so Odysseus raider of cities and Diomedes
cut him off from his own lines, coursing him,
closing nonstop with the Trojan about to break in
on the line of sentries, racing fast for the ships—
when Athena poured fresh strength in Tydeus’ son
so no Achaean could beat him out for the glory
of hitting Dolon first, Diomedes come in second.
Rushing him with his spear in a sudden surge
Tydides shouted, “Stop or I’ll run you through!
You’ll never escape my spear—headtong death—
I swear I’ll send it hurling from my fist!”
He flung his shaft, missing the man on purpose—
over his right shoulder the sharp spearpoint winged
and stabbed the earth. Dead in his tracks he stopped,
terrified, stammering, teeth chattering in his mouth,
bled white with fear as the two men overtook him
and panting hard, yanked and pinned his arms.
He burst into tears, pleading, “Take me alive!
I’ll ransom myself! Treasures cram our house,
bronze and gold and plenty of well-wrought iron—
father would give you anything, gladly, priceless ransom—
if only he learns I’m still alive in Argive ships!”
Odysseus quick with tactics answered, “Courage.
Death is your last worry. Put your mind at rest.
Come, tell me the truth now, point by point.
Why prowling among the ships, cut off from camp,
alone in the dead of night when other men are sleeping?
To loot the fallen, one of the fighters’ corpses?
Or did Hector send you out to spy on our ships,
reconnoiter them stem to stern?
Or did your own itch for glory spur you on?”
Dolon answered, his legs shaking under him,
“Hector—he duped me so—so many mad, blind hopes!
He swore he’d give me the great Achilles’ stallions,
purebred racers, his burnished bronze chariot too!
He told me to go through the rushing dark night,
to patrol the enemy lines and learn at once
if the fleet’s still guarded as before or now,
battered down at our hands, huddling together,
you plan a quick escape, your morale too low
to mount the watch tonight-bone-weary from battle.”
Breaking into a smile the cool tactician laughed,
“By god, what heroic gifts you set your heart on—
the great Achilles’ team!
They’re hard for mortal men to curb or drive,
for all but Achilles-his mother is immortal.
Now out with it, point by point. Hector—
where did you leave the captain when you came?
Where’s his war-gear lying? where’s his chariot?
How are the other Trojans posted—guards, sleepers?
What plans are they mapping, what maneuvers next?
Are they bent on holding tight by the ships, exposed?—
or heading home to Troy, now they’ve trounced our armies?”
And Dolon son of the herald blurted out, “Yes, yes,
I’ll tell you everything, down to the last detail!
Hector’s holding council with all his chiefs,
mapping plans on old King Ilus’ barrow,
clear of the crowds at camp. Guards, my lord?
Nothing. No one’s picked to defend the army.
Only our native Trojans hold their posts—
many as those with hearth fires back in Troy—
our men have no choice, shouting out to each other,
‘Stay awake! keep watch!’ But our far-flung friends,
they’re fast asleep, they leave the watch to us—
their wives and children are hardly camped nearby.”
But the shrewd tactician kept on pressing: “Be precise.
Where are they sleeping? Mixed in with the Trojans?
Separate quarters? Tell me. I must know it all.”
And Dolon son of the herald kept on blurting,
“Everything—anything—whatever will satisfy you!
To seaward, Carians, Paeonian men with bent bows,
Leleges and Cauconians, crack Pelasgians—inland,
toward Thymbra, camp the Lycians, swaggering Mysians,
fighting Phrygian horsemen, Maeonian chariot-drivers
but why interrogate me down to the last platoon?
You really want to raid some enemy units?
There are the Thracians, look, just arrived,
exposed on the flank, apart from all the rest
and right in their midst Eioneus’ son, King Rhesus.
His are the best horses I ever saw, the biggest,
whiter than snow, and speed to match the wind!
His chariot’s finished off with gold and silver,
the armor he’s brought in with him, gold too,
tremendous equipment—what a marvelous sight.
No gear for a mortal man to wear, I’d say,
it’s fit for the deathless gods!
There. Now will you take me to your ships
or leave me here—bound and gagged right here?—
till you can make your raid and test my story,
see if I’ve told the truth or I’ve been lying.”
But rugged Diomedes gave him a grim look:
“Escape? Take my advice and wipe it from your mind,
good as your message is—you’re in my hands now.
What if we set you free or you should slip away?
Back you’ll slink to our fast ships tomorrow,
playing the spy again or fighting face-to-face.
But if I snuff your life out in my hands,
you’ll never annoy our Argive lines again.”
With that, just as Dolon reached up for his chin
to cling with a frantic hand and beg for life,
Diomedes struck him square across the neck—
a flashing hack of the sword—both tendons snapped
and the shrieking head went tumbling in the dust.
They tore the weasel-cap from the head, stripped
the wolf pelt, the reflex bow and long tough spear
and swinging the trophies high to Pallas queen of plunder,
exultant royal Odysseus shouted out this prayer:
“Here, Goddess, rejoice in these, they’re yours!
You are the first of all the gods we’ll call!
Now guide us again, Athena, guide us against
that Thracian camp and horses!”
So Odysseus prayed
and hoisting the spoils over his head, heaved them
onto a tamarisk bush nearby and against it heaped
a good clear landmark, clumping together reeds
and fresh tamarisk boughs they’d never miss
as they ran back through the rushing dark night.
On they stalked through armor and black pools of blood
and suddenly reached their goal, the Thracian outpost.
The troops were sleeping, weary from pitching camp,
their weapons piled‘beside them on the ground,
three neat rows of the burnished well-kept arms