That brought his brother’s warrior spirit round.
On they went where the thickest fighting broke,
churning round Cebriones, dauntless Polydamas,
Phalces, Orthaeus and veteran Polyphetes,
Palmys, Hippotion’s two sons—Ascanius, Morys—
fresh reserves just come from Ascania’s fertile soil,
just last morning, but now great Zeus incited all-out war.
Down the Trojans came like a squall of brawling gale-winds
blasting down with the Father’s thunder, loosed on earth
and a superhuman uproar bursts as they pound the heavy seas,
the giant breakers seething, battle lines of them roaring,
shoulders rearing, exploding foam, waves in the vanguard,
waves rolling in from the rear. So on the Trojans came,
waves in the vanguard, waves from the rear, closing,
bronze men glittering, following captains, closing
and Hector led the way, a match for murderous Ares—
Priam’s son holding his balanced shield before him,
tough with oxhides, studded thick with bronze
and round his temples the flashing helmet shook.
He plowed forward, testing enemy lines at all points
to see if they’d crack before him—charging under his shield
but he could not overpower the Argives’ stiff resolve
and Ajax hulking forward with big strides, the first
to challenge Hector: “Madman! Here, come closer—
trying to frighten Argives? Why waste your breath?
No, no, it’s not that we lack the skill in battle,
it’s just the brutal lash of Zeus that beats us down.
Your hopes soar, I suppose, to gut and crush our ships?
Well we have strong arms too, arms to defend those ships—
and long before that your city packed with people
will fall beneath our hands, plundered to rubble.
And you, I say, the day draws near when off you run
and pray to Father Zeus and the other deathless gods
to make your full-maned horses swifter than hawks—
whipping dust from the plain to sweep you back to Troy!”
Clear on the right a bird winged past to seal those words,
a soaring eagle swooping. Spirits high with the sign,
the Argive armies cheered. But bent on glory
Hector answered the giant Ajax taunt for taunt:
“Enough of your blustering threats, you clumsy ox—
what loose talk, what rant!
I wish I were as surely the son of storming Zeus
for all my days—and noble Hera gave me birth
and I were prized as they prize Athena and Apollo-
as surely as this day will bring your Argives death,
down to the last man. And you will die with the rest.
If you have the daring to stand against my heavy spear
its point will rip your soft warm skin to shreds!
Then, then you’ll glut the dogs and birds of Troy
with your fat and flesh—cut down by the beaked ships!”
And loosing a savage yell, Hector led the way
and his captains followed close with unearthly cries
and Trojan ranks behind them crying shrill.
But facing them the Achaean ranks cried back,
not forgetting their courage, braced hard for assault
as the Trojans’ bravest charged and roars from both armies
struck the high clear skies, the lightning world of Zeus.
BOOK FOURTEEN
Hera Outflanks Zeus
But the mounting cries of war could not escape old Nestor,
pausing over his wine. He turned to Asclepius’ son
with an urgent, winged word:
“Think, noble Machaon, what shall we do now?
The cries are fiercer—fighters beside the ships!
You sit here, keep drinking the shining wine now,
till well-kempt Hecamede draws you a warm bath,
steaming hot, and washes away that clotted blood.
But I am off to a lookout point to learn the truth.”
With that he seized the well-wrought shield of his son,
Thrasymedes breaker of horses—it lay in a comer,
all glowing bronze, while the boy used his father’s.
Gripping a sturdy spear, bronze-edged and sharp,
he no sooner left his tent than stopped at once—
what a grim, degrading piece of work he saw.
Friends routed, enemies harrying friends in panic,
the Trojans riding high—the Argive wall in ruins.
Nestor stood there, stunned.
As a huge ground swell boils up on the open seas,
soundless, foreboding a hurricane’s howling onslaught,
rearing but never rolling back or forth ... all adrift
till one steady, decisive blast comes down from Zeus—
so the old man thrashed things out, torn two ways,
to join his Argives fast with chariot-teams
or go and find Agamemnon lord of armies.
His mind in turmoil, this way seemed the best:
he’d head for Atreus’ son. But other soldiers
kept on flailing, cutting each other to pieces,
the tough bronze casing their bodies clanging out,
fighters stabbing with swords, flinging two-edged spears.
And now the royal kings fell in with Nestor.
Back they came, trailing along the shipways,
all who had taken wounds from the sharp bronze,
Diomedes, Odysseus, and Atreus’ son Agamemnon.
Their ships were drawn up far away from the fighting,
moored in a group along the gray churning surf—
first ships ashore they’d hauled up on the plain
then built a defense to landward off their stems.
Not even the stretch of beach, broad as it was,
could offer berths to all that massed armada,
troops were crammed in a narrow strip of coast.
So they had hauled their vessels inland, row on row,
while the whole shoreline filled and the bay’s gaping mouth
enclosed by the jaws of the two jutting headlands.
Now up they came for a better view of the battle,
a slow file of kings, leaning on their spears,
hearts in their chests weighed down with anguish—
and the sight of the old horseman coming toward them
struck them all with a sharper sense of dread.
The king of men Agamemnon hailed him quickly:
“Nestor, son of Neleus, great pride of Achaea,
why turn your back on the lines where men are dying?
Why come back here to shore? I’m filled with fear
that breakneck Hector will bring his word to pass—
the threat he hurled against me once in a Trojan muster
that he would never leave our ships and return to Troy
till he’d torched our hulls and slaughtered all our men.
That was the prince’s threat ...