The big oaken axle groaned beneath the weight,
bearing a great man and a terrifying goddess—
and Pallas Athena seized the reins and whip,
lashing the racing horses straight at Ares.
The god was just stripping giant Periphas bare,
the Aetolians’ best fighter, Ochesius’ noble son—
the blood-smeared Ares was tearing off his gear
but Athena donned the dark helmet of Death
so not even stark Ares could see her now.
But the butcher did see Tydeus’ rugged son
and he dropped gigantic Periphas on the spot
where he’d just killed him, ripped his life away
and Ares whirled at the stallion-breaking Diomedes—
the two of them closing fast, charging face-to-face
and the god thrust first, over Tydides’ yoke and reins,
with bronze spear burning to take the fighter’s life.
But Athena, her eyes afire, grabbed the flying shaft,
flicked it over the car and off it flew for nothing—
and after him Diomedes yelled his war cry, lunging out
with his own bronze spear and Pallas rammed it home,
deep in Ares’ bowels where the belt cinched him tight.
There Diomedes aimed and stabbed, he gouged him down
his glistening flesh and wrenched the spear back out
and the brazen god of war let loose a shriek, roaring,
thundering loud as nine, ten thousand combat soldiers
shriek with Ares’ fury when massive armies clash.
A shudder swept all ranks, Trojans and Argives both,
terror-struck by the shriek the god let loose,
Ares whose lust for slaughter never dies.
But now,
wild as a black cyclone twisting out of a cloudbank,
building up from the day’s heat, blasts and towers—
so brazen Ares looked to Tydeus’ son Diomedes.
Soaring up with the clouds to the broad sweeping sky
he quickly gained the gods’ stronghold, steep Olympus,
and settling down by the side of Cronus’ great son Zeus,
his spirit racked with pain, Ares displayed the blood,
the fresh immortal blood that gushed from his wound,
and burst out in a flight of self-pity: “Father Zeus,
aren’t you incensed to see such violent brutal work?
We everlasting gods . . . Ah what chilling blows
we suffer—thanks to our own conflicting wills—
whenever we show these mortal men some kindness.
And we all must battle you—
you brought that senseless daughter into the world,
that murderous curse—forever bent on crimes!
While all the rest of us, every god on Olympus
bows down to you, each of us overpowered.
But that girl—
you never block her way with a word or action, never,
you spur her on, since you, you gave her birth
from your own head, that child of devastation!
Just look at this reckless Diomedes now—
Athena spurred him on to rave against the gods.
First he lunges at Aphrodite, stabs her hand at the wrist
then charges me—even me—like something superhuman!
But I, I’m so fast on my feet I saved my life.
Else for a good long while I’d have felt the pain,
writhing among the corpses there, or soldiered on,
weak as a breathless ghost, beaten down by bronze.”
But Zeus who marshals storm clouds lowered a dark glance
and let loose at Ares: “No more, you lying, two-faced . . .
no more sidling up to me, whining here before me.
You—I hate you most of all the Olympian gods.
Always dear to your heart,
strife, yes, and battles, the bloody grind of war.
You have your mother’s uncontrollable rage—incorrigible,
that Hera—say what I will, I can hardly keep her down.
Hera’s urgings, I trust, have made you suffer this.
But I cannot bear to see you agonize so long.
You are my child. To me your mother bore you.
If you had sprung from another god, believe me,
and grown into such a blinding devastation,
long ago you’d have dropped below the Titans,
deep in the dark pit.”
So great Zeus declared
and ordered the healing god to treat the god of war.
And covering over his wound with pain-killing drugs
the Healer cured him: the god was never bom to die.
Quickly as fig-juice, pressed into bubbly, creamy milk,
curdles it firm for the man who chums it round,
so quickly he healed the violent rushing Ares.
And Hebe washed him clean, dressed him in robes
to warm his heart, and flanking the son of Cronus
down he sat, Ares exultant in the glory of it all.
And now the two returned to the halls of mighty Zeus—
Hera of Argos, Boeotian Athena, guard of armies, both
had stopped the murderous Ares’ cutting men to pieces.
BOOK SIX
Hector Returns to Troy
So the clash of Achaean and Trojan troops was on its own,
the battle in all its fury veering back and forth,
careering down the plain
as they sent their bronze lances hurtling side-to-side
between the Simois’ banks and Xanthus’ swirling rapids.
That Achaean bulwark giant Ajax came up first,
broke the Trojan line and brought his men some hope,
spearing the bravest man the Thracians fielded,
Acamas tall and staunch, Eussorus’ son.
The first to hurl, Great Ajax hit the ridge
of the helmet’s horsehair crest—the bronze point
stuck in Acamas’ forehead pounding through the skull
and the dark came swirling down to shroud his eyes.
A shattering war cry! Diomedes killed off Axylus,
Teuthras’ son who had lived in rock-built Arisbe,
a man of means and a friend to all mankind,
at his roadside house he’d warm all comers in.
But who of his guests would greet his enemy now,
meet him face-to-face and ward off grisly death?
Diomedes killed the man and his aide-in-arms at once,
Axylus and Calesius who always drove his team—
both at a stroke he drove beneath the earth.
Euryalus killed Dresus, killed Opheltius,
turned and went for Pedasus and Aesepus, twins
the nymph of the spring Abarbarea bore Bucolion ...
Bucolion, son himself to the lofty King Laomedon,
first of the line, though his mother bore the prince
in secrecy and shadow. Tending his flocks one day
Bucolion took the nymph in a strong surge of love
and beneath his force she bore him twin sons.
But now the son of Mecisteus hacked the force
from beneath them both and loosed their gleaming limbs
and tore the armor off the dead men’s shoulders.
Polypoetes braced for battle killed Astyalus—
Winging his bronze spear Odysseus slew Pidytes
bred in Percote, and Teucer did the same
for the royal Aretaon—
Ablerus went down too,
under the flashing lance of Nestor’s son Antilochus,
and Elatus under the lord of men Agamemnon’s strength—
Elatus lived by the banks of rippling Satniois,
in Pedasus perched on cliffs—
The hero Leitus
ran Phylacus down to ground at a dead run
and Eu
rypylus killed Melanthius outright—
But Menelaus
lord of the war cry had caught Adrestus alive.
Rearing, bolting in terror down the plain
his horses snared themselves in tamarisk branches,
splintered his curved chariot just at the pole’s tip
and breaking free they made a dash for the city walls
where battle-teams by the drove stampeded back in panic.
But their master hurled from the chariot, tumbling over the wheel
and pitching facedown in the dust, and above him now
rose Menelaus, his spear’s long shadow looming.
Adrestus hugged his knees and begged him, pleading,
“Take me alive, Atrides, take a ransom worth my life!
Treasures are piled up in my rich father’s house,
bronze and gold and plenty of well-wrought iron—
father would give you anything, gladly, priceless ransom
if only he learns I’m still alive in Argive ships!”
His pleas were moving the heart in Menelaus,
just at the point of handing him to an aide
to take him back to the fast Achaean ships . . .
when up rushed Agamemnon, blocking his way
and shouting out, “So soft, dear brother, why?
Why such concern for enemies? I suppose you got
such tender loving care at home from the Trojans.
Ah would to god not one of them could escape
his sudden plunging death beneath our hands!
No baby boy still in his mother’s belly,
not even he escape—all Ilium blotted out,
no tears for their lives, no markers for their graves!”
And the iron warrior brought his brother round—
rough justice, fitting too.
Menelaus shoved Adrestus back with a fist,
powerful Agamemnon stabbed him in the flank
and back on his side the fighter went, faceup.
The son of Atreus dug a heel in his heaving chest
and wrenched the ash spear out.
And here came Nestor
with orders ringing down the field: “My comrades—
fighting Danaans, aides of Ares—no plunder now!
Don’t lag behind, don’t fling yourself at spoils
just to haul the biggest portion back to your ship.
Now’s the time for killing! Later, at leisure,
strip the corpses up and down the plain!”
So he ordered, spurring each man’s nerve—
and the next moment crowds of Trojans once again
would have clambered back inside their city walls,
terror-struck by the Argives primed for battle.
But Helenus son of Priam, best of the seers
who scan the flight of birds, came striding up
to Aeneas and Hector, calling out, “My captains!
You bear the brunt of Troy’s and Lycia’s fighting—
you are our bravest men, whatever the enterprise,
pitched battle itself or planning our campaigns,
so stand your ground right here!
Go through the ranks and rally all the troops.
Hold back our retreating mobs outside the gates
before they throw themselves in their women’s arms in fear,
a great joy to our enemies closing for the kill.
And once you’ve roused our lines to the last man,
we’ll hold out here and fight the Argives down,
hard-hit as we are—necessity drives us on.
But you,
Hector, you go back to the city, tell our mother
to gather all the older noble women together
in gray-eyed Athena’s shrine on the city’s crest,
unlock the doors of the goddess’ sacred chamber—
and take a robe, the largest, loveliest robe
that she can find throughout the royal halls,
a gift that far and away she prizes most herself,
and spread it out across the sleek-haired goddess’ knees.
Then promise to sacrifice twelve heifers in her shrine,
yearlings never broken, if only she’ll pity Troy,
the Trojan wives and all our helpless children,
if only she’ll hold Diomedes back from the holy city—
that wild spearman, that invincible headlong terror!
He is the strongest Argive now, I tell you.
Never once did we fear Achilles so,
captain of armies, born of a goddess too,
or so they say. But here’s a maniac run amok—
no one can match his fury man-to-man!”
So he urged
and Hector obeyed his brother start to finish.
Down he leapt from his chariot fully armed, hit the ground
and brandishing two sharp spears went striding down his lines,
ranging flank to flank, driving his fighters into battle,
rousing grisly war—and round the Trojans whirled,
bracing to meet the Argives face-to-face.
And the Argives gave way, they quit the slaughter—
they thought some god swept down from the starry skies
to back the Trojans now, they wheeled and rallied so.
Hector shouted out to his men in a piercing voice,
“Gallant-hearted Trojans and far-famed allies!
Now be men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!
Till I can return to Troy and tell them all,
the old counselors, all our wives, to pray to the gods
and vow to offer them many splendid victims.”
As Hector turned for home his helmet flashed
and the long dark hide of his bossed shield, the rim
running the metal edge, drummed his neck and ankles.
And now
Glaucus son of Hippolochus and Tydeus’ son Diomedes
met in the no man’s land between both armies:
burning for battle, closing, squaring off
and the lord of the war cry Diomedes opened up,
“Who are you, my fine friend?—another born to die?
I’ve never noticed you on the lines where we win glory,
not till now. But here you come, charging out
in front of all the rest with such bravado—
daring to face the flying shadow of my spear.
Pity the ones whose sons stand up to me in war!
But if you are an immortal come from the blue,
I’m not the man to fight the gods of heaven.
Not even Dryas’ indestructible son Lycurgus,
not even he lived long . . .
that fellow who tried to fight the deathless gods.
He rushed at the maenads once, nurses of wild Dionysus,
scattered them breakneck down the holy mountain Nysa.
A rout of them strewed their sacred staves on the ground,
raked with a cattle prod by Lycurgus, murderous fool!
And Dionysus was terrified, he dove beneath the surf
where the sea-nymph Thetis pressed him to her breast—
Dionysus numb with fear: shivers racked his body,
The Iliad Page 27