What do we need with wrangling, hurling insults?
Cursing each other here like a pair of nagging women
boiling over with petty, heartsick squabbles, blustering
into the streets to pelt themselves with slander,
much of it true, much not. Anger stirs up lies.
I blaze for battle--your taunts can't turn me back,
not till we've fought it out with bronze. On with it--
taste the bite of each other's brazen spears!"
With that
he hurled a heavy lance at the great and awesome shield
and its massive surface clanged as it took the point.
Achilles had thrust it forth with his strong fist,
fearing staunch Aeneas' spear with its long shadow
would drive its whole length lightly through his buckler--
groundless fears. The fighter had no idea at all
that famous gifts of the gods do not break lightly,
can't be crushed when a mortal hand assails them.
So now not even seasoned Aeneas' heavy shaft
could smash Achilles' shield:
the gold blocked it, forged in the god's gift.
It did bore through two plies but three were left,
since the crippled Smith had made it five plies thick
with two of bronze on the outside, inside two of tin,
between them one of gold where the ashen spear held fast.
Achilles next--he hurled his spear and its long shadow flew
and the weapon struck the balanced round shield of Aeneas
under the outer rim where the bronze ran thinnest,
backed by the thinnest bull's-hide. Straight through
the Pelian ash burst, the shield rang out with a screech--
but Aeneas crouched low, holding the buckler off his chest,
terrified as the shaft shot past his back, hurled so hard
it plunged deep in the ground, even after it tore up
two round plies of the shield that cased his body.
Dodging the big spear, Aeneas got to his feet ...
a dizzying swirl of anguish rushing down his eyes,
blind with fear, the point had stuck so close.
But drawing his sharp sword, Achilles charged, wild,
hurtling toward him, loosing a savage cry as Aeneas
hefted a boulder in his hands, a tremendous feat--
no two men could hoist it, weak as men are now,
but all on his own he raised it high with ease.
Then and there he'd have struck Achilles lunging in,
the rock would have hit him square in casque or shield,
the gear would have warded off grim death, and Achilles, closing,
would have slashed his life away with a well-honed blade--
if the god of earthquakes had not marked it quickly
and called the gods at once who grouped around him:
"Now, I tell you, my heart aches for great Aeneas!
He'll go down to the House of Death this instant,
overwhelmed by Achilles--all because he trusted
the distant deadly Archer's urgings. Poor foot--
as if Apollo would lift a hand to save him now
from death, grim death. Aeneas the innocent!
Why should Aeneas suffer here, for no good reason,
embroiled in the quarrels of others, not his own?
He always gave us gifts to warm our hearts,
gifts for the gods who rule the vaulting skies.
So come, let us rescue him from death ourselves,
for fear the son of Cronus might just tower in rage
if Achilles kills this man. He is destined to survive.
Yes, so the generation of Dardanus will not perish,
obliterated without an heir, without a trace:
Dardanus, dearest to Zeus of all the sons
that mortal women brought to birth for Father.
Now he has come to hate the generation of Priam,
and now Aeneas will rule the men of Troy in power--
his sons' sons and the sons born in future years."
But Hera the Queen broke in, her eyes open wide:
"Decide in your own mind, god of the earthquake,
whether to save Aeneas now or let him die,
crushed by Achilles, for all his fighting heart.
But time and again we two have sworn our oaths
in the eyes of all the gods--I and Pallas Athena--
never to drive the fatal day away from the Trojans,
not even when all Troy burns in the ramping flames
when the warring sons of Achaea bum her down!"
As soon as he heard that, the god of earthquakes
surged through the clashing troops and raining spears
to reach the place where the two famed heroes fought.
Quickly he poured a mist across Achilles' eyes,
wrenched the spear from stalwart Aeneas' shield,
laid the bronze-shod ashen shaft at Achilles' feet
and hoisting Aeneas off the earth he slung him far ...
And over the massing lines of men and massing chariots,
high in the air Aeneas vaulted, hurled by the god's hand
till he came to ground at the battle's churning flank
where Cauconian units braced themselves for action.
The god of the earthquake swept beside him there
and gave the man a burst of winging orders: "Aeneas--
what god on high commands you to play the madman?
Fighting against Achilles' overwhelming fury!--
both a better soldier and more loved by the gods.
Pull back at once, whenever you're thrown against him--
or go down to the House of Death against the will of fate.
But once Achilles has met his death, his certain doom,
take courage then, go fight on the front lines then--
no other Achaean can bring you down in war."
With that,
with destiny made clear, he left him there on the spot
and turning back to Achilles quickly brushed away
the mist from his eyes, the magic, godsent haze.
And Achilles stared with all his might, dazzled,
disgusted too, and addressed his own great heart:
"Impossible--look, a marvel right before my eyes!
That spear I hurled is lying here on the ground.
That man--I cannot see him--
the one I hurled at, wild to cut him down.
Ah, so the deathless gods must love Aeneas too.
And I thought his vaunts were empty, hollow boasting.
Well let him go, I say! Never, never again
will he have the nerve to test my fighting power--
even now he was glad to save himself from death.
Now, quick, I'll marshal our battle-hungry Argives--
face the rest of the Trojans, test them, fight them down!"
And back to the lines he leapt and urged each man,
"No more standing back from the Trojans, brave Achaeans!
Now fighter go against fighter, out for bloodshed!
It's hard for me, strong as I am, single-handed
to make for such a force and fight them all.
Why, not even Ares the deathless god of war,
not even Athena--for all their heavy labor
could hack a passage through such jaws of battle.
But I--whatever fists and feet and strength can do,
that I will do, I swear, not hang back, not one inch.
Straight through enemy columns I go plowing now--
and no Trojan, I guarantee, will thrill with pleasure
once he meets my spearshaft head-to-head!"
Spurring his men
while Hector aflash in armor urged his Trojans--
thinking he'd even go up against Achilles:
"No fear of Pelides now, my
gallant Trojans!
I too could battle the deathless gods with words--
it's hard with a spear, the gods are so much stronger.
Not even Achilles can bring off all his boasts:
some he'll accomplish, some cut short, half done.
I'm off to engage the man, though his fists are fire,
though his fists are fire and his fury burnished iron!"
Spurring them on to raise their spears for full assault
and the Trojans' fury massed and mounted, war cries broke
but Apollo suddenly stood by Hector, shouting,
"Don't for a moment duel Achilles, Hector,
out in front of your ranks!
Withdraw to your main lines and wait him there,
out of the crash of battle. Else he'll spear you down
or close for the kill and hack you with his sword."
So Hector drew back to his thronging comrades,
terrified to hear the voice of god. Not Achilles--
armored in battle-power down he flung on the Trojans,
loosed barbaric cries, and his first kill was Iphition,
Otrynteus' hardy son and a chief of large contingents,
born of a river nymph to Otrynteus, scourge of towns,
below Tmolus' snows in the wealthy realm of Hyde ...
As the Trojan charged head-on Achilles speared him
square in the brows--his whole skull split in half
and down he crashed, Achilles exulting over him:
"Here you lie, Otrynteus' son--most terrible man alive!
Here's your deathbed! Far from your birthplace, Gyge Lake
where your father's fine estate lies next to the Hyllus
stocked with fish and next to the whirling Hermus!"
Vaunting over the dark that swept his quarry's eyes
and the running-rims of Argive war-cars cut him to shreds
at the onset's breaking edge. And next Achilles lunged
at Demoleon, son of Antenor, a tough defensive fighter--
he stabbed his temple and cleft his helmet's cheekpiece.
None of the bronze plate could hold it--boring through
the metal and skull the bronze spearpoint pounded,
Demoleon's brains splattered all inside his casque,
the Trojan beaten down in his fury. Hippodamas next,
he leapt from his chariot fleeing before Achilles--
Achilles' spearshaft rammed him through the back
and he gasped his life away, bellowing like some bull
that chokes and grunts when the young boys drag him round
the lord of Helice's shrine and the earthquake god
delights to see them dragging--so he bellowed now
and the man's proud spirit left his bones behind.
Achilles rushed with his spear at noble Polydorus
son of Priam. His father would not let him fight,
ever, he was the youngest-born of all his sons--
Priam loved him most, the fastest runner of all
but now the young fool, mad to display his speed,
went dashing along the front to meet his death.
Just as he shot past the matchless runner Achilles
speared him square in the back where his war-belt clasped,
golden buckles clinching both halves of his breastplate--
straight on through went the point and out the navel,
down on his knees he dropped--
screaming shrill as the world went black before him--
ciutched his bowels to his body, hunched and sank.
But Hector seeing his own brother Polydorus
clutching his entrails, sinking limp to the ground--
the mist came swirling down his eyes as well...
He could bear no more, wheeling off at a distance--
shaking his whetted spear he charged Achilles now,
coming fierce as fire but Achilles marked him quickly
and springing forth to take him, triumphed to himself,
"Here is the man who's raked my heart the most,
who killed my cherished comrade! No more delay,
dodging each other down the passageways of battle!"
Under his brows he glared at royal Hector, shouting,
"Quick, charge me--the sooner to meet your death!"
But Hector, his helmet flashing, never flinched:
"Don't think for a moment, Achilles, son of Peleus,
you can frighten me with words like a child, a foot--
I'm an old hand myself at trading taunts and insults.
Well I know you are brave, and I am far weaker.
True--but all lies in the lap of the great gods.
Weaker I am, but I still might take your life
with one hurl of a spear--my weapon can cut too,
long before now its point has found its mark!"
Grim reminder--
he brandished the shaft and hurled with all his might
but Athena blew it back from Achilles bent on glory--
a quick light breath and the shaft flew back again
to tall Prince Hector and fell before his feet.
Achilles blazed, charging, raging to cut him down,
loosing savage cries--but Phoebus whisked him away,
easy work for a god, and wrapped him round in mist.
Three times the brilliant runner Achilles charged him,
lunged with his bronze spear, three times he slashed at cloud--
then at Achilles' fourth assault like something superhuman
his terrifying voice burst out in winging words:
"Now, again, you've escaped your death, you dog,
but a good close brush with death it was, I'd say!
Now, again, your Phoebus Apollo pulls you through,
the one you pray to, wading into our storm of spears.
We'll fight again--I'll finish you off next time
if one of the gods will only urge me on as well.
But now I'll go for the others, anyone I can catch."
Whirling
he stabbed Dryops, speared him right through the neck--
he dropped at his feet and Achilles left him dead
and smashed Demuchus' knee, Philetor's strapping son,
stopped him right in his tracks with a well-flung spear
then sprang with his great sword and ripped his life away.
Then on he rushed at the sons of Bias--Laogonus, Dardanus--
hurled them off their chariot, slammed them both to ground,
one with a spear-thrust, one chopped down with a blade.
Then Tros, Alastor's son, crawled to Achilles' knees
and clutched them, hoping he'd spare him,
let Tros off alive, no cutting him down in blood,
he'd pity Tros, a man of his own age--the young fool,
he'd no idea, thinking Achilles could be swayed!
Here was a man not sweet at heart, not kind, no,
he was raging, wild--as Tros grasped his knees,
desperate, begging, Achilles slit open his liver,
the liver spurted loose, gushing with dark blood,
drenched his lap and the night swirled down his eyes
as his life breath slipped away.
And Mulius next--
he reared and jammed his lance through the man's ear
so the lance came jutting out through the other ear,
bronze point glinting.
Echeclus son of Agenor next--
Achilles split his head at the brow with hilted sword
so the whole blade ran hot with blood, and red death
came plunging down his eyes, and the strong force of fate.
Deucalion next--he lanced his arm with a bronze-shod spear,
he spitted the Trojan through where the elbow-tendons grip
and there he stood, waiting Achilles, arm dangling heavy,
staring death in the face--and Achilles chopped his n
eck
and his sword sent head and helmet flying off together
and marrow bubbling up from the clean-cut neckbone.
Down he went, his corpse full length on the ground--
just as Achilles charged at Piras' handsome son,
Rhigmus who'd sailed from the fertile soil of Thrace--
Achilles pierced his belly, the bronze impaled his guts
and out of his car he pitched as his driver Areithous
swung the horses round but Achilles speared his back
and the spearshaft heaved him off the chariot too
and the panicked stallions bolted.
Achilles now
like inhuman fire raging on through the mountain gorges
splinter-dry, setting ablaze big stands of timber,
the wind swirling the huge fireball left and right--
chaos of fire--Achilles storming on with brandished spear
like a frenzied god of battle trampling all he killed
and the earth ran black with blood. Thundering on,
on like oxen broad in the brow some field hand yokes
to crush white barley heaped on a well-laid threshing floor
and the grain is husked out fast by the bellowing oxen's hoofs--
so as the great Achilles rampaged on, his sharp-hoofed stallions
trampled shields and corpses, axle under his 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 the son of Peleus
charioteering on to seize his glory, bloody filth
splattering both strong arms, Achilles' invincible arms--
BOOK TWENTY-ONE
Achilles Fights the River
But once they reached the ford where the river runs clear,
the strong, whirling Xanthus sprung of immortal Zeus,
Achilles split the Trojan rout, driving one half
back toward the city, scattering up the plain
where Achaeans themselves stampeded off in terror
just the day before when Hector raged unchecked.
Now back in their tracks the Trojans fled pell-mell
while Hera spread dense cloud ahead to block their way.
But the other half were packed in the silver-whirling river,
into its foaming depths they tumbled, splashing, flailing--
the plunging river roaring, banks echoing, roaring back
and the men screamed, swimming wildly, left and right,
spinning round in the whirlpools. Spun like locusts
swarming up in the air, whipped by rushing fire,
flitting toward a river--the tireless fire blazes,
scorching them all with hard explosive blasts of flame
and beaten down in the depths the floating locusts huddle--
so at Achilles' charge the Xanthus' swirling currents
choked with a spate of horse and men--the river roared.
And the god-sprung hero left his spear on the bank,
propped on tamarisks--in he leapt like a frenzied god,
his heart racing with slaughter, only his sword in hand,