BOOK FIVE

A Hero Strives with Gods

 

Now Diomêdê’ hour for great action came.
Athêna made him bold, and gave him ease
to tower amid Argives, to win glory,
and on his shield and helm she kindled fire
most like midsummer’s purest flaming star
in heaven rising, bathed by the Ocean stream.
So fiery she made his head and shoulders
as she impelled him to the center where
the greatest number fought.

A certain Darês,

a noble man among the Trojans, rich,

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and a votary of Hêphaistos, had two sons
well-trained in warfare, Phêgeus and Idaíos.
These two the Akhaian faced as they came forward
upon their car; on foot he braced to meet them.

As the range narrowed, Phêgeus aimed and cast
his long spear first: the point cleared Diomêdês’
shoulder on the left, and failed to touch him.
Then Diomêdês wheeling in his turn
let fly his bronze-shod spear. No miss,

but a clean hit midway between the nipples

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knocked the man backward from his team. Idaíos
left the beautiful chariot, leaping down,
but dared not stand his ground over his brother;
nor could he have himself eluded death
unless Hêphaistos had performed the rescue,
hiding him in darkness—thus to spare
his father full bereavement, were he lost.
Yanking the horses’ heads, lashing their flanks,
Diomêdês handed team and chariot over

to men of his command, to be conducted

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back to the ships. Now when the Trojans saw
how Darês’ two sons fared—one saved, indeed,
the other lying dead beside his car—
every man’s heart misgave him.

Grey-eyed Athêna

took the fierce wargod, Arês, by the hand
and said to him:

“Arês, bane of all mankind,

crusted with blood, breacher of city walls,
why not allow the Trojans and Akhaians
to fight alone? Let them contend—why not?—

for glory Zeus may hold out to the winner,

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while we keep clear of combat—and his rage.”

Even as she spoke she led him from the battle
and sat him down upon Skámander side.
Now Danáäns forced back the Trojan lines,
and every captain killed his man.
First the Lord Marshal Agamémnon
struck from his car Odíos, a tall warrior,
chief of the Halizônês; he had turned,
signaling a retreat, when Agamémnon’s

point went through him from the rear, between

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the shoulders, driving through his chest,
and down he crashed with clang of arms upon him.
Idómeneus then killed the son of Bôros,
Phaistos, who came from good farmland at Tarnê.
As this man rose upon his car, Idómeneus
drove through his right shoulder, tumbling him
out of the chariot, and numbing darkness
shrouded him, as the Kretans took his gear.
Skamándrios, hunter son of Stróphios,

fell before Meneláos’ point—Skamándrios,

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expert at hunting: Artemis herself
had taught him to bring down all kinds of game
bred in the forests on wild hills. But she
who fills the air with arrows helped him not
at all this time, nor did his own good shooting.
No, as he ran before the Akhaian’s lance
Meneláos caught him with a lunging thrust
between the shoulder blades, drove through his ribs,
and down he fell, head first, his armor clanging.

Meanwhile Meríonês killed Phéreklos,

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son of Harmónidês, a man who knew
all manner of building art and handicraft,
for Pallas Athêna loved him well. This man
had even built Aléxandros those ships,
vessels of evil, fatal to the Trojans
and now to him, who had not guessed heaven’s will.
Running behind and overtaking him,
Meríonês hit his buttock on the right
and pierced his bladder, missing the pelvic bone.

He fell, moaning, upon his hands and knees

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and death shrouded him. Then Mégês killed
Pedaíos, bastard son of Lord Antênor,
a son whom Lady Theanô had cherished
equally with her own, to please her husband.
Mégês Phyléïdês, the master spearman,
closing with him, hit his nape: the point
clove through his tongue’s root and against his teeth.
Biting cold bronze he fell into the dust.
Eurëpylos Euaimónidês brought down

Hypsênor, son of noble Dolopíôn,

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priest of Skamánder in the old time, honored
by countryfolk as though he were a god.
As this man fled, Eurýpylos leapt after him
with drawn sword, on the run, and struck his shoulder,
cutting away one heavy arm: in blood
the arm dropped, and death surging on his eyes
took him, hard destiny.

So toiled the Akhaians

in that rough charge. But as for Diomêdês,
you could not tell if he were with Akhaians

or Trojans, for he coursed along the plain

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most like an April torrent fed by snow,
a river in flood that sweeps away his bank;
no piled-up dyke will hold him, no revetment
shielding the bloom of orchard land, this river
suddenly at crest when heaven pours down
the rain of Zeus; many a yeoman’s field
of beautiful grain is ravaged: even so
before Diomêdês were the crowded ranks
of Trojans broken, many as they were,

and none could hold him.

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Now when Pándaros

looked over at him, saw him sweep the field,
he bent his bow of horn at Diomêdês
and shot him as he charged, hitting his cuirass
in the right shoulder joint. The winging arrow
stuck, undeflected, spattering blood on bronze.
Pándaros gave a great shout:

“Close up, Trojans!

Come on, charioteers! The Akhaian champion
is hit, hit hard; I swear my arrowshot
will bring him down soon—if indeed it was

Apollo who cheered me on my way from Lykia!”

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Triumphantly he shouted; but his arrow
failed to bring Diomêdês down. Retiring
upon his chariot and team, he stood
and said to Sthénelos, the son of Kapanéus:

“Quick, Sthénelos, old friend, jump down
and pull this jabbing arrow from my shoulder!”

Sthénelos vaulted down and, pressed against him,
drew the slim arrow shaft clear of his wound

with spurts of blood that stained his knitted shirt.
And now at last Diomêdês of the warcry

prayed aloud:

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“Oh hear me, daughter of Zeus

who bears the stormcloud, tireless one, Athêna!
If ever you stood near my father and helped him
in a hot fight, befriend me now as well.
Let me destroy that man, bring me in range of him,
who hit me by surprise, and glories in it.
He swears I shall be blind to sunlight soon.”

So ran his prayer, and Pallas Athêna heard him.
Nimbleness in the legs, sure feet and hands

she gave him, standing near him, saying swiftly:

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“Courage, Diomêdês. Press the fight
against the Trojans. Fury like your fathers
I’ve put into your heart: his never quailed—
Tydeus, master shieldsman, master of horses.
I’ve cleared away the mist that blurred your eyes
a moment ago, so you may see before you
clearly, and distinguish god from man.
If any god should put you to the test
upon this field, be sure you are not the man

to dare immortal gods in combat—none,

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that is, except the goddess Aphrodítê.
If ever she should join the fight, then wound her
with your keen bronze.”

At this, grey-eyed Athêna

left him, and once more he made his way
into the line. If he had burned before
to fight with Trojans, now indeed blood-lust
three times as furious took hold of him.
Think of a lion that some shepherd wounds
but lightly as he leaps into a fold:

the man who roused his might cannot repel him

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but dives into his shelter, while his flocks,
abandoned, are all driven wild; in heaps
huddled they are to lie, torn carcasses,
before the escaping lion at one bound
surmounts the palisade. So lion-like,
Diomêdês plunged on Trojans.

First he killed

Astýnoös and a captain, Hypeirôn,
one with a spear-thrust in the upper chest,
the other by a stroke of his great sword

chopping his collarbone at the round joint

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to sever his whole shoulder from his body.
These he left, and met Polýeidos
and Abas, Eurydámas’ sons: the father
being an old interpreter of dreams.
He read no dreams for these two, going to war;
Diomêdês killed and stripped them.

Next he met

Xánthos and Thoôn, two dear sons of Phainops,
a man worn out with misery and years
who fathered no more heirs—but these

Diomêdês overpowered; he took their lives,

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leaving their father empty pain and mourning—
never to welcome them alive at home
after the war, and all their heritage
broken up among others.

Next two sons

of Dardan Priam Diomêdês killed
in one war-car: Ekhémmôn and Khromíos.
Just as a lion leaps to crunch the neck
of ox or heifer, grazing near a thicket,
Diomêdês, leaping, dragged them down

convulsed out of their car, and took their armor,

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sending their horses to the rear.

Aineías,

observing all the havoc this man made
amid the Trojan ranks, moved up the line
of battle and along the clash of spears,
in search of Pÿndaros. Coming upon him,
he halted by Lykáôn’s noble son
and said to him:

“Pándaros, where is your bow?

Where are your fledged arrows? And your fame?
No man of Troy contends with you in archery,

no man in Lykia would claim to beat you.

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Here, lift your hands to Zeus, let fly at that one,
whoever he is: an overwhelming fighter,
he has already hurt the Trojans badly,
cutting down many of our best.

Let fly!

Unless it be some god who bears a grudge
against us, raging over a sacrifice.
The anger of a god is cruel anger.”

To this Lykáôn’s noble son replied:

“Aineías, master of battle-craft for Trojans

under arms, that spearman, as I see him,

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looks very like Diomêdês: shield and helm
with his high plume-socket I recognize,
having his team in view. I cannot swear
he is no god. If it be Diomêdês,
never could he have made this crazy charge
without some god behind him. No, some god
is near him wrapped in cloud, and bent aside
that arrowhead that reached him—for I shot him
once before, I hit him, too, and squarely

on the right shoulder through his cuirass joint

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over the armpit. Down to the ditch of Death
I thought I had dispatched him. Not at all:
my arrow could not bring him down.
Some angry god is in this.

Teams and chariots

I lack, or I could ride. In Father’s manor
there are eleven war-cars newly built
and outfitted, with housings on them all,
and every chariot has a team nearby
that stands there champing barley meal.

God knows

how many things Lykáôn had to tell me

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in the great hall before I left! He said
that I could drive a team, a chariot,
and so command the Trojan men-at-arms
in combat. How much better if I had!
But I refused: sparing the teams, I thought,
from short rations of fodder under siege.
And so I left them, made my way on foot
to Ilion, relying on my bow—
a bow destined to fail me. In this battle

I have had shots at two great fighters: one

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Diomêdês and the other Menelÿos;
I drew blood from both, but only roused them.
Destiny was against me on that day
I took my bow of horn down from its peg
and led my men to your sweet town of Troy,
for Hektor’s sake.

If ever I return,

if ever I lay eyes on land and wife
and my great hall, may someone cut my head off
unless I break this bow between my hands

and throw it into a blazing fire! It goes

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everywhere with me, useless.”

Aineías said:

“Better not talk so. Till we act, he wins.
We two can drive my car against this man
and take him on with sword and spear.
Mount my chariot, and you’ll see how fast
these horses of the line of Trôs can run:
they know our plain and how to wheel upon it
this way and that way in pursuit or flight
like wind veering. These will save us, take us

Troyward if again Zeus should confer

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the upper hand and glory on Diomêdês.
Come take the whip and reins; and let me mount
to fight him from the car—or you yourself
may face the man, and let me mind the horses.”

Lykáôn’s noble son replied:

“Aineías,

manage the reins yourself, and guide the team,
they’ll draw the rounded war-car with more ease
knowing the driver, if we must give ground
to Diomêdês this time. God forbid

they panic, missing your voice,

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and balk at pulling out when Diomêdês
makes his leap upon us!
God forbid he kill the two of us
and make a prize of these! No, you yourself
handle your car and team. I’ll take him on
with my good spear when he attacks.”

So both agreed and rode the painted car
toward Diomêdês.

Sthénelos, the son

of Kapanéus, caught sight of them

and turned at once to Diomêdês, saying:

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“Friend of my heart and soul,
I see two spearmen who would have your blood,
a pair of big men, bearing down on you.
One’s Pándaros the bowman; by repute
his father was Lykáôn; and the other,
Aineías, claims Ankhísês as his father;
his mother is Aphrodítê.

Up with you.

We’ll move back somewhat in our chariot.
Now is no moment for another charge,

or you may lose your life.”

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But Diomêdês

glanced at him scowling.

“No more talk,” he said,

“of turning tail. You cannot make me see it.
For me there’s no style in a dodging fight
or making oneself small. I am fresh as ever.
Retire in the car? I dread it. No,
I’ll meet them head on as before. Athêna
will never let me tremble. These two men
are not to get away behind their horses
after we hit them, even if one survives

to try it.

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Let me tell you this thing, too:

remember it. If in her craft Athêna
confers on me the honor of killing both,
you halt our horses hard upon the spot,
taking a full hitch round the chariot rail,
and jump Aineías’ horses: mind you drive them
among Akhaians, out of the Trojans’ range.
They are that breed that Zeus who views the wide world
gave to Trôs in fee for Ganymêdês,
under the Dawn and under Hêlios

the finest horses in the world.

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Ankhísês, marshal of Troy, stole their great stock
without Laomédôn’s knowledge, putting fillies
to breed with them, and from these half a dozen
foals were bred for Ankhísês at his manor,
four to be reared in his own stalls; but two
he gave Aineías as a battle team.
If we can take that team we win great honor.”

This was the way these two conferred. Meanwhile
the other pair behind their team full tilt

had come in range, and Pándaros called out:

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“O son of Tydeus, undaunted heart
and mind of war, my arrow
could not bring you down—a wasted shot.
This time I’ll try a spear. God, let me hit you!”

Rifling it, he let the long spear fly
and struck him on the shield: his point in flight
broke through to reach the cuirass—
and Pándaros gave a great shout:

“Now you’re hit

square in the midriff. Can you keep your feet?

Not long, I think. This time the glory’s mine!”

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Unshaken by the blow, Diomêdês answered:

“A miss, no hit. I doubt you two will quit, though,
being what you are, till one of you is down
and glutting leather-covered Arês, god
of battle, with your blood!”

At this he made his cast,

his weapon being guided by Athêna
to cleave Pándaros’ nose beside the eye
and shatter his white teeth: his tongue
the brazen spearhead severed, tip from root,

then plowing on came out beneath his chin.

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He toppled from the car, and all his armor
clanged on him, shimmering. The horses
quivered and shied away; but life and spirit
ebbed from the broken man, and he lay still.

With shield and spear Aineías, now on foot,
in dread to see the Akhaians drag the dead man,
came and bestrode him, like a lion at bay.
Keeping the spear and rounded shield before him,
thrusting to kill whoever came in range,

he raised a terrible cry. But Diomêdês

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bent for a stone and picked it up—a boulder
no two men now alive could lift, though he
could heft it easily. This mass he hurled
and struck Aineías on the hip, just where
the hipbone shifts in what they call the bone-cup,
crushing this joint with two adjacent tendons
under the skin ripped off by the rough stone.
Now the great Trojan, fallen on his knees,
put all his weight on one strong hand

and leaned against the earth: night veiled his eyes.

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Aineías would have perished there
but for the quickness of the daughter of Zeus,
his mother, Aphrodítê, she who bore him
to shepherding Ankhísês, and who now
pillowed him softly in her two white arms
and held a corner of her glimmering robe
to screen him, so that no Danÿän spear
should stab and finish him. Then from the battle
heavenward she lifted her dear son.

Meanwhile Sthénelos, the son of Kapanéus,

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remembered the command of Diomêdês.
He brought his horses to a halt, made fast
his taut reins to the chariot rail, and flung himself
upon Aineías’ long-maned beautiful team.
Away, out of the Trojans’ reach, he drove them
and gave them into Dêipýlos’ hands—
for he esteemed this friend more than his peers
for presence of mind—to lead them to the ships.
Remounting, shaking out his polished reins,

he turned his sure-footed horses and drove hard

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in Diomêdês’ track—as Diomêdês
moved ahead to attack the Kyprian goddess.
He knew her to be weak, not one of those
divine mistresses of the wars of men—
Athêna, for example, or Enýô,
raider of cities—therefore he dared assail her
through a great ruck of battle. When in range
he leaped high after her and with his point
wounded her trailing hand: the brazen lancehead

slashed her heavenly robe, worked by the Graces,

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and cut the tender skin upon her palm.
Now from the goddess that immortal fluid,
ichor, flowed—the blood of blissful gods
who eat no food, who drink no tawny wine,
and thereby being bloodless have the name
of being immortal.

Aphrodítê screamed

and flung her child away; but Lord Apollo
caught him in his arms and bore him off
in a dark cloud, so no Danáän spear

should stab and finish him.

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Now Diomêdês,

lord of the battlecry, with mighty lungs
cried out to her:

“Oh give up war, give up

war and killing, goddess! Is it not enough
to break soft women down with coaxing lust?
Go haunting battle, will you? I can see you
shudder after this at the name of war!”

So taunted, faint with pain, she quit the field,
being by wind-running Iris helped away
in anguish, sobbing, while her lovely skin

ran darkness. Then she came on Arês resting

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far to the left, his spearshaft leaning on
a bank of mist; there stood his battle team,
and falling on one knee she begged her brother
for those gold-bangled horses.

“Brother dear,

please let me take your team, do let me have them,
to go up to the gods’ home on Olympos.
I am too dreadfully hurt: a mortal speared me.
Diomêdês it was; he’d even fight with Zeus!”

Then Arês gave her his gold-bangled team,

and into the car she stepped, throbbing with pain,

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while Iris at her side gathered the reins
and flicked the horses into eager flight.
They came, almost at once, to steep Olympos
where the gods dwell. Iris who runs on wind
halted and unyoked the team and tossed them
heavenly fodder.

In Dione’s lap

Aphrodítê sank down, and her dear mother
held and caressed her, whispering in her ear:

“Who did this to you, darling child? In heaven

who could have been so rude and wild,

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as though you had committed open wrong?”

And Aphrodítê, lover of smiling eyes,
answered:

“Diomêdês had the insolence

to wound me, when I tried to save
my dear son from the war: Aineías, dearest
of all the sons of men to me.
It seems this horrid combat is no longer
Trojans against Akhaians—now, the Argives
are making war upon the gods themselves!”

Then said Diônê, loveliest of goddesses:

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“There, child, patience, even in such distress.
Many of us who live upon Olympos
have taken hurt from men, and hurt each other.
Arês bore it, when Otos and Ephiáltês,
Alôeus’ giant sons, put him in chains:
he lay for thirteen moons in a brazen jar,
until that glutton of war might well have perished
had Eëríboia, their stepmother,
not told Hermês: Hermês broke him free

more dead than alive, worn out by the iron chain.

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Then think how Hêra suffered, too,
when Amphitrýôn’s mighty son let fly
his triple-barbed arrow into her right breast:
unappeasable pain came over her.
And Aïdês, great lord of undergloom,
bore a shot from the same strong son of Zeus
at Pylos, amid the dead. That arrow stroke
delivered him to anguish. Then Aïdês,
pierced and stricken, went to high Olympos,

the arrow grinding still in his great shoulder,

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and there Paiêôn with a poultice healed him
who was not born for death. What recklessness
in Hêraklês, champion though he was at labors,
to shrug at impious acts and bend his bow
for the discomfiture of Olympians!
But this man, he that wounded you, Athêna
put him up to it—idiot, not to know
his days are numbered who would fight the gods!
His children will not sing around his knees

‘Papà! Papà!’ on his return from war.

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So let Diomêdês pause, for all his prowess,
let him remember he may meet his match,
and Aigiáleia, Adrêstos’ daughter,
starting up from sleep some night in tears
may waken all the house, missing her husband,
noblest of Akhaians: Diomêdês.”

Diônê soothed her, wiped away the ichor
with both hands from Aphrodítê’s palm—
already throbbing less, already healing.

But Hêra and Athêna, looking on,

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had waspish things to say, to irritate Zeus.
It was the grey-eyed goddess who began:

“Oh, Father, will you be annoyed if I
make a small comment? Aphrodítê
likes to beguile the women of Akhaia
to elope with Trojans, whom she so adores:
now, fondling some Akhaian girl, I fear,
she scratched her slim white hand on a golden pin.”

He smiled at this, the father of gods and men,

and said to the pale-gold goddess Aphrodítê:

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“Warfare is not for you, child. Lend yourself
to sighs of longing and the marriage bed.
Let Arês and Athêna deal with war.”

These were the colloquies in heaven.

Meanwhile,

Diomêdês, lord of the warcry, charged Aineías
though he knew well Apollo had sustained him.
He feared not even the great god himself,
but meant to kill Aineías and take his armor.
Three times he made his killing thrust; three times

the Lord Apollo buffeted his shield,

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throwing him back. Beside himself, again
he sprang, a fourth time, but the Archer God
raised a bloodcurdling cry:

“Look out! Give way!

Enough of this, this craze to vie with gods!
Our kind, immortals of the open sky,
will never be like yours, earth-faring men.”

Diomêdês backed away a step or two
before Apollo’s terrible anger, and
the god caught up Aineías and set him down

on Troy’s high citadel of Pergamos

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where his own shrine was built.
There in that noble room Lêto and Artemis
tended the man and honored him. Meanwhile
Apollo made a figure of illusion,
Aineías’ double, armed as he was armed,
and round this phantom Trojans and Akhaians
cut one another’s chest-protecting oxhide
shields with hanging shield-flaps. Then Apollo
said to the wargod:

“Bane of all mankind,

crusted with blood, breather of walls, why not

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go in and take this man out of the combat,
this Diomêdês, who would try a cast
with Zeus himself? First he attempted Kypris
and cut her lovely hand, then like a fury
came at me.”

Apollo turned away

to rest in Pergamos, upon the height,
while baleful Arês through the ranks of Trojans
made his way to stiffen them. He seemed
Akámas, a good runner, chief of Thracians,

appealing to the sons of Priam:

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“Princes,

heirs of Priam in the line of Zeus,
how long will the Akhaians have your leave
to kill your people? Up to the city gates?
Lying in dust out there is one of us
whom we admire as we do Lord Hektor—
Aineías, noble Ankhísês’ son.
Come, we can save him from the trampling rout.”

He made them burn at this, and then Sarpêdôn
in his turn growled at Hektor:

“What of you,

Hektor, where has your courage gone?

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Defend the city, will you, without troops,
without allies, you and your next of kin,
brothers-in-law and brothers? In the combat
I neither see nor hear of them—like dogs
making themselves scarce around a lion.
We do the fighting, we who are allies here
as I am—and a long journey I made of it
from Lykia and Xánthos’ eddying river
far away, where I left wife and child,

with property a needy man would dream of.

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Here all the same I am, sending my Lykians
forward, and going in to fight myself,
though I have no least stake in Troy:
no booty for Akhaians to carry off—
while you stand like a sheep. You have not even
called on the rest to hold their ground, to fight
for their own wives! Will you be netted, caught
like helpless game your enemies can feast on?
They will be pillaging your city soon!

Here is your duty: night and day

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press every captain of your foreign troops
to keep his place in battle, and fight off
the blame and bitterness of your defeat!”

This lashing had made Hektor hot with shame,
and down he vaulted from his chariot,
hefting two spears, to pace up through the army,
flank and center, calling on all to fight,
to join battle again. The Trojans rallied
and now stood off the Akhaians, while the Akhaians

kept formation too.

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See in the mind’s eye

wind blowing chaff on ancient threshing floors
when men with fans toss up the trodden sheaves,
and yellow-haired Dêmêtêr, puff by puff,
divides the chaff and grain: how all day long
in bleaching sun strawpiles grow white: so white
grew those Akhaian figures in the dustcloud
churned to the brazen sky by horses’ hooves
as chariots intermingled, as the drivers
turned and turned—carrying their hands high

and forward gallantly despite fatigue.

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Now coming to the Trojans’ aid in battle,
Arês veiled them everywhere in dusk,
obeying Apollo of the golden sword
by rousing Trojan courage: he had seen
Pallas Athêna, defender of Danáäns,
depart from the other side. Apollo then
out of his sanctum, hushed and hung with gold,
sent back the marshal of Trojan troops, Aineías,
with fighting spirit restored. He stood again

amid his peers, to their relief; they saw him

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whole, without a scratch, and hot for war—
but no one there could pause to question him;
Apollo brought new toil upon them now,
with Arês, bane of men, and Strife insatiable.
Amid the Akhaians those two men named Afas,
joining Diomêdês and Odysseus,
made bastion for Danáäns. See these four,
all fearless of attack or Trojan power,
patient in battle—motionless as clouds

that Zeus may station on high mountaintops

600

in a calm heaven, while the north wind sleeps
and so do all the winds whose gusty blowing
rifts and dispels shade-bearing cloud. So these
Danáäns held their ground against the Trojans
and never stirred, while Agamémnon passed
amid the ranks haranguing troops:

“Dear friends,

be men, choose valor and pride in one another
when shock of combat comes. More men of pride
are saved than lost, and men who run for it

get no reward of praise, no safety either.”

610

Lightning-quick, he lunged with his own spear
and hit Aineías’ friend, Deïkoôn,
Pérgasos’ son, spear-fighter, a man
the Trojans honored as they did their princes,
knowing him prompt to join the battle line.
His shield hit hard by Agamémnon’s thrust
could not withstand the spearhead, but the point
drove through his belt low down
and crumpled him, with clang of arms upon him.

Aineías now, for his part, killed two champions

620

of the Danáäns: Orsílokhos and Krêthôn,
sons of Díoklês, who owned estates
in Phêrê, being descended from that river
that runs broad through the Pylian land, Alpheíos.
Alpheíos fathered Lord Ortílokhos,
powerful over many men, and he
in his turn fathered gallant Díoklês,
whose sons were twins, Orsílokhos and Krêthôn,
skillful at every kind of fight.

Still fresh

in manhood they embarked in the black ships

630

for the wild horse country of Ilion, to gain
vengeance for the Atreidai, Agamémnon
and Meneláos. Here Death hid them both.
Imagine two young lions, reared
by a mother lioness in undergrowth
of a deep mountain forest—twins who prey
on herds and flocks, despoiling farms, till one day
they too are torn to pieces, both at once,

by sharp spears in the hands of men. So these
went down before the weapons of Aineías,

640

falling like lofty pines before an ax.

Pitying the two men fallen, Meneláos
came up, formidable in glittering bronze,
with menacing spear—for Arês urged him on
to see him conquered at Aineías’ hands.
But Nestor’s watchful son, Antílokhos,
advanced to join him, anxious for his captain,
fearing his loss, and failure of their cause.
The two champions with weapons tilted up

had faced each other, when Antílokhos

650

moved in, shoulder to shoulder, with Meneláos;
and agile fighter though he was, Aineías
shunned the combat, measuring this pair.
On his retreat they pulled away the dead
unlucky twins, and passed them to the rear,
then turned again to battle.

First they killed

a captain of Paphlagonians, Pylaiménês,
burly as Arês; Meneláos it was
who hit him with a spear-thrust, pierced him through

just at the collarbone. Antílokhos

660

knocked out his driver, Atÿmnios’ noble son
called Mydôn. As the man wheeled his horses
a boulder smashed his elbow; in the dust
his reins, inset with ivory, curled out,
as with drawn sword Antílokhos leapt on him
and gashed his forehead. Gasping, down he went,
head first, pitching from his ornate car,
into a sandbank—so his luck would have it—
to stay embedded till his trampling horses

rolled him farther in the dust. Antílokhos

670

lashed at them and consigned them to the rear.

Surveying these Akhaians through the ranks
Hektor charged with a sudden cry. Beside him
strong Trojan formations moved ahead,
impelled by Arês and by cold Enýô
who brings the shameless butchery of war.
Arês wielding a gigantic spear
by turns led Hektor on or backed him up,
and as he watched this figure, Diomêdês

felt like a traveler halted on a plain,

680

helpless to cross, before a stream in flood
that roars and spumes down to the sea. That traveler
would look once and recoil: so Diomêdês
backed away and said to his company:

“Friends,

all we can do is marvel at Prince Hektor.
What a spearman he is, and what a fighter!
One of the gods goes with him everywhere
to shield him from a mortal wound. Look! there,
beside him—Arês in disguise!

Give ground

slowly; keep your faces toward the Trojans.

690

No good pitting ourselves against the gods.”

The Trojans reached them as he spoke, and Hektor
swept into death a pair of men who knew
the joy of war—Menésthês and Ankhíalos—
both in a single car. Now, these two fallen
were pitied by great Aías Telamônios,
who moved in close, his glittering spear at play,
and overcame Selagos’ son, Amphíon,
a landowner in Paísos. Destiny

had sent this man to take a stand with Priam

700

and Priam’s sons in war. Now Aías’ thrust
went through his belt, and in his lower belly
the spearpoint crunched and stuck. He fell
hard in the dust. Then Aías
came up fast to strip him, while the Trojans
cast their spears in a bright hail: his shield
took one shock after another. With one heel
braced on the corpse he pulled away his point,
but being beset by spears he could not slip

swordbelt or buckler from the dead man’s shoulders.

710

And now, too, he began to be afraid
of Trojans coming up around the body,
brave men and many, pressing him with spears.
Big as he was, and powerful and bold,
they pushed him back, and he retired, shaken.

This way the toil of battle took its course
in that quarter. Elsewhere, all-powerful fate
moved Hêraklês’ great son, Tlêpólemos,
to meet Sarpêdôn. As they neared each other,

son and grandson of cloud-massing Zeus,

720

Tlêpólemos began to jeer:

“Lykian,

war-counselor Sarpêdôn, why so coy
upon this field? You call yourself a fighter?
They lie who say you come of Zeus’ line,
you are so far inferior to those
fathered by Zeus among the men of old.
Think what the power of Hêraklês was like,
my lion-hearted father! For Laomédôn’s
chariot horses once he beached at Troy

with only six shiploads of men, a handful,

730

yet he sacked Ilion and left her ways
desolate. But your nerve is gone, your troops
are losing badly: it is no gain for Trojans
that you came here from Lykia, powerful
man that you are—and when you fall to me,
down through the gates of Death you go!”

Sarpêdôn

answered:

“Right enough, Tlêpólemos,

he did ruin Ilion: Laomédôn,
the greedy fool, gave him a vicious answer

after great labor well performed—refused

740

to make delivery of the promised horses
that Hêraklês had come for. As for you,
I promise a hard lot: a bloody death
you’ll find here on this battleground,
when my spear knocks you out. You’ll give up glory
to me and life to him who drives the horses
of undergloom, Aïdês.”

Then Tlêpólemos

raised his ashen spear, and from their hands
in unison long shafts took flight. Sarpêdôn’s

hit his enemy squarely in the neck

750

with force enough to drive the point clear through;
unending night of death clouded his eyes.
Tlêpólemos’ point, hitting the upper leg,
went jolting through between the two long bones,
but once again Sarpêdôn’s father saved him.
Out of the mêlée men of his command
carried the captain in his agony, encumbered
by the long dragging spear. No one had time
to think of how the shaft might be withdrawn,

that he might use one leg at least, so hastily

760

they did their work, so pressed by care of battle.

Meanwhile Tlêpólemos was carried back
by the Akhaians on the other side.
Rugged Odysseus noted it with anger
and pain for him. What should he do, he thought,
track down Sarpêdôn, son of thundering Zeus,
or take the life of Lykians in throngs?
But it was not the destiny of brave Odysseus
with his sharp spear to finish off Sarpêdôn, but Athêna
turned his fury upon the Lykians.

He killed Koiranos, Aíastor, Khrômios,

770

Alkándros, Halios, Noêmon, Prýtanis,
and would have killed more Lykians, had not
great Hektor’s piercing eye
under his shimmering helmet lighted on him.
Across the clashing line he came a-glitter
with burning bronze, a terror to Danáiins,
making Sarpêdôn’s heart lift up to see him,
so that as Hektor passed he weakly said:

“I beg you not to leave me

lying here for Danáäns to despoil.

780

Defend me; afterward let me bleed away
my life within your city. Not for me
to see my home and country once again,
my dear wife in her joy, my little son.”

Silent under his polished helmet, Hektor,
dazzling and impetuous, passed on
to drive the Argives back with general slaughter,
and those around Sarpêdôn
laid their commander in the royal shade

of Zeus’ oak. One dear to him, Pelágôn,

790

worrying the spearhead, pulled it from his thigh,
at which he fainted. But his breath came back
when a cool north wind, a reprieve, blew round
and fanned him, wakened him from his black swoon.

Even though not yet routed to the ships
under attack from Arês and from Hektor,
the Argives could not gain but yielded everywhere,
knowing that Arês fought among the Trojans.
One by one, who were the fighting men

that Hektor slew, and Arês? Teuthras first

800

Oréstês, breaker of horses; a spear-thrower,
Trêkhos, an Aitolian; Oinómaos;
Hélenos Oinópidês; Orésbios
whose plated breast-band glittered—in the past
he lived at Hylê on Lake Képhisos,
fond of his wealth, amid his countrymen,
Boiotians of the fertile plain.

Now Hêra,

seeing these Argives perish in the fight,
appealed with indignation to Athêna:

“A dismal scene, this. O untiring goddess,

810

daughter of mighty Zeus who bears the stormcloud,
our word to Meneláos was a fraud—
that he should never sail for home
before he plundered Ilion! How likely,
if we allow this lunatic attack
by that sinister fool Arês? Come,
we’ll put our minds on our own fighting power!”

Grey-eyed Athêna listened and agreed,
and Hêra, eldest daughter of old Krónos,

harnessed her team, all golden fringes. Hêbê

820

fitted upon her chariot, left and right,
the brazen wheels with eight shinbones, or spokes,
around the iron axle-tree: all gold
her felloes are, unworn, for warped upon them
are tires of bronze, a marvel; and the hubs
are silver, turning smoothly on each side.
The car itself is made of gold and silver
woven together, with a double rail,
and from the car a silver chariot pole

leans forward. Hêbê fitted to the tip

830

a handsome golden yoke, and added collars
all soft gold. And Hêra in her hunger
for strife of battle and the cries of war
backed her sure-footed horses in the traces.

As for Athêna, she cast off and dropped
her great brocaded robe, her handiwork,
in lapping folds across her father’s doorsill,
taking his shirt, the shirt of Zeus, cloud-masser,
with breast armor, and gear of grievous war.

She hung the stormcloud shield with raveled tassels

840

ominous from her shoulder: all around
upon it in a garland Rout was figured,
Enmity, Force, and Chase that chills the blood,
concentered on the Gorgon’s head, reptilian
seething Fear—a portent of the stormking.
Quadruple-crested, golden, double-ridged
her helmet was, enchased with men-at-arms
put by a hundred cities in the field.
She stepped aboard the glowing car of Hêra

and took the great haft of her spear in hand—

850

that heavy spear this child of Power can use
to break in wrath long battle lines of fighters.
Then at the crack of Hera’s whip
over the horses’ backs, the gates of heaven
swung wide of themselves on rumbling hinges—
gates the Hours keep, for they have charge
of entry to wide heaven and Olympos,
by opening or closing massive cloud.
Passing through these and goading on their team,

the goddesses encountered Krónos’son,

860

who sat apart from all the gods
on the summit of Olympos. Reining in,
Hêra with arms as white as ivory
addressed the all-highest:

“Father Zeus,

are you not thoroughly sick of Arês? All
those brutal acts of his? How great, how brave
the body of Akhaians he destroyed
so wantonly; he has made me grieve,
while Kypris and Apollo take their pleasure,

egging on that dunce who knows no decency.

870

Father, you cannot, can you, be annoyed
if I chastise and chase him from the field?”

Then Zeus who gathers cloud replied:

“Go after him.

Athêna, Hope of Soldiers, is the one
to match with him: she has a wondrous way
of bringing him to grief.”

At this permission,

Hêra cracked her whip again. Her team
went racing between starry heaven and earth.
As much dim distance as a man perceives

from a high lookout over winedark sea,

880

these horses neighing in the upper air
can take at a bound.

Upon the Trojan plain

where the two rivers run, Skamáasder flowing
to confluence with Simóeis, Hêra halted
to let her horses graze. Around them both
she rained an emanation of dense cloud,
while for their pasturing Simóeis made
ambrosial grass grow soft.

The goddesses

gliding in a straight line like quivering doves

approached the battle to defend the Argives,

890

but once arrived where their best spearmen fought
at the flank of Diomêdês, giving ground
like lions or boars, like carnivores at bay,
no feeble victims—Hêra took her stand
with a loud cry. She had the look of Stentor,
whose brazen lungs could give a battle shout
as loud as fifty soldiers, trumpeting:

“Shame, shame, Argives: cowards! good on parade!
While Prince Akhilleus roamed the field the Trojans

never would show their faces in a sortie,

900

respecting his great spear too much—but now
they fight far from the city, near the ships!”

This shout put anger into them. Meanwhile
the grey-eyed goddess Athêna from the air
hastened to Diomêdês. By his car
she found him resting, trying to cool the wound
Pándaros’ arrow gave him. Spent and drenched
with sweat beneath his broad shield strap, he felt
encumbered by his shield, being arm-weary,

and slipped the strap off, wiped his blood away.

910

The goddess put her hand upon the yoke
that joined his battle-team, and said:

“Ah, yes,

a far cry from his father, Tydeus’ son.
Tydeus was a small man, but a fighter.
Once I forbade him war or feats of arms
that time he went as messenger to Thebes
alone, detached from the Akhaian host,
amid Kadmeíans in their multitude.
Bidden to dine at ease in their great hall,

combative as he always was, he challenged

920

the young Kadmeíans—and he had no trouble
pinning them all, I took his part so well.
But you, now—here I stand with you, by heaven,
protect you, care for you, tell you to fight,
but you are either sluggish in the legs
from battle-weariness or hollowhearted
somehow with fear: you are not, after all,
the son of Tydeus Oineïdês.”

Proud Diomêdês answered her:

“I know you,

goddess, daughter of Zeus who bears the stormcloud.

930

With all respect, I can explain, and will.
No fear is in me, and no weariness;
I simply bear in mind your own commands.
You did expressly say I should not face
the blissful gods in fight—that is, unless
Aphrodítê came in. One might feel free
to wound her anyway. So you commanded,
and therefore I am giving ground myself
and ordering all the Argives to retire

shoulder to shoulder here, because I know

940

the master of battle over there is Arês.”

The grey-eyed goddess answered:

“Diomêdês,

dear to my heart: no matter what I said,
you are excused from it; you must not shrink
from Arês or from any other god
while I am with you.

Whip your team

toward Arês, hit him, hand to hand, defer
no longer to this maniacal god
by nature evil, two-faced everywhere.

Not one hour ago I heard him grunt

950

his word to Hêra and myself to fight
on the Argive side; now he forgets all that
and joins the Trojans.”

Even as she spoke,

she elbowed Sthénelos aside and threw him,
but gave him a quick hand-up from the ground,
while she herself, impetuous for war,
mounted with Diomêdês. At her step
the oaken axle groaned, having to bear
goddess and hero. Formidable Athêna

caught up the whip and reins and drove the horses

960

hard and straight at Arês.

Brute that he was,

just at that point he had begun despoiling
a giant of a man, the Aitolians’ best,
Períphas, brilliant scion of Okhêsios.
The bloodstained god had downed him. But Athêna,
making herself invisible to Arês,
put on the helm of the Lord of Undergloom.
Then Arês saw Diomêdês, whirled, and left
Períphas lying where he fell. Straight onward

for Diomêdês lunged the ruffian god.

970

When they arrived in range of one another,
Arês, breasting his adversary’s horses,
rifled his spear over the yoke and reins
with murderous aim. Athêna, grey-eyed goddess,
with one hand caught and deflected it
and sent it bounding harmless from the car.
Now Diomêdês put his weight behind
his own bronze-headed spear. Pallas Athêna
rammed it at Arês’ belted waist so hard

she put a gash in his fair flesh, and pulled

980

the spearhead out again. Then brazen Arês
howled to heaven, terrible to hear
as roaring from ten thousand men in battle
when long battalions clash. A pang of fear
ran through the hearts of Trojans and Akhaians,
deafened by insatiable Areês’ roar.

Like a black vapor from a thunderhead
riding aloft on stormwind brewed by heat,
so brazen Arês looked to Diomêdês

as he rose heavenward amid the clouds.

990

High on Olympos, crag of the immortals,
he came to rest by the Lord Zeus. Aching,
mortified, he showed his bleeding wound and
querulously addressed him:

“Father Zeus,

how do you take this insubordination?
What frightful things we bear from one another
doing good turns to men! And I must say
we all hold it against you. You conceived
a daughter with no prudence, a destroyer,

given to violence. We other gods

1000

obey you, as submissive as you please,
while she goes unreproved; never a word,
a gesture of correction comes from you—
only begetter of the insolent child.
She is the one who urged Diomêdês on
to mad attempts on the immortals—first
he closed with Kypris, cut her palm, and now
he hurled himself against me like a fury.
It was my speed that got me off, or I

should still be there in pain among the dead,

1010

the foul dead—or undone by further strokes
of cutting bronze.”

But Zeus who masses cloud

regarded him with frowning brows and said:

“Do not come whining here, you two-faced brute,
most hateful to me of all the Olympians.
Combat and brawling are your element.
This beastly, incorrigible truculence
comes from your mother, Hêra, whom I keep
but barely in my power, say what I will.

You came to grief, I think, at her command.

1020

Still, I will not have you suffer longer.
I fathered you, after all;
your mother bore you as a son to me.
If you had been conceived by any other
and born so insolent, then long ago
your place would have been far below the gods.”

With this he told Paiêôn to attend him,
and sprinkling anodyne upon his wound
Paiêôn undertook to treat and heal him

who was not born for death.

1030

As wild fig sap

when dripped in liquid milk will curdle it
as quickly as you stir it in, so quickly
Paiêôn healed impetuous Arês’ wound.
Then Hêbê bathed him, mantled him afresh,
and down he sat beside Lord Zeus,
glowing again in splendor.

And soon again to Zeus’ home retired
Argive Hêra, Boiotian Athêna,
who made the bane of mankind quit the slaughter.