the tremendous thrust of it slammed against his shield
and he staggered, lost his footing, his arms flung out
for a tall strong elm, he clung but out it came by the roots,
toppling down, ripping away the whole cliff, blocking the stream
with a tangled snarl of branches crashing into it full length
to dam the river bank to bank—Bursting up from a whirlpool
Achilles dashed for the plain, his feet flying in terror
but the great god would not let up, hurling against him,
Scamander looming into a murderous breaker, dark, over him,
dead set on stopping the brilliant Achilles’ rampage here
and thrusting disaster off the struggling Trojan force—
But the hero sprang away, far as a hard-flung spear,
swooping fast as the black eagle, the fierce marauder,
both the strongest and swiftest bird that flies the sky—
on he streaked and the bronze rang out against his chest,
clashing grimly—slipping out from under the wave he fled
with the river rolling on behind him, roaring, huge ...
As a farmhand runs a ditch from a dark spring, sluicing
the gushing stream through plants and gardens, swinging
his mattock to knock the clods out down the shoot
and the water rushes on, tearing the pebbles loose
and what began as a trickle hits a quick slope and
down it goes, outstripping the man who guides it—
so the relentless tide kept overtaking Achilles,
yes, for all his speed—gods are stronger than men.
Again and again the brilliant swift Achilles whirled,
trying to stand and fight the river man-to-man and see
if all the immortal gods who rule the vaulting skies
were after him, putting him to rout—again and again
the mighty crest of the river fed by the rains of Zeus
came battering down his shoulders, down from high above
but Achilles kept on leaping, higher, desperate now
as the river kept on dragging down his knees, lunging
under him, cutting the ground from under his legs ...
Pelides groaned, scanning the arching blank sky:
“Father Zeus! To think in all my misery not one god
can bring himself to rescue me from this river!
Then I’d face any fate. And no god on high,
none is to blame so much as my dear mother—
how she lied, she beguiled me, she promised me
I’d die beneath the walls of the armored Trojans,
cut down in blood by Apollo’s whipping arrows!
I wish Hector had killed me,
the best man bred in Troy—the killer a hero then
and a hero too the man whose corpse he stripped!
Now look what a wretched death I’m doomed to suffer,
trapped in this monstrous river like some boy, some pig-boy
swept away, trying to ford a winter torrent in a storm!”
Quick to his cry Poseidon and Pallas moved in close,
stood at his shoulder now and taking human form,
grasped him hand-to-hand, spoke bracing words,
Poseidon who shakes the mainland first to say,
“Courage, Achilles! Why such fear, such terror?
Not with a pair like us to urge you on—gods-in-arms
sent down with Zeus’s blessings, I and Pallas Athena.
It’s not your fate to, be swallowed by a river:
he’ll subside, and soon—you’ll see for yourself.
But we do have sound advice, if only you will yield.
Never rest your hands from the great leveler war,
not till you pack and cram the Trojan armies tight
in the famous walls of Troy—whoever flees your onset.
But once you’ve ripped away Prince Hector’s life,
back to the ships you go! We give you glory—
seize it in your hands!”
With that challenge
both went soaring home to the deathless ones on high
but Achilles rampaged on with the gods’ strong command
driving him down the plain where the river flooded now,
an immense, cresting outrush bursting with burnished gear
and troops of battle dead, men cut down in their prime,
floating corpses rolling—But Achilles surged on too
with high hurdling strides, charging against the river,
on, breakneck on and the river could not stop him,
not for all its reach and tide race, not with Athena
pumping enormous strength deep down Achilles’ heart—
But the Xanthus River would not slack his fury either,
he raged at Achilles all the more, he marshaled up
a mountainous ridge of water, roaring out to Simois,
“Oh dear brother, rise! Both of us rush together
to halt this mortal’s onslaught! At any moment
he’ll storm King Priam’s mighty stronghold down—
the Trojans can’t stand up to the man in battle.
Beat him back, quickly! Deluge all your channels
from all your gushing springs—muster all your torrents—
raise up a tremendous wave, rumbling, booming with timber,
boulders crashing—we’ll stop this wild man in his tracks,
lording it in his power now and raging like some god!
Neither his strength nor splendid build can save him,
not now, I tell you—nor all that glorious armor:
now, somewhere under our floods that gear will sink,
immersed deep in slime, and I, I’ll roil his body
round in sand and gravel, tons of spills of silt.
Achaeans will never know where to find his bones,
never collect them now—
I’ll bury that man so deep in mud and rocks!
That’s where his grave-mound will be piled and then
no need in the world to raise his barrow high
when comrades come to give him royal rites!”
So he vaunted,
rearing against Achilles, seething, heaving up in fury,
thundering out now in foam and blood and corpses—
the bloodred crest of the river swelled by Zeus
came arching higher, ready to tear Pelides down
but Hera, struck with fear for Achilles, screamed out,
dreading he might be swept away by the giant churning river
and quickly cried to the god of fire, her own dear son,
“To arms, my child—god of the crooked legs!
You are the one we’d thought a worthy match
for the whirling river Xanthus!
Quick, rescue Achilles! Explode in a burst of fire!
I’ll drive the West and South Winds white with clouds
and sweep in from the open seas a tearing gale to sear
the Trojan bodies and gear and spread your lethal flames!
And you, you make for the Xanthus banks and bum the trees,
hurl the stream itself into conflagration—not for a moment
let him turn you back with his winning words or threats.