clean through the shoulder went the brazen point
and down in the dust he fell like a lithe black poplar
shot up tall and strong in the spreading marshy flats,
the trunk trimmed but its head a shock of branches.
A chariot-maker fells it with shining iron ax
as timber to bend for handsome chariot wheels
and there it lies, seasoning by the river . . .
So lay Anthemion’s son Simoisius, cut down
by the giant royal Ajax.
Antiphus hurled at him—
the son of Priam wearing a gleaming breastplate
let fly through the lines but his sharp spear missed
and he hit Leucus instead, Odysseus’ loyal comrade,
gouging his groin as the man hauled off a corpse—
it dropped from his hands and Leucus sprawled across it.
Enraged at his friend’s death Odysseus sprang in fury,
helmed in fiery bronze he plowed through the front
and charging the enemy, glaring left and right
he hurled his spear—a glinting brazen streak—
and the Trojans gave ground, scattering back,
panicking there before his whirling shaft—
a direct hit! Odysseus struck Democoon,
Priam’s bastard son come down from Abydos,
Priam’s racing-stables. Incensed for the dead
Odysseus speared him straight through one temple
and out the other punched the sharp bronze point
and the dark came swirling thick across his eyes—
down he crashed, armor clanging against his chest.
And the Trojan front shrank back, glorious Hector too
as the Argives yelled and dragged away the corpses,
pushing on, breakneck on. But lord god Apollo,
gazing down now from the heights of Pergamus,
rose in outrage, crying down at the Trojans,
“Up and at them, you stallion-breaking Trojans!
Never give up your lust for war against these Argives!
What are their bodies made of, rock or iron to block
your tearing bronze? Stab them, slash their flesh!
Achilles the son of lovely sleek-haired Thetis—
the man’s not even fighting, no, he wallows
in all his heartsick fury by the ships!”
So he cried
from far on the city’s heights, the awesome god Apollo.
But Zeus’s daughter Athena spurred the Argives on—
Athena first in glory, third-born of the gods—
whenever she saw some slacker hanging back
as she hurtled through the onset.
Now Amarinceus’ son
Diores—fate shackled Diores fast and a jagged rock
struck him against his right shin, beside the ankle.
Pirous son of Imbrasus winged it hard and true,
the Thracian chief who had sailed across from Aenus ...
the ruthless rock striking the bones and tendons
crushed them to pulp—he landed flat on his back,
slamming the dust, both arms flung out to his comrades,
gasping out his life. Pirous who heaved the rock
came rushing in and speared him up the navel—
his bowels uncoiled, spilling loose on the ground
and the dark came swirling down across his eyes.
But Pirous—
Aetolian Thoas speared him as he swerved and sprang away,
the lancehead piercing his chest above the nipple
plunged deep in his lung, and Thoas, running up,
wrenched the heavy spear from the man’s chest,
drew his blade, ripped him across the belly,
took his life but he could not strip his armor.
Look, there were Pirous’ cohorts bunched in a ring,
Thracians, topknots waving, clutching their long pikes
and rugged, strong and proud as the Trojan Thoas was,
they shoved him back—he gave ground, staggering, reeling.
And so the two lay stretched in the dust, side-by-side,
a lord of Thrace, a lord of Epeans armed in bronze
and a ruck of other soldiers died around them.
And now
no man who waded into that work could scorn it any longer,
anyone still not speared or stabbed by tearing bronze
who whirled into the heart of all that slaughter—
not even if great Athena led him by the hand,
flicking away the weapons hailing down against him.
That day ranks of Trojans, ranks of Achaean fighters
sprawled there side-by-side, facedown in the dust.
BOOK FIVE
Diomedes Fights the Gods
Then Pallas Athena granted Tydeus’ son Diomedes
strength and daring—so the fighter would shine forth
and tower over the Argives and win himself great glory.
She set the man ablaze, his shield and helmet flaming
with tireless fire like the star that flames at harvest,
bathed in the Ocean, rising up to outshine all other stars.
Such fire Athena blazed from Tydides’ head and shoulders,
drove him into the center where the masses struggled on.
There was a Trojan, Dares, a decent, wealthy man,
the god Hephaestus’ priest who had bred two sons,
Phegeus and Idaeus, trained for every foray ...
Breaking ranks they rushed ahead in their chariot,
charging Diomedes already dismounted,
rearing up on foot.
They went for each other fast, close range—
Phegeus hurled first, his spear’s shadow flew
and over Tydides’ left shoulder the tip passed
and never touched his body. Tydides hurled next,
the bronze launched from his hand and not for nothing:
hitting Phegeus’ chest between the nipples it pitched him out
behind his team. Idaeus leapt, abandoned the handsome car
but did not dare to stand and defend his dead brother—
and not even so would he have fled his black death
but the god of fire swept him off and saved him,
shrouding the man in night so the old priest
would not be wholly crushed with one son left.
But high-hearted Tydides drove away the team
and gave them to aides to lash both horses back
to the hollow ships. And now despite their courage
the Trojan fighters seeing the two sons of Dares,
one on the run, one dead beside his chariot—
all their hearts were stunned ...
But Athena, eyes bright, taking Ares in hand,
called the violent god away with: “Ares, Ares,
destroyer of men, reeking blood, stormer of ramparts,
why not let these mortals fight it out for themselves?
Let Zeus give glory to either side he chooses.
We’ll stay clear and escape the Father’s rage.”
And so, luring the headlong Ares off the lines
Athena sat him down on Scamander’s soft, sandy banks