breeder of stallions, the rugged spearman Imbrius.
He had lived in Pedaeon, before the Argives came,
and wed a bastard daughter of Priam, Medesicaste,
but once the rolling ships of Achaea swept ashore,
home he came to Troy where he shone among the Trojans,
living close to Priam, who prized him like his sons.
Under his ear the son of Telamon stabbed with a heavy lance,
wrenched the weapon out and down he went like a tall ash
on a landmark mountain ridge that glistens far and wide—
chopped down by an ax, its leaves running with sap,
strewn across the earth ... So Imbrius fell,
the fine bronze armor clashing against him hard.
Teucer charged forward, mad to strip that gear
but as Teucer charged, Hector flung his lance—
a glint of bronze—but the Argive saw it coming,
dodged to the side and it missed him by an inch
and hit Amphimachus, Cteatus’ son and Actor’s heir,
the shaft slashed his chest as he ran toward the front
and down he went, thundering, armor clanging round him.
And Hector rushed to tear the helmet off his head,
snug on Amphimachus’ brows, the gallant soldier—
Hector rushing in and Ajax lunged with a spear
yet the burnished weapon could not pierce his skin,
Hector’s whole body was cased in tremendous bronze.
But Ajax did stab home at the shield’s jutting bulge,
beating Hector back with enormous driving force
and he gave ground, back and away from both corpses
as Argives hauled them from the fighting by the heels.
The captains of Athens, Stichius, staunch Menestheus,
bore Amphimachus back to Achaea’s waiting lines.
But the two Aeantes blazing in battle-fury
saw to Imbrius now ... as two lions seizing a goat
from under the guard of circling rip-tooth hounds,
lugging the carcass on through dense matted brush,
hoist it up from the earth in their big grinding jaws.
So the ramping, crested Aeantes hoisted Imbrius high,
stripping his gear in mid-aïr, and the Little Ajax,
raging over Amphimachus’ death, lopped the head
from the corpse’s limp neck and with one good heave
sent it spinning into the milling fighters like a ball,
right at the feet of Hector, tumbling in the dust.
And then the heart of Poseidon quaked with anger—
his own grandson brought down in the bloody charge.
He surged along the Achaean ships and shelters,
spurring Argives, piling griefs on Trojans.
The famous spearman Idomeneus crossed his path—
he’d come from a friend who just emerged from battle
gashed in back of the kneecap, gouged by whetted bronze.
That soldier the comrades carried off but Idomeneus,
giving the healers orders, made for his own tent
though he still yearned for action face-to-face.
And the god of earthquakes only fueled his fire,
taking the voice of Thoas, son of Andraemon,
king over all Pleuron, craggy Calydon too
and Aetolian men he ruled revered him like a god:
“Idomeneus, captain of Cretans under arms—
where have the threats all gone
that sons of Achaea leveled at these Trojans?”
The Cretan captain Idomeneus answered, “Thoas—
no man’s to blame now, so far as I can tell.
Every one of us knows the ropes in war.
No one here’s in the grip of bloodless fear,
collapsing in cowardice, ducking the grim assault.
No, this is the pleasure of overweening Zeus, it seems—
to kill the Achaeans here, our memory blotted out
a world away from Argos. But you, Thoas,
you who were always rock-steady in battle
and braced the ones you saw go slack and flinch—
don’t quit now, Thoas, urge each man you find!”
The god of earthquakes answered back, “Idomeneus—
may that man, that coward never get home from Troy—
let him linger here, ripping sport for the dogs,
whoever shirks the fight while this day lasts.
Quick, take up your gear and off we go.
Shoulder-to-shoulder, swing to the work, we must—
just two as we are—if we hope to make some headway.
The worst cowards, banded together, have their power
but you and I have got the skill to fight their best!”
With that he strode away, a god in the wars of men.
As soon as Idomeneus reached his well-built shelter
he strapped his burnished armor round his body,
grasped two spears and out he ran like a lightning bolt
the Father grips and flings from brilliant Olympus,
a dazzling sign to men—a blinding forked flash.
So the bronze flared on his chest as out he rushed
but his rough-and-ready aide-in-arms Meriones
intercepted him just outside the tent ...
He was on his way for a new bronze spear to use
and staunch Idomeneus shouted out, “Meriones—
racing son of Molus, brother-in-arms, old friend,
why back from the lines, why leave the fight behind?
Taken a wound, some spearhead sapped your strength?
Or come with a word for me? Does someone need me?
I have no mind to sit it out in the shelters—
what I love is battle!”
Never flustered,
the cool-headed Meriones took his point:
“Idomeneus, captain of Cretans under arms,
I’ve come for a spear to fight with,
if you still have one left inside your tents.
I’ve just splintered the lance I used to carry,
smashed it against his shield—swaggering Deiphobus.”
But the Cretan captain Idomeneus countered, “Spears?
If it’s spears you want, you’ll find not one but twenty,
all propped on my shelter’s shining inner walclass="underline"
Trojan weapons, stripped from the men I kill.
It’s not my way, I’d say, to fight at a distance,
out of enemy range.
So I take my plunder—spears, bossed shields,
helmets and breastplates, gleaming, polished bright.”
“And so do I, by god!”—the cool Meriones blazed up
in his own defense—“They crowd my ship and shelter,
hoards of Trojan plunder, but out of reach just now.
Though I never forgot my courage, I can tell you—
not I, there at the front where we win glory,
there I take my stand whenever a pitched battle
rears its head. Another Achaean armed in bronze
may well be blind to the way I fight. Not you—
you are the one who knows me best, I’d say.”
And the Cretan captain Idomeneus answered warn.ly,
“I know your style, your courage. No need for you to tell it.