into a crowd of cohorts now? He was the challenger,
he with his lust for battle. Ajax strode on, closing,
bearing his huge body-shield like a rampart, heavy bronze
over seven layers of oxhide. Tychius made it for him,
laboring long, the finest leather-smith by far:
over in Hyle where the master had his home
he crafted that famous gleaming shield for Ajax,
layering seven welted hides of sturdy well-fed bulls
and hammered an eighth layer of bronze to top it off.
And now holding that great shield before his chest
Telamonian Ajax marched right up to Hector,
threatening with his deep resounding voice,
“Hector, now you’ll learn, once and for all,
in combat man-to-man, what kind of champions
range the Argive ranks, even besides Achilles,
that lionheart who mauls battalions wholesale.
Off in his beaked seagoing ships Achilles lies,
raging away at Agamemnon, marshal of armies—
but here we are, strong enough to engage you,
and plenty of us too. Come—
lead off, if you can, with all your fighting power!”
A flash of his helmet as rangy Hector shook his head:
“Ajax, royal son of Telamon, captain of armies,
don’t toy with me like a puny, weak-kneed boy
or a woman never trained in works of war!
War—I know it well, and the butchery of men.
Well I know, shift to the left, shift to the right
my tough tanned shield. That’s what the real drill,
defensive fighting means to me. I know it all,
how to charge in the rush of plunging horses—
I know how to stand and fight to the finish,
twist and lunge in the War-god’s deadly dance.
On guard!
Big and bluff as you are, I’ve no desire to hit you
sniping in on the sly—
I’d strike you out in the open, strike you now!”
He hurled—
his spear’s long shadow flew and it struck Ajax’ shield,
that awesome seven-layered buckler, right on the eighth,
the outside layer of bronze that topped it off,
through six hides it tore but the seventh stopped
the relentless brazen point.
But Great Ajax next—
dear to the gods he hurled and his spear’s shadow flew
and the shaft hit Hector’s round shield, hit full center—
straight through the gleaming hide the heavy weapon drove,
ripping down and in through the breastplate finely worked,
tearing the war-shirt, close by Hector’s flank it jabbed
but the Trojan swerved aside and dodged black death.
Both seized their lances, wrenched them from the shields
and went for each other now like lions rending flesh
or a pair of wild boars whose power never flags.
Hector stabbed at the buckler, full center too,
not smashing through, the brazen point bent back—
and Ajax lunged at him, thrusting hard at his shield
and the shaft punched through, rammed him back in his fury
and grazed his neck and the dark blood gushed forth.
But not even then did Hector quit the battle . . .
backing, helmet flashing, his strong hand hefting
a rock from the field, dark, jagged, a ton weight—
he hurled it at Ajax, struck the gigantic shield,
seven oxhides thick, struck right on the jutting boss
and the bronze clanged, echoing round and round as Ajax
hoisting a boulder—far larger—wheeled and heaved it,
putting his weight behind it, tremendous force—
and the rock crashed home, Hector’s shield burst in,
hit by a millstone—and Hector’s fine knees buckled,
flat on his back he went, his shield crushing down on him
swept him off his feet. But Apollo quickly pulled him up—
and now they’d have closed with swords, hacked each other
if heralds of Zeus and men had not come rushing in,
one from the Trojans, one from the armed Achaeans,
Talthybius and Idaeus, both with good clear heads.
Parting them, holding their staffs between both men,
the herald Idaeus, cool, skilled in tactics, urged,
“No more, my sons—don’t kill yourselves in combat!
Zeus who marshals the storm cloud loves you both.
You’re both great fighters—we all know that full well.
The night comes on at last. Best to yield to night.”
But the giant Ajax answered briskly, “Wait,
Idaeus, tell Hector here to call the truce.
Mad for a fight, he challenged all our bravest.
Let him lead off. I’ll take his lead, you’ll see.”
His helmet flashed as Hector nodded: “Yes, Ajax,
since god has given you power, build and sense
and you are the strongest spearman of Achaea,
let us break off this dueling to the death,
at least for today. We’ll fight again tomorrow,
until some fatal power decides between our armies,
handing victory down to one side or another. Look,
the night comes at last. Best to yield to night.
So you will bring some joy to Achaea’s forces
camped beside their ships, and most of all
to your own troops, the comrades you command.
But I’ll go back to the great city of King Priam
and bring some joy to the men of Troy and Trojan women
trailing their long robes. Thankful for my return
they’ll go to meet the gods and sing their praises.
Come,
let us give each other gifts, unforgettable gifts,
so any man may say, Trojan soldier or Argive,
‘First they fought with heart-devouring hatred,
then they parted, bound by pacts of friendship.’ “
With that he gave him his silver-studded sword,
slung in its sheath on a supple, well-cut sword-strap,
and Ajax gave his war-belt, glistening purple.
So both men parted, Ajax back to Achaea’s armies,
Hector back to his thronging Trojans—overjoyed
to see him still alive, unharmed, striding back,
free of the rage and hands of Ajax still unconquered.
They escorted him home to Troy—saved, past all their hopes—
while far across the field the Achaean men-at-arms
escorted Ajax, thrilled with victory, back to Agamemnon.
Soon as they had gathered within the warlord’s tents
he sacrificed an ox in their midst, a full-grown ox,
five years old, to the towering son of Cronus, Zeus.
They skinned the animal quickly, butchered the carcass,
expertly cut the meat into pieces, pierced them with spits,
roasted them to a turn and pulled them off the fire.
The work done, the feast laid out, they ate well
and no man’s hunger lacked a share of the banquet.