he swore to Apollo, Wolf-god, glorious Archer,
he’d slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs
when he marched home to Zelea’s sacred city.
Squeezing the nock and string together, drawing
the gut back to his nipple, iron head to the handgrip
till he flexed the great weapon back in a half-circle curve—
the bow sprang! the string sang out, arrow shot away
razor-sharp and raging to whip through Argive ranks!
But you,
Menelaus, the blessed deathless gods did not forget you,
Zeus’s daughter the queen of fighters first of all.
She reared before you, skewed the tearing shaft,
flicking it off your skin as quick as a mother
flicks a fly from her baby sleeping softly.
Athena’s own hand deflected it down the belt
where the gold buckles clasp and breastplates overlap.
The shaft pierced the tight belt’s twisted thongs,
piercing the blazoned plates, piercing the guard
he wore to shield his loins and block the spears,
his best defense—the shaft pierced even this,
the tip of the weapon grazing the man’s flesh,
and dark blood came spurting from the wound.
Picture a woman dyeing ivory blood red ...
a Carian or Maeonian staining a horse’s cheekpiece,
and it’s stored away in a vault and troops of riders
long to sport the ornament, true, but there it lies
as a king’s splendor, kept and prized twice over—
his team’s adornment, his driver’s pride and glory.
So now, Menelaus, the fresh blood went staining down
your sturdy thighs, your shins and well-turned ankles.
The lord of men Agamemnon shuddered, frightened
to see the dark blood gushing from the wound.
And veteran Menelaus cringed himself but saw
the lashing-cords and barbs outside the gash
and his courage flooded back inside his chest.
Nevertheless, King Agamemnon, groaning heavily,
grasped Menelaus’ hand and spoke out for the men
as friends around him groaned as well: “Dear brother—
that truce I sealed in blood was death for you,
setting you out alone ...
exposed before our lines to fight the Trojans—
Look how the men of Troy have laid you low,
trampling down our solemn, binding truce!
But they will never go for nothing, the oaths,
the blood of the lambs, the unmixed wine we poured,
the firm clasp of the right hand we trusted.
Never—
even if Zeus’s wrath does not strike home at once,
he’ll strike in his own good time with greater fury.
Transgressors will pay the price, a tremendous price,
with their own heads, their wives and all their children.
Yes, for in my heart and soul I know this well:
the day will come when sacred Troy must die,
Priam must die and all his people with him,
Priam who hurls the strong ash spear!
The son of Cronus,
Zeus, throned aloft in the heavens where he lives,
Zeus himself will brandish over their heads
his black storm-shield, enraged at their deceit.
Nothing can stop it now. All this will come to pass.
But I will suffer terrible grief for you, Menelaus,
if you die now, if you fill out your destiny now—
and I go back to parching Argos in disgrace.
For the men will turn their minds toward home at once,
and we must leave Priam and all the men of Troy
a trophy to glory over, Helen, queen of Argos ...
But the plowland here will rot your bones, my brother,
as you lie dead in Troy, your mission left unfinished.
Then some Trojan will glory, swaggering, arrogant,
leaping down on the grave of famous Menelaus:
‘Let Agamemnon wreak his anger so on all his foes!
Just as he led his armies here for nothing, failure.
Now home he’s gone to the dear land of his fathers,
his warships empty, leaving behind the hero Menelaus
moldering in his wake!’
So some Trojan will trumpet—
let the great earth gape and take me down that day!“
But the red-haired Menelaus tried to calm him:
“Courage. Don’t alarm the men, not for a moment.
The point’s not lodged in a mortal spot, you see?
My glittering war-belt stopped the shot in front,
my loin-piece and the plated guard below it,
gear the bronzesmiths hammered out for me.”
And marshal Agamemnon took his lead:
“Pray god you’re right, dear brother Menelaus!
But the wound—a healer will treat it, apply drugs
and put a stop to the black waves of pain.”
Agamemnon turned to the sacred herald:
“Quick, Talthybius. Call Machaon here,
the son of Asclepius, that unfailing healer,
to see to Menelaus, Atreus’ fighting son.
An archer’s hit him, a good hand at the bow,
some Trojan or some Lycian—all glory to him,
a heavy blow to us.”
The herald obeyed at once.
He ran through ranks of Achaeans armed in bronze,
searching for brave Machaon. Find him he did,
standing by, flanked by the bands of shielded men
who’d trooped with him from the stallion-land of Tricca.
He halted beside him there and let his message fly:
“Quickly, son of Asclepius, King Agamemnon calls!
Now see to Menelaus, Achaea’s fighting captain.
An archer’s hit him, a good hand at the bow,
some Trojan or some Lycian—at! glory to him,
a heavy blow to us!”
So the herald shouted,
stirring Machaon’s spirit. Back the two men ran
through crowds of troops in Achaea’s vast encampment.
And gaining the place where red-haired Menelaus
nursed his wound and a growing ring of warlords
pressed around him, striding into their midst
the godsent healer reached the captain’s side
and quickly drew the shaft from his buckled belt—
he pulled it clear, the sharp barbs broke back.
He loosed the glittering belt and slipped it off
and the loin-piece and the plated guard below it,
gear the bronzesmiths made. When he saw the wound
where the tearing arrow hit, he sucked out the blood
and deftly applied the healing salves that Chiron,
friend of Asclepius, gave his father long ago.
And all the while they worked over Menelaus
whose cry could marshal armies, on the Trojans came,
columns armed for assault, and again the Argives
donned their gear and roused their lust for war.
King Agamemnon’s hour. You would not find him asleep,
not cringing a moment, hanging back from the struggle—
he pressed for battle now where men win glory.
He left his team and burnished bronze car
with an aide, Eurymedon, Ptolemaeus Piraides’ son
reining off to the side his snorting pair of stallions.
He gave him strict orders to keep them close at hand
for the time his knees might buckle with fatigue
from bringing crowds of soldiers into line.
Then out he went on foot to range the ranks.
The charioteers he spotted, fast with teams,
he’d halt beside and spur them on: “My Argives,
never relax your nerve, your fighting strength!
Father Zeus, I swear, will never defend the Trojans,
liars—they were the first to trample on their oaths.
So vultures will eat them raw, their firm young flesh,
and we, we’ll drag their dear wives and helpless children
back to the beaked ships, once we’ve seized their city!”
But any men he saw retreating from hateful battle
he would lash with a sharp burst of rage: “You Argives—
glorious braggarts! Disgraces—have you no shame?
Just standing there, dumbstruck like fawns
done in from hightailing over some big meadow,
winded and teetering, heart inside them spent.
Standing there dazed, your fighting spirit dead—
what are you waiting for? You want these Trojans
to pin you against your high sterns beached in the surf?
To see if Zeus will stretch his hands above your heads
and save your craven lives?”
So the commander
ranged Achaea’s ranks and brought them into line.
Moving on through the crowds he found the Cretans
arming for combat now, ringing brave Idomeneus.
Strong as a boar he urged his frontline troops
as Meriones brought the rear battalions up.
King Agamemnon, thrilled to watch them work,
was quick to salute the chief and sing his praises:
“You are the one I prize, Idomeneus, more than all
our Argive fighters fast with chariot-teams—
whether in war or action of any sort
or feasts where the ranking Argive warlords
mix their bowls with the shining wine of kings.
What if the rest of all the long-haired Achaeans
drink their measure off? Your cup stands filled, always,
brimmed like mine when the will stirs you to drink—
so now drink deep of battle. Be that fighter
you claimed to be in all the years gone by.”
The Cretan captain Idomeneus answered warmly,
“Trust me, Atrides—count on me, your comrade,
staunch as I swore at first, that day I bowed my head.
Now fire up the rest of your long-haired Achaeans.
On with the fighting, quickly!
The Trojans broke our binding truce just now—
death and grief to the men of Troy hereafter!
They were the first to trample on our pact.”
Hearing that,
the son of Atreus strode on. Elated and making way
through crowds of troops he found the two called Ajax,
Great and Little, both captains armed for attack
with a cloud of infantry forming up behind them.
Think how a goatherd off on a mountain lookout
spots a storm cloud moving down the sea ...
bearing down beneath the rush of the West Wind
and miles away he sees it building black as pitch,
blacker, whipping the whitecaps, full hurricane fury—
the herdsman shudders to see it, drives his flocks to a cave—
so dense the battalions grouped behind the two Aeantes,
packed, massed with hardy fighters dear to the gods,
battalions black and bristling shields and spears,
fighters sweeping into the breaking storm of war.
And King Agamemnon, thrilled to see that sight,
sped them on with a rousing flight of praises:
“Ajax—Ajax! Chiefs of the Argives armed in bronze,
no orders for you—it’s wrong to incite you two,
you lead your men to war in so much force.
Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo, if all my fighters
had such courage pounding inside their chests,
we’d bring King Priam’s citadel crashing down
in an instant, sacked at our hands—annihilated.”
He spun on his heels and left them there in place,
heading for other ranks and came on Nestor next,
the clear speaker of Pylos posting troops,
readying them for action, combat units forming
under the lanky Pelagon, Alastor and Chromius,
Haemon and stocky Bias, skilled captain of armies.
Forward he ranged the charioteers with teams and cars,
backed by infantry close behind them, milling, brave men,
the defensive line of battle—that would be their role.
But the known cowards he drove amidst the center:
a man might cringe but he’d be forced to fight.
And first he gave his drivers strict commands
to rein their teams back hard and never panic,
no fouling them in the onslaught: “Let no man,
so sure of his horsemanship and soldier’s prowess,
dare to fight it out alone with the Trojans,
exposed in front of his lines. No heroics now!
But give no ground—the charge will go to pieces.
And any charioteer who reaches Trojan chariots,
thrust your spear from your own car, don’t throw it!
Better that way—it’s tighter, stronger fighting.
So men before your time stormed walls and cities,
holding fast to that tactic, warring on with heart.”
The old soldier spurring his men with skills
from a lifetime spent campaigning, battles long ago.
And King Agamemnon, thrilled to see his efforts,
cheered him on with a flight of praise: “Old war-horse,
if only your knees could match the spirit in your chest
and your body’s strength were planted firm as rock,
but the great leveler, age, has worn you down.
If only some other fighter had your years
and you could march with the younger, fitter men!”
And Nestor the seasoned charioteer replied,
“True, Atrides, if only I were the man I was,
years ago, when I cut down rugged Ereuthalion ...
but the gods won’t give us all their gifts at once.
If I was a young man then, now old age dogs my steps.
Nevertheless, I’ll still troop with the horsemen,
give them maneuvers, discipline and commands:
that is the right and pride of us old men.
The young spearmen will do the work with spears.
Younger than Nestor, the next generation up,
flush with their fresh strength.”
So Nestor said
and Atrides ranged forward, glad at heart,
and came on Peteos’ son the charioteer
Menestheus standing idle, and circling him
Athenian men who could raise the cry of battle.
And there beside them the great tactician Odysseus,
drawn up with his Cephallenians grouped around him,
bands of them, no mean fighters, watching, waiting.
The call to action had still not reached their ears
The Iliad Page 21