Prevod
The gods sat beside Zeus in council on the golden floor, and among them lady Hebe poured the nectar. With golden cups they toasted one another, looking down on the city of the Trojans. At once the son of Cronus tried to provoke Hera, speaking sidelong words of mockery: “Two goddesses stand by Menelaus: Hera of Argos and Athena of Alalcomenae.
“But there they sit at a distance, taking their pleasure in watching, while laughter-loving Aphrodite is always at the other man’s side, warding death away from him. Even now she has rescued him when he thought he was about to die.
“Still, the victory belongs to Menelaus, dear to Ares. Let us consider how these things shall end: shall we stir up cruel war and dreadful battle once again, or bring friendship between the two sides?
“If this should please us all and win our consent, let the city of King Priam remain inhabited, and let Menelaus take Helen of Argos home again.” So he spoke, and Athena and Hera muttered in anger. They sat close together, plotting harm against the Trojans.
Athena remained silent and said nothing, furious with her father Zeus, and savage anger seized her. But Hera’s breast could not contain her wrath, and she spoke: “Most terrible son of Cronus, what words are these? How can you wish to make my labor vain and fruitless, and all the sweat I sweated in my toil? My horses too grew weary as I gathered an army to bring ruin on Priam and his sons.
“Do as you will—but the rest of us gods will not all approve.” Deeply troubled, Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: “Strange goddess, what great wrongs have Priam and Priam’s sons done you, that you rage so relentlessly to sack the well-built city of Ilium?
“If you could pass within its gates and towering walls and devour Priam raw, and Priam’s sons and all the other Trojans, then perhaps you would appease your anger. Do as you wish. Only let this quarrel never become a great source of strife between you and me hereafter.
“And I tell you something else: take it to heart. Whenever I in turn am eager to destroy a city of my choice, where men dear to you are born and live, do not stand in the way of my anger, but let me have my will. For I have yielded to you freely, though my heart was unwilling. Of all the cities of mortal men that stand beneath the sun and starry heaven, sacred Ilium was the dearest to my heart, and Priam and the people of Priam, skilled with the ash spear.
“For my altar never lacked its rightful feast, the wine poured out and the savor of burnt offerings: that is the honor allotted to us.” Then ox-eyed lady Hera answered him: “Three cities are far dearest to me: Argos and Sparta and broad-streeted Mycenae. Sack them whenever they become hateful to your heart. I shall neither stand in your way nor grudge you their destruction.
“Even if I begrudged it and refused to let you sack them, my resentment would achieve nothing, since you are far stronger than I. But my labor too must not be left without fulfillment. I too am a god, and my lineage is the same as yours. Cronus of the crooked counsels bore me most august among his daughters, both by birth and because I am called your wife, while you rule over all the immortals.
“In these matters, then, let us yield to one another, I to you and you to me, and the other immortal gods will follow. But quickly command Athena to go down into the dreadful conflict of Trojans and Achaeans, and try to make the Trojans the first to break their sworn covenant by attacking the glorious Achaeans.”
So she spoke, and the father of men and gods did not refuse. At once he addressed Athena with winged words: “Go swiftly among the armies of Trojans and Achaeans, and try to make the Trojans the first to break their sworn covenant by attacking the glorious Achaeans.”
With these words he urged Athena on, though she was eager already, and she darted down from the peaks of Olympus. Like a brilliant star that the son of crooked-counseling Cronus sends as a sign to sailors or a vast army of men, scattering a shower of sparks, so Pallas Athena sped to earth and sprang down between the armies. Astonishment seized the horse-taming Trojans and the well-greaved Achaeans as they watched, and many a man turned to his neighbor and said: “Surely cruel war and dreadful battle will come again—or else Zeus is establishing friendship between the two sides, Zeus who holds the fate of human warfare in his hands.”
So men spoke among both Achaeans and Trojans. But she slipped into the Trojan throng in the likeness of Laodocus, Antenor’s son, a mighty spearman, searching for godlike Pandarus.
She found Lycaon’s son, strong and noble, standing amid the sturdy ranks of shield-bearing men who had followed him from the streams of Aesepus. Standing close beside him, she spoke winged words: “Would you listen to some advice of mine, brave son of Lycaon?
“If you dared to loose a swift arrow at Menelaus, you would win favor and glory from all the Trojans, and above all from King Alexander. From him especially you would receive splendid gifts, if he saw warlike Menelaus, Atreus’ son, brought down by your arrow and laid upon the grievous funeral pyre.
“Come, shoot at glorious Menelaus, and vow to Apollo, the Lycian-born lord of the famous bow, that when you return home to the city of sacred Zeleia, you will sacrifice a splendid hecatomb of firstborn lambs.”
So Athena spoke, and persuaded his foolish heart. At once he uncovered his polished bow, made from the horns of a wild, leaping goat that he himself had once shot beneath the breast. He had lain in wait and struck it in the chest as it stepped out from a rock, and it had fallen backward upon the stone.
From its head grew horns sixteen palms in length. A craftsman skilled in working horn had shaped and joined them, smoothed the whole bow carefully, and fitted it with a golden tip. Pandarus bent and strung it, bracing it against the ground, then laid it ready. His loyal companions held their shields before him, lest the warlike sons of the Achaeans should rush forward before warlike Menelaus, Atreus’ son, was struck.
He opened the lid of his quiver and took out a feathered arrow, never yet shot, a bearer of dark anguish. Quickly he fitted the bitter shaft to the string, and vowed to Apollo, the Lycian-born lord of the famous bow, that when he returned home to the city of sacred Zeleia, he would sacrifice a splendid hecatomb of firstborn lambs.
Grasping the notch and the oxhide string together, he drew them back, bringing the string to his breast and the iron arrowhead to the bow. When he had bent the great bow into a circle, the bow rang, the string sang loudly, and the sharp-pointed arrow leapt away, eager to fly into the throng.
But the blessed immortal gods had not forgotten you, Menelaus, and foremost among them was Zeus’s daughter, the driver of spoil. She stood before you and turned aside the piercing shaft, brushing it away from your flesh as a mother brushes a fly from her child when he lies in sweet sleep. She herself guided it to the place where the golden clasps of your belt were fastened and the breastplate overlapped.
The bitter arrow struck the close-fitted belt. It drove through the richly wrought belt and forced its way through the elaborate breastplate and the metal guard he wore beneath, a defense for his flesh against flying weapons. This checked it most, yet it passed through that as well.
The arrow only grazed the surface of the warrior’s flesh, and at once dark blood flowed from the wound. As when a woman of Maeonia or Caria stains ivory with crimson dye to make a cheekpiece for a horse: it lies stored in her chamber, and many horsemen long to wear it, but it is kept as a treasure for a king, both an ornament for his horse and a glory to its driver—so, Menelaus, your shapely thighs were stained with blood, and your legs and the fine ankles below.
Then Agamemnon, lord of men, shuddered when he saw the dark blood streaming from the wound, and Menelaus, dear to Ares, shuddered too. But when he saw the binding and the barbs still outside his flesh, his courage gathered again within his breast.
With a deep groan lord Agamemnon spoke, holding Menelaus by the hand, while their companions groaned around them: “Dear brother, it was your death I sealed with the sworn sacrifice, setting you alone before the Achaeans to fight the Trojans. For the Trojans have shot you and trampled their solemn oaths.
“Yet surely the covenant is not in vain, nor the blood of lambs, the unmixed wine poured out, and the clasped right hands in which we trusted. Even if the Olympian does not fulfill it at once, he will fulfill it in the end, and they will pay a heavy price with their own lives and their wives and children.
“For I know this well in my mind and heart: a day will come when sacred Ilium shall perish, and Priam and the people of Priam, skilled with the ash spear. Zeus himself, the son of Cronus, enthroned on high and dwelling in the bright upper air, will shake his dark aegis against them all, enraged at this deceit. These things shall surely be fulfilled. But for you, Menelaus, my grief will be terrible if you die and complete the destined span of your life.
“Then I should return in utter shame to thirsty Argos, for the Achaeans will at once turn their thoughts toward their native land. We should leave Helen of Argos behind as a triumph for Priam and the Trojans, while your bones rot in the soil as you lie in Troy, our work unfinished.
“And some arrogant Trojan will leap upon the tomb of glorious Menelaus and say: ‘May Agamemnon always bring his anger to such an end! Just as now he brought an Achaean army here in vain, and then went home to his own dear country with empty ships, leaving brave Menelaus behind.’
“So someone will say. Then let the wide earth gape and swallow me.” But fair-haired Menelaus spoke to reassure him: “Take courage, and do not frighten the Achaean army yet. The sharp arrow has not lodged in a vital place. My gleaming belt checked it first, and beneath that the skirt of my armor and the metal guard the smiths had fashioned.”
Lord Agamemnon answered him: “May it indeed be so, dear Menelaus. But a healer must examine the wound and apply medicines to ease your dark suffering.”
He spoke, and turned to Talthybius, the godlike herald: “Talthybius, summon Machaon here as quickly as you can, the son of Asclepius, that peerless healer, to see warlike Menelaus, Atreus’ son. Some skilled archer, Trojan or Lycian, has struck him with an arrow—glory for him, but grief for us.”
So he spoke, and the herald obeyed his words. He went through the army of bronze-clad Achaeans, looking about for the warrior Machaon. He saw him standing amid the sturdy ranks of shield-bearing men who had followed him from horse-pasturing Tricca.
Standing close beside him, he spoke winged words: “Come, son of Asclepius. Lord Agamemnon summons you to see warlike Menelaus, leader of the Achaeans. Some skilled archer, Trojan or Lycian, has struck him with an arrow—glory for him, but grief for us.”
So he spoke, and stirred Machaon’s heart within his breast. They set off through the throng and the wide army of the Achaeans. When they reached the place where fair-haired Menelaus stood wounded, with all the foremost warriors gathered in a circle around him, the godlike healer took his place among them. At once he drew the arrow from the close-fitted belt, but as he pulled it out the sharp barbs bent backward.
He loosened the gleaming belt and beneath it the skirt of armor and the metal guard the smiths had fashioned. When he saw the wound where the bitter arrow had struck, he sucked out the blood and skillfully sprinkled soothing medicines upon it, medicines that Chiron had once given his father out of friendship.
While they tended Menelaus of the mighty war cry, the ranks of Trojan shield-bearers advanced. The Achaeans put on their armor again and remembered the battle. Then you would not have seen godlike Agamemnon sleeping, or cowering, or unwilling to fight, but eagerly hastening toward the battle that brings men glory.
He left his horses and his chariot adorned with bronze. His attendant Eurymedon, son of Ptolemaeus, son of Peiraeus, held the snorting horses apart. Agamemnon repeatedly ordered him to keep them close at hand, against the time when weariness should seize his limbs as he passed among so many men, directing them. He himself went on foot through the ranks. Whenever he saw the men of the swift-horsed Danaans pressing eagerly forward, he stood beside them and heartened them with words: “Argives, do not slacken your fighting spirit! Father Zeus will never aid men who break their word. Those who first broke the sworn covenant by attacking us—their tender flesh shall be eaten by vultures, while we carry off their dear wives and little children in our ships, once we have taken their city.”
But whenever he saw men shrinking from hateful war, he rebuked them fiercely: “Argives, you bow-fighters, you disgraceful men, have you no shame? Why do you stand there dazed like fawns that have exhausted themselves running over a great plain, and now stand helpless, with no strength left in their hearts? So you stand dazed and will not fight.
“Are you waiting for the Trojans to come close to where our fine-sterned ships are drawn up on the shore of the gray sea, to find out whether the son of Cronus will stretch his hand over you?” So he passed through the ranks, commanding the men, and came to the Cretans as he made his way through the massed army.
They were arming around warlike Idomeneus. Idomeneus stood among the foremost fighters, strong as a wild boar, while Meriones urged on the rearmost ranks. Agamemnon, lord of men, rejoiced to see them, and at once addressed Idomeneus with gentle words: “Idomeneus, beyond all the swift-horsed Danaans I honor you, in war and in every other undertaking, and at the feast when the foremost Argives mix the gleaming wine of honor in the bowl.
“For though the other long-haired Achaeans drink a measured portion, your cup stands always full, like mine, for you to drink whenever your heart desires. Come, rise to battle and prove yourself the man you have always claimed to be.”
Idomeneus, leader of the Cretans, answered him: “Son of Atreus, I shall indeed be your faithful companion, as I promised and pledged at the beginning. But urge on the other long-haired Achaeans, so that we may fight without delay, since the Trojans have shattered the covenant. Death and sorrow will be their portion hereafter, because they were the first to break their oaths and attack.”
So he spoke, and the son of Atreus passed on with a joyful heart. Making his way through the massed army, he came to the two Ajaxes. They were arming, and a cloud of foot soldiers followed them. As when a goatherd sees from a lookout a cloud coming over the sea beneath the west wind’s blast: far away it seems blacker than pitch as it moves across the water, bringing a mighty storm, and he shudders at the sight and drives his flock into a cave—so the dense, dark ranks of heaven-nurtured young warriors moved beside the Ajaxes into deadly battle, bristling with shields and spears.
Lord Agamemnon rejoiced to see them, and addressed them with winged words: “You two Ajaxes, leaders of the bronze-clad Argives, I give you no command; it would not be fitting to urge you on. You yourselves press your men to fight with all their strength.
“Father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo, if only such spirit lived in every breast! Then the city of King Priam would soon bow its head, captured and sacked by our hands.”
With these words he left them there and went on to others. Next he came upon Nestor, the clear-voiced speaker of the Pylians, arranging his companions and urging them to battle around great Pelagon, Alastor, Chromius, lord Haemon, and Bias, shepherd of the people. He placed the chariot fighters first, with their horses and cars, and behind them the foot soldiers, many and brave, to serve as a bulwark in battle. The cowards he drove into the middle, so that even an unwilling man would be forced to fight.
First he gave orders to the chariot fighters, telling them to hold their horses in check and not become entangled in the throng: “Let no man, trusting in his horsemanship and strength, be eager to fight the Trojans alone ahead of the rest, nor let him fall back. Either way you will weaken our ranks.
“But when a man in his own chariot comes within reach of another, let him thrust with his spear: that is far the better way. So the men of earlier days sacked cities and walls, with this purpose and spirit in their breasts.”
Thus the old man, long versed in warfare, urged them on. Lord Agamemnon rejoiced to see him, and addressed him with winged words: “Old sir, if only your knees could match the spirit in your breast, and your strength stood firm! But age, the common fate of all, wears you down. If only some other man bore its burden and you were among the younger men!”
Then Nestor, the horseman of Gerenia, answered him: “Son of Atreus, I too would dearly wish to be as I was when I killed noble Ereuthalion. But the gods do not give men everything at once. Then I was young; now old age has overtaken me.
“Even so, I shall remain among the chariot fighters and guide them with counsel and words: that is the privilege of the old. The younger men shall wield their spears, those born after me who put their trust in strength.”
So he spoke, and the son of Atreus passed on with a joyful heart. He found Menestheus, son of Peteos, the driver of horses, standing with the Athenians, masters of the battle cry, around him. Close by stood resourceful Odysseus, surrounded by the sturdy ranks of the Cephallenians. Their men had not yet heard the clamor of battle, for the ranks of the horse-taming Trojans and the Achaeans had only just begun to move in turmoil. They stood waiting for another body of Achaeans to advance, charge the Trojans, and begin the fighting.
Agamemnon, lord of men, rebuked them when he saw them, and addressed them with winged words: “Son of Peteos, the heaven-nurtured king, and you, master of evil tricks, with your mind forever on gain, why do you hang back cowering and wait for others?
“You ought to stand among the foremost and face the heat of battle. For you are the first to hear from me of a feast, whenever we Achaeans prepare a banquet for the elders.
“There you are happy to eat roast meat and drink cups of honey-sweet wine for as long as you please. But now you would gladly look on, even if ten bodies of Achaeans were fighting ahead of you with pitiless bronze.”
Resourceful Odysseus looked darkly at him and answered: “Son of Atreus, what words have escaped the barrier of your teeth? How can you say we shrink from battle, when we Achaeans are rousing fierce Ares against the horse-taming Trojans?
“You will see, if you wish and if you care to look, Telemachus’ dear father fighting among the foremost against the horse-taming Trojans. Your words are empty wind.” Lord Agamemnon smiled at him, seeing his anger, and took back his words: “Heaven-born son of Laertes, Odysseus of the many wiles, I neither rebuke you unduly nor give you orders. I know that the heart within your breast is well disposed toward me, for your thoughts are the same as mine.
“Come now, we shall make things right hereafter, if anything harsh has been said. May the gods let it all vanish into air.” With these words he left them there and went on to others.
He found high-hearted Diomedes, son of Tydeus, standing beside his horses and his well-built chariot, with Sthenelus, son of Capaneus, at his side. Lord Agamemnon rebuked him when he saw him, and addressed him with winged words: “Ah, son of warlike Tydeus, tamer of horses, why do you cower? Why do you stare along the lanes of battle?
“Tydeus never cared to cower so, but fought the enemy far ahead of his own companions. So say those who saw him in action; I never met or saw him myself, but they say he surpassed all others.
“Once he came to Mycenae, not as an enemy but as a guest, with godlike Polyneices, to gather an army. They were preparing an expedition against the sacred walls of Thebes, and earnestly begged us to give them renowned allies. Our people wished to grant them and approved their request, but Zeus turned them back by showing unfavorable signs.
“When they had departed and gone forward on their journey, they reached the Asopus, deep in reeds and thick with grass. There the Achaeans sent Tydeus on an embassy. He went and found many Cadmeans feasting in the palace of mighty Eteocles.
“Though he was a stranger, alone among so many Cadmeans, Tydeus the charioteer felt no fear. He challenged them to contests and easily defeated them all: such was the help Athena gave him.
“But the Cadmeans, drivers of horses, grew angry, and as he was returning they set a strong ambush against him, bringing fifty young men. They had two leaders: Maeon, Haemon’s son, like the immortals, and Polyphontes, son of Autophonus, steadfast in war.
“Yet Tydeus brought a shameful doom on them as well. He killed them all, allowing only one to return home: Maeon he spared, in obedience to signs from the gods. Such was Tydeus of Aetolia. But the son he fathered is worse than he in battle, though better with his tongue.”
So he spoke, and mighty Diomedes made no answer, respecting the rebuke of the venerable king. But the son of glorious Capaneus replied: “Son of Atreus, do not lie when you know well how to speak the truth. We claim to be far better than our fathers. We captured the stronghold of seven-gated Thebes, though we brought fewer men against its stronger walls, obeying the signs of the gods and trusting in Zeus’s aid. But they perished through their own recklessness. So never rank our fathers as our equals.”
Mighty Diomedes looked darkly at him and said: “My friend, be silent, and listen to my words. I do not blame Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, for urging the well-greaved Achaeans into battle. His will be the glory if the Achaeans destroy the Trojans and capture sacred Ilium; his too will be the great grief if the Achaeans are destroyed.
“Come, let us too remember our fighting strength.” He spoke, and leapt in his armor from the chariot to the ground. The bronze rang terribly upon the lord’s breast as he moved; fear might have seized even a stout-hearted man.
As on a resounding shore the waves of the sea rise one after another beneath the west wind’s driving force—first they crest out on the open water, then break with a mighty roar on land, arching high around the headlands and spitting out salt spray—so the Danaan ranks moved one after another, ceaselessly, toward battle. Each leader gave his own men orders, while the rest marched in silence. You would not have thought so vast an army had voices in their breasts: so silently they went, in awe of their commanders. And all around them their elaborate armor flashed as they marched in it.
But the Trojans were like sheep standing in their thousands in a rich man’s yard to be milked of their white milk, bleating without cease as they hear their lambs cry. So the shouting rose throughout the wide Trojan army. For they did not all have the same speech or a single tongue: their languages were mingled, and the men had been summoned from many lands.
Ares urged on the one side, bright-eyed Athena the other, and with them Terror and Rout and Strife, raging without respite, sister and companion of man-slaying Ares. Small at first, she rises until her head is planted in heaven while her feet still tread the earth. So now she cast hatred alike into the midst of both armies, passing through the throng and swelling the groans of men.
When the two armies met upon the same ground, they clashed their hide-covered shields, their spears, and the fury of bronze-armored men. Bossed shields struck one another, and a great crashing arose.
Then cries of agony and triumph rose together from men killing and men being killed, and the earth streamed with blood. As when winter torrents rush down the mountains and pour their powerful waters together at a meeting of valleys, fed by great springs within a deep ravine, and a shepherd far away in the hills hears their thunder—so rose the din and struggle of the armies as they met.
Antilochus was the first to kill a Trojan warrior, Echepolus, son of Thalysius, a brave man fighting in the foremost ranks. First he struck the ridge of his horsehair-crested helmet and drove the spear into his forehead. The bronze point pierced through the bone, darkness covered his eyes, and he fell like a tower amid the fierce fighting.
As he fell, lord Elephenor, son of Chalcodon and leader of the great-hearted Abantes, seized him by the feet and dragged him out from under the weapons, eager to strip his armor as quickly as possible. But his effort lasted only a moment.
For great-hearted Agenor saw him dragging the corpse, and thrust his bronze-tipped spear into the side left bare beyond his shield as he bent over. His limbs gave way. So life left him, and over his body a bitter struggle arose between Trojans and Achaeans. Like wolves they sprang at one another, and man grappled with man.
Then Ajax, son of Telamon, struck Anthemion’s son, Simoeisius, an unmarried youth in the bloom of life. His mother had borne him beside the banks of the Simois as she came down from Ida, where she had gone with her parents to see their flocks. That was why they called him Simoeisius. But he never repaid his dear parents for his upbringing: his life was cut short, brought down by the spear of great-hearted Ajax.
For as he advanced, Ajax struck him in the chest beside the right nipple, and the bronze spear passed straight through his shoulder. He fell to the ground in the dust like a poplar that has grown in the wet meadow of a great marsh, smooth-trunked, with branches only at its crown. A chariot maker fells it with gleaming iron, to bend into a wheel rim for a splendid chariot, and it lies drying beside the riverbank.
So heaven-born Ajax slew Simoeisius, Anthemion’s son. At Ajax, Antiphus, Priam’s son in gleaming armor, hurled his sharp spear through the throng. He missed him, but struck Leucus, Odysseus’ brave companion, in the groin as he dragged the corpse aside. Leucus fell across it, and the body slipped from his hands.
Odysseus was deeply angered at his death. Clad in gleaming bronze, he strode through the foremost fighters, came close, and stood looking about him before he hurled his shining spear. The Trojans fell back as he cast it, and he did not throw in vain. He struck Democoon, Priam’s bastard son, who had come from Abydus, leaving his swift horses.
Enraged for his companion, Odysseus struck him with his spear in the temple, and the bronze point passed through the other side. Darkness covered his eyes, he fell with a thud, and his armor clattered upon him.
The foremost fighters drew back, and glorious Hector with them. The Argives shouted loudly, dragged away the dead, and drove much farther forward. Apollo, looking down from Pergamus, was angered, and cried aloud to the Trojans: “Rise up, horse-taming Trojans! Do not yield the battle to the Argives. Their flesh is neither stone nor iron, able to withstand the flesh-cutting bronze when they are struck. Nor is Achilles, son of lovely-haired Thetis, fighting: he sits beside his ships, brooding over the anger that pains his heart.”
So the dread god spoke from the citadel. But Zeus’s daughter, most glorious Tritogeneia, urged on the Achaeans, passing through the throng wherever she saw men hanging back. Then fate ensnared Diores, son of Amarynceus. A jagged stone struck him on the right leg beside the ankle. It was thrown by the leader of the Thracians, Peiros, son of Imbrasus, who had come from Aenus.
The pitiless stone crushed both tendons and bone. He fell backward in the dust, stretching both hands toward his dear companions as he gasped his life away. Peiros, the man who had struck him, ran forward and stabbed him with a spear beside the navel. All his entrails spilled upon the ground, and darkness covered his eyes.
But as Peiros sprang away, Thoas the Aetolian struck him with his spear in the chest above the nipple, and the bronze lodged in his lung. Thoas came close, pulled the heavy spear from his chest, and drew his sharp sword. With it he struck him in the belly and took his life.
But he did not strip off the armor, for the dead man’s comrades, the Thracians with their hair bound high, gathered round with long spears in their hands. Great and strong and noble though he was, they drove him back from their own, and he staggered as he gave ground.
So the two lay stretched beside each other in the dust, one a leader of the Thracians, the other of the bronze-clad Epeians; and many others were killed around them. No man who entered that battle could have found fault with its fighting, if, still unstruck and unwounded by the sharp bronze, he had moved through its midst with Pallas Athena taking him by the hand to guide him and warding off the onrush of missiles. For many Trojans and Achaeans lay stretched face down beside each other in the dust that day.
