The Iliad

  and Patroclus charged the enemy, fired for the kill.

  Three times he charged with the headlong speed of Ares,

  screaming his savage cry, three times he killed nine men.

  Then at the fourth assault Patroclus like something superhuman--

  then, Patroclus, the end of life came blazing up before you,

  yes, the lord Apollo met you there in the heart of battle,

  the god, the terror! Patroclus never saw him coming,

  moving across the deadly rout, shrouded in thick mist

  and on he came against him and looming up behind him now--

  slammed his broad shoulders and back with the god's flat hand

  and his eyes spun as Apollo knocked the helmet off his head

  and under his horses' hoofs it tumbled, clattering on

  with its four forged horns and its hollow blank eyes

  and its plumes were all smeared in the bloody dust.

  Forbidden before this to defile its crest in dust,

  it guarded the head and handsome brow of a god,

  a man like a god, Achilles. But now the Father

  gave it over to Hector to guard his head in war

  since Hector's death was closing on him quickly.

  Patroclus though--the spear in his grip was shattered,

  the whole of its rugged bronze-shod shadow-casting length

  and his shield with straps and tassels dropped from his shoulders,

  flung down on the ground--and lord Apollo the son of Zeus

  wrenched his breastplate off. Disaster seized him--

  his fine legs buckling--

  he stood there, senseless--

  And now,

  right at his back, close-up, a Dardan fighter speared him

  squarely between the shoulder blades with a sharp lance.

  Panthous' son Euphorbus, the best of his own age

  at spears and a horseman's skill and speed of foot,

  and even in this, his first attack in chariots--

  just learning the arts of war--

  he'd brought down twenty drivers off their cars.

  He was the first to launch a spear against you,

  Patroclus O my rider, but did not bring you down.

  Yanking out his ashen shaft from your body,

  back he dashed and lost himself in the crowds--

  the man would not stand up to Patroclus here

  in mortal combat, stripped, defenseless as he was.

  Patroclus stunned by the spear and the god's crushing blow

  was weaving back to his own thronging comrades,

  trying to escape death ...

  Hector waiting, watching

  the greathearted Patroclus trying to stagger free,

  seeing him wounded there with the sharp bronze

  came rushing into him right across the lines

  and rammed his spearshaft home,

  stabbing deep in the bowels, and the brazen point

  went jutting straight out through Patroclus' back.

  Down he crashed--horror gripped the Achaean armies.

  As when some lion overpowers a tireless wild boar

  up on a mountain summit, battling in all their fury

  over a little spring of water, both beasts craving

  to slake their thirst, but the lion beats him down

  with sheer brute force as the boar fights for breath--

  so now with a close thrust Hector the son of Priam

  tore the life from the fighting son of Menoetius,

  from Patroclus who had killed so many men in war,

  and gloried over him, wild winging words: "Patroclus--

  surely you must have thought you'd storm my city down,

  you'd wrest from the wives of Troy their day of freedom,

  drag them off in ships to your own dear fatherland--

  you fool! Rearing in their defense my war-team,

  Hector's horses were charging out to battle,

  galloping, full stretch. And I with my spear,

  Hector, shining among my combat-loving comrades,

  I fight away from them the fatal day--but you,

  the vultures will eat your body raw!

  Poor, doomed ...

  not for all his power could Achilles save you now--

  and how he must have filled your ears with orders

  as you went marching out and the hero stayed behind:

  'Now don't come back to the hollow ships, you hear?--

  Patroclus, master horseman--

  not till you've slashed the shirt around his chest

  and soaked it red in the blood of man-killing Hector!'

  So he must have commanded--you maniac, you obeyed."

  Struggling for breath, you answered, Patroclus O my rider,

  "Hector! Now is your time to glory to the skies ...

  now the victory is yours.

  A gift of the son of Cronus, Zeus--Apollo too--

  they brought me down with all their deathless ease,

  they are the ones who tore the armor off my back.

  Even if twenty Hectors had charged against me--

  they'd all have died here, laid low by my spear.

  No, deadly fate in league with Apollo killed me.

  From the ranks of men, Euphorbus. You came third,

  and all you could do was finish off my life ...

  One more thing--take it to heart, I urge you--

  you too, you won't live long yourself, I swear.

  Already I see them looming up beside you--death

  and the strong force of fate, to bring you down

  at the hands of Aeacus' great royal son ...

  Achilles!"

  Death cut him short. The end closed in around him.

  Flying free of his limbs

  his soul went winging down to the House of Death,

  wailing his fate, leaving his manhood far behind,

  his young and supple strength. But glorious Hector

  taunted Patroclus' body, dead as he was, "Why, Patroclus--

  why prophesy my doom, my sudden death? Who knows?--

  Achilles the son of sleek-haired Thetis may outrace me--

  struck by my spear first--and gasp away his life!"

  With that he planted a heel against Patroclus' chest,

  wrenched his brazen spear from the wound, kicked him over,

  flat on his back, free and clear of the weapon.

  At once he went for Automedon with that spear--

  quick as a god, the aide of swift Achilles--

  keen to cut him down but his veering horses

  swept him well away--magnificent racing stallions,

  gifts of the gods to Peleus, shining immortal gifts.

  BOOK SEVENTEEN

  Menelaus' Finest Hour

  But Atreus' son the fighting Menelaus marked it all--

  the Trojans killing Patroclus there in the brutal carnage--

  and crested now in his gleaming bronze gear Atrides

  plowed through the front to stand astride the body,

  braced like a mother cow lowing over a calf,

  her first-born, first labor-pangs she'd felt.

  So the red-haired captain bestrode Patroclus now,

  shielding his corpse with spear and round buckler,

  burning to kill off any man who met him face-to-face.

  But Euphorbus who hurled the lethal ashen spear

  would not neglect his kill, Patroclus' handsome body.

  Halting close beside it, he taunted fighting Menelaus:

  "Back, high and mighty Atrides, captain of armies--

  back from the corpse, and leave the bloody gear!

  I was the first Trojan, first of the famous allies

  to spear Patroclus down in the last rough charge.

  So let me seize my glory among the Trojans now--

  or I'll spear you too, I'll rip your own sweet life away!"

  But the red-haired captain flared back in anger:
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  "Father Zeus--listen to this indecent, reckless bluster!

  Not even the leopard's fury makes the beast so proud,

  not even the lion's, not the murderous wild boar's,

  the greatest pride of all, bursting the boar's chest--

  they're nothing next to the pride of Panthous' sons

  with their strong ashen spears. But no, no joy

  did even powerful Hyperenor, breaker of horses,

  get from his young strength when he scorned me,

  stood up to me, reviling me as the weakest fighter

  in all Achaea's armies. Home he went, I'd say,

  but not on his own two feet, and brought no cheer

  to his loyal, loving wife and devoted parents.

  And you, I'll break your courage for you too

  if you try to take me on.

  Go back to your own rank and file, I tell you!

  Don't stand up against me--or you will meet your death.

  Even a fool learns something once it hits him."

  So he warned

  but failed to shake Euphorbus who shot right back,

  "Now, high and mighty Atrides, now by heaven

  you pay in blood for the brother you laid low!

  You glory over it too--making his wife a widow

  lost in the depths of their new bridal chamber,

  bringing his parents cursed tears and grief.

  But I could stop that wretched couple's pain

  if only I brought your head and bloody armor home

  and laid them in Panthous' arms, in lovely Phrontis' arms!

  We're wasting time. Our fight's unfought, untested--

  we'll see who stands his ground, who cuts and runs."

  And he stabbed Menelaus' round shield, full center,

  not battering through--the brazen point bent back

  in the tough armor.

  But his turn next, Menelaus

  rose with a bronze lance and a prayer to Father Zeus

  and lunging out at Euphorbus just dropping back,

  pierced the pit of his throat--leaning into it hard,

  his whole arm's weight in the stroke to drive it home

  and the point went slicing through the tender neck.

  He fell with a crash, armor ringing against his ribs,

  his locks like the Graces' locks splashed with blood,

  still braided tight with gold and silver clips,

  pinched in like a wasp's waist. There he lay

  like an olive slip a farmer rears to strength

  on a lonely hilltop, drenching it down with water,

  a fine young stripling tree, and the winds stir it softly,

  rustling from every side, and it bursts with silver shoots--

  then suddenly out of nowhere a wind in gale force comes storming,

  rips it out of its trench, stretches it out on the earth--

  so Panthous' stripling son lay sprawled in death,

  Euphorbus who hurled the strong ashen spear ...

  Menelaus cut him down, was stripping off his armor--

  Menelaus fierce as a mountain lion sure of his power,

  seizing the choicest head from a good grazing herd.

  First he cracks its neck, clamped in his huge jaws,

  mauling the kill then down in gulps he bolts it,

  blood and guts, and around him dogs and shepherds

  raise a fierce din but they keep their distance,

  lacking nerve to go in and take the lion on--

  the fear that grips their spirit makes them blanch.

  So now not a single Trojan fighter had the spine

  to go and face Atrides tensing in all his strength.

  Then and there Menelaus might have stripped Euphorbus

  and swept the Trojan's glittering armor off with ease

  if Apollo had not grudged him all that glory,

  rousing Hector against him, swift as Ares.

  Taking a man's shape, the Cicones' captain Mentes,

  Apollo spurred him on with winged orders: "Hector--

  you're chasing the wild wind, fiery Achilles' team!

  They're hard for mortal men to curb and drive,

  for all but Achilles--his mother is immortal.

  But all the while Menelaus, Atreus' fighting son

  bestrides Patroclus--he's killed the Trojans' best,

  Panthous' son Euphorbus, stopped his fury cold."

  And back Apollo strode, a god in the wars of men.

  But grief bore down on Hector, packing his dark heart

  as he scanned the battle lines and saw the worst at once:

  the two men there, one stripping the gleaming armor,

  the other sprawled on the ground,

  blood still spurting warm from his slashed throat.

  Down the front he charged, crested in flashing bronze,

  Hector loosing a savage cry and flaring on like fire,

  like the god of fire, the blaze that never dies.

  And the cry pierced Menelaus, deeply torn now

  as he probed his own great heart: "What can I do?

  If I leave this splendid gear and desert Patroclus--

  who fell here fighting, all to redeem my honor--

  won't any comrade curse me, seeing me break away?

  But if I should take on Hector and Hector's Trojans

  alone, in single combat--trying to save my pride--

  won't they encircle me, one against so many?

  This flashing Hector has all Troy at his back!

  But why debate, my friend, why thrash things out?

  When you fight a man against the will of the gods,

  a man they have sworn to honor--then look out,

  a heavy wave of ruin's about to overwhelm you.

  Surely no Achaean will curse me, seeing me now,

  giving ground to Hector ...

  since fighting Hector's flanked by god almighty.

  Ah if only I knew where Ajax could be found,

  that man with his ringing war cry--we two together

  would go back to the melee calling up our fury,

  even fight in the teeth of every god on high

  and haul the body back to Achilles-somehow.

  Things are bad, but that would be the best."

  Working it out, his heart racing as on they came,

  waves of Trojan soldiers and Hector led them in.

  And Atrides gave ground, he left the corpse

  but kept on turning round to face an attack--

  like a great bearded lion the dogs and field hands

  drive back from the folds with spears and sharp cries

  and the brave, battling heart in his chest freezes tight

  and the big cat, all reluctance, pulls back from the sheds.

  So the red-haired captain backed away from Patroclus' corpse

  but wheeled at bay when he reached his waiting allies,

  glancing round and round for Ajax' massive hulk.

  All at once on the left flank he marked him,

  spurring companions, urging them to fight,

  for Phoebus had filled each man with quaking fear.

  Atrides went on the run and reached him, shouting, "Ajax!

  Hurry, my friend, this way--fight for dead Patroclus!

  At least we could bring his body back to Achilles,

  stripped as Patroclus is--but not Achilles' armor:

  Hector with that flashing helmet has seized it all."

  So he roused the fury in battling Ajax' heart

  and down the front he stalked with the red-haired king.

  Hector, tearing the famous armor off Patroclus.

  tugged hard at the corpse,

  mad to hack the head from the neck with bronze

  and drag the trunk away to glut the dogs of Troy.

  But in charged Ajax, shield like a tower before him

  and Hector, falling back on a crowd of comrades,

  leapt to his chariot, flinging the burnished ge
ar

  to his waiting troops to haul away to Troy--

  trophies to be his own enormous glory. But Ajax,

  shielding Patroclus round with his broad buckler,

  stood fast now like a lion cornered round his young

  when hunters cross him, leading his cubs through woods--

  he ramps in all the pride of his power, bristling strength,

  the heavy folds of his forehead frowning down his eyes.

  So Ajax stood his ground over brave Patroclus now--

  the fighting Atrides right beside him, standing fast,

  his grief mounting, every waiting moment.

  But Glaucus,

  Hippolochus' son and lord of Lycia's forces now,

  scowled at Hector, lashing out at him: "Hector--

  our prince of beauty, in battle all a sham!

  That empty glory of yours a runner's glory,

  a scurrying girl's at that.

  Now you'd better plan how to save your city,

  you alone and your native troopers bom in Troy.

  Now not a single Lycian goes to fight the Argives,

  not to save your Troy. What lasting thanks for us,

  for warring with your enemies, on and on, no end?

  What hope has the common soldier in your ranks

  to be saved by you, Hector, you heart of iron?--

  if you could quit Sarpedon, your guest and friend-in-arms

  abandoned there as carrion fit for the Argive maws.

  Think what a staunch support Sarpedon was to you

  and to all Troy while the man was still alive!

  Now you lack the daring to save him from the dogs.

  So now, if any Lycian troops will obey my orders,

  home we go--and headlong death can come and topple Troy.

  If the Trojans had that courage, unswerving courage

  that fires men who fight for their own country,

  beating their enemies down in war and struggle,

  then we could drag Patroclus back to Troy at once.

  If we could haul him from battle, dead as he is,

  and lodge him behind King Priam's looming walls,

  our enemies would release Sarpedon's gear at once

  and then, then we could bring his body back to Troy.

  For the man we cut down here was the loyal friend

  of Prince Achilles-far the greatest among the Argive ships

  and at his command go rugged fighters hand-to-hand.

  But you--with enemy war cries ringing in your ears--

  you lacked the nerve to go up against Great Ajax,

  that fierce heart, to look him straight in the eye

  and fight the man head-on--he's a better man than you!"

  With a dark glance from under his flashing helmet

  Hector lashed back, "Glaucus, such brazen insolence

  from a decent man like you, but why? Ah too bad,

  and I always thought you excelled the rest in sense,

  all who hale from Lycia's fertile soil. But now--

  you fill me with contempt--what are you saying?

  You tell me that I can't stand up to monstrous Ajax?

  I tell you I never cringe at war and thundering horses!

  But the will of Zeus will always overpower the will of men,

  Zeus who strikes fear in even the bravest man of war