The Iliad Read online

  who whirled into the heart of all that slaughter—

  not even if great Athena led him by the hand,

  flicking away the weapons hailing down against him.

  That day ranks of Trojans, ranks of Achaean fighters

  sprawled there side-by-side, facedown in the dust.

  BOOK FIVE

  Diomedes Fights the Gods

  Then Pallas Athena granted Tydeus’ son Diomedes

  strength and daring—so the fighter would shine forth

  and tower over the Argives and win himself great glory.

  She set the man ablaze, his shield and helmet flaming

  with tireless fire like the star that flames at harvest,

  bathed in the Ocean, rising up to outshine all other stars.

  Such fire Athena blazed from Tydides’ head and shoulders,

  drove him into the center where the masses struggled on.

  There was a Trojan, Dares, a decent, wealthy man,

  the god Hephaestus’ priest who had bred two sons,

  Phegeus and Idaeus, trained for every foray ...

  Breaking ranks they rushed ahead in their chariot,

  charging Diomedes already dismounted,

  rearing up on foot.

  They went for each other fast, close range—

  Phegeus hurled first, his spear’s shadow flew

  and over Tydides’ left shoulder the tip passed

  and never touched his body. Tydides hurled next,

  the bronze launched from his hand and not for nothing:

  hitting Phegeus’ chest between the nipples it pitched him out

  behind his team. Idaeus leapt, abandoned the handsome car

  but did not dare to stand and defend his dead brother—

  and not even so would he have fled his black death

  but the god of fire swept him off and saved him,

  shrouding the man in night so the old priest

  would not be wholly crushed with one son left.

  But high-hearted Tydides drove away the team

  and gave them to aides to lash both horses back

  to the hollow ships. And now despite their courage

  the Trojan fighters seeing the two sons of Dares,

  one on the run, one dead beside his chariot—

  all their hearts were stunned ...

  But Athena, eyes bright, taking Ares in hand,

  called the violent god away with: “Ares, Ares,

  destroyer of men, reeking blood, stormer of ramparts,

  why not let these mortals fight it out for themselves?

  Let Zeus give glory to either side he chooses.

  We’ll stay clear and escape the Father’s rage.”

  And so, luring the headlong Ares off the lines

  Athena sat him down on Scamander’s soft, sandy banks

  while Argives bent the Trojans back. Each captain

  killed his man. First Agamemnon lord of men

  spilled the giant Odius, chief of the Halizonians

  off his car—the first to fall, as he veered away

  the spearhead punched his back between the shoulders,

  gouging his flesh and jutting out through his ribs—

  he fell with a crash, his armor rang against him.

  Idomeneus cut down Phaestus, Maeonian Borus’ son

  who shipped to Troy from the good rich earth of Tame.

  As he tried to mount behind his team the famous spearman

  stabbed a heavy javelin deep in his right shoulder—

  he dropped from his war-car, gripped by the hateful dark.

  Then as Idomeneus’ henchman stripped the corpse

  Menelaus took Scamandrius down with a sharp spear—

  Strophius’ son, a crack marksman skilled at the hunt.

  Artemis taught the man herself to track and kill

  wild beasts, whatever breeds in the mountain woods,

  but the Huntress showering arrows could not save him now

  nor the archer’s long shots, his forte in days gone by.

  No, now Menelaus the great spearman ran him through,

  square between the blades as he fled and raced ahead,

  tearing into his flesh, drilling out through his chest—

  he crashed facedown, his armor clanged against him.

  Meriones killed Phereclus—son of Tecton,

  son of the blacksmith Harmon—the fighter’s hands

  had the skill to craft all kinds of complex work

  since Pallas Athena loved him most, her protégé

  who had built Paris his steady, balanced ships,

  trim launchers of death, freighted with death

  for all of Troy and now for the shipwright too:

  what could the man know of all the gods’ decrees?

  Meriones caught him quickly, running him down hard

  and speared him low in the right buttock—the point

  pounding under the pelvis, jabbed and pierced the bladder—

  he dropped to his knees, screaming, death swirling round him.

  Meges killed Pedaeus, Antenor’s son, a bastard boy

  but lovely Theano nursed him with close, loving care

  like her own children, just to please her husband.

  Closing, Meges gave him some close attention too—

  the famous spearman struck behind his skull,

  just at the neck-cord, the razor spear slicing

  straight up through the jaws, cutting away the tongue—

  he sank in the dust, teeth clenching the cold bronze.

  Euaemon’s son Eurypylus cut down brave Hypsenor,

  son of lofty Dolopion, a man the Trojans made

  Scamander’s priest and worshipped like a god.

  But Euaemon’s royal son laid low his son—

  Eurypylus, chasing Hypsenor fleeing on before him,

  flailed with a sword, slashed the Trojan’s shoulder

  and lopped away the massive bulk of Hypsenor’s arm ...

  the bloody arm dropped to the earth, and red death

  came plunging down his eyes, and the strong force of fate.

  So they worked away in the rough assaults, but Diomedes,

  which side was the fighter on? You could not tell—

  did he rampage now with the Trojans or the Argives?

  Down the plain he stormed like a stream in spate,

  a routing winter torrent sweeping away the dikes:

  the tight, piled dikes can’t hold it back any longer,

  banks shoring the blooming vineyards cannot curb its course—

  a flash flood bursts as the rains from Zeus pour down their power,

  acre on acre the well-dug work of farmers crumbling under it—

  so under Tydides’ force the Trojan columns panicked now,

  no standing their ground, massed, packed as they were.

  But the shining archer Pandarus marked him storming

  down the plain, smashing the Trojan lines before him.

  Quickly he trained his reflex bow on Diomedes

  charging straight ahead—he shot! he struck him full

  in the right shoulder, under the breastplate’s hollow

  the ripping point tore deep, shearing its way through,

  armor splattered with blood as Pandarus triumphed,

  shouting over Tydides wildly, “Move up, attack,

  my high-hearted Trojans, lash your stallions!

  Look, the Achaean champion’s badly wounded—

  I shot him down, I swear he won’t last long—

  if the Archer really sped me here from Lycia!”

  Bragging so,

  but the whizzing arrow had not brought him down.

  Diomedes just drew back beside his car and team

  and stood there calling Sthenelus, Capaneus’ son:

  “Quick, Sthenelus. Down from the car, my friend,

  pull this wretched arrow from my shoulder!”

  Sthenelus sprang from the car, hit the ground<
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  and standing beside him, pulled the tearing arrow

  clean on through the wound and blood came shooting out

  like a red lance through the supple mesh shirt.

  And Diomedes lord of the war cry prayed aloud,

  “Hear me, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder,

  tireless one, Athena! If you ever stood by father

  with all your love amidst the blaze of battle,

  stand by me—do me a favor now, Athena.

  Bring that man into range and let me spear him!

  He’s wounded me off guard and now he triumphs—

  he boasts I won’t look long on the light of day.”

  So Tydides prayed and Athena heard his prayer,

  put spring in his limbs, his feet, his fighting hands

  and close beside him winged him on with a flight of orders:

  “Now take heart, Diomedes, fight it out with the Trojans!

  Deep in your chest I’ve put your father’s strength.

  He never quaked, that Tydeus, that great horseman—

  what force the famous shieldsman used to wield!

  Look, I’ve lifted the mist from off your eyes

  that’s blurred them up to now—

  so you can tell a god from man on sight.

  So now if a god comes up to test your mettle,

  you must not fight the immortal powers head-on,

  all but one of the deathless gods, that is—

  if Aphrodite daughter of Zeus slips into battle,

  she’s the one to stab with your sharp bronze spear!”

  Her eyes bright, Athena soared away and Tydeus’ son

  went charging back to the front line of champions.

  Now, long ablaze as he was to fight the Trojans,

  triple the fury seized him—claw-mad as a lion

  some shepherd tending woolly flocks in the field

  has just grazed, a lion leaping into the fold,

  but he hasn’t killed him, only spurred his strength

  and helpless to beat him off the man scurries for shelter,

  leaving his flocks panicked, lost as the ramping beast

  mauls them thick-and-fast, piling corpse on corpse

  and in one furious bound clears the fenced yard—

  so raging Diomedes mauled the Trojans.

  There—

  he killed Astynous, then Hypiron, a frontline captain.

  One he stabbed with a bronze lance above the nipple,

  the other his heavy sword hacked at the collarbone,

  right on the shoulder, cleaving the whole shoulder

  clear of neck and back. And he left them there,

  dead, and he made a rush at Abas and Polyidus,

  sons of Eurydamas, an aged reader of dreams,

  but the old prophet read no dreams for them

  when they set out for Troy—Diomedes laid them low

  then swung to attack the two sons of Phaenops,

  hardy Xanthus and Thoon, both men grown tall

  as their father shrank away with wasting age ...

  he’d never breed more sons to leave his riches to.

  The son of Tydeus killed the two of them on the spot,

  he ripped the dear life out of both and left their father

  tears and wrenching grief. Now he’d never welcome

  his two sons home from war, alive in the flesh,

  and distant kin would carve apart their birthright.

  Next Diomedes killed two sons of Dardan Priam

  careening on in a single car, Echemmon and Chromius.

  As a lion charges cattle, calves and heifers

  browsing the deep glades and snaps their necks,

  so Tydides pitched them both from the chariot,

  gave them a mauling—gave them little choice—

  quickly stripped their gear and passed their team

  to his men to lash back to the ships.

  Smashing

  the lines of fighters now—

  but Aeneas marked it all

  and oblivious to the rain of spears he waded in,

  hunting for Pandarus, hoping to find the archer.

  Find him he did, Lycaon’s skilled, fearless son,

  and went right up and challenged him to his face:

  “Pandarus, where’s your bow, your winged arrows,

  your archer’s glory? No Trojan your rival here,

  no Lycian can claim to be your better, no—

  so up with you now! Lift your hands to Zeus,

  you whip an arrow against that man, whoever he is

  who routs us, wreaking havoc against us, cutting the legs

  from under squads of good brave men. Unless it’s a god

  who smolders at our troops, enraged at a rite we failed—

  when a god’s enraged there’s thunder at our heads.”

  And Lycaon’s shining son took up the challenge:

  “Aeneas, counselor of the Trojans armed in bronze,

  he looks like Tydeus’ son to me in every way—

  I know his shield, the hollow eyes of his visor,

  his team, I’ve watched them closely.

  And still I could never swear he’s not a god ...

  but if he’s the man I think he is, Tydeus’ gallant son,

  he rages so with a god beside him—not alone, no—

  a god with his shoulders shrouded round in cloud

  who deflects my shaft to a less mortal spot.

  I had already whipped an arrow into him,

  caught him square in the right shoulder too,

  just where the breastplate leaves the armpit bare,

  and I thought I’d sent him down to the House of Death

  but I’ve still not laid him low. So it is some god rampaging!

  And here I am, no chariot, no team to speed me on.

  But back in Lycaon’s halls are eleven war-cars,

  beauties all, fresh from the smith and fire-new

  and blankets spread across them. And beside each

  a brace of stallions standing poised and pawing,

  champing their oats and barley glistening white.

  Over and over father, the old spearman Lycaon

  urged me, setting out from his well-built halls,

  ‘Take those teams and cars,’ he told me, ‘mount up,

  lead the Trojans into the jolting shocks of battle!’

  But would I listen? So much the better if I had ...

  I had to spare my teams. They’d never starve for fodder—

  crammed with the fighters—bred to eat their fill.

  So I left them there, I made it to Troy on foot,

  trusting my bows and arrows, and a lot of good

  I was to get from them. Already I’ve let fly

  at two of their best men, Diomedes and Menelaus—

  I’ve hit them both, and the blood gushed from both,

  direct hits, but I only roused their fury.

  What bad luck-

  to snatch this curved bow off its peg that day

  I marched my Trojans hard to your lovely town of Troy,

  to please Prince Hector. But if I get home again