So he prayed
and the Father filled with pity, seeing Atrides weep.
The god bent his head that the armies must be saved,
not die in blood. That instant he launched an eagle—
truest of Zeus’s signs that fly the skies—a fawn
clutched in its talons, sprung of a running doe,
but he dropped it free beside the handsome shrine
where Achaean soldiers always sacrificed to Zeus
whose voice rings clear with omens. Seeing the eagle
sent their way from Zeus, they roused their war-lust,
flung themselves on the Trojans with a vengeance.
There,
massed in formation as they were, not a single man
could claim he outstripped Diomedes, Tydeus’ son
lashing his high-strung team across the trench
to reach the front and battle hand-to-hand-
the first by far to kill a Trojan captain,
Agelaus the son of Phradmon. He’d just turned
his chariot round in flight and once he’d swerved
Diomedes’ spear went punching through his back,
gouging his shoulder blade and driving through his chest—
he spilled from the chariot, armor clanging against him.
Diomedes plowed on and after him came the Atridae,
Agamemnon and Menelaus, following in their wake
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,
and Teucer came up ninth, tensing his reflex bow
and lurking under the wall of giant Ajax’ shield.
As Ajax raised the rim, the archer would mark a target,
shoot through the lines—the man he hit dropped dead
on the spot—and quick as a youngster ducking under
his mother’s skirts he’d duck under Ajax’ shield
and the gleaming shield would hide him head to toe.
Who was the first Trojan the marksman Teucer hit?
Orsilochus first, then Ormenus, Ophelestes,
Daetor and Chromius, princely Lycophontes,
Polyaemon’s son Amopaon and Melanippus too—
corpse on corpse he dropped to the earth that rears us all.
And King Agamemnon, thrilled at the sight of Teucer
whipping arrows off his bow, reaping the Trojan ranks,
strode up and sang his praises: “Teucer, lovely soldier,
Telamon’s son, pride of the armies—now you’re shooting!
You’ll bring a ray of hope to your men, your father too.
He raised you when you were little, a bastard boy,
no matter—Telamon tended you in his own house.
Far off as he is, you’ll set him up in glory.
I tell you this, so help me it’s the truth:
if Zeus with his storm-shield and Queen Athena
ever let me plunder the strong walls of Troy,
you are the first, the first after myself—
I’ll place some gift of honor in your hands,
a tripod, or purebred team with their own car
or a fine woman to mount and share your bed.”
And Teucer gave his captain a faultless answer:
“Great field marshal, why bother to spur me on?
I go all-out as it is.
With all the power in me I’ve never quit,
not from the time we rolled them back to Troy.
I’ve stalked with my bow and picked them off in packs.
Eight arrows I’ve let fly, with long sharp barbs,
and all stuck in the flesh of soldiers quick to fight—
but I still can’t bring this mad dog Hector down!”
The archer loosed a fresh shaft from the bowstring
straight for Hector, his spirit longing to hit him—
but he missed and cut Gorgythion down instead,
a well-bred son of Priam, a handsome prince,
and the arrow pierced his chest, Gorgythion
whom Priam’s bride from Aesyme bore one day,
lovely Castianira lithe as a deathless goddess . . .
As a garden poppy, burst into red bloom, bends,
drooping its head to one side, weighed down
by its full seeds and a sudden spring shower,
so Gorgythion’s head fell limp over one shoulder,
weighed down by his helmet.
Quick with another arrow,
the archer let fly from his bowstring straight for Hector,
his spirit straining to hit him—shot and missed again
as Apollo skewed his shaft—
but he leveled Archeptolemus, Hector’s daring driver
charging headlong, caught him square in the chest
beside the nipple and off his car he pitched
as his horses balked, rearing, pawing the air.
There on the spot his strength and life collapsed
and blinding grief for the driver overpowered Hector,
stunned for his friend but he left him lying there
and cried out to his brother Cebriones close by,
“Take the reins!” Cebriones rushed to obey—
but Hector leapt down from the burnished car,
he hit the earth with a yell, seized a rock
and went for Teucer, mad to strike the archer
just plucking a bitter arrow from his quiver,
notching it on the string and drawing back the bow
to his right shoulder, when Hector, helmet flashing,
caught him where the collarbone bridges neck and chest,
the deadliest spot of all. There Hector struck,
hurling the jagged rock at Teucer drawing in fury—
snapped the string and his hand went numb at the wrist,
he dropped to a knee, dazed . . . the bow slipped from his grip.
But giant Ajax would never fail his fallen brother—
he ran to straddle and hide him with his shield
as a brace of comrades shouldered up the fighter:
Echius’ son Mecisteus helping good Alastor
bore him back to the hollow warships, groaning hard.
And again the Olympian Father fired up the Trojans
ramming Argives back against their own deep trench.
Hector far in the lead, bristling in all his force
like a hound that harries a wild boar or lion—
hot pursuit, snapping quick at his heels,
hindquarters and flanks but still on alert
for him to wheel and fight—so Hector harried
the long-haired Argives, killing the last stragglers,
man after lagging man and they, they fled in panic.
Back through stakes and across the trench they fled,
and hordes were cut down at the Trojans’ hands—the rest,
only after they reached the shipways, stood fast
and shouting out to each other, flung their arms
to all the immortals, each man crying out a prayer.
But Hector swerved his horses round at the trench’s edge,
wheeling back and forth, tossing their gorgeous manes,
with Hector’s eyes glaring bright as a Gorgon’s eyes