No charging the front ranks—you might lose your life.”
But powerful Diomedes froze him with a glance:
“Not a word of retreat. You’ll never persuade me.
It’s not my nature to shrink from battle, cringe in fear
with the fighting strength still steady in my chest.
I shrink from mounting our chariot—no retreat—
on foot as I am, I’ll meet them man-to-man.
Athena would never let me flinch. Those two?
Their horses will never sweep them clear of us,
not both men, though one or the other may escape.
One more thing—take it to heart, I tell you—
if part of Athena’s plan gives me the honor
to kill them both, you check our racers here,
you lash them fast to our rails
then dash for Aeneas’ horses—don’t forget—
drive them out of the Trojan lines and into ours.
They are the very strain farseeing Zeus gave Tros,
payment in full for stealing Ganymede, Tros’s son:
the purest, strongest breed of all the stallions
under the dawn and light of day. Lord Anchises
stole from that fine stock—behind Laomedon’s back,
Tros’s grandson and heir to Tros’s teams—
he put some mares to the lusty stallions once
and they foaled him a run of six in his royal house.
Four he kept for himself, to rear in his own stalls,
but the two you see in action he gave Aeneas,
both of them driving terrors. Would to god
we’d take them both—we’d win ourselves great fame.”
Wavering back and forth as their two attackers
closed in a rush, whipping that purebred team along
and Pandarus shouted first, “What mad bravado—
lofty Tydeus’ boy will brave it out! So,
my arrow failed to bring you down, my tearing shot?
Now for a spear—we’ll see if this can kill you!”
Shaft poised, he hurled and its long shadow flew
and it struck Tydides’ shield, the brazen spearhead
winging, drilling right on through to his breastplate,
Pandarus yelling over him wildly now, “You’re hit—
clean through the side! You won’t last long, I’d say—
now the glory’s mine!”
But never shaken,
staunch Diomedes shot back, “No hit—you missed!
But the two of you will never quit this fight, I’d say,
till one of you drops and dies and gluts with blood
Ares who hacks at men behind his rawhide shield!”
With that he hurled and Athena drove the shaft
and it split the archer’s nose between the eyes—
it cracked his glistening teeth, the tough bronze
cut off his tongue at the roots, smashed his jaw
and the point came ripping out beneath his chin.
He pitched from his car, armor clanged against him,
a glimmering blaze of metal dazzling round his back—
the purebreds reared aside, hoofs pawing the air
and his life and power slipped away on the wind.
Aeneas sprang down with his shield and heavy spear,
fearing the Argives might just drag away the corpse,
somehow, somewhere. Aeneas straddled the body—
proud in his fighting power like some lion—
shielded the corpse with spear and round buckler,
burning to kill off any man who met him face-to-face
and he loosed a bloodcurdling cry. Just as Diomedes
hefted a boulder in his hands, a tremendous feat—
no two men could hoist it, weak as men are now,
but all on his own he raised it high with ease,
flung it and struck Aeneas’ thigh where the hipbone
turns inside the pelvis, the joint they call the cup—
it smashed the socket, snapped both tendons too
and the jagged rock tore back the skin in shreds.
The great fighter sank to his knees, bracing himself
with one strong forearm planted against the earth,
and the world went black as night before his eyes.
And now the prince, the captain of men Aeneas
would have died on the spot if Zeus’s daughter
had not marked him quickly, his mother Aphrodite
who bore him to King Anchises tending cattle once.
Round her beloved son her glistening arms went streaming,
flinging her shining robe before him, only a fold
but it blocked the weapons hurtling toward his body.
She feared some Argive fast with chariot-team
might hurl bronze in his chest and rip his life out.
She began to bear her dear son from the fighting ...
but Capaneus’ son did not forget the commands
the lord of the war cry put him under. Sthenelus
checked his own racers clear of the crash of battle,
lashed them tight to his chariot-rails with reins
then dashed for Aeneas’ glossy full-maned team
and drove them out of the Trojan lines and into his.
He passed them on to Deipylus, a friend-in-arms
he prized beyond all comrades his own age—
their minds worked as one—to drive to the ships
as Sthenelus mounted behind his own chariot now,
seized the glittering reins and whipped his team,
his strong-hoofed horses ahead at breakneck speed,
rearing, plunging to overtake his captain Diomedes
but he with his ruthless bronze was hunting Aphrodite—
Diomedes, knowing her for the coward goddess she is,
none of the mighty gods who marshal men to battle,
neither Athena nor Enyo raider of cities, not at all,
But once he caught her, stalking her through the onslaught,
gallant Tydeus’ offspring rushed her, lunging out,
thrusting his sharp spear at her soft, limp wrist
and the brazen point went slashing through her flesh,
tearing straight through the fresh immortal robes
the Graces themselves had made her with their labor.
He gouged her just where the wristbone joins the palm
and immortal blood came flowing quickly from the goddess,
the ichor that courses through their veins, the blessed gods—
they eat no bread, they drink no shining wine, and so
the gods are bloodless, so we call them deathless.
A piercing shriek—she reeled and dropped her son.
But Phoebus Apollo plucked him up in his hands
and swathed him round in a swirling dark mist
for fear some Argive fast with chariot-team
might hurl bronze in his chest and rip his life out.
But Diomedes shouted after her, shattering war cries:
“Daughter of Zeus, give up the war, your lust for carnage!
So, it’s not enough that you lure defenseless women
to their ruin? Haunting the fighting, are you?