For the men will turn their minds toward home at once,
and we must leave Priam and all the men of Troy
a trophy to glory over, Helen, queen of Argos ...
But the plowland here will rot your bones, my brother,
as you lie dead in Troy, your mission left unfinished.
Then some Trojan will glory, swaggering, arrogant,
leaping down on the grave of famous Menelaus:
‘Let Agamemnon wreak his anger so on all his foes!
Just as he led his armies here for nothing, failure.
Now home he’s gone to the dear land of his fathers,
his warships empty, leaving behind the hero Menelaus
moldering in his wake!’
So some Trojan will trumpet—
let the great earth gape and take me down that day!“
But the red-haired Menelaus tried to calm him:
“Courage. Don’t alarm the men, not for a moment.
The point’s not lodged in a mortal spot, you see?
My glittering war-belt stopped the shot in front,
my loin-piece and the plated guard below it,
gear the bronzesmiths hammered out for me.”
And marshal Agamemnon took his lead:
“Pray god you’re right, dear brother Menelaus!
But the wound—a healer will treat it, apply drugs
and put a stop to the black waves of pain.”
Agamemnon turned to the sacred herald:
“Quick, Talthybius. Call Machaon here,
the son of Asclepius, that unfailing healer,
to see to Menelaus, Atreus’ fighting son.
An archer’s hit him, a good hand at the bow,
some Trojan or some Lycian—all glory to him,
a heavy blow to us.”
The herald obeyed at once.
He ran through ranks of Achaeans armed in bronze,
searching for brave Machaon. Find him he did,
standing by, flanked by the bands of shielded men
who’d trooped with him from the stallion-land of Tricca.
He halted beside him there and let his message fly:
“Quickly, son of Asclepius, King Agamemnon calls!
Now see to Menelaus, Achaea’s fighting captain.
An archer’s hit him, a good hand at the bow,
some Trojan or some Lycian—at! glory to him,
a heavy blow to us!”
So the herald shouted,
stirring Machaon’s spirit. Back the two men ran
through crowds of troops in Achaea’s vast encampment.
And gaining the place where red-haired Menelaus
nursed his wound and a growing ring of warlords
pressed around him, striding into their midst
the godsent healer reached the captain’s side
and quickly drew the shaft from his buckled belt—
he pulled it clear, the sharp barbs broke back.
He loosed the glittering belt and slipped it off
and the loin-piece and the plated guard below it,
gear the bronzesmiths made. When he saw the wound
where the tearing arrow hit, he sucked out the blood
and deftly applied the healing salves that Chiron,
friend of Asclepius, gave his father long ago.
And all the while they worked over Menelaus
whose cry could marshal armies, on the Trojans came,
columns armed for assault, and again the Argives
donned their gear and roused their lust for war.
King Agamemnon’s hour. You would not find him asleep,
not cringing a moment, hanging back from the struggle—
he pressed for battle now where men win glory.
He left his team and burnished bronze car
with an aide, Eurymedon, Ptolemaeus Piraides’ son
reining off to the side his snorting pair of stallions.
He gave him strict orders to keep them close at hand
for the time his knees might buckle with fatigue
from bringing crowds of soldiers into line.
Then out he went on foot to range the ranks.
The charioteers he spotted, fast with teams,
he’d halt beside and spur them on: “My Argives,
never relax your nerve, your fighting strength!
Father Zeus, I swear, will never defend the Trojans,
liars—they were the first to trample on their oaths.
So vultures will eat them raw, their firm young flesh,
and we, we’ll drag their dear wives and helpless children
back to the beaked ships, once we’ve seized their city!”
But any men he saw retreating from hateful battle
he would lash with a sharp burst of rage: “You Argives—
glorious braggarts! Disgraces—have you no shame?
Just standing there, dumbstruck like fawns
done in from hightailing over some big meadow,
winded and teetering, heart inside them spent.
Standing there dazed, your fighting spirit dead—
what are you waiting for? You want these Trojans
to pin you against your high sterns beached in the surf?
To see if Zeus will stretch his hands above your heads
and save your craven lives?”
So the commander
ranged Achaea’s ranks and brought them into line.
Moving on through the crowds he found the Cretans
arming for combat now, ringing brave Idomeneus.
Strong as a boar he urged his frontline troops
as Meriones brought the rear battalions up.
King Agamemnon, thrilled to watch them work,
was quick to salute the chief and sing his praises:
“You are the one I prize, Idomeneus, more than all
our Argive fighters fast with chariot-teams—
whether in war or action of any sort
or feasts where the ranking Argive warlords
mix their bowls with the shining wine of kings.
What if the rest of all the long-haired Achaeans
drink their measure off? Your cup stands filled, always,
brimmed like mine when the will stirs you to drink—
so now drink deep of battle. Be that fighter
you claimed to be in all the years gone by.”
The Cretan captain Idomeneus answered warmly,
“Trust me, Atrides—count on me, your comrade,
staunch as I swore at first, that day I bowed my head.
Now fire up the rest of your long-haired Achaeans.
On with the fighting, quickly!
The Trojans broke our binding truce just now—
death and grief to the men of Troy hereafter!
They were the first to trample on our pact.”
Hearing that,
the son of Atreus strode on. Elated and making way
through crowds of troops he found the two called Ajax,
Great and Little, both captains armed for attack
with a cloud of infantry forming up behind them.
Think how a goatherd off on a mountain lookout
spots a storm cloud moving down the sea ...
bearing down beneath the rush of the West Wind
and miles away he sees it building black as pitch,