and down from Ida’s peaks she dove to sacred Troy,
found the son of wise King Priam, shining Hector
standing amidst his teams and bolted cars,
and swift as a breeze beside him Iris called,
“Hector, son of Priam—a mastermind like Zeus!
The Father has sped me down to tell you this:
so long as you see lord marshal Agamemnon storming
among the champions, mowing columns down in blood,
you must hold back, command the rest of your men
to fight the enemy, stand their headlong charge!
But soon as a spear or bowshot wounds the king
and Atrides mounts his chariot once again—
then Zeus will hand you the power to kill and kill
till you cut your way to the benched ships and the sun sinks
and the blessed darkness sweeps across the earth!”
And Iris racing the wind went veering off.
Hector leapt to ground from his chariot fully armed
and brandishing two sharp spears went striding down his lines,
ranging flank to flank, driving his fighters into battle,
rousing grisly war—and round the Trojans whirled,
bracing to meet the Argives face-to-face:
but against their mass the Argives closed ranks,
the fighting about to break, the troops squaring off
and Atrides, tense to outfight them all, charged first.
Sing to me now, you Muses who hold the halls of Olympus,
who was the first to go up against King Agamemnon,
who of the Trojans or famous Trojan allies?
Iphidamas, the rough and rangy son of Antenor
bred in the fertile land of Thrace, mother of flocks.
Cisseus reared him at home when he was little—
his mother’s father who sired the fine beauty Theano—
but once he hit the stride of his youth and ached for fame,
Cisseus tried to hold him back, gave him a daughter’s hand
but warm from the bridal chamber marched the groom,
fired up by word that Achaea’s troops had landed.
Twelve beaked ships sailed out in his command,
trim vessels he left behind him in Percote,
making his way to Troy to fight on foot
and here he came now, up against Agamemnon,
closer, closing ...
Atrides hurled and missed,
his spearshaft just slanting aside the man’s flank
as Iphidamas went for the waist beneath the breastplate—
he stabbed home, leaning into the blow full weight,
trusting his heavy hand but failed to pierce
the glittering belt, failed flat-out-the point,
smashing against the silver, bent back like lead.
And seizing the spearshaft powerful Agamemnon
dragged it toward him, tussling like some lion
and wrenching it free from Iphidamas’ slack grasp
he hacked his neck with a sword and loosed his limbs.
And there he dropped and slept the sleep of bronze,
poor soldier, striving to help his fellow Trojans,
far from his wedded wife, his new bride ...
No joy had he known from her for all his gifts,
the full hundred oxen he gave her on the spot
then promised a thousand head of goats and sheep
from the boundless herds he’d rounded up himself.
Now the son of Atreus stripped him, robbed his corpse
and strode back to his waiting Argive armies,
hoisting the gleaming gear.
But Coon marked him, Coon,
Antenor’s eldest son, a distinguished man-at-arms,
and stinging grief went misting down his eyes
for his fallen brother. In from the blind side
he came—
Agamemnon never saw him—
tensed with a spear
and slashed him under the elbow, down the forearm—
a glint of metal—the point ripped through his flesh
and the lord of fighting men Atrides shuddered.
Not that he quit the foray even then—
he sprang at Coon, gripping his big spearshaft
tough from the gusting wind that whipped its tree.
Coon was just dragging his brother footfirst,
wild now to retrieve his own father’s son,
calling for help from all the bravest men—
but as Coon hauled the body through the press
Agamemnon lunged up, under his bossed shield,
thrust home hard with the polished bronze point,
unstrung his limbs and reared and lopped his head
and the head tumbled onto his fallen brother’s corpse.
So then and there under royal Agamemnon’s hands
the two sons of Antenor filled out their fates
and down they plunged to the strong House of Death.
But the king kept ranging, battling ranks on ranks
and thrusting his spear and sword and hurling heavy rocks
so long as the blood came flowing warm from his wound.
But soon as the gash dried and firm clots formed,
sharp pain came bursting in on Atrides’ strength—
spear-sharp as the labor-pangs that pierce a woman,
agonies brought on by the harsh, birthing spirits,
Hera’s daughters who hold the stabbing power of birth—
so sharp the throes that burst on Atrides’ strength.
And back he sprang in the car and told his driver
to make for the hollow ships, racked with pain
but he loosed a shrill cry to all his men:
“Friends—lords of the Argives, 0 my captains!
Your turn now—keep on shielding our fast ships
from this latest mass attack. Zeus who rules the world
forbids me to battle Trojans all day long.”
A crack of the lash
and his driver whipped the team with streaming manes
straight for the curved ships, and on they flew,
holding nothing back, their heaving chests foaming,
bellies pelted with dust, rushing the wounded warlord
free and clear of battle.
There—Hector’s signal!
Seeing Atrides hurt and speeding off the lines
he gave a ringing shout to his troops and allies:
“Trojans! Lycians! Dardan fighters hand-to-hand-
now be men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!
Their best man cuts and runs—
Zeus is handing me glory, awesome glory.
Drive your horses right at these mighty Argives,
seize the higher triumph—seize it now!”
Hector—
whipping the fight and fire in each man like a huntsman
crying on his hounds, their white fangs flashing,
harrying savage game, some wild boar or lion—
so at Achaea’s ranks he drove his fearless Trojans,
Hector son of Priam, a match for murderous Ares.
The prince himself went wading into the front lines,
his hopes soaring, and down he hurled on the fray
like a sudden killer-squall that blasts down