bestriding Hippothous’ corpse—he ripped his belly,
smashing the corslet just where the plates join
and the bronze spearhead spilled his entrails out
and down went Phorcys, grasping, clawing the dust.
The Trojan front gave ground, glorious Hector too
and the Argives yelled wildly, dragging the bodies,
hauling Hippothous’ corpse along with Phorcys’ now
and tearing the bloody armor off their backs.
Then, once more,
Trojan troops would have clambered back inside their walls,
whipped weak with fear by the Argives primed for battle
and they, they would have seized enormous glory—
yes, defying even the great decree of Zeus—
by dint of their own power and striking force.
But god Apollo himself spurred on Aeneas,
taking the build of Periphas, Summoner’s son
who had grown old as herald to Aeneas’ father
the aged king—a loving, loyal herald too ...
Like him to the life, Apollo provoked Aeneas:
“Aeneas—how could you and your men save Troy
with the gods against you? As I’ve seen other men
who trust to their own power and striking force,
their own valor, their own troop-strength
even badly outmanned—defend their country well.
But Zeus is with us here! Decreeing triumph for us,
not for the Argives now. But you, you’re all frightened
out of your minds—you cannot fight.”
The deadly Archer—
Aeneas knew him at once, looking straight in his eyes
and the fighter loosed a rousing shout at Hector:
“Hector—all you captains of Trojans, Trojan allies—
shame, what shame! Clambering back into Troy now,
whipped weak with fear by the Argive forces? Look—
one of the gods comes up beside me, tells me Zeus
the supreme commander still impels us all in battle.
So go for the Argives—head-on! Don’t let them bear
Patroclus’ body back to their ships without a fight!”
And springing out of the lines Aeneas took his stand
as the rest swung round and braced to meet the Argives.
There—Aeneas lunged and speared Leocritus through,
a son of Arisbas, Lycomedes’ die-hard friend.
And veteran Lycomedes pitied him as he dropped,
sweeping beside him, rearing—a flash of his lance
and he hit a captain, Hippasus’ son Apisaon,
slitting open his liver, up under the midriff...
His knees went limp, a man who’d marched from Paeonia,
good fertile soil where he excelled all fighters,
all but Asteropaeus—
Down to the ground he went
but battling Asteropaeus pitied his comrade’s pain
and charged the Argives hard, mad to fight it out—
no use, too late. They’d packed behind their shields,
ringing Patroclus round on all sides, spears jutting
as Ajax ranged them all and shouted out commands:
“No one back away from the body! No heroes either,
bolting out of the Argive pack for single combat!
Cluster round Patroclus, shoulder-to-shoulder,
fight them at close range!” At the giant’s command
the earth ran red with blood, slithering dark now
and the soldiers’ corpses tumbling thick-and-fast,
Trojans and breakneck allies piled alongside Argives—
how could the Argives fight without some bloody losses?
But far fewer of them went down, remembering always
to fight in tight formation,
friend defending friend from headlong slaughter.
So on they fought like a swirl of living fire—
you could not say if the sun and moon still stood secure,
so dense the battle-haze that engulfed the brave
who stood their ground around Patroclus’ body.
But the other Trojans and Argive men-at-arms
fought on at their ease beneath a clear blue sky—
sharp brilliance of sunlight glittering round them,
not a cloud in sight to shadow the earth and mountains.
Men who fought at a distance worked with frequent breaks,
dodging painful arrows that showered side-to-side.
But men who held the center suffered agonies,
thanks to the haze and carnage—
ruthless bronze hacking their lines to pieces,
there where the bravest fought. Yet two men there,
famous fighters, Antilochus flanking Thrasymedes
still had not caught word of Patroclus’ death:
they thought the gallant soldier still alive,
fighting Trojans up on the clashing front lines.
But the two men kept their lookout, always alert
to their comrades’ deaths or signs of instant flight
as the two fought out on the flank—just as Nestor ordered,
sending both sons forth from the black ships to battle.
So all day long for the men of war the fighting raged,
grim and grueling, relentless, drenching labor, nonstop,
and the knees, shins and feet that upheld each fighter,
their hands, their eyes, ran with the sweat of struggle
over the great runner Achilles’ steadfast aide-in-arms-
an enormous tug-of-war. As when some master tanner
gives his crews the hide of a huge bull for stretching,
the beast’s skin soaked in grease and the men grab hold,
bracing round in a broad circle, tugging, stretching hard
till the skin’s oils go dripping out as the grease sinks in,
so many workers stretch the whole hide tough and taut—
so back and forth in a cramped space they tugged,
both sides dragging the corpse and hopes rising,
Trojans hoping to drag Patroclus back to Troy,
Achaeans to drag him back to the hollow ships
and round him always the brutal struggle raging.
Not even Ares, lasher of armies, not even Athena
watching the battle here could scorn its fury,
not even in their most savage lust for combat, no—
so tense the work of war for the men and chariot-teams
that Zeus stretched taut across Patroclus this one day ...
But great Achilles knew nothing yet of Patroclus’ death.
They were fighting far afield of the deep-sea ships,
beneath the Trojan wall, so Achilles never feared
his friend was dead—he must be still alive,
pressing on to the very gates, but he’d come back.
Achilles never dreamed Patroclus would storm all Troy
without him, not even with him. No, time and again
his mother Thetis told him this was not to be,
she told him alone, in secret ...
always bringing word of mighty Zeus’s plans,
but not this time. One thing she never told him—