and Ares surged in his heart with awesome force,
filling his limbs with power and fighting strength.
And on he strode amidst his illustrious Trojan allies—
calling out with wild cries, now flashing before them all
in the gleaming battle-gear of greathearted Achilles.
He ranged their ranks, inspiriting every captain,
commanding Mesthles, Glaucus, Medon, Thersilochus,
Asteropaeus, Disenor, Hippothous, Phorcys, Chromius,
Ennomus too, who could read the flight of birds.
Hector drove them on with winging orders: “Hear me—
numberless tribes of allies living round our borders—
I neither sought nor needed enormous hordes of men
that day I called you here, each from your own city.
What I needed was men to shield our helpless children,
fighting men to defend our Trojan women—all-out—
against these savage Argives. That goal in mind,
I bleed my own people for gifts and food
so I can build your courage, each and every man.
So now, each of you, turn straight for the enemy,
live or die—that is the lovely give-and-take of war.
That man who drags Patroclus back to Trojan charioteers,
dead as Patroclus is, and makes Great Ajax yield—
to him I will give one half the bloody spoils,
keep half for myself—his glory will equal mine!”
Strong vow—
and they bore straight down on the Argives full force,
shaking their spears, their hearts fired with hopes
of dragging Patroclus’ body out from under Ajax—
fools! Over the corpse he’d cut down crowds of men,
though now, at this point, Ajax warned Menelaus,
lord of the battle cry, “Old friend, my Prince,
I lose hope that we alone, on our own power,
can make it back from the fighting.
I not only fear for our comrade’s body—
Patroclus will glut the dogs and birds of Troy
and all too soon—but I fear for my own head,
for my own life. And yours too, Menelaus—
look at this cloud of war that blots out all the field,
this Hector, this headlong death that stares us in the face!
Quick, call to the chiefs—if one can hear you now.”
At that the prince of the battle cry complied
with a high piercing shout that reached all troops:
“Friends—lords of the Argives, O my captains!
All who join the Atridae, Agamemnon and Menelaus,
who drink wine at the king’s expense and hold command
of your own troops, your rank and fame from Zeus!
Impossible now to pick you out, my captains,
man by man—the battle blazes up so wildly.
Forward, each on his own! You’ll die of shame
if the dogs of Ilium make Patroclus ripping sport.”
And the quick Oilean Ajax heard him clearly,
first on the run along the fighting front to meet him—
Idomeneus after him and Idomeneus’ good aide,
Meriones, a match for the butcher god of war.
For the rest who followed, waking Achaea’s war-lust,
what man has spirit strong enough to sing their names?
Down in a mass the Trojans pounded—Hector led them in,
charging in as a heavy surf roars in against the rip
at a river’s mouth, swelled with rains from Zeus,
and on either side the jutting headlands bellow back
at the booming sea with matching thunder—in they came,
the Trojans roaring in. But the Argives faced them,
standing fast in a ring around Patroclus, one fury
seizing their hearts, packing a wall of bronze shields
and round about their glittering crested helmets now
the son of Cronus spread a dense, deepening mist.
He had never hated Menoetius’ son in the past,
while he was alive and still Achilles’ aide,
and now the Father loathed to see him prey
to Troy’s marauders, the ravening dogs of Troy—
so he drove his comrades on to shield his corpse.
At first the Trojans could ram the Argives back
and they abandoned the corpse, their fiery-eyed battalions
fled away in panic. But still the breakneck Trojans,
up in arms as they were,
killed off none of the Argives with their spears—
instead they began to drag away Patroclus’ corpse.
But not for long would his comrades give him up:
in a swift maneuver Ajax wheeled them round,
Ajax, greatest in build, greatest in works of war
of all the Argives after Peleus’ matchless son.
Right through the front he plowed like a wild boar
ramping in power up on the high mountain ridges,
scattering dogs and reckless hunters at one charge
when he wheels at bay and drives them down the glades.
So now the son of noble Telamon, dauntless Ajax
scattered the massing Trojan packs at a charge,
all who bestrode Patroclus now, high with hopes
of dragging him back to Troy to win the glory—
Trying hardest,
Hippothous out for fame ... Pelasgian Lethus’ son,
lashing a shield-strap round the ankle tendons,
was hauling Patroclus footfirst through the melee,
hoping to please Prince Hector and all the Trojans,
Hippothous rushing on but death came just as fast.
No Trojans could save him now, strain as they might—
Ajax son of Telamon charging quickly into the carnage
speared him at close range through the bronze-cheeked helmet,
the horsehair crest cracked wide open around the point,
smashed by the massive spear and hand that drove it.
His brains burst from the wound in sprays of blood,
soaking the weapon’s socket—
his strength dissolved on the spot, his grip loosed
and he dropped the foot of brave Patroclus’ corpse.
There on the ground it lay—he rushed to join it,
pitching over the dead man’s body face-to-face,
a world away from Larissa’s dark rich soil ...
Never would he repay his loving parents now
for the gift of rearing—his life cut short so soon,
brought down by the spear of lionhearted Ajax.
Hector hurled at him—a sudden glint of the spear—
but Ajax saw it coming and dodged the bronze shaft,
just by a hair, and the weapon caught Schedius,
gallant Iphitus’ son and Phocia’s finest man,
who made his home in the famous town of Panopeus,
ruling tribes of men. Hector speared him now—
the point split the collarbone, slashing through
and out by the shoulder’s base, sticking out the back.
He fell with a crash, his armor clanging round him.
Ajax next—
with a lunge he stabbed Phorcys, Phaenops’ warrior son