Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
So they fought on around the well-benched ship. But Patroclus came and stood beside Achilles, shepherd of his people, shedding hot tears, like a spring of dark water pouring its shadowed stream down some sheer rock face. Seeing him, swift-footed godlike Achilles pitied him, and spoke to him, and his words flew fast:
"Why are you crying, Patroclus, like some little girl who runs after her mother and begs to be picked up, tugging at her dress, holding her back as she hurries along, looking up at her through tears until she is lifted? You're just like her, Patroclus, letting fall those soft tears. Have you got some word for the Myrmidons, or for me alone? Or has news come to you from Phthia, from someone else? They say Menoetius, Actor's son, is still alive, and Peleus, son of Aeacus, still alive among his Myrmidons — if either of them had died, we would grieve hard for that. Or are you weeping for the Argives, seeing how they're dying by the hollow ships, paying for their own arrogance? Tell me, don't hide it in your heart, so we both may know."
Groaning heavily, you answered him, horseman Patroclus: "Achilles, son of Peleus, far the greatest of the Achaeans, don't be angry — such grief has broken the Achaeans. All those who were once our best now lie among the ships, hit by spears or struck by arrows. Diomedes, Tydeus's strong son, has been hit; Odysseus, famous with the spear, and Agamemnon too have been wounded; Eurypylus has taken an arrow in the thigh. The healers, skilled in many medicines, are busy over them, tending their wounds. But you, Achilles — no one can reach you, no one can move you. May this anger you're nursing never take hold of me,
this deadly excellence of yours! What good will it do anyone born after you, if you won't fight off this shameful ruin from the Argives? You have no pity. Peleus the horseman was never your father, nor Thetis your mother — the grey sea bore you, and the sheer cliffs, so hard is the mind in you. But if you're avoiding some prophecy your heart knows, some word your honored mother brought you from Zeus, then at least send me — send me quickly, and give me the rest of the Myrmidon soldiers with me, so I may become some light for the Danaans. And let me put your armor on my shoulders,
so the Trojans, mistaking me for you, will hold back from the fighting, and the hard-pressed sons of the Achaeans can catch their breath — worn out as they are, even a short breath is something. And we, fresh, could easily drive men already exhausted by battle back toward the city, away from the ships and the huts." So he begged, the great fool — he was, in fact, begging for his own death and evil doom. Deeply troubled, swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Ah, Patroclus, what have you said! I care nothing for any prophecy I might know,
nor has my honored mother brought me any word from Zeus. But this grief cuts into my heart and spirit — when a man tries to rob his equal, to take back a prize, simply because he holds more power. That is a bitter grief to me, after all I've suffered in my heart. The girl the sons of the Achaeans chose for me as my prize, that I won myself, by my own spear, sacking a well-walled city — lord Agamemnon tore her back out of my hands, Atreus's son, as if I were some worthless drifter with no rights. But let's let what's past be past — there was no way
to stay angry forever in my heart. And yet I did say I would not let go of my wrath until the war and its noise reached my own ships. So — put my glorious armor on your shoulders, and lead the war-loving Myrmidons into battle, since the black cloud of Trojans has closed hard around the ships, and the Argives are pinned against the sea's edge, holding only a thin strip of ground, while the whole city of Troy has come pouring out against them, bold — because they can't see the front of my helmet
flashing near them. They'd soon flee, and choke the ditches with their dead, if only lord Agamemnon were kind to me — but instead they're fighting all around our camp. For Diomedes, Tydeus's son, isn't out there driving Achaeans' ruin off with his raging spear, nor have I heard the voice of Atreus's son shouting from that hateful head of his — only Hector's voice, calling his Trojans on, rings out everywhere, and they, howling, hold the whole plain, beating the Achaeans in battle. Still, Patroclus — go, drive that ruin from the ships,
go in hard, before they set the blazing fire to the ships and take from us our hope of getting home. But listen — do exactly as I set out in my mind, so that you win me great honor and glory from all the Danaans, and they send that beautiful girl back to me again, and give splendid gifts besides. Once you've driven them from the ships, come back — and if the thundering husband of Hera should grant you glory besides, don't let your heart run wild and fight the Trojans without me,
the war-loving Trojans — that would only strip me of honor. And don't, carried away by the joy of war and slaughter, drive on toward Ilion killing Trojans as you go — some god from Olympus might step in against you; Apollo who strikes from afar loves them dearly. No — turn back once you've brought light to the ships, and leave the rest of them to fight it out on the plain. Oh, Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — if only none of the Trojans could escape death, not one of them, and none of the Argives either, and we two alone could survive this slaughter, so that we alone might tear down Troy's sacred crown of walls!"
While the two of them spoke like this to each other, Ajax could hold no longer — the weapons were too much for him. Zeus's will and the proud Trojans' spears were breaking him down; his shining helmet, struck again and again around his temples, rang out with each blow, and the metal bosses kept taking hits. His left shoulder ached from holding his glittering shield steady, yet for all their battering they could not shake it loose from him. His breath came in painful gasps, and sweat streamed down over every limb; he had no chance
to catch his breath — trouble was piled on trouble everywhere. Tell me now, Muses who hold your homes on Olympus, how fire first fell upon the Achaeans' ships. Hector came up close to Ajax's ash spear and struck it with his great sword, just behind the spearhead, and sheared it clean through. Telamonian Ajax was left holding a useless stump in his hand, while far off the bronze spearhead fell ringing to the ground. Ajax knew it in his heart and shuddered at the gods' handiwork — how Zeus, thundering on high, was cutting off
all his plans for battle, wanting victory for the Trojans instead. He fell back out of range. Then they threw unquenchable fire onto the fast ship, and at once the unstoppable flame poured over it. As fire wrapped around the ship's stern, Achilles slapped his thighs and called out to Patroclus: "Rise up, Patroclus, rider of horses born of Zeus! I can see the blaze of ravaging fire by the ships — if they take the ships, there'll be no way out left. Put on the armor, quickly — I'll gather the men." So he spoke, and Patroclus armed himself in gleaming bronze.
First he set the greaves on his legs, fine ones, fitted with silver ankle-clasps. Next he put on the breastplate over his chest, the richly worked, star-studded armor of swift Achilles. Over his shoulders he slung the silver-studded bronze sword, then the great heavy shield. On his strong head he set the well-made helmet crested with horsehair, and its plume nodded fearsomely above. He took two strong spears that fit well in his hands, but he did not take the spear of blameless Achilles,
heavy, huge, and solid — no other Achaean could wield it; only Achilles knew how to handle it, that Pelian ash spear, which Chiron had given his father from the peak of Pelion, to be death for warriors. He told Automedon to yoke the horses quickly — after battle-breaking Achilles, Automedon was the man he honored most, the most loyal at standing by him when the fighting-cry rang out. So Automedon led beneath the yoke Xanthus and Balius, swift horses that flew as fast as the wind, whom the Harpy Podarge bore to the West Wind Zephyr,
grazing in a meadow beside the stream of Ocean. And in the side-harness he yoked the fine horse Pedasus, whom Achilles had once taken when he captured Eëtion's city — a mortal horse, yet he could keep pace with the immortal team. Meanwhile Achilles went among the Myrmidons and armed them all, through every hut, in full gear. Like wolves that tear raw flesh, with untold fury in their hearts, that have brought down some huge antlered stag in the mountains
and tear it apart, their jaws all red with blood, then go in a pack to drink from some dark spring,
lapping the black water with their thin tongues, belching up the blood of the kill, their hearts fearless in their chests though their bellies are swollen tight — so gathered the leaders and captains of the Myrmidons around Achilles's brave companion, and among them stood warlike Achilles himself, urging on both horses and shield-bearing men. Fifty were the swift ships that Achilles, beloved of Zeus, had led to Troy, and in each ship fifty men sat at the oarlocks, his comrades.
He appointed five commanders he trusted to give orders, while he himself ruled over them all as supreme lord. The first company was led by Menesthius of the flashing breastplate, son of Spercheius, the river fed by Zeus's rain — whom Peleus's daughter, beautiful Polydora, bore to tireless Spercheius, a woman bedded by a god, though by name he was called son of Borus, Perieres's son, who married her openly and gave a bride-price beyond counting. The second company was led by warlike Eudorus,
born out of wedlock, whom lovely Polymele bore, dancer, daughter of Phylas — the mighty slayer of Argus fell in love with her, seeing her among the dancers in the chorus of Artemis, golden-shafted, sounding goddess of the hunt. At once he went up secretly to her upper room and lay with her, kindly Hermes, and he gave her a fine son, Eudorus, exceptional in speed of foot and in fighting. But once Eileithyia, goddess of the pains of childbirth, had brought him out into the light and he saw the sun's rays, the strong warrior Echecles, Actor's son, brought Polymele home as his bride, after giving countless gifts,
and old Phylas raised the boy well, and cherished him, loving him dearly as if he were his own true son. The third company was led by warlike Pisander, son of Maemalus, who stood out among all the Myrmidons for fighting with the spear, second only to Achilles's own companion. The fourth was led by old Phoenix, master of horses, and the fifth by blameless Alcimedon, son of Laerces. When Achilles had arranged them all with their leaders, ranked in good order, he gave them a stern command:
"Myrmidons, let none of you forget the threats you hurled at the Trojans by the swift ships, all through the time of my anger, when each of you blamed me, saying: 'Hard man, son of Peleus, your mother must have raised you on gall, pitiless as you are, holding your comrades against their will by the ships. Let's sail home again over the sea, since this evil rage has gripped your heart.' You said this to me often, gathered together — well, now the great work of battle you longed for before has appeared before you. Let every man with a brave heart fight the Trojans now." So he spoke, rousing the strength and spirit of every man.
And their ranks closed tighter still, once they heard their king. As when a man builds a wall of close-fitting stones for a tall house, to keep out the force of the winds, so tightly did the helmets and bossed shields lock together — shield pressed against shield, helmet against helmet, man against man; the horsehair crests on the bright helmet-ridges touched as the men nodded, so closely did they stand packed together. In front of them all, two men armed themselves, Patroclus and Automedon, of one mind, eager to lead the Myrmidons into the fight ahead of them. But Achilles
went into his hut and opened the lid of a fine, ornate chest that silver-footed Thetis had put aboard his ship for him to take, filled full with tunics, wind-proof cloaks, and thick woolen rugs. In it he kept a beautifully made cup, and no man ever drank the gleaming wine from it but Achilles, nor did he pour libation from it to any god but Father Zeus. He took this now from the chest, first cleaned it with sulfur,
then rinsed it in fresh-flowing streams of water, washed his own hands, and drew the sparkling wine.
Then, standing in the middle of the courtyard, he prayed, pouring the wine and looking up to the sky — and Zeus who delights in thunder did not fail to notice: "Zeus, lord of Dodona, Pelasgian, dwelling far off, ruler over harsh, wintry Dodona — around you live the Selli, your interpreters, their feet unwashed, sleeping on the ground — you heard my prayer once before, and honored me, and struck the Achaean army hard. Grant me now this wish as well: I myself will stay here where the ships are gathered, but I am sending my companion out among the many Myrmidons
to fight. Send glory with him, far-thundering Zeus, and put courage in his heart, so that Hector too may learn whether my attendant knows how to fight alone, or whether his hands only rage unstoppably when I myself go down into the grinding work of war. But once he has driven the fighting and its noise away from the ships, let him come back to the swift ships unharmed, with all his armor, and his close-fighting comrades." So he prayed, and Zeus of the counsels heard him. Part of it the Father granted, part he refused:
he granted that Patroclus should drive the war and battle back from the ships, but refused that he should come safely back out of the fighting. So Achilles, once he had poured the wine and prayed to Father Zeus, went back inside his hut and put the cup away in the chest, then came and stood before the hut, still longing in his heart to watch the terrible clash of Trojans and Achaeans. Meanwhile the men armed with great-hearted Patroclus marched out, until they charged the Trojans, full of high spirit. At once they poured out like wasps
that live by the roadside, wasps that children love to provoke, foolish boys, always teasing them where they have their nest by the road — a common trouble they stir up for many. If some traveler passing by should disturb them without meaning to, they all fly out with brave hearts to defend their young, swarming forward as one. Just so did the Myrmidons pour out from the ships then, hearts and spirits alike stirred, and their war-cry rose unquenched. Patroclus shouted to his comrades, calling out loud:
"Myrmidons, comrades of Achilles, son of Peleus! Be men, my friends, remember your furious courage,
so that we may bring honor to the son of Peleus, who is far the best of the Argives by the ships, and so that his close-fighting men may honor him too, and Atreus's son, wide-ruling Agamemnon, may see his own madness — how he gave no honor at all to the best of the Achaeans." So he spoke, rousing the strength and spirit of every man, and they fell on the Trojans in one mass. The ships around them rang terribly with the Achaeans' shout. When the Trojans saw Menoetius's brave son,
him and his attendant, both blazing in their armor, every heart among them was shaken, and their ranks stirred,
for they thought that swift-footed Achilles by the ships had cast off his anger and chosen friendship again — each man looked around for some way to flee sheer destruction. Patroclus struck first, hurling his bright spear straight into the thick of the crowd, where the most men were struggling, by the stern of great-hearted Protesilaus's ship, and hit Pyraechmes, who had led the horse-fighting Paeonians there from Amydon, from the wide-flowing Axius — he struck him in the right shoulder, and he fell backward with a cry into the dust, and his comrades, the Paeonians, scattered around him in fear,
for Patroclus had struck panic into all of them by killing their leader, who had been their best fighter. He drove them from the ships and put out the burning fire; the half-burnt ship was left there abandoned, and the Trojans fled in a great uproar, while the Danaans poured back in among the hollow ships, and the noise of battle would not let up. As when Zeus who gathers the lightning stirs a thick cloud away from some tall mountain's high peak, and every lookout point and jutting crag and glen springs into view, and from the sky the boundless upper air breaks open —
So the Danaans, having pushed the killing fire back from the ships, caught a little breath, but the fighting did not slacken. The Trojans were not yet driven in headlong flight from the black ships by the war-loving Achaeans -- they still held their ground, though yielding before the ships under compulsion. Then, as the battle-line broke apart, man killed man among the captains. First Menoetius' stalwart son, as Areilycus wheeled around, struck him in the thigh with his sharp spear and drove the bronze clean through: the spear shattered the bone, and he fell face-down on the ground.
Meanwhile warlike Menelaus stabbed Thoas where his chest showed bare beside the rim of his shield, and loosed his limbs. And Meges, son of Phyleus, watching Amphiclus charge in, was quicker -- he reached him first in the upper leg, where a man's muscle is thickest; the spear-point sliced through the sinews there, and darkness covered his eyes. Of the sons of Nestor, Antilochus stabbed Atymnius with his sharp spear, driving the bronze clean through his flank, and he pitched forward. But Maris rushed at Antilochus with his spear at close range, enraged for his brother, standing over the body. Yet godlike Thrasymedes was quicker, striking before Maris could strike, and did not miss -- square in the shoulder; the spear's point tore the upper arm away from the muscle and split the bone clean through. He fell with a crash, and darkness covered his eyes. So the two brothers, brought down together, went down into the dark -- good comrades of Sarpedon, javelin-throwing sons of Amisodarus, who had raised the monstrous Chimera, a plague to many men.
Ajax, son of Oileus, rushed in and took Cleobulus alive, stumbling in the crush. But right there he loosed his strength, striking his neck with his hilted sword. The whole blade grew warm with blood, and dark death and mighty fate seized his eyes. Peneleos and Lycon closed with each other -- both had missed with their spears, throwing in vain, and now they closed again with swords. Lycon struck the ridge of his helmet's horsehair crest, and his sword shattered at the hilt; but Peneleos struck him in the neck below the ear, and the whole blade sank in, held only by the skin -- the head hung loose to one side, and his limbs gave way.
Meriones, catching Acamas with swift feet just as he was mounting his chariot, stabbed him in the right shoulder; he tumbled from the car, and mist poured over his eyes. Idomeneus drove the pitiless bronze into Erymas' mouth; the bronze spear passed clean through beneath the brain and shattered the white bone; his teeth were shaken out, and both his eyes filled with blood; he blew it out through mouth and nostrils, gaping, and a black cloud of death wrapped him round.
So each of these captains of the Danaans brought down his man. And as ravening wolves fall upon lambs or kids, snatching them from the flock when a careless shepherd has let them scatter on the hillside, and the wolves, seeing it, quickly tear apart the helpless creatures -- so the Danaans fell upon the Trojans, who thought only of ugly, screaming flight and forgot their battle-fury.
But great Ajax kept trying to hurl his spear at bronze-armored Hector; Hector, skilled in war, kept his broad shoulders covered by his bull's-hide shield, watching for the whir of arrows and the thud of javelins. He knew well enough that the battle's fortune had turned against him, but he stood his ground even so, to save his loyal comrades. And as a cloud moves in from Olympus into the sky, out of the bright upper air, when Zeus stretches out a storm, so out of the ships came shouting and panic, and the Trojans did not cross back in any order. Hector's swift horses carried him away, armor and all, and he left behind the Trojan host, trapped against their will by the dug trench. Many chariot-horses, swift in the traces, broke their pole-tips off in the front of the yoke and left their masters' chariots behind.
But Patroclus pressed on, shouting fierce commands to the Danaans, his mind set on harm for the Trojans; and the Trojans, shouting and fleeing, filled every road once their ranks broke; a storm-cloud of dust rose scattering beneath the clouds, and the single-hoofed horses strained back toward the city, away from the ships and huts. Wherever Patroclus saw the crowd surging thickest, there he drove, shouting his commands; men fell headlong from their chariots under the axles, and the cars overturned with a crash. Straight on, leaping clean over the trench, raced the swift immortal horses that the gods had given as splendid gifts to Peleus, straining ever forward, for Patroclus's heart was set on Hector -- he longed to strike him down, but Hector's swift horses carried him clear away.
And as the whole dark earth groans under a storm on an autumn day, when Zeus pours down his fiercest rain, angered and enraged at men who in the assembly, by force, hand down crooked judgments and drive justice out, caring nothing for the gods' watching eyes -- and then all their rivers run swollen in flood, and the torrents cut away many a hillside, and pour roaring down headlong from the mountains into the wine-dark sea, and the works of men waste away -- so the Trojan horses groaned loudly as they ran.
And Patroclus, once he had cut through the front ranks, drove the Trojans back again toward the ships, and would not let them, eager as they were, reach the city; instead, between the ships and the river and the high wall, he ranged and killed, exacting payment for many dead. There first he struck Pronous with his shining spear, in the chest where it showed bare beside the shield-rim, and loosed his limbs; he fell with a crash. Then he charged Thestor, son of Enops, next -- the man crouched, shrunken, in his polished chariot, out of his wits with terror, and the reins slipped from his hands. Patroclus came up beside him and stabbed him in the right jaw with his spear, driving it clean through his teeth, then hooked him by the spear and hauled him over the chariot rail -- as when a man sitting on a jutting rock hauls a sacred fish out of the sea on line and gleaming bronze hook -- so he hauled him gaping from the car on his shining spear, and shoved him down on his face; and as he fell, the life left him.
Next, as Erylaus charged, he struck him full on the head with a stone; the skull split clean apart inside the heavy helmet, and he pitched face-down on the ground, and death that shatters the spirit poured over him. After that Erymas, Amphoterus, Epaltes, Tlepolemus son of Damastor, Echius, Pyris, Ipheus, Euippus, and Polymelus son of Argeas -- Patroclus brought them all down, one after another, to the earth that feeds so many.
And Sarpedon, when he saw his kilted comrades brought low under the hands of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, called out, rallying his godlike Lycians:
"Shame, Lycians! Where are you running? Be swift now! I myself will go meet this man, so I may learn who he is, this one who has such power and has already done the Trojans so much harm -- he has already loosed the knees of many brave men."
So he spoke, and leapt down from his chariot to the ground, armor and all. Patroclus, seeing him, sprang down from his own car on the other side. And as two vultures, hook-clawed and curve-beaked, fight screaming on a high rock, so the two men rushed at each other with cries.
Seeing them, the son of crooked-scheming Cronus felt pity, and spoke to Hera, his sister and wife: "Ah, sorrow -- Sarpedon, dearest of men to me, is fated to be brought down by Patroclus, son of Menoetius. My heart is split two ways as I turn it over in my mind: shall I snatch him up alive out of the tearful battle and set him down in the rich land of Lycia, or shall I let him be brought low now, under the hands of the son of Menoetius?"
Then the ox-eyed lady Hera answered him: "Most dread son of Cronus, what is this you have said? A man who is mortal, long ago marked out by fate -- do you wish to pull him back out of miserable death? Do it, then; but not all the rest of us gods will approve. And I'll tell you something else -- lay it up in your heart: if you send Sarpedon home alive, be careful, or some other god may wish to send his own dear son as well, away from the hard fighting. For many sons of the immortals are fighting around the great city of Priam, and you will plant terrible resentment in them. But if he is dear to you, and your heart grieves for him, then let him be, in the fierce fighting, brought low under the hands of Patroclus, son of Menoetius; but once his life and breath have left him, send Death and gentle Sleep to carry him away, until they bring him to the land of wide Lycia, where his brothers and kinsmen will bury him, with mound and pillar -- for that is the honor due the dead."
So she spoke, and the father of gods and men did not disobey. But he rained down drops of blood upon the earth, honoring his dear son, whom Patroclus was soon to destroy in Troy's rich soil, far from his own fatherland.
As the two of them came near one another, Patroclus struck famous Thrasymelus, the good henchman of lord Sarpedon, low in the belly, and loosed his limbs. Sarpedon, charging in turn, missed with his shining spear but struck the horse Pedasus in the right shoulder; the horse screamed as the life left him, and fell in the dust, moaning, and his spirit flew away. The other two horses reared apart, the yoke creaked, and the reins tangled, since the trace-horse lay sprawled in the dust. But Automedon, famed spearman, found a quick remedy: drawing his long sharp sword from beside his thick thigh, he leapt and cut the trace-horse free, and did not fumble it; the other two straightened out and pulled taut in the reins, and the two champions closed again in soul-devouring combat.
There Sarpedon again missed with his shining spear -- the point flew over Patroclus's left shoulder and did not strike him. Then Patroclus rose to throw his bronze, and the missile did not fly from his hand in vain, but struck him where the midriff closes around the beating heart. He crashed down, as an oak falls, or a white poplar, or a slender pine, which craftsmen on the mountains have felled with freshly whetted axes to make ship-timber -- so he lay stretched out before his chariot and horses, roaring, clawing at the bloody dust. As when a lion comes among a herd of shambling cattle and kills a tawny, proud-hearted bull, and it dies groaning under the lion's jaws -- so, under Patroclus, the Lycian leader of shield-bearing men
raged even as he died, and called out to his dear comrade: "Glaucus, dear friend, fighter among men -- now above all you must be a spearman and a bold warrior. Now let hateful war be your heart's desire, if you are indeed swift. First go everywhere and rouse the leaders of the Lycians to fight around Sarpedon's body; and then you yourself, too, fight for me with your bronze. For I will be a reproach and a disgrace to you forever, all your days, if the Achaeans strip my armor from me here where I have fallen among the ships. Hold on firmly, and rouse the whole army."
Even as he spoke, the end of death closed over his eyes and nostrils. Patroclus, planting his heel on his chest, drew the spear out of his flesh, and the midriff came with it; so he drew out both the man's life and the spear's point together. The Myrmidons held back the snorting horses there, which were straining to bolt now that they had left their masters' chariot.
But for Glaucus, hearing that voice, a terrible grief arose; his heart was stirred, because he could not come to his aid. He gripped his arm with his hand and pressed it, for it pained him -- the wound Teucer had given him with an arrow as he charged the high wall, warding harm off from his comrades. He prayed, and spoke to Apollo the far-shooter:
"Hear me, lord, wherever you are -- in the rich land of Lycia, or in Troy; for you can hear a man in trouble from anywhere, as trouble has now come upon me. I carry this grievous wound, and my arm is racked through and through with sharp pain; my blood will not stop flowing, and my shoulder is heavy with it. I cannot even hold my spear steady, nor go forward to fight against the enemy. And the best of men has perished, Sarpedon, son of Zeus -- and Zeus does not even defend his own son! But you, lord, heal this grievous wound of mine, lull my pains to sleep, and give me strength, so that I may call out to my Lycian comrades and drive them on to fight, and myself do battle over my fallen friend's body."
So he spoke in prayer, and Phoebus Apollo heard him. At once he stilled his pain, dried the dark blood from the terrible wound, and put strength into his heart. And Glaucus knew it in his own mind, and rejoiced that the great god had so swiftly heard his prayer.
First he went everywhere rousing the Lycian leaders to fight around Sarpedon's body; then he strode with long steps among the Trojans, to Polydamas son of Panthous and noble Agenor, and went on to Aeneas and bronze-armored Hector, and standing close beside him spoke winged words:
"Hector, now you have utterly forgotten your allies, who for your sake are wasting their lives far from their loved ones and their fatherland, while you refuse to help them. Sarpedon lies dead, leader of the Lycian shield-men, who guarded Lycia with his own justice and strength; bronze Ares has brought him down under Patroclus's hand. Come, friends, stand by him -- let your hearts feel the shame of it -- or the Myrmidons will strip his armor and defile his body, in their fury for all the Danaans we have killed with our spears beside the swift ships."
So he spoke, and grief seized the Trojans from head to foot, unbearable, not to be checked -- for Sarpedon had been a pillar of their city, though he came from a foreign land; for many troops had followed him, and he himself had always been among the best fighters. So they charged straight at the Danaans, eager for battle, with Hector leading them, enraged for Sarpedon's sake.
And the shaggy heart of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, roused the Achaeans in turn. He spoke first to the two Ajaxes, already eager: "Ajaxes, now let it be your pleasure to defend yourselves as you have always been among men, or even braver still. The man who was first to break through the Achaean wall lies dead -- Sarpedon. If only we could seize him, defile him, strip the armor from his shoulders, and bring down with our pitiless bronze some comrade of those defending him, as they fight to keep him."
So he spoke, and they too were eager to defend themselves. And when both sides had strengthened their ranks -- Trojans and Lycians, Myrmidons and Achaeans -- they clashed to fight around the dead man's body, shouting terribly; loudly the armor of the fighters clanged. And Zeus stretched deadly night over the fierce battle, so that the toil of fighting over his own dear son might be deadly indeed.
The Trojans pushed the bright-eyed Achaeans back first; for a man struck down was no coward among the Myrmidons -- it was Epeigeus, son of great-hearted Agacles, who once ruled in well-settled Boudeion; but after he killed a noble kinsman of his, he came as a suppliant to Peleus and silver-footed Thetis, and they sent him to follow man-breaking Achilles to Troy of the fine horses, that he might fight the Trojans. As he now laid hold of the body, glorious Hector struck him on the head with a stone; his skull split clean apart inside the heavy helmet, and he fell face-down upon the corpse, and death that shatters the spirit poured over him.
Grief seized Patroclus for his fallen comrade, and he drove straight through the front fighters like a swift hawk that puts jackdaws and starlings to flight -- so straight at the Lycians and Trojans you drove, Patroclus, master of horses, your heart enraged for your comrade. He struck Sthenelaus, dear son of Ithaemenes, in the neck with a stone, and tore the sinews from it. The front fighters gave ground, and glorious Hector with them.
As far as the cast of a light javelin carries, when a man throws it, testing his strength, either in a contest or against enemies who shatter men's spirits in war -- so far the Trojans gave ground, and the Achaeans pushed them back. Glaucus, leader of the Lycian shield-bearers, was the first to turn and kill great-hearted Bathycles, dear son of Chalcon, who lived in a home in Hellas and was foremost among the Myrmidons for wealth and prosperity. Glaucus, wheeling suddenly as Bathycles caught up with him in the chase, stabbed him full in the chest with his spear; he fell with a crash. Deep grief seized the Achaeans at the fall of so good a man, but the Trojans rejoiced greatly,
They gathered around him in a crowd, and the Achaeans did not forget their courage either — their fury drove straight at the enemy. Then Meriones cut down a helmeted Trojan, Laogonus, bold son of Onetor, who had been a priest of Zeus of Ida and was honored by his people like a god. Meriones struck him under the jaw and ear, and at once life left his limbs, and hateful darkness took him. Aeneas then hurled his bronze spear at Meriones, hoping to catch him as he came on behind his shield. But Meriones saw it coming and dodged the bronze point — he ducked forward, and the long spear drove into the ground behind him and stood there quivering at the butt until Ares' violent force spent itself. Aeneas' spearhead, still shivering, sank into the earth, thrown in vain from his powerful hand.
Aeneas said in anger, "Meriones, you're a fine dancer, but my spear would have stopped you cold forever, if I had hit you."
Meriones, famous with the spear, answered him, "Aeneas, strong as you are, it would be hard for you to snuff out the strength of every man who comes to fight you — you too were born mortal. If I hit you square with sharp bronze, strong as you are and sure of your hands, you would give the glory to me and your soul to Hades, lord of famous horses."
So he spoke, and the brave son of Menoetius rebuked him: "Meriones, why talk this way, good as you are? Friend, the Trojans won't back off from the corpse just because you taunt them — the earth will hold some of them first. War is decided by hands, talk by council. So there's no need to pile up words — fight."
With that he led on, and Meriones followed, a man like a god. And as the din of woodcutters rises in the mountain glens, heard from far off, so the noise rose up from the wide earth — bronze, leather, and well-made oxhide shields, struck by swords and double-edged spears. By now not even a sharp-eyed man could have picked out godlike Sarpedon, since he was covered from head to foot in spears, blood, and dust. Men crowded around his body like flies buzzing in a farmyard around the pails brimming with milk in springtime, when the milk drenches the pans — so they crowded around the corpse.
And Zeus never turned his shining eyes from the fierce battle. He watched them constantly, turning it over in his heart, weighing many things about the killing of Patroclus — whether now, right here in this fierce fight, over godlike Sarpedon, glorious Hector should cut him down with bronze and strip the armor from his shoulders, or whether he should let him pile up still more brutal toil for others. As he thought it over, this seemed the better course to him: that the brave attendant of Achilles, son of Peleus, should once more drive the Trojans and bronze-helmeted Hector back toward the city, and take the life from many of them.
He put a coward's spirit into Hector first of all. Hector climbed into his chariot and turned to flee, calling to the other Trojans to run as well, for he recognized the scales of Zeus. Then not even the brave Lycians stood their ground, but all fled in fear when they saw their king struck through the heart, lying in the heap of the dead — for many had fallen on top of him once the son of Cronos stretched the fierce battle taut. Then the Greeks stripped the shining bronze armor from Sarpedon's shoulders, and the brave son of Menoetius gave it to his companions to carry to the hollow ships.
And then Zeus who gathers the clouds spoke to Apollo: "Come now, dear Phoebus, go and wipe the dark blood from Sarpedon, clear of the missiles, and carrying him far away, wash him in the river's streams, anoint him with ambrosia, and clothe him in garments that never fade. Then send him to be carried by swift escorts, Sleep and Death, twin brothers, who will set him down quickly in the rich land of wide Lycia, where his kinsmen and countrymen will bury him with a mound and a pillar — for that is the honor due the dead."
So he spoke, and Apollo did not disobey his father. He went down from the mountains of Ida into the terrible clash of battle, and at once lifted godlike Sarpedon clear of the missiles, carried him far away, washed him in the river's streams, anointed him with ambrosia, and clothed him in garments that never fade. He sent him to be carried by swift escorts, Sleep and Death, twin brothers, who quickly set him down in the rich land of wide Lycia.
Patroclus, meanwhile, urged on his horses and Automedon and pressed after the Trojans and Lycians — a fatal mistake, poor fool. If he had kept to the word of the son of Peleus, he would have escaped the black doom of death. But the mind of Zeus is always stronger than the minds of men: he frightens even a brave man and snatches away his victory easily, and at other times he himself drives a man on to fight — and so it was that day, when he roused the fury in Patroclus' chest.
Who was the first man you killed, and who the last, Patroclus, when the gods called you to your death? Adrestus first, then Autonous and Echeclus, Perimus son of Megas, Epistor and Melanippus, then Elasus, Mulius, and Pylartes — these he killed, and the rest turned each to his own flight.
Then the sons of the Achaeans would have taken high-gated Troy by the hands of Patroclus, so fiercely did he rage with his spear, had not Phoebus Apollo taken his stand on the well-built tower, plotting ruin for him, and helping the Trojans. Three times Patroclus climbed onto the angle of the high wall, and three times Apollo thrust him back, striking his shining shield with his immortal hands. But when he charged a fourth time, like something more than a man, Apollo shouted at him terribly and spoke winged words:
"Fall back, Patroclus, sprung from the gods! It is not fated for the proud city of the Trojans to fall before your spear, nor even before Achilles', who is far better than you."
So he spoke, and Patroclus gave ground, well back, avoiding the anger of the far-shooting god.
Hector held his sure-footed horses at the Scaean gates, uncertain whether to drive back into the crush of battle again or call the troops to gather inside the walls. As he pondered this, Phoebus Apollo came and stood beside him, taking the form of a strong young man, Asius, who was Hector's uncle, brother of Hecuba, son of Dymas, and lived in Phrygia by the streams of the Sangarius. In this guise Apollo, son of Zeus, spoke to him: "Hector, why have you stopped fighting? It isn't right for you. If only I were as much stronger than you as I am weaker, you would soon pull back from the war in misery. Come now, drive your strong-hoofed horses against Patroclus, in hope of killing him, and Apollo may grant you the glory."
With that the god went back into the toil of men, and glorious Hector ordered fiery Cebriones to whip the horses into the fight. Apollo went in among the crowd and stirred up an evil confusion among the Argives, and gave glory to the Trojans and to Hector. Hector let the other Danaans be, killing none of them, and drove his strong-hoofed horses straight at Patroclus.
Patroclus, on his side, leapt down from his chariot to the ground, spear in his left hand, and in the other hand he took up a jagged white stone that his hand could just cover. He set his feet and threw it with all his strength, and it did not miss its mark for long — he struck Hector's charioteer, Cebriones, bastard son of proud Priam, full on the forehead as he held the horses' reins. The stone crushed both his eyebrows together, and the bone could not hold; his eyes fell out and dropped in the dust right at his feet. He tumbled from the well-built car like a diver, and life left his bones.
Mocking him, horseman Patroclus said, "Well now, what a light and nimble man — see how easily he tumbles! If he were out on the fish-filled sea, this fellow could feed a crowd, diving for oysters, jumping from a ship even in rough water, the way he dives so easily from his chariot onto the plain now. So the Trojans have their acrobats too."
With these words he went at the hero Cebriones like a lion that has been savaging farmyards and is struck in the chest, its own courage destroying it — so fiercely did Patroclus spring upon Cebriones. And Hector, for his part, leapt down from his chariot on the other side. The two of them fought over Cebriones like two lions on a mountain ridge, both starving, both fierce with pride, fighting over a slain deer. So over Cebriones the two masters of the war cry, Patroclus son of Menoetius and glorious Hector, strained to cut each other's flesh with pitiless bronze. Hector had hold of the head and would not let go; Patroclus held the foot from the other side, while all around them Trojans and Danaans locked in brutal combat.
As the East Wind and the South Wind fight each other in a mountain forest, shaking the deep woods — oak and ash and rough-barked cornel tree, their long branches clashing against one another with a tremendous roar, a crash of splintering wood — so the Trojans and Achaeans leapt at each other and struck each other down, and neither side gave a thought to disastrous flight. Many sharp spears stuck fast around Cebriones, and winged arrows leaping from bowstrings, and many great stones battered against shields of the men fighting around him — while he lay there in the whirling dust, huge and hugely fallen, all thought of horsemanship forgotten.
As long as the sun climbed the middle of the sky, the missiles from both sides found their mark and the men kept falling. But when the sun turned toward the hour of unyoking oxen, then beyond what was fated the Achaeans grew stronger. They dragged the hero Cebriones clear of the weapons, out of the shouting of the Trojans, and stripped the armor from his shoulders. Then Patroclus, planning harm for the Trojans, charged in. Three times he charged like swift Ares, screaming terribly, and three times he killed nine men. But when he charged a fourth time, like something more than a man — then, Patroclus, the end of your life appeared. For Phoebus met him in the fierce fight, a terrible god. Patroclus did not see him coming through the confusion, for the god came at him wrapped in thick mist. Apollo stood behind him and struck his back and broad shoulders with a flat hand, and his eyes spun.
Phoebus Apollo knocked the helmet from his head, and it rolled clattering under the horses' hooves — the crested helmet with its cheek pieces, and its plumes were fouled with blood and dust. Never before had that horsehair helmet been allowed to touch the dust — it had guarded the head and handsome brow of a godlike man, of Achilles. But now Zeus gave it to Hector to wear on his head, though death was close upon him. And the whole long-shadowed spear in Patroclus' hands was shattered, heavy, huge, thick, tipped with bronze, and the fringed shield fell from his shoulders to the ground with its strap, and lord Apollo, son of Zeus, loosed his breastplate.
Ruin seized his mind, and his shining limbs went slack beneath him, and he stood there dazed. Then from behind, at close range, a Dardanian man struck him between the shoulders with a sharp spear — Euphorbus, son of Panthous, who surpassed men of his age with the spear, in horsemanship, and in speed of foot. He had already that day unhorsed twenty men, coming with his chariot for the first time to learn the ways of war. He was the first to throw a spear at you, horseman Patroclus, but he did not bring you down — he pulled his ashen spear back out of your flesh and ran back into the crowd, not daring to face Patroclus even unarmed as he was, in close combat.
Patroclus, beaten down by the god's blow and by the spear, fell back among the crowd of his companions, avoiding death. And when Hector saw great-hearted Patroclus falling back, wounded by sharp bronze, he came up close to him through the ranks and stabbed him with his spear, low in the flank, driving the bronze clean through. He fell with a crash, and the army of the Achaeans grieved bitterly.
As when a lion overpowers a tireless boar in combat, when the two of them fight fiercely on a mountain ridge over a little spring, both wanting to drink, and the lion beats down the boar for all its heavy panting — so Hector, son of Priam, took the life with his spear at close range from the brave son of Menoetius, who had killed so many, and boasted over him with winged words:
"Patroclus, you thought, no doubt, that you would sack our city, strip the Trojan women of their day of freedom, and carry them off in your ships to your own dear homeland — fool! Before that could happen, Hector's swift horses strained their legs to defend it, and I myself excel with the spear among the war-loving Trojans, and I ward off their day of doom. As for you, the vultures will eat you here. Poor wretch — not even Achilles, brave as he is, could help you. He must have told you many things when he sent you off and stayed behind himself: 'Don't come back to me, Patroclus, master of horses, at the hollow ships, until you've torn the bloody shirt on Hector's chest.' That's surely what he said to you, and he talked your foolish mind into it."
Then, his strength failing, horseman Patroclus answered him: "Boast away for now, Hector — Zeus, son of Cronos, and Apollo have given you the victory; they beat me down easily, and it was they who stripped the armor from my shoulders. Even if twenty men like you had faced me, they would all have died right there, brought down by my spear. No — deadly fate and the son of Leto killed me, and of men, Euphorbus; you are only the third to have a share in killing me. But I will tell you something else, and you should take it to heart: you yourself will not live long either. Already death and mighty fate stand close beside you, to bring you down at the hands of Achilles, the noble son of Aeacus."
Even as he spoke, the end of death covered him over, and his soul fled from his limbs and went down to the house of Hades, mourning its fate, leaving behind manhood and youth.
Glorious Hector spoke to him even though he was dead: "Patroclus, why do you prophesy my sheer destruction to me? Who knows whether Achilles, son of lovely-haired Thetis, might be struck by my spear first and lose his life before mine?"
So saying, he planted his foot on the body and pulled his bronze spear out of the wound, and pushed the corpse over onto its back away from the spear. At once, spear in hand, he went after Automedon, the godlike attendant of swift-footed Achilles, meaning to strike him down — but Automedon's swift immortal horses, the splendid gift the gods gave to Peleus, carried him away.