The Iliad

  and on they flew to the ships, holding nothing back--

  that's where their spirits drove them on to go.

  Nestor, the first to hear their thunder, shouted,

  "Friends--lords of the Argives, all our captains,

  right or wrong, what can I say? My heart tells me,

  my ears ring with the din of drumming hoofs ...

  If only Odysseus and rugged Diomedes were driving

  racers off the Trojan lines, here, here and fast!

  I'm cold with fear--what if they've met the worst,

  our ranking Argives killed in a Trojan charge?"

  Before he could say the last, the two raced in,

  leapt to the ground and comrades hugged them warmly,

  with handclasps all around and words of welcome.

  Nestor the noble horseman led with questions:

  "Tell me, Odysseus, Achaea's pride and glory,

  famous Odysseus, how did you get these horses?

  How--stealing behind the Trojans' main lines

  or meeting up with a god who gave them to you?

  What terrific sheen--silver afire like sunbeams!

  Day after day I've gone against the Trojans,

  never hanging back by the ships, I swear,

  old warrior that I am--

  But I've never seen such horses, never dreamed ...

  I'd say an immortal came your way and gave you these.

  Zeus who marshals the storm cloud loves you both,

  Zeus's daughter too with the shield of thunder.

  Athena's eyes are shining on you both!"

  The cool tactician set the record straight:

  "No, no, Nestor--Achaea's greatest glory--

  any god, if he really set his mind to it,

  could give us an even finer pair than this.

  Easily. The gods are so much stronger.

  Now these horses you ask about, old soldier,

  they're newcomers, just arrived from Thrace.

  Their master? Brave Diomedes killed him off,

  twelve of his cohorts too, all men of rank.

  And a thirteenth man besides, a scout we took--

  prowling along the ships, spying on our positions--

  Hector and all his princely Trojans sent him out."

  And across the trench he drove the purebred team

  with a rough exultant laugh as comrades cheered,

  crowding in his wake.

  And once they reached Tydides' sturdy lodge

  they tethered the horses there with well-cut reins,

  hitching them by the trough where Diomedes' stallions

  pawed the ground, champing their sweet barley.

  Then away in his ship's stem Odysseus stowed

  the bloody gear of Dolon, in pledge of the gift

  they'd sworn to give Athena. The men themselves,

  wading into the sea, washed off the crusted sweat

  from shins and necks and thighs. And once the surf

  had scoured the thick caked sweat from their limbs

  and the two fighters cooled, their hearts revived

  and into the polished tubs they climbed and bathed.

  And rinsing off, their skin sleek with an olive oil rub,

  they sat down to their meal and dipping up their cups

  from an overflowing bowl, they poured them forth--

  honeyed, mellow wine to the great goddess Athena.

  BOOK ELEVEN

  Agamemnon's Day of Glory

  Now Dawn rose up from bed by her lordly mate Tithonus,

  bringing light to immortal gods and mortal men.

  But Zeus flung Strife on Achaea's fast ships,

  the brutal goddess flaring his storm-shield,

  his monstrous sign of war in both her fists.

  She stood on 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.

  There Strife took her stand, raising her high-pitched cry,

  great and terrible, lashing the fighting-fury

  in each Achaean's heart--no stopping them now,

  mad for war and struggle. Now, suddenly,

  battle thrilled them more than the journey home,

  than sailing hollow ships to their dear native land.

  Agamemnon cried out too, calling men to arms

  and harnessed up in gleaming bronze himself.

  First he wrapped his legs with well-made greaves,

  fastened behind the heels with silver ankle-clasps,

  and next he strapped the breastplate round his chest

  that Cinyras gave him once, a guest-gift long ago.

  The rousing rumor of war had carried far as Cyprus--

  how the Achaean ships were launching war on Troy--

  so he gave the king that gear to please his spirit.

  Magnificent! Ten bands of blue enamel spanned it,

  spaced by twelve of gold and twenty of beaten tin

  and dark blue serpents writhed toward the throat,

  three each side, shimmering bright as rainbows arched

  on the clouds by Cronus' son, a sign to mortal men.

  Then over his shoulder Agamemnon slung his sword,

  golden studs at the hilt, the blade burnished bright

  and the scabbard sheathed in silver swung on golden straps,

  and he grasped a well-wrought shield to encase his body,

  forged for rushing forays--beautiful, blazoned work.

  Circling the center, ten strong rings of bronze

  with twenty disks of glittering tin set in,

  at the heart a boss of bulging blue steel

  and there like a crown the Gorgon's grim mask--

  the burning eyes, the stark, transfixing horror--

  and round her strode the shapes of Rout and Fear.

  The shield-belt glinted silver and rippling on it ran

  a dark blue serpent, two heads coiling round a third,

  reared from a single neck and twisting left and right.

  Then over his broad brow Agamemnon set his helmet

  fronted with four knobs and forked with twin horns

  and the horsehair crest atop it tossing, bristling terror.

  And last he picked up two tough spears, tipped in bronze,

  honed sharp, and the glare flashed off their brazen points

  and pierced the high skies--and awestruck at the sight

  Athena and Hera loosed a crack of thunder, exalting

  the great king of Mycenae rich in gold.

  At once

  each captain shouted out commands to his driver:

  "Rein the team by the trench, good battle-order now!"

  While the men themselves, armed for full assault,

  leapt down and swarmed to the trench's edge on foot

  and a long undying roar went up in the early dawn.

  Well ahead of the war-cars they reached the brink,

  closed ranks as drivers backed them yards behind.

  But Zeus drove a swirl of panic deep in their lines

  and down from the vaulting skies released a shower

  raining blood, for Zeus was bent on hurling down

  to the House of Death a rout of sturdy fighters.

  Trojans--the other side on the plain's high ground--

  formed around tall Hector, staunch Polydamas, Aeneas

  loved by the Trojans like a god, and Antenor's sons,

  Polybus, Prince Agenor and Acamas still unwed,

  three men in their prime like gods who never die.

  Hector bore his round shield in the forefront, blazing out

  like the Dog Star through the clouds, all withering fire,

  then plunging back in the cloud-rack massed and dark--

  so Hector ranged on, now flaring along the fron
t,

  now shouting his orders back toward the rear,

  all of him armed in bronze aflash like lightning

  flung by Father Zeus with his battle-shield of thunder.

  And the men like gangs of reapers slashing down

  the reaping-rows and coming closer, closer across

  the field of a warlord rich in wheat or barley--

  swaths by the armfuls falling thick-and-fast-

  so Achaeans and Trojans closed and slashed, so

  lunging into each other and neither side now

  had a thought of flight that would have meant disaster.

  No, the pressure of combat locked them head-to-head,

  lunging like wolves, and Strife with wild groans

  exulted to see them, glaring down at the melee,

  Strife alone of immortals hovering over fighters.

  The other gods kept clear, at their royal ease,

  reclining off in the halls where the roofs of each

  were built for the ages high on rugged ridged Olympus.

  And all were blaming Zeus with his storming dark clouds

  because the Father decreed to hand the Trojans glory.

  But the Father paid no heed to them. Retiring

  peaks apart from the other gods, he sat aloof,

  glorying in his power, gazing out over

  the city walls of Troy and the warships of Achaea,

  the flash of bronze, fighters killing, fighters killed ...

  As long as morning rose and the blessed day grew stronger,

  the weapons hurtled side-to-side and men kept falling.

  But just when the woodsman makes his morning meal,

  deep in a mountain forest, arm-weary from chopping

  the big heavy trunks and his heart has had enough

  and sudden longing for tempting food overtakes the man

  and makes his senses whirt--just at the height of morning

  the Argives smashed battalions, their courage breaking through

  and they shouted ranks of cohorts on along the lines.

  And right in the midst sprang Agamemnon first

  and killed a fighter, Bienor, veteran captain,

  then his aide Oileus lashing on their team.

  Down from the car he'd leapt, squaring off,

  charging in full fury, full face, straight

  into Agamemnon's spearhead ramming sharp--

  the rim of the bronze helmet could not hold it,

  clean through heavy metal and bone the point burst

  and the brains splattered all inside the casque.

  He battered Oileus down despite the Trojan's rage

  and the lord of fighters left them lying there, both dead

  and their chests gleamed like bronze as he stripped them bare.

  Then on he went for Isus and Antiphus, killed and stripped

  the two sons of Priam, one a bastard, one royal blood

  and both riding a single car, the bastard driving,

  the famous Antiphus standing poised beside him ...

  Achilles had caught them once on the spurs of Ida,

  bound them with willow ropes as they watched their flocks

  and set them free for ransom. But now it was Agamemnon

  lord of the far-flung kingdoms catching up with Isus--

  he stabbed his chest with a spear above the nipple,

  Antiphus he hacked with a sword across the ear

  and hurled him from his chariot, rushing fast

  to rip the splendid armor off their bodies.

  He knew them both, he'd seen them once by the ships

  when the swift Achilles dragged them in from Ida.

  Think how a lion, mauling the soft weak young

  of a running deer, clamped in his massive jaws,

  cracks their backbones with a snap--he's stormed in,

  invading the lair to tear their tender hearts out

  and the mother doe, even if she's close by,

  what can she do to save her fawns? She's helpless--

  terrible trembling racks her body too--and suddenly

  off she bounds through the glades and the thick woods,

  drenched in sweat, leaping clear of the big cat's pounce..

  So not a single Trojan could save those two from death,

  they fled themselves before the Argive charge.

  But next

  Agamemnon killed Pisander and combat-hard Hippolochus,

  two sons of Antimachus, that cunning, politic man

  whom Paris bribed with gold and sumptuous gifts,

  so he was the first to fight the return of Helen

  to red-haired Menelaus. Now powerful Agamemnon

  caught his two sons riding the same chariot,

  both struggling to curb their high-strung team--

  the reins slipped their grasp, both horses panicked

  as Agamemnon ramped up in their faces like a lion--

  both fighters shouting from their chariot, pleading,

  "Take us alive, Atrides, take a ransom worth our lives!

  Vast treasures are piled up in Antimachus' house,

  bronze and gold and plenty of well-wrought iron--

  father would give you anything, gladly, priceless ransom

  if only he learns we're still alive in Argive ships!"

  So they cried to the king, cries for mercy,

  but only heard a merciless voice in answer:

  "Cunning Antimachus! So you're that man's sons?

  Once in the Trojan council he ordered Menelaus,

  there on an embassy joined by King Odysseus,

  murdered right on the spot--no safe-conduct

  back to the land of Argos. You're his sons?

  Now pay for your father's outrage, blood for blood!"

  And he pitched Pisander off the chariot onto earth

  and plunged a spear in his chest--the man crashed on his back

  as Hippolochus leapt away, but him he killed on the ground,

  slashing off his arms with a sword, lopping off his head

  and he sent him rolling through the carnage like a log.

  He left them there for dead and just at the point

  where most battalions scattered Agamemnon charged,

  the rest of his troops in armor quick behind him now,

  infantry killing infantry fleeing headlong, hard-pressed,

  drivers killing drivers--under the onrush dust in whirlwinds

  driven up from the plain, hoofs of stallions rumbling thunder,

  bronze flashing, immense slaughter and always King Agamemnon

  whirling to kill, crying his Argives on, breakneck on.

  Like devouring fire roaring down onto dry dead timber,

  squalls hurling it on, careening left and right and

  brush ripped up by the roots goes tumbling under

  crushed by the blasting fire rampaging on--

  so under Atrides' onslaught Trojans dropped in flight,

  stampedes of massive stallions dragged their empty chariots

  clattering down the passageways of battle, stallions

  yearning to feel their masters' hands at the reins

  but there they lay, sprawled across the field,

  craved far more by the vultures than by wives.

  But Zeus drew Hector out of range of the weapons,

  out of the dust storm, out of the mounting kills,

  the blood and rout of war as Atrides followed hard,

  shouting his Argives on, furious, never stopping.

  The Trojans streaked in flight past Ilus' barrow,

  ancient son of Dardanus, past the mid-field mark

  of the plain and past the wild fig and struggling

  to reach Troy and always in hot pursuit and shrieking,

  Agamemnon splattered with gore, his hands, invincible hands.

  But once they reached the Scaean Gates and the great oak,

  there the two sides halted, waiting each other's charge.

&nbsp
; Yet stragglers still stampeded down the plain

  like cattle driven wild by a lion lunging

  in pitch darkness down on the whole herd

  but to one alone a sudden death comes flashing--

  first he snaps its neck, clamped in his huge jaws,

  then down in gulps he bolts its blood and guts.

  So King Agamemnon coursed his quarry, always cutting

  the straggler from the mass and they, they fled in terror,

  squads amok, spilling out of their chariots facefirst

  or slammed on their backs beneath Atrides' hands--

  storming and thrusting his spear and lunging on.

  But just as he was about to reach the steep city,

  up under the walls, the father of men and gods,

  descending out of the heavens, took his throne

  on the high ridge of Ida with all her springs.

  Holding fast in his grip a lightning bolt

  he drove Iris down in a rush of golden wings

  to bear his message: "Away with you now, Iris--

  quick as the wind and speed this word to Hector.

  So long as he sees lord marshal Agamemnon storming

  among the champions, mowing columns down in blood,

  Hector must hold back, command the rest of his men

  to fight the enemy, stand their headlong charge.

  But soon as a spear or bowshot wounds the king

  and Atrides mounts his chariot once again,

  then I will hand Hector the power to kill and kill

  till he cuts his way to the benched ships and the sun sinks

  and the blessed darkness sweeps across the earth."

  So he commanded. Wind-quick Iris obeyed at once

  and down from Ida's peaks she dove to sacred Troy,

  found the son of wise King Priam, shining Hector

  standing amidst his teams and bolted cars,

  and swift as a breeze beside him Iris called,

  "Hector, son of Priam--a mastermind like Zeus!

  The Father has sped me down to tell you this:

  so long as you see lord marshal Agamemnon storming

  among the champions, mowing columns down in blood,

  you must hold back, command the rest of your men

  to fight the enemy, stand their headlong charge!

  But soon as a spear or bowshot wounds the king

  and Atrides mounts his chariot once again--

  then Zeus will hand you the power to kill and kill

  till you cut your way to the benched ships and the sun sinks

  and the blessed darkness sweeps across the earth!"

  And Iris racing the wind went veering off.

  Hector leapt to ground from his chariot fully armed

  and brandishing two sharp spears went striding down his lines,

  ranging flank to flank, driving his fighters into battle,

  rousing grisly war--and round the Trojans whirled,

  bracing to meet the Argives face-to-face:

  but against their mass the Argives closed ranks,

  the fighting about to break, the troops squaring off

  and Atrides, tense to outfight them all, charged first.

  Sing to me now, you Muses who hold the halls of Olympus,