Shaking a spear Polydamas moved in fast to the rescue,
Panthous’ son lancing the right shoulder of Prothoënor,
Arielycus’ son, and the heavy shaft impaled his upper arm—
he pitched in the dust, clawing the earth with both hands
and Polydamas shouted over him, wild with glory now:
“Here is another spear that leaps from my strong arm,
from Panthous’ brave son, and hits its mark, by god!
It’s found its home in an Argive’s waiting flesh—
a crutch in his grip, I’d say,
as he trudges down now to the House of Death!”
The Argives rose in horror to hear that boast,
veteran Ajax most of all, the anger leapt inside him—
Prothoenor had dropped at the feet of Telamon’s son.
Ajax suddenly spun a glinting spear at Polydamas,
fast, but the Trojan dodged black fate himself
with a quick spring to the side—
but Antenor’s son Archelochus caught the shaft
for the gods had doomed that fighting man to death.
Ajax struck him right where the head and neckbone join,
the last link in the spine, he cut both tendons through
so the mouth and brow and nostrils hit the ground
before the shins and knees as the man dropped dead.
And now it was Ajax’ turn to shout at brave Polydamas,
“Think it over, Polydamas, tell the truth, my friend—
a decent bargain, no? This man’s body for Prothoënor’r!
No coward, to judge by his looks, no coward’s stock,
no doubt some brother of stallion-breaking Antenor,
that or his own son—the blood-likeness is striking!”
So Ajax vaunted, knowing his victim full well,
and a raw revulsion seized the Trojans’ hearts.
Straddling his brother, Acamas thrust and speared
Boeotian Promachus, trying to drag the corpse by the feet,
and Acamas loosed his cry of exultation, “Argives—
glorious braggarts, you, insatiate with your threats!
Don’t think struggle and pain will be ours alone—
your day will come to die in blood like him.
Think how Promachus sleeps at your feet now,
beaten down by my spear—with no long wait
to pay the price for my brother dead and gone.
That’s why a fighter prays for kin in his halls,
blood kin to survive and avenge his death in battle!”
But the Argives rose in grief to avenge that boast—
skilled Peneleos most of all, anger blazed inside him.
He charged Acamas—Acamas could not stand the attack,
he ran—and Peneleos stabbed at Ilioneus instead,
a son of the herdsman Phorbas rich in flocks,
Hermes’ favorite Trojan: Hermes gave him wealth
but ilioneus’ mother gave him just one son ...
the one Peneleos lanced beneath the brows,
down to the eyes’ roots and scooped an eyeball out—
the spear cut clean through the socket, out behind the nape
and backward down he sat, both hands stretched wide
as Peneleos, quickly drawing his whetted sword,
hacked him square in the neck and lopped his head
and down on the ground it tumbled, helmet and all.
But the big spear’s point still stuck in the eye socket—
hoisting the head high like a poppy-head on the shaft
he flourished it in the eyes of all the Trojans now,
yelling out his boast: “Go tell them from me,
you Trojans, tell the loving father and mother
of lofty Ilioneus to start the dirges in the halls!
The wife of Promachus, Alegenor’s son, will never thrill
to her dear husband striding home from the wars
that day the sons of Achaea sail from Troy!”
And the knees of every Trojan shook with fear,
each veteran frantic, glancing left and right—
how to escape his sudden, plunging death?
Sing to me now, you Muses who hold the halls of Olympus,
who was the first Achaean to drag off bloody spoils
as the famous god of earthquakes turned the tide?
Telamonian Ajax first, Ajax brought down Hyrtius,
Gyrtius’ son, a lord of the ironhearted Mysians.
Next Antilochus slaughtered Phalces, Mermerus—
Meriones killed off Morys, killed Hippotion,
Teucer cut down Periphetes and Prothoon.
Menelaus took the hardened captain Hyperenor,
gouged his flank and the bronze ripped him open,
spurting his entrails out—and his life, gushing forth
through the raw, yawning wound, went pulsing fast
and the dark came swirling down across his eyes.
But Oileus’ son, quick Ajax killed the most—
no one alive could run men down in flight like him
once Zeus whipped enemy ranks in blinding, panic rout.
BOOK FIFTEEN
The Achaean Armies at Bay
Back through jutting stakes and across the trench they fled,
and hordes were cut down at the Argives’ hands—the rest,
only after they reached the chariots, stood fast,
blanched with fear, whipped in desperate flight.
That moment Zeus awoke on the heights of Ida,
stretched out by Hera, queen of the golden throne—
he leapt to his feet, he saw the Trojans and Achaeans,
one side routed, the other harrying them in panic,
Achaeans attacking, and god Poseidon led the way.
And Zeus saw Hector sprawled on the battlefield,
his comrades kneeling round him as he panted,
struggling hard for breath, his senses stunned,
vomiting blood ... The man who’d struck him dowr
was not the weakest Argive. At the sight of Hector
the father of men and gods filled with pity now
and shooting a terrible dark glance down at Hera,
burst out at her, “What a disaster you create!
Uncontrollable Hera—you and your treachery—
halting Hector’s assault and routing Hector’s armies.
I wouldn’t be surprised, my Queen, if you were the first
to reap the pernicious whirlwind you have sown—
I’ll whip you stroke on stroke.
Don’t you recall the time I strung you in mid-air
and slung those two massive anvils down from your feet
and lashed both hands with a golden chain you could not break?
There, there in the clouds and high clear sky you dangled.
And the mighty gods on steep Olympus raged away,
impotent—what could they do to set you free?
Standing there, helpless. And any god I caught
I’d seize and send him plunging over the ramparts,
headfirst till he hit the earth, barely alive.
Not even then would the stark grief for Heracles