and top it off with troves of glittering gifts.
Once you have whipped the enemy from the fleet
you must come back, Patroclus. Even if Zeus
the thundering lord of Hera lets you seize your glory,
you must not bum for war against these Trojans,
madmen lusting for battle—not without me—
you will only make my glory that much less ...
You must not, lost in the flush and fire of triumph,
slaughtering Trojans outright, drive your troops to Troy—
what if one of the gods who never die comes down
from Olympus heights to intervene in battle?
The deadly Archer loves his Trojans dearly.
No, you must turn back—
soon as you bring the light of victory to the ships.
Let the rest of them cut themselves to pieces on the plain!
Oh would to god—Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo—
not one of all these Trojans could flee his death, not one,
no Argive either, but we could stride from the slaughter
so we could bring Troy’s hallowed crown of towers
toppling down around us—you and I alone!”
And so the comrades roused each other now.
But Ajax could hold his post on the decks no longer.
He was overwhelmed by the latest salvos, driven back
by the will of Zeus and the fearless Trojan spearmen
hurling blows nonstop—a terrific din at his temples,
his shining helmet clashing under repeated blows,
relentless blows beating his forged cheek-irons.
And the joint of his left shoulder ached with labor,
forever bracing his huge burnished shield rock-steady,
but they could not wrench it loose from round his body
for all their pelting weapons. Again and again
he fought for breath, gasping, bathed in sweat
rivering down his body, his limbs soaked and sleek ...
where could he find some breathing room in battle?
Wherever he looked, pains heaped on pains.
Sing to me now,
you Muses, you who hold Olympus’ vaulting halls,
how fire was first pitched on Achaea’s ships!
Hector lunged at Ajax toe-to-toe,
hacked his ash-wood pike with a heavy sword
and striking the socket just behind the point
he slashed the head clean off, leaving the shaft,
the lopped stump dangling in Ajax’ fist, useless,
bronze head bounding away, clanging along the ground.
And deep in his heart brave Ajax knew and shuddered—
here was work of the gods, thundering Zeus on high,
cutting him off from battle, dashing all his plans,
Zeus, determined to grant the Trojans triumph now.
So Ajax drew back, out of range, and then—
they flung their tireless fire at a fast trim ship.
She was up in flames at once, engulfed in quenchless fire,
in a flash the blaze went swirling round the stem
and Achilles slapped his thighs and urged Patroclus,
“To arms—Patroclus, prince and master horseman!
I can see the blaze go roaring up the ships.
They must not destroy them. No escape-route then.
Quick, strap on my gear—I’ll rouse the troops.”
That was all,
and Patroclus armed himself in Achilles’ gleaming bronze.
First he wrapped his legs with the well-made greaves,
fastened behind the heels with silver ankle-clasps,
next he strapped the breastplate round his chest,
blazoned with stars—swift Achilles’ own—
then over his shoulder Patroclus slung the sword,
the fine bronze blade with its silver-studded hilt,
and then the shield-strap and the sturdy, massive shield
and over his powerful head he set the well-forged helmet,
the horsehair crest atop it tossing, bristling terror,
and he took two rugged spears that fit his grip.
And Achilles’ only weapon Patroclus did not take
was the great man’s spear, weighted, heavy, tough.
No other Achaean fighter could heft that shaft,
only Achilles had the skill to wield it welclass="underline"
Pelian ash it was, a gift to his father Peleus
presented by Chiron once, hewn on Pelion’s crest
to be the death of heroes.
Now the war-team.
Patroclus ordered Automedon to yoke them quickly—
a man he honored next to Achilles breaker of men,
always firmest in battle, nerved to wait the call.
So at his command Automedon yoked the horses,
the rapid stallions Roan Beauty and Dapple,
the team that raced the gales, magnificent team
the storm-wind filly Lightfoot foaled for the West Wind,
grazing the lush green grass along the Ocean’s tides.
And into the traces he ran the purebred Bold Dancer—
Achilles seized him once when he stormed Eetion’s city,
a mortal war-horse pacing immortal horses now.
Prince Achilles, ranging his ranks of Myrmidons,
arrayed them along the shelters, all in armor.
Hungry as wolves that rend and bolt raw flesh,
hearts filled with battle-frenzy that never dies—
off on the cliffs, ripping apart some big antlered stag
they gorge on the kill till all their jaws drip red with blood,
then down in a pack they lope to a pooling, dark spring,
their lean sharp tongues lapping the water’s surface,
belching bloody meat, but the fury, never shaken,
builds inside their chests though their glutted bellies burst—
so wild the Myrmidon captains, Myrmidon field commanders
swarming round Achilles’ dauntless friend-in-arms.
And there in the midst Achilles stood like the god of war,
urging his charioteers and fighters bracing shields..
There were fifty fast black ships that bore his troops
when Achilles dear to Zeus sailed east for Troy.
Fifty fighters aboard each, manning the oarlocks,
five captains he named, entrusted with command,
but he himself in his martial power ruled them all ...
The first battalion was led by Menesthius bright in bronze,
son of Spercheus River swelled by the rains of Zeus
and born by the lovely Polydora, Peleus’ daughter,
when a girl and the god of a tireless river bedded down.
But they called him the son of Borus, Perieres’ son
who showered the girl with countless bridal gifts,
his wedded bride in the sight of all the world.
The next battalion was led by fighting Eudorus,
bom out of wedlock too. Phylas’ daughter,
Polymela the gorgeous dancer bore the man
when irresistible Hermes, Hermes the giant-killer
lusted for her once—she ravished the god’s bright eyes,