if you’ll just help us raze the walls of Troy.
Just step this way! So we can come to terms
by the deep-sea ships and strike our marriage pact—
you’ll find our price for brides not quite so killing!”
The hero seized his foot, dragging him through the rout.
But Asius leapt down to defend his comrade, just ahead
of his chariot-horses still held close by a driver,
the team snorting, panting over his shoulders—
Asius strained in fury to spear Idomeneus
but the Cretan took him first.
A spearhead punched his gullet under the chin
and the bronze point went ripping through his nape
and down the Trojan fell as an oak or white poplar falls
or towering pine that shipwrights up on a mountain
hew down with whetted axes for sturdy ship timber—
so he stretched in front of his team and chariot,
sprawled and roaring, clawing the bloody dust.
His driver out of his mind, what mind he had,
lost all nerve to wheel his horses round
and give the slip to his enemy’s deadly hands
and staunch Antilochus speared him through the midriff.
His breastplate could not save him, the bronze he always wore,
and the lance impaled his guts—he gasped, convulsed
and out of his well-made car the Trojan pitched—
and as for his team, proud Nestor’s son Antilochus
drove them out of the Trojans into Argive lines.
But raging in tears for Asius came Deiphobus
charging against Idomeneus, heaving a flashing spear—
but Idomeneus saw it coming, dodged the bronze point
by crouching under his buckler’s full round cover.
He always carried it, layered with hide and ringed
with gleaming bronze, fitted with double cross-stays
under it low he hunched and the brazen spear flew past
with a grating screech as the shaft grazed the shield.
But Deiphobus’ strong swift hurl was not for nothing,
no, he caught Hypsenor, Hippasus’ son the captain,
struck him under the midriff, slit his liver
and that instant the man’s knees went limp.
Deiphobus shouted, vaunting in wild glory,
“Asius dies, but not without revenge!
Down to the god of death he goes, I tell you,
down to the mighty gates but thrilled at heart—
look at the escort I have sent him for the journey!”
The more he gloried, the more grief swept the Argives,
brave Antilochus most, his battle-passion rising,
stunned with pain but he would not fail Hypsenor.
He ran to straddle and hide him with his shield
as a brace of comrades shouldered up the fighter:
Echius’ son Mecisteus helping good Alastor
bore him back to the hollow warships, groaning hard.
But Idomeneus never slacked his fury, always struggling
to plunge some Trojan soldier in deep shrouding night
or fall himself, beating disaster off his lines.
And here was a royal kill, the son of Aesyetes,
the hero Alcathous, son-in-law to Anchises,
wed to his eldest daughter, Hippodamia ...
Her father and noble mother loved her dearly,
the pride of their halls excelling all her age
in beauty, works of the loom and good clear sense.
So the bravest man in the broad realm of Troy
took her hand in marriage, true, the very man
Poseidon crushed at the hands of Idomeneus here,
spellbinding his shining eyes, crippling his fine legs.
He couldn’t escape—no retreat, no dodging the stroke,
like a pillar or tree crowned with leaves, rearing,
standing there stock-still as the hero Idomeneus
stabbed him square in the chest
and split the bronze plate that cased his ribs,
gear that had always kept destruction off his flesh
but it cracked and rang out now, ripped by the spear.
Down Alcathous crashed and the point stuck in his heart
and the heart in its last throes jerked and shook the lance—
the butt-end quivering into the air till suddenly
rugged Ares snuffed its fury out, dead still.
And Idomeneus shouted, vaunting in wild glory,
“Now, Deiphobus, now shall we call it quits at last?
Three men killed for the one you bragged about so much!
Come here, you idiot—stand up to me yourself
so you can see what cut of man I am. Look,
a son of Zeus come here to face you down.
He first bore Minos, watch and ward of Crete,
then Minos bore an illustrious son Deucalion, yes,
and Deucalion fathered me to command a race of men
through the length and breadth of Crete, and now our ships
have borne me here to your shores to be your curse,
a curse to your father, curse to the men of Troy!”
So he taunted. Deiphobus’ mind was torn—
should he pull back and call a friend to his side,
some hardy Trojan, or take the Argive on alone?
As he thought it out, the first way seemed the best.
He went for Aeneas, found him out on the flank
and fringe of battle, standing idle, forever
angered at Priam who always scrimped his honors,
brave as Aeneas was among the Trojan fighters.
Deiphobus reached him soon with winging words:
“Aeneas, captain, counselor, how we need you now!
Shield your sister’s husband—if grief can touch your heart.
Follow me, fight for Alcathous, your brother-in-law
who reared you at home when you were just a boy.
The famous spearman Idomeneus cut him down.”
Fighting words—
that began to stir the rage inside Aeneas’ chest
and out for blood he charged Idomeneus now.
But nothing could make him panic—no green boy,
he stood his ground like a wild mountain boar,
trusting his strength, standing up to a rout of men
that scream and swoop against him off in a lonely copse,
the ridge of his back bristling, his eyes flashing fire,
he grinds his teeth, champing to beat back dogs and men.
So Idomeneus, famous spearman, stood his ground,
he never gave an inch with Aeneas charging in,
quick to the rescue. Idomeneus called his comrades,
glancing fast at Ascalaphus, Aphareus, Deipyrus,
Meriones and Antilochus, both strong with the war cry—
he called them closer, his winging orders flying:
“Over here, my friends! I’m all alone, defend me!
I fear Aeneas—terribly—coming on, top speed,
bearing down on me now and filled with power,
enormous power to take men down in battle.
He’s just in the first flush of youth, what’s more,