and rumbling out of the farmyard dung to pasture
along a rippling stream, along the swaying reeds.
And the golden drovers kept the herd in line,
four in all, with nine dogs at their heels,
their paws flickering quickly—a savage roar!—
a crashing attack—and a pair of ramping lions
had seized a bull from the cattle’s front ranks—
he bellowed out as they dragged him off in agony.
Packs of dogs and the young herdsmen rushed to help
but the lions ripping open the hide of the huge bull
were gulping down the guts and the black pooling blood
while the herdsmen yelled the fast pack on—no use.
The hounds shrank from sinking teeth in the lions,
they balked, hunching close, barking, cringing away.
And the famous crippled Smith forged a meadow
deep in a shaded glen for shimmering flocks to graze,
with shepherds’ steadings, well-roofed huts and sheepfolds.
And the crippled Smith brought all his art to bear
on a dancing circle, broad as the circle Daedalus
once laid out on Cnossos’ spacious fields
for Ariadne the girl with lustrous hair.
Here young boys and girls, beauties courted
with costly gifts of oxen, danced and danced,
linking their arms, gripping each other’s wrists.
And the girls wore robes of linen light and flowing,
the boys wore finespun tunics rubbed with a gloss of oil,
the girls were crowned with a bloom of fresh garlands,
the boys swung golden daggers hung on silver belts.
And now they would run in rings on their skilled feet,
nimbly, quick as a crouching potter spins his wheel,
palming it smoothly, giving it practice twirls
to see it run, and now they would run in rows,
in rows crisscrossing rows—rapturous dancing.
A breathless crowd stood round them struck with joy
and through them a pair of tumblers dashed and sprang,
whirling in leaping handsprings, leading on the dance.
And he forged the Ocean River’s mighty power girdling
round the outmost rim of the welded indestructible shield.
And once the god had made that great and massive shield
he made Achilles a breastplate brighter than gleaming fire,
he made him a sturdy helmet to fit the fighter’s temples,
beautiful, burnished work, and raised its golden crest
and made him greaves of flexing, pliant tin.
Now,
when the famous crippled Smith had finished off
that grand array of armor, lifting it in his arms
he laid it all at the feet of Achilles’ mother Thetis—
and down she flashed like a hawk from snowy Mount Olympus
bearing the brilliant gear, the god of fire’s gift.
BOOK NINETEEN
The Champion Arms for Battle
As Dawn rose up in her golden robe from Ocean’s tides,
bringing light to immortal gods and mortal men,
Thetis sped Hephaestus’ gifts to the ships.
She found her beloved son lying facedown,
embracing Patroclus’ body, sobbing, wailing,
and round him crowded troops of mourning comrades.
And the glistening goddess moved among them now,
seized Achilles’ hand and urged him, spoke his name:
“My child, leave your friend to lie there dead—
we must, though it breaks our hearts ...
The will of the gods has crushed him once for all.
But here, Achilles, accept this glorious armor, look,
a gift from the god of fire—burnished bright, finer
than any mortal has ever borne across his back!”
Urging,
the goddess laid the armor down at Achilles’ feet
and the gear clashed out in all its blazoned glory.
A tremor ran through all the Myrmidon ranks—none dared
to look straight at the glare, each fighter shrank away.
Not Achilles. The more he gazed, the deeper his anger went,
his eyes flashing under his eyelids, fierce as fire—
exulting, holding the god’s shining gifts in his hands.
And once he’d thrilled his heart with looking hard
at the armor’s well-wrought beauty,
he turned to his mother, winged words flying:
“Mother—armor sent by the god—you’re right,
only immortal gods could forge such work,
no man on earth could ever bring it off!
Now, by heaven, I’ll arm and go to war.
But all the while my blood runs cold with fear—
Menoetius’ fighting son ... the carrion blowflies
will settle into his wounds, gouged deep by the bronze,
worms will breed and seethe, defile the man’s corpse—
his life’s ripped out—his flesh may rot to nothing.”
But glistening-footed Thetis reassured him:
“O my child, wipe these worries from your mind.
I’ll find a way to protect him from those swarms,
the vicious flies that devour men who fall in battle.
He could lie there dead till a year has run its course
and his flesh still stand firm, even fresher than now ...
So go and call the Argive warriors to the muster:
renounce your rage at the proud commander Agamemnon,
then arm for battle quickly, don your fighting power!”
With that she breathed in her son tremendous courage
then instilled in Patroclus’ nostrils fresh ambrosia,
blood-red nectar too, to make his flesh stand firm.
But brilliant Achilles strode along the surf,
crying his piercing cry and roused Achaean warriors.
Even those who’d kept to the beached ships till now,
the helmsmen who handled the heavy steering-oars
and stewards left on board to deal out rations—
even they trooped to the muster: great Achilles
who held back from the brutal fighting so long
had just come blazing forth.
And along came two aides of Ares limping in,
the battle-hard Tydides flanked by good Odysseus
leaning on their spears, still bearing painful wounds,
and slowly found their seats in the front ranks.
And the lord of men Agamemnon came in last of all,
weighed down by the wound he took in the rough charge
when Coon, son of Antenor, slashed his arm with bronze.
And now, as all the Achaean armies massed together,
the swift runner Achilles rose among them, asking,
“Agamemnon—was it better for both of us, after all,
for you and me to rage at each other, raked by anguish,
consumed by heartsick strife, all for a young girl?
If only Artemis had cut her down at the ships—
with one quick shaft—