Diomedov pogum

Besedilo

Diomedov pogum

Then Pallas Athena gave Diomedes, son of Tydeus, strength and daring, so that he might stand out among all the Argives and win noble glory. From his helmet and shield she kindled an unwearying fire, like the star of autumn that shines most brilliantly when it has bathed in Ocean. Such a fire she kindled about his head and shoulders, and drove him into the thick of battle, where the greatest numbers surged.

Among the Trojans was Dares, a wealthy, blameless man, a priest of Hephaestus. He had two sons, Phegeus and Idaeus, skilled in every kind of fighting. These broke from the ranks and charged straight at Diomedes, the two from their chariot, while he advanced on foot.

When they had drawn close to one another, Phegeus was first to cast his long-shadowed spear. Its point passed over the left shoulder of Tydeus’ son and did not strike him. Then Diomedes lunged with his bronze spear, and the weapon did not fly in vain from his hand: it struck Phegeus in the chest between the nipples and hurled him from the chariot.

Idaeus leaped away, abandoning the splendid chariot, and did not dare stand over his fallen brother. Nor would he himself have escaped black death, had Hephaestus not shielded him and saved him beneath a shroud of darkness, so that his aged priest should not be utterly crushed by grief.

The son of great-hearted Tydeus drove off the horses and gave them to his comrades to take down to the hollow ships. When the great-hearted Trojans saw the sons of Dares, one fleeing, the other dead beside the chariot, every heart was shaken. But bright-eyed Athena took raging Ares by the hand and said, “Ares, Ares, scourge of mortals, bloodstained breaker of walls, shall we not leave the Trojans and Achaeans to fight, and let father Zeus grant glory to whichever side he will? Let us withdraw and escape the wrath of Zeus.”

With these words she led raging Ares out of battle and seated him beside the sandy banks of Scamander. The Danaans drove the Trojans back, and each of their leaders killed a man. First Agamemnon, lord of men, hurled mighty Odius, leader of the Halizones, from his chariot. As he turned to flee at the head of the rout, Agamemnon planted his spear in his back between the shoulders and drove it through his chest. He fell with a thud, and his armor clattered about him.

Idomeneus killed Phaestus, son of Borus the Maeonian, who had come from fertile Tarne. As he was mounting his chariot, Idomeneus, famed for his spear, pierced him through the right shoulder with his long lance. He fell from the chariot, and hateful darkness took him.

While the followers of Idomeneus stripped his armor, Menelaus, son of Atreus, slew Scamandrius, son of Strophius, with his sharp spear. He was a skilled hunter, for Artemis herself had taught him to shoot every wild creature nurtured by the mountain forests. But neither Artemis the archer nor the skill in shooting from afar for which he had once been famous could help him then. As he fled before him, Menelaus, son of Atreus, famed for his spear, struck him in the back between the shoulders and drove the point through his chest. He fell face downward, and his armor clattered about him.

Meriones killed Phereclus, son of Tecton, grandson of Harmon, whose hands could fashion all manner of cunning works, for Pallas Athena loved him beyond others. It was he who had built for Alexandros the shapely ships that began the evil, bringing disaster upon all the Trojans and upon himself, for he knew nothing of the gods’ decrees.

As Meriones overtook him in pursuit, he struck him in the right buttock. The spearpoint passed straight through beneath the bone and into the bladder. He dropped to his knees with a cry, and death enfolded him.

Meges slew Pedaeus, son of Antenor. He was born out of wedlock, but noble Theano had carefully reared him as one of her own dear children, to please her husband. The son of Phyleus, famed for his spear, came close and struck him with his sharp lance at the nape of the neck. The bronze cut straight through beneath the tongue and out between his teeth. He fell in the dust, his teeth clenching the cold bronze.

Eurypylus, son of Euaemon, struck down noble Hypsenor, son of proud Dolopion, who was priest of Scamander and honored by his people like a god. As Hypsenor fled before him, Eurypylus, Euaemon’s glorious son, ran after him and sprang forward with his sword, striking his shoulder and shearing off his heavy arm. The bloody arm fell to the ground, and crimson death and mighty fate closed over his eyes.

So they labored in the fierce battle. But you could not have told on which side the son of Tydeus was fighting, whether he moved among the Trojans or the Achaeans. He raged across the plain like a river swollen with winter rain, whose rushing waters sweep away the embankments. Neither the strong-built banks nor the walls of flourishing orchards can hold it when it suddenly comes on, burdened by the rain of Zeus, and many fine works of men collapse beneath it. So the close-packed Trojan ranks broke before the son of Tydeus, and for all their numbers they could not stand against him.

When Lycaon’s glorious son saw him storming across the plain and driving the ranks before him, he swiftly bent his curved bow against the son of Tydeus. He struck him as he charged, hitting the right shoulder, on the rounded plate of his breastplate. The bitter arrow flew through and pierced him clean across, and the breastplate was stained with blood.

Then Lycaon’s glorious son shouted aloud, “On, great-hearted Trojans, drivers of horses! The best of the Achaeans is wounded, and I say he will not long endure that mighty shaft, if the lord, the son of Zeus, truly sped me on my way when I set out from Lycia.”

So he boasted. But the swift arrow had not brought Diomedes down. He drew back and stood before his horses and chariot, and said to Sthenelus, son of Capaneus, “Quick, dear son of Capaneus, come down from the chariot and draw this bitter arrow from my shoulder.”

So he spoke, and Sthenelus leaped from the chariot to the ground. Standing beside him, he drew the swift arrow right through and out of his shoulder, and blood spurted through the woven tunic. Then Diomedes of the great war cry prayed, “Hear me, unwearied daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis! If ever you stood beside my father and me with kindly heart in the fury of war, befriend me now once more, Athena. Grant that I may kill this man and bring him within my spear’s reach, the man who struck me first and boasts that I shall not look much longer on the bright light of the sun.”

So he prayed, and Pallas Athena heard him. She made his limbs light, his feet and his hands above, and stood close beside him, speaking winged words: “Take courage now, Diomedes, and fight the Trojans. I have put into your breast your father’s fearless strength, such as Tydeus the horseman had, that wielder of the shield. And I have lifted from your eyes the mist that lay upon them, so that you may clearly tell a god from a mortal.

“If, then, a god should come here to test you, do not fight face-to-face with any of the other immortals. But if Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, enters the battle, wound her with your sharp bronze.”

With these words bright-eyed Athena departed, and the son of Tydeus went back among the foremost fighters. Eager as he had been before to fight the Trojans, three times that fury seized him now. He was like a lion that a shepherd guarding his woolly sheep in the fields grazes as it leaps over the fold’s wall, but fails to kill. He has only roused its strength, and can no longer defend his flock: he slips into shelter, while the abandoned sheep scatter in terror. They huddle close, tumbling over one another, and the lion in its fury leaps out of the high-walled fold. With such fury mighty Diomedes plunged among the Trojans.

There he killed Astynous and Hypeiron, shepherd of the people. One he struck above the nipple with his bronze-tipped spear; the other he smote with his great sword on the collarbone beside the shoulder, shearing the shoulder away from neck and back.

He left them and went after Abas and Polyidus, sons of Eurydamas, the aged interpreter of dreams. The old man had read no dreams that foretold their return: mighty Diomedes stripped them of their lives and armor. Then he went after Xanthus and Thoon, the two sons of Phaenops, both born to him late in life. Their father was worn down by grievous age, and had begotten no other son to inherit his possessions.

There Diomedes slew them both and took away their dear lives, leaving their father mourning and bitter sorrow, for he did not welcome them home alive from battle. Distant kinsmen divided his estate.

Then he caught two sons of Priam, descendant of Dardanus, Echemmon and Chromius, riding together in one chariot. As a lion springs among cattle grazing in a thicket and breaks the neck of a calf or cow, so the son of Tydeus hurled them both, struggling helplessly, from their chariot to a cruel fate. He stripped off their armor and gave their horses to his comrades to drive to the ships.

Aeneas saw him ravaging the ranks of men and went through the battle and the clash of spears, searching for godlike Pandarus. He found Lycaon’s brave and mighty son, stood before him, and said, “Pandarus, where are your bow, your winged arrows, and your fame? No man here can rival you in that, nor does any man in Lycia boast himself your better.

“Come, raise your hands to Zeus and loose an arrow at this man, whoever he may be, who is sweeping all before him and has already done the Trojans so much harm, loosening the knees of many a brave man. Unless he is some god angered with the Trojans, enraged over their sacrifices—and a god’s wrath is hard to bear.”

Lycaon’s glorious son answered him, “Aeneas, counselor of the bronze-clad Trojans, in every way he looks to me like the warlike son of Tydeus. I know him by his shield, his helmet with its towering crest, and the horses I see. Yet I cannot be certain that he is not a god.

“But if he is the man I think, the warlike son of Tydeus, he is not raging like this without a god’s help. One of the immortals stands close beside him, his shoulders wrapped in cloud, and has turned aside the swift arrow that struck him.

“Already I have shot at him and hit his right shoulder, straight through the rounded breastplate. I thought I had sent him on his way to Hades, yet I did not bring him down. Surely some god is angry with me.

“I have no horses here, no chariot to mount. Yet in Lycaon’s halls there stand eleven handsome chariots, newly made and fresh from the builder, with coverings spread over them. Beside each stands a pair of horses, feeding on white barley and spelt.

“When I set out, the old spearman Lycaon gave me many earnest orders in his well-built halls. He urged me to take horses and chariot and lead the Trojans through the fierce battles. But I would not listen—far better if I had! I wished to spare my horses, lest, with so many men crowded together, they should lack the fodder they were used to eating in abundance.

“So I left them and came to Ilium on foot, trusting in my bow. Yet it was not to serve me well. Already I have shot at two of their best men, the son of Tydeus and the son of Atreus, and struck them both, drawing blood in earnest, only to rouse their fury all the more.

“It was an evil fate that made me take my curved bow from its peg on the day I led the Trojans to lovely Ilium, to do noble Hector a kindness. If I ever return and see with my own eyes my native land, my wife, and my great high-roofed house, may a stranger cut my head off then and there if I do not break this bow in my hands and fling it into the blazing fire. It has been a useless companion.”

Aeneas, leader of the Trojans, answered him, “Do not speak so. Nothing will change until we two meet this man with horses and chariot and put him to the test with our weapons, face-to-face.

“Come, mount my chariot and see what the horses of Tros are like, how well they know the plain, how swiftly they can turn this way and that, in pursuit or flight. They will bring us safely back to the city, even if Zeus grants glory once more to Diomedes, son of Tydeus.

“Come, take the whip and the shining reins, while I dismount to fight; or else face him yourself, and I will look after the horses.” Lycaon’s glorious son answered, “Aeneas, keep the reins and your own horses. They will draw the curved chariot better under the driver they know, if we must flee before the son of Tydeus. Otherwise they may take fright and run wild, refusing to carry us out of battle because they miss your voice. Then the son of great-hearted Tydeus will spring upon us, kill us both, and drive off the solid-hoofed horses.

“Drive your own chariot and horses yourself, and I will meet his charge with my sharp spear.” With these words they mounted the richly wrought chariot and eagerly drove the swift horses toward the son of Tydeus.

Sthenelus, the glorious son of Capaneus, saw them and at once spoke winged words to Diomedes: “Diomedes, son of Tydeus, dearest to my heart, I see two mighty men coming eagerly to fight you, men of boundless strength. One is Pandarus, skilled with the bow, who declares himself the son of Lycaon. The other is Aeneas, who claims blameless Anchises as his father, and whose mother is Aphrodite.

“Come, let us draw back in the chariot. Do not rage like this among the foremost fighters, lest you lose your precious life.” Mighty Diomedes glared at him and answered, “Speak no word of flight: I do not think you will persuade me.

“It is not in my blood to skulk from battle or cower in fear. My strength is still unshaken. I have no wish to mount the chariot: I shall go against them as I am, on foot. Pallas Athena will not let me flee.

“Their swift horses will not carry both these men back from us, even if one escapes. And another thing I tell you—take it to heart. If Athena of the many counsels grants me the glory of killing both, hold our swift horses here, tying the reins to the chariot rail, and remember to spring upon Aeneas’ horses and drive them away from the Trojans to the well-greaved Achaeans.

“They are of the stock that far-seeing Zeus gave Tros as recompense for his son Ganymede, the finest of all horses beneath the dawn and sun. Anchises, lord of men, secretly bred from that stock, putting his mares to them without Laomedon’s knowledge. Six foals were born to him in his halls.

“Four he kept and reared at his own manger, but these two, masters of the rout, he gave to Aeneas. If we could take them, we should win noble glory.” So they spoke together, while the two Trojans swiftly drew near, driving their fleet horses.

Lycaon’s glorious son spoke first: “Stouthearted, warlike son of proud Tydeus, my swift shaft, my bitter arrow, did not bring you down. Now I shall try my spear and see if I can hit you.”

He spoke, raised his long-shadowed spear, and hurled it. It struck the shield of Tydeus’ son, and the bronze point flew through and reached his breastplate. Then Lycaon’s glorious son shouted aloud, “You are struck clean through the flank! I do not think you will endure much longer. You have given me great glory!”

Unshaken, mighty Diomedes answered, “You missed; you have not wounded me. But I think you two will not stop until one of you at least falls and gluts with blood Ares, the warrior who fights beneath his bull-hide shield.”

With these words he hurled his spear, and Athena guided it beside the eye into the nose, and it pierced the white teeth. The unyielding bronze cut through the tongue at its root, and the point came out beneath the chin. He fell from the chariot, and his flashing, gleaming armor clattered about him. His swift-footed horses shied away, and there his life and strength were loosed.

Aeneas sprang down with his shield and long spear, fearing the Achaeans might drag away the dead man. Trusting in his strength like a lion, he strode over the body, holding his spear and round shield before him, ready to kill whoever came against him, and shouting fearfully. But the son of Tydeus took up a stone, a monstrous weight that two men could not carry, such as mortals are today; yet he swung it easily alone.

With it he struck Aeneas on the hip, where the thigh turns in the hip joint, the place men call the socket. He crushed the socket and tore both tendons, and the jagged stone stripped away the skin. The warrior dropped to his knees and braced himself against the earth with his powerful hand, while black night covered his eyes.

And there Aeneas, lord of men, would have perished, had Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, not seen him at once—his mother, who had borne him to Anchises when he tended cattle. She threw her white arms about her dear son and spread a fold of her shining robe before him to shield him from weapons, lest one of the Danaans with their swift horses should drive bronze into his chest and take his life.

So she carried her dear son out of battle. Nor did the son of Capaneus forget the instructions Diomedes of the great war cry had given him. He held his own solid-hoofed horses apart from the tumult, tying the reins to the chariot rail, then sprang upon Aeneas’ horses with their lovely manes and drove them away from the Trojans to the well-greaved Achaeans.

He gave them to his dear companion Deipylus, whom he valued above all men of his own age because their minds agreed, to drive down to the hollow ships. Then the warrior mounted his own chariot, took the shining reins, and eagerly drove his strong-hoofed horses after the son of Tydeus. Diomedes was pursuing Cypris with pitiless bronze, knowing her to be a feeble goddess, not one of those who rule the battles of men—neither Athena nor Enyo, sacker of cities.

When at last he overtook her in his pursuit through the throng, the son of great-hearted Tydeus sprang forward and lunged with his sharp spear, wounding her delicate hand. The point pierced her immortal skin at once, through the robe the Graces themselves had fashioned for her, just above the base of the palm. The goddess’s immortal blood flowed out—ichor, such as flows in the blessed gods. For they eat no bread and drink no flaming wine, and so they are bloodless and are called immortal.

She screamed aloud and let her son fall from her arms. But Phoebus Apollo caught him in his hands and sheltered him in a dark cloud, lest one of the Danaans with their swift horses should drive bronze into his chest and take his life. Diomedes of the great war cry shouted after her, “Daughter of Zeus, keep away from war and slaughter! Is it not enough that you beguile defenseless women?

“If you come haunting the battlefield, I think you will learn to shudder at war, even when you hear of it far away.” So he spoke, and she went off beside herself, in terrible distress. Wind-footed Iris took her by the hand and led her out of the throng, racked with pain, her lovely skin darkening.

She found raging Ares seated on the left of the battlefield, his spear and swift horses shrouded in mist. Falling to her knees before her dear brother, she begged him earnestly for his horses with their golden headbands: “Dear brother, help me, and give me your horses, so that I may reach Olympus, where the immortals dwell.

“I am in terrible pain from a wound dealt me by a mortal man, the son of Tydeus, who would now fight even father Zeus.” So she spoke, and Ares gave her the horses with their golden headbands. She climbed into the chariot, grieving at heart, and Iris mounted beside her and took the reins. She whipped the horses on, and willingly the pair flew forward.

Soon they reached steep Olympus, the seat of the gods. There swift, wind-footed Iris halted the horses, unyoked them from the chariot, and set ambrosial fodder before them. But divine Aphrodite fell into the lap of Dione, her mother, who clasped her daughter in her arms, stroked her with her hand, and said, “Which of the heavenly gods has treated you so wantonly, dear child, as though you had been caught doing evil?”

Then laughter-loving Aphrodite answered, “The son of Tydeus wounded me, proud Diomedes, because I was carrying my dear son out of battle—Aeneas, whom I love far more than anyone.

“For the dreadful fighting is no longer between Trojans and Achaeans: now the Danaans fight even the immortal gods.” Dione, queen among goddesses, answered her, “Endure, my child, and bear it, though you suffer. Many of us who dwell in the halls of Olympus have suffered grievously at mortal hands, as we bring pain upon one another.

“Ares endured it when Otus and mighty Ephialtes, the sons of Aloeus, bound him in cruel bonds. Thirteen months he lay imprisoned in a bronze jar. And there Ares, insatiable for war, would have perished, had their stepmother, lovely Eeriboea, not told Hermes. He stole Ares away when he was already worn out, for the cruel bonds were breaking him.

“Hera endured it when the mighty son of Amphitryon struck her in the right breast with a three-barbed arrow. Then too an incurable pain took hold of her. And mighty Hades endured a swift arrow among the rest, when that same man, the son of aegis-bearing Zeus, struck him at Pylos among the dead and gave him over to anguish. He went to the house of Zeus on high Olympus, grieving at heart and pierced with pain, for the arrow had driven into his powerful shoulder and tormented his spirit.

“But Paeeon sprinkled soothing medicines on the wound and healed him, for he was not made mortal. Reckless, violent man, who did not shrink from wicked deeds, who plagued with his arrows the gods that dwell on Olympus!

“It was bright-eyed Athena who set this man upon you. The fool! The son of Tydeus does not understand that a man who fights the immortals does not live long. No children prattle ‘Father’ at his knees when he comes home from war and dreadful battle.

“So now, strong as he is, let the son of Tydeus beware lest someone mightier than you should fight him. Otherwise wise Aegialia, daughter of Adrastus, may soon awaken her dear household from sleep with her lamenting, yearning for her wedded husband, the best of the Achaeans—she, the noble wife of Diomedes, tamer of horses.”

She spoke and with both hands wiped the ichor from Aphrodite’s hand. The hand healed, and the grievous pains were soothed. But Athena and Hera, looking on, began to provoke Zeus, son of Cronus, with mocking words.

Bright-eyed Athena was first to speak: “Father Zeus, will you be angry with me for what I say? Surely Cypris has been urging some Achaean woman to follow the Trojans, whom she now loves so extravagantly, and while stroking one of these finely dressed Achaean women she has scratched her delicate hand on a golden brooch.”

So she spoke, and the father of gods and men smiled. He called golden Aphrodite to him and said, “My child, the works of war are not for you. Attend instead to the lovely works of marriage. Swift Ares and Athena will see to all these other things.”

So they spoke together. But Diomedes of the great war cry charged at Aeneas, though he knew that Apollo himself was holding his hands above him. He did not shrink even before the mighty god, but still pressed on, eager to kill Aeneas and strip him of his glorious armor.

Three times he charged, intent on killing him, and three times Apollo battered back his shining shield. But when he rushed forward a fourth time like a god, Apollo who strikes from afar cried out to him in a terrible voice: “Beware, son of Tydeus, and fall back! Do not think yourself the equal of the gods. The race of immortal gods and that of men who walk the earth are never the same.”

So he spoke, and the son of Tydeus drew back a little, avoiding the wrath of far-shooting Apollo. Apollo set Aeneas apart from the throng in sacred Pergamus, where his temple stood.

There, in the great inner sanctuary, Leto and Artemis the archer healed him and restored his glory. Meanwhile Apollo of the silver bow fashioned a phantom in the likeness of Aeneas himself, with armor like his own. Around this phantom the Trojans and noble Achaeans hacked at one another’s round ox-hide shields and fluttering hide bucklers before their breasts.

Then Phoebus Apollo spoke to raging Ares: “Ares, Ares, scourge of mortals, bloodstained breaker of walls, will you not go and drive this man out of battle, this son of Tydeus, who would now fight even father Zeus?

“First he wounded Cypris at close quarters, striking her hand at the wrist, and then he rushed at me myself like a god.” With these words Apollo seated himself on the summit of Pergamus, while murderous Ares went among the Trojan ranks and roused them, taking the likeness of swift Acamas, leader of the Thracians. He called to the sons of Priam, nurtured by Zeus: “Sons of Priam, the king whom Zeus sustains, how long will you let the Achaeans slaughter your people?

“Until they fight at your well-built gates? A man lies fallen whom we honored as much as noble Hector—Aeneas, son of great-hearted Anchises. Come, let us save our brave companion from the tumult.”

With these words he roused the strength and spirit in every man. Then Sarpedon sharply rebuked noble Hector: “Hector, where has that courage gone that once was yours? You used to say that you could hold the city without troops or allies, alone with your brothers and your sisters’ husbands.

“Now I can neither see nor find a single one of them: they cower like dogs before a lion. We are the ones fighting, we who are only your allies. I too have come as an ally from very far away. Far off lies Lycia, beside the eddying Xanthus, where I left my dear wife and infant son, and many possessions that a needy man would covet.

“Even so, I urge the Lycians on and am eager to face a man myself, though I have nothing here that the Achaeans could plunder or drive away. Yet you stand idle and do not even tell the rest of your people to hold their ground and defend their wives.

“Beware lest you be caught as in the meshes of an all-enclosing net, to become the prey and spoil of your enemies. Soon they will sack your prosperous city. These things should be your care by night and day: you should implore the leaders of your far-famed allies to hold fast without respite, and so escape their bitter reproaches.”

So Sarpedon spoke, and his words bit Hector to the heart. At once he leaped in his armor from the chariot to the ground, and brandishing his sharp spears he went everywhere through the army, urging them to fight, and stirred up dreadful battle.

They wheeled about and faced the Achaeans. But the Argives stood close together and did not flee. As the wind carries chaff over the sacred threshing floors when men are winnowing, and golden-haired Demeter separates grain from chaff in the rushing breeze, while the heaps of chaff grow white, so the Achaeans were whitened from head to foot with the dust that the horses’ hooves struck up among them toward the brazen sky, as the armies met again and the charioteers wheeled their teams.

They drove straight forward with all the strength of their hands, while raging Ares spread night over the battle, moving everywhere to help the Trojans. He was carrying out the commands of Phoebus Apollo of the golden sword, who had told him to rouse the Trojans’ courage when he saw Pallas Athena depart, for it was she who had been helping the Danaans.

Apollo himself sent Aeneas out of his rich sanctuary and put strength into the heart of that shepherd of the people. Aeneas took his place among his comrades, and they rejoiced to see him coming toward them alive and unhurt, full of noble courage. Yet they asked him no questions.

The further struggle would not let them, the struggle stirred by the god of the silver bow, by Ares, scourge of mortals, and by Strife in her unceasing fury. The two Ajaxes, Odysseus, and Diomedes urged the Danaans to fight. Nor did the men themselves fear the Trojans’ might or their onslaughts. They stood like clouds that the son of Cronus sets motionless above the mountain peaks in windless weather, while the force of the North Wind sleeps, and all the other furious winds that scatter the shadowy clouds with their shrill blasts. So the Danaans stood firm against the Trojans and did not flee.

The son of Atreus went through the throng, calling out many commands: “Friends, be men, and take courage into your hearts! Have regard for one another in the fierce fighting. Where men feel shame before their comrades, more are saved than killed. But those who flee win neither glory nor safety.”

So he spoke and swiftly hurled his spear, striking a man in the foremost ranks, Deicoon son of Pergasus, a companion of great-hearted Aeneas. The Trojans honored him as they did Priam’s own sons, for he was always quick to fight among the foremost.

Lord Agamemnon struck his shield with the spear. The shield did not stop it: the bronze point passed clean through and drove through his belt into his lower belly. He fell with a thud, and his armor clattered over him.

Then Aeneas killed two of the finest Danaans, Crethon and Orsilochus, the sons of Diocles. Their father lived in well-built Pherae, rich in possessions, and traced his line to the river Alpheus, whose broad waters flow through the land of Pylos. Alpheus fathered Ortilochus, a ruler over many men; Ortilochus fathered great-hearted Diocles; and Diocles had twin sons, Crethon and Orsilochus, skilled in every kind of fighting.

When they had reached manhood, the two followed the Argives in their black ships to Ilium, land of fine horses, seeking to win honor for the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus. But there the end of death enfolded them.

They were like two lions reared by their mother on the mountain heights, in the thickets of a deep wood. Seizing cattle and sturdy sheep, they ravage the farmsteads of men, until they too are killed by men’s hands with sharp bronze. So these two, brought down by the hands of Aeneas, fell like towering fir trees.

Menelaus, dear to Ares, pitied them as they fell. Clad in gleaming bronze, he strode through the foremost fighters, brandishing his spear. Ares stirred his fury, intending that he should fall beneath the hands of Aeneas.

But Antilochus, son of great-hearted Nestor, saw him and strode through the foremost ranks. He feared greatly for the shepherd of the people, lest some harm befall him and bring all their labor to ruin. The two stood facing one another, their hands and pointed spears poised, eager to fight; but Antilochus came up close beside the shepherd of the people.

Aeneas, swift a warrior though he was, did not stand his ground when he saw the two men side by side. Once they had dragged the dead back among the Achaeans, they placed the two poor bodies in their comrades’ hands, then turned again to fight among the foremost.

There they brought down Pylaemenes, a match for Ares, leader of the great-hearted, shield-bearing Paphlagonians. Menelaus, Atreus’ son, famed for his spear, struck him as he stood, thrusting his spear into his collarbone. Antilochus struck his charioteer, Mydon, the worthy son of Atymnius, as he was turning the solid-hoofed horses. A stone caught him squarely on the elbow, and the reins, white with ivory, fell from his hands into the dust.

Antilochus sprang forward and struck his temple with his sword. Gasping, he plunged headfirst from the well-made chariot, landing in the dust on his head and shoulders. For a long while he stood there, for he had fallen in deep sand, until his horses struck him and knocked him flat in the dust. Antilochus lashed them and drove them into the Achaean army.

Hector saw them among the ranks and rushed at them shouting, with the strong Trojan battalions following him. Ares and the lady Enyo led them, she bringing with her the ruthless Tumult of battle, while Ares wielded a monstrous spear in his hands, striding now before Hector, now behind him.

Diomedes of the mighty war cry shuddered at the sight. As a helpless traveler crossing a wide plain stops before a swift river running to the sea, sees it seething with foam, and runs back again, so the son of Tydeus drew back and said to his men: “Friends, how we marvel at noble Hector, what a spearman he is, what a fearless fighter! But always some god stands beside him, warding off destruction. And now there is Ares beside him, in the likeness of a mortal man.

“Keep facing the Trojans, but give ground steadily. Do not seek to fight the gods by force.” So he spoke, and the Trojans came very close. Then Hector killed two men skilled in battle, Menesthes and Anchialus, riding in a single chariot.

Great Ajax, son of Telamon, pitied them as they fell. He came up very close, stood firm, and hurled his shining spear. He struck Amphius, son of Selagus, who lived at Paesus, a man of many possessions and rich cornfields. But fate had brought him to aid Priam and his sons.

Ajax son of Telamon struck him in the belt, and the long-shadowed spear lodged in his lower belly. He fell with a thud, and glorious Ajax rushed forward to strip his armor. But the Trojans showered him with sharp, gleaming spears, and his shield caught many of them.

Planting his heel on the corpse, he pulled out his bronze spear, but could not strip the rest of the fine armor from its shoulders, for the missiles pressed him hard. He feared the proud Trojans would close around him in strength: many brave men stood over the body with spears in their hands, and, great and mighty and splendid though he was, they drove him away from them. He gave ground and was forced back.

So they labored in the fierce fighting. But powerful fate drove Tlepolemus, Heracles’ son, tall and valiant, against godlike Sarpedon. When they had advanced and drawn close to one another, the son and grandson of Zeus the cloud-gatherer, Tlepolemus was the first to speak: “Sarpedon, counselor of the Lycians, what compels you to cower here like a man who knows nothing of war?

“They lie who call you a son of Zeus who bears the aegis, for you fall far short of the men born of Zeus in former generations. What strength, they say, mighty Heracles possessed—my own father, bold and lionhearted! He once came here for Laomedon’s horses, with only six ships and a smaller force of men, yet sacked the city of Ilium and left its streets deserted. But your spirit is cowardly, and your people are perishing.

“I do not think your coming from Lycia will be any help to the Trojans, however strong you may be. No, brought down by me, you will pass through the gates of Hades.” Sarpedon, leader of the Lycians, answered him: “Tlepolemus, that man indeed destroyed sacred Ilium, but through the folly of proud Laomedon, who repaid his good service with insulting words and would not give him the horses for which he had come so far.

“But I tell you that here at my hands you will meet slaughter and black doom. Brought down beneath my spear, you will give glory to me, and your soul to Hades, famed for his horses.” So Sarpedon spoke, and Tlepolemus raised his ash spear. Together their long spears flew from their hands. Sarpedon struck him in the middle of the neck, and the cruel point passed clean through. Dark night covered his eyes.

But Tlepolemus had struck Sarpedon in the left thigh with his long spear. The point drove fiercely through, grazing the bone, but his father still warded off destruction. His noble comrades carried godlike Sarpedon out of the battle, and the long spear weighed him down as it trailed behind him. In their haste, none of them thought or noticed that they should pull the ash spear from his thigh so he could walk: such was their anxious labor as they tended him.

On the other side, the well-greaved Achaeans carried Tlepolemus out of the fighting. Noble Odysseus, steadfast at heart, saw him, and his spirit raged within him. He debated in his mind and heart whether to pursue the son of loud-thundering Zeus or take the lives of more of the Lycian host.

But it was not fated that great-hearted Odysseus should kill the mighty son of Zeus with his sharp bronze. So Athena turned his fury against the mass of the Lycians. There he killed Coeranus, Alastor, Chromius, Alcander, Halius, Noemon, and Prytanis.

And noble Odysseus would have killed still more Lycians, had great Hector of the flashing helmet not seen him at once. Clad in gleaming bronze, he strode through the foremost fighters, bringing terror to the Danaans. Sarpedon, son of Zeus, rejoiced at his approach and spoke in a piteous voice: “Son of Priam, do not leave me lying here as plunder for the Danaans. Defend me! Then let life desert me in your city, since I was never destined to return home to my own dear country and bring joy to my beloved wife and infant son.”

So he spoke, but Hector of the flashing helmet gave him no answer. He rushed past, eager to drive the Argives back at once and take the lives of many. Meanwhile his noble comrades set godlike Sarpedon beneath the beautiful oak of Zeus who bears the aegis. Strong Pelagon, his dear companion, pushed the ash spear out through his thigh.

His spirit left him, and a mist spread over his eyes. But he breathed again, and the breath of the North Wind blowing around him revived his sorely gasping heart. Under the pressure of Ares and bronze-armored Hector, the Argives neither turned in flight toward their black ships nor stood against them in battle. They kept giving ground, for they had learned that Ares was among the Trojans.

Who was the first, who the last, to be slain by Hector, Priam’s son, and brazen Ares? Godlike Teuthras, and after him Orestes, driver of horses; Trechus, the Aetolian spearman, and Oenomaus; Helenus, son of Oenops, and Oresbius of the gleaming belt, who lived at Hyle, much concerned with his wealth, beside the Cephisian lake. Around him lived other Boeotians, holding a land of rich soil.

When the white-armed goddess Hera saw them destroying the Argives in the fierce fighting, she at once addressed Athena with winged words: “Alas, tireless daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis! Surely the promise we made Menelaus—that he would sack well-walled Ilium and return home—will come to nothing if we let murderous Ares rage like this.

“Come, let us too turn our thoughts to the fury of battle.” So she spoke, and bright-eyed Athena obeyed. Hera, the elder goddess, daughter of great Cronus, went to harness the horses with their golden headbands. Hebe swiftly fitted the curved, eight-spoked bronze wheels to the chariot, one on either side of the iron axle.

Their rims were of imperishable gold, with bronze tires fitted over them, a wonder to behold. The rounded hubs on either side were silver. The chariot body was stretched with straps of gold and silver, and twin rails ran around it.

A silver pole projected from it, and at its tip she bound the beautiful golden yoke and fitted the splendid golden breast straps. Hera brought the swift-footed horses beneath the yoke, eager for strife and the battle cry.

Meanwhile Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, let fall upon her father’s floor her soft, embroidered robe, which she herself had made and labored over with her hands. Putting on the tunic of Zeus the cloud-gatherer, she armed herself for sorrowful war.

Over her shoulders she cast the terrible tasseled aegis, ringed all around with Terror. Upon it were Strife and Strength and chilling Pursuit, and the head of the Gorgon, that dreadful monster, fearsome and grim, a portent of Zeus who bears the aegis.

On her head she set a golden helmet, double-crested and four-ridged, fit for the fighting men of a hundred cities. She stepped into the blazing chariot and grasped her spear, heavy, huge, and strong, with which she, the daughter of a mighty father, lays low the ranks of heroes who have roused her anger.

Hera swiftly touched the horses with her whip. Of their own accord the gates of heaven groaned open, the gates guarded by the Seasons, to whom great heaven and Olympus are entrusted, to open the dense cloud or close it again.

Through these they drove the horses, obedient to the goad, and found the son of Cronus sitting apart from the other gods on the highest peak of many-ridged Olympus. There the white-armed goddess Hera halted the horses and questioned Zeus, the supreme son of Cronus: “Father Zeus, are you not outraged by these brutal deeds of Ares? So many Achaeans, and such fine men, he has destroyed recklessly and against all order, to my grief. Yet Cypris and Apollo of the silver bow sit at ease and take their pleasure, having loosed this madman who knows no law.

“Father Zeus, will you be angry with me if I strike Ares hard and drive him from the fighting?” Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: “Go, then, and set Athena, driver of spoil, against him. She is the one most used to bringing him bitter pain.”

So he spoke, and the white-armed goddess Hera obeyed. She lashed the horses, and willingly they flew between the earth and starry heaven. As far as a man can see into the hazy distance, sitting on a lookout and gazing over the wine-dark sea, so far the loud-neighing horses of the gods spring at a stride.

But when they reached Troy and its two flowing rivers, where Simois and Scamander join their streams, the white-armed goddess Hera halted the horses and unyoked them from the chariot. She poured a thick mist around them, and Simois made ambrosia spring up for them to graze on.

The goddesses went on, their steps like those of shy doves, eager to defend the Argive men. When they reached the place where the bravest and most numerous stood crowded around mighty Diomedes, tamer of horses, like lions that eat raw flesh or wild boars whose strength is not easily spent, the white-armed goddess Hera stood and shouted. She had taken the likeness of great-hearted Stentor of the brazen voice, whose cry was as loud as that of fifty other men: “Shame, Argives! Base disgraces, splendid only to look at! While noble Achilles still went into battle, the Trojans never ventured beyond the Dardanian gates, for they feared his mighty spear. But now they fight far from their city, beside our hollow ships!”

With these words she roused each man’s spirit and courage. Then bright-eyed Athena hurried to the son of Tydeus. She found the king beside his horses and chariot, cooling the wound Pandarus had dealt him with his arrow.

Sweat was chafing him beneath the broad strap of his round shield. It tormented him, and his arm was weary. Lifting the strap, he was wiping away the dark blood. The goddess laid her hand on the horses’ yoke and said: “Little like himself was the son Tydeus fathered!

“Tydeus was small in body, but a fighter. Even when I would not let him fight or make a show of strength, when he went apart from the Achaeans as an envoy to Thebes, among the many Cadmeans, I told him to feast quietly in their halls. But with his own strong spirit, as always, he challenged the young Cadmeans and beat them easily in every contest. Such a helper was I to him.

“Now I stand beside you and guard you, and urge you with all my heart to fight the Trojans. Yet either weariness from your many charges has entered your limbs, or some spiritless fear restrains you. Then you are no son of Tydeus, the warlike son of Oeneus.”

Strong Diomedes answered her: “I know you, goddess, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis. So I will speak freely and hide nothing from you. Neither spiritless fear nor any reluctance holds me back. But I still remember the commands you gave me. You forbade me to fight face-to-face with the other blessed gods; only if Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter, entered the fighting was I to wound her with my sharp bronze.

“That is why I am giving ground myself, and have ordered all the other Argives to gather here. For I recognize Ares ranging through the battle.” Then bright-eyed Athena answered him: “Diomedes, son of Tydeus, dear to my heart, do not fear Ares or any other immortal. Such a helper am I to you. Come, drive your solid-hoofed horses straight at Ares. Strike him at close quarters, and have no awe of raging Ares, that madman, that mischief made flesh, that turncoat! Only the other day he promised Hera and me that he would fight the Trojans and help the Argives. Now he is among the Trojans and has forgotten the others.”

With these words she seized Sthenelus by the hand, pulled him back, and thrust him from the chariot to the ground. He sprang down at once. Then the eager goddess mounted the chariot beside noble Diomedes. The oaken axle groaned loudly beneath the weight, for it bore a formidable goddess and the best of men.

Pallas Athena grasped the whip and reins and drove the solid-hoofed horses straight at Ares. He was stripping huge Periphas, by far the finest of the Aetolians, the splendid son of Ochesius. Bloodstained Ares was stripping him, while Athena put on the helmet of Hades, so that mighty Ares should not see her.

When Ares, destroyer of mortals, saw noble Diomedes, he left huge Periphas lying there where he had killed him and taken his life, and advanced straight against Diomedes, tamer of horses.

When they had advanced and drawn close to one another, Ares thrust first with his bronze spear over the yoke and the horses’ reins, eager to take his life. But bright-eyed Athena caught the spear in her hand and pushed it away from the chariot, so that it flew harmlessly aside.

Then Diomedes of the mighty war cry lunged with his bronze spear. Pallas Athena drove it home into the lowest part of Ares’ belly, where his war belt was fastened. There he struck and wounded him, tearing his lovely flesh, then drew the spear out again. Brazen Ares roared as loudly as nine or ten thousand men cry out in war when they join in the strife of battle.

Trembling seized both Achaeans and Trojans in their fear, so loudly did Ares roar, insatiable for war. As a dark haze rises from the clouds when a harsh wind springs up after scorching heat, so brazen Ares appeared to Diomedes, son of Tydeus, as he rose among the clouds into the broad heaven.

Swiftly he reached the home of the gods, steep Olympus, and sat beside Zeus, son of Cronus, grieving at heart. He showed him the immortal blood flowing from his wound and spoke these winged words in lament: “Father Zeus, are you not outraged at the sight of these brutal deeds?

“Always we gods endure the most dreadful suffering through one another’s will, as we seek to favor mortal men. We are all at odds with you, for you fathered that mad, accursed daughter, whose thoughts are always bent on lawless deeds.

“All the other gods on Olympus obey you, and each of us is subject to you. But her you restrain neither by word nor deed: you let her have her way, since you yourself begot that destructive child. Now she has let loose the overbearing son of Tydeus, Diomedes, to rage against the immortal gods.

“First he wounded Cypris at close quarters, striking her hand at the wrist. Then he rushed upon me myself like a god. But my swift feet carried me away. Otherwise I would long have suffered there among the dreadful corpses, or lived on powerless beneath the blows of bronze.”

Zeus the cloud-gatherer looked darkly at him and said: “Do not sit beside me whining, you turncoat. Of all the gods who hold Olympus, you are the most hateful to me. Strife is always dear to you, and wars and battles.

“You have your mother Hera’s unbearable, unyielding temper. Even she scarcely yields to my words. So I suspect it is through her prompting that you suffer this. Still, I will not let you remain in pain much longer, for you are my offspring, and your mother bore you to me. Had you been born of any other god, so destructive as you are, you would long ago have lain lower than the sons of Heaven.”

So he spoke and ordered Paeon to heal him. Paeon laid pain-killing medicines on the wound and cured him, for he was not made to die. As fig juice quickly curdles white milk that was liquid, and it thickens swiftly as one stirs, so quickly he healed raging Ares.

Hebe bathed him and dressed him in lovely clothes, and he sat beside Zeus, son of Cronus, rejoicing in his splendor. Meanwhile Argive Hera and Athena of Alalcomenae returned to the house of great Zeus, having stopped Ares, destroyer of mortals, from his slaughter of men.