BOOK FOUR

A Bowshot Bringing War

 

The gods were seated near to Zeus in council,
upon a golden floor. Graciously Hêbê
served them nectar, as with cups of gold
they toasted one another, looking down
toward the stronghold of Ilion.

Abruptly

and with oblique intent to ruffle Hêra,
Zeus in cutting tones remarked:

“Two goddesses

have Meneláos for their protégé—
Hêra, the patroness of Argos, and

Athêna, known as Guardian in Boiotia.

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Still, they keep their distance here; their pleasure
comes from looking on. But Aphrodítê,
who loves all smiling lips and eyes,
cleaves to her man to ward off peril from him.
He thought he faced death, but she saved him

Clearly,

Meneláos, whom Arês backs, has won
the single combat. Let us then consider
how this affair may end; shall we again
bring on the misery and din of war,

or make a pact of amity between them?

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If only all of you were pleased to see it,
life might go on in Priam’s town,
while Meneláos took Helen of Argos home.”

At this proposal, Hêra and Athêna
murmured rebelliously. These two together
sat making mischief for the men of Troy,
and though she held her tongue, a sullen anger
filled Athêna against her father. Hêra
could not contain her own vexation, saying:

“Your majesty, what is the drift of this?

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How could you bring to nothing all my toil,
the sweat I sweated, and my winded horses,
when I called out that army to bear hard
on Priam and his sons? Act, if you must,
but not all here approve!”

Coldly annoyed,

the Lord Zeus, who drives the clouds of heaven,
answered:

“Strange one, how can Priam

and Priam’s sons have hurt you so
that you are possessed to see the trim stronghold

of Ilion plundered?

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Could you breach the gates

and the great walls yourself and feed on Priam
with all his sons, and all the other Trojans,
dished up raw, you might appease this rage!
Do as you wish to do, then. This dispute
should not leave rancor afterward between us.

I must, however, tell you one thing more:
remember it.

Whenever my turn comes

to lust for demolition of some city

whose people may be favorites of yours,

do not hamper my fury! Free my hands

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as here I now free yours, my will prevailing
on my unwilling heart.

Of all the cities

men of earth inhabit under the sun,
under the starry heavens, Ilion
stood first in my esteem, first in my heart,
as Priam did, the good lance, and his people.
My altar never lacked a feast at Troy
nor spilt wine, nor the smoke of sacrifice—
perquisites of the gods.”

And wide-eyed Hêra

answered:

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“Dearest to me are these three cities:

Mykênê of the broad lanes, Argos, Sparta.
Let them be pulled down, if you ever find them
hateful to you. I will not interfere.
I will not grudge you these. And if I should?
Why, balking and withholding my consent
would gain me nothing, since the power you hold
so far surpasses mine.

My labor, though,

should not be thwarted; I am immortal, too,

your stock and my stock are the same. Our father,

Krónos of crooked wit, engendered me

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to hold exalted rank, by birth and by
my standing as your queen—since you are lord
of all immortal gods.

Come, we’ll give way

to one another in this affair: I yield
to you and you to me; the gods will follow.
Only be quick, and send Athêna down
into the hurly-burly of the armies
to make the Trojans, not the Akhaians, first
to sunder the truce they swore to.”

This way Hêra

prompted him, and the father of gods and men

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complied by saying briskly to Athêna:

“In all haste, down you go amid the armies
to see if Trojans, not Akhaians, first
will sunder the truce they swore to.”

Given orders

to do her own will, grey-eyed Athêna left

Olympos, dropping downward from the crests—

as though the son of crooked-minded Krónos

had flung a shooting star, to be a sign

for men on the deep sea, or some broad army—

a streak of radiance and a sparkling track.

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Down she flashed, to alight amid the troops,
and wonder held them all at gaze, horse-breaking
Trojans and Akhaians in leg armor.
You might have heard one, glancing at the next man,
mutter:

“What is to come? Bad days again

in the bloody lines? Or can both sides be friends?
Which will it be from Zeus, who holds the keys
and rationing of war?”

That was the question

for Trojan and Akhaian fighting men.

Athêna, meanwhile, in a soldier’s guise,

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that of Laódokos, Antênor’s son,
a burly spearman, passed among the Trojans
looking for Pándaros, if she could find him—
Lykáôn’s noble son. Find him she did,
waiting with troops, now covered by their shields,
who once had followed him from the cascades
of Aisêpos.

Near him she took her stand

and let her sharp words fly:

“Son of Lykáôn,

I have in mind an exploit that may tempt you,

tempt a fighting heart. Have you the gall

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to send an arrow like a fork of lightning
home against Meneláos? Every Trojan
heart would rise, and every man would praise you,
especially Aléxandros, the prince—
you would be sure to come by glittering gifts
if he could see the warrior, Meneláos,
the son of Atreus, brought down by your bow,
then bedded on a dolorous pyre!

Come, now,

brace yourself for a shot at Meneláos.

Engage to pay Apollo, the bright archer,

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a perfect hekatomb of firstling lambs
when you go home to your old town, Zéleia.”

That was Athêna’s way, leading him on,
the foolish man, to folly.

He uncased

his bow of polished horn—horn of an ibex

that he had killed one day with a chest shot

upon a high crag; waiting under cover,

he shot it through the ribs and knocked it over—

horns, together, a good four feet in length.

He cut and fitted these, mortised them tight,

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polished the bow, and capped the tips with gold.
This weapon, now, against the ground, Pándaros
bent hard and strung. Men of his company
at the same time held up their shields to hide him—
not to bring any Argives to their feet
before he shot at Meneláos.

He bared

his quiver top and drew a feathered arrow,
never frayed, but keen with waves of pain
to darken vision.

Smoothly on the string

he fitted the sharp arrow. Then he prayed

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to the bright archer, Lykian Apollo,
promising first-born lambs in hekatomb
on his return to his old town, Zéleia.
Pinching the grooved butt and the string, he pulled
evenly till the bent string reached his nipple,
the arrowhead of iron touched the bow,
and when the great bow under tension made
a semicircular arc, it sprang.

The whipping

string sang, and the arrow whizzed away,

needlesharp, vicious, flashing through the crowd.

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But, Meneláos, you were not neglected

this time by the gods in bliss! Athêna,

Hope of Soldiers, helped you first of all,

deflecting by an inch the missile’s flight

so that it grazed your skin—the way a mother

would keep a fly from settling on a child

when he is happily asleep. Athêna

guided the arrow down to where the golden

belt buckles and the breastplate overlapped,

and striking there, the bitter arrowhead

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punctured the well-sewn belt and cut its way
into the figured cuirass, where it stuck,
although the point passed onward through the loin-guard
next his belly, plated against spearheads,
shielding him most now; yet the point entered
and gouged the warriors mortal skin.

Then dark blood rippled in a clouding stain

down from the wound, as when a Mêionian

or a Karian woman dyes clear ivory

to be the cheekpiece of a chariot team.

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Though horseman after horseman longs to carry it,
the artifact lies in a storeroom, kept
for a great lord, a splendor doubly prized—
his team’s adornment and his driver’s glory.
So, Meneláos, were your ivory thighs
dyed and suffused with running blood, your well-made
shins and ankles, too.

Now Agamémnon,

marshal of the army, looked and shuddered
to see the dark blood flowing from the wound,

and Meneláos himself went cold.

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But when he saw the lashing of the iron
flange outside the wound, and barbs outside,
then life and warmth came back about his heart.
Meanwhile the troops heard Agamémnon groan,
holding his brother’s hand, and heard him say,
so that they groaned as well:

“The truce I made

was death for you, dear brother! When I sent you

forward alone to fight for the Akhaians,

I only gave a free shot to the Trojans.

They’ve ground the truce under their heels.

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But not

for nothing have we sworn an oath and spilt

lamb’s blood, red wine, and joined our hands and theirs—

putting our trust in ritual. No, no,

if the Olympian upon the instant

has not exacted punishment, he will

in his good time, and all the more they’ll pay

for their misdeed in lives, in wives and children!

For this I know well in my heart and soul:

the day must come when holy Ilion

is given to fire and sword, and Priam perishes,

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good lance though he was, with all his people.
For Zeus, the son of Krónos,
benched in the azure up there where he dwells,
will heave his shield of storm against them all
in rage at their bad faith!

So it must be.

But this for me is anguish, Meneláos,
if you have measured out your mortal time
and are to die.

Backward in depths of shame

I go to the drought of Argos. The Akhaians

will turn their minds again to their far lands,

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and we, I have no doubt, must leave behind
the Argive woman, Helen, for the Trojans,
for Priam’s glory, while your bones decay
in Trojan plowland, rotting where they lie,
your mission unachieved!

In my mind’s eye

I see some arrogant Trojan on the grave
of Meneláos, the great and famous man,
leaping to say: ‘Let Agamémnon’s anger
in every case come out like this! Remember

he brought an army of Akhaians here

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for nothing, and sailed back in the long ships
again to his own land—but had to leave
Meneláos behind!’ Someone will say it,
and let the vast earth yawn for me that day!”

But red-haired Meneláos said:

“Be calm.

Courage, do not alarm the troops! The point
has hit no vital spot here where it lodged;
the faceted belt stopped it, and the loin-guard,
stiff with plate the smiths had hammered out.”

Then Agamémnon said:

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“God send you’re right,

dear Meneláos! But the wound—
we’ll have a surgeon clean the wound and dress it
with medicines to relieve the pain.”

He turned

and spoke out to Talthýbios, the crier:

“Go quickly as you can and call Makháôn,

son of Asklêpios, the great healer,

call him here to examine Meneláos.

A master bowman, Trojan or Lykian,

has wounded him—a feat for the enemy,

worry and pain for us.”

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Talthýbios

obeyed, making his way amid the army,
among the mailed Akhaians, everywhere
looking for the soldierly Makháôn.
He found him standing ready, troops with shields
in rank on rank around him—companies
of his that came from grazing lands in Trikê.
Approaching him, the crier said:

“This way,

son of Asklêpios: you are called by Agamémnon

to examine Meneláos, the co-commander.

A master bowman, Trojan or Lykian,

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has wounded him—a feat for the enemy,
worry and pain for us.”

The message stirred him,

and back the two men hastened through the army

to where the red-haired captain had been hit.

Gathered around him in a circle stood

the Akhaian peers, but through their midst Makháôn

quickly gained his side, and pulled the arrow

free of the belt and clasp. As it came out,

the barbs broke off. The surgeon then unbuckled

faceted belt and, underneath, his loin-guard,

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stiff with plate the smiths had hammered out,
and when he saw the arrow wound, he sucked it
clean of blood, then sprinkled it with balm,
a medicine that Kheirôn gave his father.
Now while they tended Meneláos, lord
of the warcry, Trojan ranks reformed with shields
and the Akhaians, too, put on their armor,
mindful again of batde.

In that hour

no one could have perceived in Agamémnon

a moment’s torpor or malingering, but fiery

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ardor for the battle-test that brings
honor to men.

He left aside his team,

his chariot, a-gleam with bronze: his driver,
Eurýmedôn, a son of Ptolemaios
Peiraïdês, reined in the snorting horses;
and Agamémnon gave him strict command
to bring the war-car up when weariness
should take him in the legs, after inspection
of all his many marshaled troops.

On foot

he ranged around the men in their formations,

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and where he saw his charioteers in units
alert for battle, he exhorted them:

“Argives, keep your courage up, for Zeus
will never back up liars! Men who are first
to sunder oaths, their flesh the kites will feed on—
tender fare; as for their wives and children,
we’ll enslave them when we take the town.”

On seeing any slack and unready still
for hated war, he lashed at them in anger:

“Rabbit hearts of Argos,

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are you not dead with shame?

How can you stand there

stunned as deer that have been chased all day
over a plain and are used up at last,
and droop and halt, broken in heart and wind?
That is the way you look, no fight left in you!
Will you stand by till Trojans overrun
our line of ships, beached here above the breakers,
to find out if the hand of Zeus is over you?”

So as their lord commander he reviewed them,

passing along the crowded ranks. He came

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upon the Kretans, putting on their armor,
around Idómeneus. Like a wild boar,
with his great heart, this captain in the van
harangued his companies, and in the rear
Meríonês did likewise. The Lord Marshal
Agamémnon, elated at the sight,
said to Idómeneus in the warmest tones:

“Idómeneus, you are a man I prize

above all handlers of fast horses, whether

in war or any labor, or at feasts

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whenever in their mixing bowls our peers
prepare the wine reserved for counselors.
Akhaian gendemen with flowing hair
may down their portions, but your cup will be
filled up and filled again, like mine—to drink
as we are moved to!

Now, the feast is war.

Be as you always have been up to now!”

To this Idómeneus, captain of Kretans,
answered:

“Son of Atreus, more than ever

shall I stand by you as I swore I would.

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But now stir up the rest of the Akhaians
to give battle as quickly as we can!
The Trojans have dissolved the truce. Again,
death to the Trojans! Bad times are ahead
for those who overrode our pact and broke it!”

This fierceness made the son of Atreus happy

as he passed down the crowded ranks. He came

to where the two named Aías, tall and short,

were buckling on their gear. Around them armed

their cloud of infantry.

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Like a dark cloud

a shepherd from a hilltop sees, a storm,
a gloom over the ocean, traveling shoreward
under the west wind; distant from his eyes
more black than pitch it seems, though far at sea,
with lightning squalls driven along its front.
Shivering at the sight, he drives his flock
for shelter into a cavern.

Grim as that

were the dense companies that armed for war

with Telamonian Aías and the other—

shields pitch-black and a spiny hedge of spears.

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Lord Agamémnon, heartened at the sight,
spoke to the captains warmly:

“Aías and Aías,

captains of Argos in your mail of bronze,

I have no orders for you: there’s no need

to put you in a mood for war: it’s clear

you’ve passed your fighting spirit to your troops.

O Father Zeus, Athêna and Apollo,

if only every heart were strong as these!

Lord Priam’s fortress would go down before us,

taken in a day, and plundered at our hands.”

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With this he left them there, and passing on

to others as they formed, he found Lord Nestor,

the Pylian master orator, haranguing

soldiers of Pylos, forming them for action

around the captains Pélagon, Alástôr,

Khromíos, Haimôn, and the marshal, Bías.

Charioteers with teams and cars he sent

forward, and kept his infantry behind

to be the bristling bulk and hedge of battle,

placing weak men and cowardly between

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brave men on either side, so willy-nilly
all would be forced to fight.

The chariot men

he first instructed in the way of battle—
charioteers to keep their team in line,
not to be tangled, cut off in the mêlée:

“None of you should rely so far on horsemanship

or bravery as to attack alone—much less

retreat alone. That way you are most vulnerable.

Let any man in line lunge with his lance

when he can reach their chariots from his own;

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you’ll fight with far more power. In the old days
cities and walls were overthrown by men
who kept this plan in mind and fought with courage.”

So ran the old man’s exhortation, shrewd
from a long lifetime in the ways of war.
It gladdened Agamémnon, who said to him:

“I wish you had the same force in your legs

as in your fighting heart; I wish your strength

were whole again. The wrinkling years have worn you.

Better some other soldier had your age,

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and you were still among the young.”

And Nestor,

Earl of Gerênia, charioteer, replied:

“Agamémnon, I too could wish I were
that man who killed the great Ereuthalíôn.
But the immortal gods have given men
all things in season. Once my youth, my manhood,
now my age has come.

No less for that

I have my place among the charioteers
to counsel and command them. Duties fit

for elder men, these are: the young can be

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good lancers, good with spears—men who were born
in a later day, and still can trust their powers.”

The son of Atreus heard him out and passed
happily onward.

Next he found Menéstheus,

the good horse-handler, son of Péteôs, waiting,

surrounded by Athenians, good hands

in battle. Near him, too, the great tactician,

Odysseus, had his place, with Kephallênians

in ranks around him, not at all feeble; these

waited, for word of battle had not reached them,

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but only a first ripple in the lines
of Trojans and Akhaians. There they stood,
as though they waited for some other troop
to move out and make contact with the Trojans.
Surveying these, Lord Agamémnon, marshal
of fighting men, in urgent speech rebuked them:

“Son of Péteôs whom the gods reared! You, too,

Odysseus, hero of battle guile and greed!

Why both so deferential, so retiring?

Waiting for other troops?

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You two should be

among the first in action, in the blaze
of combat—as you both are first to hear
my word of feasting, every time we Akhaians
prepare a feast for our staff officers.
There is the fare you like: roast meat, and cups
of honey-hearted wine, all you desire!
But now you’d gladly see ten troops ahead of you
moving up to attack with naked bronze!”

Odysseus, the wily field commander,

scowled at him and answered:

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“Son of Atreus,

what is this panic you permit yourself?
How can you say we’d let a fight go by,
ever, at any time when we Akhaians
against the Trojans whet the edge of war?
If you will make it your concern you’ll see
the father of Telémakhos in action
hand to hand in the enemy’s front ranks.
Your bluster is all wind!”

Lord Agamémnon,

sure of his angry man, replied,

smiling and taking back his provocation:

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“Son of Laërtês and the gods of old,
Odysseus, master mariner and soldier,
I would not be unfair to you; I need not
give you orders, knowing as I do
that you are well disposed toward all I plan.
Your thought is like my own.
Come, then; in time we’ll make amends for this,
if anything uncalled for has been said:
God send the seawinds blow it out of mind!”

He left them there, and going amid others

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found Diomêdês, gallant son of Tydeus,
with combat cars and horses all around him,
still at a stand. Nearby stood Sthénelos,
the son of Kapaneus. And Agamémnon
at a first glimpse in scathing speech rebuked him

“Baffling! Son of Tydeus the battle-wise

breaker of horses, why are you so shy?

So wary of the passages of war?

Your father did not lag like this, nor care to—

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far from it: he would rather fight alone
ahead of all his men, or so they said
who saw him toil in battle. I myself
never met him, never laid eyes on him,
but men say that he had no peer.

In peace,

without a fight, as Polyneikês’ ally,
he entered old Mykênê, hunting troops.
At that time they were marching to besiege
the ancient walls of Thebes, and they appealed
for first-rate men as volunteers. Our people

agreed and would have granted these, but Zeus

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by inauspicious omens changed their minds.

Taking the road, and well along, the army

came to Asôpos in his grassy bed,

a river deep in rushes; there again

they ordered Tydeus forward with a message.

Forward he went, and found Kadmeíans thronging

a great feast in the manor of Eteoklês,

where, though no liege nor distant friend, and though

he came alone amid so many, Tydeus
went unafraid. He challenged them to wrestling

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and easily beat them all—being seconded

so well by Athêna. Those goaders of horses,

the furious Kadmeíans, laid a trap for him

on his retreat upcountry: fifty men

deployed in a strong ambush by two leaders,

Maiôn, immortal-seeming son of Haimôn,

and Polyphontês, Autophónos’ son.

But these, as well, Tydeus brought to grief:

he killed them all but one. Maiôn he spared

and sent home, bid by portents from the gods.

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This, then, was Tydeus the Aitolian.
Weaker than he in war, the man he fathered,
stronger in assembly!”

Diomêdês,

the rugged man, said nothing whatsoever,
accepting his commander’s reprimand.
But Sthénelos, the son of Kapanéus,
made a retort:

“Atreidês, why distort things

when you know well how to be just? We say

we are far better men than our fathers were.

Not they, but we, took Thebes of the seven gates,

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leading a smaller force
against a heavier wall—but heeding signs
the gods had shown, and helped by Zeus. Our fathers?
Their own recklessness destroyed our fathers!
Rate them less than equal to ourselves!”
Now rugged Diomêdês with a frown
turned and said:

“Old horse, be still. Believe me,

I do not take this ill from the Lord Marshal

Agamémnon. He must goad the Akhaians

to combat—for the glory goes to him

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if his detachments cut the Trojans down
and take their powerful city—as the anguish
goes to him also, if his men are slain.
Come, both of us should put our minds on valor.”

As he said this he bounded from his car
in full armor, and the bronze about his chest
rang as he hit the ground, a captain roused.
Even a stout heart would have feared him then.

As down upon a shore of echoing surf

big waves may run under a freshening west wind,

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looming first on the open sea, and riding

shoreward to fall on sand in foam and roar,

around all promontories crested surges

making a briny spume inshore—so now

formations of Danáäns rose and moved

relentlessly toward combat. Every captain

called to his own. The troops were mainly silent;

you could not have believed so great a host

with warcries in its heart was coming on

in silence, docile to its officers—

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and round about upon the soldiers shone
the figured armor buckled on for war.

The Trojans were not silent: like the flocks

that huddle countless in a rich man’s pens,

waiting to yield white milk, and bleating loud

continually as they hear their own lambs cry,

just so the warcry of the Trojans rose

through all that army—not as a single note,

not in a single tongue, but mingled voices

of men from many countries.

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This great army

Arês urged on; the other, grey-eyed Athêna,

Terror and Rout, and Hate, insatiable
sister-in-arms of man-destroying Arês—
frail at first, but growing, till she rears
her head through heaven as she walks the earth.
Once more she sowed ferocity, traversing
the ranks of men, redoubling groans and cries.

When the long lines met at the point of contact,
there was a shock of bull’s hide, battering pikes,

and weight of men in bronze.

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Bucklers with bosses

ground into one another. A great din rose,
in one same air elation and agony
of men destroying and destroyed, and earth
astream with blood.

In spring, snow-water torrents

risen and flowing down the mountainsides
hurl at a confluence their mighty waters
out of the gorges, filled by tributaries,
and far away upon the hills a shepherd
hears the roar. So when these armies closed

there came a toiling clamor.

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Antílokhos

was the first man to down a Trojan soldier,
a brave man in the front line, Ekhepôlos
Thalysíadês: he hit him on the ridge
that bore his crest, and driven in, the point
went through his forehelm and his forehead bone,
and darkness veiled his eyes. In the mêlée
he toppled like a tower. Then by the feet
the fallen man was seized by Elephênor
Khalkodóntiadês, chief of Abantês,

who tried to haul him out of range and strip him

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quickly of his arms. The trial was brief.
Seeing him tugging at the corpse, his flank
exposed beside the shield as he bent over,
Agênor with his spearshaft shod in bronze
hit him, and he crumpled. As he died
a bitter combat raged over his body
between the Trojan spearmen and Akhaians,
going for one another like wolves, like wolves
whirling upon each other, man to man.

Then Aías Telamônios knocked down

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the son of Anthemíon, Simoeísios,

in the full bloom of youth. On slopes of Ida

descending, by the banks of clear Simóeis,

his mother had conceived him, while she kept

a vigil with her parents over flocks;

he got his name for this. To his dear parents

he never made return for all their care,

but had his life cut short when Aías’ shaft

unmanned him. In the lead, as he came on,

he took the spear-thrust squarely in the chest

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beside the nipple on the right side; piercing him,
the bronze point issued by the shoulder blade,
and in the dust he reeled and fell.

A poplar

growing in bottom lands, in a great meadow,

smooth-trunked, high up to its sheath of boughs,

will fall before the chariot-builder’s ax

of shining iron—timber that he marked

for warping into chariot tire rims—

and, seasoning, it lies beside the river.

So vanquished by the god-reared Aías lay

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Simoeísios Anthémidês.

At Aías in his turn the son of Priam,

Ántiphos, glittering in his cuirass, made

a spear-cast, but he missed and hit instead

Leukos, Odysseus’ comrade, in the groin

as he bent low to pull away the corpse.

It dropped out of his grasp, and he fell over it.

Odysseus, wrought to fury at this death,

with flashing helmet shouldered through the ranks

to stand above him: glowering right and left

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he kept his lance in play, and made the Trojans
facing him recoil. With no waste motion
he cast and hit a bastard son of Priam,
Demókoön, who had come down from Abýdos
where he kept racing horses. Full of rage
over his dead companion, Odysseus
speared him in the temple, and the spearhead
passed clean through his head from side to side

so darkness veiled his eyes. When he fell down

he thudded, and his armor clanged upon him.

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The Trojan front gave way, Prince Hektor, too,
while Argives raised a great yell. Dragging dead men
out of the press, they made a deep advance.
Now looking down from Pergamos, Apollo
in indignation cried out to the Trojans:

“Forward! Trojans, breakers of horses, will you

bow in fury of battle to the Argives?

When hit, they are not made of iron or stone

to make the cutting bronze rebound! See, too,

Akhilleus, child of Thetis, is not fighting

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but tasting wrath and wrong beside the ships!”

The terrible god cried out thus from his tower,
and on the Akhaian side Tritogeneía,
glorious daughter of Zeus, went through the ranks
to lift the hearts of those she saw dismayed.

The next on whom fate closed was Diorês

Amárungkeidês, hit by a jagged stone

low on the right leg near the ankle. Peiros threw it,

Peiros Imbrasidês, a Thracian captain,

one who had come from Ainos. With the bone

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itself, the vicious stone crushed both leg tendons
utterly, and the tall man tumbled down
into the dust, flinging his arms out wide
to his companions, panting his life away;
but on the run the man who hit him, Peiros,
came with a spear to gash him by the navel.
His bowels were spilled, and darkness veiled his eyes.

Then Thoas the Aitolian lunged at Peiros,

hitting him with a spear above the nipple,

so the bronze point stuck in his lung; and Thoas

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at close quarters, wrenching the heavy spear,

pulled it out of his chest, then drew his sword

and killed him with a stroke square in the belly.

His gear he could not strip, though; friends of the dead man,

topknotted Thracians, closing round with spears,

repulsed him, huge and powerful as he was,

a noble figure; staggering, he gave ground.

As for the two, they lay there in the dust

stretched out near one another: captain of Thracians

and captain of Epeians mailed in bronze,

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while others, many, fell in death around them.

Thereafter no man could have scorned that fight,
no veteran of battle who might go round,
untouched amid the action—an observer
led by Athêna, with his hand in hers,
shielded by her from stones’ and arrows’ flight;
for that day throngs of Trojans and Akhaians,
prone in the dust, were strewn beside each other.