even those beneath the ground who circle Cronus.
Better for me this way, Poseidon too, to yield
before my mighty hands—outraged as he is:
not without sweat would we have called it quits.
But now take up in your hands my storm-cloud shield,
its dark tassels flying, shake it over the Argives,
stampede their heroes in panic, Archer of the Sky.
But make this glorious Hector your main concern,
rouse his breakneck courage till, racing in terror,
the Argives reach the fleet and the Hellespont in rout.
From that point on I plan my tactics, give commands
to grant the Argives breathing room in battle.”
Apollo did not neglect the Father’s orders.
Down from Ida’s peaks he swooped like a hawk,
the killer of doves, the fastest thing on wings.
He found Prince Hector, the son of wise King Priam,
sitting up now, sprawled on the ground no longer,
just regaining his strength, just beginning
to recognize his comrades round about him ...
His heavy sweating, his hard breathing stopped
the moment the will of storming Zeus revived him.
Apollo the Archer stood beside him, taunting,
“Hector, son of Priam, why so far from your troops?
Sitting here, half dead—some trouble’s come your way?”
Hector struggled for words, his helmet flashing:
“Who are you, my lord—who of the high gods—
to probe me face-to-face?
Haven’t you heard? I was killing his friends
against the ships when the lord of the war cry Ajax
struck me down with a boulder square across my chest—
he took the fight right out of me, I can tell you ...
I thought for certain I’d go to join the dead,
descend to the House of Death this very day—
I thought I’d breathed my last.”
But lord Apollo
the distant deadly Archer reassured him: “Courage!
Look what a strong support the son of Cronus
speeds from Ida to take your side and shield you—
I am Phoebus Apollo, lord of the golden sword!
I who saved you before, and along with you
your towering city too. So up now, Hector—
command your drivers here in all their hundreds
to lash their plunging teams at the hollow ships.
And I’ll surge on ahead, clearing the whole way
for the teams’ assault—I’ll bend the Argives back!”
That breathed tremendous strength in the famous captain.
As a stallion full-fed at the manger, stalled too long,
breaking free of his tether gallops down the plain,
out for his favorite plunge in a river’s cool currents,
thundering in his pride—his head flung back, his mane
streaming over his shoulders, sure and sleek in his glory,
knees racing him on to the fields and stallion-haunts he loves—
so Hector hurtled on, his legs driving, his’knees pumping,
spurring his reinsmen once he heard the god’s command.
And the Argives wheeled and gave ground quickly.
Think how dogs and huntsmen off in the wilds
rush some antlered stag or skittish mountain goat
but a rocky gorge or shadowed forest gives him shelter—
they see it’s not their lot to bring that quarry down,
their shouting only flushes a great bearded lion
ramping across their path, suddenly charging them,
scattering men and packs despite their lust for battle—
so up till now the Achaeans kept advancing, close formation,
stabbing away with swords and rugged two-edged spears
but once they saw tall Hector attack the ranks again
they wheeled in terror—hearts collapsed at their heels.
But Thoas son of Andraemon spurred them on,
Aetolia’s best by far, skilled with the spear,
superb at cut-and-thrust
and few Achaeans could put him down in debate
when the young men vie and struggle over points.
Now forth he came with calls to back his comrades:
“Look—a genuine miracle right before my eyes!
Hector’s escaped again, he’s risen from the dead!
And just as each of us hoped with all his heart
he’d dropped and died at the hands of giant Ajax.
But again some god swoops down and saves this Hector—
and hasn’t he wiped enough of us out already?
Now he’ll make more slaughter, well I know.
He’d never be at the front, smashing our lines
unless Old Thunder, Zeus, had put him on his feet.
So come, friends, do as I say-all take my lead.
The rank and file go back, withdraw to the ships,
but we who claim to be the armies’ finest champions
stand our ground—face him first, try to beat him off!
Spears at the ready! For all his fury, trust me,
he’ll quake before he penetrates our front.”
Sound tactics—
the captains hung on his words and all fell in line.
Squads forming around Great Ajax, King Idomeneus,
Teucer, Meriones and Meges a match for Ares
closed tight for the onset, calling all their best
to brace and face Prince Hector and Hector’s Trojans.
Behind them rank and file withdrew to Achaea’s ships.
But packed in a mass the Trojans came on pounding,
Hector leading the way with long, leaping strides
and heading the van in person came the god Apollo,
shoulders wrapped in cloud, gripping the storm-shield,
the tempest terror, dazzling, tassels flaring along its front—
The bronzesmith god of fire gave it to Zeus to bear
and strike fear in men and Apollo gripped it now,
locked in his two fists as he led the Trojans on.
But packed in a mass the Argives stood their ground,
deafening cries of battle breaking from both sides
as whipping arrows leapt away from bowstrings.
Showers of spears raining from daring, hardy arms
went deep into soldiers’ bodies quick to fight
but showers of others, cut short
halfway before they could graze glistening skin,
stuck in the ground, still lusting to sink in flesh.
Long as Apollo held the storm-shield firm in his grasp
the weapons hurtled side-to-side and men kept falling ...
But once he looked the fast Achaean drivers square in the eyes,
shook the shield and loosed an enormous battle cry himself,
Apollo stunned the high courage in all their chests—
they lost their grip, forgot their fighting-fury.
Routed like herds of cattle or big flocks of sheep
when two wild beasts stampede them away in terror,
suddenly pouncing down in their midst—pitch darkness,