Pandarus, with the bow that came from Apollo’s own hands.
And the men who held the land of Apaesus and Adrestia,
men who held Pityea, Terea’s steep peaks—the units led
by Adrestus joined by Amphius trim in linen corslet,
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 the men who lived around Percote and Practios,
men who settled Sestos, Abydos and gleaming Arisbe:
Asius son of Hyrtacus led them on, captain of armies,
Hyrtacus’ offspring Asius—hulking, fiery stallions
bore him in from Arisbe, from the Selleis River.
Hippothous led the Pelasgian tribes of spearmen,
fighters who worked Larissa’s dark rich plowland.
Hippothous and Pylaeus, tested soldier, led them on,
both sons of Pelasgian Lethus, Teutamus’ scion.
Acamas and the old hero Pirous led the Thracians,
all the Hellespont bounds within her riptide straits.
Euphemus led the Cicones, fighters armed with spears,
son of Troezenus, Ceas’ son, a warlord bred by the gods.
Pyraechmes led the Paeonians, reflex bows in hand,
hailing from Amydon far west and the broad river Axius,
Axius, clearest stream that flows across the earth.
That burly heart Pylaemenes led his Paphlagonians
out of Enetian country, land where the wild mules breed:
the men who held Cytorus and lived in range of Sesamus,
building their storied halls along the Parthenius River,
at Cromna, Aegialus and the highland fortress Erythini.
Odius and Epistrophus led the Halizonians out of Alybe
miles east where the mother lode of silver came to birth.
Chromis led the Mysian men with Ennomus seer of birds—
but none of his winged signs could beat off black death.
Down he went, crushed by racing Achilles’ hands, destroyed
in the river where he slaughtered other Trojans too.
Ascanius strong as a god and Phorcys led the Phrygians
in from Ascania due east, primed for the clash of combat.
Mesthles and Antiphus led Maeonia’s proud contingent,
Talaemenes’ two sons sprung from the nymph of Gyge Lake
led on Maeonian units born and bred under Mount Tmolus.
Nastes led the Carians wild with barbarous tongues,
men who held Miletus, Phthires’ ridges thick with timber,
Maeander’s currents and Mount Mycale’s craggy peaks.
Amphimachus and Nastes led their formations on,
Nastes and Amphimachus, Nomion’s flamboyant sons.
Nastes strolled to battle decked in gold like a girl,
the fool! None of his trappings kept off grisly death—
down he went, crushed by racing Achilles’ hands, destroyed
at the ford where battle-hard Achilles stripped his gold away.
And last, Sarpedon and valiant Glaucus marched the Lycians on
from Lycia far south, from the Xanthus’ swirling rapids.
BOOK THREE
Helen Reviews the Champions
Now with the squadrons marshaled, captains leading each,
the Trojans came with cries and the din of war like wildfowl
when the long hoarse cries of cranes sweep on against the sky
and the great formations flee from winter’s grim ungodly storms,
flying in force, shrieking south to the Ocean gulfs, speeding
blood and death to the Pygmy warriors, launching at daybreak
savage battle down upon their heads. But Achaea’s armies
came on strong in silence, breathing combat-fury,
hearts ablaze to defend each other to the death.
When the South Wind showers mist on the mountaintops,
no friend to shepherds, better than night to thieves—
you can see no farther than you can fling a stone—
so dust came clouding, swirling up from the feet of armies
marching at top speed, trampling through the plain.
Now closer, closing, front to front in the onset
till Paris sprang from the Trojan forward ranks,
a challenger, lithe, magnificent as a god,
the skin of a leopard slung across his shoulders,
a reflex bow at his back and battle-sword at hip
and brandishing two sharp spears tipped in bronze
he strode forth, challenging all the Argive best
to fight him face-to-face in mortal combat.
Soon as the warrior Menelaus marked him,
Paris parading there with his big loping strides,
flaunting before the troops, Atrides thrilled
like a lion lighting on some handsome carcass,
lucky to find an antlered stag or wild goat
just as hunger strikes—he rips it, bolts it down,
even with running dogs and lusty hunters rushing him.
So Menelaus thrilled at heart—princely Paris there,
right before his eyes. The outlaw, the adulterer ...
“Now for revenge!” he thought, and down he leapt
from his chariot fully armed and hit the ground.
But soon as magnificent Paris marked Atrides
shining among the champions, Paris’ spirit shook.
Backing into his friendly ranks, he cringed from death
as one who trips on a snake in a hilltop hollow
recoils, suddenly, trembling grips his knees
and pallor takes his cheeks and back he shrinks.
So he dissolved again in the proud Trojan lines,
dreading Atrides—magnificent, brave Paris.
At one glance
Hector raked his brother with insults, stinging taunts:
“Paris, appalling Paris! Our prince of beauty—
mad for women, you lure them all to ruin!
Would to god you’d never been born, died unwed.
That’s all I’d ask. Better that way by far
than to have you strutting here, an outrage—
a mockery in the eyes of all our enemies. Why,
the long-haired Achaeans must be roaring with laughter!
They thought you the bravest champion we could field.
and just because of the handsome luster on your limbs,
but you have no pith, no fighting strength inside you.
What?—is this the man who mustered the oarsmen once,
who braved the seas in his racing deep-sea ships,
trafficked with outlanders, carried off a woman
far from her distant shores, a great beauty
wed to a land of rugged spearmen?
You...
curse to your father, your city and all your people,
a joy to our enemies, rank disgrace to yourself!
So, you can’t stand up to the battling Menelaus?
You’d soon feel his force, that man you robbed
of his sumptuous, warm wife. No use to you then,
the fine lyre and these, these gifts of Aphrodite,
your long flowing locks and your striking looks,
not when you roll and couple with the dust.
What cowards, the men of Troy—or years ago
they’d have decked you out in a suit of rocky armor,
stoned you to death for all the wrongs you’ve done!“
And Paris, magnificent as a god, replied,
“Ah Hector, you criticize me fairly, yes,
nothing unfair, beyond what I deserve.
The heart inside you is always tempered hard,
like an ax tha
t goes through wood when a shipwright
cuts out ship timbers with every ounce of skill
and the blade’s weight drives the man’s stroke.
So the heart inside your chest is never daunted.
Still, don’t fling in my face the lovely gifts
of golden Aphrodite. Not to be tossed aside,
the gifts of the gods, those glories ...
whatever the gods give of their own free will—
how could we ever choose them for ourselves?
Now, though,
if you really want me to fight to the finish here,
have all Trojans and Argives take their seats
and pit me against Menelaus dear to Ares—
right between the lines—
we’ll fight it out for Helen and all her wealth.
And the one who proves the better man and wins,
he’ll take those treasures fairly, lead the woman home.
The rest will seal in blood their binding pacts of friendship.
Our people will live in peace on the rich soil of Troy,
our enemies sail home to the stallion-land of Argos,
the land of Achaea where the women are a wonder ...“
When Hector heard that challenge he rejoiced
and right in the no man’s land along his lines he strode,
gripping his spear mid-haft, staving men to a standstill.
But the long-haired Argive archers aimed at Hector,
trying to cut him down with arrows, hurling rocks
till King Agamemnon cried out in a ringing voice,
“Hold back, Argives! Sons of Achaea, stop your salvos!
Look, Hector with that flashing helmet of his—
the man is trying to tell us something now.”
They held their attack. Quickly men fell silent
and Hector pleaded, appealing to both armed camps:
“Hear me—Trojans, Achaeans geared for combat!
Hear the challenge of Paris,
the man who caused our long hard campaign.
He urges all the Trojans, all the Argives too,
to lay their fine armor down on the fertile earth
while Paris himself and the warrior Menelaus
take the field between you and fight it out
for Helen and all her wealth in single combat.
And the one who proves the better man and wins,
he’ll take those treasures fairly, lead the woman home.
The rest will seal in blood their binding pacts of friendship.”
He stopped. A hushed silence held the ranks.
And Menelaus whose cry could marshal armies
urged both sides, “Now hear me out as well!
Such limited vengeance hurts me most of all—
but I intend that we will part in peace, at last,
Trojans and Achaeans. Look what heavy casualties
you have suffered just for me, my violent quarrel,
and Paris who brought it on you all. Now we’ll fight—
and death to the one marked out for doom and death!
But the rest will part in peace, and soon, soon.
Bring two lambs—a white male and a black ewe
for the Sun and Earth—and we’ll bring a third for Zeus.
And lead on Priam too, Priam in all his power,
so the king himself can seal our truce in blood—
his royal sons are reckless, not to be trusted:
no one must trample on the oath we swear to Zeus.
The minds of the younger men are always flighty,
but let an old man stand his ground among them,
one who can see the days behind, the days ahead—
that is the best hope for peace, for both our armies.”
The Achaean and Trojan forces both exulted,
hoping this would end the agonies of war.
They hauled their chariots up in ranks, at rest,
the troops dismounted and stripped away their arms
and laid them down on the earth, crowded together—
hardly a foot of plowland showed between them.
Back to the city Hector sent two heralds now
to bring the lambs at once and summon Priam
while King Agamemnon sent Talthybius off,
heading down to the ships for one more lamb.
The herald obeyed his captain’s orders quickly.
And now a messenger went to white-armed Helen too,
Iris, looking for all the world like Hector’s sister
wed to Antenor’s son, Helicaon’s bride Laodice,
the loveliest daughter Priam ever bred.
And Iris came on Helen in her rooms ...
weaving a growing web, a dark red folding robe,
working into the weft the endless bloody struggles
stallion-breaking Trojans and Argives armed in bronze
had suffered all for her at the god of battle’s hands.
Iris, racing the wind, brushed close and whispered,
“Come, dear girl, come quickly—
so you can see what wondrous things they’re doing,
stallion-breaking Trojans and Argives armed in bronze!
A moment ago they longed to kill each other, longed
for heartbreaking, inhuman warfare on the plain.
Now those very warriors stand at ease, in silence—
the fighting’s stopped, they lean against their shields,
their long lances stuck in the ground beside them.
Think of it: Paris and Menelaus loved by Ares
go to fight it out with their rugged spears—
all for you—and the man who wins that duel,
you’ll be called his wife!”
And with those words
the goddess filled her heart with yearning warm and deep
for her husband long ago, her city and her parents.
Quickly cloaking herself in shimmering linen,
out of her rooms she rushed, live tears welling,
and not alone—two of her women followed close behind,
Aethra, Pittheus’ daughter, and Clymene, eyes wide,
and they soon reached the looming Scaean Gates.
And there they were, gathered around Priam,
Panthous and Thymoetes, Lampus and Clytius,
Hicetaon the gray aide of Ares, then those two
with unfailing good sense, Ucalegon and Antenor.
The old men of the realm held seats above the gates.
Long years had brought their fighting days to a halt
but they were eloquent speakers still, clear as cicadas
settled on treetops, lifting their voices through the forest,
rising softly, falling, dying away ... So they waited,
the old chiefs of Troy, as they sat aloft the tower.
And catching sight of Helen moving along the ramparts,
they murmured one to another, gentle, winged words:
“Who on earth could blame them? Ah, no wonder
the men of Troy and Argives under arms have suffered
years of agony all for her, for such a woman.
The Iliad Page 18