where battle-teams by the drove stampeded back in panic.
But their master hurled from the chariot, tumbling over the wheel
and pitching facedown in the dust, and above him now
rose Menelaus, his spear’s long shadow looming.
Adrestus hugged his knees and begged him, pleading,
“Take me alive, Atrides, take a ransom worth my life!
Treasures are piled up in my rich father’s house,
bronze and gold and plenty of well-wrought iron—
father would give you anything, gladly, priceless ransom
if only he learns I’m still alive in Argive ships!”
His pleas were moving the heart in Menelaus,
just at the point of handing him to an aide
to take him back to the fast Achaean ships . . .
when up rushed Agamemnon, blocking his way
and shouting out, “So soft, dear brother, why?
Why such concern for enemies? I suppose you got
such tender loving care at home from the Trojans.
Ah would to god not one of them could escape
his sudden plunging death beneath our hands!
No baby boy still in his mother’s belly,
not even he escape—all Ilium blotted out,
no tears for their lives, no markers for their graves!”
And the iron warrior brought his brother round—
rough justice, fitting too.
Menelaus shoved Adrestus back with a fist,
powerful Agamemnon stabbed him in the flank
and back on his side the fighter went, faceup.
The son of Atreus dug a heel in his heaving chest
and wrenched the ash spear out.
And here came Nestor
with orders ringing down the field: “My comrades—
fighting Danaans, aides of Ares—no plunder now!
Don’t lag behind, don’t fling yourself at spoils
just to haul the biggest portion back to your ship.
Now’s the time for killing! Later, at leisure,
strip the corpses up and down the plain!”
So he ordered, spurring each man’s nerve—
and the next moment crowds of Trojans once again
would have clambered back inside their city walls,
terror-struck by the Argives primed for battle.
But Helenus son of Priam, best of the seers
who scan the flight of birds, came striding up
to Aeneas and Hector, calling out, “My captains!
You bear the brunt of Troy’s and Lycia’s fighting—
you are our bravest men, whatever the enterprise,
pitched battle itself or planning our campaigns,
so stand your ground right here!
Go through the ranks and rally all the troops.
Hold back our retreating mobs outside the gates
before they throw themselves in their women’s arms in fear,
a great joy to our enemies closing for the kill.
And once you’ve roused our lines to the last man,
we’ll hold out here and fight the Argives down,
hard-hit as we are—necessity drives us on.
But you,
Hector, you go back to the city, tell our mother
to gather all the older noble women together
in gray-eyed Athena’s shrine on the city’s crest,
unlock the doors of the goddess’ sacred chamber—
and take a robe, the largest, loveliest robe
that she can find throughout the royal halls,
a gift that far and away she prizes most herself,
and spread it out across the sleek-haired goddess’ knees.
Then promise to sacrifice twelve heifers in her shrine,
yearlings never broken, if only she’ll pity Troy,
the Trojan wives and all our helpless children,
if only she’ll hold Diomedes back from the holy city—
that wild spearman, that invincible headlong terror!
He is the strongest Argive now, I tell you.
Never once did we fear Achilles so,
captain of armies, born of a goddess too,
or so they say. But here’s a maniac run amok—
no one can match his fury man-to-man!”
So he urged
and Hector obeyed his brother start to finish.
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.
And the Argives gave way, they quit the slaughter—
they thought some god swept down from the starry skies
to back the Trojans now, they wheeled and rallied so.
Hector shouted out to his men in a piercing voice,
“Gallant-hearted Trojans and far-famed allies!
Now be men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!
Till I can return to Troy and tell them all,
the old counselors, all our wives, to pray to the gods
and vow to offer them many splendid victims.”
As Hector turned for home his helmet flashed
and the long dark hide of his bossed shield, the rim
running the metal edge, drummed his neck and ankles.
And now
Glaucus son of Hippolochus and Tydeus’ son Diomedes
met in the no man’s land between both armies:
burning for battle, closing, squaring off
and the lord of the war cry Diomedes opened up,
“Who are you, my fine friend?—another born to die?
I’ve never noticed you on the lines where we win glory,
not till now. But here you come, charging out
in front of all the rest with such bravado—
daring to face the flying shadow of my spear.
Pity the ones whose sons stand up to me in war!
But if you are an immortal come from the blue,
I’m not the man to fight the gods of heaven.
Not even Dryas’ indestructible son Lycurgus,
not even he lived long . . .
that fellow who tried to fight the deathless gods.
He rushed at the maenads once, nurses of wild Dionysus,
scattered them breakneck down the holy mountain Nysa.
A rout of them strewed their sacred staves on the ground,
raked with a cattle prod by Lycurgus, murderous fool!
And Dionysus was terrified, he dove beneath the surf
where the sea-nymph Thetis pressed him to her breast—
Dionysus numb with fear: shivers racked his body,
thanks to the raucous onslaught of that man.
But the gods who live at ease lashed out against him—
worse, the son of Cronus struck Lycurgus blind.
Nor did the man live long, not with the hate
of all the gods against him.
No, my friend,
I have no desire to fight the blithe immortals.
But if you’re a man who eats the crops of the earth,
a mortal born for death—here, come closer,