or Ares‘, man-destroying Ares’.
A total rout—
and white-armed Hera saw it, and filled with pity
the goddess’ words went winging toward Athena:
“Look, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder—
don’t we care for them any longer? All our Argives
dying there in droves! This is our last chance.
They’re filling out their fates to the last gasp,
hacked to pieces under a single man’s assault.
This maniac, Hector—I cannot bear him any longer.
Look at the savage slaughter he has made!”
Eyes blazing,
Athena answered, “Let him die a thousand deaths!—
Hector’s life and his battle-frenzy blotted out
by the Argives here on Hector’s native soil.
But Father rages now, that hard black heart,
always the old outrage, dashing all my plans!
Not a thought for the many times I saved his son
Heracles, worked to death by the labors of Eurystheus.
How he would whine to the high skies—till Father Zeus
would rush me down from the clouds to save his life.
If only I’d foreseen all this, I and my cunning—
that day Eurystheus sent him down to Death,
to the lord who guards the gates, to drag up
from the dark world the hound of grisly Death—
he would never have fled the steep cascading Styx.
But Zeus hates me now. He fulfills the plans of Thetis
who cupped his chin in her hand and kissed his knees,
begging Zeus to exalt Achilles scourge of cities.
But the day will come when Father, well I know,
calls me his darling gray-eyed girl again.
So now you harness the racing team for us
while I go into the halls of storming Zeus
and buckle on my gear and arm for combat.
Now I’ll see if Hector, for all his flashing helmet,
leaps for joy when the two of us come blazing forth
on the passageways of battle—or one of his Trojans too
will glut the dogs and birds with his fat and flesh,
brought down in blood against the Argive ships!”
The white-armed goddess Hera could not resist.
Hera queen of the gods, daughter of giant Cronus
launched the work, harnessed the golden-bridled team
while Athena, child of Zeus whose shield is thunder,
letting fall her supple robe at the Father’s threshold—
rich brocade, stitched with her own hands’ labor—
donned the battle-shirt of the lord of lightning,
buckled her breastplate geared for wrenching war.
Then onto the flaming chariot Pallas set her feet
and seized her spear—weighted, heavy, the massive shaft
she wields to break the battle lines of heroes
the mighty Father’s daughter storms against.
A crack of the whip—
the goddess Hera lashed the team, and all on their own force
the gates of heaven thundered open, kept by the Seasons,
guards of the vaulting sky and Olympus heights empowered
to spread the massing clouds or close them round once more,
and straight through the great gates she drove the team.
But as Father Zeus caught sight of them from Ida
the god broke into a sudden rage and summoned Iris
to run a message on with a rush of golden wings:
“Quick on your way now, Iris, shear the wind!
Turn them back, don’t let them engage me here.
What an indignity for us to clash in arms.
I tell you this and I will fulfill it too:
I’ll maim their racers for them,
right beneath their yokes, and those two goddesses,
I’ll hurl them from their chariot, smash their car,
and not once in the course of ten slow wheeling years
will they heal the wounds my lightning bolt rips open.
So that gray-eyed girl of mine may learn what it means
to fight against her Father. But with Hera, though,
I am not so outraged, so irate—it’s always her way
to thwart my will, whatever I command.”
So he thundered
and Iris ran his message, racing with gale force
away from the peaks of Ida up to steep Olympus
cleft and craggy. There at the outer gates
she met them face-to-face and blocked their path,
sounding Zeus’s orders: “Where are you rushing now?
What is this madness blazing in your hearts?
Zeus forbids you to fight for Achaea’s armies!
Here is Father’s threat—he will fulfill it too:
he’ll maim your racers for you,
right beneath their yokes, and you two goddesses,
he’ll hurl you from your chariot, smash your car,
and not once in the course of ten slow wheeling years
will you heal the wounds his lightning bolt rips open!
So you, his gray-eyed girl, may learn what it means
to fight against your Father. But with Hera, though,
he is not so outraged, so irate—it’s always your way
to thwart his will, whatever Zeus commands. You,
you insolent brazen bitch—you really dare
to shake that monstrous spear in Father’s face?”
And Iris racing the wind went veering past
and Hera turned to Pallas, calling off the conflict:
“Enough. Daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder,
I cannot let us battle the Father any longer,
not for mortal men . . .
Men—let one of them die, another live,
however their luck may run. Let Zeus decide
the fates of the men of Troy and men of Argos both,
to his deathless heart’s content—that is only right.”
So she complied and turned their racers back.
The Seasons loosed the purebred sleek-maned team,
tethered them to their stalls, piled on ambrosia
and leaned the chariot up against the polished walls
that shimmered in the sun. The goddesses themselves
sat down on golden settles, mixing with the immortals,
Athena and Hera’s hearts within them dashed.
At the same time
Zeus the Father whipped his team and hurtling chariot
straight from Ida to Mount Olympus, soon to reach
the sessions of the gods. Quick at Zeus’s side
the famous lord of earthquakes freed the team,
canted the battle-chariot firmly on its base
and wrapped it well with a heavy canvas shroud.
Thundering Zeus himself assumed his golden throne
as the massive range of Olympus shook beneath his feet.
Those two alone, Athena and Hera, sat apart from Zeus—
not a word would they send his way, not a question.
But the Father knew their feelings deep within his heart
and mocked them harshly: “Why so crushed, Athena, Hera?
Not overly tired, I trust, from all your efforts