King Agamemnon, thrilled to watch them work,
was quick to salute the chief and sing his praises:
"You are the one I prize, Idomeneus, more than all
our Argive fighters fast with chariot-teams--
whether in war or action of any sort
or feasts where the ranking Argive warlords
mix their bowls with the shining wine of kings.
What if the rest of all the long-haired Achaeans
drink their measure off? Your cup stands filled, always,
brimmed like mine when the will stirs you to drink--
so now drink deep of battle. Be that fighter
you claimed to be in all the years gone by."
The Cretan captain Idomeneus answered warmly,
"Trust me, Atrides--count on me, your comrade,
staunch as I swore at first, that day I bowed my head.
Now fire up the rest of your long-haired Achaeans.
On with the fighting, quickly!
The Trojans broke our binding truce just now--
death and grief to the men of Troy hereafter!
They were the first to trample on our pact."
Hearing that,
the son of Atreus strode on. Elated and making way
through crowds of troops he found the two called Ajax,
Great and Little, both captains armed for attack
with a cloud of infantry forming up behind them.
Think how a goatherd off on a mountain lookout
spots a storm cloud moving down the sea ...
bearing down beneath the rush of the West Wind
and miles away he sees it building black as pitch,
blacker, whipping the whitecaps, full hurricane fury--
the herdsman shudders to see it, drives his flocks to a cave--
so dense the battalions grouped behind the two Aeantes,
packed, massed with hardy fighters dear to the gods,
battalions black and bristling shields and spears,
fighters sweeping into the breaking storm of war.
And King Agamemnon, thrilled to see that sight,
sped them on with a rousing flight of praises:
"Ajax--Ajax! Chiefs of the Argives armed in bronze,
no orders for you--it's wrong to incite you two,
you lead your men to war in so much force.
Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo, if all my fighters
had such courage pounding inside their chests,
we'd bring King Priam's citadel crashing down
in an instant, sacked at our hands--annihilated."
He spun on his heels and left them there in place,
heading for other ranks and came on Nestor next,
the clear speaker of Pylos posting troops,
readying them for action, combat units forming
under the lanky Pelagon, Alastor and Chromius,
Haemon and stocky Bias, skilled captain of armies.
Forward he ranged the charioteers with teams and cars,
backed by infantry close behind them, milling, brave men,
the defensive line of battle--that would be their role.
But the known cowards he drove amidst the center:
a man might cringe but he'd be forced to fight.
And first he gave his drivers strict commands
to rein their teams back hard and never panic,
no fouling them in the onslaught: "Let no man,
so sure of his horsemanship and soldier's prowess,
dare to fight it out alone with the Trojans,
exposed in front of his lines. No heroics now!
But give no ground--the charge will go to pieces.
And any charioteer who reaches Trojan chariots,
thrust your spear from your own car, don't throw it!
Better that way--it's tighter, stronger fighting.
So men before your time stormed walls and cities,
holding fast to that tactic, warring on with heart."
The old soldier spurring his men with skills
from a lifetime spent campaigning, battles long ago.
And King Agamemnon, thrilled to see his efforts,
cheered him on with a flight of praise: "Old war-horse,
if only your knees could match the spirit in your chest
and your body's strength were planted firm as rock,
but the great leveler, age, has worn you down.
If only some other fighter had your years
and you could march with the younger, fitter men!"
And Nestor the seasoned charioteer replied,
"True, Atrides, if only I were the man I was,
years ago, when I cut down rugged Ereuthalion ...
but the gods won't give us all their gifts at once.
If I was a young man then, now old age dogs my steps.
Nevertheless, I'll still troop with the horsemen,
give them maneuvers, discipline and commands:
that is the right and pride of us old men.
The young spearmen will do the work with spears.
Younger than Nestor, the next generation up,
flush with their fresh strength."
So Nestor said
and Atrides ranged forward, glad at heart,
and came on Peteos' son the charioteer
Menestheus standing idle, and circling him
Athenian men who could raise the cry of battle.
And there beside them the great tactician Odysseus,
drawn up with his Cephallenians grouped around him,
bands of them, no mean fighters, watching, waiting.
The call to action had still not reached their ears
and the columns were only just now forming, moving out,
stallion-breaking Trojans and long lines of Achaeans.
So the Cephallenians held their ground there, poised ...
when would some other Argive unit make its charge,
engage the Trojan front and open up in battle?
Spotting them now the lord of men Agamemnon
dressed them down with a winging burst of scorn:
"You there, Peteos' son, a king, dear to the gods!
And you, the captain of craft and cunning, shrewd with greed!
Why are you cowering here, skulking out of range?
Waiting for others to do your fighting for you?
You--it's your duty to stand in the front ranks
and take your share of the scorching blaze of battle.
First you are, when you hear of feasts from me,
when Achaeans set out banquets for the chiefs.
Then you're happy enough to down the roast meats
and cups of honeyed, mellow wine--all you can drink.
But now you'd gladly watch ten troops of Achaeans
beat you to this feast,
first to fight with the ruthless bronze before you!"
The great tactician Odysseus gave him a dark glance
and shot back at once, "Now what's this, Atrides,
this talk that slips through your clenched teeth?
How can you say I hang back from the fighting
when Argive units spur the slashing god of war
against these Trojan horsemen? Just you watch,
if you'll take the time and care to taste some action,
watch Telemachus' loving father lock and fight
with enemy champions, stallion-breaking Trojans.
You and your bluster--you are talking nonsense!"
Seeing his anger flare, field marshal Agamemnon
smiled broadly and took back his taunts at once:
"Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, great tactician,
I must not bait you so beyond the limit ...
must not give you orders. I know for a fact
the spirit in your heart is well-disposed
to me and all my efforts. We see eye-to-eye.
Come, we'll set these things to right
s later--
if any offense has passed between us now.
May the gods make all our bluster come to nothing."
He left him there in place, heading for other chiefs.
And he came on Tydeus' son, impetuous Diomedes
standing by in his bolted car behind his team
with Sthenelus flanked beside him, Capaneus' son.
And spotting Tydides there, field marshal Agamemnon
gave him a winging burst of scorn: "What's this?--
you, the son of Tydeus, that skilled breaker of horses?
Why cringing here? Gazing out on the passageways of battle!
That was never Tydeus' way, shy behind the lines--
he'd grapple enemies, bolting ahead of comrades.
Or so they claim who watched him at his work.
I never met the man myself, never saw him,
but they say he had no equal. True enough,
he came to Mycenae once but not at war with us--
a guest, a friend, with the royal Polynices
raising troops that time they geared to attack
the holy walls of Thebes. They pressed us hard,
they begged us to give them battle-tested allies.
My kin were glad to oblige and grant them their requests--
till Zeus changed our minds with a flash of bad omens.
So off they went, getting some distance on their way
and reached the Asopus' grassy banks and reedbeds.
From that point the men sent Tydeus on ahead,
bearing their message. He marched out at once
and came on crowds, menacing bands of Thebans
feasting away in the halls of mighty Eteocles.
There, 450
a total stranger, the horseman Tydeus had no fear,
alone in the midst of Theban hordes. Undaunted,
Tydeus challenged them all to tests of strength
and beat them all with ease, in each event,
Athena urged him on with so much winning force.
But the Thebans rose in anger, lashed their teams
and packed an ambush to meet him heading back--
full fifty fighters with two chiefs in the lead,
Hunter the son of Bloodlust, strong as the gods,
and Killerman's son, the gifted cutthroat Slaughter.
But Tydeus treated them all to a shameful fate,
finished them all but let one run for home,
heeding the gods' signs he let the hunter off.
Now there was a man, that Tydeus, that Aetolian.
But he bore a son who's not the half of him in battle--
better only in wrangling, wars of words!"
Taunting so,
and steadfast Diomedes offered no reply ...
overawed by the king's majestic scorn.
But Capaneus' headstrong son lashed back in style:
"Don't lie, Atrides! You know the truth--say it!
We claim we are far, far greater than our fathers.
We are the ones who stormed the seven gates of Thebes,
heading a weaker force and facing stronger walls
but obeying the gods' signs and backed by Zeus.
Our fathers? Fools. Their own bravado killed them.
Don't tell me you rank our fathers with ourselves!"
But resolute Diomedes gave him a dark glance:
"Sit down, my friend, be quiet. Listen to me.
I don't blame Agamemnon, our commander in chief,
for goading his combat-ready Argives into battle.
The glory goes to him if the Argive fighters
lay the Trojans low and take their sacred city,
but immense grief is his if comrades die in droves.
Up now, rouse our fighting-fury!"
With that challenge
he sprang from his chariot fully armed and hit the ground.
A terrific din of bronze rang from the captain's chest,
striding toward attack. Fear would have gripped
the staunchest man and made his knees give way.
As a heavy surf assaults some roaring coast,
piling breaker on breaker whipped by the West Wind,
and out on the open sea a crest first rears its head
then pounds down on the shore with hoarse, rumbling thunder
and in come more shouldering crests, arching up and breaking
against some rocky spit, exploding salt foam to the skies--
so wave on wave they came, Achaean battalions ceaseless,
surging on to war. Each captain ordered his men
and the ranks moved on in silence ...
You'd never think so many troops could march
holding their voices in their chests, all silence,
fearing their chiefs who called out clear commands,
and the burnished blazoned armor round their bodies flared,
the formations trampling on.
But not the Trojans, no ...
like flocks of sheep in a wealthy rancher's steadings,
thousands crowding to have their white milk drained,
bleating nonstop when they hear their crying lambs--
so the shouts rose up from the long Trojan lines
and not one cry, no common voice to bind them
all together, their tongues mixed and clashed,
their men hailed from so many far-flung countries.
Ares drove them, fiery-eyed Athena drove the Argives,
and Terror and Rout and relentless Strife stormed too,
sister of manslaughtering Ares, Ares' comrade-in-arms--
Strife, only a slight thing when she first rears her head
but her head soon hits the sky as she strides across the earth.
Now Strife hurled down the leveler Hate amidst both sides,
wading into the onslaught, flooding men with pain.
At last the armies clashed at one strategic point,
they slammed their shields together, pike scraped pike
with the grappling strength of fighters armed in bronze
and their round shields pounded, boss on welded boss,
and the sound of struggle roared and rocked the earth.
Screams of men and cries of triumph breaking in one breath,
fighters killing, fighters killed, and the ground streamed blood.
Wildly as two winter torrents raging down from the mountains,
swirling into a valley, hurl their great waters together,
flash floods from the wellsprings plunging down in a gorge
and miles away in the hills a shepherd hears the thunder--
so from the grinding armies broke the cries and crash of war.
Antilochus was the first to kill a Trojan captain,
tough on the front lines, Thalysias' son Echepolus.
Antilochus thrust first, speared the horsehair helmet
right at the ridge, and the bronze spearpoint lodged
in the man's forehead, smashing through his skull
and the dark came whirling down across his eyes--
he toppled down like a tower in the rough assault.
As he fell the enormous Elephenor grabbed his feet,
Chalcodon's son, lord of the brave-hearted Abantes,
dragged him out from under the spears, rushing madly
to strip his gear but his rush was short-lived.
Just as he dragged that corpse the brave Agenor
spied his ribs, bared by his shield as he bent low--
Agenor stabbed with a bronze spear and loosed his limbs,
his life spirit left him and over his dead body now
the savage work went on, Achaeans and Trojans
mauling each other there like wolves, leaping,
hurtling into each other, man throttling man.
And Telamonian Ajax struck Anthemion's son,
the hardy stripling Simoisius, still unwed ...
His mother had borne him along the Si
mois' banks
when she trailed her parents down the slopes of Ida
to tend their flocks, and so they called him Simoisius.
But never would he repay his loving parents now
for the gift of rearing--his life cut short so soon,
brought down by the spear of lionhearted Ajax.
At the first charge he slashed his right nipple,
clean through the shoulder went the brazen point
and down in the dust he fell like a lithe black poplar
shot up tall and strong in the spreading marshy flats,
the trunk trimmed but its head a shock of branches.
A chariot-maker fells it with shining iron ax
as timber to bend for handsome chariot wheels
and there it lies, seasoning by the river . . .
So lay Anthemion's son Simoisius, cut down
by the giant royal Ajax.
Antiphus hurled at him--
the son of Priam wearing a gleaming breastplate
let fly through the lines but his sharp spear missed
and he hit Leucus instead, Odysseus' loyal comrade,
gouging his groin as the man hauled off a corpse--
it dropped from his hands and Leucus sprawled across it.
Enraged at his friend's death Odysseus sprang in fury,
helmed in fiery bronze he plowed through the front
and charging the enemy, glaring left and right
he hurled his spear--a glinting brazen streak--
and the Trojans gave ground, scattering back,
panicking there before his whirling shaft--
a direct hit! Odysseus struck Democoon,
Priam's bastard son come down from Abydos,
Priam's racing-stables. Incensed for the dead
Odysseus speared him straight through one temple
and out the other punched the sharp bronze point
and the dark came swirling thick across his eyes--
down he crashed, armor clanging against his chest.
And the Trojan front shrank back, glorious Hector too
as the Argives yelled and dragged away the corpses,
pushing on, breakneck on. But lord god Apollo,
gazing down now from the heights of Pergamus,
rose in outrage, crying down at the Trojans,
"Up and at them, you stallion-breaking Trojans!
Never give up your lust for war against these Argives!
What are their bodies made of, rock or iron to block
your tearing bronze? Stab them, slash their flesh!
Achilles the son of lovely sleek-haired Thetis--
the man's not even fighting, no, he wallows
in all his heartsick fury by the ships!"
So he cried
from far on the city's heights, the awesome god Apollo.
But Zeus's daughter Athena spurred the Argives on--
Athena first in glory, third-born of the gods--
whenever she saw some slacker hanging back
as she hurtled through the onset.
Now Amarinceus' son
Diores--fate shackled Diores fast and a jagged rock
struck him against his right shin, beside the ankle.
Pirous son of Imbrasus winged it hard and true,
the Thracian chief who had sailed across from Aenus ...