and bore Machaon the expert healer too ...
But now
the brilliant runner Achilles watched and marked him—
there he stood on the stern of his looming hollow hull,
looking out over the uphill work and heartsick rout of war.
He called at once to his friend-in-arms Patroclus,
shouting down from the decks. Hearing Achilles,
forth he came from his shelter,
striding up like the deathless god of war
but from that moment on his doom was sealed.
The brave son of Menoetius spoke out first:
“Why do you call, Achilles? Do you need me?”
And the swift runner Achilles answered quickly,
“Son of Menoetius, soldier after my own heart,
now I think they will grovel at my knees,
our Achaean comrades begging for their lives.
The need has reached them—a need too much to bear.
Go now, Patroclus dear to Zeus, and question Nestor.
Who’s that wounded man he’s bringing in from the fighting?
He looks to me like Machaon from behind, clearly,
Machaon head to foot, Asclepius’ only son.
But I never saw his eyes—the team sped by me,
tearing on full tilt.”
Patroclus obeyed his great friend
and off at a run he went along the ships and shelters.
Now, as soon as the others reached Nestor’s tent
they climbed down on the earth that feeds us all.
The driver Eurymedon freed the old man’s team.
The men themselves dried off their sweat-soaked shirts,
standing against the wind that whipped along the surf,
then entered the tent and took their seats on settles.
And well-kempt Hecamede mixed them a bracing drink,
the woman that old King Nestor won from Tenedos
when Achilles stormed it, proud Arsinous’ daughter,
the prize the Achaeans chose to give to Nestor
because he excelled them all at battle-tactics.
First Hecamede pushed a table up toward them,
handsome, sanded smooth, with blue enamel legs,
and on it she set a basket, braided in bronze
with onions in it, a relish for the drink,
and pale gold honey along with barley meal,
the grain’s blessed yield. And there in the midst
the grand, glowing cup the old king brought from home,
studded with golden nails, fitted with handles,
four all told and two doves perched on each,
heads bending to drink and made of solid gold
and twin supports ran down to form the base.
An average man would strain to lift it off the table
when it was full, but Nestor, old as he was,
could hoist it up with ease.
In this cup the woman skilled as a goddess
mixed them a strong drink with Pramnian wine,
over it shredded goat cheese with a bronze grater
and scattered barley into it, glistening pure white,
then invited them to drink when she had mulled it all.
Now as the two men drank their parching thirst away
and had just begun to please themselves with talk,
confiding back and forth—there stood Patroclus
tall at the threshold, vivid as a god ...
Old Nestor saw him at once and started up
from his polished chair, warmly grasped his hand
and led Patroclus in, pressing him to sit.
But standing off to the side his guest declined:
“No time to sit, old soldier dear to the gods.
You won’t persuade me. Awesome and quick to anger,
the man who sent me here to find out who’s been wounded,
the one you’ve just brought in. But I can see him—
I recognize Machaon myself, the expert healer.
So back I go to give Achilles the message.
Well you know, old soldier loved by the gods,
what sort of man he is—that great and terrible man.
Why, he’d leap to accuse a friend without a fault.”
But Nestor the noble charioteer replied at length,
“Now why is Achilles so cast down with grief
for this or that Achaean winged by a stray shaft?
He has no idea of the anguish risen through the army!
Look—our finest champions laid up in the ships,
all hit by arrows or run through by spears ...
there’s powerful Diomedes brought down by an archer,
Odysseus wounded, and Agamemnon too, the famous spearman,
and Eurypylus took a shaft in the thigh, and here,
Machaon—I just brought him in from the fighting,
struck down by an arrow whizzing off the string.
But Achilles, brave as he is, he has no care,
no pity for our Achaeans. How long will he wait?
Till our ships that line the shore go up in flames,
gutted, despite a last-ditch stand? And we ourselves
are mowed down in droves?
And I, what good am I?
My limbs are gnarled now, the old power’s gone.
Oh make me young again,
and the strength inside me steady as a rock!
As fresh as I was that time the feud broke out ...
fighting Epeans over a cattle-raid I killed Itymoneus.
Hypirochus’ gallant son who used to live in Elis.
I was rustling their cattle in reprisal, you see,
and he defending his herds, when a spear I hurled
caught him right in the front ranks of herdsmen—
down he went and round him his yokel drovers
scattered home in panic. And what a lovely haul,
what plunder we rounded up and herded off the plain!
Fifty herds of cattle, as many head of sheep,
as many droves of pigs and as many goat-flocks
ranging free, a hundred and fifty horses too,
strong and tawny, broodmares every one
and under the flanks of many, nursing foals.
The whole tot—
we drove them all into Pylos then, that very night,
corraling them all inside the walls of Neleus.
And father beamed, seeing how much I’d won,
a young soldier out on his first campaign.
And the heralds cried out at the break of day,
‘Pylians—come collect your debts from wealthy Elis!’
And a troop of Pylian chiefs turned out in force
to carve up the spoils. The Epeans owed us all,
few as we were in Pylos, hard-pressed as well.
For mighty Heracles came against us years before,
he ground our lives out, killing off our best.
Twelve sons we were of the noble old Neleus
and I alone was left ...
the rest of my brothers perished in that rout.
Riding high on our loss the Epeans rose in arms,
lording over us, harassing us with outrage after outrage.
So now, out of Epean spoils, the old king chose
a herd of cattle and handsome flock of sheep,