The Iliad

drive back from the folds with spears and sharp cries

and the brave, battling heart in his chest freezes tight

and the big cat, all reluctance, pulls back from the sheds.

So the red-haired captain backed away from Patroclus’ corpse

but wheeled at bay when he reached his waiting allies,

glancing round and round for Ajax’ massive hulk.

All at once on the left flank he marked him,

spurring companions, urging them to fight,

for Phoebus had filled each man with quaking fear.

Atrides went on the run and reached him, shouting, “Ajax!

Hurry, my friend, this way—fight for dead Patroclus!

At least we could bring his body back to Achilles,

stripped as Patroclus is—but not Achilles’ armor:

Hector with that flashing helmet has seized it all.”

So he roused the fury in battling Ajax’ heart

and down the front he stalked with the red-haired king.

Hector, tearing the famous armor off Patroclus.

tugged hard at the corpse,

mad to hack the head from the neck with bronze

and drag the trunk away to glut the dogs of Troy.

But in charged Ajax, shield like a tower before him

and Hector, falling back on a crowd of comrades,

leapt to his chariot, flinging the burnished gear

to his waiting troops to haul away to Troy—

trophies to be his own enormous glory. But Ajax,

shielding Patroclus round with his broad buckler,

stood fast now like a lion cornered round his young

when hunters cross him, leading his cubs through woods—

he ramps in all the pride of his power, bristling strength,

the heavy folds of his forehead frowning down his eyes.

So Ajax stood his ground over brave Patroclus now—

the fighting Atrides right beside him, standing fast,

his grief mounting, every waiting moment.

But Glaucus,

Hippolochus’ son and lord of Lycia’s forces now,

scowled at Hector, lashing out at him: “Hector—

our prince of beauty, in battle all a sham!

That empty glory of yours a runner’s glory,

a scurrying girl’s at that.

Now you’d better plan how to save your city,

you alone and your native troopers bom in Troy.

Now not a single Lycian goes to fight the Argives,

not to save your Troy. What lasting thanks for us,

for warring with your enemies, on and on, no end?

What hope has the common soldier in your ranks

to be saved by you, Hector, you heart of iron?—

if you could quit Sarpedon, your guest and friend-in-arms

abandoned there as carrion fit for the Argive maws.

Think what a staunch support Sarpedon was to you

and to all Troy while the man was still alive!

Now you lack the daring to save him from the dogs.

So now, if any Lycian troops will obey my orders,

home we go—and headlong death can come and topple Troy.

If the Trojans had that courage, unswerving courage

that fires men who fight for their own country,

beating their enemies down in war and struggle,

then we could drag Patroclus back to Troy at once.

If we could haul him from battle, dead as he is,

and lodge him behind King Priam’s looming walls,

our enemies would release Sarpedon’s gear at once

and then, then we could bring his body back to Troy.

For the man we cut down here was the loyal friend

of Prince Achilles-far the greatest among the Argive ships

and at his command go rugged fighters hand-to-hand.

But you—with enemy war cries ringing in your ears—

you lacked the nerve to go up against Great Ajax,

that fierce heart, to look him straight in the eye

and fight the man head-on—he’s a better man than you!”

With a dark glance from under his flashing helmet

Hector lashed back, “Glaucus, such brazen insolence

from a decent man like you, but why? Ah too bad,

and I always thought you excelled the rest in sense,

all who hale from Lycia’s fertile soil. But now—

you fill me with contempt—what are you saying?

You tell me that I can’t stand up to monstrous Ajax?

I tell you I never cringe at war and thundering horses!

But the will of Zeus will always overpower the will of men,

Zeus who strikes fear in even the bravest man of war

and tears away his triumph, all in a lightning flash,

and at other times he will spur a man to battle.

Come on, my friend, stand by me, watch me work!

See if I prove a coward dawn to dusk—your claim—

or I stop some Argive, blazing in all his power,

from fighting on to shield Patroclus’ corpse!”

With that he loosed a shrill cry to his Trojans,

“Trojans! Lycians! Dardan fighters hand-to-hand-

now be men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!

I’ll strap on the brave Achilles’ armor, burnished armor

I stripped from strong Patroclus when I killed him!”

So he cried and his own bronze helmet flashed

as Hector veered away from the heavy fighting,

running after his men and caught them quickly.

They’d not gone far and he ran with eager strides

as they bore Achilles’ famous arms toward Troy.

Standing far from the war and all its heartbreak

Hector exchanged his armor, handing his own gear

to his battle-hungry troops to return to holy Troy,

and donned the deathless arms of Peleus’ son Achilles,

arms the gods of the sky once gave his loving father—

and Peleus passed them on to his son when he grew old

but the son would not grow old in his father’s armor.

Now,

when Zeus who arrays the clouds saw Hector from afar,

strapping on the gear of Peleus’ godlike son,

he shook his head and addressed his own deep heart:

“Poor soldier. Never a thought of death weighs down

your spirit now, yet death is right beside you ...

You don the deathless arms of a great fighter—

and all other fighters tremble before him, true,

but you, you killed his comrade, gentle, strong,

and against all rights you ripped the immortal armor

off his head and shoulders. So great power for the moment

I will grant you to compensate for all that is to come:

never again will you return from battle, Hector,

nor will Andromache take that famous armor,

Achilles’ deathless armor, from your hands.”

So he decreed

and the son of Cronus bowed his craggy dark brows.

Zeus fitted the armor tightly on Hector’s body