But Euphorbus who hurled the lethal ashen spear
would not neglect his kill, Patroclus’ handsome body.
Halting close beside it, he taunted fighting Menelaus:
“Back, high and mighty Atrides, captain of armies—
back from the corpse, and leave the bloody gear!
I was the first Trojan, first of the famous allies
to spear Patroclus down in the last rough charge.
So let me seize my glory among the Trojans now—
or I’ll spear you too, I’ll rip your own sweet life away!”
But the red-haired captain flared back in anger:
“Father Zeus—listen to this indecent, reckless bluster!
Not even the leopard’s fury makes the beast so proud,
not even the lion‘s, not the murderous wild boar’s,
the greatest pride of all, bursting the boar’s chest—
they’re nothing next to the pride of Panthous’ sons
with their strong ashen spears. But no, no joy
did even powerful Hyperenor, breaker of horses,
get from his young strength when he scorned me,
stood up to me, reviling me as the weakest fighter
in all Achaea’s armies. Home he went, I’d say,
but not on his own two feet, and brought no cheer
to his loyal, loving wife and devoted parents.
And you, I’ll break your courage for you too
if you try to take me on.
Go back to your own rank and file, I tell you!
Don’t stand up against me—or you will meet your death.
Even a fool learns something once it hits him.”
So he warned
but failed to shake Euphorbus who shot right back,
“Now, high and mighty Atrides, now by heaven
you pay in blood for the brother you laid low!
You glory over it too—making his wife a widow
lost in the depths of their new bridal chamber,
bringing his parents cursed tears and grief.
But I could stop that wretched couple’s pain
if only I brought your head and bloody armor home
and laid them in Panthous’ arms, in lovely Phrontis’ arms!
We’re wasting time. Our fight’s unfought, untested—
we’ll see who stands his ground, who cuts and runs.”
And he stabbed Menelaus’ round shield, full center,
not battering through—the brazen point bent back
in the tough armor.
But his turn next, Menelaus
rose with a bronze lance and a prayer to Father Zeus
and lunging out at Euphorbus just dropping back,
pierced the pit of his throat—leaning into it hard,
his whole arm’s weight in the stroke to drive it home
and the point went slicing through the tender neck.
He fell with a crash, armor ringing against his ribs,
his locks like the Graces’ locks splashed with blood,
still braided tight with gold and silver clips,
pinched in like a wasp’s waist. There he lay
like an olive slip a farmer rears to strength
on a lonely hilltop, drenching it down with water,
a fine young stripling tree, and the winds stir it softly,
rustling from every side, and it bursts with silver shoots—
then suddenly out of nowhere a wind in gale force comes storming,
rips it out of its trench, stretches it out on the earth—
so Panthous’ stripling son lay sprawled in death,
Euphorbus who hurled the strong ashen spear ...
Menelaus cut him down, was stripping off his armor—
Menelaus fierce as a mountain lion sure of his power,
seizing the choicest head from a good grazing herd.
First he cracks its neck, clamped in his huge jaws,
mauling the kill then down in gulps he bolts it,
blood and guts, and around him dogs and shepherds
raise a fierce din but they keep their distance,
lacking nerve to go in and take the lion on—
the fear that grips their spirit makes them blanch.
So now not a single Trojan fighter had the spine
to go and face Atrides tensing in all his strength.
Then and there Menelaus might have stripped Euphorbus
and swept the Trojan’s glittering armor off with ease
if Apollo had not grudged him all that glory,
rousing Hector against him, swift as Ares.
Taking a man’s shape, the Cicones’ captain Mentes,
Apollo spurred him on with winged orders: “Hector—
you’re chasing the wild wind, fiery Achilles’ team!
They’re hard for mortal men to curb and drive,
for all but Achilles—his mother is immortal.
But all the while Menelaus, Atreus’ fighting son
bestrides Patroclus—he’s killed the Trojans’ best,
Panthous’ son Euphorbus, stopped his fury cold.”
And back Apollo strode, a god in the wars of men.
But grief bore down on Hector, packing his dark heart
as he scanned the battle lines and saw the worst at once:
the two men there, one stripping the gleaming armor,
the other sprawled on the ground,
blood still spurting warm from his slashed throat.
Down the front he charged, crested in flashing bronze,
Hector loosing a savage cry and flaring on like fire,
like the god of fire, the blaze that never dies.
And the cry pierced Menelaus, deeply torn now
as he probed his own great heart: “What can I do?
If I leave this splendid gear and desert Patroclus—
who fell here fighting, all to redeem my honor—
won’t any comrade curse me, seeing me break away?
But if I should take on Hector and Hector’s Trojans
alone, in single combat—trying to save my pride—
won’t they encircle me, one against so many?
This flashing Hector has all Troy at his back!
But why debate, my friend, why thrash things out?
When you fight a man against the will of the gods,
a man they have sworn to honor—then look out,
a heavy wave of ruin’s about to overwhelm you.
Surely no Achaean will curse me, seeing me now,
giving ground to Hector ...
since fighting Hector’s flanked by god almighty.
Ah if only I knew where Ajax could be found,
that man with his ringing war cry—we two together
would go back to the melee calling up our fury,
even fight in the teeth of every god on high
and haul the body back to Achilles-somehow.
Things are bad, but that would be the best.”
Working it out, his heart racing as on they came,
waves of Trojan soldiers and Hector led them in.
And Atrides gave ground, he left the corpse
but kept on turning round to face an attack—
like a great bearded lion the dogs and field hands