Each Trojan soldier glancing left and right—
how could he run from sudden, plunging death?
Patroclus was first to hurl his glinting spear,
right at the center mass—the fighters milling
round the stern of Protesilaus’ blazing ship—
and hit Pyraechmes, firebrand who led the Paeonians,
the master riders from Amydon, from Axius’ broad currents.
Patroclus slashed his right shoulder and down he went,
his back slamming the dust with a jolting groan
as companions panicked round him—brave Paeonians—
Patroclus whipped the terror in all their hearts
when he killed the chief who topped them all in battle.
He rode them off the ships, he quenched the leaping fire,
leaving Protesilaus’ hulk half-burnt but upright still
and the Trojans scattered back with high, shrill cries.
The Argives poured against them, back by the hollow hulls,
the din of battle incessant—
an Argive breakthrough—
bright as the moment Zeus the lord of lightning moves
from a craggy mountain ridge a storm cloud massing dense
and all the lookout peaks stand out and the jutting cliffs
and the steep ravines and down from the high heavens bursts
the boundless bright air ... So now the Argives
drove the ravening fire clear of the warships,
winning a little breathing room, not much,
no real halt to the buck-and-rush of battle.
For despite the surge of the Argives primed for war
the Trojans were still not wheeling round in headlong rout
away from the black hulls. Forced back from them, true,
they braced for battle still and made a stand.
Deadlock:
there man killed man in the pell-mell clash of battle,
captains going at captains. Brave Patroclus first—
just as Areilycus swerved in sudden flight
he gored him in the hip with a slashing spear
and the bronze lancehead hammered through his flesh,
the shaft splintering bone as he pitched face-first,
pounding the ground—
And veteran Menelaus wounded Thoas,
raking his chest where the shield-rim left it bare,
and loosed his limbs—
And Amphiclus went for Meges
but Meges saw him coming and got in first by far,
spearing him up the thigh where it joins the body,
the spot where a man’s muscle bunches thickest:
the tough sinews shredded around the weapon’s point
as the dark swirled down his eyes—
Nestor’s sons on attack!
Antilochus struck Atymnius hard with a whetted spear,
the bronze ripping into his flank and clean through—
he crashed at his feet—
But Maris charged Antilochus,
sweeping in with his lance, enraged for his brother,
planted himself before his corpse but Thrasymedes,
quick as a god, beat him to it—he stabbed
before Maris stabbed—no miss! right in the shoulder,
the Argive’s spearpoint cracked through the bony socket,
shearing away the tendons, wrenched the whole arm out
and down he thundered, darkness blanked his eyes.
So these two brothers, laid low by the two brothers,
dropped to the world of night: Sarpedon’s stalwart cohorts,
spearmen sons of Amisodarus—he who bred the Chimaera,
the grim monster that sent so many men to death.
There—quick Oilean Ajax rushed Cleobulus,
took him alive, stumbling blind in the rout
but took his life at once, snapped his strength
with a sword that hewed his neckbone—up to the hilt
so the whole blade ran hot with blood, and red death
came flooding down his eyes, and the strong force of fate.
And now in a breakneck charge Peneleos closed with Lycon—
they’d missed each other with spears, two wasted casts,
so now both clashed with swords. Lycon, flailing,
chopped the horn of Peneleos’ horsehair-crested helmet
but round the socket the sword-blade smashed to bits-
just as Peneleos hacked his neck below the ear
and the blade sank clean through, nothing held
but a flap of skin, the head swung loose to the side
as Lycon slumped down to the ground ... There—
at a dead run Meriones ran down Acamas, Acamas
mounting behind his team, and gouged his right shoulder—
he pitched from the car and the mist whirled down his eyes.
Idomeneus skewered Erymas straight through the mouth,
the merciless brazen spearpoint raking through,
up under the brain to split his glistening skull—
teeth shattered out, both eyes brimmed to the lids
mouth gaping, blowing convulsive sprays of blood
and death’s dark cloud closed down around his corpse.
So in a rush each Argive captain killed his man.
As ravenous wolves come swooping down on lambs or kids
to snatch them away from right amidst their flock—all lost
when a careless shepherd leaves them straggling down the hills
and quickly spotting a chance the wolf pack picks them off,
no heart for the fight—so the Achaeans mauled the Trojans.
Shrieking flight the one thing on the Trojans’ minds,
they forgot their fighting-fury ...
Great Ajax now—forever aiming at Hector,
trying to strike his helmet flashing bronze
but Hector was far too seasoned, combat-tested,
broad shoulders hunching under his bull‘s-hide shield,
his eyes peeled for a whistling shaft or thudding spear.
Hector knew full well the tide of battle had turned
but still stood firm, defending die-hard comrades.
Wild as a storm cloud moving off Olympus into heaven
out of a clear blue sky when Zeus brings cyclones on—
so wild the rout, the cries that came from the ships
as back through the trench they ran, formations wrecked.
And Hector? Hector’s speeding horses swept him away,
armor and all, leaving his men to face their fate,
Trojans trapped but struggling on in the deep trench.
Hundreds of plunging war-teams dragging chariots down,
snapping the yoke-poles, ditched their masters’ cars
and Patroclus charged them, heart afire for the kill,
shouting his Argives forward—“Slaughter Trojans!”
Cries of terror breaking as Trojans choked all roads,
their lines ripped to pieces, up from under the hoofs
a dust storm swirling into the clouds as rearing horses
broke into stride again and galloped back to Troy,
leaving ships and shelters in their wake. Patroclus—
wherever he saw the biggest masses dashing before him,
there he steered, plowing ahead with savage cries