This boast disheartened the Greeks, but made Antilochus quit the captured chariot and straddle the body of his dear comrade, plying shield and spear until two friends, Mecisteus, son of Echius, and bold Alastor, groaning for sorrow, bent down, lifted Hypsenor on their shoulders, and bore him to the rear.
Idomeneus fought indefatigably, careless of death so long as he might destroy a few more Trojans. Among them was Prince Alcathous, the son of King Aesyetes; he had married Anchises’ eldest daughter Hippodameia, the most beautiful and talented Trojan girl of her age; Aesyetes and his queen doted on Hippodameia, and chose the best man in the whole city for her husband. Poseidon caused Alcathous’ death by glazing his eyes and paralyzing his limbs: when attacked by Idomeneus, he could neither step back nor dodge aside, but stood motionless as a pillar or tall, leafy tree and let Idomeneus’ blade harshly rip open his bronze corslet. He crashed to the dust, the spear trembling, as if from the pulsations of the heart it had pierced.
In the heat of battle, Idomeneus taunted Prince Deiphobus by shouting: ‘And are you quits with us now, despite your boasts? We have killed three men to your one! Come, test the quality of my spearmanship! I am a king of divine stock. For Zeus fathered Minos on Europa, and Minos’ son Deucalion was my father; therefore I rule the populous island of Crete… My flotilla brought me here to plague Troy, King Priam, and yourself.’
Should Deiphobus persuade some sturdy Trojan to assist him against Idomeneus, or would it be nobler if he fought alone? After a moment of doubt, he called upon Prince Aeneas. Aeneas had hitherto kept out of the battle, feeling resentful because Priam denied him honours worthy of his feats. ‘Aeneas!’ Deiphobus cried urgently. ‘Both as a member of the Royal Council, and as Hippodameia’s brother, you should display more family feeling! Her husband Alcathous, whose house you often visited when a little boy, and who showed you every kindness, is dead, and Idomeneus the Cretan has despoiled him; but at least we must rescue the corpse!’
Deiphobus’ words spurred Aeneas to take bloody vengeance; yet Idomeneus was no easily scared child:
The wild boar leaping from his lair
High on a lonely hill
Dares to confront the rabid hunt
That counts upon a kill.
He bristles up his sturdy back
And, covetous of fame,
Whets tush on tush, facing the rush
With eyes as bright as flame.
Though Idomeneus likewise faced Aeneas’ rush, he did not disdain to summon Ascalaphus, Aphareus, Deipyrus, Meriones, and Nestor’s son Antilochus, all seasoned fighters. ‘To the rescue!’ he yelled. ‘Here comes Aeneas, a fine spearman, at the peak of his powers, too, which gives him a great advantage in single-combat. If I were no older than he, we should be well enough matched for a duel to the death. As it is, I confess myself terrified!’
The five champions advanced to Idomeneus’ support. Aeneas similarly summoned the help of Deiphobus, Paris, and Agenor, who hurried towards him, followed by their men-at-arms.
Have no dread,
Have no dread,
Shepherd boy:
Stride ahead
Full of joy
With your crook!
Lead your sheep,
Lead your sheep,
Pretty creatures,
From the steep
Mountain pastures
To the brook!
Aeneas was happy as a shepherd boy when he saw his comrades flock up; and savage spear-thrusts were exchanged over Alcathous’ body, making armour ring. Aeneas flung at Idomeneus; but he skilfully avoided the spear, and it stuck quivering in the ground. Idomeneus retaliated by a jab at the belly of Oenomaus, who fell clutching the soil as his intestines gushed through the hole torn in his corslet. Idomeneus withdrew the weapon, whereupon so many Trojans made for him that he dared not despoil Oenomaus. Indeed, feeling too winded to challenge any further Trojans, or recover his spear once he had thrown it, or even dodge an attack, he could only shelter behind his shield and slowly retire. Deiphobus hurled at the hated Idomeneus, and again killed the wrong man: this time it was Ascalaphus, son of Ares the Warrior. The spear struck his shoulder, and down he went. (All the Olympians, except Poseidon, were obeying Zeus’ instructions and taking no part in the war—reclined at ease on a peak of Olympus, under the golden clouds. Thus terrible, loud-voiced Ares did not know that his descendant Ascalaphus had just died.)
A fierce struggle took place when Deiphobus tried to pull oft Ascalaphus’ bright helmet. Meriones transfixed his upper arm, made him drop the helmet; then, swooping like a vulture, recovered the spear and disappeared again. Prince Polites clasped his brother Deiphobus’ waist and guided him to the waiting chariot. The charioteer took Deiphobus home, groaning and red with blood that spurted from the wound.
Meanwhile, Aeneas rushed at Aphareus, son of Caletor, who happened to expose his throat, and drove a spear into it. Aphareus’ head jerked backwards, his helmet and shield dropped, and he died instantly. Nestor’s son Antilochus saw that Thoön had turned around, and attacked him, his spear severing the spinal cord that runs from haunch to neck. Thoön fell supine, flinging out both hands in appeal to his comrades. At once Antilochus removed Thoön’s armour, keeping a shrewd eye on the Trojans who tried to prevent him. Blows rained against Antilochus’ ample shield, and if none so much as grazed his delicate skin, that was because of Poseidon’s protection. Nor did he break off the fight: he darted here and there, always on the look-out for a chance to make a long cast or thrust from close quarters. Adamas, son of Asius, who had been watching Antilochus, suddenly lunged at his shield with great force; but Poseidon grudged Adamas this victory. The spear snapped, its forepart remaining embedded in the hide, as if it were a burned tree-stump, the butt falling to earth. Thus disarmed, Adamas would have slipped away, had not Meriones, coming in pursuit, speared him just above the genitals, where wounds are incurable. His hopeless writhings recalled a familiar bucolic scene:
Bound by green willow wands, the bull
Wildly resists the herdsmen’s pull,
All his four feet in action till
They drag him roaring down the hill.
Adamas’ struggles ended as soon as Meriones pulled out the spear.
Next, Prince Helenus, son of Priam, dealt Deipyrus a mortal blow on the temple with a Thracian broadsword, which sent his helmet spinning; a Greek picked it up as it rolled between his feet. Menelaus of the Loud War-Cry then resolved to avenge Deipyrus, by attacking Helenus. Helenus, however, shot an arrow at him before he could throw a spear.
When strong the sea-wind whistles,
Our threshing-floor we man,
Where swarthy beans or chick-peas
Await a winnowing-fan.
Into the wind we toss them,
From fans both wide and deep;
For though the chaff goes flying
They’ll tumble in a heap.
The arrow glanced off Menelaus’ corslet, like a chick-pea tossed by a winnowing-fan; but Menelaus’ spear drew blood. It pierced Helenus’ bow-hand, and he retired, trailing the shaft behind him. Prince Agenor removed it; took some twisted yarn which one of his squires carried for such emergencies, and bound up the wound.
Peisander’s attack on Menelaus was not destined to succeed. When they exchanged thrusts, the blade of his spear broke off in Menelaus’ wide shield, whereas Menelaus missed altogether. Undeterred, Peisander grasped the long, polished, olive-wood haft of his battle-axe and swung at his opponent’s helmet, but only shore away the plume-socket. In return, he caught a horizontal blow from Menelaus’ silver-studded sword across the bridge of the nose, which sliced his skull, and sent both eyes dripping bloodily into the dust.
Menelaus placed a foot on Peisander’s prostrate corpse and, after despoiling it, yelled: ‘Look, Trojan war-mongers! This is how your adventure must end! And when Ruin overtakes you, dogs, she will heap upon your heads the same shameful insults that you once heaped upon mine, in impudent defiance of Zeus the Thundere
r. Zeus avenges the ill-treatment of host by guest, or guest by host, and cannot but destroy the Trojan Citadel before he has done. Your ambassadors, whom I feasted at Sparta, wickedly stole my wife, with a great part of my treasure; and now you threaten to burn this fleet and massacre its crews! No, no, greedy Trojans! Monstrous though your appetite for violence may be, you will soon have a bellyful!’
He then addressed Zeus:
‘ZEUS, evermore excelling,
Of wisdom infinite,
Are you yourself compelling
These men to fight their fight
And sin against the light?
‘Dances are good, in measure,
Like love and sleep and song,
And yield more certain pleasure
Than to defend the wrong
By battling all day long!’
Having stripped Peisander of his gory armour, and presented it to his comrades, Menelaus plunged into the mělée again. The ill-fated Harpalion, son of King Pylaemenes of Paphlagonia, rushed to meet him, but failed to pierce his shield; so withdrew, first glancing around lest anyone should throw a spear. He did not see Meriones’ drawn bow; the arrow entered his right buttock, tore the bladder, and emerged under the groin. Harpalion sank down, to die like a crushed earth-worm, and his life-blood darkened the soil. Loyal Paphlagonians lifted him on their shoulders and bore him over the fosse to his chariot.
Paris grieved for Harpalion, having been his guest once in Paphlagonia; and, since Pylaemenes had not exacted vengeance before removing the corpse to Troy, did so himself by killing Euchenor, son of Polyidus the Corinthian prophet, with an arrow that struck him below the angle of his jaw. Euchenor had embarked for Troy in full foreknowledge of this fate; because Polyidus often warned him that he must either stay at Corinth and succumb to disease, or sail away and be killed by the Trojans. He chose the second alternative, and thus avoided both a lingering death and the heavy fine which Agamemnon would have made him pay for not volunteering.
Meanwhile Hector, confident of Zeus’ favour, attacked the Greeks’ right flank, unaware that, encouraged and magically assisted by Poseidon, they were more than holding their own on the left. He fought close to the flotillas of Little Ajax the Locrian, and of Podarces the Thessalian, Phylacus’ grandson, who had succeeded his dead brother Protesilaus; here the rampart was lowest, and the battle most furious. The Locrians, the Thessalians, the Boeotians, the Ionians with their long tunics, and the famous Epeians, were all hard pressed and unable to repel Hector. The Ionians included some excellent troops from Athens led by King Menestheus, son of Peteus, and his lieutenants Pheidas, Stichius, and Bias. Meges, son of Phyleus, assisted by Amphion and Dracius, led the Epeians; Podarces and Medon, Little Ajax’s bastard-brother from Phylace, led a mixed force of Thessalians and Boeotians.
Great and Little Ajax laboured side by side, like a team of plough-oxen:
Two hardy oxen dark as wine,
A strong and docile pair,
With equal fortitude combine
In dragging the ploughshare.
Nothing divides them but the pole
To which their yoke is bound;
Their brows are wet with beads of sweat
That drip upon the ground.
O labour nobly on, you steers
That plough the fallow field!
Until the furrow’s end appears
To sloth you never yield.
But whereas Great Ajax’s men-at-arms gave him staunch support, and even carried his enormous shield when its weight oppressed him, Little Ajax’s Locrians were unaccustomed to this style of fighting, and possessed no helmets, shields, or spears. They used bows instead, or slings of braided yam, volleys from which caused the Trojans heavy losses. Thus Great Ajax’s Salaminians fought Hector’s bronze-corsleted comrades on equal terms, while Little Ajax’s Locrians, keeping behind cover, galled them with arrows and sling-stones.
The Trojans might have retreated to Troy at this point, had not Prince Polydamas once more approached Hector. ‘Hector,’ he said, ‘you are difficult to persuade, because your extraordinary talents as a soldier make you claim similar eminence as a strategist. Zeus’ studied policy, however, is to let one man excel in battle—or in dancing, or lyre-playing, or singing—but to confer on another the shrewd judgement which saves lives. So pray listen! Though we have crossed the rampart and set the whole battle-front ablaze, some of our troops are standing idle, leaving others to struggle desperately in scattered knots. Why not allow yourself a brief respite from fighting, summon a council-of-war, and decide whether we can expect Zeus to approve a well-organized attack on the fleet; or whether we should retire before anything worse happens? The Greeks, smarting from yesterday’s defeat, may perhaps turn the tables on us: particularly since Achilles cannot be trusted to abstain much longer from the sport he loves so dearly.’
Polydamas’ apt advice pleased Hector. ‘Take charge of these troops,’ he said, ‘while I see how the battle is progressing elsewhere! I shall return after giving the necessary orders.’
He hurried off, majestic as a snow-capped mountain, and shouted to the Trojans and their allies: ‘Polydamas will assume temporary command!’ Then he went to search for Deïphobus, Helenus, Adamas, and Adamas’ father Asius, son of Hyrtacus; but found none of them in the fighting line. Some lay dead, near the sterns of the Greek ships; some had gone wounded home to Troy. On the Trojan right flank only Prince Paris was boldly pressing the attack. Hector cried in exasperation: ‘Still alive, beautiful brother—womanizer, vile seducer? But where are Deïphobus, and brave Helenus, and Adamas, and Asius, and Othryoneus? The Trojan army is melting away disastrously!’
Paris answered: ‘If you persist in blaming me unjustly, Hector, I may abandon this war altogether; for, despite your reproaches, I was not born wholly a coward! Since the battle began, my company has been engaged without a pause. Adamas, Asius and Othryoneus lie dead; Deïphobus and Helenus have left the field, both severely wounded in the hand. We survivors are ready to follow courageously wherever you lead, so long as we can stand. But even courage does not do much for a man once he is exhausted.’
These words calmed Hector; he guided Paris and his company through the camp to reinforce Polydamas, Cebriones, Phalces, Orthaeus, and Prince Polyphetes—also a draft of Bithynians who had arrived, on the previous morning, from the fertile shores of the Ascanian Lake: namely Palmys, Ascanius, and Morys, son of Hippotion.
Loud thunder rolled,
The wind blew cold
And with the sea played pranks:
Malignly curled,
The breakers whirled
Forward in foaming ranks!
The Trojans advanced, rank upon rank, their helmets shining; Hector led them, under cover of his huge, round, thick, bronze-plated bull’s hide shield, and the tall plume nodded as he went. Yet Hector’s awesome presence failed to cow the Greeks, and up stalked Great Ajax. ‘My lord Hector,’ he said, ‘you waste your time! Ours is too experienced an army to be scared, and these recent reverses only mean that Zeus has been punishing us for some slight fault. I know what you have in mind, but we are well able to defend the fleet; one day it will be Troy that is taken and burned! What is more, before nightfall I may see your chariot storming across the Scamandrian Plain in a cloud of dust, while you pray Father Zeus and the other Immortals to make the team fly swifter than falcons!’
An eagle soared by on Ajax’s right hand, an augury which drew a cheer from the Greeks. Hector, however, replied: ‘Ajax, you blundering fool, enough of threats! I should love to be Hera’s son by Zeus, and honoured like Apollo or Athene; but as certainly as I am no less human than yourself, so certainly must this battle end in utter disaster for you! Dare challenge my spear, and your lily-white skin will be torn open: a feast to glut the dogs and carrion-birds of Troy.’
Hector charged, his men raised a war-cry, and their enemies stood fast, yelling defiance. The combined roar rose high to Heaven, where Father Zeus holds splendid court.
&n
bsp; Book Fourteen:
Hera Outwits Zeus
King Nestor of Pylus, still drinking cheese-flavoured Pramnian wine with Machaon, son of Asclepius, could no longer disregard the battle that raged through the camp. ‘What shall we do, noble Machaon?’ he cried anxiously. ‘The din grows louder. I ought to make a tour of inspection. But you are welcome to stay here and drink until Hecamede has warmed a cauldronful of water and washed the clotted blood from your wound.’
Thrasymedes had borrowed his father Nestor’s shield, and left his own highly-polished one lying in the hut. This Nestor took and, after selecting a stout, keen-bladed spear, went outside. A shameful spectacle confronted him. The Trojans were over the rampart and pursuing a mob of Greek fugitives.
Gloomily labours the great sea,
But no waves yet appear;
While all four winds blow fitfully
In random, brief career
Instead of choosing a sole source,
How can the waves decide their course?
Old Nestor felt equally uncertain. Should he enter the battle at once, or should he go in search of Agamemnon and urge him to organize the defence? He chose the latter course only when the clash of weapons against armour, mixed with cries of exultation or despair, sounded even closer, and he saw Diomedes, Odysseus and the High King himself approaching.
Let me explain that since the sandy stretch between the two head-lands could not accommodate all the ships of the Greek fleet, later arrivals had been hauled far up the foreshore in rows. The rampart was built behind the highest row. Thus the flotillas of Diomedes, Odysseus and Agamemnon, having landed first, lay farthest from the Trojan attack. These three wounded, dismal kings now hobbled forward to view the battle, leaning heavily on their spears. The sight of Nestor at the door of his hut intensified their gloom. Agamemnon cried: ‘Why, Nestor, son of Neleus, Glory of the Greeks, what is this? Are you a deserter? Have you forgotten Hector’s boast, that he would not go home before he had breached our fortifications, burned our ships, and massacred the crews? He looks in a fair way to make it good. I fear that many of you princes, like Achilles, are nursing some grievance, and refusing to defend the fleet.’