and beside each man his pair of battle-horses.
Right in the midst lay Rhesus dead asleep,
his white racers beside him, strapped by thongs
to his chariot’s outer rail. Spotting him first
Odysseus quickly pointed him out to Diomedes:
“Look, here’s our man, here are his horses.
The ones marked out by the rascal we just killed.
On with it now—show us your strength, full force.
Don’t just stand there, useless with your weapons.
Loose those horses—or you go kill the men
and leave the team to me!”
Athena, eyes blazing,
breathed fury in Diomedes and he went whirling
into the slaughter now, hacking left and right
and hideous groans broke from the dying Thracians
slashed by the sword—the ground ran red with blood.
As a lion springs on flocks unguarded, shepherd gone,
pouncing on goats or sheep and claw-mad for the kill,
so Tydeus’ son went tearing into that Thracian camp
until he’d butchered twelve. Each man he’d stand above
and chop with the sword, the cool tactician Odysseus
grappled from behind, grabbing the fighter’s heels,
dragging him out of the way with one thought in mind:
that team with their flowing manes must get through fast,
not quake at heart and balk, trampling over the dead,
those purebred horses still not used to corpses.
But now the son of Tydeus came upon the king,
the thirteenth man, and ripped away his life,
his sweet life as he lay there breathing hard.
A nightmare hovered above his head that night—
Diomedes himself! sped by Athena’s battle-plan-
while staunch Odysseus loosed the stamping horses,
hitched them together tight with their own reins
and drove them through the ruck,
lashing them with his bow: he forgot to snatch
the shining whip that lay in the well-wrought car.
He whistled shrill, his signal to rugged Diomedes
pausing, deep in thought ... what was the worst,
most brazen thing he could do? Seize the car
where the handsome armor lay and pull it out
by the pole or prize it up, bodily, haul it off—
or tear the life from still more Thracian troops?
His mind swarming with all this, Pallas Athena
swept to his side and cautioned Diomedes, “Back—
think only of getting back, great son of Tydeus!
Back to the ships, quick, or you’ll run for your life!
Some other god—who knows?—may wake the Trojans.”
The goddess’ voice—he knew it, mounted at once
as Odysseus whacked the stallions smartly with his bow
and they made a run for Achaea’s rapid ships.
But Apollo lord of the silver bow kept watch.
No blind man’s watch, no, Apollo saw Athena
take Tydides in hand, and raging against her
plunged into the main mass of Trojan fighters
to rouse a Thracian captain called Hippocoon,
a loyal kinsman of Rhesus. He woke with a jolt
and seeing empty ground where the fast team had stood,
men gasping out their lives, retching in all that carnage,
he wailed out, sobbing, crying his dear companion’s name
and piercing wails broke as the Trojans swirled in panic—
a desperate rout of them rushing up to the bloodbath there
stood staring down at the grisly work the marauders did
before they made their dash for the beaked ships.
Reaching the place where they’d killed Hector’s spy,
Odysseus dear to Zeus reined in the headlong team
and leaping down to the ground Tydides heaved
the bloody spoils into his comrade’s arms.
He mounted again and flogged the horses hard
and on they flew to the ships, holding nothing back—
that’s where their spirits drove them on to go.
Nestor, the first to hear their thunder, shouted,
“Friends—lords of the Argives, all our captains,
right or wrong, what can I say? My heart tells me,
my ears ring with the din of drumming hoofs ...
If only Odysseus and rugged Diomedes were driving
racers off the Trojan lines, here, here and fast!
I’m cold with fear—what if they’ve met the worst,
our ranking Argives killed in a Trojan charge?”
Before he could say the last, the two raced in,
leapt to the ground and comrades hugged them warmly,
with handclasps all around and words of welcome.
Nestor the noble horseman led with questions:
“Tell me, Odysseus, Achaea’s pride and glory,
famous Odysseus, how did you get these horses?
How—stealing behind the Trojans’ main lines
or meeting up with a god who gave them to you?
What terrific sheen—silver afire like sunbeams!
Day after day I’ve gone against the Trojans,
never hanging back by the ships, I swear,
old warrior that I am—
But I’ve never seen such horses, never dreamed ...
I’d say an immortal came your way and gave you these.
Zeus who marshals the storm cloud loves you both,
Zeus’s daughter too with the shield of thunder.
Athena’s eyes are shining on you both!”
The cool tactician set the record straight:
“No, no, Nestor—Achaea’s greatest glory—
any god, if he really set his mind to it,
could give us an even finer pair than this.
Easily. The gods are so much stronger.
Now these horses you ask about, old soldier,
they’re newcomers, just arrived from Thrace.
Their master? Brave Diomedes killed him off,
twelve of his cohorts too, all men of rank.
And a thirteenth man besides, a scout we took—
prowling along the ships, spying on our positions—
Hector and all his princely Trojans sent him out.”
And across the trench he drove the purebred team
with a rough exultant laugh as comrades cheered,
crowding in his wake.
And once they reached Tydides’ sturdy lodge
they tethered the horses there with well-cut reins,
hitching them by the trough where Diomedes’ stallions
pawed the ground, champing their sweet barley.
Then away in his ship’s stem Odysseus stowed
the bloody gear of Dolon, in pledge of the gift
they’d sworn to give Athena. The men themselves,
wading into the sea, washed off the crusted sweat
from shins and necks and thighs. And once the surf
had scoured the thick caked sweat from their limbs
and the two fighters cooled, their hearts revived
and into the polished tubs they climbed and bathed.