Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
But when they reached the ford of the fair-flowing river, the whirling waters of Xanthus, whom immortal Zeus had fathered, there Achilles split the Trojans apart and drove some across the plain toward the city, the very ground where the Achaeans had fled in terror the day before, when glorious Hector had raged. Along that path the Trojans now poured out in flight, and Hera spread a thick mist before them to hold them back. But half of them were driven into the deep-flowing river with its silver eddies, and they plunged in with a great crash, and the steep banks echoed around them, and they swam here and there crying out, spun about in the whirling currents.
As when locusts driven by a sudden blast of fire take wing and flee toward a river, while the tireless flame springs up behind them and they cower down into the water — so before Achilles the roaring stream of deep-whirling Xanthus was choked with a tangle of horses and men. And Achilles, sprung from Zeus, left his spear leaning against a tamarisk on the bank and leapt into the river like something more than mortal, armed only with his sword, and his heart was set on grim work. He struck out on every side, and an ugly groaning rose from men cut down by the blade, and the water ran red with blood.
As small fish flee before a huge dolphin and fill the coves of a snug harbor in terror, for it devours whatever it catches — so the Trojans cowered beneath the banks along that dreadful river's course. And when his arms grew weary with killing, Achilles picked out twelve young men alive from the river as payment for the death of Patroclus, son of Menoetius. He led them out dazed like fawns, bound their hands behind them with well-cut leather straps — the very straps they wore around their own tunics — and gave them to his companions to lead down to the hollow ships.
Then he sprang back again, eager for more slaughter. There he came upon a son of Priam, Lycaon, fleeing from the river — the same young man Achilles had once taken by force from his father's orchard, catching him there at night as he was cutting young fig-tree shoots with sharp bronze to make the rails of a chariot. That time disaster had come upon him unlooked for at the hands of godlike Achilles, who had sold him across the sea to well-built Lemnos, and the son of Jason had paid the price for him.
From there a guest-friend had ransomed him and given much for his freedom — Eetion of Imbros — who sent him on to sacred Arisbe; and from there, slipping away, he had made his way back to his father's house. For eleven days he had taken joy in his heart among his own people, home from Lemnos; but on the twelfth day a god cast him once more into the hands of Achilles, who was fated to send him down to the house of Hades though he had no wish to go. Swift-footed godlike Achilles saw him now, stripped of helmet and shield, carrying no spear at all —
for he had flung everything to the ground, since sweat wore him down as he fled the river, and exhaustion had loosened his knees beneath him. Achilles, troubled, spoke to his own great heart: "By the gods, this is a marvel I see with my own eyes! Surely the great-hearted Trojans I have cut down will now rise again out of the murky dark, since here this one comes back, having escaped his pitiless day of doom, sold away to sacred Lemnos — the gray sea that holds back so many against their will did not hold him. Come then, he shall taste the point of my spear as well, so that I may see for myself and learn
whether he will come back from there too, or whether the life-giving earth will hold him down, as it holds even the strong." So he pondered as he waited, while Lycaon came near him, dazed, longing to clasp his knees — for above all he wanted with his whole heart to escape wretched death and black fate. Godlike Achilles raised his long spear, eager to strike, but Lycaon ducked beneath it and ran in to grasp his knees, crouching low, and the spear passed over his back and stood fixed in the earth, hungry still to taste human flesh.
With one hand Lycaon clutched Achilles' knees, beseeching him, while with the other he held the sharp spear fast and would not let it go. And he spoke to him, calling out winged words: "I beg you by your knees, Achilles — respect me and pity me. I stand before you as a suppliant worthy of honor, sprung from Zeus. For it was at your table that I first tasted the grain of Demeter, on the day you captured me in my father's well-worked orchard, and carried me off far from my father and my friends, and sold me away to sacred Lemnos, and I brought you the price of a hundred oxen. Now I have paid three times that to be freed — and this is only
my twelfth dawn since I came back to Troy, after suffering much. And now again cruel fate has thrown me into your hands. I must be hateful to father Zeus, who has given me to you a second time. My mother bore me for a short life — Laothoe, daughter of old Altes, Altes who rules the war-loving Leleges, holding steep Pedasus above the river Satnioeis. Priam took his daughter as one wife among many, and she bore two sons, both of whom you will cut down. One you already killed among the front ranks of the foot soldiers —
godlike Polydorus, when you struck him with your sharp spear. And now evil will come to me here as well, for I do not think I can escape your hands, since some god has brought me close to you again. But I will tell you one more thing, and lay it to heart: do not kill me, for I am not born of the same womb as Hector — the man who killed your gentle, mighty friend." So the shining son of Priam spoke, pleading with these words, but he heard back a pitiless voice in answer:
"Fool, do not speak to me of ransom, do not go on about it. Before Patroclus met his fated day, it was somewhat dearer to my heart to spare the Trojans, and many I took alive and sold away. But now not one will escape death, whomever god delivers into my hands before the walls of Troy — none of the Trojans, and least of all the sons of Priam. No, friend, you too must die. Why do you weep like this? Patroclus died too, and he was a far better man than you. And look at me — do you not see how large and handsome I am? My father is a noble man, and a goddess bore me as my mother —
yet even over me hang death and mighty fate. There will come a dawn, or an evening, or a noontime, when someone will take my life too in battle, whether with a spear-cast or an arrow loosed from the string." So he spoke, and Lycaon's knees and heart gave way beneath him. He let go of the spear and sat back, spreading both his hands wide, and Achilles drew his sharp sword and struck him by the collarbone, at the neck, and the double-edged blade sank in entirely. He fell face down on the ground and lay stretched out, and black blood ran out and soaked the earth. Achilles seized him by the foot and flung him into the river to be carried off,
and boasting over him he spoke winged words: "Lie there now among the fish, who will lick the blood clean from your wound without a care. Your mother will not lay you on a bier and mourn you — no, Scamander will carry you spinning down into the wide gulf of the sea, and some fish leaping under a wave will dart through the dark ripple to eat the white fat of Lycaon. Perish, all of you, until we reach the city of sacred Troy — you fleeing before me, and I cutting you down from behind. Not even your fair-flowing river with its silver eddies
will save you, for all the bulls you have long sacrificed to it, and the live horses you have thrown into its whirling pools. Even so you will perish a wretched death, until every one of you has paid for the killing of Patroclus and the ruin of the Achaeans that you dealt beside the swift ships while I was absent." So he spoke, and the river grew still angrier at heart, and turned over in his mind how he might stop godlike Achilles from his work and ward destruction off from the Trojans. Meanwhile the son of Peleus, holding his long-shadowed spear, sprang at Asteropaeus, son of Pelegon, eager to kill him,
grandson of the river Axius, wide-flowing, who had fathered him with Periboea, eldest daughter of Acessamenus — for the deep-whirling river had lain with her. Achilles rushed at him, and he stood his ground before the river, holding two spears; for Xanthus had put strength into his heart, angered over the young men Achilles had cut down all along his stream without pity. When the two came near each other, swift-footed godlike Achilles spoke first: "Who are you, and from where, that you dare to come and face me? Wretched are the sons who meet my fury."
And the shining son of Pelegon answered him: "Great-hearted son of Peleus, why ask about my lineage? I have come from rich Paeonia, a land far off, leading Paeonian spearmen with long lances, and this is now my eleventh dawn since I came to Troy. My descent is from the wide-flowing river Axius — Axius, whose water runs the fairest over the earth — who fathered famed Pelegon with the spear, and they say he fathered me. Now let us fight, shining Achilles."
So he spoke in threat, and godlike Achilles raised the Pelian ash spear. But the hero Asteropaeus, being able with both hands, hurled with both spears at once. With one he struck the shield but did not pierce it through, for the gold, the god's own gift, held it back; with the other he grazed Achilles' right forearm, and dark blood spurted out, and the spear stuck fast in the ground beyond him, still hungry to taste flesh. Then Achilles in turn hurled his straight-flying ash spear at Asteropaeus, eager to kill him,
but he missed his mark, and struck the high riverbank, driving the ashwood spear halfway into the earth of the bank. Then the son of Peleus drew his sharp sword from beside his thigh and leapt at him in fury; and Asteropaeus could not pull Achilles' spear free from the bank with his powerful hand. Three times he shook it, straining to draw it out, and three times his strength gave way; a fourth time his heart urged him to bend and snap the ashwood shaft of the grandson of Aeacus, but before he could, Achilles closed in and took his life with the sword. He struck him in the belly beside the navel, and all his entrails
spilled out onto the ground, and darkness covered his eyes as he gasped for breath. Achilles sprang upon his chest, stripped his armor, and cried out in triumph: "Lie there like that — it is a hard thing to match the children of the almighty son of Cronus, even for one born of a river. You claimed your descent from a wide-flowing river; I claim mine from great Zeus himself. My father is a man who rules over many Myrmidons, Peleus, son of Aeacus, and Aeacus was born of Zeus. So as Zeus is mightier than rivers that flow to the sea,
so too is the offspring of Zeus mightier than the offspring of a river. Indeed you have a great river beside you now, if it can do you any good — but there is no fighting against Zeus, son of Cronus. Not even lord Achelous can match him, nor the great strength of deep-flowing Ocean himself, from whom all rivers and every sea and all springs and deep wells flow — even he fears the lightning of great Zeus and his dread thunder, when it crashes down from the sky." So he spoke, and pulled his bronze spear out of the bank,
and left the body lying there where its life had been taken from it, on the sand, with the dark water washing over it. Eels and fish crowded around it, tearing at and stripping the fat from around its kidneys. Then Achilles went after the horse-driving Paeonians, who were still cowering by the whirling river, since they had seen their best man brought down in the fierce struggle by the hands and sword of the son of Peleus. There he killed Thersilochus, Mydon, Astypylus, Mnesus, Thrasius, Aenius, and Ophelestes.
And swift Achilles would have killed still more of the Paeonians, but the deep-whirling river, angered, called out to him in the likeness of a man, speaking from deep within his eddies: "Achilles, you surpass all men in strength, and you surpass them too in the terrible things you do, for the gods themselves are always at your side to help you. If the son of Cronus has granted you to destroy all the Trojans, then drive them out of my waters and do your terrible work on the plain. My lovely streams are choked with corpses now,
and I cannot pour my current forward into the bright sea, so crowded am I with the dead, while you go on killing without mercy. Come now, let it be enough — I am seized with horror, lord of men." And swift-footed Achilles answered him: "So it shall be, Scamander, nurtured by Zeus, just as you ask. But I will not stop cutting down these arrogant Trojans until I have driven them into their city and tested myself against Hector face to face, to see whether he brings me down, or I bring down him."
So saying he rushed at the Trojans like something more than mortal. Then the deep-whirling river spoke to Apollo: "Shame on you, lord of the silver bow, son of Zeus — you have not kept the command of the son of Cronus, who charged you strictly
to stand by the Trojans and defend them until evening falls late and darkness shadows the rich farmland." So he spoke, and spear-famed Achilles leapt down into the middle of the river, springing from the bank. And the river rushed at him swollen with fury, churning all his streams into turmoil, and shoved aside the many corpses that lay thick within him, the ones Achilles had killed — these he cast out onto dry land, bellowing like a bull, while he kept the living safe within his fair waters, hiding them in his deep, wide pools. And a terrible wave rose seething around Achilles,
the current beating against his shield and pushing him back, so that his feet could find no footing. He caught hold of a great, well-grown elm tree with his hands, but it tore up by the roots, dragging the whole bank down with it, and dammed the fair stream with its thick branches, bridging it entirely as it fell in. Achilles sprang up out of the whirling water and dashed off across the plain on flying feet, in fear, but the great god did not let him go, and rose up after him,
crested with a dark, foaming crown, to stop godlike Achilles from his work and ward destruction off from the Trojans. The son of Peleus sprang back the distance of a spear-throw, with the swoop of a black eagle, the hunter, which is both the strongest and the swiftest of winged things — like that he darted away, and the bronze on his chest clashed terribly. He swerved aside and fled beneath the flood, and it came pouring after him with a great roaring crash. As when a man who tends the water channels leads a stream from a dark spring among his plants and gardens, mattock in hand, clearing the blockage from the ditch —
and as it runs forward all the pebbles are swept along beneath it, and it goes rushing swiftly downhill, murmuring, over sloping ground, and outruns even the man who guides it — so the wave of the river's current kept overtaking Achilles again and again, swift as he was; for the gods are stronger than men. As often as swift-footed godlike Achilles tried to make a stand and face him, to learn whether all the immortals who hold the wide heavens were driving him in terror, just so often the great wave of the sky-fed river
struck him about the shoulders from above, and he leapt up high with his feet, his heart in anguish, while the river wore away the ground beneath his knees, rushing beneath him violently and sweeping the dirt from under his feet. Then the son of Peleus groaned aloud, looking up at the wide heavens: "Father Zeus, is there truly no god willing to pity me and save me from this river? After that, let anything happen to me. None of the heavenly gods is as much to blame for this as my own dear mother, who beguiled me with lies —
she told me I would die beneath the walls of the armored Trojans, struck down by the swift arrows of Apollo. I wish Hector had killed me, the best man raised in this land — then a brave man would have slain me, and a brave man would have stripped my armor. But now it seems I am fated to die a miserable death, trapped in this great river, like a boy tending pigs who is swept away by a torrent while trying to cross it in a storm." So he spoke, and at once Poseidon and Athena came swiftly
and stood close beside him, taking the shape of men, and clasping his hand in theirs they reassured him with their words. Poseidon, shaker of the earth, spoke first among them: "Son of Peleus, do not tremble so, and do not be afraid, for we two are such helpers sent to you from among the gods, with the approval of Zeus — I, and Pallas Athena.
It is not your fate to be brought down by a river; he will soon subside, as you yourself will see. But we will give you sound advice, if you will listen to it: do not hold back your hands from this leveling war until you have penned the Trojan army, all who escape you, within the famed walls of Troy. Then, once you have taken Hector's life, go back to the ships — we grant you the glory of that victory." So having spoken the two of them went back among the immortals; and Achilles went on, for the command of the gods had roused him greatly,
out onto the plain, and it was all filled with water pouring everywhere,
Fine armor floated everywhere, the gear of young men killed in battle, and corpses drifted with it. His knees leaped high against the current as he charged straight upstream, and the river, wide as it ran, could not hold him back — Athena had thrown enormous strength into him. Nor did Scamander let his fury slacken; he grew angrier still at the son of Peleus, reared up the crest of his stream, and shouted a summons to Simoeis: "Dear brother, the two of us together must check this man's strength, or soon he will tear down great Priam's city, and the Trojans will not hold their ground in battle any longer.
Come to my aid at once — fill your channels with water from your springs, rouse every stream to flood, raise a great wave, stir up a huge crash of timber and stone, so that we can stop this savage man who now holds the mastery and rages like the gods themselves. I tell you, neither his strength nor his beauty will save him, nor that fine armor, which will lie sunk deep in the marsh, buried in mud. I will wrap the man himself in sand, pour endless shingle over him, so much that the Achaeans won't even be able
to gather his bones, I will bury him so deep in silt. That will be his grave — he'll need no mound heaped up when the Achaeans bury him." So he spoke, and rose up against Achilles, seething and swollen, roaring with foam and blood and corpses. The dark purple wave of the god-fed river towered up and reared, and it was pulling the son of Peleus under. Hera cried out loudly, terrified for Achilles, afraid the great deep-swirling river would sweep him away, and at once she spoke to her own dear son, Hephaestus:
"Rouse yourself, Crookfoot, my child — we have long believed that swirling Xanthus was a match for you in battle. Come to his aid at once, show a great blaze of fire. I will go raise a fierce storm out of the sea, from the West Wind and the bright South Wind, one strong enough to burn the Trojans' heads and armor with an evil blaze — and you, along the banks of Xanthus, burn the trees, throw the river itself into the fire. Don't let him turn you aside with soft words or with threats,
and don't let up your fury until I call out and shout to you — only then hold back the tireless fire." So she spoke, and Hephaestus kindled his terrible blaze. First the fire caught across the plain and burned the many corpses that lay piled there, the men Achilles had killed; the whole plain dried out, and the bright water was checked. Just as the North Wind in autumn quickly dries a freshly watered orchard, and the man who tends it rejoices — so the whole plain dried out, and Hephaestus burned up the corpses, then turned his blazing flame upon the river itself. Elms burned, and willows, and tamarisks,
the lotus burned, and the rushes and the galingale, all the plants that had grown thick along the lovely banks of the river. The eels and fish that lived in the eddies writhed in pain, diving this way and that through the fair currents, tormented by the blast of the clever Hephaestus. And the river's own strength burned too, and it cried out, saying: "Hephaestus, no god can match you in strength — I could never fight against you when you blaze like this with fire. Stop this quarrel. Let brilliant Achilles drive the Trojans out of their city right now, if he wants — what do I have to do with strife or aid to anyone?"
So he spoke, scorched by the fire, and his lovely waters boiled and bubbled. As a cauldron boils inside, driven hard by a great fire, melting the fat of a well-fed hog, bubbling up on every side, with dry logs stacked beneath it — so the river's fair waters burned in the fire, and the water boiled; it would not flow on but stood checked, tormented by the blast of skillful Hephaestus. And so, begging hard, the river spoke winged words to Hera:
"Hera, why has your son come to torment my stream above all others? I'm not so much to blame as all the other gods who help the Trojans. But I will stop, since you command it — only let him stop too. And I will swear this oath besides: never will I turn aside the evil day from the Trojans, not even when all Troy burns in the raging fire, burned by the warlike sons of the Achaeans." When the white-armed goddess Hera heard this, she spoke at once to her own dear son, Hephaestus: "Hephaestus, glorious child, hold back — it isn't right to batter an immortal god so brutally for the sake of mortals."
So she spoke, and Hephaestus quenched his terrible fire, and the flood went rushing back down its lovely channels. Once Xanthus's fury was broken, the two of them stopped — Hera held back Hephaestus, angry though she still was. But among the other gods a heavy, bitter quarrel fell, and their hearts were driven in opposite directions. They clashed together with a huge crash, the wide earth groaned, and the great heaven trumpeted around them. Zeus heard it as he sat on Olympus, and his heart laughed with joy to see the gods driving together in strife.
They did not stand apart for long, for Ares, piercer of shields, opened the fight — he charged first at Athena, bronze spear in hand, and spoke a taunting word: "Why now, dogfly, do you drive the gods together in strife again, with that reckless daring of yours, while your proud heart urges you on? Don't you remember when you drove Diomedes, son of Tydeus, to wound me, and you yourself took up a spear all could see and drove it straight at me, tearing my beautiful skin? Now I think you'll pay for everything you've done." So he spoke, and struck her tasseled aegis,
that terrible aegis that not even Zeus's thunderbolt can defeat — there the bloodstained Ares struck her with his long spear. But she stepped back and, with her strong hand, snatched up a stone lying on the plain, black, jagged, huge — men of an earlier age had set it there to mark a field's boundary — and with this she struck raging Ares on the neck and loosed his limbs. He fell and covered seven acres of ground, fouled his hair with dust, and his armor clattered around him. Pallas Athena laughed, and spoke to him boastfully, winged words:
"Fool — even now you have not learned how much stronger I claim to be, that you would match your strength against mine. This way you'll pay off your mother's curses in full, for she rages against you and plots evil because you deserted the Achaeans to help the arrogant Trojans." So speaking she turned her bright eyes away, and Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, took Ares by the hand and led him off, groaning heavily, his spirit barely gathered back together. When the white-armed goddess Hera saw her, she spoke at once to Athena, winged words:
"Ah, no — daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, tireless one, look — that dogfly is leading man-killing Ares out of the deadly battle, right through the chaos. Go after her!" So she spoke, and Athena rushed after, glad at heart, caught up to Aphrodite and struck her hard on the chest with her strong hand — and her knees and heart gave way beneath her. So both of them lay together on the bountiful earth, and Athena spoke boastfully over them, winged words: "Let all who help the Trojans be like this,
whenever they fight the armored Argives — as bold and as reckless as Aphrodite was when she came to help Ares, facing my fury. If she had, we would long ago have ended this war, having sacked Troy's well-built citadel." So she spoke, and the white-armed goddess Hera smiled. Then the mighty Earthshaker spoke to Apollo: "Phoebus, why do the two of us stand apart? It isn't fitting, now that the others have started this — it would be shameful if we went back to Olympus, to Zeus's bronze-floored house, without a fight. Begin — you are younger by birth; it wouldn't be right for me, since I was born first and know more.
Fool — what a mindless heart you have. Have you forgotten all the hardships we two suffered around Ilion, alone among the gods, when we came at Zeus's command and served proud Laomedon for a full year at a set wage, and he gave the orders? I built the Trojans a wall around their city, wide and very fine, so the city would be unbreakable, while you, Phoebus, herded his shambling, curved-horned cattle in the folds of wooded, many-valed Ida. But when the joyful seasons brought the time
for our wages to be paid, the terrible Laomedon robbed us of everything owed and sent us off with threats. He threatened to bind our feet and hands together and sell us off to islands far away, and swore he would cut off both our ears with bronze. So we went back with hearts full of bitter anger, cheated of the wages he had promised and never paid. And now you show favor to his people, instead of joining with us to make sure the arrogant Trojans die miserably, they and their children and their honored wives."
Lord Apollo, who strikes from afar, answered him: "Earthshaker, you would not call me sound of mind if I fought you over mortals — pitiful creatures who are like leaves, blazing with life one moment as they eat the fruit of the fields, and the next moment withering away, lifeless. Let's stop this fight at once — let mortals settle it themselves." So speaking he turned away, ashamed to come to blows with his own father's brother.
But his sister, mistress of wild creatures, huntress Artemis, scolded him harshly and spoke a taunting word: "So you're running away, Far-Striker, and handing Poseidon the whole victory, giving him glory for nothing? Fool, why do you even carry that bow, if it's useless as the wind? Don't let me hear you boasting again in our father's halls, the way you used to among the immortal gods, that you would fight Poseidon face to face." So she spoke, but Apollo, who strikes from afar, said nothing back to her. Instead it was Zeus's honored wife who, in anger, scolded the archer-goddess with taunting words:
"How dare you now, shameless dog, stand up against me? I would be hard for you to match in strength, even with your bow, since Zeus has made you a lion among women and lets you kill whichever one you please. Truly it's better to hunt wild beasts and deer on the mountains than to fight face to face with stronger powers. But if you want to learn war, so you know clearly how much mightier I am, since you dare match your strength with mine —" With that she seized both Artemis's wrists in her left hand,
and with her right hand stripped the bow from her shoulders, and, smiling, boxed her ears with it as Artemis twisted to escape, and the swift arrows spilled out. Weeping, the goddess fled from under her, like a dove that flies into a hollow rock, a cleft, to escape a hawk — for it was not her fate to be caught. So Artemis fled in tears, leaving her bow behind. Then the Guide, the slayer of Argus, spoke to Leto: "Leto, I will not fight you at all — it is a dangerous thing to come to blows with the wives of cloud-gathering Zeus. Go, and gladly boast among the immortal gods
that you defeated me by brute force." So he spoke, and Leto gathered up the curved bow and arrows, scattered here and there in the swirling dust. She took the bow and went back to her daughter, who had already reached Olympus, Zeus's bronze-floored house, and sat weeping on her father's knees, her divine robe trembling around her. Her father, the son of Cronus, drew her close and asked her, laughing gently: "Which one of the heavenly gods has done this to you, dear child, so recklessly, as though you had been caught doing something wrong, in plain sight?"
The fair-crowned goddess of the loud hunting-cry answered him: "It was your wife who struck me, father — white-armed Hera, from whom strife and quarreling fall upon the immortals." So the two of them spoke to each other of such things. Meanwhile Phoebus Apollo went into sacred Troy, for he was anxious for the wall of the well-built city, afraid the Danaans might sack it before its fated day. The rest of the gods, who live forever, went back to Olympus, some angry, some glorying greatly — and they sat down beside their father, lord of the dark clouds. But Achilles
went on killing Trojans, men and their single-hoofed horses alike. As when smoke rises up into the wide sky from a burning city, driven by the anger of the gods, bringing labor to everyone and grief to many — so Achilles brought labor and grief to the Trojans. Old Priam stood on the sacred tower and caught sight of monstrous Achilles; before him the Trojans were driven headlong in panicked flight, with no strength left in them. Groaning, Priam came down from the tower to the ground, urging the famous gatekeepers along the wall:
"Hold the gates open wide in your hands until the people come fleeing back into the city — for Achilles is close, driving them before him. Now, I think, disaster is coming. But once they are inside the wall and can catch their breath, shut the doors again, bar them fast — I'm afraid that murderous man may burst in through the wall." So he spoke, and they threw open the gates and pulled back the bars, and the open gates let in the light. But Apollo darted out to meet the Trojans, to ward off ruin from them. Straight toward the city and its high wall,
parched with thirst, coated in dust from the plain, they fled, and Achilles pressed hard after them with his spear — a raging fury held his heart always, and he burned to win glory. And then the sons of the Achaeans would have taken high-gated Troy, if Phoebus Apollo had not roused godlike Agenor, the noble and strong son of Antenor. He put courage into his heart and stood beside him himself to ward off the heavy hands of death, leaning against an oak tree, hidden in a thick mist. When Agenor saw Achilles, sacker of cities,
he stopped, and his heart churned with turmoil as he waited. Troubled, he spoke to his own proud heart: "No — if I flee before mighty Achilles, the way the others are driven in panic, he will still catch me and cut my throat like a coward. But if I let these men be routed by Achilles, son of Peleus, and myself run on foot away from the wall, toward the plain of Ilion, until I reach the slopes of Ida and can hide in its thickets — then in the evening, after bathing in the river
and cooling off from my sweat, I could make my way back to Troy. But why does my heart even discuss such things with me? He might notice me slipping away from the city toward the plain, and come after me and catch me with his swift feet — then there will be no escaping death and destruction, for he is far stronger than any man alive. But what if I go out and face him before the city, in the open? His flesh, too, can surely be pierced by sharp bronze — there is only one life in him, and men say he is mortal, though Zeus, son of Cronus, gives him glory."
So speaking, he gathered himself and stood his ground, waiting for Achilles, his brave heart set on fighting and battle. As a leopard comes out from the deep brush to face a hunter, and its heart feels no fear, no urge to flee, even when it hears the baying of hounds — even if the man strikes first, wounding it with a thrust or a throw, still, pierced through by the spear, it does not give up its fighting spirit until it has closed with him or been brought down — so Agenor, son of noble Antenor, was unwilling to flee until he had tested Achilles.
He held his round shield in front of him and aimed his spear at Achilles, shouting loudly: "No doubt you're hoping deep in your heart, glorious Achilles, to sack the city of the proud Trojans this very day. Fool — there is still much suffering in store before that happens, for we are many strong men inside, ready to defend Ilion in front of our dear parents, our wives, and our sons — while you, for all your terrible boldness, will meet your death right here." So he spoke, and hurled his sharp javelin from his heavy hand,
and struck him on the shin below the knee — the throw did not miss. The greave of newly forged tin rang out terribly around his leg, but the bronze bounced back off the man it struck, failing to pierce through, held off by the god's gift. Then the son of Peleus charged at godlike Agenor in turn, but Apollo did not let him win that glory — he snatched Agenor away, hid him in a thick mist, and sent him quietly out of the battle to go his way. Then the god drew the son of Peleus off away from the Trojan ranks by a trick, for taking on Agenor's likeness completely,
Apollo, wearing Agenor's shape, stood there before Achilles' feet, and Achilles sprang forward on foot to run him down. He chased him across the wheat-bearing plain, Apollo veering him aside along the deep-swirling Scamander, always letting him show just a little ahead, tricking him so that Achilles kept hoping to catch him with the next stride. Meanwhile the rest of the Trojans, driven by terror, came pouring into the city in a crowd, glad to be inside its walls, and the town filled up with men crushing together. None of them dared wait outside the city and its wall any longer to find out who had gotten away and who had died in the fighting; they rushed headlong
into the city, every man whose legs and knees could still carry him to safety.