Locrians, Phthians and men of Epea famed in battle
fought to stop this Hector hurtling at the ships.
Nothing they did could thrust him off their lines,
Prince Hector roaring on like a torch—not even
the picked Athenians led by Menestheus, Peteos’ son
and backing him came Phidas, Stichius, brave Bias,
then the Epean units led by Meges, Phyleus’ son,
Amphion, Dracius, and leading the Phthian ranks
came Medon flanking Podarces tough in skirmish.
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 Iphiclus son of Phylacus bore Podarces ...
Brothers-in-arms, he and Medon led the Phthians,
out in the forefront of those gallant soldiers
fighting beside Boeotians now to save the ships.
But Oileus’ son the racing Ajax—not for a moment,
not at all would he leave his giant brother Ajax,
shoulder-to-shoulder they fought together here:
close as a brace of wine-dark oxen matched in power,
dragging a bolted plow through packed fallow land
and the sweat rushes up at the roots of both their horns
and only the width of polished yoke keeps both beasts apart,
struggling up the furrow to cut the field’s last strip.
So both men stood their ground, bracing man-to-man
and a flock of comrades, hardened combat veterans
followed the Great Ajax, ready to take his shield
whenever sweat and labor sapped his knees.
But no Locrians followed the hearty Little Ajax.
They had no love for stand-and-fight encounters—
had no crested bronze helmets to guard their heads,
no balanced shields in their grasp, no ashen spears,
only their bows and slings of springy, twisted wool.
Trusting these, they followed their chief to Troy,
shooting with these, salvo on pelting salvo,
they tore the Trojan battle lines to pieces.
So the men in heavy armor fought at the front,
they grappled Trojans and Hector helmed in bronze
while Locrians slung from the rear, safe, out of range,
till the Trojan troops forgot their lust for blood
as showering arrows raked their ranks with panic.
Deadly going—
then and there the Trojans might have been rolled back,
far away from the ships and tents to wind-torn Troy
if Polydamas had not rushed to headstrong Hector:
“Impossible man! Won’t you listen to reason?
Just because some god exalts you in battle
you think you can beat the rest at tactics too.
How can you hope to gamer all the gifts at once?
One man is a splendid fighter—a god has made him so—
one’s a dancer, another skilled at lyre and song,
and deep in the next man’s chest farseeing Zeus
plants the gift of judgment, good clear sense.
And many reap the benefits of that treasure:
troops of men he saves, as he himself knows best.
So now I will tell you what seems best to me. Look,
the battle bums like a swirling crown around your head
but our valiant Trojans, once they scaled the wall—
some fall back from the front, idling in armor,
others soldier on, squads against mass formations,
scattering helter-skelter round the hulls.
Draw back now!
Call the best of our captains here, this safe ground.
Then we can all fall in and plan our tactics welclass="underline"
whether we fling ourselves against the ships—
if Zeus would care to hand us victory now—
or beat retreat from the beach and cut our losses.
I fear they’ll pay us back for yesterday’s triumph.
He waits by the ships, a man never sated with battle ...
I doubt he’ll keep from the fighting any longer,
not with all his war-lust!“
So he urged. His plan won Hector over—
less danger, more success—and down he leapt
from his chariot fully armed and hit the ground,
calling out to Polydamas brisk, winged orders:
“You stay here, hold back our captains here.
I’m on my way over there to meet this new assault—
I’ll soon be back, once I’ve given them clear commands.”
And out like a flashing snowcapped peak he moved,
shouting, sweeping on through his ranks and Trojan allies.
Squads of others swarmed and rallied around Polydamas,
Panthous’ friendly son—they’d heard Hector’s orders.
But Hector ranged the front to find his leaders,
hunting Deiphobus and the rugged warlord Helenus,
Adamas, Asius’ son, and Asius son of Hyrtacus.
Where could he find them now? Find them he did,
no longer free of wounds, unhurt—not at all ...
Adamas, Asius, both sprawled at Achaea’s stems,
dead at the Argives’ hands. The others at home,
behind the walls, were gouged by shaft or sword.
But he quickly found one more, on the left flank
of the heart-wrenching carnage—royal Paris,
fair-haired Helen’s consort was rousing comrades,
driving them back to battle. Once he gained his side
Hector raked his brother with insults, stinging taunts:
“Paris, appalling Paris! Our prince of beauty—
mad for women, you lure them all to ruin!
Where’s Deiphobus? Helenus, rugged warlord?
Adamas, Asius’ son, and Asius son of Hyrtacus—
where’s Othryoneus, tell me.
Now all towering Troy is ruined top to bottom!
Now one thing’s certain—your own headlong death!”
And Paris, magnificent as a god, replied,
“Hector, bent on faulting a man without a fault?
At other times I might have shrunk from the fighting,
true, but not today. Mother bore me—even me—
not to be a coward through and through. Think,
since you fired our comrades’ fury against the ships,
from that hour we’ve held our ground right here,
taking the Argives on, and nonstop, no rest.
Our comrades are dead, Hector,
those you inquire about with such concern ...
Only Deiphobus and the rugged warlord Helenus
have made it back alive, wounded with sturdy spears,
both in the hand too, but Zeus beat off their deaths.
Now lead the way, wherever your fighting spirit bids you.
All of us right behind you, hearts intent on battle.
Nor do I think you’ll find us short on courage,
long as our strength will last. Past his strength
no man can go, though he’s set on mortal combat.”