mauls them thick-and-fast, piling corpse on corpse
and in one furious bound clears the fenced yard—
so raging Diomedes mauled the Trojans.
There—
he killed Astynous, then Hypiron, a frontline captain.
One he stabbed with a bronze lance above the nipple,
the other his heavy sword hacked at the collarbone,
right on the shoulder, cleaving the whole shoulder
clear of neck and back. And he left them there,
dead, and he made a rush at Abas and Polyidus,
sons of Eurydamas, an aged reader of dreams,
but the old prophet read no dreams for them
when they set out for Troy—Diomedes laid them low
then swung to attack the two sons of Phaenops,
hardy Xanthus and Thoon, both men grown tall
as their father shrank away with wasting age ...
he’d never breed more sons to leave his riches to.
The son of Tydeus killed the two of them on the spot,
he ripped the dear life out of both and left their father
tears and wrenching grief. Now he’d never welcome
his two sons home from war, alive in the flesh,
and distant kin would carve apart their birthright.
Next Diomedes killed two sons of Dardan Priam
careening on in a single car, Echemmon and Chromius.
As a lion charges cattle, calves and heifers
browsing the deep glades and snaps their necks,
so Tydides pitched them both from the chariot,
gave them a mauling—gave them little choice—
quickly stripped their gear and passed their team
to his men to lash back to the ships.
Smashing
the lines of fighters now—
but Aeneas marked it all
and oblivious to the rain of spears he waded in,
hunting for Pandarus, hoping to find the archer.
Find him he did, Lycaon’s skilled, fearless son,
and went right up and challenged him to his face:
“Pandarus, where’s your bow, your winged arrows,
your archer’s glory? No Trojan your rival here,
no Lycian can claim to be your better, no—
so up with you now! Lift your hands to Zeus,
you whip an arrow against that man, whoever he is
who routs us, wreaking havoc against us, cutting the legs
from under squads of good brave men. Unless it’s a god
who smolders at our troops, enraged at a rite we failed—
when a god’s enraged there’s thunder at our heads.”
And Lycaon’s shining son took up the challenge:
“Aeneas, counselor of the Trojans armed in bronze,
he looks like Tydeus’ son to me in every way—
I know his shield, the hollow eyes of his visor,
his team, I’ve watched them closely.
And still I could never swear he’s not a god ...
but if he’s the man I think he is, Tydeus’ gallant son,
he rages so with a god beside him—not alone, no—
a god with his shoulders shrouded round in cloud
who deflects my shaft to a less mortal spot.
I had already whipped an arrow into him,
caught him square in the right shoulder too,
just where the breastplate leaves the armpit bare,
and I thought I’d sent him down to the House of Death
but I’ve still not laid him low. So it is some god rampaging!
And here I am, no chariot, no team to speed me on.
But back in Lycaon’s halls are eleven war-cars,
beauties all, fresh from the smith and fire-new
and blankets spread across them. And beside each
a brace of stallions standing poised and pawing,
champing their oats and barley glistening white.
Over and over father, the old spearman Lycaon
urged me, setting out from his well-built halls,
‘Take those teams and cars,’ he told me, ‘mount up,
lead the Trojans into the jolting shocks of battle!’
But would I listen? So much the better if I had ...
I had to spare my teams. They’d never starve for fodder—
crammed with the fighters—bred to eat their fill.
So I left them there, I made it to Troy on foot,
trusting my bows and arrows, and a lot of good
I was to get from them. Already I’ve let fly
at two of their best men, Diomedes and Menelaus—
I’ve hit them both, and the blood gushed from both,
direct hits, but I only roused their fury.
What bad luck-
to snatch this curved bow off its peg that day
I marched my Trojans hard to your lovely town of Troy,
to please Prince Hector. But if I get home again
and set my eyes on my native land, my wife
and my fine house with the high vaulting roof,
let some stranger cut my head off then and there
if I don’t smash this bow and fling it in the fire—
the gear I packed is worthless as the wind.“
Aeneas the Trojan captain checked him sharply:
“No talk of turning for home! No turning the tide
till we wheel and face this man with team and car
and fight it out with weapons hand-to-hand.
Come, up with you now, climb aboard my chariot!
So you can see the breed of Tros’s team, their flair
for their own terrain as they gallop back and forth,
one moment in flight, the next in hot pursuit.
They’ll sweep us back to the city, back to safety
if Zeus hands Tydeus’ son the glory once again.
Quick, take up the whip and glittering reins!
I’ll dismount from the car and fight on foot—
or you engage the man and leave the team to me.”
The shining son of Lycaon made the choice:
“Take up the reins yourself, Aeneas. Do—
they’re your team, they’ll haul your curving chariot
so much better under the driver they know best
if we have to beat retreat from Diomedes.
God forbid they panic, skittish with fear,
buck and never pull us out of the fighting,
missing your own voice as Tydeus’ son attacks—
he’ll kill us both and drive them off as prizes.
So drive them yourself, your chariot and your team
and let him charge—I’ll take him on with a sharp spear.”
Both men agreed, boarding the blazoned chariot,
wildly heading their racers at Diomedes now.
Capaneus’ good son Sthenelus saw them coming
and quickly alerted Diomedes, warnings flying:
“Tydides, joy of my heart, dear comrade, look!
I see two men and they’re bearing down to fight you!
Their power’s enormous—one’s a master archer,
Pandarus, son of Lycaon, so he boasts.
The other’s Aeneas, claims Anchises’ blood,
the noble Anchises, but his mother’s Aphrodite.
Come, up you go in our chariot, give ground now!