Dexius’ son Iphinous just as he leapt behind
his fast mares—he stabbed his shoulder, hard,
and down from his car Iphinous crashed to earth
and his limbs went slack with death.
Rampaging Trojans!
Yes, but as soon as fiery-eyed Athena marked them
killing Argive ranks in this all-out assault,
down she rushed from the peaks of Mount Olympus
straight for sacred Troy. But Phoebus Apollo
spotting her from Pergamus heights—the god grim set
on victory for the Trojans—rose to intercept her . . .
As the two came face-to-face beside the great oak,
lord Apollo the son of Zeus led off, “What next?—
what is the mighty Zeus’s daughter blazing after now?
Down from Olympus, what heroics stir your heart?
No doubt you’ll hand your Argives victory soon,
you’ll turn the tide of battle!
You have no mercy, none for dying Trojans.
Come, listen to me—my plan is so much better:
let us halt the war and the heat of combat now,
at least for today. They’ll fight again tomorrow,
until they win their way to the fixed doom of Troy,
since that is your only passion—you two goddesses—
to plunder Troy to rubble.”
Athena’s eyes lit up
and the goddess said, “So be it, archer of the sky!
Those were my very thoughts, winging down from Olympus
into the midst of Trojans and Achaeans. But tell me,
how do you hope to stop the men from fighting?”
“Hector!”—lord Apollo the son of Zeus replied—
“We’ll spur his nerve and strength, that breaker of horses,
see if he’ll challenge one of the Argives man-to-man
and they will duel in bloody combat to the death.
Achaeans armed in bronze will thrill to his call,
they’ll put up a man to battle shining Hector.”
So Apollo staged the action. Her eyes afire
the goddess Pallas did not resist a moment.
She flashed the word in Helenus’ mantic spirit—
the son of Priam sensed what pleased the immortals
hatching instant plans, and coming up to Hector
advised him quickly, “Hector, son of Priam,
a mastermind like Zeus, listen to me now—
let your brother guide you.
Have all Trojans and Argives take their seats,
and you, you challenge Achaea’s bravest man
to duel in bloody combat to the death.
It’s not the hour to meet your doom, not yet.
I heard a voice of the gods who live forever.”
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
while Agamemnon seated his Argives geared for combat.
And Apollo lord of the silver bow and Queen Athena,
for all the world like carrion birds, like vultures,
slowly settled atop the broad towering oak
sacred to Zeus whose battle-shield is thunder,
relishing those men. Wave on wave of them settling,
close ranks shuddering into a dense, bristling glitter
of shields and spears and helmets—quick as a ripple
the West Wind suddenly risen shudders down the sea
and the deep sea swell goes dark beneath its force—
so settling waves of Trojan ranks and Achaeans
rippled down the plain . . .
And Hector rose and spoke between both sides:
“Hear me—Trojans, Achaeans geared for combat!
I’ll speak out what the heart inside me urges.
Our oaths, our sworn truce—Zeus the son of Cronus
throned in the clouds has brought them all to nothing
and all the Father decrees is death for both sides at once.
Until you Argives seize the well-built towers of Troy
or you yourselves are crushed against your ships.
But now,
seeing the best of all Achaeans fill your ranks,
let one whose nerve impels him to fight with me
come striding from your lines, a lone champion
pitted against Prince Hector. Here are the terms
that I set forth—let Zeus look down, my witness!
If that man takes my life with his sharp bronze blade,
he will strip my gear and haul it back to his ships.
But give my body to friends to carry home again,
so Trojan men and Trojan women can do me honor
with fitting rites of fire once I am dead.
But if I kill him and Apollo grants me glory,
I’ll strip his gear and haul it back to sacred Troy
and hang it high on the deadly Archer’s temple walls.
But not his body: I’ll hand it back to the decked ships,
so the long-haired Achaeans can give him full rites
and heap his barrow high by the broad Hellespont.
And someday one will say, one of the men to come,
steering his oar-swept ship across the wine-dark sea,
‘There’s the mound of a man who died in the old days,
one of the brave whom glorious Hector killed.’
So they will say, someday, and my fame will never die.“
A hushed silence went through all the Achaean ranks,
ashamed to refuse, afraid to take his challenge . . .
But at long last Menelaus leapt up and spoke,
lashing out at them, groaning, heartsick: “Oh no—
your threats, your bluster—women, not men of Achaea!
What disgrace it will be—shame, cringing shame
if not one Danaan now steps up to battle Hector.
You can all turn to earth and water—rot away!
Look at each of you, sitting there, lifeless,
lust for glory gone. I’ll harness up,
I’ll fight the man myself. The gods on high—
they hold the ropes of victory in their hands!”
With that he began to don his handsome gear.
And then and there, Menelaus,
the death-stroke would have blazed before your eyes—
dead at the hands of Hector, a far stronger man—
if Argive kings had not leapt up and caught you.
And Atreus’ son himself, powerful Agamemnon
seized your right hand, shouting out your name:
“You’re mad, my Prince! No need for such an outburst—
get a grip on yourself, distraught as you are.
Just for the sake of rivalry, soldier’s pride,
don’t rush to fight with a better man, with Hector
the son of Priam. Many others shrink before him.
Even Achilles dreads to pit himself against him
out on the battle lines where men win glory—
Achilles, far and away a stronger man than you.
Go back. Sit down with the comrades you command.
We’ll put up another champion to go against this Hector.
Fearless, is he? and never sated with fighting?
He’ll gladly sink to a knee and rest, I’d say,
if the man comes through alive
from the fight he begs for, dueling to the death.”
Again the iron warrior brought his brother round—
good counsel, fitting too. Menelaus yielded at once.
His aides, elated, lifted the armor off his shoulders.
And then lord Nestor rose and spoke among the men:
“No more—or enormous sorrow comes to all Achaea!
How he would groan at this, the old horseman Peleus,
that fine speaker, the M
yrmidons’ famed commander.
How he rejoiced that day, questioning me in his halls,
when he learned the blood and birth of all the Argives.
Now if he heard how all cringe in the face of Hector,
time and again he’d stretch his hands to the gods
and pray that life breath would quit his limbs
and sink to the House of Death.
Oh if only-
Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo—I were young again!
Fresh as the day we fought by Celadon’s rapids,
our Pylians in platoons against Arcadian spearmen
under Phia’s ramparts, round the Iardanus’ banks.
When Arcadia’s champion Ereuthalion strode forth,
a man like a god for power, his shoulders decked
with King Areithous’ armor, massive Areithous ...
the Great War-club, so they called that hulk,
his men-at-arms and their sashed and lovely women.
He would never fight with a bow or long spear, no,
with his giant iron club he’d break battalions open.
That monster—Lycurgus cut him down by stealth,
not force at all, on a footpath so cramped
his iron club was useless fending off his death.
There—before he could heft it—a sudden lunge
and Lycurgus’ spear had run him through the guts.
Flat on his back he went, slamming against the ground
and his killer stripped the armor brazen Ares gave him.
He donned it himself, for years of grueling war,
but then, when Lycurgus grew too old in his halls,
he passed it on to a favorite henchman, Ereuthalion,
and sporting that gear he challenged all our best.
And they, they shook from head to foot, terrified,
none with the nerve to face him then. Only I—
my hardened courage drove me to fight the man
in a hot burst of daring,
and I the youngest trooper of us all . . .
I took him on and Athena gave me glory. By heaven,
Ereuthalion was the biggest, strongest man I ever killed,
the huge lumbering sprawl of him stretching far and wide!
Oh make me young again, and the strength inside me
steady as a rock! Hector with that flashing helmet
would meet his match in combat in a moment.
You, the bravest of all Achaeans—and not one
with the spine to battle Hector face-to-face!“
The old man’s taunts brought nine men to their feet.
First by far Agamemnon lord of men sprang up
and following him Tydides, powerful Diomedes,
next the Great and Little Ajax armed in fury,
Idomeneus after them and Idomeneus’ good aide,
Meriones, a match for the butcher god of war,
Eurypylus after them, Euaemon’s gallant son,
Thoas son of Andraemon, Odysseus out for exploit:
all were roused to go up against Prince Hector.
Once more the fine old horseman gave commands:
“Now shake the lots for all,
the first to the last man—we’ll see who wins.
He’s the one to do his Achaean comrades proud,
do himself proud too, if he comes through alive
from the fight that waits him, dueling to the death.”
And each soldier scratched his mark on a stone
and threw it into Atrides Agamemnon’s helmet.
Fighters prayed. Stretching hands to the gods
a man would murmur, scanning the wide sky,
“Father Zeus, let Ajax win, or Tydeus’ son
or the proud king himself of all Mycenae’s gold!”
So they prayed as the old horseman shook the lots
and one leapt from the helmet, the one they wanted most—
Great Ajax’ lot it was. And the herald took it round
through all the ranks, left to right for luck,
and showed it to all Achaea’s bravest men.
None of them knew it, each denied the mark.
But once he’d passed it round and reached the man
who had scratched the stone and thrown it in the helmet—
Ajax bent on glory—out went his hand to take it,
the herald pausing beside him dropped it in
and Ajax knew his mark and thrilled to see it,
flung it down at his feet and shouted, “Friends—
the lot is mine and it fills my heart with joy!
I know I can overpower this dazzling Hector.
But come, while I strap my battle-armor on,
all of you pray to Cronus’ son, almighty Zeus.
Pray to yourselves in silence, so Trojans cannot hear—
no, pray out loud!
No one at all to fear. No one can rout me—
his will against my will—not by force,
god knows, and not by a sly maneuver either.
I’m not such a raw recruit, I like to think,
born and bred on Salamis.”
So Great Ajax vaunted
and men prayed to the son of Cronus, King Zeus.
They’d call out, scanning the wide sky, “Father Zeus—
ruling over us all from Ida, god of greatness, glory!
Now let Ajax take this victory, shining triumph!
But if you love Hector, if you hold him dear,
at least give both men equal strength and glory.”
So they prayed
as Ajax harnessed himself in burnished, gleaming bronze
and once he had strapped his legs and chest in armor,
out he marched like the giant god of battle wading
into the wars of men when Zeus drives them hard
to clash and soldier on with heart-devouring hate.
So giant Ajax marched, that bulwark of the Achaeans—
a grim smile curling below his dark shaggy brows,
under his legs’ power taking immense strides,
shaking his spear high, its long shadow trailing.
The men of Argos exulted at the sight of him there
but terrible tremors shook each Trojan fighter’s knees—
Hector himself, his heart pounding against his ribs.
But how could he shrink before the enemy, slip back
into a crowd of cohorts now? He was the challenger,
he with his lust for battle. Ajax strode on, closing,
bearing his huge body-shield like a rampart, heavy bronze
over seven layers of oxhide. Tychius made it for him,
laboring long, the finest leather-smith by far:
over in Hyle where the master had his home
he crafted that famous gleaming shield for Ajax,
layering seven welted hides of sturdy well-fed bulls
and hammered an eighth layer of bronze to top it off.
And now holding that great shield before his chest
Telamonian Ajax marched right up to Hector,
threatening with his deep resounding voice,
The Iliad Page 30