on the doomed fighter’s life line drawn that day
his mother gave him birth. If Achilles fails
to learn all this from our own immortal voices
he will quail when a god attacks him face-to-face.
The gods are hard to handle—
when they come blazing forth in their true power.”
But the god who grips the earth restrained the Queen:
“Hera, so hard, so senseless! Don’t leap to extremes.
I, at least, have no real lust to drive our forces
against the gods of Troy. Our side is so much stronger.
Come now, let us move off and settle down together
far from the trampled field, take a lookout post
and leave the war to mortals ...
But if Ares or Phoebus cares to start things off,
if they block Achilles and keep him out of action,
they will have a fight on their hands, then and there,
an all-out fight with us. But not for long, I trust—
they will soon break off and slink back to Olympus,
home to the gathered gods who wait their coming,
overwhelmed by the crushing power of our fists!”
And with that threat the god of the sea-blue mane
led the way to the fortress raised for godlike Heracles:
earth piled on both sides, a high imposing breastwork
men of Troy and Pallas Athena flung up for the man
where he could race and escape that sea monster
whenever it charged him hard from shore to plain.
There Poseidon sat at ease with his deathless friends
who spread unbroken shrouds of mist around their shoulders,
while far on the other side the gods of Troy sat down
on the brows of Sunlight Hill, flanking you, Apollo,
god of the wild cry, and Ares scourge of cities.
3
So either side of the lines they took positions,
weighing tactics, each Olympian force reluctant now
to launch out first on the wrenching horrors of war ...
while Zeus on the heights sat poised to thunder orders.
But the whole plain filled with men and flashed with bronze,
with troops and horse and beneath their feet the earth quaked
as armies rushed together. And now in the no man’s land
two champions, greatest of all, strode and closed,
both men burning for battle,
Aeneas son of Anchises and brilliant Achilles.
Aeneas came up first with long, menacing strides,
head tossing his heavy helmet, his charging shield
thrust out to defend his chest, and shook his bronze spear.
But over against him came Achilles rearing like some lion
out on a rampage, and a whole town of men has geared
for the hunt to cut him down: but at first he lopes along,
all contempt, till one of the fast young hunters spears him—
then ... crouched for attack, his jaws gaping, over his teeth
the foam breaks out, deep in his chest the brave heart groans,
he lashes his ribs, his flanks and hips with his tail,
he whips himself into fighting-fury, eyes glaring,
hurls himself head-on-kill one of the men or die,
go down himself at the first lethal charge!
So now magnificent pride and fury lashed Achilles
to go against Aeneas the greathearted fighter.
As they closed on each other, both in range,
the matchless runner Achilles opened up: “Aeneas—
why so far from your own ranks, standing all exposed?
Does your courage really drive you to challenge me?
In hopes of ruling your stallion-breaking friends
and filling Priam’s throne? Even if you killed me,
would Priam drop his crown in your hands—for that?
The king has sons. He’s sound of limb. No half-wit either.
Or have the Trojans sworn to carve you a fine estate?
The choicest land in the realm, rich in vineyards
and good tilled fields for you to lord it over—
if only you kill me!
Ah but I think you’ll find the work quite taxing.
I seem to remember once before you fled my spear ...
Or have you forgot the time I caught you all alone,
I cut you off from your flocks and sent you scurrying down
the slopes of Ida? Running for dear life, legs driving,
never a look behind. And you escaped that time,
you fled to Lyrnessus’ walls, but at one charge
I sacked the place with Athena’s help and Father Zeus,
I tore the day of freedom away from all the women,
dragged them off as slaves. Zeus saved you then
and other gods joined in. But he won’t save you now,
I’d say—though the hope goes racing through your mind.
Go back to your own rank and file, I tell youl
Don’t stand up against me—or you will meet your death.
Even a fool learns something once it hits him.”
But Aeneas, taking a long, deep breath, replied,
“Don’t think for a moment, Achilles, son of Peleus,
you can frighten me with words like a child, a fool—
I’m an old hand myself at trading taunts and insults.
We both know each other’s birth, each other’s parents,
we’ve heard their far-flung fame on the lips of mortal men,
though you have never set eyes on mine, or I on yours.
They say you are Peleus’ son, that fine, flawless man;
your mother, Thetis, sleek-haired child of the Sea.
And I am Aeneas, and I can boast Anchises’ blood,
the proud Anchises, but my mother is Aphrodite.
Our parents—one pair or the other will mourn
a dear son today. Certain it is, I warn you,
we won’t break off from battle and leave the field
with no more than a youngster’s banter light as this.
But about my birth, if you’d like to learn it well,
first to last—though many people know it—
here’s my story, Achilles ...
Starting with Dardanus, Storm-king Zeus’s son
who founded Dardania, long before holy Troy arose,
that city reared on the plain to shelter all our people.
They still camped on the slopes of Ida wet with springs.
Then Dardanus had a son in turn, King Erichthonius,
and he was the richest man in all the world—
three thousand mares he owned, grazing the marshes,
brood-mares in their prime, proud of their leaping foals.
And the North Wind, lusting once for the herd at pasture,
taking on the build of a black stallion, mounted several
and swelling under his force they bore him twelve colts.
And when they’d frisk on the tilled fields ripe with grain
they’d brush the crests of the com and never snap a stalk,
but when they’d frisk and vault on the sea’s broad back
they’d skim the crests of whitecaps glistening foam.