while Argives bent the Trojans back. Each captain
killed his man. First Agamemnon lord of men
spilled the giant Odius, chief of the Halizonians
off his car—the first to fall, as he veered away
the spearhead punched his back between the shoulders,
gouging his flesh and jutting out through his ribs—
he fell with a crash, his armor rang against him.
Idomeneus cut down Phaestus, Maeonian Borus’ son
who shipped to Troy from the good rich earth of Tame.
As he tried to mount behind his team the famous spearman
stabbed a heavy javelin deep in his right shoulder—
he dropped from his war-car, gripped by the hateful dark.
Then as Idomeneus’ henchman stripped the corpse
Menelaus took Scamandrius down with a sharp spear—
Strophius’ son, a crack marksman skilled at the hunt.
Artemis taught the man herself to track and kill
wild beasts, whatever breeds in the mountain woods,
but the Huntress showering arrows could not save him now
nor the archer’s long shots, his forte in days gone by.
No, now Menelaus the great spearman ran him through,
square between the blades as he fled and raced ahead,
tearing into his flesh, drilling out through his chest—
he crashed facedown, his armor clanged against him.
Meriones killed Phereclus—son of Tecton,
son of the blacksmith Harmon—the fighter’s hands
had the skill to craft all kinds of complex work
since Pallas Athena loved him most, her protégé
who had built Paris his steady, balanced ships,
trim launchers of death, freighted with death
for all of Troy and now for the shipwright too:
what could the man know of all the gods’ decrees?
Meriones caught him quickly, running him down hard
and speared him low in the right buttock—the point
pounding under the pelvis, jabbed and pierced the bladder—
he dropped to his knees, screaming, death swirling round him.
Meges killed Pedaeus, Antenor’s son, a bastard boy
but lovely Theano nursed him with close, loving care
like her own children, just to please her husband.
Closing, Meges gave him some close attention too—
the famous spearman struck behind his skull,
just at the neck-cord, the razor spear slicing
straight up through the jaws, cutting away the tongue—
he sank in the dust, teeth clenching the cold bronze.
Euaemon’s son Eurypylus cut down brave Hypsenor,
son of lofty Dolopion, a man the Trojans made
Scamander’s priest and worshipped like a god.
But Euaemon’s royal son laid low his son—
Eurypylus, chasing Hypsenor fleeing on before him,
flailed with a sword, slashed the Trojan’s shoulder
and lopped away the massive bulk of Hypsenor’s arm ...
the bloody arm dropped to the earth, and red death
came plunging down his eyes, and the strong force of fate.
So they worked away in the rough assaults, but Diomedes,
which side was the fighter on? You could not tell—
did he rampage now with the Trojans or the Argives?
Down the plain he stormed like a stream in spate,
a routing winter torrent sweeping away the dikes:
the tight, piled dikes can’t hold it back any longer,
banks shoring the blooming vineyards cannot curb its course—
a flash flood bursts as the rains from Zeus pour down their power,
acre on acre the well-dug work of farmers crumbling under it—
so under Tydides’ force the Trojan columns panicked now,
no standing their ground, massed, packed as they were.
But the shining archer Pandarus marked him storming
down the plain, smashing the Trojan lines before him.
Quickly he trained his reflex bow on Diomedes
charging straight ahead—he shot! he struck him full
in the right shoulder, under the breastplate’s hollow
the ripping point tore deep, shearing its way through,
armor splattered with blood as Pandarus triumphed,
shouting over Tydides wildly, “Move up, attack,
my high-hearted Trojans, lash your stallions!
Look, the Achaean champion’s badly wounded—
I shot him down, I swear he won’t last long—
if the Archer really sped me here from Lycia!”
Bragging so,
but the whizzing arrow had not brought him down.
Diomedes just drew back beside his car and team
and stood there calling Sthenelus, Capaneus’ son:
“Quick, Sthenelus. Down from the car, my friend,
pull this wretched arrow from my shoulder!”
Sthenelus sprang from the car, hit the ground
and standing beside him, pulled the tearing arrow
clean on through the wound and blood came shooting out
like a red lance through the supple mesh shirt.
And Diomedes lord of the war cry prayed aloud,
“Hear me, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder,
tireless one, Athena! If you ever stood by father
with all your love amidst the blaze of battle,
stand by me—do me a favor now, Athena.
Bring that man into range and let me spear him!
He’s wounded me off guard and now he triumphs—
he boasts I won’t look long on the light of day.”
So Tydides prayed and Athena heard his prayer,
put spring in his limbs, his feet, his fighting hands
and close beside him winged him on with a flight of orders:
“Now take heart, Diomedes, fight it out with the Trojans!
Deep in your chest I’ve put your father’s strength.
He never quaked, that Tydeus, that great horseman—
what force the famous shieldsman used to wield!
Look, I’ve lifted the mist from off your eyes
that’s blurred them up to now—
so you can tell a god from man on sight.
So now if a god comes up to test your mettle,
you must not fight the immortal powers head-on,
all but one of the deathless gods, that is—
if Aphrodite daughter of Zeus slips into battle,
she’s the one to stab with your sharp bronze spear!”
Her eyes bright, Athena soared away and Tydeus’ son
went charging back to the front line of champions.
Now, long ablaze as he was to fight the Trojans,
triple the fury seized him—claw-mad as a lion
some shepherd tending woolly flocks in the field
has just grazed, a lion leaping into the fold,
but he hasn’t killed him, only spurred his strength
and helpless to beat him off the man scurries for shelter,
leaving his flocks panicked, lost as the ramping beast