Never abate your fury! Not till I let loose my shout—
then halt your withering fire!”
Hera’s command—
and Hephaestus launched his grim inhuman blaze.
First he shot into flames and burned the plain,
ignited hordes of corpses, squads Achilles slaughtered—
he scorched the whole plain and the shining river shrank.
Hard as the autumn North Wind hits a leveled field
just drenched in a downpour, quickly dries it off
and the farmer is glad and starts to till his soil—
so the whole plain was parched and the god of fire devoured
all the dead, then blazing in all his glory veered for the river—
an inferno—the elms burned, the willows and tamarisks burned
and the lotus burned and the galingale and reeds and rushes.
all that flourished along the running river’s lush banks
and the eels writhed and fish in the whirlpools leapt high,
breaking the surface left and right in a sheen of fire,
gasping under the Master Smith Hephaestus’ blast
and now the river’s strength was burning out,
he panted the god’s name: “Hephaestus—stop!
Not a single god can stand against you—no, not I—
can’t fight such fire, such fury—hold your attack, stop!
Brilliant Achilles can drive them out of Ilium now!
What’s this war to me? Why should I help Troy?”
He screamed in flames, his clear currents bubbling up
like a cauldron whipped by crackling fire as it melts down
the lard of a fat swine, splattering up around the rim—
dry logs blazing under it, lashing it to the boit—
so the river burned, his clear currents seethed
and lost all will to flow. He stopped—overwhelmed
by the torrid blast of the Master Craftsman god of fire—
and Xanthus cried to Hera, pouring out his heart
in a flood of supplication, “Oh Hera—why?
Why does your son attack me, whip my waters more
than all the others? Why, what have I done to you?
Nothing beside those other powers, all who rush
to defend the Trojan armies. Oh I’ll stop—
if that is your command—
but let your son stop too! I’ll swear, what’s more,
never to drive the fatal day away from the Trojans,
not even when all Troy burns in the ramping flames
when the warring sons of Achaea bum her down!”
And Hera heard him, the radiant white-armed goddess
quickly cried to the god of fire, her own dear son,
“Hephaestus, stop! Stop, my glorious blazing boy!
It’s not right to batter another deathless god,
not for the sake of these mortals.”
She ceased
and the god of fire quenched his grim inhuman blaze
and back in its channel ran the river’s glistening tides.
And now with the strength of Xanthus beaten down
the two called off their battle. Hera held them back,
still enraged as she was. But now for total war,
bearing down on the other gods, disastrous, massive,
their fighting-fury blasting loose from opposing camps—
the powers collided! A mammoth clash—the wide earth roared
and the arching vault of heaven echoed round with trumpets!
And Zeus heard the chaos, throned on Olympus heights,
and laughed deep in his own great heart, delighted
to see the gods engage in all-out conflict.
They did not waste a moment, closed at once—
Ares stabber of shields led off, charging Athena,
shaking his brazen spear and dressed the goddess down:
“You dog-fly, why drive the gods to battle once again
with that stormy bluster driving your wild heart?
Don’t you recall the time you drove Tydides’ son
to spear me through? In the eyes of all the world
you seized his lance and rammed it home yourself,
tearing into my rippling, deathless flesh—so now
I think I’ll pay you back for all your outrage!”
With that he stabbed at her battle-shield of storm,
its dark tassels flaring, packing tremendous force—
not even Zeus’s lightning bolt can break its front.
Bloody Ares lunged at it now with giant lance
and Athena backed away, her powerful hand hefting
a boulder off the plain, black, jagged, a ton weight
that men in the old days planted there to mark off plowland—
Pallas hurled that boundary-stone at Ares, struck his neck,
loosed his limbs, and down he crashed and out over seven acres
sprawled the enormous god and his mane dragged in the dust,
his armor clashed around him. Athena laughed aloud,
glorying over him, winging insults: “Colossal fool—
it never even occurred to you, not even now
when you matched your strength with mine,
just how much greater I claim to be than you!
So now you feel the weight of your mother’s curses—
Hera plotted against you, Hera up in arms
because you left the Achaean forces in the lurch
and rushed to defend these reckless, headlong Trojans!”
Triumphant Athena turned her shining eyes away
and Aphrodite daughter of Zeus took Ares’ hand
and led him off the field, racked with groans,
barely able to gather back his strength ...
But the white-armed Hera saw her move at once
and winged Athena on: “Just look at them there—
daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder,
tireless one, Athena. There she goes again,
that dog-fly, leading her man-destroying Ares’clear
of the rampage, through the slaughter! After her, quick!”
Athena’s heart leapt high, she charged at Aphrodite,
overtook her and beat her breasts with clenched fists.
Down she sank with Ares, resistance quite dissolved,
two immortals spread on the earth that rears us all
with Pallas trumpeting over them winged exultations:
“Down you go! May all the gods who help the Trojans
fall as hard when they battle Argives armed for war—
all as courageous, all as steadfast as Aphrodite
when she sped to Ares’ side and faced my fury!
Then we’d have done with fighting long ago,
razed the rugged walls of Troy and laid her waste.”
So Athena vaunted and white-armed Hera smiled
but the mighty god of earthquakes challenged Phoebus:
“Apollo—why hold back from each other? It’s not fair
when the other gods have launched themselves in war.
What disgrace for us—to return without a fight
to the bronze-floored house of Zeus on Mount Olympus!
You lead off. You are the younger-born, and I—