“Hero, why not invoke the deathless gods yourself?
They say you’re a son of Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter,
but Achilles sprang from a lesser goddess’ loins—
Aphrodite’s a child of Zeus,
Thetis comes from the Old Man of the Sea.
So ram him straight on with your tough bronze!
Now—and not for a moment let him turn you back
with his stinging proud contempt and brazen threats!”
That breathed enormous strength in the good captain—
right through the front he went, helmed in flashing bronze.
Nor did the white-armed Hera fail to see Anchises’ son
advancing there through the press to face Achilles.
And rallying other gods around her, Hera shouted,
“Bend to the work, you two, Poseidon, Athena,
decide in your hearts how this assault will go!
Here comes Aeneas, look, helmed in flashing bronze
to oppose Achilles now and Phoebus speeds him on.
Come, spin him round in his tracks and drive him back.
That, or else one of us might stand beside Achilles
and lend him winning force—his courage must not flag.
Let him know he’s loved by the greatest gods on high
while the gods who up till now have shielded Troy
from war and death are worthless as the wind!
We swept down from Olympus, all to join this fight
so Achilles might not fall at Trojan hands today.
Afterward he must suffer what the Fates spun out
on the doomed fighter’s life line drawn that day
his mother gave him birth. If Achilles fails
to learn all this from our own immortal voices
he will quail when a god attacks him face-to-face.
The gods are hard to handle—
when they come blazing forth in their true power.”
But the god who grips the earth restrained the Queen:
“Hera, so hard, so senseless! Don’t leap to extremes.
I, at least, have no real lust to drive our forces
against the gods of Troy. Our side is so much stronger.
Come now, let us move off and settle down together
far from the trampled field, take a lookout post
and leave the war to mortals ...
But if Ares or Phoebus cares to start things off,
if they block Achilles and keep him out of action,
they will have a fight on their hands, then and there,
an all-out fight with us. But not for long, I trust—
they will soon break off and slink back to Olympus,
home to the gathered gods who wait their coming,
overwhelmed by the crushing power of our fists!”
And with that threat the god of the sea-blue mane
led the way to the fortress raised for godlike Heracles:
earth piled on both sides, a high imposing breastwork
men of Troy and Pallas Athena flung up for the man
where he could race and escape that sea monster
whenever it charged him hard from shore to plain.
There Poseidon sat at ease with his deathless friends
who spread unbroken shrouds of mist around their shoulders,
while far on the other side the gods of Troy sat down
on the brows of Sunlight Hill, flanking you, Apollo,
god of the wild cry, and Ares scourge of cities.
3
So either side of the lines they took positions,
weighing tactics, each Olympian force reluctant now
to launch out first on the wrenching horrors of war ...
while Zeus on the heights sat poised to thunder orders.
But the whole plain filled with men and flashed with bronze,
with troops and horse and beneath their feet the earth quaked
as armies rushed together. And now in the no man’s land
two champions, greatest of all, strode and closed,
both men burning for battle,
Aeneas son of Anchises and brilliant Achilles.
Aeneas came up first with long, menacing strides,
head tossing his heavy helmet, his charging shield
thrust out to defend his chest, and shook his bronze spear.
But over against him came Achilles rearing like some lion
out on a rampage, and a whole town of men has geared
for the hunt to cut him down: but at first he lopes along,
all contempt, till one of the fast young hunters spears him—
then ... crouched for attack, his jaws gaping, over his teeth
the foam breaks out, deep in his chest the brave heart groans,
he lashes his ribs, his flanks and hips with his tail,
he whips himself into fighting-fury, eyes glaring,
hurls himself head-on-kill one of the men or die,
go down himself at the first lethal charge!
So now magnificent pride and fury lashed Achilles
to go against Aeneas the greathearted fighter.
As they closed on each other, both in range,
the matchless runner Achilles opened up: “Aeneas—
why so far from your own ranks, standing all exposed?
Does your courage really drive you to challenge me?
In hopes of ruling your stallion-breaking friends
and filling Priam’s throne? Even if you killed me,
would Priam drop his crown in your hands—for that?
The king has sons. He’s sound of limb. No half-wit either.
Or have the Trojans sworn to carve you a fine estate?
The choicest land in the realm, rich in vineyards
and good tilled fields for you to lord it over—
if only you kill me!
Ah but I think you’ll find the work quite taxing.
I seem to remember once before you fled my spear ...
Or have you forgot the time I caught you all alone,
I cut you off from your flocks and sent you scurrying down
the slopes of Ida? Running for dear life, legs driving,
never a look behind. And you escaped that time,
you fled to Lyrnessus’ walls, but at one charge
I sacked the place with Athena’s help and Father Zeus,
I tore the day of freedom away from all the women,
dragged them off as slaves. Zeus saved you then
and other gods joined in. But he won’t save you now,
I’d say—though the hope goes racing through your mind.
Go back to your own rank and file, I tell youl
Don’t stand up against me—or you will meet your death.
Even a fool learns something once it hits him.”
But Aeneas, taking a long, deep breath, replied,
“Don’t think for a moment, Achilles, son of Peleus,
you can frighten me with words like a child, a fool—
I’m an old hand myself at trading taunts and insults.
We both know each other’s birth, each other’s parents,
we’ve heard their far-flung fame on the lips of mortal men,
though you have never set eyes on mine, or I on yours.
They say you are Peleus’ son, that fine, flawless man;
your mother, Thetis, sleek-haired child of the Sea.
And I am Aeneas, and I can boast Anchises’ blood,
the proud Anchises, but my mother is Aphrodite.
Our parents—one pair or the other will mourn
a dear son today. Certain it is, I warn you,
we won’t break off from battle and leave the field
with no more than a youngster’s banter light as this.
But about my birth, if you’d like to learn it well,
first to last—though many people know it—
here’s my story, Achilles ...
>
Starting with Dardanus, Storm-king Zeus’s son
who founded Dardania, long before holy Troy arose,
that city reared on the plain to shelter all our people.
They still camped on the slopes of Ida wet with springs.
Then Dardanus had a son in turn, King Erichthonius,
and he was the richest man in all the world—
three thousand mares he owned, grazing the marshes,
brood-mares in their prime, proud of their leaping foals.
And the North Wind, lusting once for the herd at pasture,
taking on the build of a black stallion, mounted several
and swelling under his force they bore him twelve colts.
And when they’d frisk on the tilled fields ripe with grain
they’d brush the crests of the com and never snap a stalk,
but when they’d frisk and vault on the sea’s broad back
they’d skim the crests of whitecaps glistening foam.
Now Erichthonius sired Tros, a lord of the Trojans,
and Tros, in turn, had three distinguished sons:
Ilus, Assaracus and Ganymede radiant as a god,
and he was the handsomest mortal man on earth—
and so the immortals, awestruck by his beauty,
snatched him away to bear the cup of Zeus
and pour out wine for all the deathless gods.
And Ilus, in turn, sired a valiant son Laomedon,
Laomedon had his sons as well, Tithonus and Priam,
Lampus and Clytius, Hicetaon the gallant aide of Ares,
and Assaracus fathered Capys, and he had a son Anchises
and Anchises fathered me, but Priam had Prince Hector.
There you have my lineage.
That is the blood I claim, my royal birth.
As for strength in war, Zeus lends power to some,
others he wastes away, whatever his pleasure—
the strongest god of all.
Come, Achilles,
no more bragging on this way like boys,
standing here in the thick of a pitched battle.
Plenty of insults we could fling against each other,
enough to sink a ship with a hundred benches!
A man’s tongue is a glib and twisty thing ...
plenty of words there are, all kinds at its command—
with all the room in the world for talk to range and stray.
And the sort you use is just the sort you’ll hear.
What do we need with wrangling, hurling insults?
Cursing each other here like a pair of nagging women
boiling over with petty, heartsick squabbles, blustering
into the streets to pelt themselves with slander,
much of it true, much not. Anger stirs up lies.
I blaze for battle—your taunts can’t turn me back,
not till we’ve fought it out with bronze. On with it—
taste the bite of each other’s brazen spears!”
With that
he hurled a heavy lance at the great and awesome shield
and its massive surface clanged as it took the point.
Achilles had thrust it forth with his strong fist,
fearing staunch Aeneas’ spear with its long shadow
would drive its whole length lightly through his buckler—
groundless fears. The fighter had no idea at all
that famous gifts of the gods do not break lightly,
can’t be crushed when a mortal hand assails them.
So now not even seasoned Aeneas’ heavy shaft
could smash Achilles’ shield:
the gold blocked it, forged in the god’s gift.
It did bore through two plies but three were left,
since the crippled Smith had made it five plies thick
with two of bronze on the outside, inside two of tin,
between them one of gold where the ashen spear held fast.
Achilles next—he hurled his spear and its long shadow flew
and the weapon struck the balanced round shield of Aeneas
under the outer rim where the bronze ran thinnest,
backed by the thinnest bull’s-hide. Straight through
the Pelian ash burst, the shield rang out with a screech—
but Aeneas crouched low, holding the buckler off his chest,
terrified as the shaft shot past his back, hurled so hard
it plunged deep in the ground, even after it tore up
two round plies of the shield that cased his body.
Dodging the big spear, Aeneas got to his feet ...
a dizzying swirl of anguish rushing down his eyes,
blind with fear, the point had stuck so close.
But drawing his sharp sword, Achilles charged, wild,
hurtling toward him, loosing a savage cry as Aeneas
hefted a boulder in his hands, a tremendous feat—
no two men could hoist it, weak as men are now,
but all on his own he raised it high with ease.
Then and there he’d have struck Achilles lunging in,
the rock would have hit him square in casque or shield,
the gear would have warded off grim death, and Achilles, closing,
would have slashed his life away with a well-honed blade—
if the god of earthquakes had not marked it quickly
and called the gods at once who grouped around him:
“Now, I tell you, my heart aches for great Aeneas!
He’ll go down to the House of Death this instant,
overwhelmed by Achilles—all because he trusted
the distant deadly Archer’s urgings. Poor foot—
as if Apollo would lift a hand to save him now
from death, grim death. Aeneas the innocent!
Why should Aeneas suffer here, for no good reason,
embroiled in the quarrels of others, not his own?
He always gave us gifts to warm our hearts,
gifts for the gods who rule the vaulting skies.
So come, let us rescue him from death ourselves,
for fear the son of Cronus might just tower in rage
if Achilles kills this man. He is destined to survive.
Yes, so the generation of Dardanus will not perish,
obliterated without an heir, without a trace:
Dardanus, dearest to Zeus of all the sons
that mortal women brought to birth for Father.
Now he has come to hate the generation of Priam,
and now Aeneas will rule the men of Troy in power—
his sons’ sons and the sons born in future years.”
But Hera the Queen broke in, her eyes open wide:
“Decide in your own mind, god of the earthquake,
whether to save Aeneas now or let him die,
crushed by Achilles, for all his fighting heart.
But time and again we two have sworn our oaths
in the eyes of all the gods—I and Pallas Athena—
never to drive the fatal day away from the Trojans,
not even when all Troy burns in the ramping flames
when the warring sons of Achaea bum her down!”
The Iliad Page 71
