They spread the gates and rammed the doorbars back
and the spreading gates made way for a ray of hope
as Phoebus Apollo hurtled forth to meet Achilles,
to fight disaster off the Trojan troops.
Heading straight for the city’s lofty ramparts,
ragged with thirst, choked with dust from the plain
they fled as Achilles stormed them, shaking his spear,
that wild rabid frenzy always gripping his heart,
blazing to seize his glory.
And then and there
the Achaeans would have taken the lofty gates of Troy
if Apollo had not driven Prince Agenor at them,
Antenor’s son, a courageous, rugged soldier.
He inspired his heart with daring, standing near—
in person, to beat away the dragging fates of death—
leaning against an oak, concealed in swirls of mist.
And now, as soon as Agenor saw Achilles coming,
there he stood, poised for the scourge of cities
while the heart inside him heaved like heavy seas.
Waiting, tense, he probed his own brave spirit:
“Ah dear god—if I run from Achilles’ onslaught,
taking the route the rest have fled, stampeding,
he’ll catch me even so and slash my coward’s throat.
But if I leave my comrades panicked before his charge,
this Prince Achilles—slip away from the wall on foot
and race the other way, out to Ilium’s plain and
reach the spurs of Ida, hide in the underbrush
and then, in the dying light ...
once I’ve washed my sweat away in the river,
yes, I just might make it back again to Troy—
but why debate, my friend, why thrash things out?
God forbid that Achilles sees me turning tail,
heading from town and out to open country—
he’ll come after me full tilt and run me down!
And then no way to escape my death, my certain doom—
Achilles is far too strong for any man on earth.
Wait ... what if I face him out before the walls?
Surely his body can be pierced by bronze, even his—
he has only one life, and people say he’s mortaclass="underline"
it’s only the son of Cronus handing him the glory.”
Filled with resolve, he braced, waiting Achilles,
his warrior blood incensed. He’d fight to the death
as a panther springs forth from her thicket lair
to stand and face the huntsman: no fear in her heart,
no thought of flight when she hears the baying packs—
and even if he’s too quick with spear or lunging sword,
even if she’s run through, she never slacks her fury
until she’s charged him hard or gone down fighting.
And so the noble son of Antenor, brave Agenor
would never run until he’d tested Achilles.
He steadied his balanced shield before his chest,
aimed his spear at the man and flung this challenge:
“Surely you must have hoped with all your heart—
the great glorious Achilles—that you would raze
the proud Trojans’ city this very day! You foot—
you still have plenty of pain to suffer for her sake.
We have fighting men by the hundreds still inside her,
forming a wall before our loving parents, wives and sons
to defend Troy—where you rush on to meet your doom,
headlong man as you are, breakneck man of war!”
And he hurled his sharp spear from a strong hand—
a hard true hit on Achilles’ shin below the knee!
But the tin of the fire-new armor round his leg
let loose an unearthly ring—back the spear sprang
from the wondrous gear it struck, not punching through:
the gift of the god Hephaestus blocked its force.
Achilles next, he leapt at Prince Agenor—
but Phoebus refused to let him seize the glory—
he whisked Agenor off, wrapped in swirls of mist
and sped him out of the fighting safely on his way
and then with trickery kept Achilles off the Trojans.
True, just like Agenor head to foot the deadly Archer
stood in Achilles’ path and Achilles sprang in chase,
feet racing, coursing him far across the wheat-fields,
heading him out toward Scamander’s whirling depths
as the god led him a little, luring him on and on—
always hoping to catch the god with bursts of speed.
But all the while the rest of the Trojans fled en masse,
thrilled to reach the ramparts, crowding, swarming in,
no daring left to remain outside the city walls
and wait for each other, learn who made it through,
who died in battle—no, in a driving rout they came,
streaming into Troy,
any fighter whose racing legs could save his life.
BOOK TWENTY-TWO
The Death of Hector
So all through Troy the men who had fled like panicked fawns
were wiping off their sweat, drinking away their thirst,
leaning along the city’s massive ramparts now
while Achaean troops, sloping shields to shoulders,
closed against the walls. But there stood Hector,
shackled fast by his deadly fate, holding his ground,
exposed in front of Troy and the Scaean Gates.
And now Apollo turned to taunt Achilles:
“Why are you chasing me? Why waste your speed?—
son of Peleus, you a mortal and I a deathless god.
You still don’t know that I am immortal, do you?—
straining to catch me in your fury! Have you forgotten?
There’s a war to fight with the Trojans you stampeded,
look, they’re packed inside their city walls, but you,
you’ve slipped away out here. You can’t kill me—
I can never die—it’s not my fate!”
Enraged at that,
Achilles shouted in mid-stride, “You’ve blocked my way,
you distant, deadly Archer, deadliest god of all—
you made me swerve away from the rampart there.
Else what a mighty Trojan army had gnawed the dust
before they could ever straggle through their gates!
Now you’ve robbed me of great glory, saved their lives
with all your deathless ease. Nothing for you to fear,
no punishment to come. Oh I’d pay you back
if I only had the power at my command!”
No more words—he dashed toward the city,
heart racing for some great exploit, rushing on
like a champion stallion drawing a chariot full tilt,
sweeping across the plain in easy, tearing strides—
so Achilles hurtled on, driving legs and knees.