tomorrow it’s ours, if he wants to give us glory.
There’s not a man alive who can fight the will of Zeus,
even a man of iron—Zeus is so much stronger!”
But Diomedes lord of the war cry answered,
“Right, old soldier—all you say is true.
But here’s the grief that cuts me to the quick:
one day this Hector will vaunt among his Trojans,
‘Diomedes ran for his ships—I drove him back!’
So he’ll boast, I know—
let the great earth gape and take me down that dayl”
But the noble horseman Nestor shouted back,
“Nonsense, steady Tydeus’ son—such loose talk!
Let Hector call you a coward, scorn your courage—
the Trojan and Dardan troops will never believe him,
nor will the wives of the lusty Trojan shieldsmen, never—
you flung their lords in the dust, laid them low in their prime!”
And with that he swung their racers round, mid-flight,
back again to the rout—Trojans and Hector after them,
shouting their savage cries and pelting both men now
with spears and painful arrows. Helmet flashing,
rangy Hector hurled a resounding yelclass="underline" “Diomedes—
once the Danaan riders prized you first of men
with pride of place, choice meats and brimming cups.
Now they will disgrace you, a woman after all.
Away with you, girl, glittering little puppet!
I’ll never yield, you’ll never mount our towers,
never drag our women back to your ships of war—
I’ll pack you off to the god of darkness first!”
Fighting words,
and Diomedes was torn two ways—he’d half a mind
to turn the team and take him face-to-face ...
Three times Tydides was tempted, heart and soul,
three times from the crags of Ida Zeus let loose his thunder,
the Master Strategist handing down a sign to the Trojans—
victory thunder turning the tide of war their way.
And Hector called to his men in a ringing voice,
“Trojans! Lycians! Dardan fighters hand-to-hand-
now be men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!
The Father nods his head in assent, I see, at last
he grants me glory, triumph—the Argives, bloody death.
Fools, erecting their rampart! Flimsy and futile,
not worth a second thought.
They’ll never hold me back in my onslaught now,
with a bound my team will leap that trench they dug.
But soon as I reach their hollow ships, torches—
don’t forget now, one of you bring me lethal fire!
I’ll bum their ships, I’ll slaughter all their men,
Argive heroes panicked in smoke along their hulls!”
And with that threat he called out to his horses,
“Golden and Whitefoot, Blaze and Silver Flash!
Now repay me for all the loving care Andromache,
generous Eetion’s daughter, showered on you aplenty.
First of the teams she gave you honey-hearted wheat,
she even mixed it with wine for you to drink
when the spirit moved her—before she’d serve me,
though I’m proud to say I am her loving husband.
After them, fast, full gallop! So we can seize
the shield of Nestor—its fame hits the skies,
solid gold, the handgrips and the shield itself—
and strip from the stallion-breaking Diomedes’ back
the burnished armor Hephaestus forged with all his skill.
If only we lay our hands on these, I’m filled with hope
they’ll take to their racing ships this very night!”
So he gloried but Queen Hera stirred in outrage,
she shook on her throne and Mount Olympus quaked
as she cried in the face of the rugged god Poseidon,
“You ruthless—the Earth-shaker with all your power—
not even a twinge of pity deep inside your heart
for all these Argives dying! The same fighters
who pile your gifts at Aegae port and Helice,
gifts by the shipload, hoards to warm your heart.
And you used to plan their victory! If only we,
we gods who defend the Argives had the will to hurl
the Trojans back and hold off thundering Zeus—
there he would sit and smolder,
throned in desolate splendor up on Ida.”
Deeply shaken, the god who rocks the earth replied,
“Hera, what wild words! What are you saying?
I for one have no desire to battle Zeus,
not you and I and the rest of the gods together.
The King is far too strong—he’ll crush us all.”
So they harangued each other to a standstill.
But as for Achaea’s forces, all the ground
that the broad trench enclosed from ships to wall
was crammed with chariots, teams and men in armor
packed into close quarters, yes, and the one man
who packed them there, a match for rushing Ares,
Hector the son of Priam, now Zeus gave Hector glory.
And now he might have gutted the ships with fire,
blazing fire—but Queen Hera impelled Agamemnon,
out on the run already, to go and rouse his men.
He made his way through Achaea’s ships and shelters,
flaring his great crimson cape with a strong hand
and stopped at Odysseus’ huge black-bellied hull,
moored mid-line so a shout could reach both wings,
upshore to Telamonian Ajax’ camp or down to Achilles’—
trusting so to their arms’ power and battle-strength
they’d hauled their trim ships up on either flank.
Agamemnon’s cry went piercing through the army:
“Shame! Disgrace! You Argives, you degraded—
splendid in battle dress, pure sham!
Where have the fighting taunts all gone? That time
you vaunted you were the finest force on earth—
all that empty bluster you let fly at Lemnos,
gorging yourselves on longhorn cattle meat
and drunk to the full on brimming bowls of wine,
bragging how each man could stand up to a hundred,
no, two hundred Trojan fighters in pitched battle.
Now our whole army is no match for one, for Hector—
he’ll gut our ships with blazing fire at any moment!
Father Zeus, when did you ever strike a mighty king
with such mad blindness—then tear away his glory?
Not once,
I swear, did I pass some handsome shrine of yours,
sailing my oar-swept ship on our fatal voyage here,
but on each I burned the fat and thighs of oxen,
longing to raze Troy’s sturdy walls to the roots.
So, Father, at least fulfill this prayer for me:
let the men escape with their lives if nothing else—
don’t let these Trojans mow us down in droves!“