Even Achilles dreads to pit himself against him
out on the battle lines where men win glory—
Achilles, far and away a stronger man than you.
Go back. Sit down with the comrades you command.
We’ll put up another champion to go against this Hector.
Fearless, is he? and never sated with fighting?
He’ll gladly sink to a knee and rest, I’d say,
if the man comes through alive
from the fight he begs for, dueling to the death.”
Again the iron warrior brought his brother round—
good counsel, fitting too. Menelaus yielded at once.
His aides, elated, lifted the armor off his shoulders.
And then lord Nestor rose and spoke among the men:
“No more—or enormous sorrow comes to all Achaea!
How he would groan at this, the old horseman Peleus,
that fine speaker, the Myrmidons’ famed commander.
How he rejoiced that day, questioning me in his halls,
when he learned the blood and birth of all the Argives.
Now if he heard how all cringe in the face of Hector,
time and again he’d stretch his hands to the gods
and pray that life breath would quit his limbs
and sink to the House of Death.
Oh if only-
Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo—I were young again!
Fresh as the day we fought by Celadon’s rapids,
our Pylians in platoons against Arcadian spearmen
under Phia’s ramparts, round the Iardanus’ banks.
When Arcadia’s champion Ereuthalion strode forth,
a man like a god for power, his shoulders decked
with King Areithous’ armor, massive Areithous ...
the Great War-club, so they called that hulk,
his men-at-arms and their sashed and lovely women.
He would never fight with a bow or long spear, no,
with his giant iron club he’d break battalions open.
That monster—Lycurgus cut him down by stealth,
not force at all, on a footpath so cramped
his iron club was useless fending off his death.
There—before he could heft it—a sudden lunge
and Lycurgus’ spear had run him through the guts.
Flat on his back he went, slamming against the ground
and his killer stripped the armor brazen Ares gave him.
He donned it himself, for years of grueling war,
but then, when Lycurgus grew too old in his halls,
he passed it on to a favorite henchman, Ereuthalion,
and sporting that gear he challenged all our best.
And they, they shook from head to foot, terrified,
none with the nerve to face him then. Only I—
my hardened courage drove me to fight the man
in a hot burst of daring,
and I the youngest trooper of us all . . .
I took him on and Athena gave me glory. By heaven,
Ereuthalion was the biggest, strongest man I ever killed,
the huge lumbering sprawl of him stretching far and wide!
Oh make me young again, and the strength inside me
steady as a rock! Hector with that flashing helmet
would meet his match in combat in a moment.
You, the bravest of all Achaeans—and not one
with the spine to battle Hector face-to-face!“
The old man’s taunts brought nine men to their feet.
First by far Agamemnon lord of men sprang up
and following him Tydides, powerful Diomedes,
next the Great and Little Ajax armed in fury,
Idomeneus after them and Idomeneus’ good aide,
Meriones, a match for the butcher god of war,
Eurypylus after them, Euaemon’s gallant son,
Thoas son of Andraemon, Odysseus out for exploit:
all were roused to go up against Prince Hector.
Once more the fine old horseman gave commands:
“Now shake the lots for all,
the first to the last man—we’ll see who wins.
He’s the one to do his Achaean comrades proud,
do himself proud too, if he comes through alive
from the fight that waits him, dueling to the death.”
And each soldier scratched his mark on a stone
and threw it into Atrides Agamemnon’s helmet.
Fighters prayed. Stretching hands to the gods
a man would murmur, scanning the wide sky,
“Father Zeus, let Ajax win, or Tydeus’ son
or the proud king himself of all Mycenae’s gold!”
So they prayed as the old horseman shook the lots
and one leapt from the helmet, the one they wanted most—
Great Ajax’ lot it was. And the herald took it round
through all the ranks, left to right for luck,
and showed it to all Achaea’s bravest men.
None of them knew it, each denied the mark.
But once he’d passed it round and reached the man
who had scratched the stone and thrown it in the helmet—
Ajax bent on glory—out went his hand to take it,
the herald pausing beside him dropped it in
and Ajax knew his mark and thrilled to see it,
flung it down at his feet and shouted, “Friends—
the lot is mine and it fills my heart with joy!
I know I can overpower this dazzling Hector.
But come, while I strap my battle-armor on,
all of you pray to Cronus’ son, almighty Zeus.
Pray to yourselves in silence, so Trojans cannot hear—
no, pray out loud!
No one at all to fear. No one can rout me—
his will against my will—not by force,
god knows, and not by a sly maneuver either.
I’m not such a raw recruit, I like to think,
born and bred on Salamis.”
So Great Ajax vaunted
and men prayed to the son of Cronus, King Zeus.
They’d call out, scanning the wide sky, “Father Zeus—
ruling over us all from Ida, god of greatness, glory!
Now let Ajax take this victory, shining triumph!
But if you love Hector, if you hold him dear,
at least give both men equal strength and glory.”
So they prayed
as Ajax harnessed himself in burnished, gleaming bronze
and once he had strapped his legs and chest in armor,
out he marched like the giant god of battle wading
into the wars of men when Zeus drives them hard
to clash and soldier on with heart-devouring hate.
So giant Ajax marched, that bulwark of the Achaeans—
a grim smile curling below his dark shaggy brows,
under his legs’ power taking immense strides,
shaking his spear high, its long shadow trailing.
The men of Argos exulted at the sight of him there
but terrible tremors shook each Trojan fighter’s knees—
Hector himself, his heart pounding against his ribs.
But how could he shrink before the enemy, slip back