‘Dry your eyes,’ said Dione, ‘and try to forget this little gash! Many of us Immortals have received terrible wounds through getting mixed up in human affairs. Those gigantic Aloeids, Otus and Ephialtes, once managed to capture Ares and confine him for thirteen months under the lid of a bronze cauldron. He might have withered away in that prison, had not the Aloeids’ beautiful step-mother, Eëriboea, revealed his whereabouts to Hermes, who found the simpleton reduced almost to nothing and let him out. Again, Heracles the Strong, Amphitryon’s putative son—but really a love-child of Zeus the Shield-Bearer—shot a three-pronged arrow into Hera’s right breast; the pain drove her almost to distraction. Dreadful Hades, too, got hit in the shoulder while fighting Heracles among the corpses at Hell’s gate, and ran up here howling for anguish. Since he is, after all, an Immortal, Apollo healed him with an ointment. A head-strong, violent fellow was Heracles! He did not care how much harm he did, and his archery troubled every god on Olympus.
‘Now, the same sort of thing has happened. Athene the Owl-Eyed sent Diomedes against you. Poor fool, he fails to understand that no mortal can challenge an Olympian and return from the wars alive; none of his children will ever climb on his knees chattering a welcome! And Diomedes, formidable fighter though he is, must take care not to attack a tougher deity than yourself. Should he do so, the household of Adrastus’ clever daughter Aegialeia will soon be roused by shrieks of lamentation, and learn that her husband Diomedes, the best soldier in the Peloponnese, has died!’
Dione then grasped Aphrodite’s arm with her left hand; with the right she wiped away the ichor, and made the goddess feel a good deal more comfortable. But Athene and Hera, who had watched the scene, commented on it sarcastically. Athene said to Zeus: ‘Father, pray do not frown if I venture a bold guess. It is that Cyprian Aphrodite—how wonderfully she loves Troy!—has been persuading some other Greek woman to get seduced by a Trojan, and scratched her own delicate palm on a golden brooch-pin while caressing the pretty creature.’
Zeus laughed at Athene’s wit, and called Aphrodite to him. ‘My darling,’ he told her, ‘you must avoid war! Busy yourself with love and sensual delights, and leave battles to Athene and Ares!’
Diomedes, though aware of Apollo’s presence, tried most irreverently to dispatch Aeneas, and strip him of his splendid armour. Three times he rushed forward, shield in hand, and each time found himself beaten back. At the fourth attempt, Apollo’s terrible voice rang out: ‘Son of Tydeus, show proper courtesy, and retire in awe! Why challenge an Olympian? It is madness to treat me like an earth-bound mortal.’
Diomedes took his advice, retiring a few steps to avoid Apollo’s displeasure; whereupon the god carried Aeneas away to his large temple at Troy. There his sister Artemis, and their mother Leto, set and healed the broken bones, while he created a phantom, exactly resembling Aeneas and similarly armed, over which Trojans and Greeks, shield-boss to shield-boss, fought for possession of his phantom armour.
‘Ares,’ Apollo cried, ‘blood-stained Ares, stormer of fortresses and sworn enemy of mankind, have the goodness to remove Diomedes! First he attacked Aphrodite and stabbed her in the palm, just above the wrist; then he ran at me. Anyone might have mistaken him for one of ourselves! He will be challenging Father Zeus next.’ So, when Apollo went back to his look-out post on the Citadel, Ares obligingly joined the Trojan ranks disguised as the Thracian leader Acamas the Swift. ‘Sons of Priam,’ he yelled, ‘how long must the Greeks massacre our people? Until they force us back to the city gates? Are you aware that bold Aeneas, whom we rank with Prince Hector himself, lies dying on the ground? Come, now! To the rescue!’
His rousing words were cheered, and Prince Sarpedon the Lycian, a son of Zeus, began to taunt Hector: ‘Where is your courage? You bragged once that Troy could be held by King Priam’s sons and sons-in-law alone—no allies nor other troops were needed—but today I can see none of your family on the battlefield. They behave like dogs, cowering in a wide circle around a lion, and let foreigners bear the brunt of the attack. I, for one, came to help you from the faraway banks of the Lycian River Xanthus, where I left my beloved wife, my infant son, and my well-filled treasure-vaults, so much envied by the poor and needy. Yes, I make my Lycians fight hard, and fight hard myself, though we have no houses here for invaders to sack, and no cattle for them to steal; whereas you lounge about idly, not even urging your men to stand fast and defend their homes! Beware now, or the Greeks will, as it were, entangle this army in hunting-nets and destroy us at leisure, after which they will find it easy to storm Troy. A commander-in-chief should never relax his vigilance at any time of the day or night. And unless you set your allies a good example of courage, you can count upon hearing worse reproaches than mine!’
Stung by Sarpedon’s words, Hector sprang fully armed from his chariot, and rushed among the ranks, brandishing a pair of sharp spears and urging the Trojans, with his terrible war-cry, to battle for their lives. The forward troops at once rallied and counter-attacked. Hand-to-hand fighting took place all along the front, but the enemy stood firm…
When gusty winnowing time comes round again
Our golden-haired DEMETER we adore.
Her wind-fan separates white chaff from grain
And whirls it thick across the threshing-floor.
The Greeks grew as white with the dust stirred by wheeling chariot-teams, as winnowers do with blown chaff. On came the Trojans, in a mass. At Apollo’s request, Ares ranged from front to rear, encouraging them. Apollo also sent Aeneas out on the field again, and his comrades were delighted to find him alive, miraculously whole, and full of spirit. But they asked no questions, being engrossed in the new struggle which Apollo, Ares, and Ares’ insatiable sister Strife were busily fomenting…
When ZEUS, peace-making in the sky,
Caps every wild hill top
With cloud that rises thick and high,
The obedient breezes drop.
Even the north wind, who would dare
The largest cloud in shreds to tear,
Conforms, and makes a stop.
The steadfastness of Diomedes, Odysseus, and the two Ajaxes, when they faced the counter-attack, recalled those immobile clouds. King Agamemnon bustled here and there, yelling: ‘Quit you like men, be strong! However hard the combat, you have a better chance of survival if you face the enemy, for honour’s sake, than if you turn your backs in inglorious retreat!’ He emphasized his message by lunging at Aeneas’ friend Deicoon, son of Pergasus, who ranked with the Trojan royal princes because of his outstanding gallantry. The spear-point passed through shield, belt, and belly, and sent him sprawling.
Aeneas avenged Deicoon’s death on two Greek champions named Crethon and Orsilochus. These twin sons of Diocles, a rich prince from Phere, were also grandsons of King Orsilochus and great-grandsons of the River-god Alpheius, whose broad stream waters the country of the Pylians. They had joined this expedition at the request of Agamemnon and Menelaus as soon as they came of age, but death put a halt to their adventures.
Two lion cubs, brought up in deep
Dark mountain thickets, without fear
Rove forth to prey on cows and sheep,
But die beneath the hunter’s spear.
In fact, Aeneas lopped down Crethon and Orsilochus as a forester would treat a couple of tall pines.
Menelaus, grieved at their loss, strode forward, brandishing his spear; he was lured on by Ares, who wanted Aeneas to kill him. However, Nestor’s son Prince Antilochus, foreseeing that Menelaus’ death would give the Greeks an excuse for retiring empty-handed from Troy, ran to his assistance. Aeneas fell back, not being foolish enough to engage two such champions simultaneously; so they dragged off the bodies of Crethon and Orsilochus, left them in charge of friends in the rear, and continued fighting.
Together they made for Pylaemenes, commander of the tough Paphlagonian spearmen, who was standing at ease in his chariot. Menelaus’ spear slid under his collarbone, wounding him mortally. Th
en Antilochus hurled a stone; it shattered the elbow of Pylaemenes’ driver, Mydon, son of Atymnius, just as he was wheeling the team around in flight. Mydon’s reins, inlaid with ivory, trailed along the dusty soil, and Antilochus, boarding the chariot, drove a sword through his temple. Mydon tumbled head-first over the fore-rail into a pile of sand, and remained wedged upright between the chariot and the hindquarters of his horses, until they kicked him to the ground. Antilochus then gathered up the reins, reached for the whip, and hurried his prize away towards the camp.
Hector advanced, shouting vengefully and followed by a large Trojan force. Ares, with his ruthless sister, urged them on, brandishing a monstrous lance—now in front of Hector, now behind him…
A shiftless man crossing the plain
After a season of much rain
Comes where, most unexpectedly,
A river rushes towards the sea,
Foam-flecked and boiling like a pot.
He backs in terror—who would not?
So Diomedes recoiled from the sudden rush. He exclaimed to his comrades: ‘No wonder Hector earns our admiration! Some invisible god always protects him; today it is Ares. We must not challenge an Immortal, but retire in good order.’ The Trojans pressed on, and Hector killed two veteran fighters, Menesthes and Anchialus, who were sharing a chariot. Great Ajax, to avenge them, made a lunge at Amphius, son of Selagus, from the rich pastures of Paesus beside the Sea of Marmara. The spear struck him on the belt and pierced his stomach, tumbling him over. Javelins rained at Ajax as he recklessly bounded forward to possess himself of the armour, several of them lodging in his shoulder. Then, though he planted a heel on the corpse and wrenched his spear free, the enemy were too numerous for even so tough a hero: they drove him off in discomfiture.
Meanwhile, Fate had sent Heracles’ tall, brave son Tlepolemus, who could address Zeus as ‘Grandfather’, against Sarpedon the Lycian, who could address him as ‘Father’. Tlepolemus cried: ‘Prince Sarpedon, how does a malingerer like yourself happen to stray on the battlefield? I reject your claim to have been begotten by Zeus; his sons of the last generation were far better men than you! It is well known that, when King Laomedon withheld certain divine mares promised to my father Heracles for rescuing the Princess Hesione from a sea-monster, he came here with only six ships, yet sacked and emptied Troy of her citizens. Despite your strength, you are a cowardly fellow, ruler of a moribund race; and not fated to afford your Trojan allies much protection, either, for I am sending your ghost down to Hell!’
‘The truth is, Tlepolemus,’ replied Sarpedon, ‘that Troy fell because of her King’s stupidity in breaking a sworn promise. When your father demanded those mares, Laomedon, instead of being grateful for his services, sent him a rude answer. And let me warn you, in return, that yours is the ghost that must visit Hell.’
The champions flung their spears simultaneously. One transfixed Tlepolemus’ neck and killed him on the spot. The other struck Sarpedon’s left thigh, grazing the bone and lodging in the flesh; yet Zeus preserved his life. A group of Lycians, who hauled him away, were far too excited to think of standing him on his feet and drawing out the heavy spear, but trailed it behind them.
The sight of Tlepolemus’ corpse being removed for burial angered Odysseus. He debated with himself whether he should pursue Sarpedon, or vent his rage safely on Lycians of inferior rank. Athene, aware that he was not destined to conquer this son of Zeus, made him attack Coeranus, Alastor, Chromius, Alcandrus, Halius, Noemon, and Prytanis, all of whom he speared. He would have killed many more, but that Hector reinforced the Lycians, and his flashing armour scared Odysseus away. Sarpedon cried in pain: ‘Ah, son of Priam, how relieved I am to see you! Pray do not let my enemies kill and strip me; but carry me into your city. If I have no hope of rejoining my dear wife and little son in the land I love, at least give me leave to die at Troy rather than here!’
Since Hector hurried by without an answer, intent on worsting the Greeks and accounting for as many as he could, the Lycians themselves carried Sarpedon clear of the fighting and sat him down near the Scaean Gate beneath an oak-tree sacred to Zeus. There his comrade Pelagon drew out the spear. Sarpedon fainted, as he did so, but presently revived under the fresh gusts of a northerly breeze.
Knowing that Hector enjoyed Ares’ protection, the Greeks fell back still farther, yet kept their faces turned towards him. You ask: whom did he kill, how many, and in what order? I will tell you. His first victim was Prince Teuthras; his second, Orestes the Charioteer; his third, Trechus, an Aetolian fighter; his fourth, Helenus, son of Oenops; his fifth, Oresbius of the Bright Taslets, a prudent landowner from the town of Hyle on Lake Cephisus, in the rich region of Boeotia.
Hera, watching the massacre, cried urgently to Athene: ‘What is this, you busy daughter of Zeus the Shield-Bearer? We pledged our word that King Menelaus should not sail home before he had sacked the great fortress of Troy. How can we allow Ares a free hand in its defence? Come, we must do something for the other side!’
Athene agreed, and Hera went off to harness her gold-frontleted chariot-team; Hebe, using lynch-pins, fastened the eight-spoked wheels on the iron axle.
Those wheels of HERA’s chariot,
A sight they were to see,
With spokes of bronze, felloes of gold,
And naves of silver free.
Bronze hoops around the felloes ran;
They might not dinted be.
The rails of HERA’s chariot
Were two, and plaited tight
With thongs of silver and red gold,
Wherein she took delight.
The pole of HERA’s chariot
Was silver all unmixed,
Golden the yoke and poitrels fine
Which on that pole she fixed.
Hera thereupon yoked her mettlesome, eager, battle-loving horses, while Athene slipped out of her many-coloured robe (made by herself), letting it fall in a heap on the Palace threshold, and changed into a tunic borrowed from Father Zeus. She next threw about her shoulders the terrible Aegis, a tasseled goatskin crowned with Panic and containing not only the spirits of Discord, Valour and Assault but the marvellous, dreadful, grim, grinning Gorgon’s head—also the property of Zeus. Then she donned a double-crested golden helmet, four layers thick, around which was engraved a procession of warriors from a hundred different cities; and finally grasping the long, stout, heavy spear which she uses to destroy mortals who have fallen under Zeus’ awesome displeasure, the goddess mounted beside Hera.
Hera’s whip cracked, the gates of Heaven groaned open by themselves to admit her exit, and out the chariot shot—past a pair of janitresses named the Seasons, whom Zeus entrusts with the task of parting and drawing the cloud curtain between Heaven and earth. When Hera saw the Thunderer throned in lonely splendour on the summit of Olympus, she pulled up, exclaiming: ‘Husband, do you permit Ares’ violent behaviour? His reckless and irresponsible slaughter of my poor Greeks can hardly have escaped your notice. Aphrodite and Apollo of the Silver Bow are enjoying the spectacle of this mad fellow’s unlawful pranks, which they themselves prompted. Will you be vexed if I attack Ares and chase him wounded and bedraggled from the field?’
Zeus answered: ‘Cause your son whatever pain you please; but pray leave the fighting to Athene the Spoil-Winner, who understands it better than any other Olympian.’
Hera nodded agreement and lashed at the horses, which galloped on again, neighing loudly, high above the earth. Each bound took them as far as a man could see from a watch-tower, across the dark gulf of waters, to the misty horizon. Soon they reached Troy, where Hera brought the chariot to a halt at the confluence of the Rivers Simöeis and Scamander, unharnessed her team and shrouded them in a thick mist. Respectfully, the River-god Simöeis made ambrosial herbage spring up for their pasture. Hera and Athene then flew off together, like a pair of turtle-doves, to rescue their favoured army.
They found a large group of all the boldest Argives gathered around Diomedes.
Formidable as a wild boar
And lion-like prepared to roar,
Each noble-hearted Greek
Stood dully waiting for a word—
Until, above the din, they heard
Their white-armed goddess speak.
Hera, disguised as Stentor, the herald, whose brazen voice had a carrying power equal to fifty ordinary ones, shouted: ‘Shame on you, rascals! Your bearing is proud enough, yet while Achilles ruled the field no Trojan dared sneak out of Troy, not even by way of the Dardanian Gate in the farther wall. Now that his fearful lance no longer scares them, they have surged forward almost to your camp!’ Her words shamed every man present into renewing his courage.
Athene appeared suddenly before Diomedes. He was seated by his chariot, airing the arrow-wound inflicted by Pandarus, and wiping away the blood. He had taken off his broad shield-baldric, which sat heavily on the wounded shoulder and induced a sweat irritating to the raw flesh. Athene, laying one hand on the yoke, sneered: ‘You do not resemble your father Tydeus very closely! A little man, but how pugnacious—even when warned against fighting or displaying his strength on that famous visit to Thebes! I had advised him to accept the Cadmeans’ hospitality and behave with ambassadorial discretion, yet he challenged his hosts to box or wrestle, and never lost a match. You, however, when I guarantee your life, are either too exhausted or too frightened to face the Trojans! It looks as though Tydeus was not your real father.’
Diomedes answered: ‘I recognize your voice, daughter of Zeus the Shield-Bearer, and must tell you in all frankness that I am neither frightened nor exhausted, but only bound by your instructions, which were to fight no Olympian, Aphrodite alone excepted—I was to use my sharp sword on her, you said. This is why, on finding Ares in command of the enemy forces, I have fallen back, and rallied my comrades to me.’
The Anger of Achilles: Homer's Iliad Page 11