how Father Zeus himself supports these Trojans.
All their weapons land, no matter who flings them,
brave fighter or bad—Zeus guides them all to the mark.
Ours all clatter to ground. Wasted, harmless shots.
So come, alone as we are, find the best way out:
how do we pull the body clear and save ourselves,
make it back to our lines and bring our friends some joy?
They look our way in despair, they must. All hope gone
that murderous Hector’s rage and invincible spear-arm
can be stopped—not now—
he’ll hurl himself against our blackened hulls!
If only an aide could speed the word to Achilles.
I’m certain he has not heard the dreadful news
that his dear friend lies dead. Wherever I look,
no use, I cannot see the Achaean for the mission,
such swirling mist blots out the men and horses both.
O Father Zeus—draw our armies clear of the cloud,
give us a bright sky, give us back our sight!
Kill us all in the light of day at least—
since killing’s now your pleasure!”
So he prayed
and the Father filled with pity, seeing Ajax weep.
He dispelled the mist at once,
drove off the cloud and the sun came blazing forth
and the whole war swung into view, clear, that instant—
and Ajax called the lord of the war cry, Menelaus:
“Look hard for Antilochus now, my royal friend.
If you see him still alive, brave Nestor’s son,
tell him to run the news to great Achilles quickly—
his dearest friend-in-arms on earth lies dead.”
And the lord of the battle cry could not refuse
but dragged his heels like a lion leaving sheepfolds,
bone-weary from harrying hounds and field hands.
They’ll never let him tear the rich fat from the oxen,
all night long they stand their guard but the lion craves meat,
he lunges in and in but his charges gain him nothing,
thick-and-fast from their hardy hands the javelins
rain down in his face, and waves of roaring torches—
these the big cat fears, balking for all his rage,
and at dawn he slinks away, his spirits dashed.
And so the lord of the war cry left Patroclus,
resisting all the way—he feared the worst:
stampeded in terror, his men would leave the body
easy prey for the Trojans. So here Menelaus paused
with much to command Meriones and the Aeantes:
“Ajax and Ajax, captains of Achaea, Meriones too,
remember Patroclus now, our stricken comrade!
That gentle man, the soul of kindness to all
while the man was still alive ...
Now death and fate have got him in their grip.”
And with that the red-haired captain moved ahead
like an eagle scanning left and right, the bird men say
has the sharpest eyes of all that fly the heavens:
high as he soars he’ll never miss the racing hare
cowering down low in the dense, shaggy brush—
down on its head he swoops
and pins it fast and rips its life away. So now,
Menelaus O my King, you turned your shining eyes,
scanning the crowds of comrades front and rear,
trying to see if Nestor’s son was still alive.
He marked him quickly, out on the left flank
and rousing cohorts, driving them back to war,
and the red-haired captain halted near and called,
“Turn this way, Antilochus, Prince, and hear the news,
dreadful news—would to god it had never happened!
You see for yourself, I know, how Father Zeus
sends waves of ruin breaking down our lines—
victory goes to Troy. Our best Achaean’s dead—
Patroclus, a stunning loss to all our armies!
Quick, run to Achilles’ moorings up the beach
and tell him all. Perhaps—but he must be fast—
he can bring the body safely back to his ship,
stripped as Patroclus is—
Hector with that flashing helmet has his armor.”
Antilochus listened closely, hating every word.
He stood there speechless a while, struck dumb ...
tears filling his eyes, his strong voice choked.
But he still would not neglect Atrides’ order.
So handing his gear to a loyal aide Laodocus,
who maneuvered his pawing horses close by,
he set off at a run.
But he wept freely now
as his feet swept him clear of the close fighting,
bearing the dreadful news to Peleus’ son Achilles.
But you, Menelaus O my King, you had no heart
to defend the Pylians, hard-pressed as they were,
once their leader left, a heavy blow to his troops.
And putting the veteran Thrasymedes in command,
he ran back to bestride Patroclus’ corpse again
and flanking the two Aeantes now, reported briskly,
“I sent Antilochus. He’s off to the fast ships
to tell the swift Achilles. But I’ve little hope
he’ll come at all—for all his rage at Hector.
How can he fight the Trojans without armor?
So come, alone as we are, find the best way out:
how do we pull the body clear and save ourselves
from the Trojan uproar, flee our death, our fate?”
The Great Telamonian Ajax answered firmly,
“All true, straight to the point, Lord Menelaus.
Quickly, you and Meriones shoulder up the body,
carry it off the lines. We’re right behind you,
fighting the Trojans, fighting this Prince Hector.
The two Aeantes bearing the same fury, the same name—
and no strangers at standing up to slashing Ares,
each defending the other side-by-side.”
So he urged
and up from the earth they caught the body in their arms,
hoisting it high above their heads with a great heave—
and Trojan forces crowding behind them shouted out
when they saw the Argive fighters lift the corpse.
They swept in like hounds that fling themselves
at a wounded boar before young hunters reach him,
darting in for a moment, keen to rip the boar apart
till he wheels at bay, ramping into the pack with all his power
and the hounds cringe and bolt and scatter left and right.
And so the Trojans kept on pressing, squad on squad,
stabbing away with swords and two-edged spears
till the two called Ajax wheeled against them hard
to make a stand—and they turned white, none had nerve
to charge forth now and fight it out for the corpse.
So they labored to haul Patroclus from the war,
back to the beaked ships as fighting flared behind them
wild as a flash fire, sprung out of nowhere, storming down