“Courage, Athena, third-born of the gods, dear child.
Nothing I said was meant in earnest—trust me,
I mean you all the good will in the world.”
With that,
he harnessed his bronze-hoofed horses onto his battle-car,
his pair that raced the wind with their golden manes
streaming on behind them, and strapping golden armor
around his body, Zeus himself took up his whip
that coils lithe and gold and climbed aboard.
A crack of the lash—the team plunged to a run
and on the stallions flew, holding nothing back
as they winged between the earth and starry skies
and gaining the slopes of Ida with all her springs,
the mother of wild beasts, they reached Gargaron peak
where the grove of Zeus and Zeus’s smoking altar stand.
There the father of men and gods reined in his team,
set them free and around them poured a dense mist.
And Zeus assumed his throne on the mountaintop,
exulting in all his glory, gazing out over
the city walls of Troy and the warships of Achaea.
Quickly the long-haired Achaeans took their meal
throughout the shelters, then they armed at once.
And on their side the Trojans put on harness too,
mustering throughout the city, a smaller force
but nerved to engage in combat even so—
necessity pressed them to fight for sons and wives.
All the gates flung wide and the Trojan mass surged out,
horses, chariots, men on foot—a tremendous roar went up.
And now as the armies clashed at one strategic point
they slammed their shields together, pike scraped pike
with the grappling strength of fighters armed in bronze
and their round shields’ bosses pounded hide-to-hide
and the thunder of struggle roared and rocked the earth.
Screams of men and cries of triumph breaking in one breath,
fighters killing, fighters killed, and the ground streamed blood.
As long as morning rose and the blessed day grew stronger,
the weapons hurtled side-to-side and men kept falling.
But once the sun stood striding at high noon, so
then Father Zeus held out his sacred golden scales:
in them he placed two fates of death that lays men low—
one for the Trojan horsemen, one for Argives armed in bronze—
and gripping the beam mid-haft the Father raised it high
and down went Achaea’s day of doom, Achaea’s fate
settling down on the earth that feeds us all
as the fate of Troy went lifting toward the sky.
And Zeus let loose a huge crash of thunder from Ida,
hurling his bolts in a flash against Achaea’s armies.
The men looked on in horror. White terror seized them all.
Neither Idomeneus nor Agamemnon dared stand his ground,
nor did the Great and Little Ajax, old campaigners,
Nestor alone held out,
the noble horseman, Achaea’s watch and ward,
but not of his own will. One horse was finished,
hit by a shaft that fair-haired Helen’s lord,
magnificent Paris winged at its brow’s high peak
where the forelock crowns the skull—most fatal spot.
It reared in agony, arrow piercing its brain and flung
the team in panic, writhing round the brazen point
as the old horseman hewed the trace-horse clear,
hacked away the straps—sudden strokes of his sword.
But on came Hector’s team in the rush-and-buck of battle,
sweeping their driver Hector on in fighting-fury
and then and there old Nestor would have died
if Diomedes had not marked him fast—
the lord of the war cry gave a harrowing shout,
trying to rouse Odysseus: “Where are you running,
the royal son of Laertes, cool tactician?
Turning your back in battle like some coward!
Cutting and running so—take care that no one
spears you in the back! Hold firm with me—
we’ll fight this wild maniac off the old man here!”
But long-enduring Odysseus never heard him—
down he dashed to the hollow Argive ships.
So all on his own Diomedes charged the front,
lurched to a halt before old Nestor’s team
and winged a flight of orders at the horseman:
“Old soldier, these young fighters wear you down—
your strength goes slack and old age dogs your steps,
your driver’s worthless, your horses drag their weight.
Come, up with you now, climb aboard my chariot!
So you can see the breed of Tros’s team, their flair
for their own terrain as they gallop back and forth,
one moment in flight, the next in hot pursuit—
I took them both from Aeneas, driving terrors.
Your own good team? Our aides will handle them—
we’ll steer these racers straight at the Trojans now,
the great breakers of horses. We’ll let Hector see
if the spear in my hand is mad for bloodshed too!”
And the old charioteer rose to the challenge.
Aides caught his team, Sthenelus, loyal Eurymedon,
as the two commanders boarded Diomedes’ car.
Nestor grasped the glistening reins in both fists,
lashed the team and they charged straight at Hector
charging straight at them as Tydides hurled a spear
and missed his man but he picked the driver off,
Eniopeus son of proud Thebaeus gripping the reins—
he slashed him beside the nipple, stabbed his chest
and off the car he pitched, his horses balking, rearing.
There on the spot the man’s strength and life collapsed
and blinding grief for his driver overpowered Hector,
stunned for his friend but he left him lying there,
dead, and swept on, out for another hardy driver.
Nor did his team go long without a master,
Hector found one quickly—Iphitus’ daring son,
Archeptolemus—mounted him up behind his racers,
thrust the reins in the fighting driver’s hands.
Now there would have been havoc, irreversible chaos,
the Trojans penned in the walls of Troy like sheep,
but the father of men and gods was quick to the mark.
A crash of thunder! Zeus let loose a terrific bolt
and blazing white at the hoofs of Diomedes’ team
it split the earth, a blinding smoking flash—
molten sulphur exploding into the air,
stallions shying, cringing against the car—
and the shining reins flew free of Nestor’s grip.
His heart quaking, he cried to Diomedes, “Quick, Tydides,
swing these stallions round and fly! Can’t you see?
Victory comes from Zeus but not for you.
He hands the glory to Hector, today at least—