on the dark blue sea to whip and chop its crests.
Who was the first he slaughtered, who the last,
Hector the son of Priam, now Zeus gave him glory?
Asaeus first, Autonous next and then Opites,
Dolops, Clytius’ son, and Opheltius, Agelaus,
Aesymnus and Orus, Hipponous staunch in combat.
These were the Argive captains Hector killed
then went for the main mass
like the West Wind battering soft shining clouds
the South Wind wafts along—in deep explosive blasts
it strikes and the great swelling waves roll on and on
and the spray goes shooting up from under the wind’s hurl
swerving, roaring down the sea—so wildly Hector routed
the packed lines of fighters caught in his onslaught.
Now there would have been havoc, irreversible chaos,
fleeing bands of Achaeans flung back on their ships
if Odysseus had not shouted out to Diomedes,
“What’s wrong with us? Forgetting our battle-fury?
Come here, old friend, stand by me! What humiliation—
if Hector with that flashing helmet takes our ships!”
Powerful Diomedes took his challenge quickly:
“I’ll stand and fight, by god, and take the worst
but little joy it will bring our comrades now.
Zeus the king of the clouds has pitched on victory
for the Trojans, not for us.”
But all the same
he hurled Thymbraeus down to ground from his car—
Diomedes speared his left breast as Odysseus killed
the warlord’s aide-in-arms Molion tall as a god
and left them there for dead, their fighting finished.
Then both went thrashing into the lines to make a slaughter
as two wild boars bristling, ramping back for the kill,
fling themselves on the yelping packs that hunt them—
back they whirled on attack and laid the Trojans low
while Achaeans just in flight from Hector’s onset
leapt at the chance to gather second wind.
At once
they took two lords of the realm and seized their car,
the two good sons of Merops out of Percote harbor,
Merops adept beyond all men in the mantic arts.
He refused to let his two boys march to war,
this man-killing war, but the young ones fought him
all the way—the forces of black death drove them on
and Diomedes a marvel with a spear destroyed them both,
stripped them of life breath and tore their gear away
and Odysseus killed Hippodamus, killed Hypirochus.
And there,
gazing down from his ridge on Ida, the son of Cronus
stretched the rope of battle tense and taut
as the fighters kept on killing side-to-side.
Diomedes hurled a spear that struck Agastrophus,
Paeon’s warrior son, and smashed the joint of his hip
but his team was not close by for fast escape—
a big mistake, the fool.
His driver held them reined off at the side
while he advanced through the front ranks on foot,
plowing on and on till he lost his own life ...
But Hector quickly marked them across the lines—
he charged them both full force with a savage shout
and Trojan battalions churning in his wake.
Diomedes shuddered to see him coming on,
the lord of the war cry called out to Odysseus
quickly, close beside him, “We’re in for shipwreck—
a breaker rolling down on us, look, this massive Hector!
Brace for him, stand our ground together—beat him back!”
He aimed and hurled and his spear’s long shadow flew—
a clean hit, no miss, trained at the head of Hector,
his helmet ridge. But bronze glanced off bronze
and never grazed firm flesh, the helmet blocked it,
triple-ply with the great blank hollow eyes,
a gift of Apollo. Sprinting a long way back,
downfield and fast, Hector rejoined his men
and sinking down onto one knee, propped himself
with a strong hand planted against the earth—
and the world went black as night across his eyes.
But soon as Tydides followed up his spear,
tracking its flight far down along the front
where it stuck in sand, Hector caught his breath
and boarding his car, drove for his own main force
as he hurtled clear of the dark fates of death—
Diomedes shouting after him, shaking his spear,
“Now, again, you’ve escaped your death, you dog,
but a good close brush with death it was, I’d say!
Now, again, your Phoebus Apollo pulls you through,
the one you pray to, wading into our storm of spears.
We’ll fight again—I’ll finish you off next time
if one of the gods will only urge me on as well.
But now I’ll go for the others, anyone I can catch.”
And he set to stripping his kill, Paeon’s spearman son.
But at once Paris the lord of fair-haired Helen
drew his bow at the rugged captain Diomedes ...
the archer leaning firmly against a pillar
raised on the man-made tomb of Dardan’s son,.
Ilus an old lord of the realm in ancient days.
As Diomedes was stripping strong Agastrophus bare,
tearing the burnished breastplate off his victim’s chest,
the shield from his shoulders and heavy crested helmet,
Paris, clenching the grip and drawing back his bow,
shot!—no wasted shot, it whizzed from his hand
and punched the flat top of Tydides’ right foot,
the shaft dug through and stuck fast in the ground.
And loosing a heady laugh of triumph Paris leapt
from his hiding-place and shouted out in glory,
“Now you’re hit—no wasted shot, my winging arrow!
But would to god I’d hit you deep in the guts
and ripped your life away! Then my Trojans
could catch their breath again, reprieved from death—
they cringed at you like bleating goats before some lion.”
But never flinching, staunch Diomedes countered,
“So brave with your bow and arrows—big bravado—
glistening lovelocks, roving eye for girls!
Come, try me in combat, weapons hand-to-hand-
bow and spattering shafts will never help you then.
You scratch my foot and you’re vaunting all the same—
but who cares? A woman or idiot boy could wound me so.
The shaft of a good-for-nothing coward’s got no point
but mine’s got heft and edge. Let it graze a man—
my weapon works in a flash and drops him dead.
And his good wife will tear her cheeks in grief,
his sons are orphans and he, soaking the soil
red with his own blood, he rots away himself—