So packed around Odysseus skilled and quick to maneuver
swarmed the brave bulk of Trojans--but still the hero
kept on lunging, spearing, keeping death at bay.
And in moved Ajax now, planted right beside him,
bearing that shield of his like a wall, a tower--
Trojans scattered in panic, bolting left and right
while the fighting son of Atreus led Odysseus
through the onslaught, bracing him with an arm
till a reinsman drove his team and car up close.
But charging down on the Trojans Ajax killed Doryclus,
bastard son of Priam--he wounded Pandocus next,
wounded Lysander, Pyrasus, then Pylartes.
Wild as a swollen river hurling down on the flats,
down from the hills in winter spate, bursting its banks
with rain from storming Zeus, and stands of good dry oak,
whole forests of pine it whorls into itself and sweeps along
till it heaves a crashing mass of driftwood out to sea--
so glorious Ajax swept the field, routing Trojans,
shattering teams and spearmen in his onslaught.
Nor had Hector once got wind of the rampage ...
far off on the left flank of the whole campaign
he fought his way, powering past Scamander's banks
where the heads of fighters fell in biggest numbers
and grim incessant war cries rose around tall Nestor
and battle-hard Idomeneus. Hector amidst them now
engaged them with a vengeance, doing bloody work
with lances flung and a master's horsemanship,
destroying young battalions. Still the Achaeans
never would have yielded before the prince's charge
if Paris the lord of lovely fair-haired Helen
had not put a stop to Machaon's gallant fighting,
striking the healer squarely with an arrow
triple-flanged that gouged his right shoulder.
Achaeans breathing fury feared for Machaon no.w:
what if the tide turned and Trojans killed the healer?
Idomeneus suddenly called to Nestor, "Pride of Achaeal
Quick, mount your chariot, mount Machaon beside you--
lash your team to the warships, fast, full gallop!
A man who can cut out shafts and dress our wounds--
a good healer is worth a troop of other men."
Nestor the noble charioteer did not resist.
He mounted his car at once as Asclepius' son,
Machaon bom of the famous healer swung aboard.
He lashed the team and on they flew to the ships,
holding nothing back--that's where their spirits
drove them on to go.
But riding on with Hector
Cebriones saw the Trojan rout and shouted, "Hector!
Look at us here, engaging Argives with a vengeance,
true, but off on the fringe of brutal all-out war
while our central force is routed pell-mell,
men and chariots flung against each other.
Giant Ajax drives them--I recognize the man,
that wall of a buckler slung around his shoulders.
Hurry, head our chariot right where the fighting's thickest,
there--horse and infantry hurling into the slaughter,
hacking each other down, terrific war cries rising!"
With that, Cebriones flogged their sleek team
and leaping under the whistling, crackling whip
they sped the careering car into both milling armies,
trampling shields and corpses, axle under the chariot splashed
with blood, blood on the handrails sweeping round the car,
sprays of blood shooting up from the stallions' hoofs
and churning, whirling rims. And Hector straining
to wade into the press and panicked ruck of men,
charge them, break them down--he flung terror
and stark disaster square in the Argive lines,
never pausing, giving his spear no rest.
Hector kept on ranging, battling ranks on ranks,
slashing his spear and sword and flinging heavy rocks
but he stayed clear of attacking Ajax man-to-man.
But Father Zeus on the heights forced Ajax to retreat.
He stood there a moment, stunned,
then swinging his seven-ply oxhide shield behind him,
drew back in caution, throwing a fast glance
at his own Achaean troops like a trapped beast,
pivoting, backpedaling, step by short step ...
Like a tawny lion when hounds and country field hands
drive him out of their steadings filled with cattle--
they'll never let him tear the rich fat from the oxen,
all night long they stand guard but the lion craves meat,
he lunges in and in but his charges gain him nothing,
thick-and-fast from their hardy arms the javelins
rain down in his face, and waves of blazing torches--
these the big cat fears, balking for all his rage,
and at dawn he slinks away, his spirits dashed.
So Ajax slowly drew back from the Trojans,
spirits dashed, and much against his will,
fearing the worst for Achaea's waiting ships.
Like a stubborn ass some boys lead down a road ...
stick after stick they've cracked across his back
but he's too much for them now, he rambles into a field
to ravage standing crops. They keep beating his ribs,
splintering sticks--their struggle child's play
till with one final shove they drive him off
but not before he's had his fill of feed.
So with Telamon's son Great Ajax then--
vaunting Trojans and all their far-flung allies
kept on stabbing his shield, full center, no letup.
And now the giant fighter would summon up his fury,
wheeling on them again, beating off platoons
of the stallion-breaking Trojans--and now again
he'd swerve around in flight. But he blocked them all
from hacking passage through to the fast trim ships
as Ajax all alone, battling on mid-field between
Achaean and Trojan lines, would stand and fight.
Some spears that flew from the Trojans' hardy arms,
hurtling forward, stuck fast in his huge shield
but showers of others, cut short
halfway before they could graze his gleaming skin,
stuck in the ground,.still lusting to sink in flesh.
But Euaemon's shining son Eurypylus saw him
overwhelmed by the Trojans' dense barrage of spears.
Up to his side he dashed and flanked Great Ajax tight,
let fly with a spear and the glinting spearpoint hit
the son of Phausias, Apisaon captain of armies,
square in the liver, up under the midriff--
his knees went limp as Eurypylus rushed in,
starting to rip the armor off his shoulders.
But now Paris spotted him stripping Apisaon,
drew his bow at Eurypylus, fast--he shot well
and the arrow struck him full in the right thigh
but the shaft snapped, the thigh weighed down with pain.
Eurypylus staggered back to his massing comrades,
dodging death, and shouted a stark piercing cry:
"Friends--lords of the Argives, all our captains!
Come, wheel round--stand firm!
Beat the merciless day of death from Ajax,
overpowered, look, by a pelting rain of spears.
He can't escape, I tell you, not this wrenching battle.
Stand up to them--ring Great Ajax, Telamon's son."
So wounded Eurypylus pleaded, friends arou
nd him
crowding, bracing shields against their shoulders,
spears brandished high
and back to the bulking front came giant Ajax now.
The fighter turned on his heels and took his stand,
once he reached that wedge of Argive comrades.
So on they fought like a mass of swirling fire
as Neleus' foaming mares bore Nestor clear of battle
and bore Machaon the expert healer too ...
But now
the brilliant runner Achilles watched and marked him--
there he stood on the stern of his looming hollow hull,
looking out over the uphill work and heartsick rout of war.
He called at once to his friend-in-arms Patroclus,
shouting down from the decks. Hearing Achilles,
forth he came from his shelter,
striding up like the deathless god of war
but from that moment on his doom was sealed.
The brave son of Menoetius spoke out first:
"Why do you call, Achilles? Do you need me?"
And the swift runner Achilles answered quickly,
"Son of Menoetius, soldier after my own heart,
now I think they will grovel at my knees,
our Achaean comrades begging for their lives.
The need has reached them--a need too much to bear.
Go now, Patroclus dear to Zeus, and question Nestor.
Who's that wounded man he's bringing in from the fighting?
He looks to me like Machaon from behind, clearly,
Machaon head to foot, Asclepius' only son.
But I never saw his eyes--the team sped by me,
tearing on full tilt."
Patroclus obeyed his great friend
and off at a run he went along the ships and shelters.
Now, as soon as the others reached Nestor's tent
they climbed down on the earth that feeds us all.
The driver Eurymedon freed the old man's team.
The men themselves dried off their sweat-soaked shirts,
standing against the wind that whipped along the surf,
then entered the tent and took their seats on settles.
And well-kempt Hecamede mixed them a bracing drink,
the woman that old King Nestor won from Tenedos
when Achilles stormed it, proud Arsinous' daughter,
the prize the Achaeans chose to give to Nestor
because he excelled them all at battle-tactics.
First Hecamede pushed a table up toward them,
handsome, sanded smooth, with blue enamel legs,
and on it she set a basket, braided in bronze
with onions in it, a relish for the drink,
and pale gold honey along with barley meal,
the grain's blessed yield. And there in the midst
the grand, glowing cup the old king brought from home,
studded with golden nails, fitted with handles,
four all told and two doves perched on each,
heads bending to drink and made of solid gold
and twin supports ran down to form the base.
An average man would strain to lift it off the table
when it was full, but Nestor, old as he was,
could hoist it up with ease.
In this cup the woman skilled as a goddess
mixed them a strong drink with Pramnian wine,
over it shredded goat cheese with a bronze grater
and scattered barley into it, glistening pure white,
then invited them to drink when she had mulled it all.
Now as the two men drank their parching thirst away
and had just begun to please themselves with talk,
confiding back and forth--there stood Patroclus
tall at the threshold, vivid as a god ...
Old Nestor saw him at once and started up
from his polished chair, warmly grasped his hand
and led Patroclus in, pressing him to sit.
But standing off to the side his guest declined:
"No time to sit, old soldier dear to the gods.
You won't persuade me. Awesome and quick to anger,
the man who sent me here to find out who's been wounded,
the one you've just brought in. But I can see him--
I recognize Machaon myself, the expert healer.
So back I go to give Achilles the message.
Well you know, old soldier loved by the gods,
what sort of man he is--that great and terrible man.
Why, he'd leap to accuse a friend without a fault."
But Nestor the noble charioteer replied at length,
"Now why is Achilles so cast down with grief
for this or that Achaean winged by a stray shaft?
He has no idea of the anguish risen through the army!
Look--our finest champions laid up in the ships,
all 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 a shaft in the thigh, and here,
Machaon--I just brought him in from the fighting,
struck down by an arrow whizzing off the string.
But Achilles, brave as he is, he has no care,
no pity for our Achaeans. How long will he wait?
Till our ships that line the shore go up in flames,
gutted, despite a last-ditch stand? And we ourselves
are mowed down in droves?
And I, what good am I?
My limbs are gnarled now, the old power's gone.
Oh make me young again,
and the strength inside me steady as a rock!
As fresh as I was that time the feud broke out ...
fighting Epeans over a cattle-raid I killed Itymoneus.
Hypirochus' gallant son who used to live in Elis.
I was rustling their cattle in reprisal, you see,
and he defending his herds, when a spear I hurled
caught him right in the front ranks of herdsmen--
down he went and round him his yokel drovers
scattered home in panic. And what a lovely haul,
what plunder we rounded up and herded off the plain!
Fifty herds of cattle, as many head of sheep,
as many droves of pigs and as many goat-flocks
ranging free, a hundred and fifty horses too,
strong and tawny, broodmares every one
and under the flanks of many, nursing foals.
The whole tot--
we drove them all into Pylos then, that very night,
corraling them all inside the walls of Neleus.
And father beamed, seeing how much I'd won,
a young soldier out on his first campaign.
And the heralds cried out at the break of day,
'Pylians--come collect your debts from wealthy Elis!'
And a troop of Pylian chiefs turned out in force
to carve up the spoils. The Epeans owed us all,
few as we were in Pylos, hard-pressed as well.
For mighty Heracles came against us years before,
he ground our lives out, killing off our best.
Twelve sons we were of the noble old Neleus
and I alone was left ...
the rest of my brothers perished in that rout.
Riding high on our loss the Epeans rose in arms,
lording over us, harassing us with outrage after outrage.
So now, out of Epean spoils, the old king chose
a herd of cattle and handsome flock of sheep,
three hundred head he picked, the herdsmen too.
For wealthy Elis owed my father a heavy debt:
four prizewinning thoroughbreds, chariot and all.
They'd gone to the games, primed to race for the tripod,
but
Augeas the warlord commandeered them on the spot
and sent the driver packing, sick for his team.
So now old Neleus, still enraged at it all--
the threats to his man, the naked treachery--
helped himself to a priceless treasure trove
but gave the rest to his people to divide,
so none would go deprived of his fair share.
But just as we were parceling out the plunder
and offering victims to the gods around the city,
right on the third day they came, the Epeans massed
in a swarm of men and plunging battle-stallions struck
at the border, full force--and square in their midst
the two Moliones armed to the hilt, and still boys,
not quite masters yet in the ways of combat.
Now then,
there's a frontier fortress, Thryoessa perched on cliffs,
far off above the Alpheus, at the edge of sandy Pylos.
The Epeans ringed that fort, keen to raze its walls,
but once their troops had swept the entire plain,
down Athena rushed to us in the night, a herald
down from Olympus crying out, 'To arms! to arms!'
Nor did Pallas muster a slow, unwilling army
there in Pylos, all of us spoiling for a fight.
But Neleus would not let me arm for action--
he'd hidden away my horses,
thought his boy still green at the work of war.
So I had to reach the front lines on foot
but I shone among our horsemen all the same--
that's how Athena called the turns of battle.
Listen. There is a river, the Minyeos
emptying into the sea beside Arene's walls,
and there we waited for Goddess Dawn to rise,
the Pylian horse in lines while squads of infantry
came streaming up behind. Then, from that point on,
harnessed in battle-arrttor, moving at forced march
our army reached the Alpheus' holy ford at noon.
There we slaughtered fine victims to mighty Zeus,
a bull to Alpheus River, a bull to lord Poseidon
and an unyoked cow to blazing-eyed Athena.
And then through camp we took our evening meal
by rank and file, and caught what sleep we could,
each in his gear along the river rapids.
And all the while
those vaunting Epeans were closing round the fortress,
burning to tear it down. But before they got the chance
a great work of the War-god flashed before their eyes!
Soon as the sun came up in flames above the earth
we joined battle, lifting a prayer to Zeus and Pallas.
And just as our two opposing armies clashed
I was the first to kill a man and seize his team,
the spearman Mulius, son-in-law to their king
and wed to his eldest daughter, blond Agamede,
skilled with as many drugs as the wide world grows.
Just as he lunged I speared the man with a bronze lance
and Mulius pitched in the dust as I, I swung aboard his car
and I took my place in our front ranks of champions.
How those hot-blooded Epeans scattered in terror!
Scuttling left and right when they saw him down,