where we could defend ourselves and troops could turn the tide.
No--we're here on the plain of Troy--all Troy's in arms!
Dug in, backs to the sea, land of our fathers far away!
Fight--the light of safety lies in our fighting hands,
not spines gone soft in battle!"
And with each cry
he thrust his slashing pike with a fresh new fury.
And any Trojan crashing against the beaked ships,
torch ablaze in hand, straining to please Hector
who urged him on ... Ajax ready and waiting there
would stab each man with his long, rugged pike--
twelve he impaled point-blank, struggling up the hulls.
BOOK SIXTEEN
Patroclus Fights and Dies
So they fought to the death around that benched beaked ship
as Patroclus reached Achilles, his great commander,
and wept warm tears like a dark spring running down
some desolate rock face, its shaded currents flowing.
And the brilliant runner Achilles saw him coming,
filled with pity and spoke out winging words:
"Why in tears, Patroclus?
Like a girl, a baby running after her mother,
begging to be picked up, and she tugs her skirts,
holding her back as she tries to hurry off--all tears,
fawning up at her, till she takes her in her arms ...
That's how you look, Patroclus, streaming live tears.
But why? Some news for the Myrmidons, news for me?
Some message from Phthia that you alone have heard?
They tell me Menoetius, Actor's son, is still alive,
and Peleus, Aeacus' son, lives on among his Myrmidons--
if both our fathers had died, we'd have some cause for grief.
Or weeping over the Argives, are you? Seeing them die
against the hollow ships, repaid for their offenses?
Out with it now! Don't harbor it deep inside you.
We must share it all."
With a wrenching groan
you answered your friend, Patroclus O my rider:
"Achilles, son of Peleus, greatest of the Achaeans,
spare me your anger, please--
such heavy blows have overwhelmed the troops.
Our former champions, all laid up in the ships,
all are hit by arrows or run through by spears.
There's powerful Diomedes brought down by an archer,
Odysseus wounded, and Agamemnon too, the famous spearman,
and Eurypylus took an arrow-shot in the thigh ...
Healers are working over them, using all their drugs,
trying to bind the wounds--
But you are intractable, Achilles!
Pray god such anger never seizes me, such rage you nurse.
Cursed in your own courage! What good will a man,
even one in the next generation, get from you
unless you defend the Argives from disaster?
You heart of iron! He was not your father,
the horseman Peleus--Thetis was not your mother.
Never. The salt gray sunless ocean gave you birth
and the towering blank rocks--your temper's so relentless.
But still, if down deep some prophecy makes you balk,
some doom your noble mother revealed to you from Zeus,
well and good: at least send me into battle, quickly.
Let the whole Myrmidon army follow my command--
I might bring some light of victory to our Argives!
And give me your own fine armor to buckle on my back,
so the Trojans might take me for you, Achilles, yes,
hold off from attack, and Achaea's fighting sons
get second wind, exhausted as they are ...
Breathing room in war is all too brief.
We're fresh, unbroken. The enemy's battte-weary--
we could roll those broken Trojans back to Troy,
clear of the ships and shelters!"
So he pleaded,
lost in his own great innocence ...
condemned to beg for his own death and brutal doom.
And moved now to his depths, the famous runner cried,
"No, no, my prince, Patroclus, what are you saying?
Prophecies? None that touch me. None I know of.
No doom my noble mother revealed to me from Zeus,
just this terrible pain that wounds me to the quick--
when one man attempts to plunder a man his equal,
to commandeer a prize, exulting so in his own power.
That's the pain that wounds me, suffering such humiliation.
That girt--the sons of Achaea picked her as my prize,
and I'd sacked a walled city, won her with my spear
but right from my grasp he tears her, mighty Agamemnon,
that son of Atreus! Treating me like some vagabond,
some outcast stripped of all my rights ...
Enough.
Let bygones be bygones now. Done is done.
How on earth can a man rage on forever?
Still, by god, I said I would not relax my anger,
not till the cries and carnage reached my own ships.
So you, you strap my splendid armor on your back,
you lead our battle-hungry Myrmidons into action!--
if now, in fact, the black cloud of the Trojans
blasts down on the ships with full gale force,
our backs to the breaking surf but clinging still
to a cramped strip of land--the Argives, lost.
The whole city of Troy comes trampling down on us,
daring, wild--why? They cannof see the brow of my helmet
flash before their eyes--Oh they'd soon run for their lives
and choke the torrent-beds of the field with all their corpses
if only the mighty Agamemnon met me with respect:
now, as it is, they're fighting round our camp!
No spear rages now in the hand of Diomedes,
keen to save the Argives from disaster ...
I can't even hear the battle cry of Agamemnon
break from his hated skull. But it's man-killing Hector
calling his Trojans on, his war cries crashing round me,
savage cries of his Trojans sweeping the whole plain,
victors bringing the Argive armies to their knees.
Even so, Patroclus, fight disaster off the ships,
fling yourself at the Trojans full force--
before they gut our hulls with leaping fire
and tear away the beloved day of our return.
But take this command to heart--obey it to the end.
So you can win great honor, great glory for me
in the eyes of all the Argive ranks, and they,
they'll send her back, my lithe and lovely girl,
and top it off with troves of glittering gifts.
Once you have whipped the enemy from the fleet
you must come back, Patroclus. Even if Zeus
the thundering lord of Hera lets you seize your glory,
you must not bum for war against these Trojans,
madmen lusting for battle--not without me--
you will only make my glory that much less ...
You must not, lost in the flush and fire of triumph,
slaughtering Trojans outright, drive your troops to Troy--
what if one of the gods who never die comes down
from Olympus heights to intervene in battle?
The deadly Archer loves his Trojans dearly.
No, you must turn back--
soon as you bring the light of victory to the ships.
Let the rest of them cut themselves to pieces on the plain!
Oh would to god--Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo--
not one of all these Trojans could flee his death, not one,
>
no Argive either, but we could stride from the slaughter
so we could bring Troy's hallowed crown of towers
toppling down around us--you and I alone!"
And so the comrades roused each other now.
But Ajax could hold his post on the decks no longer.
He was overwhelmed by the latest salvos, driven back
by the will of Zeus and the fearless Trojan spearmen
hurling blows nonstop--a terrific din at his temples,
his shining helmet clashing under repeated blows,
relentless blows beating his forged cheek-irons.
And the joint of his left shoulder ached with labor,
forever bracing his huge burnished shield rock-steady,
but they could not wrench it loose from round his body
for all their pelting weapons. Again and again
he fought for breath, gasping, bathed in sweat
rivering down his body, his limbs soaked and sleek ...
where could he find some breathing room in battle?
Wherever he looked, pains heaped on pains.
Sing to me now,
you Muses, you who hold Olympus' vaulting halls,
how fire was first pitched on Achaea's ships!
Hector lunged at Ajax toe-to-toe,
hacked his ash-wood pike with a heavy sword
and striking the socket just behind the point
he slashed the head clean off, leaving the shaft,
the lopped stump dangling in Ajax' fist, useless,
bronze head bounding away, clanging along the ground.
And deep in his heart brave Ajax knew and shuddered--
here was work of the gods, thundering Zeus on high,
cutting him off from battle, dashing all his plans,
Zeus, determined to grant the Trojans triumph now.
So Ajax drew back, out of range, and then--
they flung their tireless fire at a fast trim ship.
She was up in flames at once, engulfed in quenchless fire,
in a flash the blaze went swirling round the stem
and Achilles slapped his thighs and urged Patroclus,
"To arms--Patroclus, prince and master horseman!
I can see the blaze go roaring up the ships.
They must not destroy them. No escape-route then.
Quick, strap on my gear--I'll rouse the troops."
That was all,
and Patroclus armed himself in Achilles' gleaming bronze.
First he wrapped his legs with the well-made greaves,
fastened behind the heels with silver ankle-clasps,
next he strapped the breastplate round his chest,
blazoned with stars--swift Achilles' own--
then over his shoulder Patroclus slung the sword,
the fine bronze blade with its silver-studded hilt,
and then the shield-strap and the sturdy, massive shield
and over his powerful head he set the well-forged helmet,
the horsehair crest atop it tossing, bristling terror,
and he took two rugged spears that fit his grip.
And Achilles' only weapon Patroclus did not take
was the great man's spear, weighted, heavy, tough.
No other Achaean fighter could heft that shaft,
only Achilles had the skill to wield it well:
Pelian ash it was, a gift to his father Peleus
presented by Chiron once, hewn on Pelion's crest
to be the death of heroes.
Now the war-team.
Patroclus ordered Automedon to yoke them quickly--
a man he honored next to Achilles breaker of men,
always firmest in battle, nerved to wait the call.
So at his command Automedon yoked the horses,
the rapid stallions Roan Beauty and Dapple,
the team that raced the gales, magnificent team
the storm-wind filly Lightfoot foaled for the West Wind,
grazing the lush green grass along the Ocean's tides.
And into the traces he ran the purebred Bold Dancer--
Achilles seized him once when he stormed Eetion's city,
a mortal war-horse pacing immortal horses now.
Prince Achilles, ranging his ranks of Myrmidons,
arrayed them along the shelters, all in armor.
Hungry as wolves that rend and bolt raw flesh,
hearts filled with battle-frenzy that never dies--
off on the cliffs, ripping apart some big antlered stag
they gorge on the kill till all their jaws drip red with blood,
then down in a pack they lope to a pooling, dark spring,
their lean sharp tongues lapping the water's surface,
belching bloody meat, but the fury, never shaken,
builds inside their chests though their glutted bellies burst--
so wild the Myrmidon captains, Myrmidon field commanders
swarming round Achilles' dauntless friend-in-arms.
And there in the midst Achilles stood like the god of war,
urging his charioteers and fighters bracing shields..
There were fifty fast black ships that bore his troops
when Achilles dear to Zeus sailed east for Troy.
Fifty fighters aboard each, manning the oarlocks,
five captains he named, entrusted with command,
but he himself in his martial power ruled them all ...
The first battalion was led by Menesthius bright in bronze,
son of Spercheus River swelled by the rains of Zeus
and born by the lovely Polydora, Peleus' daughter,
when a girl and the god of a tireless river bedded down.
But they called him the son of Borus, Perieres' son
who showered the girl with countless bridal gifts,
his wedded bride in the sight of all the world.
The next battalion was led by fighting Eudorus,
bom out of wedlock too. Phylas' daughter,
Polymela the gorgeous dancer bore the man
when irresistible Hermes, Hermes the giant-killer
lusted for her once--she ravished the god's bright eyes,
swaying among the dancers singing goddess Artemis
with arrow of gold and cry that halloos the hunt.
And straightway up to her chamber Hermes climbed,
the Healer, in secret, lay in her arms in love
and the woman bore the god a radiant son, Eudorus--
lightning on his feet and a crack man of war.
But soon as the Lady of Labor's birthing pangs
brought him to light and he saw the blaze of day,
Actor's majestic son the powerful lord Echecles
led her home to his house with troves of bridal gifts
while old King Phylas reared the boy with kindness,
tending, embracing the young Eudorus like a son.
The third battalion was led by brave Pisander,
Maemalus' son, who outfought them all with spears,
all the Myrmidons after Achilles' friend Patroclus.
The fourth was led by the old horseman Phoenix,
Alcimedon led the fifth, Laerces' gallant son.
But soon as Achilles mustered all battalions,
positioned in battle-order led by captains,
he imposed this stem command on all his troops:
"Myrmidons! Not one of you dare forget those threats
you hurled from the fast trim ships against the Trojans
all the while I raged, and I was the one you blamed,
down to the last fighter: 'Brutal son of Peleus--
your mother nursed you on gall! Merciless, iron man--
confining your own men to the ships against their will!
So home we go in those ships and cut the seas again,
since now such deadly anger strikes our captain.'
Denouncing me--
my co
mrades, clustered together, always grumbling.
Well, here's a tremendous work of battle, look,
blazing before your eyes
and just the sort you longed for all those days.
So each man tense with courage--fight the Trojans down!"
That was the cry that fired each soldier's heart.
Hearing the king's command the ranks pulled closer,
tight as a mason packs a good stone wall,
blocks on granite blocks for a storied house
that fights the ripping winds--crammed so close
the crested helmets, the war-shields bulging, jutting,
buckler-to-buckler, helm-to-helm, man-to-man massed tight
and the horsehair crests on glittering helmet horns brushed
as they tossed their heads, the battalions bulked so dense.
And out before them all, two men took battle-stations,
Patroclus and Automedon, seized with a single fury
to fight in the comrades' vanguard, far in front.
But Achilles strode back to his shelter now
and opened the lid of the princely inlaid sea chest
that glistening-footed Thetis stowed in his ship to carry,
filled to the brim with war-shirts, windproof cloaks
and heavy fleecy rugs. And there it rested ...
his handsome, well-wrought cup. No other man
would drink the shining wine from its glowing depths,
nor would Achilles pour the wine to any other god,
none but Father Zeus. Lifting it from the chest
he purified it with sulphur crystals first
then rinsed it out with water running clear,
washed his hands and filled it bright with wine.
And then, taking a stand before his lodge, he prayed,
pouring the wine to earth and scanning the high skies
and the god who loves the lightning never missed a word:
"King Zeus--Pelasgian Zeus, lord of Dodona's holy shrine,
dwelling far away, brooding over Dodona's bitter winters!
Your prophets dwelling round you, Zeus, the Selli
sleeping along the ground with unwashed feet ...
If you honored me last time and heard my prayer
and rained destruction down on all Achaea's ranks,
now, once more, I beg you, bring my prayer to pass!
I myself hold out on shore with the beached ships here
but I send my comrade forth to war with troops of Myrmidons--
Launch glory along with him, high lord of thunder, Zeus!
Fill his heart with courage--so even Hector learns
if Patroclus has the skill to fight his wars alone,
my friend-in-arms, or his hands can rage unvanquished
only when I go wading in and face the grind of battle.
But once he repels the roaring onslaught from the ships
let him come back to me and our fast fleet--unharmed--
with all my armor round him, all our comrades
fighting round my friend!"
So Achilles prayed
and Zeus in all his wisdom heard those prayers.
One prayer the Father granted, the other he denied:
Patroclus would drive the onslaught off the ships--