diving to scatter crows and fear-struck starlings—
straight at the Lycians, Patroclus O my rider,
straight at the pressing Trojan ranks you swooped,
enraged at your comrade’s death! and struck Sthenelaus,
Ithaemenes’ favorite son—a big rock to the neck
snapped the tendons strung to the skull’s base.
So the front gave ground and flashing Hector too,
though only as far as a long slim spear can fly
when a man tests his hurling strength in the games
or in war when enemy fighters close to crush his life—
so far the Trojans gave as the Argives drove them back.
But Glaucus was first, lord of Lycia’s shieldsmen now,
the first to turn and he killed the gallant Bathycles,
Chalcon’s prize son who had made his home in Hellas,
excelling the Myrmidons all in wealth and fortune.
Now, just as the man was about to catch Glaucus
Glaucus suddenly spun and struck, he stabbed his chest,
ripped him down with a crash. A heavy blow to the Argives.
one of the brave ones down. A great joy to the Trojans,
massing packs of them swarming round the corpse
but Achaean forces never slacked their drive,
their juggernaut fury bore them breakneck on.
And there—Meriones killed a Trojan captain,
Laogonus, daring son of Onetor, priest of Zeus,
Idaean Zeus, and his land revered him like a god—
Meriones gouged him under the jaw and ear, his spirit
flew from his limbs and the hateful darkness gripped him.
Just then Aeneas hurled his brazen spear at Meriones,
hoping to hit the man as he charged behind his shield.
But he eyed Aeneas straight on, he dodged the bronze,
ducking down with a quick lunge, and behind his back
the heavy spearshaft plunged and stuck in the earth,
the butt end quivering into the air till suddenly
rugged Ares snuffed its fury out, dead still.
The weapon shaking, planted fast in the ground,
his whole arm’s power poured in a wasted shot,
Aeneas flared in anger, shouting out, “Meriones—
great dancer as you are, my spear would have stopped
your dancing days for good if only I had hit you!”
The hardy spearman Meriones shot back, “Aeneas—
great man of war as you are, you’ll find it hard
to quench the fire of every man who fights you.
You too are made of mortal stuff, I’d say. And I.
if I’d lanced your guts with bronze—strong as you are
and cocksure of your hands—you’d give me glory now,
you’d give your life to the famous horseman Death!”
But Patroclus nerved for battle dressed him down:
“Meriones, brave as you are, why bluster on this way?
Trust me, my friend, you’ll never force the Trojans
back from this corpse with a few stinging taunts—
Earth will bury many a man before that. Come—
the proof of battle is action, proof of words, debate.
No time for speeches now, it’s time to fight.”
Breaking off, he led the way as Meriones followed,
staunch as a god. And loud as the roar goes up
when men cut timber deep in the mountain glades
and the pounding din of axes echoes miles away—
so the pound and thud of blows came rising up
from the broad earth, from the trampled paths of war
and the bronze shields and tough plied hides struck hard
as the swords and two-edged spearheads stabbed against them.
Not even a hawk-eyed scout could still make out Sarpedon,
the man’s magnificent body covered over head to toe,
buried under a mass of weapons, blood and dust.
But they still kept swarming round and round the corpse
like flies in a sheepfold buzzing over the brimming pails
in the first spring days when the buckets flood with milk.
So veteran troops kept swarming round that corpse,
never pausing—nor did mighty Zeus for a moment
turn his shining eyes from the clash of battle.
He kept them fixed on the struggling mass forever,
the Father’s spirit churning, thrashing out the ways,
the numberless ways to cause Patroclus’ slaughter ...
To kill him too in this present bloody rampage
over Sarpedon’s splendid body? Hector in glory
cutting Patroclus down with hacking bronze
then tearing the handsome war-gear off his back?
Or let him take still more, piling up his kills?
As Zeus turned things over, that way seemed the best:
the valiant friend-in-arms of Peleus’ son Achilles
would drive the Trojans and Hector helmed in bronze
back to Troy once more, killing them by platoons—
and Zeus began with Hector, he made the man a coward.
Hector leaping back in his chariot, swerving to fly,
shouted out fresh orders—“Retreat, Trojans, now!”
He knew that Zeus had tipped the scales against him.
A rout—not even the die-hard Lycians stood their ground,
they all scattered in panic, down to the last man
when they saw their royal king speared in the heart,
Sarpedon sprawled there in the muster of the dead,
for men by the squad had dropped across his corpse
once Zeus stretched tight the lethal line of battle.
So then the Achaeans ripped the armor off his back,
Sarpedon’s gleaming bronze that Menoetius’ son
the brave Patroclus flung in the arms of cohorts
poised to speed those trophies back to the beaked ships.
And storming Zeus was stirring up Apollo: “On with it now—
sweep Sarpedon clear of the weapons, Phoebus my friend,
and once you wipe the dark blood from his body,
bear him far from the fighting, off and away,
and bathe him well in a river’s running tides
and anoint him with deathless oils ...
dress his body in deathless, ambrosial robes.
Then send him on his way with the wind-swift escorts,
twin brothers Sleep and Death, who with all good speed
will set him down in the broad green land of Lycia.
There his brothers and countrymen will bury the prince
with full royal rites, with mounded tomb and pillar.
These are the solemn honors owed the dead.”
So he decreed
and Phoebus did not neglect the Father’s strong desires.
Down from Ida’s slopes he dove to the bloody field
and lifting Prince Sarpedon clear of the weapons,
bore him far from the fighting, off and away,
and bathed him well in a river’s running tides
and anointed him with deathless oils ...
dressed his body in deathless, ambrosial robes
then sent him on his way with the wind-swift escorts,