and his lady Phylomedusa with large lovely eyes.
Hector slashed Eioneus’ throat with a sharp spear,
ripped him under the helmet’s hammered bronze rim—
his legs collapsed in death.
Quick in the jolting onset
Lycia’s captain Glaucus son of Hippolochus skewered
Dexius’ son Iphinous just as he leapt behind
his fast mares—he stabbed his shoulder, hard,
and down from his car Iphinous crashed to earth
and his limbs went slack with death.
Rampaging Trojans!
Yes, but as soon as fiery-eyed Athena marked them
killing Argive ranks in this all-out assault,
down she rushed from the peaks of Mount Olympus
straight for sacred Troy. But Phoebus Apollo
spotting her from Pergamus heights—the god grim set
on victory for the Trojans—rose to intercept her . . .
As the two came face-to-face beside the great oak,
lord Apollo the son of Zeus led off, “What next?—
what is the mighty Zeus’s daughter blazing after now?
Down from Olympus, what heroics stir your heart?
No doubt you’ll hand your Argives victory soon,
you’ll turn the tide of battle!
You have no mercy, none for dying Trojans.
Come, listen to me—my plan is so much better:
let us halt the war and the heat of combat now,
at least for today. They’ll fight again tomorrow,
until they win their way to the fixed doom of Troy,
since that is your only passion—you two goddesses—
to plunder Troy to rubble.”
Athena’s eyes lit up
and the goddess said, “So be it, archer of the sky!
Those were my very thoughts, winging down from Olympus
into the midst of Trojans and Achaeans. But tell me,
how do you hope to stop the men from fighting?”
“Hector!”—lord Apollo the son of Zeus replied—
“We’ll spur his nerve and strength, that breaker of horses,
see if he’ll challenge one of the Argives man-to-man
and they will duel in bloody combat to the death.
Achaeans armed in bronze will thrill to his call,
they’ll put up a man to battle shining Hector.”
So Apollo staged the action. Her eyes afire
the goddess Pallas did not resist a moment.
She flashed the word in Helenus’ mantic spirit—
the son of Priam sensed what pleased the immortals
hatching instant plans, and coming up to Hector
advised him quickly, “Hector, son of Priam,
a mastermind like Zeus, listen to me now—
let your brother guide you.
Have all Trojans and Argives take their seats,
and you, you challenge Achaea’s bravest man
to duel in bloody combat to the death.
It’s not the hour to meet your doom, not yet.
I heard a voice of the gods who live forever.”
When Hector heard that challenge he rejoiced
and right in the no man’s land along his lines he strode,
gripping his spear mid-haft, staving men to a standstill
while Agamemnon seated his Argives geared for combat.
And Apollo lord of the silver bow and Queen Athena,
for all the world like carrion birds, like vultures,
slowly settled atop the broad towering oak
sacred to Zeus whose battle-shield is thunder,
relishing those men. Wave on wave of them settling,
close ranks shuddering into a dense, bristling glitter
of shields and spears and helmets—quick as a ripple
the West Wind suddenly risen shudders down the sea
and the deep sea swell goes dark beneath its force—
so settling waves of Trojan ranks and Achaeans
rippled down the plain . . .
And Hector rose and spoke between both sides:
“Hear me—Trojans, Achaeans geared for combat!
I’ll speak out what the heart inside me urges.
Our oaths, our sworn truce—Zeus the son of Cronus
throned in the clouds has brought them all to nothing
and all the Father decrees is death for both sides at once.
Until you Argives seize the well-built towers of Troy
or you yourselves are crushed against your ships.
But now,
seeing the best of all Achaeans fill your ranks,
let one whose nerve impels him to fight with me
come striding from your lines, a lone champion
pitted against Prince Hector. Here are the terms
that I set forth—let Zeus look down, my witness!
If that man takes my life with his sharp bronze blade,
he will strip my gear and haul it back to his ships.
But give my body to friends to carry home again,
so Trojan men and Trojan women can do me honor
with fitting rites of fire once I am dead.
But if I kill him and Apollo grants me glory,
I’ll strip his gear and haul it back to sacred Troy
and hang it high on the deadly Archer’s temple walls.
But not his body: I’ll hand it back to the decked ships,
so the long-haired Achaeans can give him full rites
and heap his barrow high by the broad Hellespont.
And someday one will say, one of the men to come,
steering his oar-swept ship across the wine-dark sea,
‘There’s the mound of a man who died in the old days,
one of the brave whom glorious Hector killed.’
So they will say, someday, and my fame will never die.“
A hushed silence went through all the Achaean ranks,
ashamed to refuse, afraid to take his challenge . . .
But at long last Menelaus leapt up and spoke,
lashing out at them, groaning, heartsick: “Oh no—
your threats, your bluster—women, not men of Achaea!
What disgrace it will be—shame, cringing shame
if not one Danaan now steps up to battle Hector.
You can all turn to earth and water—rot away!
Look at each of you, sitting there, lifeless,
lust for glory gone. I’ll harness up,
I’ll fight the man myself. The gods on high—
they hold the ropes of victory in their hands!”
With that he began to don his handsome gear.
And then and there, Menelaus,
the death-stroke would have blazed before your eyes—
dead at the hands of Hector, a far stronger man—
if Argive kings had not leapt up and caught you.
And Atreus’ son himself, powerful Agamemnon
seized your right hand, shouting out your name:
“You’re mad, my Prince! No need for such an outburst—
get a grip on yourself, distraught as you are.
Just for the sake of rivalry, soldier’s pride,
don’t rush to fight with a better man, with Hector
the son of Priam. Many others shrink before him.