the tremendous thrust of it slammed against his shield
and he staggered, lost his footing, his arms flung out
for a tall strong elm, he clung but out it came by the roots,
toppling down, ripping away the whole cliff, blocking the stream
with a tangled snarl of branches crashing into it full length
to dam the river bank to bank—Bursting up from a whirlpool
Achilles dashed for the plain, his feet flying in terror
but the great god would not let up, hurling against him,
Scamander looming into a murderous breaker, dark, over him,
dead set on stopping the brilliant Achilles’ rampage here
and thrusting disaster off the struggling Trojan force—
But the hero sprang away, far as a hard-flung spear,
swooping fast as the black eagle, the fierce marauder,
both the strongest and swiftest bird that flies the sky—
on he streaked and the bronze rang out against his chest,
clashing grimly—slipping out from under the wave he fled
with the river rolling on behind him, roaring, huge ...
As a farmhand runs a ditch from a dark spring, sluicing
the gushing stream through plants and gardens, swinging
his mattock to knock the clods out down the shoot
and the water rushes on, tearing the pebbles loose
and what began as a trickle hits a quick slope and
down it goes, outstripping the man who guides it—
so the relentless tide kept overtaking Achilles,
yes, for all his speed—gods are stronger than men.
Again and again the brilliant swift Achilles whirled,
trying to stand and fight the river man-to-man and see
if all the immortal gods who rule the vaulting skies
were after him, putting him to rout—again and again
the mighty crest of the river fed by the rains of Zeus
came battering down his shoulders, down from high above
but Achilles kept on leaping, higher, desperate now
as the river kept on dragging down his knees, lunging
under him, cutting the ground from under his legs ...
Pelides groaned, scanning the arching blank sky:
“Father Zeus! To think in all my misery not one god
can bring himself to rescue me from this river!
Then I’d face any fate. And no god on high,
none is to blame so much as my dear mother—
how she lied, she beguiled me, she promised me
I’d die beneath the walls of the armored Trojans,
cut down in blood by Apollo’s whipping arrows!
I wish Hector had killed me,
the best man bred in Troy—the killer a hero then
and a hero too the man whose corpse he stripped!
Now look what a wretched death I’m doomed to suffer,
trapped in this monstrous river like some boy, some pig-boy
swept away, trying to ford a winter torrent in a storm!”
Quick to his cry Poseidon and Pallas moved in close,
stood at his shoulder now and taking human form,
grasped him hand-to-hand, spoke bracing words,
Poseidon who shakes the mainland first to say,
“Courage, Achilles! Why such fear, such terror?
Not with a pair like us to urge you on—gods-in-arms
sent down with Zeus’s blessings, I and Pallas Athena.
It’s not your fate to, be swallowed by a river:
he’ll subside, and soon—you’ll see for yourself.
But we do have sound advice, if only you will yield.
Never rest your hands from the great leveler war,
not till you pack and cram the Trojan armies tight
in the famous walls of Troy—whoever flees your onset.
But once you’ve ripped away Prince Hector’s life,
back to the ships you go! We give you glory—
seize it in your hands!”
With that challenge
both went soaring home to the deathless ones on high
but Achilles rampaged on with the gods’ strong command
driving him down the plain where the river flooded now,
an immense, cresting outrush bursting with burnished gear
and troops of battle dead, men cut down in their prime,
floating corpses rolling—But Achilles surged on too
with high hurdling strides, charging against the river,
on, breakneck on and the river could not stop him,
not for all its reach and tide race, not with Athena
pumping enormous strength deep down Achilles’ heart—
But the Xanthus River would not slack his fury either,
he raged at Achilles all the more, he marshaled up
a mountainous ridge of water, roaring out to Simois,
“Oh dear brother, rise! Both of us rush together
to halt this mortal’s onslaught! At any moment
he’ll storm King Priam’s mighty stronghold down—
the Trojans can’t stand up to the man in battle.
Beat him back, quickly! Deluge all your channels
from all your gushing springs—muster all your torrents—
raise up a tremendous wave, rumbling, booming with timber,
boulders crashing—we’ll stop this wild man in his tracks,
lording it in his power now and raging like some god!
Neither his strength nor splendid build can save him,
not now, I tell you—nor all that glorious armor:
now, somewhere under our floods that gear will sink,
immersed deep in slime, and I, I’ll roil his body
round in sand and gravel, tons of spills of silt.
Achaeans will never know where to find his bones,
never collect them now—
I’ll bury that man so deep in mud and rocks!
That’s where his grave-mound will be piled and then
no need in the world to raise his barrow high
when comrades come to give him royal rites!”
So he vaunted,
rearing against Achilles, seething, heaving up in fury,
thundering out now in foam and blood and corpses—
the bloodred crest of the river swelled by Zeus
came arching higher, ready to tear Pelides down
but Hera, struck with fear for Achilles, screamed out,
dreading he might be swept away by the giant churning river
and quickly cried to the god of fire, her own dear son,
“To arms, my child—god of the crooked legs!
You are the one we’d thought a worthy match
for the whirling river Xanthus!
Quick, rescue Achilles! Explode in a burst of fire!
I’ll drive the West and South Winds white with clouds
and sweep in from the open seas a tearing gale to sear
the Trojan bodies and gear and spread your lethal flames!
And you, you make for the Xanthus banks and bum the trees,
hurl the stream itself into conflagration—not for a moment
let him turn you back with his winning words or threats.
Never abate your fury! Not till I let loose my shout—
then halt your withering fire!”
Hera’s command—
and Hephaestus launched his grim inhuman blaze.
First he shot into flames and burned the plain,
ignited hordes of corpses, squads Achilles slaughtered—
he scorched the whole plain and the shining river shrank.
Hard as the autumn North Wind hits a leveled field
just drenched in a downpour, quickly dries it off
and the farmer is glad and starts to till his soil—
so the whole plain was parched and the god of fire devo
ured
all the dead, then blazing in all his glory veered for the river—
an inferno—the elms burned, the willows and tamarisks burned
and the lotus burned and the galingale and reeds and rushes.
all that flourished along the running river’s lush banks
and the eels writhed and fish in the whirlpools leapt high,
breaking the surface left and right in a sheen of fire,
gasping under the Master Smith Hephaestus’ blast
and now the river’s strength was burning out,
he panted the god’s name: “Hephaestus—stop!
Not a single god can stand against you—no, not I—
can’t fight such fire, such fury—hold your attack, stop!
Brilliant Achilles can drive them out of Ilium now!
What’s this war to me? Why should I help Troy?”
He screamed in flames, his clear currents bubbling up
like a cauldron whipped by crackling fire as it melts down
the lard of a fat swine, splattering up around the rim—
dry logs blazing under it, lashing it to the boit—
so the river burned, his clear currents seethed
and lost all will to flow. He stopped—overwhelmed
by the torrid blast of the Master Craftsman god of fire—
and Xanthus cried to Hera, pouring out his heart
in a flood of supplication, “Oh Hera—why?
Why does your son attack me, whip my waters more
than all the others? Why, what have I done to you?
Nothing beside those other powers, all who rush
to defend the Trojan armies. Oh I’ll stop—
if that is your command—
but let your son stop too! I’ll swear, what’s more,
never to drive the fatal day away from the Trojans,
not even when all Troy burns in the ramping flames
when the warring sons of Achaea bum her down!”
And Hera heard him, the radiant white-armed goddess
quickly cried to the god of fire, her own dear son,
“Hephaestus, stop! Stop, my glorious blazing boy!
It’s not right to batter another deathless god,
not for the sake of these mortals.”
She ceased
and the god of fire quenched his grim inhuman blaze
and back in its channel ran the river’s glistening tides.
And now with the strength of Xanthus beaten down
the two called off their battle. Hera held them back,
still enraged as she was. But now for total war,
bearing down on the other gods, disastrous, massive,
their fighting-fury blasting loose from opposing camps—
the powers collided! A mammoth clash—the wide earth roared
and the arching vault of heaven echoed round with trumpets!
And Zeus heard the chaos, throned on Olympus heights,
and laughed deep in his own great heart, delighted
to see the gods engage in all-out conflict.
They did not waste a moment, closed at once—
Ares stabber of shields led off, charging Athena,
shaking his brazen spear and dressed the goddess down:
“You dog-fly, why drive the gods to battle once again
with that stormy bluster driving your wild heart?
Don’t you recall the time you drove Tydides’ son
to spear me through? In the eyes of all the world
you seized his lance and rammed it home yourself,
tearing into my rippling, deathless flesh—so now
I think I’ll pay you back for all your outrage!”
With that he stabbed at her battle-shield of storm,
its dark tassels flaring, packing tremendous force—
not even Zeus’s lightning bolt can break its front.
Bloody Ares lunged at it now with giant lance
and Athena backed away, her powerful hand hefting
a boulder off the plain, black, jagged, a ton weight
that men in the old days planted there to mark off plowland—
Pallas hurled that boundary-stone at Ares, struck his neck,
loosed his limbs, and down he crashed and out over seven acres
sprawled the enormous god and his mane dragged in the dust,
his armor clashed around him. Athena laughed aloud,
glorying over him, winging insults: “Colossal fool—
it never even occurred to you, not even now
when you matched your strength with mine,
just how much greater I claim to be than you!
So now you feel the weight of your mother’s curses—
Hera plotted against you, Hera up in arms
because you left the Achaean forces in the lurch
and rushed to defend these reckless, headlong Trojans!”
Triumphant Athena turned her shining eyes away
and Aphrodite daughter of Zeus took Ares’ hand
and led him off the field, racked with groans,
barely able to gather back his strength ...
But the white-armed Hera saw her move at once
and winged Athena on: “Just look at them there—
daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder,
tireless one, Athena. There she goes again,
that dog-fly, leading her man-destroying Ares’clear
of the rampage, through the slaughter! After her, quick!”
Athena’s heart leapt high, she charged at Aphrodite,
overtook her and beat her breasts with clenched fists.
Down she sank with Ares, resistance quite dissolved,
two immortals spread on the earth that rears us all
with Pallas trumpeting over them winged exultations:
“Down you go! May all the gods who help the Trojans
fall as hard when they battle Argives armed for war—
all as courageous, all as steadfast as Aphrodite
when she sped to Ares’ side and faced my fury!
Then we’d have done with fighting long ago,
razed the rugged walls of Troy and laid her waste.”
So Athena vaunted and white-armed Hera smiled
but the mighty god of earthquakes challenged Phoebus:
“Apollo—why hold back from each other? It’s not fair
when the other gods have launched themselves in war.
What disgrace for us—to return without a fight
to the bronze-floored house of Zeus on Mount Olympus!
You lead off. You are the younger-born, and I—
it’s wrong for me, since I have years on you
and I know the world much better.
Fool, what short-lived memory you must havel
Don’t you remember? Have you forgotten—even now?—
all those troubles we suffered here alongside Troy,
we alone of the gods when Zeus dispatched us down
to slave for proud Laomedon one whole year,
for stated wages—at that man’s beck and call.
I erected the rampart round the Trojans’ city,
a massive ashlar wall to make the place impregnable.
The Iliad Page 74