leaving the center free for the big cat’s pounce
and it eats a heifer raw as the rest stampede away.
And so the Achaeans stampeded now, unearthly terror,
all of them routed now by Father Zeus and Hector—
though Hector killed just one ...
Periphetes, a Mycenaean, favorite son of Copreus,
Eurystheus’ herald who summoned rugged Heracles
time and again to grinding labors. Copreus, yes,
that worthless father who sired a better son,
better at every skill, primed for speed and war
and his wits outstripped the best in all Mycenae,
but all of it went now to build Prince Hector’s glory.
As the Argive spun in retreat his shield-rim tripped him—
down to his feet that shield he bore to keep off spears—
he stumbled over it now, pitched back, helmet clanging
harshly against his brows as the man hit the ground..
But Hector marked him at once, rushed up to his side
and staked a spear in his chest to kill the fighter
right in the eyes of loyal comrades standing by.
Sick for their friend but what could they do? Nothing—
just shake with dread in the face of mighty Hector.
Now the Achaeans milled among the shipways,
shielded round by the looming superstructures,
stem on stern drawn up on the first line inland.
But the Trojans stormed them there and back they fell,
they had no choice, edging away from the front ships
but once at the tents nearby they held their ground,
massing ranks, no scattering back through camp.
Their proud discipline gripped them, terror too—
they rallied each other, nonstop, war cries rising.
Noble Nestor was first, Achaea’s watch and ward,
pleading, begging each man for his parents’ sake,
“Be men, my friends! Discipline fill your hearts,
maintain your pride in the eyes of other men!
Remember, each of you, sons, wives, wealth, parents—
are mother and father dead or alive? No matter,
I beg you for their sakes, loved ones far away—
now stand and fight, no turning back, no panic.”
With that he put new strength in each man’s spirit.
Athena thrust from their eyes the blinding battle-haze,
the darkness sent by the gods, and a hard bright light
burst down in both directions, out to the ships
and down the lines where fighting drew dead even.
Now they could make out Hector lord of the war cry,
all his troops, squads in reserve and clear of battle,
forward squads that fought at the fast trim ships.
Ajax’ challenge—how could it please his courage still
to hang back now where other Achaeans held the rear?
No more. Up and down the decks of the ships he went
with his great plunging strides, swinging in hand
his enormous polished pike for fights at sea,
clamped with clinchers, twenty-two forearms long.
Ajax skilled as a show-rider, a virtuoso horseman
who picks from the herd four stallions, yokes them tight
and galloping off the plain comes racing toward a large city,
over a trafficked road and the crowds gaze in wonder,
men and women watching, as sure-footed, never a slip,
the rider keeps on leaping, swinging from back to back
and the pounding team flies on. So Ajax swung now,
leaping from deck to deck on the fast trim ships,
ranging with huge strides as his voice hit the skies,
keeping up a terrific bellowing, calling Argives on
to defend the ships and shelters.
And Hector too—
how could he hold back with his massing, armored Trojans?
Now like a flashing eagle swooping down on bird-flocks,
winged thousands feeding, swarming a river’s banks,
geese, cranes or swans with their long lancing necks—
so swooping Hector went headfirst at a warship,
charged its purple prow, and Zeus behind him
thrust him on with his mighty, deathless hand,
urging the soldiers on who crowded Hector’s back.
And again a desperate battle broke at the ships.
You’d think they waded into the fighting, fresh troops,
unbruised, unbroken, they fought with such new fire.
And what were the fighters thinking? Only this:
the Argives certain they’d never flee the worst,
they’d perish then and there,
but the hopes soared in every Trojan’s heart
to torch the ships and slaughter Argive heroes—
so ran their thoughts, closing for the kill. At last
Hector grappled a ship’s stern, a beauty built for speed—
it swept the seas with Protesilaus, bore him to Troy
but never bore him back to his fatherland again.
Now churning round that ship Achaeans and Trojans
hacked each other at close range. No more war at a distance,
waiting to take the long flights of spears and arrows—
they stood there man-to-man and matched their fury,
killing each other now with hatchets, battle-axes,
big swords, two-edged spears, and many a blade,
magnificent, heavy-hilted and thonged in black
lay strewn on the ground—some dropped from hands,
some fell as the fighters’ shoulder-straps were cut—
and the earth ran black with blood. And Hector held fast,
he never let go of the high stem, he hugged its horn,
arms locked in a death-grip, crying out to Trojans,
“Bring fire! Up with the war cries, all together!
Now Zeus hands us a day worth all the rest,
today we seize these ships—
they stormed ashore against the will of the gods,
they came here freighted with years of pain for us,
and all thanks to our city elders. What cowards!
Whenever I longed to fight at the ships’ high stems
the old men kept me back, they held the troops in check.
Oh but if Zeus’s lightning blinded us those days,
it’s Zeus who drives us, hurls us on today!”
The harder he cried
the harder his forces charged against the Argives.
Not even Ajax held his post, no longer now:
forced by the shafts he backed away by inches,
certain he’d die there—down he leapt from the decks,
down to bestride the seven-foot bridge amidships.
There he stood, tensing, braced to take them on—
his huge pike kept beating the Trojans off the hulls,
any attacker flinging tireless fire, and all the time
that terrible voice of his, bellowing out to cohorts,
“Friends! Fighting Danaans! Aides-in-arms of Ares!
Fight like men, my comrades—call up your battle-fury!