churning at heart for a way to halt his rampage,
godlike Achilles, and stop the Trojans’ rout.
But now Pelides shaking his long-shadowed spear
was charging Asteropaeus, mad to cut him down—
Pelegon’s son, himself a son of the Axius River
broad and fast and Acessamenus’ eldest daughter,
Periboea, loved by the deep-swirling stream.
Achilles went for Asteropaeus fresh from the ford,
braced to face him there and brandishing two spears
and the Xanthus filled the Trojan’s heart with courage,
the river seething for all the youths Achilles slaughtered,
chopped to bits in its tide without a twinge of pity.
Closing against each other, just about in range,
the magnificent runner Achilles opened up,
“Who on earth are you? Where do you hail from?—
you with the gall to go against my onslaught.
Pity the ones whose sons stand up to me in war!”
But the noble son of Pelegon answered firmly,
“High-hearted son of Peleus, why ask about my birth?
I hail from Paeonia’s rich soil, a far cry from here,
heading Paeonian troops with their long spears,
and this my eleventh day since raising Troy.
My birth? I come from the Axius’ broad currents—
Axius floods the land with the clearest stream on earth
and Axius fathered the famous spearman Pelegon.
Men say I am his son.
Now on with it, great Pelides, let us fight!”
Menacing so
as brilliant Achilles raised the Pelian ash spear
but the fighting Asteropaeus, quick, ambidextrous,
hurled both spears at once—one shaft hit the shield,
no breakthrough, the shaft could not smash through,
the gold blocked it, forged in the god’s gift.
But the other grazed Achilles’ strong right arm
and dark blood gushed as the spear shot past his back,
stabbing the earth hard, still lusting to sink in flesh ...
But next Achilles, burning to cut down Asteropaeus
hurled his ashen shaft—it flew straight as a die
but a clean miss—it struck the river’s high bank
and half the length of the lance stuck deep in soil.
So Achilles, drawing the sharp sword at his hip,
sprang at the man in rage as he tried to wrench
Pelides’ spear from the bank but his grip failed.
Three times he tried to wrench it free, tugging madly,
thrice gave up the struggle—the fourth with all his might
he fought to bend Aeacides’ shaft and break it off
but before it budged the hero was all over him,
slashing out his life, slitting his belly open—
a scooping slice at the navel and all his bowels
spilled out on the ground, darkness swirled his eyes
as he gasped his breath away. And trampling his chest
Achilles tore his gear off, glorying over him now:
“Lie there with the dead! Punishing work, you see,
to fight the sons of invincible Cronus’ son,
even sprung from a river as you are! You—
you claimed your birth from a river’s broad stream?
Well I can boast my birth from powerful Zeus himself!
My father’s the man who rules the hordes of Myrmidons,
Peleus, son of Aeacus, and Aeacus sprang from Zeus
and as Zeus is stronger than rivers surging out to sea,
so the breed of Zeus is stronger than any stream’s.
Here is a great river flowing past you, look—
what help can he give you? None!
Nothing can fight the son of Cronus, Zeus,
not even Achelous king of rivers vies with Zeus,
not even the overpowering Ocean’s huge high tides,
the source of all the rivers and all the seas on earth
and all springs and all deep wells—all flow from the Ocean
but even the Ocean shrinks from the mighty Father’s bolt
when terrible thunder crashes down the skies!”
With that
Achilles pulled his bronze spear from the river bluff
and left him there, the Trojan’s life slashed out,
sprawled in the sand, drenched by the black tide—
eels and fish the corpse’s frenzied attendants
ripping into him, nibbling kidney-fat away.
But Achilles went for Paeonians, helmets plumed,
still running in panic along the river’s rapids
once they saw their finest fall in the onslaught,
beaten down by Pelides’ hands and hacking sword.
He killed in a blur of kills—Thersilochus, Mydon,
Astypylus, Mnesus, Thrasius, Aenius and Ophelestes—
still more Paeonian men the runner would have killed
if the swirling river had not risen, crying out in fury,
taking a man’s shape, its voice breaking out of a whirlpooclass="underline"
“Stop. Achilles! Greater than any man on earth,
greater in outrage too—
for the gods themselves are always at your side!
But if Zeus allows you to kill off all the Trojans,
drive them out of my depths at least, I ask you,
out on the plain and do your butchery there.
All my lovely rapids are crammed with corpses now,
no channel in sight to sweep my currents out to sacred sea—
I’m choked with corpses and still you slaughter more,
you blot out more! Leave me alone, have done—
captain of armies, I am filled with horror!”
And the breakneck runner only paused to answer,
“So be it, Scamander sprung of Zeus—as you command.
But I, I won’t stop killing these overweening Trojans,
not till I’ve packed them in their walls and tested Hector,
strength against strength—he kills me or I kill him!”
Down on the Trojan front he swept like something superhuman
and now from his deep whirls the river roared to Phoebus,
“Disgrace—god of the silver bow and born of Zeus!
You throw to the winds the will of Cronus’ son—
time and again Zeus gave you strict commands:
Stand by the Trojan ranks and save their lives
till the sun goes down at last and darkness shrouds
the plowlands ripe with grain!”
When he heard that
Achilles the famous spearman, leaping down from the bluff,
plunged in the river’s heart and the river charged against him,
churning, surging, all his rapids rising in white fury
and drove the mass of corpses choking tight his channel,
the ruck Achilles killed—Scamander heaved them up
and bellowing like a bull the river flung them out
on the dry land but saved the living, hiding them down
the fresh clear pools of his thundering whirling current
but thrashing over Achilles’ shoulders raised a killer-wave—