and trample on the Argives in their triumph!”
The father of men and gods complied at once.
He winged Athena on with a flight of orders: “Quickly!
Down you go to Troy’s and Achaea’s armies now—
and see that the Trojans break the sworn truce first
and trample on the Argives in their triumph.”
So he launched Athena already poised for action.
Down the goddess swept from Olympus’ craggy peaks
and dove like a star the son of Cronus flings.
Cronus with all his turning, twisting ways—
a sign to men at sea or a massive army marching,
blazing on with a stream of sparks showering in its wake.
Like a shooting star Athena flashed across the earth,
plunging down in the midst of both camped forces.
Terror gripped the fighters looking on,
stallion-breaking Trojans, Argive men-at-arms.
One would glance at a comrade, groaning, “What next—
battle again, more pain and grisly fighting?
Or pacts between both armies? Peace from Zeus,
the great steward on high who rules our mortal wars?”
As Achaeans and Trojans wondered what was coming,
Athena merged in the Trojan columns like a fighter,
like Antenor’s son the rugged spearman Laodocus,
hunting for Pandarus, hoping to find the archer.
Find him she did, Lycaon’s skilled, fearless son,
standing by, flanked by the bands of shielded men
who’d trooped with him from Aesepus’ dark rapids.
Athena halted beside him, let her challenge fly:
“Here’s glory, son of Lycaon—let me tempt you,
you with your archer’s skill! Have you the daring
to wing an arrow at Menelaus? Just think what thanks,
what fame you’d win in the eyes of all the Trojans,
Prince Paris most of all. The first among all,
you’d bear off shining, priceless gifts from him.
Just let him see Menelaus, Atreus’ fighting son
brought down by your shaft and hoisted onto his pyre,
mourned with grief and tears! Come, up with you,
whip an arrow at this invincible Menetaus—now!
But swear to Apollo, Wolf-god, glorious Archer,
you’ll slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs
when you march home to Zelea’s sacred city.”
So Athena fired the fool’s heart inside him.
Then and there he unstrapped his polished bow,
the horn of a wild goat he’d shot in the chest
one day as the springy ibex clambered down a cliff.
Lurking there under cover, he hit it in the heart
and the fine kill went sprawling down the rocks.
The horns on its head ran sixteen hands in length
and a bowyer good with goat-horn worked them up,
fitted, clasped them tight, sanded them smooth
and set the golden notch-rings at the tips.
Superb equipment—bending it back hard
the archer strung his bow . . .
propping an end against the ground as cohorts
braced their shields in a tight wedge to hide him,
fearing bands of Argives might just leap to their feet
before he could hit Menelaus, Atreus’ fighting son.
He flipped the lid of his quiver, plucked an arrow
fletched and never shot, a shaft of black pain.
Quickly notching the sharp arrow on the string
he swore to Apollo, Wolf-god, glorious Archer,
he’d slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs
when he marched home to Zelea’s sacred city.
Squeezing the nock and string together, drawing
the gut back to his nipple, iron head to the handgrip
till he flexed the great weapon back in a half-circle curve—
the bow sprang! the string sang out, arrow shot away
razor-sharp and raging to whip through Argive ranks!
But you,
Menelaus, the blessed deathless gods did not forget you,
Zeus’s daughter the queen of fighters first of all.
She reared before you, skewed the tearing shaft,
flicking it off your skin as quick as a mother
flicks a fly from her baby sleeping softly.
Athena’s own hand deflected it down the belt
where the gold buckles clasp and breastplates overlap.
The shaft pierced the tight belt’s twisted thongs,
piercing the blazoned plates, piercing the guard
he wore to shield his loins and block the spears,
his best defense—the shaft pierced even this,
the tip of the weapon grazing the man’s flesh,
and dark blood came spurting from the wound.
Picture a woman dyeing ivory blood red ...
a Carian or Maeonian staining a horse’s cheekpiece,
and it’s stored away in a vault and troops of riders
long to sport the ornament, true, but there it lies
as a king’s splendor, kept and prized twice over—
his team’s adornment, his driver’s pride and glory.
So now, Menelaus, the fresh blood went staining down
your sturdy thighs, your shins and well-turned ankles.
The lord of men Agamemnon shuddered, frightened
to see the dark blood gushing from the wound.
And veteran Menelaus cringed himself but saw
the lashing-cords and barbs outside the gash
and his courage flooded back inside his chest.
Nevertheless, King Agamemnon, groaning heavily,
grasped Menelaus’ hand and spoke out for the men
as friends around him groaned as welclass="underline" “Dear brother—
that truce I sealed in blood was death for you,
setting you out alone ...
exposed before our lines to fight the Trojans—
Look how the men of Troy have laid you low,
trampling down our solemn, binding truce!
But they will never go for nothing, the oaths,
the blood of the lambs, the unmixed wine we poured,
the firm clasp of the right hand we trusted.
Never—
even if Zeus’s wrath does not strike home at once,
he’ll strike in his own good time with greater fury.
Transgressors will pay the price, a tremendous price,
with their own heads, their wives and all their children.
Yes, for in my heart and soul I know this welclass="underline"
the day will come when sacred Troy must die,
Priam must die and all his people with him,
Priam who hurls the strong ash spear!
The son of Cronus,
Zeus, throned aloft in the heavens where he lives,
Zeus himself will brandish over their heads
his black storm-shield, enraged at their deceit.
Nothing can stop it now. All this will come to pass.
But I will suffer terrible grief for you, Menelaus,
if you die now, if you fill out your destiny now—
and I go back to parching Argos in disgrace.