that invincible headlong terror.
On he fought like a whirlwind, staunch as always—
think of the hounds and huntsmen circling round
some lion or boar when the quarry wheels at bay,
rippling in strength as the men mass like a bastion
standing up to his charge and hurl their pelting spears
and the boar’s brave spirit never flinches, never bolts
and his own raw courage kills him—time and again
he wheels around, testing the huntsmen’s ranks
and where he lunges out the ranks of men give way.
So Hector lunged into battle, rallying cohorts now,
spurring them on to cross the gaping trench—
but his own rearing stallions lacked the nerve.
They balked, whinnying shrill at the edge, the brink—
a dead stop—frightened off by the trench so broad
the team could never leap it, not at a single bound,
nor could they plunge on through with any ease.
Steep banks overhung its whole length, jutting up
on either side and topped by stabbing rows of stakes,
planted there by the Argives, thickset and huge
to block the enemy’s onslaught.
No light work for the teams that trundled chariots
churning massive wheels to make it through in stride
but the Trojans strained to bring it off on foot.
So Polydamas stood by headstrong Hector, warning,
“Hector—and all our Trojan captains, allies-in-arms!
It’s madness to drive our teams across that trench,
impossible to traverse it. Look, the sharp stakes
jutting right at the edge, and just beyond that
the Achaeans’ sturdy rampart. No room there
for charioteers to dismount and fight it out,
the strait’s too narrow, cramped—
we’ll take a mauling there, I see it all! so
If mighty Zeus, thundering up on high, is bent
on wiping out the Argives, down to the last man,
if he longs to back our Trojan forces to the hilt,
by heaven I hope the Father works his will at once
and the Argives die here, their memory blotted out,
a world away from Argos!
But what if they round on us?
If the Argives roll us back away from the ships,
trapped and tangled there in the yawning trench,
no runner, I tell you, pressed by an Argive rally,
could struggle free and bear the news to Troy.
So come, do as I say, and let us all unite.
Drivers, rein your horses hard by the trench—
the men themselves, armed for assault on foot,
we all follow Hector, all in a mass attack.
And the Argives? They cannot hold their line,
not if the ropes of death are knotted round their necks!“
So Polydamas urged. His plan won Hector over—
less danger, more success—and down he leapt
from his chariot fully armed and hit the ground.
Nor did the other chariot-drivers hold formation—
all dismounted, seeing shining Hector leap to earth.
Each man shouted out commands to his driver, quickly,
“Rein the team by the trench, good battle-order now!”
And the fighters split apart and then closed ranks,
marshaled in five battalions, captains leading each.
The men who trooped with Hector and Prince Polydamas—
they were the greatest force, the best and bravest,
grim set above all the rest to breach the wall
and go for the beaked ships and fight it out.
Cebriones followed close, third in command
since Hector left another to rein his team,
a driver less than Cebriones, less a fighter.
The second Trojan battalion Paris led in arms
with Alcathous and Agenor. Helenus led the third
with Deiphobus striding on like a god beside him,
two sons of Priam; captain Asius third in command,
Asius son of Hyrtacus—hulking, fiery stallions
bore him in from Arisbe, from the Selleis River.
The fourth battalion marched with gallant Aeneas,
Anchises’ offspring flanked by Antenor’s two sons,
Acamas and Archelochus drilled for every foray.
Sarpedon marshaled the famous allies, placing Glaucus
next in command with the combat veteran Asteropaeus,
head and shoulders the best men, Sarpedon thought,
after himself of course: he outshone the rest.
Now shield against oxhide shield, wedging tight,
with a wild rush they charged the Argives head-on,
never thinking the Argive line could still hold out—
they’d all be hurled back on their blackened hulls.
So all the Trojans and famous friends-in-arms
embraced Polydamas’ plan, the faultless chieftain.
But Asius captain of armies, Hyrtacus’ son refused
to leave his horses there with a driver reining back-
and on he drove at the fast trim ships, chariot and all,
the fool. Vaunting along the hulls with team and car
but never destined to slip past the deadly spirits,
never to ride in glory home to windswept Troy.
Long before, his accursed doom blacked him out
with Idomeneus’ spear, Deucalion’s noble son.
Now left of the ships he sped where Argive ranks
would head home from the plain with teams and cars.
Here Asius flogged his team and chariot hard,
nor did he find the gates shut, the bolt shot home,
not yet, the men still held them wide, hoping to save
some comrade fleeing the onset, racing for the ships.
Straight at the gates he lashed his team, hell-bent,
his troops crowding behind him shouting war cries,
never thinking the Argive line could still hold out—
they’d all be hurled back on their blackened hulls.
Idiots. There in the gates they found two men,
a brace of two great fighters,
lionhearted sons of the Lapith spearmen,
one Pirithous’ offspring, rugged Polypoetes,
the other Leonteus, a match for murderous Ares.
Both warriors planted there before the towering gates
rose like oaks that rear their crests on a mountain ridge,
standing up to the gales and driving rains, day in, day out,
their giant roots branching, gripping deep in the earth:
so these two, trusting all to their arms, their power,
stood up to Asius’ headlong charge and never shrank.
On the Trojans came, straight for the rock-tight wall,
raising rawhide shields and yelling their lungs out,
grouped under captain Asius, Iamenus and Orestes
and Asius’ own son Adamas, Thoon and Oenomaus.
The Lapiths had just been rousing Argives packed
behind the rampart: “Close in a ring—defend the ships!”