Both cowered down among the dead on one side of the path, and Dolon sped by unsuspectingly. When he was a bowshot past them, he heard the sound of their pursuit and stopped, for he thought that Hector was perhaps recalling him through a friendly messenger. But when the heroes were within a spear’s throw of him, he saw that they were foes. Then he bent his supple knees and ran like a hare before the hound. “Stand, or I cast my lance at you!” Diomedes thundered and hurled his spear. But he missed the target on purpose, and the brazen point flew over the runner’s shoulder and buried itself in the ground. Dolon halted, pale with terror. His chin shook and his teeth chattered.
“Take me alive,” he pleaded tearfully as the heroes panted up to him and seized him. “I am rich and will ransom myself with as much bronze and gold as you may want!”
“Be of good courage,” Odysseus said to him. “Do not think of death. But tell us truthfully what was taking you this way.” And when Dolon had confessed all with fear and trembling, Odysseus said smilingly: “If your soul yearns for the horses of the son of Peleus, you have, indeed, good taste! But now tell me without delay: Where did you leave Hector? Where are his horses? His armor? And the rest of the Trojans and their allies?”
Dolon replied: “Hector and the princes sit in council near the gravemound of Ilus; the warriors are sleeping around fires and have no more guards than usual; and the allies from far away, who have no wives and children to care for, sleep apart from the rest of the host without any guards. When you enter the Trojan camp, the first people you will find are the Thracians, but lately arrived. They are grouped around Rhesus, their king, the son of Eioneus. His horses are dazzling white, the largest and swiftest I have ever seen. His chariot is decorated with silver and gold, and he himself wears armor of glittering gold, armor like that of an immortal rather than of a mere man. Now that you know all there is to know, either take me to your ships, or leave me here bound and prove to yourselves that I have spoken the truth.”
But Diomedes scowled at his captive and said: “Liar, I know you are planning to flee, but I shall see to it that you will never again be a menace to the Argives!” Tremblingly Dolon started to raise his right hand to touch Diomedes’ chin in supplication, but the sword of the son of Tydeus cut his throat, and his head rolled in the dust. Then the heroes took his helmet of otterhide, drew the wolf’s skin from his body, loosed the bow, took the spear from his dead hands, and laid the armor on a tamarisk bush as a sign to show them the way home. After that they went forward until they came upon the Thracians, sleeping peacefully. Beside each stood his team of restless-hooved horses. Their weapons lay on the ground well-ordered, in three gleaming rows. In the center slept Rhesus, and his horses stood behind his chariot, tied to it with the reins.
“These are the men we are looking for,” Odysseus whispered to Diomedes. “Now let us be swift to act. You untie the horses—or rather, you kill the men and leave the horses to me.”
Diomedes did not stop to reply. As a lion rages among goats and sheep so he lunged wildly about him, and wherever his sword flashed, a death rattle sounded and the earth grew red with blood. Soon he had slain twelve Thracians. But wise Odysseus took each body by the foot and dragged it to one side to make way for the horses. And now Diomedes slew the thirteenth, King Rhesus, who was just moaning in the midst of a bad dream the gods had sent him. In the meantime, Odysseus had loosed the horses from the chariot; holding them by the reins and using his bow for a goad, he drove them out of the camp. Then he whistled softly as a sign to his companion. Diomedes was hesitating whether to draw the beautiful chariot away by the pole or carry it on his shoulders, when Pallas Athene approached him warningly and bade him hasten. Quickly Diomedes mounted the one horse. Odysseus, running beside, urged both horses on with his bow, and thus they sped back to the ships.
Apollo, the patron god of the Trojans, had seen Athene join Diomedes. This vexed Phoebus. He descended into the very midst of the Trojan host and wakened Hippocoon, the friend of Rhesus. When he noticed that the place where the king’s horses had been standing was empty and that men were writhing on the earth in the throes of death, he called loudly on his friend in a griefstricken voice. The Trojans stormed to the aid of their allies and halted, numbed with fear, before the dreadful sight.
In the meantime, the two Greek heroes had reached the place where they had killed Dolon. Diomedes jumped down from his horse, but mounted again as soon as he had put the armor in the hands of his friend. Odysseus leaped on the other horse, and they flew over the ground toward the ships. Nestor was the first to catch the sound of fleet hooves and to tell the princes, but before they could stop to listen the heroes arrived, dismounted, clasped the hands of their friends, and related their adventures, a tale which the warriors heard with shouts of joy. Odysseus drove the horses through the trench, and the other Argives followed him to the house of the son of Tydeus. There they tied up the team by a manger filled with grain. The bloodstained armor, however, Odysseus laid down behind his ship until such a time as he could bring it, clean and bright, as a thank offering to Athene. And now the two heroes washed the sweat and blood from their limbs in the sea, sat in tubs filled with warm water, rubbed their bodies with oil, and enjoyed the morning meal, at which full cups abounded; and they did not forget to pour a libation to Pallas Athene.
ANOTHER ARGIVE DEFEAT
Day had dawned. Agamemnon bade his men don their armor, and he himself girt on his splendid cuirass, on which ten rows of bluish metal alternated with twelve of shining gold and twenty of white tin. The part shielding the neck was worked in the shape of serpents gleaming like rainbows. It was a gift from Cinyras, king of Cyprus. Then he fastened his sword to his shoulder by a strap buckled with gold. The scabbard was of silver and the hilt adorned with golden studs. He took his curved shield round which ran ten circles of bronze, and on it sparkled twenty bosses of white tin. In the center, blazoned on the dark azure field, was the head of the terrible Medusa, and the strap was in the shape of a purple dragon with three heads interlaced. On his head he set a helmet with four horns. Plumes of horsehair fluttered about it, and the crest nodded menacingly. Last he gripped two great lances with points of luminous bronze, and thus he strode into battle. From heaven Hera and Athene greeted the king with joyful thunder. And now the host sped forward. First the foot soldiers crossed the trench. After them came the chariots, and all moved forward with deafening clamor.
On the other side of the battlefield the Trojans had occupied a hillock. Their leaders were Hector, Polydamas, and Aeneas. Next in importance were Polybus, Agenor, and Acamas, the three sons of Antenor. Like a star shining out between the clouds on a dark night, Hector appeared now in the van, now in the rear of the host and ordered the battalions. His brazen armor shone like a flash of lightning flung by Zeus. As reapers cut swathes in a field upright with grain, so Trojans and Achaeans, storming against one another, hewed their way through the mass of warriors. The Achaeans were first to break through the ranks of the foe, and Agamemnon, plunging forward, struck down Prince Bienor and his charioteer. Then he threw himself on the two sons of King Priam, Antiphus and his charioteer Isus. Antiphus he pierced with his sword, Isus he pushed from the chariot with his lance. Quickly he stripped them of their armor. And now he encountered the two sons of Antimachus, the Trojan prince who, beguiled by Paris’ gold, had dissuaded the others from surrendering Helen.
The youths let the reins slip from their hands, crouched in the depths of the chariot, and pleaded for mercy. But Agamemnon, thinking of their father, slew one with his spear and cut off the hands and head of the other. And the Argives, on foot and in chariots, penetrated deeper and deeper into the ranks of the enemy, even as a fire lashed by the wind spreads through the dense forest.
Out of the turmoil and rivers of blood Zeus himself guided Hector, shielding him from missiles, and the prince fled past the slope covered with fig trees to the grave of old King Ilus and on toward the city. But Agamemnon, his hands spattered with Trojan blood
, pursued him with loud shouts. Near the beech tree of Zeus, not far from the Scaean Gates, Hector and all those fleeing with him finally came to a stand. And Zeus sent Iris to command him to keep back as long as Agamemnon raged in the van and to leave the fighting to others until the son of Atreus was wounded. Then the father of all gods would lead him to victory. Hector obeyed. He spurred his warriors forward to fresh onslaught, and the battle opened anew.
Agamemnon rushed forward and again entered the lines of the Trojans and their allies. The first he came upon was Iphidamas, son of Antenor, a great and valiant hero who had grown up in Thrace, reared by his grandfather, and had just wed when he left to battle in the land of his birth. Agamemnon’s lance missed him, and the spear of Iphidamas bent against the silver belt of his assailant. Swiftly Agamemnon gripped the shaft, wrenched it from his opponent’s hand, and cut his throat with his sword. Thus Iphidamas died fighting for his people, far from his young wife, and there was no one to look with pity on his body, stark in the sleep of death. Agamemnon took his armor and flourished his splendid spoils as he strode through the rows of Argives. When Antenor’s elder son Coon, one of the best of the Trojan warriors, saw him, he was filled with intolerable grief for his slain brother. But his sorrow did not lessen his caution. Coming from the side, unobserved by the son of Atreus, he suddenly thrust his spear deep into his arm, close to the elbow. Agamemnon felt a shudder course through him but would not stop fighting. As Coon tried to drag his brother from the field by the foot, Agamemnon’s lance struck him under the shield, and he sank dead over the corpse.
Although the warm blood was still flowing from his open wound, Agamemnon went on making havoc among the Trojans with lance, sword, and stones. But when the blood began to clot, a sharp pain warned him to leave the field. Quickly he mounted his chariot and bade the charioteer take him back to the ships. Soon the chariot, in a swirl of dust, was speeding toward the Argive camp.
When Hector saw the son of Atreus leave, he remembered the message of Zeus and hurried to the front ranks of Trojans and Lycians, where he cried aloud: “Now take heart, my friends, and hold the Argives at bay. The bravest of the Danai has left the battlefield, and Zeus will give us victory. Forward! Bush among the Argives with your horses, that our glory may be the greater.” So cried Hector, and he was the first to sweep on like a tempest. Not long after, nine Achaean princes and many of the common soldiers had fallen beneath his strokes. He had almost succeeded in driving the enemy back to their ships when Odysseus roused the son of Tydeus.
“Is it possible,” he cried, “that we have forgotten how to fend off the foe? Come closer, friend, and stand beside me. Let us not live through the disgrace of seeing Hector capture our camp!” Diomedes nodded and hurled his dart at Thymbraeus of Troy; it shattered his left breast, and he rolled from his chariot and lay in the dust, while Odysseus slew Molion, his charioteer. On they dashed against the Trojans, and the other Achaeans began to breathe more freely. Zeus, who was still watching from the peak of Ida, held the fortunes of Argives and Dardanians in balance. But now Hector had recognized the two heroes and stormed straight at them with his battalion. Diomedes only just saved himself and cast his lance at the crest of Hector’s helmet. It did, indeed, glance off, but Hector recoiled and fell on one knee. He broke his fall with his right hand, but the world went black before his eyes. By the time the son of Tydeus had run after his spear, the Trojan had swung himself back on his chariot and escaped death in the throng of his warriors.
Sulkily Diomedes turned to another of the Trojans, felled him to earth, and prepared to strip him of his armor. Paris took advantage of this opportunity. He hid behind the mound of Ilus and, pressed close to the stone, shot the kneeling hero in the right heel; the arrow went through the sole and stuck fast. Then with a laugh he leaped from ambush and scoffed at his victim. Diomedes looked around, and when he saw who the archer was he called to him: “So it is you, the favorite of women! Out in the open you could not prevail against me, and now you boast because you have scratched my foot from behind! But it irks me as little as if a girl or a mere boy had struck me.” Odysseus, meanwhile, had hastened to the spot and shielded his wounded friend with his body, so that Diomedes could draw the arrow from his sole. It was painful, but his fingers were deft and sure. Then he mounted the chariot beside his friend Sthenelus and allowed him to take him back to the ships.
Now Odysseus was alone in the midst of his foes, and no Argive ventured to come to his aid. The hero considered whether to flee or remain steadfast where he was, but it quickly became clear to him that he who would win fame in battle must stay to slay or be slain. While he was pondering this, the Trojans surrounded him, even as hunters and their hounds circle the boar as he rages and whets his tusks. But Odysseus stood firm, and before long five Trojans measured their length in the dust. Then came a sixth, Socus, whose brother had just been slain, and cried: “Odysseus, today you will either go from here with the glory of having killed both the sons of Hippasus and taken their arms as spoils, or die from the thrust of my lance!” And with that he shattered the shield of the son of Laertes with his spear and flayed the skin from his ribs. But Athene did not let the point go deeper. Odysseus, who knew very well that the thrust had not been fatal, drew back a few steps and then lunged at his adversary who turned to flee; he pierced him in the back between the shoulders, so that the spear came out through his breast and he crashed to the ground. Not until then did Odysseus draw the lance out of his own wound. When the Trojans saw his blood spurt forth they thronged closer, and he retreated and called for help three times.
Menelaus was the first to hear and said to Ajax beside him: “Let us force our way through the thick of the battle. I heard the cry of Odysseus.” Soon the two reached the unflinching fighter just as he was brandishing his lance against countless foes. But when Ajax held his shield like a towering wall in front of the hero the Trojans trembled with fear. Menelaus seized this moment to take the son of Laertes by the hand and help him mount his own chariot. Ajax, meanwhile, sprang into the very midst of the Trojans and swept corpses before him, just as a mountain stream swollen in winter uproots the dry oaks and pines. Hector did not see him. He was fighting on the left side of the field, on the shore of the Scamander, and sowing destruction among the youths who pressed about Idomeneus. The warriors would not have yielded to him, had not a three-barbed arrow launched by Paris wounded the right shoulder of Machaon, the great physician of the Argive host. At that Idomeneus called out in alarm: “Nestor! Come and help our friend into your chariot. A man who can cut out arrows and apply soothing salves is worth a hundred others!” Swiftly Nestor leaped to his chariot, lifted wounded Machaon beside him, and hurried toward the ships.
Hector’s charioteer now drew his attention to the confusion in that wing of the Trojan army where Ajax was forcing his way through the foe. In an instant they were there with the chariot, and Hector began to attack the Argives; but he avoided Ajax, for Zeus had warned him not to measure his strength against a man of even greater daring than his own. Zeus also put terror into the soul of Ajax, so that when he saw Hector, he slung his shield over his shoulder and, fearing for the ships, left the Trojan battalions. Seeing him run, his enemies hurled their lances at the shield hanging down over his back. But whenever Ajax turned his face toward them, they shrank back. When he came to the path that led to the ships, he stopped and fended off his attackers. Their spears either clung in his shield covered with seven oxhides, or buried themselves in the earth without touching his body. When brave Eurypylus saw him so hard pressed, he hastened to his aid and pierced the breast of Trojan Apisaon. While Eurypylus was taking the armor from his dead foe, Paris shot him in the right thigh, and he retreated to his friends who protected him with raised lances and shields.
In the meantime, Nestor’s mares bore him and wounded Machaon out of battle and past glowering Achilles who sat in the stern of his ship and calmly watched the Trojans pursue his countrymen. Not dreaming that his words would bode ill
to his friend, he called to Patroclus: “Go and ask Nestor whom he is bringing in from the field, for suddenly—I do not know why—my spirit is moved with pity for the Argives.”
Patroclus did as he was bidden and ran to the ships. He reached Nestor just as he had dismounted from the chariot and was handing the horses over to Eurymedon, his servant, and entering his house to refresh himself and Machaon with food which Hecamede served them. When the old man saw Patroclus standing in the door, he rose from his chair, took him by the hand, and urged him to sit with him. But Patroclus refused. “There is no time,” he said. “Achilles sent me to see who it is you brought back from the field with you. Now that I myself have recognized Machaon, versed in the skill of healing, I must hurry back to tell him. You know my friend and how impetuously he is apt to accuse even those who are guiltless.”
Nestor replied, and his tone betrayed a shaken spirit. “Why is the heart of Achilles now troubled in behalf of the Argives who are wounded and almost dead? All the bravest men lie hurt on the ships: Diomedes struck by an arrow, Odysseus and Agamemnon by spears, and this man I have just brought here, matchless Machaon, by a dart from the bowstring. But Achilles is merciless. Is he going to wait until our ships go up in flame and we bleed to death, one after another? Oh, that I had the strength of my youth or my prime, when I came to the house of Peleus as a victor! That was the time I saw your father Menoetius and you and the child Achilles. His father, a hero turned gray, urged him always to be first and foremost, to strive ahead of all the rest, while yours told you to be friend and guide to the son of Peleus, because, though he was the stronger, you were the older. Tell this to Achilles. Perhaps now he will listen to your words.” So said the old man, calling up fair memories from the time of his own brave youth, until the heart of Patroclus beat fast in his breast.
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