his own mother—what a terrible thing had taken place:
his dearest friend-in-arms on earth lay dead.
Over his corpse
no letup, the fighters kept on thrusting whetted spears,
locked in endless struggle, cutting each other down.
And an Argive armed in bronze would call out, “Friends!
Our glory’s gone if we fall back now on the ships—
let the black earth gape and take us all at once,
here and now! Better for us that way, by far,
if we yield his corpse to the stallion-breaking Trojans,
all to drag him back to Troy and win the glory.”
And a hardy Trojan would call on his side, “Friends!
What if it’s fated for us to die beside this body—
all dead in a mass? Let no man quit the battle!”
So they would say, fueling comrades’ courage.
And so they fought and the iron din went rising up
to the bronze sky through the barren breathless air.
But standing clear of the fray Achilles’ horses wept
from the time they first had sensed their driver’s death,
brought down in the dust by man-killing Hector.
Diores’ rugged son Automedon did his best,
lashed them over and over with stinging whip—
coaxing them gently now, now shouting oath on oath.
But both balked at returning now to the ships
moored at the Hellespont’s far-reaching shore
or galloping back to fight beside the Argives.
Staunch as a pillar planted tall above a barrow,
standing sentry over some lord or lady’s grave-site,
so they stood, holding the blazoned chariot stock-still,
their heads trailing along the ground, warm tears flowing
down from their eyes to wet the earth ... the horses mourned,
longing now for their driver, their luxurious manes soiled,
streaming down from the yoke-pads, down along the yoke.
And Zeus pitied them, watching their tears flow.
He shook his head and addressed his own deep heart:
“Poor creatures, why did we give you to King Peleus,
a mortal doomed to death ...
you immortal beasts who never age or die?
So you could suffer the pains of wretched men?
There is nothing alive more agonized than man
of all that breathe and crawl across the earth.
But Hector, at least, will never ride behind you,
you and your blazoned chariot. I will never permit it.
What more does he want? The arms are enough for him—
Priam’s son with his empty, futile boasting.
But I will fill your legs and hearts with strength
so you can save Automedon, bear him from the fighting
back to the fleet. For still I will give the Trojans glory—
killing all the way to the benched ships till the sun sinks
and the blessed darkness sweeps across the earth.”
And with that he breathed fresh fire in the team.
They shook the dust from their manes and galloped off,
speeding the fast chariot just where the armies clashed.
Automedon fought as he rode, though grieving for his friend,
swooping in with the team like a vulture after geese.
Now he’d veer from the Trojan melee in a flash
then dart back in a charge, pursuing mobs of men
but he could not kill the ones he rushed in force—
no way for him now, alone in the hurtling car,
to lunge with a spear and still control those racers.
But at last a cohort marked the driver’s straits,
Alcimedon the son of Laerces, Haemon’s grandson
coming behind the chariot, shouted out, “Automedon!
What god has put such a tactic in your head?
It’s good-for-nothing—he’s torn your wits away.
Taking the Trojans on alone, on the front lines
but your comrade’s dead, look, and Hector himself,
strapped in Achilles’ armor, swaggers on in glory!”
Diores’ son Automedon shouted back, “Alcimedon!
What other Achaean driver could match your skill
at curbing this deathless team or spurring on their fury?
Only Patroclus, skilled as the gods themselves
while the man was still alive—
now death and fate have got him in their grip.
On with it! Take up the whip and shining reins,
I’ll dismount the car and fight on foot.”
Alcimedon sprang aboard the hurtling chariot,
quickly grasping the whip and reins in both fists
as Automedon leapt to ground. But Hector saw them
and called at once to Aeneas posted close beside him,
“Aeneas, counselor of the Trojans armed in bronze,
I can see the great runner Achilles’ team—look there—
heading into the fight but reined by feeble drivers.
So my hopes ride high that we can seize them now
if you have the heart to join me.
Charge! Those two will flinch, they’d never dare
stand up to us man-to-man in all-out battle!”
And Anchises’ gallant son did not resist.
They went straight on, shoulders shielded in oxhide
tanned and tough and hammered thick with bronze.
And a brace of fighters, Chromius, strong Aretus
flanked their attack and the Trojans had high hopes
of killing the men and driving off the massive stallions.
Reckless fools! They’d never disengage from Automedon,
not without some bloodshed. No, with a prayer to Zeus
some new fighting power had filled his dark heart
and he quickly called his trusted friend Alcimedon:
“Alcimedon, keep those horses close beside me,
breathing down my neck. Nothing can hold him back,
this Hector in all his fury—nothing, I tell you—
not till he leaps behind Achilles’ long-maned team
and kills us both and routs our forward line—
or he goes down himself in the first assault.”
And he called the two Aeantes and Menelaus:
“Ajax, Ajax—lords of the Argives—Menelaus!
Leave Patroclus now to the best men you can find,
they’ll straddle the corpse and fight off Trojan packs—
you fight the fatal day from us, we’re still alive.
Here they come, full tilt, Aeneas and Hector,
Troy’s best men, bearing down on us here—
this point of tears and attack!
But all lies in the lap of the great gods.
I’ll fling a spear myself and leave the rest to Zeus.”
He aimed and hurled and his spear’s long shadow flew
and hit Aretus square in the balanced round shield—
no blocking the shaft, the bronze rammed through,
piercing his belt and gouging down his belly.
As a burly farmhand wielding a whetted ax,