I’ve never seen or heard tell of a single man
wreaking so much havoc in one day as Hector,
Zeus’s favorite, wreaks against our troops,
and all on his own—no son of god or goddess.
He’s made a slaughter, I tell you. Pain for Achaeans,
enough to last us down the years to come ...
what blows he’s dealt our men!
Go now, call Ajax, Idomeneus, quickly,
make a run for it down along the ships.
I’ll go after Nestor, wake and rouse him,
see if the good man wants to join the guard,
that strong contingent, and give them orders.
He’s the one they’ll obey. His own son commands
the sentry-line, he and Idomeneus’ aide Meriones.
They above all—we put those men in charge.”
The lord of the war cry nodded, “Yes, fine,
but what orders for me? Do I stay with them,
waiting for you to come? Or follow you on the run,
once I’ve given the captains your command?”
The marshal made things clearer: “You stay there—
so we don’t miss one another rushing back and forth
in the endless maze of pathways up and down the camp.
But shout wherever you go, tell them to stay awake.
And call each man by his name and father’s line,
show them all respect. Not too proud now.
We are the ones who ought to do the work. so
On our backs, from the day that we were bom,
it seems that Zeus has piled his pack of hardships.”
With his order clear, he sent his brother off
while he went after Nestor, the old commander.
He found him beside his black ship and shelter,
stretched on a fleecy bed, his blazoned gear at hand,
his shield and two long spears and burnished helmet.
His war-belt lay beside him, gleaming in all its fire.
The old man cinched it on whenever he’d harness up,
marching his men to war where fighters die—
Nestor gave no ground to withering old age.
He propped himself on an elbow, craned his head
and probed sharply, whispering through the dark,
“Who goes there? Stalking along the ships,
alone through camp in the very dead of night
when other mortals try to catch some sleep.
Tracking a stray mule or a lost companion? Speak!
Don’t steal on me in silence—what do you want?”
The lord of men Agamemnon reassured him:
“Nestor, son of Neleus, glory of Achaea,
don’t you recognize Agamemnon? The one man,
past all others, Zeus has plunged in troubles,
year in, year out, for as long as the life breath
fills my lungs and the spring in my knees will lift me.
I roam this way since sleep won’t close my eyes—
war’s my worry, the agonies of our Achaeans.
How I fear for our comrades, fear the worst!
My mind is tom, I’m harried back and forth,
the heart inside me pounding through my chest
and the sturdy legs beneath me giving way.
But if you want action now—
sleeping is just as hard for you, it seems—
come, let’s go down to the sentry-tine and see
if numb with exhaustion, lack of sleep, they’ve nodded off,
all duty wiped from their minds, the watch dissolved.
Our blood enemies camp hard by. How do we know
they’re not about to attack us in the night?”
And the old charioteer warmed to his challenge:
“Great marshal Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon—
Hector and Hector’s high hopes? Not a chance.
The plans of Zeus will never bring them off,
those dreams of glory inspiring Hector now.
Oh I think he’ll have his troubles to shoulder,
plenty of them too, if Achilles ever turns away
from the heartbreaking anger deep inside him.
Follow you? Surely. Let’s wake others also,
Diomedes famed for his spear, Odysseus,
quick Little Ajax and Phyleus’ brave son.
And if only one would go and call the rest,
giant Ajax strong as a god and King Idomeneus—
they’re hardly close, their ships last on the line.
But I will blame Menelaus, loved as he is and honored,
even if you will wheel on me in anger—I must,
I can’t hide it now. How that fellow sleeps!
Turning over the work to you alone.
Now is the time for him to work, to hunt
the leading captains and beg them all for help.
Desperate straits—we can’t hold out much longer.”
The lord of men replied, “You’re right, old soldier.
I’d even urge you to fault him any other day.
So often he hangs back, with no heart for the work,
not that he shrinks from action, skittish or off guard—
it’s just that he looks to me, waiting for me
to make the first move. This time, though,
he woke before me, came and roused me first
and I sent him off to call the men you’re after.
So let’s move out, overtake the rest at the gates,
with the sentries where I ordered them to group.”
And Nestor the noble charioteer assented gladly:
“True, when the man leaps in the breach that way
no one can blame or disobey him, no Achaean,
not when he spurs the troops and gives commands.”
With that he slipped his tunic over his chest,
under his smooth feet he fastened supple sandals,
pinned with a brooch his crimson cape around him,
flowing in double folds and topped with thick fleece,
and gripping a tough spear tipped with a brazen point,
he strode along the ships of the Argives armed in bronze.
And reaching Odysseus first, a mastermind like Zeus,
the old driver roused him from sleep, shouting out,
“Wake up!” The cry went ringing through his ears
and out of his tent he came, shouting in return,
“Why, why prowling along the ships and camp,
you alone in the bracing godsent night—
what’s the crisis now? What trouble’s come?”
And Nestor the noble charioteer replied,
“Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, great tactician,
no time for anger now—
such misery has overcome our Argives.
Follow us, come, so we can wake the next man,
some captain fit to map our strategy here,
whether we break and run or stand and fight.”
Backing into his tent, the great tactician slung
his wrought shield on his back and joined the party
striding toward the son of Tydeus, Diomedes.
They found him with all his gear outside his shelter,
cohorts sleeping round him, shields beneath their heads,