and set him down on the sacred heights of Pergamus,
the crest where the god’s own temple had been built.
There in the depths of the dark forbidden chamber
Leto and Artemis who showers flights of arrows
healed the man and brought him back to glory.
But the lord of the silver bow devised a phantom—
like Aeneas to the life, wearing his very armor—
and round that phantom Trojans and brave Achaeans
went at each other, hacking the oxhides round their chests,
the bucklers full and round, skin-shields, tassels flying.
But Phoebus Apollo called to blazing Ares, “Ares, Ares,
destroyer of men, reeking blood, stormer of ramparts,
can’t you go and drag that man from the fighting?
That daredevil Diomedes, he’d fight Father Zeus!
He’s just assaulted Love, he stabbed her wrist—
like something superhuman he even charged at me!”
With that, Apollo settled onto Pergamus heights
while murderous Ares. wading into the fighting,
spurred the Trojan columns on to mass attack.
Shaped like the runner Acamas, prince of Thrace,
Ares challenged the sons of Priam with a vengeance:
“You royal sons of Priam, monarch dear to the gods,
how long will you let Achaeans massacre your army?
Until they’re battling round your well-built gates?
A man is down we prized on a par with noble Hector—
Aeneas, proud Anchises’ son. Up with you now,
rescue him from the crash of battle! Save our comrade!”
As Ares whipped the fighting spirit in each man
Sarpedon taunted Hector: “Hector, where has it gone—
that high courage you always carried in your heart?
No doubt you bragged that you could hold your city
without an army and Trojan allies—all on your own,
just with your sister’s husbands and your brothers.
But where are they now? I look, I can’t find one.
They cringe and cower like hounds circling a lion.
We—your allies here—we do your fighting for you.
And I myself, Hector, your ally-to-the-death,
a good long way I came from distant Lycia,
far from the Xanthus’ rapids where I left
my loving wife, my baby son, great riches too,
the lasting envy of every needy neighbor.
And still I lead our Lycians into battle.
Myself? I chafe to face my man, full force,
though there’s not a scrap of mine for looting here,
no cattle or gold the foe could carry off. But you,
you just stand there—don’t even command the rest
to brace and defend their wives.
Beware the toils of war ...
the mesh of the huge dragnet sweeping up the world,
before you’re trapped, your enemies’ prey and plunder—
soon they’ll raze your sturdy citadel to the roots!
All this should obsess you, Hector, night and day.
You should be begging the men who lead your allies’
famous ranks to stand and fight for all they’re worth—
you’ll ward off all the blame they hurl against you.”
And Sarpedon’s charge cut Hector to the core.
Down he leapt from his chariot fully armed, hit the ground
and brandishing two sharp spears went striding down his lines,
ranging flank to flank, driving his fighters into battle,
rousing grisly war—and round the Trojans whirled,
bracing to meet the Argives face-to-face:
but the Argives closed ranks, did not cave in.
Remember the wind that scatters the dry chaff,
sweeping it over the sacred threshing floor,
the men winnowing hard and blond Demeter culling
grain from dry husk in the rough and gusting wind
and under it all the heaps of chaff are piling white ...
so white the Achaeans turned beneath the dust storm now,
pelting across their faces, kicked up by horses’ hoofs
to the clear bronze sky—the battle joined again.
Charioteers swung chariots round,
thrust the powerful fist of fury straight ahead
and murderous Ares keen to help the Trojans
shrouded the carnage over in dense dark night—
lunging at all points, carrying out the commands
of Phoebus Apollo, lord of the golden sword,
who ordered Ares to whip the Trojans’ war-lust
once he spotted Athena veering off the lines,
great Pallas who’d rushed to back the Argives.
Out of his rich guarded chamber the god himself
launched Aeneas now, driving courage into his heart
and the captain took his place amidst his men.
And how they thrilled to see him still alive,
safe, unharmed and marching back to their lines,
his soul ablaze for war, but his men asked him nothing.
The labor of battle would not let them, more labor urged
by the god of the silver bow and man-destroying Ares
and Strife flaring on, headlong on.
The Achaeans?
The two Aeantes, Tydides and Odysseus spurred them
on to attack. The troops themselves had no fear,
no dread of the Trojans’ power and breakneck charges,
no, they stood their ground like heavy thunderheads
stacked up on the towering mountaintops by Cronus’ son,
stock-still in a windless calm when the raging North Wind
and his gusty ripping friends that had screamed down
to rout dark clouds have fallen dead asleep. So staunch
they stood the Trojan onslaught, never shrinking once
as Atrides ranged the ranks, shouting out commands:
“Now be men, my friends! Courage, come, take heart!
Dread what comrades say of you here in bloody combat!
When men dread that, more men come through alive—
when soldiers break and run, good-bye glory,
good-bye all defenses!”
A flash, a sudden hurl
and Atrides speared a champion out in front—
it was Prince Aeneas’ comrade-in-arms Deicoon,
Pergasus’ son the Trojans prized like Priam’s sons,
quick as he always was to join the forward ranks.
Now his shield took powerful Agamemnon’s spear
but failed to deflect it, straight through it smashed,
bronze splitting his belt and plunging down his guts—
he fell, thundering, armor ringing against him.
There-
Aeneas replied in kind and killed two Argive captains,
Diodes’ two sons, Orsilochus flanking Crethon.
Their father lived in the fortress town of Phera,
a man of wealth and worth, bom of Alpheus River
running wide through Pylian hills, the stream
that sired Ortilochus to rule their many men.
Ortilochus sired Diocles, that proud heart,