Deeply shaken, the god who rocks the earth replied,
"Hera, what wild words! What are you saying?
I for one have no desire to battle Zeus,
not you and I and the rest of the gods together.
The King is far too strong--he'll crush us all."
So they harangued each other to a standstill.
But as for Achaea's forces, all the ground
that the broad trench enclosed from ships to wall
was crammed with chariots, teams and men in armor
packed into close quarters, yes, and the one man
who packed them there, a match for rushing Ares,
Hector the son of Priam, now Zeus gave Hector glory.
And now he might have gutted the ships with fire,
blazing fire--but Queen Hera impelled Agamemnon,
out on the run already, to go and rouse his men.
He made his way through Achaea's ships and shelters,
flaring his great crimson cape with a strong hand
and stopped at Odysseus' huge black-bellied hull,
moored mid-line so a shout could reach both wings,
upshore to Telamonian Ajax' camp or down to Achilles'--
trusting so to their arms' power and battle-strength
they'd hauled their trim ships up on either flank.
Agamemnon's cry went piercing through the army:
"Shame! Disgrace! You Argives, you degraded--
splendid in battle dress, pure sham!
Where have the fighting taunts all gone? That time
you vaunted you were the finest force on earth--
all that empty bluster you let fly at Lemnos,
gorging yourselves on longhorn cattle meat
and drunk to the full on brimming bowls of wine,
bragging how each man could stand up to a hundred,
no, two hundred Trojan fighters in pitched battle.
Now our whole army is no match for one, for Hector--
he'll gut our ships with blazing fire at any moment!
Father Zeus, when did you ever strike a mighty king
with such mad blindness--then tear away his glory?
Not once,
I swear, did I pass some handsome shrine of yours,
sailing my oar-swept ship on our fatal voyage here,
but on each I burned the fat and thighs of oxen,
longing to raze Troy's sturdy walls to the roots.
So, Father, at least fulfill this prayer for me:
let the men escape with their lives if nothing else--
don't let these Trojans mow us down in droves!"
So he prayed
and the Father filled with pity, seeing Atrides weep.
The god bent his head that the armies must be saved,
not die in blood. That instant he launched an eagle--
truest of Zeus's signs that fly the skies--a fawn
clutched in its talons, sprung of a running doe,
but he dropped it free beside the handsome shrine
where Achaean soldiers always sacrificed to Zeus
whose voice rings clear with omens. Seeing the eagle
sent their way from Zeus, they roused their war-lust,
flung themselves on the Trojans with a vengeance.
There,
massed in formation as they were, not a single man
could claim he outstripped Diomedes, Tydeus' son
lashing his high-strung team across the trench
to reach the front and battle hand-to-hand-
the first by far to kill a Trojan captain,
Agelaus the son of Phradmon. He'd just turned
his chariot round in flight and once he'd swerved
Diomedes' spear went punching through his back,
gouging his shoulder blade and driving through his chest--
he spilled from the chariot, armor clanging against him.
Diomedes plowed on and after him came the Atridae,
Agamemnon and Menelaus, following in their wake
the Great and Little Ajax armed in fury,
Idomeneus after them and Idomeneus' good aide,
Meriones, a match for the butcher god of war,
Eurypylus after them, Euaemon's gallant son,
and Teucer came up ninth, tensing his reflex bow
and lurking under the wall of giant Ajax' shield.
As Ajax raised the rim, the archer would mark a target,
shoot through the lines--the man he hit dropped dead
on the spot--and quick as a youngster ducking under
his mother's skirts he'd duck under Ajax' shield
and the gleaming shield would hide him head to toe.
Who was the first Trojan the marksman Teucer hit?
Orsilochus first, then Ormenus, Ophelestes,
Daetor and Chromius, princely Lycophontes,
Polyaemon's son Amopaon and Melanippus too--
corpse on corpse he dropped to the earth that rears us all.
And King Agamemnon, thrilled at the sight of Teucer
whipping arrows off his bow, reaping the Trojan ranks,
strode up and sang his praises: "Teucer, lovely soldier,
Telamon's son, pride of the armies--now you're shooting!
You'll bring a ray of hope to your men, your father too.
He raised you when you were little, a bastard boy,
no matter--Telamon tended you in his own house.
Far off as he is, you'll set him up in glory.
I tell you this, so help me it's the truth:
if Zeus with his storm-shield and Queen Athena
ever let me plunder the strong walls of Troy,
you are the first, the first after myself--
I'll place some gift of honor in your hands,
a tripod, or purebred team with their own car
or a fine woman to mount and share your bed."
And Teucer gave his captain a faultless answer:
"Great field marshal, why bother to spur me on?
I go all-out as it is.
With all the power in me I've never quit,
not from the time we rolled them back to Troy.
I've stalked with my bow and picked them off in packs.
Eight arrows I've let fly, with long sharp barbs,
and all stuck in the flesh of soldiers quick to fight--
but I still can't bring this mad dog Hector down!"
The archer loosed a fresh shaft from the bowstring
straight for Hector, his spirit longing to hit him--
but he missed and cut Gorgythion down instead,
a well-bred son of Priam, a handsome prince,
and the arrow pierced his chest, Gorgythion
whom Priam's bride from Aesyme bore one day,
lovely Castianira lithe as a deathless goddess . . .
As a garden poppy, burst into red bloom, bends,
drooping its head to one side, weighed down
by its full seeds and a sudden spring shower,
so Gorgythion's head fell limp over one shoulder,
weighed down by his helmet.
Quick with another arrow,
the archer let fly from his bowstring straight for Hector,
his spirit straining to hit him--shot and missed again
as Apollo skewed his shaft--
but he leveled Archeptolemus, Hector's daring driver
charging headlong, caught him square in the chest
beside the nipple and off his car he pitched
as his horses balked, rearing, pawing the air.
There on the spot his strength and life collapsed
and blinding grief for the driver overpowered Hector,
stunned for his friend but he left him lying there
and cried out to his brother Cebriones close by,
"Take the reins!" Cebriones rushed to obey--
but Hector leapt down from the burnished car,
he hit the earth w
ith a yell, seized a rock
and went for Teucer, mad to strike the archer
just plucking a bitter arrow from his quiver,
notching it on the string and drawing back the bow
to his right shoulder, when Hector, helmet flashing,
caught him where the collarbone bridges neck and chest,
the deadliest spot of all. There Hector struck,
hurling the jagged rock at Teucer drawing in fury--
snapped the string and his hand went numb at the wrist,
he dropped to a knee, dazed . . . the bow slipped from his grip.
But giant Ajax would never fail his fallen brother--
he ran to straddle and hide him with his shield
as a brace of comrades shouldered up the fighter:
Echius' son Mecisteus helping good Alastor
bore him back to the hollow warships, groaning hard.
And again the Olympian Father fired up the Trojans
ramming Argives back against their own deep trench.
Hector far in the lead, bristling in all his force
like a hound that harries a wild boar or lion--
hot pursuit, snapping quick at his heels,
hindquarters and flanks but still on alert
for him to wheel and fight--so Hector harried
the long-haired Argives, killing the last stragglers,
man after lagging man and they, they fled in panic.
Back through stakes and across the trench they fled,
and hordes were cut down at the Trojans' hands--the rest,
only after they reached the shipways, stood fast
and shouting out to each other, flung their arms
to all the immortals, each man crying out a prayer.
But Hector swerved his horses round at the trench's edge,
wheeling back and forth, tossing their gorgeous manes,
with Hector's eyes glaring bright as a Gorgon's eyes
or Ares', man-destroying Ares'.
A total rout--
and white-armed Hera saw it, and filled with pity
the goddess' words went winging toward Athena:
"Look, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder--
don't we care for them any longer? All our Argives
dying there in droves! This is our last chance.
They're filling out their fates to the last gasp,
hacked to pieces under a single man's assault.
This maniac, Hector--I cannot bear him any longer.
Look at the savage slaughter he has made!"
Eyes blazing,
Athena answered, "Let him die a thousand deaths!--
Hector's life and his battle-frenzy blotted out
by the Argives here on Hector's native soil.
But Father rages now, that hard black heart,
always the old outrage, dashing all my plans!
Not a thought for the many times I saved his son
Heracles, worked to death by the labors of Eurystheus.
How he would whine to the high skies--till Father Zeus
would rush me down from the clouds to save his life.
If only I'd foreseen all this, I and my cunning--
that day Eurystheus sent him down to Death,
to the lord who guards the gates, to drag up
from the dark world the hound of grisly Death--
he would never have fled the steep cascading Styx.
But Zeus hates me now. He fulfills the plans of Thetis
who cupped his chin in her hand and kissed his knees,
begging Zeus to exalt Achilles scourge of cities.
But the day will come when Father, well I know,
calls me his darling gray-eyed girl again.
So now you harness the racing team for us
while I go into the halls of storming Zeus
and buckle on my gear and arm for combat.
Now I'll see if Hector, for all his flashing helmet,
leaps for joy when the two of us come blazing forth
on the passageways of battle--or one of his Trojans too
will glut the dogs and birds with his fat and flesh,
brought down in blood against the Argive ships!"
The white-armed goddess Hera could not resist.
Hera queen of the gods, daughter of giant Cronus
launched the work, harnessed the golden-bridled team
while Athena, child of Zeus whose shield is thunder,
letting fall her supple robe at the Father's threshold--
rich brocade, stitched with her own hands' labor--
donned the battle-shirt of the lord of lightning,
buckled her breastplate geared for wrenching war.
Then onto the flaming chariot Pallas set her feet
and seized her spear--weighted, heavy, the massive shaft
she wields to break the battle lines of heroes
the mighty Father's daughter storms against.
A crack of the whip--
the goddess Hera lashed the team, and all on their own force
the gates of heaven thundered open, kept by the Seasons,
guards of the vaulting sky and Olympus heights empowered
to spread the massing clouds or close them round once more,
and straight through the great gates she drove the team.
But as Father Zeus caught sight of them from Ida
the god broke into a sudden rage and summoned Iris
to run a message on with a rush of golden wings:
"Quick on your way now, Iris, shear the wind!
Turn them back, don't let them engage me here.
What an indignity for us to clash in arms.
I tell you this and I will fulfill it too:
I'll maim their racers for them,
right beneath their yokes, and those two goddesses,
I'll hurl them from their chariot, smash their car,
and not once in the course of ten slow wheeling years
will they heal the wounds my lightning bolt rips open.
So that gray-eyed girl of mine may learn what it means
to fight against her Father. But with Hera, though,
I am not so outraged, so irate--it's always her way
to thwart my will, whatever I command."
So he thundered
and Iris ran his message, racing with gale force
away from the peaks of Ida up to steep Olympus
cleft and craggy. There at the outer gates
she met them face-to-face and blocked their path,
sounding Zeus's orders: "Where are you rushing now?
What is this madness blazing in your hearts?
Zeus forbids you to fight for Achaea's armies!
Here is Father's threat--he will fulfill it too:
he'll maim your racers for you,
right beneath their yokes, and you two goddesses,
he'll hurl you from your chariot, smash your car,
and not once in the course of ten slow wheeling years
will you heal the wounds his lightning bolt rips open!
So you, his gray-eyed girl, may learn what it means
to fight against your Father. But with Hera, though,
he is not so outraged, so irate--it's always your way
to thwart his will, whatever Zeus commands. You,
you insolent brazen bitch--you really dare
to shake that monstrous spear in Father's face?"
And Iris racing the wind went veering past
and Hera turned to Pallas, calling off the conflict:
"Enough. Daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder,
I cannot let us battle the Father any longer,
not for mortal men . . .
Men--let one of them die, another live,
however their luck may run. Let Zeus decide
the fates of the men of Troy and men of Argos both,
to his deathless heart's content--that is only ri
ght."
So she complied and turned their racers back.
The Seasons loosed the purebred sleek-maned team,
tethered them to their stalls, piled on ambrosia
and leaned the chariot up against the polished walls
that shimmered in the sun. The goddesses themselves
sat down on golden settles, mixing with the immortals,
Athena and Hera's hearts within them dashed.
At the same time
Zeus the Father whipped his team and hurtling chariot
straight from Ida to Mount Olympus, soon to reach
the sessions of the gods. Quick at Zeus's side
the famous lord of earthquakes freed the team,
canted the battle-chariot firmly on its base
and wrapped it well with a heavy canvas shroud.
Thundering Zeus himself assumed his golden throne
as the massive range of Olympus shook beneath his feet.
Those two alone, Athena and Hera, sat apart from Zeus--
not a word would they send his way, not a question.
But the Father knew their feelings deep within his heart
and mocked them harshly: "Why so crushed, Athena, Hera?
Not overly tired, I trust, from all your efforts
there in glorious battle, slaughtering Trojans,
the men you break with all your deathless rage.
But I with my courage, my hands, never conquered--
for all their force not all the gods on Olympus heights
could ever turn me back. Ah but the two of you--
long ago the trembling shook your glistening limbs
before you could glimpse the horrid works of war.
I tell you this, and it would have come to pass:
once my lightning had blasted you in your chariot,
you could never have returned to Mount Olympus
where the immortals make their home."
So he mocked
as Athena and Queen Hera muttered between themselves,
huddled together, plotting Troy's destruction.
True, Athena held her peace and said nothing . . .
smoldering at the Father, seized with wild resentment.
But Hera could hold the anger in her breast no longer,
suddenly bursting out, "Dread majesty, son of Cronus,
what are you saying? We already know your power,
far too well . . . who can stand against you?
Even so, we pity these Argive spearmen
living out their grim fates, dying in blood.
Yes, we'll keep clear of the war as you command.
We'll simply offer the Argives tactics that may save them--
so they won't all fall beneath your blazing wrath."
And Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied,
"Tomorrow at dawn's your chance, my ox-eyed queen.
Look down then, if you have the taste for it, Hera,
and you will see the towering son of Cronus killing
still more hordes, whole armies of Argive soldiers.
This powerful Hector will never quit the fighting,
not till swift Achilles rises beside the ships
that day they battle against the high sterns,
pinned in the fatal straits
and grappling for the body of Patroclus.