but the earth and Olympus heights are common to us all.
So I will never live at the beck and call of Zeus!
No, at his royal ease, and powerful as he is,
let him rest content with his third of the world.
Don’t let him try to frighten me with his mighty hands—
what does he take me for, some coward out-and-out?
He’d better aim his terrible salvos at his own,
all his sons and daughters. He’s their father—
they have to obey his orders. It’s their fate.”
Iris quick as the breezes tried to soothe him:
“Wait, god of the sea-blue mane who grips the earth—
you really want me to take that harsh, unbending answer
back to Zeus? No change of heart, not even a little?
The hearts of the great, you know, can always change ...
you know how the Furies always stand by older brothers.”
The lord of the earthquake yielded ground in answer:
“True, Iris, immortal friend, how right you are—
it’s a fine thing when a messenger knows what’s proper.
Ah but how it galls me, it wounds me to the quick
when the Father tries to revile me with brute abuse,
his equal in rank, our fated shares of the world the same!
Still, this time I will yield, for all my outrage ...
but I tell you this, and there’s anger in my threat:
if ever—against my will and Athena queen of armies,
Hera and Hermes, and the god of fire Hephaestus—
if Zeus ever spares the towering heights of Troy,
if he ever refuses to take her walls by force
and give the Argive troops resounding triumph,
let Zeus know this full well-
the breach between us both will never heal!”
A sharp tremor
and the massive god of earthquakes left Achaea’s lines,
into the surf he dove and heroes missed him sorely.
That very instant storming Zeus dispatched Apollo:
“Go, my friend, to the side of Hector armed in bronze.
The god of the quakes who grips and pounds the earth
has just this moment plunged in his own bright sea,
diving away from all my mounting anger. Just think
what the gods would have heard if we had come to blows,
even those beneath the ground who circle Cronus.
Better for me this way, Poseidon too, to yield
before my mighty hands—outraged as he is:
not without sweat would we have called it quits.
But now take up in your hands my storm-cloud shield,
its dark tassels flying, shake it over the Argives,
stampede their heroes in panic, Archer of the Sky.
But make this glorious Hector your main concern,
rouse his breakneck courage till, racing in terror,
the Argives reach the fleet and the Hellespont in rout.
From that point on I plan my tactics, give commands
to grant the Argives breathing room in battle.”
Apollo did not neglect the Father’s orders.
Down from Ida’s peaks he swooped like a hawk,
the killer of doves, the fastest thing on wings.
He found Prince Hector, the son of wise King Priam,
sitting up now, sprawled on the ground no longer,
just regaining his strength, just beginning
to recognize his comrades round about him ...
His heavy sweating, his hard breathing stopped
the moment the will of storming Zeus revived him.
Apollo the Archer stood beside him, taunting,
“Hector, son of Priam, why so far from your troops?
Sitting here, half dead—some trouble’s come your way?”
Hector struggled for words, his helmet flashing:
“Who are you, my lord—who of the high gods—
to probe me face-to-face?
Haven’t you heard? I was killing his friends
against the ships when the lord of the war cry Ajax
struck me down with a boulder square across my chest—
he took the fight right out of me, I can tell you ...
I thought for certain I’d go to join the dead,
descend to the House of Death this very day—
I thought I’d breathed my last.”
But lord Apollo
the distant deadly Archer reassured him: “Courage!
Look what a strong support the son of Cronus
speeds from Ida to take your side and shield you—
I am Phoebus Apollo, lord of the golden sword!
I who saved you before, and along with you
your towering city too. So up now, Hector—
command your drivers here in all their hundreds
to lash their plunging teams at the hollow ships.
And I’ll surge on ahead, clearing the whole way
for the teams’ assault—I’ll bend the Argives back!”
That breathed tremendous strength in the famous captain.
As a stallion full-fed at the manger, stalled too long,
breaking free of his tether gallops down the plain,
out for his favorite plunge in a river’s cool currents,
thundering in his pride—his head flung back, his mane
streaming over his shoulders, sure and sleek in his glory,
knees racing him on to the fields and stallion-haunts he loves—
so Hector hurtled on, his legs driving, his’knees pumping,
spurring his reinsmen once he heard the god’s command.
And the Argives wheeled and gave ground quickly.
Think how dogs and huntsmen off in the wilds
rush some antlered stag or skittish mountain goat
but a rocky gorge or shadowed forest gives him shelter—
they see it’s not their lot to bring that quarry down,
their shouting only flushes a great bearded lion
ramping across their path, suddenly charging them,
scattering men and packs despite their lust for battle—
so up till now the Achaeans kept advancing, close formation,
stabbing away with swords and rugged two-edged spears
but once they saw tall Hector attack the ranks again
they wheeled in terror—hearts collapsed at their heels.
But Thoas son of Andraemon spurred them on,
Aetolia’s best by far, skilled with the spear,
superb at cut-and-thrust
and few Achaeans could put him down in debate
when the young men vie and struggle over points.
Now forth he came with calls to back his comrades:
“Look—a genuine miracle right before my eyes!
Hector’s escaped again, he’s risen from the dead!
And just as each of us hoped with all his heart
he’d dropped and died at the hands of giant Ajax.
But again some god swoops down and saves this Hector—
and hasn’t he wiped enough of us out already?
Now he’ll make more slaughter, well I know.
He’d never be at the front, smashing our lines
unless Old Thunder, Zeus, had put him on his feet.
So come, friends, do as I say-all take my lead.
The rank and file go back, withdraw to the ships,
but we who claim to be the armies’ finest champions
stand our ground—face him first, try to beat him off!
Spears at the ready! For all his fury, trust me,
he’ll quake before he penetrates our front.”
Sound tactics—
the captains hung on his words and all fell in line.
Squads forming around Great Ajax, King Idomeneus,
Teucer, Meriones and Meges a match for Ares<
br />
closed tight for the onset, calling all their best
to brace and face Prince Hector and Hector’s Trojans.
Behind them rank and file withdrew to Achaea’s ships.
But packed in a mass the Trojans came on pounding,
Hector leading the way with long, leaping strides
and heading the van in person came the god Apollo,
shoulders wrapped in cloud, gripping the storm-shield,
the tempest terror, dazzling, tassels flaring along its front—
The bronzesmith god of fire gave it to Zeus to bear
and strike fear in men and Apollo gripped it now,
locked in his two fists as he led the Trojans on.
But packed in a mass the Argives stood their ground,
deafening cries of battle breaking from both sides
as whipping arrows leapt away from bowstrings.
Showers of spears raining from daring, hardy arms
went deep into soldiers’ bodies quick to fight
but showers of others, cut short
halfway before they could graze glistening skin,
stuck in the ground, still lusting to sink in flesh.
Long as Apollo held the storm-shield firm in his grasp
the weapons hurtled side-to-side and men kept falling ...
But once he looked the fast Achaean drivers square in the eyes,
shook the shield and loosed an enormous battle cry himself,
Apollo stunned the high courage in all their chests—
they lost their grip, forgot their fighting-fury.
Routed like herds of cattle or big flocks of sheep
when two wild beasts stampede them away in terror,
suddenly pouncing down in their midst—pitch darkness,
the shepherd off and gone—so the defenseless Argives
panicked, routed. Apollo hurled fear in their hearts
and handed Hector and all his Trojans instant glory.
There man killed man in the mad scatter of battle.
Hector finished Stichius, finished Arcesilaus off,
the one a chief of Boeotians armed in bronze,
the other, brave Menelaus’ trusty comrade.
Aeneas slaughtered Medon and Iasus outright,
Medon the bastard son of royal King Oileus,
Little Ajax’ brother, but Medon lived in Phylace,
banished from native land—he’d killed a kinsman
dear to Oileus’ wife, his stepmother Eriopis.
But Iasus became a captain of Athens’ troops,
Sphelus’ son he was called and Bucolus’ grandson.
Polydamas killed Mecisteus—
Polites cut down Echius,
first in the onset—
dashing Agenor cut down Clonius—and Paris lanced Deiochus deep below the shoulder,
ran him through from behind as he fled the front
and the bronze spear came jutting out his chest.
While the Trojans tore the war-gear off the bodies
Argives clambered back in a tangled mass, scrambling back
through the sharp stakes and deep pit of the trench,
fleeing left and right, forced inside the rampart.
So Hector commanded his Trojans, sounding out,
“Now storm the ships! Drop those bloody spoils!
Any straggler I catch, hanging back from the fleet,
right here on the spot I’ll put that man to death.
No kin, no women commit his corpse to the flames-
the dogs will tear his flesh before our walls!”
With a full-shoulder stroke he flogged his horses on,
loosing a splitting war cry down the Trojan ranks
and all cried back in answer—a savage roar rising—
driving teams and chariots close in line with his.
And Apollo far in the lead, the god’s feet kicking
the banks of the deep trench down with a god’s ease,
tumbled earth in the pit between, bridging it with a dike
immense and wide and long as a hurtling spear will fly
when a man makes practice casts to test his strength.
Holding formation now the Trojans rolled across it,
Apollo heading them, gripping the awesome storm-shield
and he tore that Argive rampart down with the same ease
some boy at the seashore knocks sand castles down—
he no sooner builds his playthings up, child’s play,
than he wrecks them all with hands and kicking feet,
just for the sport of it. God of the wild cry, Apollo—
so you wrecked the Achaeans’ work and drove the men
who had built it up with all that grief and labor
into headlong panic rout.
Achaeans stampeding back
till they reined in hard, huddling tight by the stems
and shouting out to each other, flung their arms
to all the immortals, each man crying out a prayer.
But none as rapt as Nestor, Achaea’s watch and ward,
who stretched his hands to the starry skies and prayed,
“Father Zeus! If ever in Argos’ golden wheatlands
one of us burned the fat thighs of sheep or bulls
and begged a safe return and you promised with a nod—
remember it now, Olympian. Save us from this ruthless day!
Don’t let these Trojans mow us down in droves!”
So he pleaded
and hearing the old man’s prayers, Zeus who rules the world
let loose a great crack of thunder, rending the skies.
But Trojans, thrilled at the sound of Zeus’s thunder,
pitched themselves at the Argives still more fiercely,
summoning up their fiery lust for battle.
Like a giant breaker rearing up on the rangy seas,
crashing over a ship’s sides, driven in by the winds
and the blast builds the comber’s crushing impact—
a hoarse roar!—Trojans stormed over the rampart,
lashing their teams to fight against the ships,
hurling their two-edged spears at close range there,
Trojans from lurching cars but Achaeans from high decks,
scrambling aloft black hulls, lunged down with the long pikes—
jointed and clinched and tipped with ripping bronze—
they’d kept on board for bloody fights at sea.
Now,
as long as the armies fought to take the rampart,
far from the fast ships, Patroclus sat it out
in his friend Eurypylus’ shelter ... 460
trying to lift the soldier’s heart with stories,
applying soothing drugs to his dreadful wound
as he sought to calm the black waves of pain.
But soon as he heard the Trojans storm the wall
and shouts rise from Achaeans lost in panic rout,
Patroclus gave a groan and slapping his thighs hard
with the flats of both hands, burst forth in anguish:
“I can’t stay here with you any longer, Eurypylus,
much as you need me—there, a great battle breaks!
The Iliad Page 55
