Then at the fourth assault Patroclus like something superhuman—
then, Patroclus, the end of life came blazing up before you,
yes, the lord Apollo met you there in the heart of battle,
the god, the terror! Patroclus never saw him coming,
moving across the deadly rout, shrouded in thick mist
and on he came against him and looming up behind him now—
slammed his broad shoulders and back with the god’s flat hand
and his eyes spun as Apollo knocked the helmet off his head
and under his horses’ hoofs it tumbled, clattering on
with its four forged horns and its hollow blank eyes
and its plumes were all smeared in the bloody dust.
Forbidden before this to defile its crest in dust,
it guarded the head and handsome brow of a god,
a man like a god, Achilles. But now the Father
gave it over to Hector to guard his head in war
since Hector’s death was closing on him quickly.
Patroclus though—the spear in his grip was shattered,
the whole of its rugged bronze-shod shadow-casting length
and his shield with straps and tassels dropped from his shoulders,
flung down on the ground—and lord Apollo the son of Zeus
wrenched his breastplate off. Disaster seized him—
his fine legs buckling—
he stood there, senseless—
And now,
right at his back, close-up, a Dardan fighter speared him
squarely between the shoulder blades with a sharp lance.
Panthous’ son Euphorbus, the best of his own age
at spears and a horseman’s skill and speed of foot,
and even in this, his first attack in chariots—
just learning the arts of war—
he’d brought down twenty drivers off their cars.
He was the first to launch a spear against you,
Patroclus O my rider, but did not bring you down.
Yanking out his ashen shaft from your body,
back he dashed and lost himself in the crowds—
the man would not stand up to Patroclus here
in mortal combat, stripped, defenseless as he was.
Patroclus stunned by the spear and the god’s crushing blow
was weaving back to his own thronging comrades,
trying to escape death ...
Hector waiting, watching
the greathearted Patroclus trying to stagger free,
seeing him wounded there with the sharp bronze
came rushing into him right across the lines
and rammed his spearshaft home,
stabbing deep in the bowels, and the brazen point
went jutting straight out through Patroclus’ back.
Down he crashed—horror gripped the Achaean armies.
As when some lion overpowers a tireless wild boar
up on a mountain summit, battling in all their fury
over a little spring of water, both beasts craving
to slake their thirst, but the lion beats him down
with sheer brute force as the boar fights for breath—
so now with a close thrust Hector the son of Priam
tore the life from the fighting son of Menoetius,
from Patroclus who had killed so many men in war,
and gloried over him, wild winging words: “Patroclus—
surely you must have thought you’d storm my city down,
you’d wrest from the wives of Troy their day of freedom,
drag them off in ships to your own dear fatherland—
you fool! Rearing in their defense my war-team,
Hector’s horses were charging out to battle,
galloping, full stretch. And I with my spear,
Hector, shining among my combat-loving comrades,
I fight away from them the fatal day—but you,
the vultures will eat your body raw!
Poor, doomed ...
not for all his power could Achilles save you now—
and how he must have filled your ears with orders
as you went marching out and the hero stayed behind:
‘Now don’t come back to the hollow ships, you hear?—
Patroclus, master horseman—
not till you’ve slashed the shirt around his chest
and soaked it red in the blood of man-killing Hector!’
So he must have commanded—you maniac, you obeyed.”
Struggling for breath, you answered, Patroclus O my rider,
“Hector! Now is your time to glory to the skies ...
now the victory is yours.
A gift of the son of Cronus, Zeus—Apollo too—
they brought me down with all their deathless ease,
they are the ones who tore the armor off my back.
Even if twenty Hectors had charged against me—
they’d all have died here, laid low by my spear.
No, deadly fate in league with Apollo killed me.
From the ranks of men, Euphorbus. You came third,
and all you could do was finish off my life ...
One more thing—take it to heart, I urge you—
you too, you won’t live long yourself, I swear.
Already I see them looming up beside you—death
and the strong force of fate, to bring you down
at the hands of Aeacus’ great royal son ...
Achilles!“
Death cut him short. The end closed in around him.
Flying free of his limbs
his soul went winging down to the House of Death,
wailing his fate, leaving his manhood far behind,
his young and supple strength. But glorious Hector
taunted Patroclus’ body, dead as he was, “Why, Patroclus—
why prophesy my doom, my sudden death? Who knows?—
Achilles the son of sleek-haired Thetis may outrace me—
struck by my spear first—and gasp away his life!”
With that he planted a heel against Patroclus’ chest,
wrenched his brazen spear from the wound, kicked him over,
flat on his back, free and clear of the weapon.
At once he went for Automedon with that spear—
quick as a god, the aide of swift Achilles—
keen to cut him down but his veering horses
swept him well away—magnificent racing stallions,
gifts of the gods to Peleus, shining immortal gifts.
BOOK SEVENTEEN
Menelaus’ Finest Hour
But Atreus’ son the fighting Menelaus marked it all—
the Trojans killing Patroclus there in the brutal carnage—
and crested now in his gleaming bronze gear Atrides
plowed through the front to stand astride the body,
braced like a mother cow lowing over a calf,
her first-born, first labor-pangs she’d felt.
So the red-haired captain bestrode Patroclus now,
shielding his corpse with spear and round buckler,
burning to kill off any man who met him face-to-face.