, the stark, transfixing horror—

and round her strode the shapes of Rout and Fear.

The shield-belt glinted silver and rippling on it ran

a dark blue serpent, two heads coiling round a third,

reared from a single neck and twisting left and right.

Then over his broad brow Agamemnon set his helmet

fronted with four knobs and forked with twin horns

and the horsehair crest atop it tossing, bristling terror.

And last he picked up two tough spears, tipped in bronze,

honed sharp, and the glare flashed off their brazen points

and pierced the high skies—and awestruck at the sight

Athena and Hera loosed a crack of thunder, exalting

the great king of Mycenae rich in gold.

At once

each captain shouted out commands to his driver:

“Rein the team by the trench, good battle-order now!”

While the men themselves, armed for full assault,

leapt down and swarmed to the trench’s edge on foot

and a long undying roar went up in the early dawn.

Well ahead of the war-cars they reached the brink,

closed ranks as drivers backed them yards behind.

But Zeus drove a swirl of panic deep in their lines

and down from the vaulting skies released a shower

raining blood, for Zeus was bent on hurling down

to the House of Death a rout of sturdy fighters.

Trojans—the other side on the plain’s high ground—

formed around tall Hector, staunch Polydamas, Aeneas

loved by the Trojans like a god, and Antenor’s sons,

Polybus, Prince Agenor and Acamas still unwed,

three men in their prime like gods who never die.

Hector bore his round shield in the forefront, blazing out

like the Dog Star through the clouds, all withering fire,

then plunging back in the cloud-rack massed and dark—

so Hector ranged on, now flaring along the front,

now shouting his orders back toward the rear,

all of him armed in bronze aflash like lightning

flung by Father Zeus with his battle-shield of thunder.

And the men like gangs of reapers slashing down

the reaping-rows and coming closer, closer across

the field of a warlord rich in wheat or barley—

swaths by the armfuls falling thick-and-fast-

so Achaeans and Trojans closed and slashed, so

lunging into each other and neither side now

had a thought of flight that would have meant disaster.

No, the pressure of combat locked them head-to-head,

lunging like wolves, and Strife with wild groans

exulted to see them, glaring down at the melee,

Strife alone of immortals hovering over fighters.

The other gods kept clear, at their royal ease,

reclining off in the halls where the roofs of each

were built for the ages high on rugged ridged Olympus.

And all were blaming Zeus with his storming dark clouds

because the Father decreed to hand the Trojans glory.

But the Father paid no heed to them. Retiring

peaks apart from the other gods, he sat aloof,

glorying in his power, gazing out over

the city walls of Troy and the warships of Achaea,

the flash of bronze, fighters killing, fighters killed ...

As long as morning rose and the blessed day grew stronger,

the weapons hurtled side-to-side and men kept falling.

But just when the woodsman makes his morning meal,

deep in a mountain forest, arm-weary from chopping

the big heavy trunks and his heart has had enough

and sudden longing for tempting food overtakes the man

and makes his senses whirt—just at the height of morning

the Argives smashed battalions, their courage breaking through

and they shouted ranks of cohorts on along the lines.

And right in the midst sprang Agamemnon first

and killed a fighter, Bienor, veteran captain,

then his aide Oileus lashing on their team.

Down from the car he’d leapt, squaring off,

charging in full fury, full face, straight

into Agamemnon’s spearhead ramming sharp—

the rim of the bronze helmet could not hold it,

clean through heavy metal and bone the point burst

and the brains splattered all inside the casque.

He battered Oileus down despite the Trojan’s rage

and the lord of fighters left them lying there, both dead

and their chests gleamed like bronze as he stripped them bare.

Then on he went for Isus and Antiphus, killed and stripped

the two sons of Priam, one a bastard, one royal blood

and both riding a single car, the bastard driving,

the famous Antiphus standing poised beside him ...

Achilles had caught them once on the spurs of Ida,

bound them with willow ropes as they watched their flocks

and set them free for ransom. But now it was Agamemnon

lord of the far-flung kingdoms catching up with Isus—

he stabbed his chest with a spear above the nipple,

Antiphus he hacked with a sword across the ear

and hurled him from his chariot, rushing fast

to rip the splendid armor off their bodies.

He knew them both, he’d seen them once by the ships

when the swift Achilles dragged them in from Ida.

Think how a lion, mauling the soft weak young

of a running deer, clamped in his massive jaws,

cracks their backbones with a snap—he’s stormed in,

invading the lair to tear their tender hearts out

and the mother doe, even if she’s close by,

what can she do to save her fawns? She’s helpless—

terrible trembling racks her body too—and suddenly

off she bounds through the glades and the thick woods,

drenched in sweat, leaping clear of the big cat’s pounce..

So not a single Trojan could save those two from death,

they fled themselves before the Argive charge.

But next

Agamemnon killed Pisander and combat-hard Hippolochus,

two sons of Antimachus, that cunning, politic man

whom Paris bribed with gold and sumptuous gifts,

so he was the first to fight the return of Helen

to red-haired Menelaus. Now powerful Agamemnon

caught his two sons riding the same chariot,

both struggling to curb their high-strung team—

the reins slipped their grasp, both horses panicked

as Agamemnon ramped up in their faces like a lion—

both fighters shouting from their chariot, pleading,

“Take us alive, Atrides, take a ransom worth our lives!

Vast treasures are piled up in Antimachus’ house,

bronze and gold and plenty of well-wrought iron—

father would give you anything, gladly, priceless ransom

if only he learns we’re still alive in Argive ships!”

So they cried to the king, cries for mercy,

but only heard a merciless voice in answer:

“Cunning Antimachus! So you’re that man’s sons?

Once in the Trojan council he ordered Menelaus,

there on an embassy joined by King Odysseus,

murdered right on the spot—no safe-conduct

back to the land of Argos. You’re his sons?

Now pay for your father’s outrage, blood for blood!”

And he pitched Pisander off the chariot onto earth

and plunged a spear in his chest—the man crashed on his back

as Hippolochus leapt away, but him he killed on the ground,

slashing off his arms with a sword, lopping off his head

and he sent him rolling through the carnage like a log.

He left them there for dead and just at the point

where most battalions scattered Agamemnon charged,

the rest of his troops in armor quick behind him now,

infantry killing infantry fleeing headlong, hard-pressed,

drivers killing drivers—under the onrush dust in whirlwinds

driven up from the plain, hoofs of stallions rumbling thunder,

bronze flashing, immense slaughter and always King Agamemnon

whirling to kill, crying his Argives on, breakneck on.

Like devouring fire roaring down onto dry dead timber,

squalls hurling it on, careening left and right and

brush ripped up by the roots goes tumbling under

crushed by the blasting fire rampaging on—

so under Atrides’ onslaught Trojans dropped in flight,

stampedes of massive stallions dragged their empty chariots

clattering down the passageways of battle, stallions

yearning to feel their masters’ hands at the reins

but there they lay, sprawled across the field,

craved far more by the vultures than by wives.

But Zeus drew Hector out of range of the weapons,

out of the dust storm, out of the mounting kills,

the blood and rout of war as Atrides followed hard,

shouting his Argives on, furious, never stopping.

The Trojans streaked in flight past Ilus’ barrow,

ancient son of Dardanus, past the mid-field mark

of the plain and past the wild fig and struggling

to reach Troy and always in hot pursuit and shrieking,

Agamemnon splattered with gore, his hands, invincible hands.

But once they reached the Scaean Gates and the great oak,

there the two sides halted, waiting each other’s charge.

Yet stragglers still stampeded down the plain

like cattle driven wild by a lion lunging

in pitch darkness down on the whole herd

but to one alone a sudden death comes flashing—

first he snaps its neck, clamped in his huge jaws,

then down in gulps he bolts its blood and guts.

So King Agamemnon coursed his quarry, always cutting

the straggler from the mass and they, they fled in terror,

squads amok, spilling out of their chariots facefirst

or slammed on their backs beneath Atrides’ hands—

storming and thrusting his spear and lunging on.

But just as he was about to reach the steep city,

up under the walls, the father of men and gods,

descending out of the heavens, took his throne

on the high ridge of Ida with all her springs.

Holding fast in his grip a lightning bolt

he drove Iris down in a rush of golden wings

to bear his message: “Away with you now, Iris—

quick as the wind and speed this word to Hector.

So long as he sees lord marshal Agamemnon storming

among the champions, mowing columns down in blood,

Hector must hold back, command the rest of his men

to fight the enemy, stand their headlong charge.

But soon as a spear or bowshot wounds the king

and Atrides mounts his chariot once again,

then I will hand Hector the power to kill and kill

till he cuts his way to the benched ships and the sun sinks

and the blessed darkness sweeps across the earth.”

So he commanded. Wind-quick Iris obeyed at once

and down from Ida’s peaks she dove to sacred Troy,

found the son of wise King Priam, shining Hector

standing amidst his teams and bolted cars,

and swift as a breeze beside him Iris called,

“Hector, son of Priam—a mastermind like Zeus!

The Father has sped me down to tell you this:

so long as you see lord marshal Agamemnon storming

among the champions, mowing columns down in blood,

you must hold back, command the rest of your men

to fight the enemy, stand their headlong charge!

But soon as a spear or bowshot wounds the king

and Atrides mounts his chariot once again—

then Zeus will hand you the power to kill and kill

till you cut your way to the benched ships and the sun sinks

and the blessed darkness sweeps across the earth!”

And Iris racing the wind went veering off.

Hector leapt to ground from his chariot fully armed

and brandishing two sharp spears went striding down his lines,

ranging flank to flank, driving his fighters into battle,

rousing grisly war—and round the Trojans whirled,

bracing to meet the Argives face-to-face:

but against their mass the Argives closed ranks,

the fighting about to break, the troops squaring off

and Atrides, tense to outfight them all, charged first.

Sing to me now, you Muses who hold the halls of Olympus,

who was the first to go up against King Agamemnon,

who of the Trojans or famous Trojan allies?

Iphidamas, the rough and rangy son of Antenor

bred in the fertile land of Thrace, mother of flocks.

Cisseus reared him at home when he was little—

his mother’s father who sired the fine beauty Theano—

but once he hit the stride of his youth and ached for fame,

Cisseus tried to hold him back, gave him a daughter’s hand

but warm from the bridal chamber marched the groom,

fired up by word that Achaea’s troops had landed.

Twelve beaked ships sailed out in his command,

trim vessels he left behind him in Percote,

making his way to Troy to fight on foot

and here he came now, up against Agamemnon,

closer, closing ...

Atrides hurled and missed,

his spearshaft just slanting aside the man’s flank

as Iphidamas went for the waist beneath the breastplate—

he stabbed home, leaning into the blow full weight,

trusting his heavy hand but failed to pierce

the glittering belt, failed flat-out-the point,

smashing against the silver, bent back like lead.

And seizing the spearshaft powerful Agamemnon

dragged it toward him, tussling like some lion

and wrenching it free from Iphidamas’ slack grasp

he hacked his neck with a sword and loosed his limbs.

And there he dropped and slept the sleep of bronze,

poor soldier, striving to help his fellow Trojans,

far from his wedded wife, his new bride ...

No joy had he known from her for all his gifts,

the full hundred oxen he gave her on the spot

then promised a thousand head of goats and sheep

from the boundless herds he’d rounded up himself.

Now the son of Atreus stripped him, robbed his corpse

and strode back to his waiting Argive armies,

hoisting the gleaming gear.

But Coon marked him, Coon,

Antenor’s eldest son, a distinguished man-at-arms,

and stinging grief went misting down his eyes

for his fallen brother. In from the blind side

he came—

Agamemnon never saw him—

tensed with a spear

and slashed him under the elbow, down the forearm—

a glint of metal—the point ripped through his flesh

and the lord of fighting men Atrides shuddered.

Not that he quit the foray even then—

he sprang at Coon, gripping his big spearshaft

tough from the gusting wind that whipped its tree.

Coon was just dragging his brother footfirst,

wild now to retrieve his own father’s son,

calling for help from all the bravest men—

but as Coon hauled the body through the press

Agamemnon lunged up, under his bossed shield,

thrust home hard with the polished bronze point,

unstrung his limbs and reared and lopped his head

and the head tumbled onto his fallen brother’s corpse.

So then and there under royal Agamemnon’s hands

the two sons of Antenor filled out their fates

and down they plunged to the strong House of Death.

But the king kept ranging, battling ranks on ranks

and thrusting his spear and sword and hurling heavy rocks

so long as the blood came flowing warm from his wound.

But soon as the gash dried and firm clots formed,

sharp pain came bursting in on Atrides’ strength—

spear-sharp as the labor-pangs that pierce a woman,

agonies brought on by the harsh, birthing spirits,

Hera’s daughters who hold the stabbing power of birth—

so sharp the throes that burst on Atrides’ strength.

And back he sprang in the car and told his driver

to make for the hollow ships, racked with pain

but he loosed a shrill cry to all his men:

“Friends—lords of the Argives, 0 my captains!

Your turn now—keep on shielding our fast ships

from this latest mass attack. Zeus who rules the world

forbids me to battle Trojans all day long.”

A crack of the lash

and his driver whipped the team with streaming manes

straight for the curved ships, and on they flew,

holding nothing back, their heaving chests foaming,

bellies pelted with dust, rushing the wounded warlord

free and clear of battle.

There—Hector’s signal!

Seeing Atrides hurt and speeding off the lines

he gave a ringing shout to his troops and allies:

“Trojans! Lycians! Dardan fighters hand-to-hand-

now be men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!

Their best man cuts and runs—

Zeus is handing me glory, awesome glory.

Drive your horses right at these mighty Argives,

seize the higher triumph—seize it now!”

Hector—

whipping the fight and fire in each man like a huntsman

crying on his hounds, their white fangs flashing,

harrying savage game, some wild boar or lion—

so at Achaea’s ranks he drove his fearless Trojans,

Hector son of Priam, a match for murderous Ares.

The prince himself went wading into the front lines,

his hopes soaring, and down he hurled on the fray

like a sudden killer-squall that blasts down

on the dark blue sea to whip and chop its crests.

Who was the first he slaughtered, who the last,

Hector the son of Priam, now Zeus gave him glory?

Asaeus first, Autonous next and then Opites,

Dolops, Clytius’ son, and Opheltius, Agelaus,

Aesymnus and Orus, Hipponous staunch in combat.

These were the Argive captains Hector killed

then went for the main mass

like the West Wind battering soft shining clouds

the South Wind wafts along—in deep explosive blasts

it strikes and the great swelling waves roll on and on

and the spray goes shooting up from under the wind’s hurl

swerving, roaring down the sea—so wildly Hector routed

the packed lines of fighters caught in his onslaught.

Now there would have been havoc, irreversible chaos,

fleeing bands of Achaeans flung back on their ships

if Odysseus had not shouted out to Diomedes,

“What’s wrong with us? Forgetting our battle-fury?

Come here, old friend, stand by me! What humiliation—

if Hector with that flashing helmet takes our ships!”

Powerful Diomedes took his challenge quickly:

“I’ll stand and fight, by god, and take the worst

but little joy it will bring our comrades now.

Zeus the king of the clouds has pitched on victory

for the Trojans, not for us.”

But all the same

he hurled Thymbraeus down to ground from his car—

Diomedes speared his left breast as Odysseus killed

the warlord’s aide-in-arms Molion tall as a god

and left them there for dead, their fighting finished.

Then both went thrashing into the lines to make a slaughter

as two wild boars bristling, ramping back for the kill,

fling themselves on the yelping packs that hunt them—

back they whirled on attack and laid the Trojans low

while Achaeans just in flight from Hector’s onset

leapt at the chance to gather second wind.

At once

they took two lords of the realm and seized their car,

the two good sons of Merops out of Percote harbor,

Merops adept beyond all men in the mantic arts.

He refused to let his two boys march to war,

this man-killing war, but the young ones fought him

all the way—the forces of black death drove them on

and Diomedes a marvel with a spear destroyed them both,

stripped them of life breath and tore their gear away

and Odysseus killed Hippodamus, killed Hypirochus.

And there,

gazing down from his ridge on Ida, the son of Cronus

stretched the rope of battle tense and taut

as the fighters kept on killing side-to-side.

Diomedes hurled a spear that struck Agastrophus,

Paeon’s warrior son, and smashed the joint of his hip

but his team was not close by for fast escape—

a big mistake, the fool.

His driver held them reined off at the side

while he advanced through the front ranks on foot,

plowing on and on till he lost his own life ...

But Hector quickly marked them across the lines—

he charged them both full force with a savage shout

and Trojan battalions churning in his wake.

Diomedes shuddered to see him coming on,

the lord of the war cry called out to Odysseus

quickly, close beside him, “We’re in for shipwreck—

a breaker rolling down on us, look, this massive Hector!

Brace for him, stand our ground together—beat him back!”

He aimed and hurled and his spear’s long shadow flew—

a clean hit, no miss, trained at the head of Hector,

his helmet ridge. But bronze glanced off bronze

and never grazed firm flesh, the helmet blocked it,

triple-ply with the great blank hollow eyes,

a gift of Apollo. Sprinting a long way back,

downfield and fast, Hector rejoined his men

and sinking down onto one knee, propped himself

with a strong hand planted against the earth—

and the world went black as night across his eyes.

But soon as Tydides followed up his spear,

tracking its flight far down along the front

where it stuck in sand, Hector caught his breath

and boarding his car, drove for his own main force

as he hurtled clear of the dark fates of death—

Diomedes shouting after him, shaking his spear,

“Now, again, you’ve escaped your death, you dog,

but a good close brush with death it was, I’d say!

Now, again, your Phoebus Apollo pulls you through,

the one you pray to, wading into our storm of spears.

We’ll fight again—I’ll finish you off next time

if one of the gods will only urge me on as well.

But now I’ll go for the others, anyone I can catch.”

And he set to stripping his kill, Paeon’s spearman son.

But at once Paris the lord of fair-haired Helen

drew his bow at the rugged captain Diomedes ...

the archer leaning firmly against a pillar

raised on the man-made tomb of Dardan’s son,.

Ilus an old lord of the realm in ancient days.

As Diomedes was stripping strong Agastrophus bare,

tearing the burnished breastplate off his victim’s chest,

the shield from his shoulders and heavy crested helmet,

Paris, clenching the grip and drawing back his bow,

shot!—no wasted shot, it whizzed from his hand

and punched the flat top of Tydides’ right foot,

the shaft dug through and stuck fast in the ground.

And loosing a heady laugh of triumph Paris leapt

from his hiding-place and shouted out in glory,

“Now you’re hit—no wasted shot, my winging arrow!

But would to god I’d hit you deep in the guts

and ripped your life away! Then my Trojans

could catch their breath again, reprieved from death—

they cringed at you like bleating goats before some lion.”

But never flinching, staunch Diomedes countered,

“So brave with your bow and arrows—big bravado—

glistening lovelocks, roving eye for girls!

Come, try me in combat, weapons hand-to-hand-

bow and spattering shafts will never help you then.

You scratch my foot and you’re vaunting all the same—

but who cares? A woman or idiot boy could wound me so.

The shaft of a good-for-nothing coward’s got no point

but mine’s got heft and edge. Let it graze a man—

my weapon works in a flash and drops him dead.

And his good wife will tear her cheeks in grief,

his sons are orphans and he, soaking the soil

red with his own blood, he rots away himself—

more birds than women flocking round his body!”

So he yelled and the famous spearman Odysseus

rushed in close and reared up to shield him.

Slipping behind, Tydides dropped to a knee

and yanked the winged arrow from his foot

as the raw pain went stabbing through his flesh.

Back Diomedes jumped on his car and told his driver

to make for the hollow ships—Tydides racked with pain.

That left the famous spearman Odysseus on his own,

not a single Argive comrade standing by his side

since panic seized them all. Unnerved himself,

Odysseus probed his own great fighting heart:

“O dear god, what becomes of Odysseus now?

A disgraceful thing if I should break and run,

fearing their main force—but it’s far worse

if I’m taken all alone. Look, Zeus just drove

the rest of my comrades off in panic flight.

But why debate, my friend, why thrash things out?

Cowards, I know, would quit the fighting now

but the man who wants to make his mark in war

must stand his ground and brace for all he’s worth—

suffer his wounds or wound his man to death.”

Weighing it all, heart and soul, as on they came,

waves of Trojan shieldsmen crowding him tighter,

closing in on their own sure destruction ...

like hounds and lusty hunters closing, ringing

a wild boar till out of his thicket lair he crashes,

whetting his white tusks sharp in his bent, wrenching jaws

and they rush in to attack and under the barks and shouts

you can hear the gnash of tusks but the men stand firm—

terrible, murderous as he is—so the Trojans ringed

Odysseus dear to Zeus, rushing him straight on.

But he lunged first, wounding lordly Deiopites,

spearshaft slicing into the Trojan’s shoulder,

then cut down Thoon and Ennomus in their blood,

Chersidamas next, vaulting down from his car—

Odysseus caught him up under the bulging shield

with a jabbing spear that split him crotch to navel—

the man writhed in the dust, hands clutching the earth.

Odysseus left them dead and skewered Hippasus’ son,

one Charops the blood brother of wealthy Socus

but Socus moved in quick as a god to shield his kin,

standing up to his enemy, crying out, “Odysseus—

wild for fame, glutton for cunning, glutton for war,

today you can triumph over the two sons of Hippasus,

killing such good men and stripping off their gear—

or beaten down by my spear you’ll breathe your last!”

With that he stabbed at Odysseus’ balanced shield,

straight through the gleaming hide the heavy weapon drove,

ripping down and in through the breastplate finely worked

and it flayed the skin clean off Odysseus’ ribs

but Pallas Athena would never let it pierce

her hero’s vitals. Odysseus knew the end

had not yet come—no final, fatal wound—

and drawing back he hurled his boast at Socus:

“Poor man, headlong death is about to overtake you!

You’ve stopped my fighting against the Trojans, true,

but I tell you here and now that a dark, bloody doom

will take you down today—gouged by my spear

you’ll give me glory now,

you’ll give your life to the famous horseman Death!”

And spinning in terror off he ran but as he spun

Odysseus plunged a spear in his back between the shoulders—

straight through his chest the shaft came jutting out

and down Socus crashed, Odysseus vaunting over him:

“Socus, son of Hippasus, skilled breaker of horses,

so, Death in its rampage outraced you—no escape.

No, poor soldier. Now your father and noble mother

will never close your eyes in death—screaming vultures

will claw them out of you, wings beating your corpse!

But I, if I should die,

my comrades-in-arms will bury me in style!”

He dragged the heavy spear of hardened Socus

squelching out of his own wound and bulging shield.

As the fighter tore it out the blood came gushing forth

and his heart sank. And seeing Odysseus bleeding there

the Trojan troops exulted, calling across the melee,

charging him in a mass as edging, backing off

he gave ground now, calling his own companions.

Three shattering cries he loosed at full pitch

till Odysseus’ head would burst—three times

Menelaus tense for combat heard his cries

and at once he called to Ajax standing near,

“Ajax, royal son of Telamon, captain of armies,

my ears ring with his cries—Odysseus never daunted.

He sounds like a man cut off and overpowered,

mauled by Trojan ranks in the rough assault.

Quick through the onset—better save him now!

I’m afraid he may be hurt, alone with the Trojans,

brave as Odysseus is—a blow to all our troops.”

And Atrides led the way and Ajax took his lead,

striding on like a god until they found Odysseus

dear to Zeus but round him Trojans thronged

like tawny jackals up in the mountains swarming

round a homed stag just wounded—a hunter’s hit him

with one fast shaft from his bow and the stag’s escaped,

sprinting at top speed so long as his blood runs warm

and the spring in his knees still lasts ...

But soon as the swift arrow saps his strength

the ravening carrion packs begin their feasting

off on a ridge in twilight woods until some god,

some power drives a lion down against them—ctaw-mad

and the panicked jackals scatter, the lion rends their prey.

So packed around Odysseus skilled and quick to maneuver

swarmed the brave bulk of Trojans—but still the hero

kept on lunging, spearing, keeping death at bay.

And in moved Ajax now, planted right beside him,

bearing that shield of his like a wall, a tower—

Trojans scattered in panic, bolting left and right

while the fighting son of Atreus led Odysseus

through the onslaught, bracing him with an arm

till a reinsman drove his team and car up close.

But charging down on the Trojans Ajax killed Doryclus,

bastard son of Priam—he wounded Pandocus next,

wounded Lysander, Pyrasus, then Pylartes.

Wild as a swollen river hurling down on the flats,

down from the hills in winter spate, bursting its banks

with rain from storming Zeus, and stands of good dry oak,

whole forests of pine it whorls into itself and sweeps along

till it heaves a crashing mass of driftwood out to sea—

so glorious Ajax swept the field, routing Trojans,

shattering teams and spearmen in his onslaught.

Nor had Hector once got wind of the rampage ...

far off on the left flank of the whole campaign

he fought his way, powering past Scamander’s banks

where the heads of fighters fell in biggest numbers

and grim incessant war cries rose around tall Nestor

and battle-hard Idomeneus. Hector amidst them now

engaged them with a vengeance, doing bloody work

with lances flung and a master’s horsemanship,

destroying young battalions. Still the Achaeans

never would have yielded before the prince’s charge

if Paris the lord of lovely fair-haired Helen

had not put a stop to Machaon’s gallant fighting,

striking the healer squarely with an arrow

triple-flanged that gouged his right shoulder.

Achaeans breathing fury feared for Machaon no.w:

what if the tide turned and Trojans killed the healer?

Idomeneus suddenly called to Nestor, “Pride of Achaeal

Quick, mount your chariot, mount Machaon beside you—

lash your team to the warships, fast, full gallop!

A man who can cut out shafts and dress our wounds—

a good healer is worth a troop of other men.”

Nestor the noble charioteer did not resist.

He mounted his car at once as Asclepius’ son,

Machaon bom of the famous healer swung aboard.

He lashed the team and on they flew to the ships,

holding nothing back—that’s where their spirits

drove them on to go.

But riding on with Hector

Cebriones saw the Trojan rout and shouted, “Hector!

Look at us here, engaging Argives with a vengeance,

true, but off on the fringe of brutal all-out war

while our central force is routed pell-mell,

men and chariots flung against each other.

Giant Ajax drives them—I recognize the man,

that wall of a buckler slung around his shoulders.

Hurry, head our chariot right where the fighting’s thickest,

there—horse and infantry hurling into the slaughter,

hacking each other down, terrific war cries rising!”

With that, Cebriones flogged their sleek team

and leaping under the whistling, crackling whip

they sped the careering car into both milling armies,

trampling shields and corpses, axle under the chariot splashed

with blood, blood on the handrails sweeping round the car,

sprays of blood shooting up from the stallions’ hoofs

and churning, whirling rims. And Hector straining

to wade into the press and panicked ruck of men,

charge them, break them down—he flung terror

and stark disaster square in the Argive lines,

never pausing, giving his spear no rest.

Hector kept on ranging, battling ranks on ranks,

slashing his spear and sword and flinging heavy rocks

but he stayed clear of attacking Ajax man-to-man.

But Father Zeus on the heights forced Ajax to retreat.

He stood there a moment, stunned,

then swinging his seven-ply oxhide shield behind him,

drew back in caution, throwing a fast glance

at his own Achaean troops like a trapped beast,

pivoting, backpedaling, step by short step ...

Like a tawny lion when hounds and country field hands

drive him out of their steadings filled with cattle—

they’ll never let him tear the rich fat from the oxen,

all night long they stand guard but the lion craves meat,

he lunges in and in but his charges gain him nothing,

thick-and-fast from their hardy arms the javelins

rain down in his face, and waves of blazing torches—

these the big cat fears, balking for all his rage,

and at dawn he slinks away, his spirits dashed.

So Ajax slowly drew back from the Trojans,

spirits dashed, and much against his will,

fearing the worst for Achaea’s waiting ships.

Like a stubborn ass some boys lead down a road ...

stick after stick they’ve cracked across his back

but he’s too much for them now, he rambles into a field

to ravage standing crops. They keep beating his ribs,

splintering sticks—their struggle child’s play

till with one final shove they drive him off

but not before he’s had his fill of feed.

So with Telamon’s son Great Ajax then—

vaunting Trojans and all their far-flung allies

kept on stabbing his shield, full center, no letup.

And now the giant fighter would summon up his fury,

wheeling on them again, beating off platoons

of the stallion-breaking Trojans—and now again

he’d swerve around in flight. But he blocked them all

from hacking passage through to the fast trim ships

as Ajax all alone, battling on mid-field between

Achaean and Trojan lines, would stand and fight.

Some spears that flew from the Trojans’ hardy arms,

hurtling forward, stuck fast in his huge shield

but showers of others, cut short

halfway before they could graze his gleaming skin,

stuck in the ground,.still lusting to sink in flesh.

But Euaemon’s shining son Eurypylus saw him

overwhelmed by the Trojans’ dense barrage of spears.

Up to his side he dashed and flanked Great Ajax tight,

let fly with a spear and the glinting spearpoint hit

the son of Phausias, Apisaon captain of armies,

square in the liver, up under the midriff—

his knees went limp as Eurypylus rushed in,

starting to rip the armor off his shoulders.

But now Paris spotted him stripping Apisaon,

drew his bow at Eurypylus, fast—he shot well

and the arrow struck him full in the right thigh

but the shaft snapped, the thigh weighed down with pain.

Eurypylus staggered back to his massing comrades,

dodging death, and shouted a stark piercing cry:

“Friends—lords of the Argives, all our captains!

Come, wheel round—stand firm!

Beat the merciless day of death from Ajax,

overpowered, look, by a pelting rain of spears.

He can’t escape, I tell you, not this wrenching battle.

Stand up to them—ring Great Ajax, Telamon’s son.”

So wounded Eurypylus pleaded, friends around him

crowding, bracing shields against their shoulders,

spears brandished high

and back to the bulking front came giant Ajax now.

The fighter turned on his heels and took his stand,

once he reached that wedge of Argive comrades.

So on they fought like a mass of swirling fire

as Neleus’ foaming mares bore Nestor clear of battle

and bore Machaon the expert healer too ...

But now

the brilliant runner Achilles watched and marked him—

there he stood on the stern of his looming hollow hull,

looking out over the uphill work and heartsick rout of war.

He called at once to his friend-in-arms Patroclus,

shouting down from the decks. Hearing Achilles,

forth he came from his shelter,

striding up like the deathless god of war

but from that moment on his doom was sealed.

The brave son of Menoetius spoke out first:

“Why do you call, Achilles? Do you need me?”

And the swift runner Achilles answered quickly,

“Son of Menoetius, soldier after my own heart,

now I think they will grovel at my knees,

our Achaean comrades begging for their lives.

The need has reached them—a need too much to bear.

Go now, Patroclus dear to Zeus, and question Nestor.

Who’s that wounded man he’s bringing in from the fighting?

He looks to me like Machaon from behind, clearly,

Machaon head to foot, Asclepius’ only son.

But I never saw his eyes—the team sped by me,

tearing on full tilt.”

Patroclus obeyed his great friend

and off at a run he went along the ships and shelters.

Now, as soon as the others reached Nestor’s tent

they climbed down on the earth that feeds us all.

The driver Eurymedon freed the old man’s team.

The men themselves dried off their sweat-soaked shirts,

standing against the wind that whipped along the surf,

then entered the tent and took their seats on settles.

And well-kempt Hecamede mixed them a bracing drink,

the woman that old King Nestor won from Tenedos

when Achilles stormed it, proud Arsinous’ daughter,

the prize the Achaeans chose to give to Nestor

because he excelled them all at battle-tactics.

First Hecamede pushed a table up toward them,

handsome, sanded smooth, with blue enamel legs,

and on it she set a basket, braided in bronze

with onions in it, a relish for the drink,

and pale gold honey along with barley meal,

the grain’s blessed yield. And there in the midst

the grand, glowing cup the old king brought from home,

studded with golden nails, fitted with handles,

four all told and two doves perched on each,

heads bending to drink and made of solid gold

and twin supports ran down to form the base.

An average man would strain to lift it off the table

when it was full, but Nestor, old as he was,

could hoist it up with ease.

In this cup the woman skilled as a goddess

mixed them a strong drink with Pramnian wine,

over it shredded goat cheese with a bronze grater

and scattered barley into it, glistening pure white,

then invited them to drink when she had mulled it all.

Now as the two men drank their parching thirst away

and had just begun to please themselves with talk,

confiding back and forth—there stood Patroclus

tall at the threshold, vivid as a god ...

Old Nestor saw him at once and started up

from his polished chair, warmly grasped his hand

and led Patroclus in, pressing him to sit.

But standing off to the side his guest declined:

“No time to sit, old soldier dear to the gods.

You won’t persuade me. Awesome and quick to anger,

the man who sent me here to find out who’s been wounded,

the one you’ve just brought in. But I can see him—

I recognize Machaon myself, the expert healer.

So back I go to give Achilles the message.

Well you know, old soldier loved by the gods,

what sort of man he is—that great and terrible man.

Why, he’d leap to accuse a friend without a fault.”

But Nestor the noble charioteer replied at length,

“Now why is Achilles so cast down with grief

for this or that Achaean winged by a stray shaft?

He has no idea of the anguish risen through the army!

Look—our finest champions laid up in the ships,

all hit by arrows or run through by spears ...

there’s powerful Diomedes brought down by an archer,

Odysseus wounded, and Agamemnon too, the famous spearman,

and Eurypylus took a shaft in the thigh, and here,

Machaon—I just brought him in from the fighting,

struck down by an arrow whizzing off the string.

But Achilles, brave as he is, he has no care,

no pity for our Achaeans. How long will he wait?

Till our ships that line the shore go up in flames,

gutted, despite a last-ditch stand? And we ourselves

are mowed down in droves?

And I, what good am I?

My limbs are gnarled now, the old power’s gone.

Oh make me young again,

and the strength inside me steady as a rock!

As fresh as I was that time the feud broke out ...

fighting Epeans over a cattle-raid I killed Itymoneus.

Hypirochus’ gallant son who used to live in Elis.

I was rustling their cattle in reprisal, you see,

and he defending his herds, when a spear I hurled

caught him right in the front ranks of herdsmen—

down he went and round him his yokel drovers

scattered home in panic. And what a lovely haul,

what plunder we rounded up and herded off the plain!

Fifty herds of cattle, as many head of sheep,

as many droves of pigs and as many goat-flocks

ranging free, a hundred and fifty horses too,

strong and tawny, broodmares every one

and under the flanks of many, nursing foals.

The whole tot—

we drove them all into Pylos then, that very night,

corraling them all inside the walls of Neleus.

And father beamed, seeing how much I’d won,

a young soldier out on his first campaign.

And the heralds cried out at the break of day,

‘Pylians—come collect your debts from wealthy Elis!’

And a troop of Pylian chiefs turned out in force

to carve up the spoils. The Epeans owed us all,

few as we were in Pylos, hard-pressed as well.

For mighty Heracles came against us years before,

he ground our lives out, killing off our best.

Twelve sons we were of the noble old Neleus

and I alone was left ...

the rest of my brothers perished in that rout.

Riding high on our loss the Epeans rose in arms,

lording over us, harassing us with outrage after outrage.

So now, out of Epean spoils, the old king chose

a herd of cattle and handsome flock of sheep,

three hundred head he picked, the herdsmen too.

For wealthy Elis owed my father a heavy debt:

four prizewinning thoroughbreds, chariot and all.

They’d gone to the games, primed to race for the tripod,

but Augeas the warlord commandeered them on the spot

and sent the driver packing, sick for his team.

So now old Neleus, still enraged at it all—

the threats to his man, the naked treachery—

helped himself to a priceless treasure trove

but gave the rest to his people to divide,

so none would go deprived of his fair share.

But just as we were parceling out the plunder

and offering victims to the gods around the city,

right on the third day they came, the Epeans massed

in a swarm of men and plunging battle-stallions struck

at the border, full force—and square in their midst

the two Moliones armed to the hilt, and still boys,

not quite masters yet in the ways of combat.

Now then,

there’s a frontier fortress, Thryoëssa perched on cliffs,

far off above the Alpheus, at the edge of sandy Pylos.

The Epeans ringed that fort, keen to raze its walls,

but once their troops had swept the entire plain,

down Athena rushed to us in the night, a herald

down from Olympus crying out, ‘To arms! to arms!’

Nor did Pallas muster a slow, unwilling army

there in Pylos, all of us spoiling for a fight.

But Neleus would not let me arm for action—

he’d hidden away my horses,

thought his boy still green at the work of war.

So I had to reach the front lines on foot

but I shone among our horsemen all the same—

that’s how Athena called the turns of battle.

Listen. There is a river, the Minyeos

emptying into the sea beside Arene’s walls,

and there we waited for Goddess Dawn to rise,

the Pylian horse in lines while squads of infantry

came streaming up behind. Then, from that point on,

harnessed in battle-arrttor, moving at forced march

our army reached the Alpheus’ holy ford at noon.

There we slaughtered fine victims to mighty Zeus,

a bull to Alpheus River, a bull to lord Poseidon

and an unyoked cow to blazing-eyed Athena.

And then through camp we took our evening meal

by rank and file, and caught what sleep we could,

each in his gear along the river rapids.

And all the while

those vaunting Epeans were closing round the fortress,

burning to tear it down. But before they got the chance

a great work of the War-god flashed before their eyes!

Soon as the sun came up in flames above the earth

we joined battle, lifting a prayer to Zeus and Pallas.

And just as our two opposing armies clashed

I was the first to kill a man and seize his team,

the spearman Mulius, son-in-law to their king

and wed to his eldest daughter, blond Agamede,

skilled with as many drugs as the wide world grows.

Just as he lunged I speared the man with a bronze lance

and Mulius pitched in the dust as I, I swung aboard his car

and I took my place in our front ranks of champions.

How those hot-blooded Epeans scattered in terror!

Scuttling left and right when they saw him down,

their chariot captain who’d outfought them all.

Now I charged their lines like a black tornado,

I captured fifty chariots there, and each time

two men bit the dust, crushed beneath my spear.

Now I would have destroyed the young Moliones,

Actor’s sons—if their real father, Poseidon,

lord god of the open sea who shakes the earth,

had not snatched them out of the fighting then,

shrouded them round in clouds.

But now Zeus gave our Pylians stunning triumph!

Pushing Epeans north on the spreading plain we went,

killing their troops, gathering up their burnished gear,

far as Buprasion rich in wheat our chariots rolled,

all the way to Olenian Rock and the high ground

they call Alesion Hill—but there, at last,

Pallas Athena turned our forces back.

I killed my last man there, I left him dead.

There our Achaeans swung round from Buprasion,

heading their high-strung horses back to Pylos

where all gave glory to Zeus among the gods

and among all men to Nestor.

So, such was I

in the ranks of men ... or was it all a dream?

This Achilles—

he’ll reap the rewards of that great courage of his

alone, I tell you—weep his heart out far too late,

when our troops are dead and gone.

My friend, remember your father’s last commands?

That day he sent you out of Phthia to Agamemnon.

We were both there inside, I and Prince Odysseus

heard it all in the halls, all your father told you.

We’d come to the strong and storied house of Peleus,

out for recruits across Achaea’s good green land.

There inside we found the old soldier Menoetius,

found you too, and Achilles close beside you,

and the old horseman Peleus tending, burning

the fat thighs of an ox to thundering Zeus,

deep in the walled enclosure of his court.

He was lifting a golden cup and pouring wine,

glistening wine to go with the glowing victim.

You two were busy over the carcass, carving meat

when we both appeared and stood at the broad doors.

Achilles sprang to his feet, he seemed startled,

clasped the two of us by the hand and led us in—

he pressed us to take a seat and set before us

sumptuous stranger’s fare, the stranger’s right.

And once we’d had our fill of food and drink,

I led off with our plan, inviting the two of you

to come campaign with us. How willing you were!

And your fathers filled your ears with marching orders.

The old horseman Peleus urging his son Achilles,

‘Now always be the best, my boy, the bravest,

and hold your head up high above the others.’

And Actor’s son Menoetius urging you, ‘My child,

Achilles is nobler than you with his immortal blood

but you are older. He has more power than you, by far,

but give him sound advice, guide him, even in battle.

Achilles will listen to you—for his own good.’

So the old man told you. You’ve forgotten.

But even now,

late as it is, you could tell your Achilles all this

and your fiery friend might listen. Who knows?

With a god’s help you just might rouse him now,

bring his fighting spirit round at last.

The persuasion of a comrade has its powers.

But if down deep some prophecy makes him balk,

some doom his noble mother revealed to him from Zeus,

at least let Achilles send Patroclus into battle.

Let the whole Myrmidon army follow your command—

you might bring some light of victory to our Argives!

And let him give you his own fine armor to wear in war

so the Trojans might take you for him, Patroclus, yes,

hold off from attack, and Achaea’s fighting sons

get second wind, exhausted as they are ...

Breathing room in war is all too brief.

You’re fresh, unbroken. They’re bone-weary from battte—

you could roll those broken Trojans back to Troy,

clear of our ships and shelters!”

So old Nestor urged

and the fighting spirit leapt inside Patrocius—

he dashed back by the ships toward Achilles.

But sprinting close to King Odysseus’ fleet

where the Argives met and handed down their laws,

the grounds where they built their altars to the gods,

there he met Eurypylus, Euaemon’s gallant son,

wounded, the arrow planted deep in his thigh,

and limping out of battle ...

The sweat was streaming down his face and back

and the dark blood still flowed from his ugly wound

but the man’s will was firm, he never broke his stride.

And moved at the sight, the good soldier Patroclus

burst out in grief with a flight of winging words,

“Poor men! Lords of the Argives, O my captains!

How doomed you are, look—far from your loved ones

and native land—to glut with your shining fat

the wild dogs of battle here in Troy ...

But come, tell me, Eurypylus, royal fighter,

can the Achaeans, somehow, still hold monstrous Hector?—

or must they all die now, beaten down by his spear?”

Struggling with his wound, Eurypylus answered,

“No hope, Patroclus, Prince. No bulwark left.

They’ll all be hurled back to the black ships.

All of them, all our best in the old campaigns

are laid up in the hulls, they’re hit by arrows,

pierced by spears, brought down by Trojan hands

while the Trojans’ power keeps on rising, rising!

Save me at least. Take me back to my black ship.

Cut this shaft from my thigh. And the dark blood—

wash it out of the wound with clear warm water.

And spread the soothing, healing salves across it,

the powerful drugs they say you learned from Achilles

and Chiron the most humane of Centaurs taught your friend.

And as for our own healers, Podalirius and Machaon,

one is back in the shelters, wounded, I think—

Machaon needs a good strong healer himself,

he’s racked with pain. The other’s still afield,

standing up to the Trojans’ slashing onslaught.”

The brave son of Menoetius answered quickly,

“Impossible. Eurypylus, hero, what shall we do?

I am on my way with a message for Achilles,

our great man of war—the plan that Nestor,

Achaea’s watch and ward, urged me to report.

But I won’t neglect you, even so, with such a wound.”

And bracing the captain, arm around his waist,

he helped him toward his shelter. An aide saw them

and put some oxhides down. Patroclus stretched him out,

knelt with a knife and cut the sharp, stabbing arrow

out of Eurypylus’ thigh and washed the wound clean

of the dark running blood with clear warm water.

Pounding it in his palms, he crushed a bitter root

and covered over the gash to kill his comrade’s pain,

a cure that fought off every kind of pain ...

and the wound dried and the flowing blood stopped