With that the son of Cronus caught his wife in his arms
and under them now the holy earth burst with fresh green grass,
crocus and hyacinth, clover soaked with dew, so thick and soft
it lifted their bodies off the hard, packed ground ...
Folded deep in that bed they lay and round them wrapped
a marvelous cloud of gold, and glistening showers of dew
rained down around them both.
And so, deep in peace,
the Father slept on Gargaron peak, conquered by Sleep
and strong assaults of Love, his wife locked in his arms.
Soothing Sleep went rushing off to the ships at once,
running a message to Poseidon. Approaching the god
who shakes the earth, Sleep sent a winged urging:
“Fight for the Argives now with all your might!
Now give them glory, if only a moment’s glory—
long as Zeus still slumbers. I’ve covered him over,
sent him into a deep, soothing sleep as soon as Hera
seduced great Zeus to lose himself in love.”
With that
Sleep went drifting off to the famous tribes of men,
stirring Poseidon even more to defend the Argives.
He suddenly sprang forward, into the front ranks,
the god’s voice rippling strong: “Again, you Argives?
You’re handing victory over to Hector, Priam’s son,
so he can seize the ships and reap the glory?
That’s his hope, his prayer, thanks to Achilles,
ironbound by the ships and filled with anger still.
But Achilles won’t be missed so sorely, not a bit,
if the rest of us can rouse and defend each other.
So come, follow my orders. All obey me now.
Gear up with the best and biggest shields in camp
and encase our heads in helmets, burnished, fire-bright
and take in hand the longest javelins we can find—
then in for attack! And I, I will lead the way
and the son of Priam won’t stand up against us,
not for long, I tell you, not for all his fury.
Let any rugged fighter who shoulders a small buckler
pass it on to a weaker man—put on the bigger shield.”
The men hung on his words and they obeyed at once.
And the kings themselves, overcoming their wounds,
arrayed them all in proper battle-order.
Diomedes, Odysseus, Atreus’ son Agamemnon
ranged the ranks, made them exchange their armor.
The best men donned the best, the worst the worst
and soon as they strapped the bronze around their bodies,
out they moved and the god of earthquakes led them on,
grasping his terrible long sword in his massive hand,
the grip of power, the blade like a lightning flash.
There is no way in the world a man can meet its edge
and still survive the slashing—fear holds all men back.
But over against them glorious Hector ranged his Trojans ...
and now they stretched the line of battle strangling tight,
the blue-haired god of the sea and Hector fired in arms,
he driving the Trojans, the god driving the Argives—
and a wild surf pounded the ships and shelters,
squadrons clashed with shattering war cries rising.
Not so loud the breakers bellowing out against the shore,
driven in from open sea by the North Wind’s brutal blast,
not so loud the roar of fire whipped to a crackling blaze
rampaging into a mountain gorge, raging up through timber,
not so loud the gale that howls in the leafy crowns of oaks
when it hits its pitch of fury tearing branches down—
Nothing so loud as cries of Trojans, cries of Achaeans,
terrible war cries, armies storming against each other.
And shining Hector was first to hurl his spear—
at the giant Ajax veering into him, full face—
a direct hit! where two straps crossed his chest,
one for the shield, one for the silver-studded sword
but both flexed taut to guard his glistening skin.
Hector seethed in anger—his hurtling spear
and his whole arm’s power poured in a wasted shot—
and back in his massing ranks he shrank, dodging death.
But as Hector backed away Great Ajax seized a rock—
countless holding-stones for the fast trim ships
were rolling round among the fighters’ feet—
he hoisted one and heaved it at Hector’s chest
and struck him over the shield-rim, close to his throat
and the blow sent Hector whirling off like a whipping-top,
reeling round and round. As a huge oak goes down
at a stroke from Father Zeus, ripped up by the roots
and a grim reek of sulphur bursts forth from the trunk
and a passerby too close, looking on, loses courage—
the bolt of mighty Zeus is hell on earth—so in a flash,
for all his fighting power, Hector plunged in the dust,
his spear dropped from his fist, shield and helmet
crushing in on him, bronze gear clashing round him.
And shouting squads of Achaeans raced in for the kill,
hoping to drag him off and hurling showers of spears
but none could stab or strike the lord of armies now.
Too fast for them, here was a ring of Trojan chiefs:
Aeneas, Polydamas and the royal prince Agenor,
Sarpedon the Lycians’ captain, valiant Glaucus—
and all their troops spared nothing, pitching in,
bracing their thick bulging shields to cover Hector.
Comrades heaved him up and swept him clear of the fighting,
far downfield till they gained his team of racers
standing behind the rear lines and rush of battle,
their driver and blazoned chariot held in tow ...
Then back to Troy they bore him, groaning hard.
But once they reached the ford where the river runs clear,
the strong, whirling Xanthus sprung of immortal Zeus,
they lifted him off his car and laid him down
on the level bank, splashing water over him.
Hector caught his breath and his eyes cleared,
he crouched down on his knees to vomit dark clots
then slumped back down, stretched on the ground again
and the world went black as night across his eyes.
The force of the blow still overwhelmed his senses.
But Argive units, spotting Hector in full retreat,
charged the Trojans harder, their lust for battle rising.
And first by far was Oileus’ son, quick Little Ajax—
he lunged out and his spearhead skewered Satnius,
Enops’ son the lithe nymph of the ford once bore
to Enops tending his flocks by Satniois’ banks ...
Now the renowned spearman Ajax rushed against him,
slashing him down the flank, knocking him backward—
Trojans and Argives swarming over him, out for blood.