The Iliad Read online

  if I ventured a bold guess? Our goddess of love—

  I’d swear she’s just been rousing another Argive,

  another beauty to pant and lust for Trojans,

  those men the goddess loves to such despair.

  Stroking one of the Argive women’s rippling gowns

  she’s pricked her limp wrist on a golden pinpoint!”

  So she mocked, and the father of gods and mortals

  smiled broadly, calling the golden Aphrodite over:

  “Fighting is not for you, my child, the works of war.

  See to the works of marriage, the slow fires of longing.

  Athena and blazing Ares will deal with all the bloodshed.”

  And now as the high gods bantered back and forth

  Diomedes, loosing his war cry, charged Aeneas—

  though what he saw was lord Apollo himself,

  guarding, spreading his arms above the fighter,

  but even before the mighty god he would not flinch.

  Tydides reared and hurled himself again and again,

  trying to kill Aeneas, strip his famous armor.

  Three times he charged, frenzied to bring him down,

  three times Apollo battered his gleaming shield back—

  then at Tydides’ fourth assault like something superhuman,

  the Archer who strikes from worlds away shrieked out—

  a voice of terror—“Think, Diomedes, shrink back now!

  Enough of this madness—striving with the gods.

  We are not of the same breed, we never will be,

  the deathless gods and men who walk the earth.”

  Menacing so

  that Tydeus’ son pulled back, just a little, edging

  clear of the distant deadly Archer’s rage.

  And Apollo swept Aeneas up from the onslaught

  and set him down on the sacred heights of Pergamus,

  the crest where the god’s own temple had been built.

  There in the depths of the dark forbidden chamber

  Leto and Artemis who showers flights of arrows

  healed the man and brought him back to glory.

  But the lord of the silver bow devised a phantom—

  like Aeneas to the life, wearing his very armor—

  and round that phantom Trojans and brave Achaeans

  went at each other, hacking the oxhides round their chests,

  the bucklers full and round, skin-shields, tassels flying.

  But Phoebus Apollo called to blazing Ares, “Ares, Ares,

  destroyer of men, reeking blood, stormer of ramparts,

  can’t you go and drag that man from the fighting?

  That daredevil Diomedes, he’d fight Father Zeus!

  He’s just assaulted Love, he stabbed her wrist—

  like something superhuman he even charged at me!”

  With that, Apollo settled onto Pergamus heights

  while murderous Ares. wading into the fighting,

  spurred the Trojan columns on to mass attack.

  Shaped like the runner Acamas, prince of Thrace,

  Ares challenged the sons of Priam with a vengeance:

  “You royal sons of Priam, monarch dear to the gods,

  how long will you let Achaeans massacre your army?

  Until they’re battling round your well-built gates?

  A man is down we prized on a par with noble Hector—

  Aeneas, proud Anchises’ son. Up with you now,

  rescue him from the crash of battle! Save our comrade!”

  As Ares whipped the fighting spirit in each man

  Sarpedon taunted Hector: “Hector, where has it gone—

  that high courage you always carried in your heart?

  No doubt you bragged that you could hold your city

  without an army and Trojan allies—all on your own,

  just with your sister’s husbands and your brothers.

  But where are they now? I look, I can’t find one.

  They cringe and cower like hounds circling a lion.

  We—your allies here—we do your fighting for you.

  And I myself, Hector, your ally-to-the-death,

  a good long way I came from distant Lycia,

  far from the Xanthus’ rapids where I left

  my loving wife, my baby son, great riches too,

  the lasting envy of every needy neighbor.

  And still I lead our Lycians into battle.

  Myself? I chafe to face my man, full force,

  though there’s not a scrap of mine for looting here,

  no cattle or gold the foe could carry off. But you,

  you just stand there—don’t even command the rest

  to brace and defend their wives.

  Beware the toils of war ...

  the mesh of the huge dragnet sweeping up the world,

  before you’re trapped, your enemies’ prey and plunder—

  soon they’ll raze your sturdy citadel to the roots!

  All this should obsess you, Hector, night and day.

  You should be begging the men who lead your allies’

  famous ranks to stand and fight for all they’re worth—

  you’ll ward off all the blame they hurl against you.”

  And Sarpedon’s charge cut Hector to the core.

  Down he leapt from his chariot fully armed, hit the ground

  and brandishing two sharp spears went striding down his lines,

  ranging flank to flank, driving his fighters into battle,

  rousing grisly war—and round the Trojans whirled,

  bracing to meet the Argives face-to-face:

  but the Argives closed ranks, did not cave in.

  Remember the wind that scatters the dry chaff,

  sweeping it over the sacred threshing floor,

  the men winnowing hard and blond Demeter culling

  grain from dry husk in the rough and gusting wind

  and under it all the heaps of chaff are piling white ...

  so white the Achaeans turned beneath the dust storm now,

  pelting across their faces, kicked up by horses’ hoofs

  to the clear bronze sky—the battle joined again.

  Charioteers swung chariots round,

  thrust the powerful fist of fury straight ahead

  and murderous Ares keen to help the Trojans

  shrouded the carnage over in dense dark night—

  lunging at all points, carrying out the commands

  of Phoebus Apollo, lord of the golden sword,

  who ordered Ares to whip the Trojans’ war-lust

  once he spotted Athena veering off the lines,

  great Pallas who’d rushed to back the Argives.

  Out of his rich guarded chamber the god himself

  launched Aeneas now, driving courage into his heart

  and the captain took his place amidst his men.

  And how they thrilled to see him still alive,

  safe, unharmed and marching back to their lines,

  his soul ablaze for war, but his men asked him nothing.

  The labor of battle would not let them, more labor urged

  by the god of the silver bow and man-destroying Ares

  and Strife flaring on, headlong on.

  The Achaeans?

  The two Aeantes, Tydides and Odysseus spurred them

  on to attack. The troops themselves had no fear,

  no dread of the Trojans’ power and breakneck charges,

  no, they stood their ground like heavy thunderheads

  stacked up on the towering mountaintops by Cronus’ son,

  stock-still in a windless calm when the raging North Wind

  and his gusty ripping friends that had screamed down

  to rout dark clouds have fallen dead asleep. So staunch

  they stood the Trojan onslaught, never shrinking once

  as Atrides ranged the ranks, shouting out commands:

  “Now be men, my friends! Courage, come,
take heart!

  Dread what comrades say of you here in bloody combat!

  When men dread that, more men come through alive—

  when soldiers break and run, good-bye glory,

  good-bye all defenses!”

  A flash, a sudden hurl

  and Atrides speared a champion out in front—

  it was Prince Aeneas’ comrade-in-arms Deicoon,

  Pergasus’ son the Trojans prized like Priam’s sons,

  quick as he always was to join the forward ranks.

  Now his shield took powerful Agamemnon’s spear

  but failed to deflect it, straight through it smashed,

  bronze splitting his belt and plunging down his guts—

  he fell, thundering, armor ringing against him.

  There-

  Aeneas replied in kind and killed two Argive captains,

  Diodes’ two sons, Orsilochus flanking Crethon.

  Their father lived in the fortress town of Phera,

  a man of wealth and worth, bom of Alpheus River

  running wide through Pylian hills, the stream

  that sired Ortilochus to rule their many men.

  Ortilochus sired Diocles, that proud heart,

  and Diocles bred Orsilochus twinned with Crethon

  drilled for any fight. And reaching their prime

  they joined the Argives sailing the black ships

  outward bound for the stallion-land of Troy,

  all for the sons of Atreus,

  to fight to the end and win their honor back—

  so death put an end to both, wrapped them both in night.

  Fresh as two young lions off on the mountain ridges,

  twins reared by a lioness deep in the dark glades,

  that ravage shepherds’ steadings, mauling the cattle

  and fat sheep till it’s their turn to die—hacked down

  by the cleaving bronze blades in the shepherds’ hands.

  So here the twins were laid low at Aeneas’ hands,

  down they crashed like lofty pine trees axed.

  Both down

  but Menelaus pitied them both, yes, and out for blood

  he burst through the front, helmed in fiery bronze,

  shaking his spear, and Ares’ fury drove him, Ares

  hoping to see him crushed at Aeneas’ hands.

  Antilochus marked him now, great Nestor’s son

  went racing across the front himself, terrified

  for the lord of armies—what if he were killed?

  Their hard campaigning just might come to grief.

  As Aeneas and Menelaus came within arm’s reach,

  waving whetted spears in each other’s faces,

  nerved to fight it out, Antilochus rushed in,

  tensing shoulder-to-shoulder by his captain now—

  and Aeneas shrank from battle, fast as he was in arms,

  when he saw that pair of fighters side-by-side,

  standing their ground against him ...

  Once they’d dragged the bodies back to their lines

  they dropped the luckless twins in companions’ open arms

  and round they swung again to fight in the first ranks.

  And next they killed Pylaemenes tough as Ares,

  a captain heading the Paphlagonian shieldsmen,

  hot-blooded men. Menelaus the famous spearman

  stabbed him right where he stood, the spearpoint

  pounding his collarbone to splinters. Antilochus

  killed his charioteer and steady henchman Mydon,

  Atymnius’ strapping son, just wheeling his racers round

  as Antilochus winged a rock and smashed his elbow—

  out of his grip the reins white with ivory flew

  and slipped to the ground and tangled in the dust.

  Antilochus sprang, he plunged a sword in his temple

  and Mydon, gasping, hurled from his bolted car facefirst,

  head and shoulders stuck in a dune a good long time

  for the sand was soft and deep—his lucky day—

  till his own horses trampled him down, down flat

  as Antilochus lashed them hard and drove them back

  to Achaea’s waiting ranks.

  But Hector marked them

  across the lines and rushed them now with a cry

  and Trojan shock troops backed him full strength.

  And Ares led them in with the deadly Queen Enyo

  bringing Uproar on, the savage chaos of battle—

  the god of combat wielding his giant shaft in hand,

  now ranging ahead of Hector, now behind him.

  Ares there—

  and for all his war cries Diomedes shrank at the sight,

  as a man at a loss, helpless, crossing a vast plain

  halts short at a river rapids surging out to sea,

  takes one look at the water roaring up in foam

  and springs back with a leap. So he recoiled,

  shouting out to comrades, “Oh my friends,

  what fools we were to marvel at wondrous Hector,

  what a spearman, we said, and what a daring fighter!

  But a god goes with him always, beating off disaster—

  look, that’s Ares beside him now, just like a mortal!

  Give ground, but faces fronting the Trojans always—

  no use trying to fight the gods in force.”

  So he warned

  as the Trojans charged them, harder—and Hector, lunging,

  leveled a pair of men who knew the joy of battle,

  riding a single chariot, Menesthes and Anchialus.

  Down they went and the Great Ajax pitied both,

  he strode to their side and loomed there,

  loosed a gleaming spear and struck down Amphius,

  Selagus’ son who had lived at ease in Paesus,

  rich in possessions, rich in rolling wheatland ...

  But destiny guided Amphius on, a comrade sworn

  to the cause of Priam and all of Priam’s sons.

  Now giant Ajax speared him through the belt,

  deep in the guts the long, shadowy shaft stuck

  and down he fell with a crash as glorious Ajax rushed

  to strip his armor—Trojans showering spears against him,

  points glittering round him, his shield taking repeated hits.

  He dug his heel in the corpse, yanked his own bronze out

  but as for the dead man’s burnished gear—no hope.

  The giant was helpless to rip it off his back.

  Enemy weapons beating against him, worse,

  he dreaded the Trojans too, swarming round him,

  a tough ring of them, brave and bristling spears,

  massing, rearing over their comrade’s body now

  and rugged, strong and proud as the Great Ajax was,

  they shoved him back—he gave ground, staggering, reeling.

  So fighters worked away in the grim shocks of war.

  And Heracles’ own son, Tlepolemus tall and staunch ...

  his strong fate was driving him now against Sarpedon,

  a man like a god. Closing quickly, coming head-to-head