“Poor creatures, why did we give you to King Peleus,
a mortal doomed to death ...
you immortal beasts who never age or die?
So you could suffer the pains of wretched men?
There is nothing alive more agonized than man
of all that breathe and crawl across the earth.
But Hector, at least, will never ride behind you,
you and your blazoned chariot. I will never permit it.
What more does he want? The arms are enough for him—
Priam’s son with his empty, futile boasting.
But I will fill your legs and hearts with strength
so you can save Automedon, bear him from the fighting
back to the fleet. For still I will give the Trojans glory—
killing all the way to the benched ships till the sun sinks
and the blessed darkness sweeps across the earth.”
And with that he breathed fresh fire in the team.
They shook the dust from their manes and galloped off,
speeding the fast chariot just where the armies clashed.
Automedon fought as he rode, though grieving for his friend,
swooping in with the team like a vulture after geese.
Now he’d veer from the Trojan melee in a flash
then dart back in a charge, pursuing mobs of men
but he could not kill the ones he rushed in force—
no way for him now, alone in the hurtling car,
to lunge with a spear and still control those racers.
But at last a cohort marked the driver’s straits,
Alcimedon the son of Laerces, Haemon’s grandson
coming behind the chariot, shouted out, “Automedon!
What god has put such a tactic in your head?
It’s good-for-nothing—he’s torn your wits away.
Taking the Trojans on alone, on the front lines
but your comrade’s dead, look, and Hector himself,
strapped in Achilles’ armor, swaggers on in glory!”
Diores’ son Automedon shouted back, “Alcimedon!
What other Achaean driver could match your skill
at curbing this deathless team or spurring on their fury?
Only Patroclus, skilled as the gods themselves
while the man was still alive—
now death and fate have got him in their grip.
On with it! Take up the whip and shining reins,
I’ll dismount the car and fight on foot.”
Alcimedon sprang aboard the hurtling chariot,
quickly grasping the whip and reins in both fists
as Automedon leapt to ground. But Hector saw them
and called at once to Aeneas posted close beside him,
“Aeneas, counselor of the Trojans armed in bronze,
I can see the great runner Achilles’ team—look there—
heading into the fight but reined by feeble drivers.
So my hopes ride high that we can seize them now
if you have the heart to join me.
Charge! Those two will flinch, they’d never dare
stand up to us man-to-man in all-out battle!”
And Anchises’ gallant son did not resist.
They went straight on, shoulders shielded in oxhide
tanned and tough and hammered thick with bronze.
And a brace of fighters, Chromius, strong Aretus
flanked their attack and the Trojans had high hopes
of killing the men and driving off the massive stallions.
Reckless fools! They’d never disengage from Automedon,
not without some bloodshed. No, with a prayer to Zeus
some new fighting power had filled his dark heart
and he quickly called his trusted friend Alcimedon:
“Alcimedon, keep those horses close beside me,
breathing down my neck. Nothing can hold him back,
this Hector in all his fury—nothing, I tell you—
not till he leaps behind Achilles’ long-maned team
and kills us both and routs our forward line—
or he goes down himself in the first assault.”
And he called the two Aeantes and Menelaus:
“Ajax, Ajax—lords of the Argives—Menelaus!
Leave Patroclus now to the best men you can find,
they’ll straddle the corpse and fight off Trojan packs—
you fight the fatal day from us, we’re still alive.
Here they come, full tilt, Aeneas and Hector,
Troy’s best men, bearing down on us here—
this point of tears and attack!
But all lies in the lap of the great gods.
I’ll fling a spear myself and leave the rest to Zeus.”
He aimed and hurled and his spear’s long shadow flew
and hit Aretus square in the balanced round shield—
no blocking the shaft, the bronze rammed through,
piercing his belt and gouging down his belly.
As a burly farmhand wielding a whetted ax,
chopping a field-ranging bull behind the horns,
hacks through its whole hump and the beast heaves up
then topples forward—so Aretus reared, heaving up
then toppled down on his back. The slashing spear
shuddered tense in his guts and the man was gone.
A flash of a lance—Hector hurled at Automedon
who kept his eyes right on him, dodged the bronze,
ducking down with a quick lunge, and behind his back
the heavy spearshaft plunged and stuck in the earth,
the butt end quivering into the air till suddenly
rugged Ares snuffed its fury out, dead still ...
Now they would have attacked with swords, close-up,
incensed, but the two Aeantes drove a wedge between them,
plowing through the press at their comrade’s call.
Cowering backward fast the Trojans gave ground,
Hector, Aeneas and Chromius, noble prince,
deserted Aretus there, his life torn out,
sprawled on the spot. Automedon rushed in,
wild as the god of war to strip the armor off,
shouting in savage exultation, “Now, by heaven,
I’ve eased the grief of Patroclus’ ghost a little—
though the man I battered down was half as great as he!”
With that he tossed the bloody gear in the chariot,
climbed aboard with his hands and feet dripping gore
like a lion that rends and bolts a bull.
And now, again,
the fight for Patroclus flared, stretched to the breaking point,
mounting in tears, in fury, since Pallas fired their blood,
sweeping down from the heavens, sent by the Father
thundering far and wide to drive the Argives on,
for now his mind had changed, at least for a moment.
Yes, down like a lurid rainbow Zeus sends arching
down to mortal men from the high skies, a sign of war
or blizzard to freeze the summer’s warmth and put a halt
to men’s work on the face of the earth and harry flocks—
so shrouded round in a lurid cloud came Pallas now
and dove in the Argive ranks to fire up each man.
And the first one she roused was Atreus’ son
powerful Menelaus—he stood right at hand—
she took the build and tireless voice of Phoenix:
“Yours is the shame. Atrides. You will hang your head
if under the walls of Troy the dogs in all their frenzy
drag and maul the proud Achilles’ steadfast friend.
Hold on, full force—spur all our men to battle!”
The lord of the war cry told the goddess quickly,
“Phoenix, father, good old soldier—if only Pallas
would give me p
ower and drive the weapons off me!
Then I’d gladly stand and fight for Patroclus.
My comrade’s death has cut me to the quick.
But Hector keeps his terrible fury blazing,
keeps his bronze spear stabbing
and never stops the slaughter—Zeus hands him glory!”
Her gray eyes afire, the goddess Pallas thrilled
that the man had prayed to her before all other gods.
She put fresh strength in his back, spring in his knees
and filled his heart with the horsefly’s raw daring—
brush it away from a man’s flesh and back it comes,
biting, attacking, crazed for sweet human blood.
With such raw daring she filled his dark heart
and he bestrode Patroclus, flung a gleaming spear—
and there was a Trojan, Eetion’s son called Podes,
well-bred, wealthy, and Hector prized him most
in all the realm—a first-rate drinking friend ...
As he sprang in flight the red-haired captain hit him,
splitting his belt, and bronze went ripping through his flesh
and down he went with a crash. Atrides hauled his corpse
from under the Trojans toward his own massing friends.
But Hector—Apollo stood by him and drove him on,
disguised as Phaenops, Asius’ son Abydos-born,
dearest to Hector of all his foreign guests.
Like him to the life, the deadly Archer taunted,
“Hector, what Achaean will ever fear you now?
Look how you cringe in the face of Menelaus,
no great fighter before this—a weakling, soft.
He’s gone and snatched a corpse from under our noses,
single-handed he’s taken down your trusted comrade
brave in the front ranks, Podes, Eetion’s son.”
A black cloud of grief came shrouding over Hector
but helmed in flashing bronze he hurtled through the front.
That very moment the son of Cronus seized his storm-shield—
rippling and flaring bright—and shrouding Ida in dark clouds,
loosed a bolt with a huge crack of thunder, shook the shield,
gave the Trojans triumph and routed fear-struck Argives.
And the first to beat retreat, a Boeotian, Peneleos.
Charging forward as always, head-on, until Polydamas
speared his shoulder—just grazing its ridge
but grating bone—he thrust at point-blank range.
Close range too, Hector stabbed the wrist of Leitus,
brave Alectryon’s son, and knocked him out of action.
No hope left he could wield a spear against the Trojans,
no more fighting now—Leitus looked around and ran.
But as Hector rushed him, Idomeneus speared Hector,
struck the plate on his chest beside the nipple—
his long spearshaft splintered off at the head
and the Trojans shouted out. And Hector hurled
at Idomeneus now aboard a chariot—missed by a hair
but he caught Meriones’ aide and driver Coeranus,
one who’d come with his lord from rock-built Lyctus.
Idomeneus had left the ships on foot that morning
and would have offered the Trojans a fine triumph now
if Coeranus had not rushed to the rescue, lashed his team
and come like light to the king—
he saved his life that day
but he quickly lost his own to man-killing Hector—
Hector
speared him under the jaw and ear, knocking teeth out,
shattering roots and all and split his tongue in half.
He pitched from his car, the reins poured to the ground
and on foot Meriones grabbed them up in his hands,
shouting out at Idomeneus, “Whip them hard now!
Back to the fast ships! You see for yourself—
no power left in the Argives.”
So Meriones yelled
and Idomeneus whipped the team with their manes streaming,
back to the hollow ships—fear seized the king at last.
Lionhearted Ajax and Menelaus were not blind ...
they saw Zeus turn the tide toward the Trojans.
Telamonian Ajax voiced frustration first:
“Dear god, enough! Any idiot boy could see
how Father Zeus himself supports these Trojans.
All their weapons land, no matter who flings them,
brave fighter or bad—Zeus guides them all to the mark.
Ours all clatter to ground. Wasted, harmless shots.
So come, alone as we are, find the best way out:
how do we pull the body clear and save ourselves,
make it back to our lines and bring our friends some joy?
They look our way in despair, they must. All hope gone
that murderous Hector’s rage and invincible spear-arm
can be stopped—not now—
he’ll hurl himself against our blackened hulls!
If only an aide could speed the word to Achilles.
I’m certain he has not heard the dreadful news
that his dear friend lies dead. Wherever I look,
no use, I cannot see the Achaean for the mission,
such swirling mist blots out the men and horses both.
O Father Zeus—draw our armies clear of the cloud,
give us a bright sky, give us back our sight!
Kill us all in the light of day at least—
since killing’s now your pleasure!”
So he prayed
and the Father filled with pity, seeing Ajax weep.
He dispelled the mist at once,
drove off the cloud and the sun came blazing forth
and the whole war swung into view, clear, that instant—
and Ajax called the lord of the war cry, Menelaus:
“Look hard for Antilochus now, my royal friend.
If you see him still alive, brave Nestor’s son,
tell him to run the news to great Achilles quickly—
his dearest friend-in-arms on earth lies dead.”
And the lord of the battle cry could not refuse
but dragged his heels like a lion leaving sheepfolds,
bone-weary from harrying hounds and field hands.
They’ll never let him tear the rich fat from the oxen,
all night long they stand their guard but the lion craves meat,
he lunges in and in but his charges gain him nothing,
thick-and-fast from their hardy hands the javelins
rain down in his face, and waves of roaring torches—
these the big cat fears, balking for all his rage,
and at dawn he slinks away, his spirits dashed.
And so the lord of the war cry left Patroclus,
resisting all the way—he feared the worst:
stampeded in terror, his men would leave the body
easy prey for the Trojans. So here Menelaus paused
The Iliad Page 64
