words, endless words—that is your passion, always,
as once in the days of peace. But ceaseless war’s upon us!
Time and again I’ve gone to battle, fought with men
but I’ve never seen an army great as this. Too much—
like piling leaves or sand, and on and on they come,
advancing across the plain to fight before our gates.
Hector, I urge you first of all—do as I tell you.
Armies of allies crowd the mighty city of Priam,
true, but they speak a thousand different tongues,
fighters gathered here from all ends of the realm.
Let each chief give commands to the tribe he leads,
move them out, marshal his own contingents—now!”
Hector missed nothing—that was a goddess’ call.
He broke up the assembly at once. They rushed to arms
and all the gates flung wide and the Trojan mass surged out,
horses, chariots, men on foot—a tremendous roar went up.
Now a sharp ridge rises out in front of Troy,
all on its own and far across the plain
with running-room around it, all sides clear.
Men call it Thicket Ridge, the immortals call it
the leaping Amazon Myrine’s mounded tomb, and there
the Trojans and allies ranged their troops for battle.
First, tall Hector with helmet flashing led the Trojans—
Priam’s son and in his command by far the greatest, bravest army,
divisions harnessed in armor, veterans bristling spears.
And the noble son of Anchises led the Dardanians—
Aeneas whom the radiant Aphrodite bore Anchises
down the folds of Ida, a goddess bedded with a man.
Not Aeneas alone but flanked by Antenor’s two sons,
Acamas and Archelochus, trained for every foray.
And men who lived in Zelea under the foot of Ida,
a wealthy clan that drank the Aesepus’ dark waters—
Trojans all, and the shining son of Lycaon led them on,
Pandarus, with the bow that came from Apollo’s own hands.
And the men who held the land of Apaesus and Adrestia,
men who held Pityea, Terea’s steep peaks—the units led
by Adrestus joined by Amphius trim in linen corslet,
the two good sons of Merops out of Percote harbor,
Merops adept beyond all men in the mantic arts.
He refused to let his two boys march to war,
this man-killing war, but the young ones fought him
all the way—the forces of black death drove them on.
And the men who lived around Percote and Practios,
men who settled Sestos, Abydos and gleaming Arisbe:
Asius son of Hyrtacus led them on, captain of armies,
Hyrtacus’ offspring Asius—hulking, fiery stallions
bore him in from Arisbe, from the Selleis River.
Hippothous led the Pelasgian tribes of spearmen,
fighters who worked Larissa’s dark rich plowland.
Hippothous and Pylaeus, tested soldier, led them on,
both sons of Pelasgian Lethus, Teutamus’ scion.
Acamas and the old hero Pirous led the Thracians,
all the Hellespont bounds within her riptide straits.
Euphemus led the Cicones, fighters armed with spears,
son of Troezenus, Ceas’ son, a warlord bred by the gods.
Pyraechmes led the Paeonians, reflex bows in hand,
hailing from Amydon far west and the broad river Axius,
Axius, clearest stream that flows across the earth.
That burly heart Pylaemenes led his Paphlagonians
out of Enetian country, land where the wild mules breed:
the men who held Cytorus and lived in range of Sesamus,
building their storied halls along the Parthenius River,
at Cromna, Aegialus and the highland fortress Erythini.
Odius and Epistrophus led the Halizonians out of Alybe
miles east where the mother lode of silver came to birth.
Chromis led the Mysian men with Ennomus seer of birds—
but none of his winged signs could beat off black death.
Down he went, crushed by racing Achilles’ hands, destroyed
in the river where he slaughtered other Trojans too.
Ascanius strong as a god and Phorcys led the Phrygians
in from Ascania due east, primed for the clash of combat.
Mesthles and Antiphus led Maeonia’s proud contingent,
Talaemenes’ two sons sprung from the nymph of Gyge Lake
led on Maeonian units born and bred under Mount Tmolus.
Nastes led the Carians wild with barbarous tongues,
men who held Miletus, Phthires’ ridges thick with timber,
Maeander’s currents and Mount Mycale’s craggy peaks.
Amphimachus and Nastes led their formations on,
Nastes and Amphimachus, Nomion’s flamboyant sons.
Nastes strolled to battle decked in gold like a girl,
the fool! None of his trappings kept off grisly death—
down he went, crushed by racing Achilles’ hands, destroyed
at the ford where battle-hard Achilles stripped his gold away.
And last, Sarpedon and valiant Glaucus marched the Lycians on
from Lycia far south, from the Xanthus’ swirling rapids.
BOOK THREE
Helen Reviews the Champions
Now with the squadrons marshaled, captains leading each,
the Trojans came with cries and the din of war like wildfowl
when the long hoarse cries of cranes sweep on against the sky
and the great formations flee from winter’s grim ungodly storms,
flying in force, shrieking south to the Ocean gulfs, speeding
blood and death to the Pygmy warriors, launching at daybreak
savage battle down upon their heads. But Achaea’s armies
came on strong in silence, breathing combat-fury,
hearts ablaze to defend each other to the death.
When the South Wind showers mist on the mountaintops,
no friend to shepherds, better than night to thieves—
you can see no farther than you can fling a stone—
so dust came clouding, swirling up from the feet of armies
marching at top speed, trampling through the plain.
Now closer, closing, front to front in the onset
till Paris sprang from the Trojan forward ranks,
a challenger, lithe, magnificent as a god,
the skin of a leopard slung across his shoulders,
a reflex bow at his back and battle-sword at hip
and brandishing two sharp spears tipped in bronze
he strode forth, challenging all the Argive best
to fight him face-to-face in mortal combat.
Soon as the warrior Menelaus marked him,
Paris parading there with his big loping strides,
flaunting before the troops, Atrides thrilled
like a lion lighting on some handsome carcass,
lucky to find an antlered stag or wild goat