The Iliad
Page 48
then the fighting Peneleos, Thoas and Deipyrus,
Meriones and Antilochus, both strong with the war cry,
Poseidon pressed them on with winging charges: “Shame—
you Argives, raw recruits—and I, I trusted in you,
certain that if you fight you’ll save our ships!
But if you hang back from the grueling battle now,
your day has dawned to be crushed by Trojans. What disgrace—
a marvel right before my eyes! A terrible thing ...
and I never dreamed the war would come to this:
the Trojans advancing all the way to our ships,
men who up till now had panicked like deer,
food in the woods for jackals, leopards, wolves—
helpless, racing for dear life, all fight gone.
For months on end the Trojans would have no heart
to stand and face the Argives’ rage and bloody hands.
Not for a moment. Ah but now, quite exposed,
far from Troy they battle around our hollow ships,
thanks to our leader’s weakness, our armies’ slacking off.
Our men fight with him. They’d rather drop and die
by our fast trim ships than rise to their defense.
And what if it’s all true and the man’s to blame—
lord of the far-flung kingdoms, hero Agamemnon—
because he spurned the famous runner Achilles?
How on earth can we hang back from combat now?
Heal our feuds at once! Surely they can be healed,
the hearts of the brave. How can you hold back
your combat-fury any longer? Not with honor—
you, the finest men in all our ranks ...
Why, not even I would rail against that man,
that worthless coward who cringes from the fighting.
But you, I round on you with all my heart. Weaklings!
You’ll make the crisis worse at any moment with this,
this hanging back. Each of you get a grip on yourself—
where’s your pride, your soldier’s sense of shame?
A great battle rises before us! Look—Hector
the king of the war cry fights beside our ships,
assaulting in all his force. Hector’s crashed our gates,
he’s burst the tremendous bar!”
His voice like a shock wave,
the god of the earthquake spurred the Argive fighters on—
battalions forming around the two Aeantes, full strength,
crack battalions the god of war would never scorn,
rearing midst their ranks, nor would Pallas Athena
driver of armies. Here were the best picked men
detached in squads to stand the Trojan charge
and shining Hector: a wall of them bulked together,
spear-by-spear, shield-by-shield, the rims overlapping,
buckler-to-buckler, helm-to-helm, man-to-man massed tight
and the horsehair crests on glittering helmet horns brushed
as they tossed their heads, the battalions bulked so dense,
shoulder-to-shoulder close, and the spears they shook
in daring hands packed into jagged lines of battle—
single-minded fighters facing straight ahead,
Achaeans primed for combat.
Trojans pounded down on them!
Tight formations led by Hector careering breakneck on
like a deadly rolling boulder torn from a rock face—
a river swollen with snow has wrenched it from its socket,
immense floods breaking the bank’s grip, and the reckless boulder
bounding high, flying with timber rumbling under it,
nothing can stop it now, hurtling on undaunted
down, down till it hits the level plain
and then it rolls no more for all its wild rush.
So Hector threatened at first to rampage through
the Argives’ ships and shelters and reach the sea
with a single sudden charge, killing all the way.
But once he crashed against those dense battalions
dead in his tracks he stopped, crushed up against them:
sons of Achaea faced him now, stabbing away with swords,
with two-edged spears, hoisting him off their lines—
and he gave ground, staggering, reeling, shouting out
to his troops with shrill cries, “Trojans! Lycians!
Dardan skirmishers hand-to-hand-stand by me here!
They cannot hold me off any longer, these Achaeans,
not even massed like a wall against me here—
they’ll crumble under my spear, well I know,
if the best of immortals really drives me on,
Hera’s lord whose thunder drums the sky!”
So he shouted,
lashing the rage and fighting-fury in every Trojan.
And breaking out of their ranks Deiphobus strode,
the son of Priam fired for feats of arms, there,
thrusting his balanced round buckler before him,
step by springy step on the balls of his feet,
pressing forward under his shield. But Meriones,
taking aim at Deiphobus, hurled his flashing spear
and struck—no miss!—right in the bull‘s-hide boss
but the spear did not ram through, far from it,
the long shaft snapped at the spearhead’s socket—
the Trojan had thrust his shield at arm’s length,
shrinking before the expert marksman’s lance.
But now Meriones pulled back to his cohorts,
stung with rage for two defeats at once:
victory shattered, spearshaft smashed to bits.
He went on the run to Achaea’s ships and shelters,
out for the heavy lance he’d left aslant his hut.
The rest fought on with deafening war cries rising.
Teucer was first to kill his man, a son of Mentor,
breeder of stallions, the rugged spearman Imbrius.
He had lived in Pedaeon, before the Argives came,
and wed a bastard daughter of Priam, Medesicaste,
but once the rolling ships of Achaea swept ashore,
home he came to Troy where he shone among the Trojans,
living close to Priam, who prized him like his sons.
Under his ear the son of Telamon stabbed with a heavy lance,
wrenched the weapon out and down he went like a tall ash
on a landmark mountain ridge that glistens far and wide—
chopped down by an ax, its leaves running with sap,
strewn across the earth ... So Imbrius fell,
the fine bronze armor clashing against him hard.
Teucer charged forward, mad to strip that gear
but as Teucer charged, Hector flung his lance—
a glint of bronze—but the Argive saw it coming,
dodged to the side and it missed him by an inch
and hit Amphimachus, Cteatus’ son and Actor’s heir,
the shaft slashed his chest as he ran toward the front
and down he went, thundering, armor clanging round him.
And Hector rushed to tear the helmet off his head,
snug on Amphimachus’ brows, the gallant soldier—
Hector rushing in and Ajax lunged with a spear
yet the burnished weapon could not pierce his skin,
Hector’s whole body was cased in tremendous bronze.
But Ajax did stab home at the shield’s jutting bulge,
beating Hector back with enormous driving force
and he gave ground, back and away from both corpses
as Argives hauled them from the fighting by the heels.
The captains of Athens, Stichius, staunch Menestheus,
bore Amphimachus back to Achaea’s waiting lines.
But the two Aeantes blazing in battle-fury
/> saw to Imbrius now ... as two lions seizing a goat
from under the guard of circling rip-tooth hounds,
lugging the carcass on through dense matted brush,
hoist it up from the earth in their big grinding jaws.
So the ramping, crested Aeantes hoisted Imbrius high,
stripping his gear in mid-aïr, and the Little Ajax,
raging over Amphimachus’ death, lopped the head
from the corpse’s limp neck and with one good heave
sent it spinning into the milling fighters like a ball,
right at the feet of Hector, tumbling in the dust.
And then the heart of Poseidon quaked with anger—
his own grandson brought down in the bloody charge.
He surged along the Achaean ships and shelters,
spurring Argives, piling griefs on Trojans.
The famous spearman Idomeneus crossed his path—
he’d come from a friend who just emerged from battle
gashed in back of the kneecap, gouged by whetted bronze.
That soldier the comrades carried off but Idomeneus,
giving the healers orders, made for his own tent
though he still yearned for action face-to-face.
And the god of earthquakes only fueled his fire,
taking the voice of Thoas, son of Andraemon,
king over all Pleuron, craggy Calydon too
and Aetolian men he ruled revered him like a god:
“Idomeneus, captain of Cretans under arms—
where have the threats all gone
that sons of Achaea leveled at these Trojans?”
The Cretan captain Idomeneus answered, “Thoas—
no man’s to blame now, so far as I can tell.
Every one of us knows the ropes in war.
No one here’s in the grip of bloodless fear,
collapsing in cowardice, ducking the grim assault.
No, this is the pleasure of overweening Zeus, it seems—
to kill the Achaeans here, our memory blotted out
a world away from Argos. But you, Thoas,
you who were always rock-steady in battle
and braced the ones you saw go slack and flinch—
don’t quit now, Thoas, urge each man you find!”
The god of earthquakes answered back, “Idomeneus—
may that man, that coward never get home from Troy—
let him linger here, ripping sport for the dogs,
whoever shirks the fight while this day lasts.
Quick, take up your gear and off we go.
Shoulder-to-shoulder, swing to the work, we must—
just two as we are—if we hope to make some headway.
The worst cowards, banded together, have their power
but you and I have got the skill to fight their best!”
With that he strode away, a god in the wars of men.
As soon as Idomeneus reached his well-built shelter
he strapped his burnished armor round his body,
grasped two spears and out he ran like a lightning bolt
the Father grips and flings from brilliant Olympus,
a dazzling sign to men—a blinding forked flash.
So the bronze flared on his chest as out he rushed
but his rough-and-ready aide-in-arms Meriones
intercepted him just outside the tent ...
He was on his way for a new bronze spear to use
and staunch Idomeneus shouted out, “Meriones—
racing son of Molus, brother-in-arms, old friend,
why back from the lines, why leave the fight behind?
Taken a wound, some spearhead sapped your strength?
Or come with a word for me? Does someone need me?
I have no mind to sit it out in the shelters—
what I love is battle!”
Never flustered,
the cool-headed Meriones took his point:
“Idomeneus, captain of Cretans under arms,
I’ve come for a spear to fight with,
if you still have one left inside your tents.
I’ve just splintered the lance I used to carry,
smashed it against his shield—swaggering Deiphobus.”
But the Cretan captain Idomeneus countered, “Spears?
If it’s spears you want, you’ll find not one but twenty,
all propped on my shelter’s shining inner wall:
Trojan weapons, stripped from the men I kill.
It’s not my way, I’d say, to fight at a distance,
out of enemy range.
So I take my plunder—spears, bossed shields,
helmets and breastplates, gleaming, polished bright.”
“And so do I, by god!”—the cool Meriones blazed up
in his own defense—“They crowd my ship and shelter,
hoards of Trojan plunder, but out of reach just now.
Though I never forgot my courage, I can tell you—
not I, there at the front where we win glory,
there I take my stand whenever a pitched battle
rears its head. Another Achaean armed in bronze
may well be blind to the way I fight. Not you—
you are the one who knows me best, I’d say.”
And the Cretan captain Idomeneus answered warn.ly,
“I know your style, your courage. No need for you to tell it.
If we all formed up along the ships right now,
our best men picked for an ambush—
that’s where you really spot a fighter’s mettle,
where the brave and craven always show their stripes.
The skin of the coward changes color all the time,
he can’t get a grip on himself, he can’t sit still,
he squats and rocks, shifting his weight from foot to foot,
his heart racing, pounding inside the fellow’s ribs,
his teeth chattering—he dreads some grisly death.
But the skin of the brave soldier never blanches.
He’s all control. Tense but no great fear.
The moment he joins his comrades packed in ambush
he prays to wade in carnage, cut-and-thrust at once.
Who could deny your nerve there, your fighting hands?
Why, even if you were badly wounded in battle,
winged by a shaft or gored by a blade close-up,
the weapon would never hit you behind, in neck or back—
it would pierce your chest or guts as you press forward,
lusting for all the champions’ lovely give-and-take.
On with it! No more standing round like bragging boys—
someone will dress us down, and roughly too.
Off you go to my shelter. Choose a sturdy spear.”
Meriones a match for the rapid god of battles
ran for the tent, seized a fine bronze lance
and hot for action rushed to catch his captain.
And he went on to war as grim as murderous Ares,
his good son Panic stalking beside him, tough, fearless,
striking terror in even the combat-hardened veteran, yes,