blacker, whipping the whitecaps, full hurricane fury—
the herdsman shudders to see it, drives his flocks to a cave—
so dense the battalions grouped behind the two Aeantes,
packed, massed with hardy fighters dear to the gods,
battalions black and bristling shields and spears,
fighters sweeping into the breaking storm of war.
And King Agamemnon, thrilled to see that sight,
sped them on with a rousing flight of praises:
“Ajax—Ajax! Chiefs of the Argives armed in bronze,
no orders for you—it’s wrong to incite you two,
you lead your men to war in so much force.
Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo, if all my fighters
had such courage pounding inside their chests,
we’d bring King Priam’s citadel crashing down
in an instant, sacked at our hands—annihilated.”
He spun on his heels and left them there in place,
heading for other ranks and came on Nestor next,
the clear speaker of Pylos posting troops,
readying them for action, combat units forming
under the lanky Pelagon, Alastor and Chromius,
Haemon and stocky Bias, skilled captain of armies.
Forward he ranged the charioteers with teams and cars,
backed by infantry close behind them, milling, brave men,
the defensive line of battle—that would be their role.
But the known cowards he drove amidst the center:
a man might cringe but he’d be forced to fight.
And first he gave his drivers strict commands
to rein their teams back hard and never panic,
no fouling them in the onslaught: “Let no man,
so sure of his horsemanship and soldier’s prowess,
dare to fight it out alone with the Trojans,
exposed in front of his lines. No heroics now!
But give no ground—the charge will go to pieces.
And any charioteer who reaches Trojan chariots,
thrust your spear from your own car, don’t throw it!
Better that way—it’s tighter, stronger fighting.
So men before your time stormed walls and cities,
holding fast to that tactic, warring on with heart.”
The old soldier spurring his men with skills
from a lifetime spent campaigning, battles long ago.
And King Agamemnon, thrilled to see his efforts,
cheered him on with a flight of praise: “Old war-horse,
if only your knees could match the spirit in your chest
and your body’s strength were planted firm as rock,
but the great leveler, age, has worn you down.
If only some other fighter had your years
and you could march with the younger, fitter men!”
And Nestor the seasoned charioteer replied,
“True, Atrides, if only I were the man I was,
years ago, when I cut down rugged Ereuthalion ...
but the gods won’t give us all their gifts at once.
If I was a young man then, now old age dogs my steps.
Nevertheless, I’ll still troop with the horsemen,
give them maneuvers, discipline and commands:
that is the right and pride of us old men.
The young spearmen will do the work with spears.
Younger than Nestor, the next generation up,
flush with their fresh strength.”
So Nestor said
and Atrides ranged forward, glad at heart,
and came on Peteos’ son the charioteer
Menestheus standing idle, and circling him
Athenian men who could raise the cry of battle.
And there beside them the great tactician Odysseus,
drawn up with his Cephallenians grouped around him,
bands of them, no mean fighters, watching, waiting.
The call to action had still not reached their ears
and the columns were only just now forming, moving out,
stallion-breaking Trojans and long lines of Achaeans.
So the Cephallenians held their ground there, poised ...
when would some other Argive unit make its charge,
engage the Trojan front and open up in battle?
Spotting them now the lord of men Agamemnon
dressed them down with a winging burst of scorn:
“You there, Peteos’ son, a king, dear to the gods!
And you, the captain of craft and cunning, shrewd with greed!
Why are you cowering here, skulking out of range?
Waiting for others to do your fighting for you?
You—it’s your duty to stand in the front ranks
and take your share of the scorching blaze of battle.
First you are, when you hear of feasts from me,
when Achaeans set out banquets for the chiefs.
Then you’re happy enough to down the roast meats
and cups of honeyed, mellow wine—all you can drink.
But now you’d gladly watch ten troops of Achaeans
beat you to this feast,
first to fight with the ruthless bronze before you!”
The great tactician Odysseus gave him a dark glance
and shot back at once, “Now what’s this, Atrides,
this talk that slips through your clenched teeth?
How can you say I hang back from the fighting
when Argive units spur the slashing god of war
against these Trojan horsemen? Just you watch,
if you’ll take the time and care to taste some action,
watch Telemachus’ loving father lock and fight
with enemy champions, stallion-breaking Trojans.
You and your bluster—you are talking nonsense!”
Seeing his anger flare, field marshal Agamemnon
smiled broadly and took back his taunts at once:
“Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, great tactician,
I must not bait you so beyond the limit ...
must not give you orders. I know for a fact
the spirit in your heart is well-disposed
to me and all my efforts. We see eye-to-eye.
Come, we’ll set these things to rights later—
if any offense has passed between us now.
May the gods make all our bluster come to nothing.”
He left him there in place, heading for other chiefs.
And he came on Tydeus’ son, impetuous Diomedes
standing by in his bolted car behind his team
with Sthenelus flanked beside him, Capaneus’ son.
And spotting Tydides there, field marshal Agamemnon
gave him a winging burst of scorn: “What’s this?—
you, the son of Tydeus, that skilled breaker of horses?
Why cringing here? Gazing out on the passageways of battle!
That was never Tydeus’ way, shy behind the lines—
he’d grapple enemies, bolting ahead of comrades.
Or so they claim who watched him at his work.
I never met the man myself, never saw him,
but they say he had no equal. True enough,
he came to Mycenae once but not at war with us—