And halting her horses near, the white-armed Hera
called out at once to the powerful son of Cronus,
pressing home her questions: “Father Zeus, look—
aren’t you incensed at Ares and all his brutal work?
Killing so many brave Achaeans for no good reason,
not a shred of decency, just to wound my heart!
While there they sit at their royal ease, exulting,
the goddess of love and Apollo lord of the silver bow:
they loosed this manic Ares—he has no sense of justice.
Father Zeus . . . I wonder if you would fume at me
if I hurled a stunning blow at the god of war
and drove him from the fighting?”
Zeus the Father
who marshals ranks of storm clouds gave commands,
“Leap to it then. Launch Athena against him—
the queen of plunder, she’s the one—his match,
a marvel at bringing Ares down in pain.”
So he urged and the white-armed goddess Hera
obeyed at once. And again she lashed her team
and again the stallions flew, holding nothing back,
careering between the earth and starry skies as far
as a man’s glance can pierce the horizon’s misting haze,
a scout on a watchtower who scans the wine-dark sea—
so far do the soaring, thundering horses of the gods
leap at a single stride. And once they reached
the plains of Troy where the two rivers flow,
where Simois and Scamander rush together,
the white-armed goddess Hera reined her team,
loosing them from the chariot-yoke and round them
poured a dense shrouding mist and before their hoofs
the Simois sprang ambrosial grass for them to graze.
The two immortals stepped briskly as wild doves,
quivering, keen to defend the fighting men of Argos.
Once they gained the spot where the most and bravest stood,
flanking strong Diomedes breaker of wild stallions—
massed like a pride of lions tearing raw flesh
or ramping boars whose fury never flags—
the white-armed goddess Hera rose and shouted
loud as the brazen voice of great-lunged Stentor
who cries out with the blast of fifty other men,
“Shame! Disgrace! You Argives, you degraded—
splendid in battle dress, pure sham!
As long as brilliant Achilles stalked the front
no Trojan would ever venture beyond the Dardan Gates,
they were so afraid of the man’s tremendous spear.
Now they’re fighting far away from the city,
right by your hollow ships!”
So Hera trumpeted,
lashing the nerve and fighting-fury in each man
as Athena, her eyes blazing, made for Diomedes.
Hard by his team and car she found the king,
cooling the wound that Pandarus’ arrow dealt him.
Sweat from under the heavy buckler’s flat strap
had rubbed him raw, he was chafed and his arm ached
from lifting up the strap, wiping off the blood
and the dark clots. Laying hold of the yoke
that bound his team, the goddess Pallas started,
“So, Tydeus’ son is half the size of his father,
and he was short and slight—but Tydeus was a fighter!
Even then, when I forbade him to go to war
or make a show of himself in others’ eyes . . .
that time, alone, apart from his men, he marched
the message into Thebes, filled with hordes of Thebans,
I told him to banquet in their halls and eat in peace.
But he always had that power, that courage from the first—
and so he challenged the brave young blades of Thebes
to tests of strength and beat them all with ease,
I urged him on with so much winning force.
But you, Tydides, I stand by you as well,
I guard you too. And with all good will I say,
fight it out with the Trojans here! But look at you—
fatigue from too much charging has sapped your limbs,
that or some lifeless fear has paralyzed you now.
So you’re no offspring of Tydeus,
the gallant, battle-hardened Oeneus’ son!”
And powerful Diomedes bowed to her at once:
“Well I know you, Goddess, daughter of storming Zeus,
and so I will tell you all, gladly. I’ll hide nothing.
It’s not some lifeless fear that paralyzes me now,
no flinching from combat either.
It’s your own command still ringing in my ears,
forbidding me to fight the immortals head-on,
all but one of the blessed gods, that is—
if Aphrodite daughter of Zeus slips into battle,
she’s the one to stab with my sharp bronze spear.
So now, you see, I have given ground myself
and told my comrades to mass around me here.
Too well I know that Ares leads the charge.”
But the goddess roused him on, her eyes blazing:
“True son of Tydeus, Diomedes, joy of my heart!
Forget the orders—nothing to fear, my friend,
neither Ares nor any other god. You too,
I’ll urge you on with so much winning force.
Up now! Lash your racing horses at Ares first,
strike him at close range, no shrinking away here
before that headlong Ares! Just look at the maniac,
born for disaster, double-dealing, lying two-faced god—
just now he promised me and Hera, the War-god swore
he’d fight the Trojans, stand behind the Argives.
But now, look, he’s leading the Trojan rampage,
his pledges thrown to the winds!”
With that challenge
Athena levered Sthenelus out the back of the car.
A twist of her wrist and the man hit the ground,
springing aside as the goddess climbed aboard,
blazing to fight beside the shining Diomedes.
The big oaken axle groaned beneath the weight,
bearing a great man and a terrifying goddess—
and Pallas Athena seized the reins and whip,
lashing the racing horses straight at Ares.
The god was just stripping giant Periphas bare,
the Aetolians’ best fighter, Ochesius’ noble son—
the blood-smeared Ares was tearing off his gear
but Athena donned the dark helmet of Death
so not even stark Ares could see her now.
But the butcher did see Tydeus’ rugged son
and he dropped gigantic Periphas on the spot
where he’d just killed him, ripped his life away
and Ares whirled at the stallion-breaking Diomedes—
the two of them closing fast, charging face-to-face
and the god thrust first, over Tydides’ yoke and reins,
with bronze spear burning to take the fighter’s life.
But Athena, her eyes afire, grabbed the flying shaft,