Book XXI: The Battle in the River Scamander

Now when they reached the pleasant banksThe eddying Xanthus runs, the river sprungFrom deathless Jove, Achilles drave his foes through whichAsunder. Part he chased across the plainTownward, along the way by which the GreekIn terror fled the day before, pursuedBy glorious Hector. Panic-struck they ranAlong that way, while, to restrain their flight,Before them Juno hung a veil of cloudAnd darkness. Meanwhile half the flying crowdLeaped down to that deep stream and rolled amongIts silver eddies. With a mighty noiseThey plunged; the torrent dashed; the banks aroundRemurmured shrilly to the cries of thoseWho floated struggling in the current’s whirl,As when before the fierce, devouring flamesA swarm of locusts, springing into air,Fly toward a river, while the fire behindCrackles with sudden fierceness, and in frightThey fall into the waves, the roaring streamOf the deep-eddied Xanthus thus was filledBefore Achilles with a mingled crowdOf steeds and men. The Jove-descended manLeft leaning on the tamarisks his spearUpon the river’s border, and leaped in,Armed only with his sword, intent to dealDeath on the fugitives; on every sideHe smote, and from the smitten by the swordRose lamentable cries; the waves aroundGrew crimson with their blood. As when beforeA dolphin of huge bulk the fishes fleeIn fear, and crowd the creeks that lie aroundThe sheltered haven—for their foe devoursAll that he overtakes—the Trojans thusHid from his sight among the hollow rocksBeside the rushing river. When his handWas weary with the work of death, he tookTwelve youths alive, whose blood was yet to payThe penalty for Menoetiades,His slaughtered friend. He led them from the stream,Passive with fear like fawns, and tied their handsBehind them with the well-twined cords that boundTheir tunics. Then he gave them to his friends,Who led the captives to the roomy ships.

Again Achilles rushed upon the foeIntent on slaughter. One he met who climbedThe river’s bank, Dardanian Priam’s son,Lycaon, whom in former days he madeHis captive, by surprise, when in the nightHe found him lopping with an axe the boughsOf a wild fig-tree, that the trunk might formThe circle of a wheel. Achilles came,An unexpected foe, and bore him offTo sea, and sold him in the populous isleOf Lemnos. He was bought by Jason’s son,The Imbrian prince, Eëtion, who had beenHis host, and now redeemed him with large gifts,And sent him to Arisba’s noble town.Yet thence he stole, and reached his father’s houseAgain, and there made merry with his friendsEleven days, but on the twelfth a godDelivered him again into the handsOf Peleus’ son, who now would send his soulRepining down to Hades. When the chief,The swift of foot, beheld him stand unarmed,With neither helm nor shield nor spear—for theseHe had thrown down—faint with the sweaty toilOf clambering up the bank, and every limbUnstrung with weariness, then wrathfullyThus said Achilles to his mighty soul:—

“O strange! My eyes behold a miracle.Sure, the brave sons of Troy whom I have slainWill rise up from the nether darkness yet,Since this man, whom I once reprieved from deathAnd sold in Lemnos the divine, comes back.Nor could the ocean’s gray abyss of brine,Beyond which many long in vain to pass,Detain him in that isle. But he shall tasteThe sharpness of my spear, that I may proveWhether he after that will reappear,And whether the kind earth, which holds so wellThe valiant dead, can keep him in her womb.”

So pondered he and stood. The Trojan drewClose to him, with intent to clasp his knees,Fear-struck, yet hoping to avoid the doomOf bitter death. The great Achilles raisedHis ponderous spear to strike. Lycaon stooped,And, darting underneath the weapon, seizedThe hero’s knees; behind him in the groundThe spear stood fixed, though eager yet for blood;One arm was round his adversary’s knees,The other held—and would not let it go—The spear, while thus with wingèd words he prayed:—

“I clasp thy knees, Achilles; look on meKindly and pity me, O foster-childOf Jove. I am thy suppliant, and may claimThy mercy. I partook with thee the fruitsOf Ceres, when amid my fruitful fieldsThou madest me a captive, carrying meFrom friends and kindred to the sacred isleOf Lemnos. Thou didst sell me there—my priceA hundred beeves—and thou shalt now receive,For ransom, thrice as many. It is yetBut the twelfth morning since I came to TroyAfter much hardship, and a pitiless fateBetrays me to thy hands. I must believeThat Father Jove in wrath delivers meTo thee again. Laothoe brought me forthTo a brief life; that mother was the childOf aged Altes—Altes ruling o’erThe warlike Leleges, by whom are tilledThe heights of Pedasus, where Satnio flows—And Priam wedded her with other maids.She bore two children to be slain by thee;One was the godlike Polydore, whom thouDidst smite with thy keen spear, in the front rankOf those who fought on foot. His evil fateMust overtake me now, for, since a godHas brought me near thee, there is no escape.Yet let me tell thee this, and weigh it well,And let it save my life. I came not forthFrom the same womb with Hector, by whose handThy brave and gentle friend, Patroclus, died.”

The illustrious son of Priam ended hereHis prayer, and heard a merciless reply:—

“Fool! Never talk of ransom—not a word.Before the evil day on which my friendWas slain, it pleased me oftentimes to spareThe Trojans. Many a one I took aliveAnd sold; but now no man of all their race,Whom any god may bring within my reach,Shall leave the field alive, and least of allThe sons of Priam. Die thou, then; and whyShouldst thou, my friend, lament? Patroclus died,And greatly he excelled thee. Seest thou notHow eminent in stature and in formAm I, whom to a prince renowned for worthA goddess mother bore; yet will there comeTo me a violent death at morn, at eve,Or at the midday hour, whenever heWhose weapon is to take my life shall castThe spear or send an arrow from the string.”

He spake: the Trojan’s heart and knees grew faint;His hand let go the spear; he sat and coweredWith outstretched arms. Achilles drew his sword,And smote his neck just at the collar-bone;The two-edged blade was buried deep. He fellProne on the earth; the black blood spouted forthAnd steeped the soil. Achilles by the footFlung him to float among the river-waves,And uttered, boastfully, these wingèd words:—

“Lie there among the fishes, who shall feedUpon thy blood unscared. No mother thereShall weep thee lying on thy bier; thy corpseScamander shall bear down to the broad sea,Where, as he sees thee darkening its face,Some fish shall hasten, darting through the waves,To feed upon Lycaon’s fair white limbs.So perish ye, till sacred Troy be ours,You fleeing, while I follow close and slay.This river cannot aid you—this fair streamWith silver eddies, to whose deityYe offer many beeves in sacrifice,And fling into its gulfs your firm-paced steeds;But thus ye all shall perish, till I takeFull vengeance for Patroclus of the Greeks,Whom, while I stood aloof from war, ye slew.”

He spake: and, deeply moved with inward wrath,The River pondered how to render vainThe prowess of Achilles, and avertDestruction from the Trojans. Now the sonOf Peleus rushed, his ponderous spear in hand,To slay Asteropasus, who was sprungFrom Pelegon, and Pelegon was bornTo the broad river Axius, of a maid,The eldest-born of Acessamenus,Named Periboea; for the river-godWas joined with her in love. Achilles sprangTo meet the youth, as, rising from the stream,Armed with two spears, he stood, his heart made strongAnd resolute by Xanthus, who had seenIndignantly so many Trojans die—Youths whom Achilles slaughtered in his stream,And had no pity on them. When the twainWere near each other, standing face to face,The swift Achilles was the first to speak:—“Who and whence art thou that dost venture thusTo meet me? They who seek to measure strengthWith me are sons of most unhappy men.”

And thus the illustrious son of PelegonMade answer: “Brave Pelides, why inquireMy lineage? I am from a distant coast—Paeonia’s fertile fields; I lead to warPaeonia’s warriors with long spears, and thisIs now the eleventh morning since I cameTo join the war at Troy. I claim descentFrom Axius, the broad Axius, who pours forthThe fairest river on the earth. His sonWas Pelegon, expert to wield the spear,And I was born to Pelegon. And now,Illustrious son of Peleus, let us fight.”

He spake: Achilles raised the Pelian ashTo smite; Asteropaeus aimed at himBoth lances, for he used both hands alike.One struck the Grecian’s shield, yet passed not through,Stopped by the god-given gold; the other gashedLightly the elbow of his dexter arm;The black blood spouted forth, the spear passed onBeyond him, and, still eager for its prey,Stood fixed in earth. Achilles then, intentTo slay Asteropaeus, hurled at himHis trusty spear. The weapon missed its mark,And, striking the high bank, was buried thereUp to the middle of its ashen staff.Achilles drew the keen sword from his thigh,And flew with fury toward his foe, who toiledIn vain with sinewy arm to pluck that spearFrom out the bank; and thrice he shook the beamFiercely, and thrice desisted, lacking strength,And last he sought, by bending it, to breakThe ashen weapon of Aeacides.But ere it snapped Achilles took his life,Smiting him at the navel with the sword.Forth gushed the entrails to the ground, and o’erHis dying eyes the darkness came; and thenAchilles, leaping on his breast, tore offThe armor, and exultingly exclaimed:—

“Lie there! A perilous task it was for theeTo combat with a son of Jove, though bornThyself to a great River. I can boastDescent from sovereign Jove. I owe my birthTo Peleus, ruler of the Myrmidons.His father was Aeacus, who was bornTo Jupiter, a god more potent farThan all the rivers flowing to the sea.And mightier is the race of JupiterThan that of any stream. Here close at handIs a great river, if such aid can aughtAvail thee; but to strive with JupiterIs not permitted. Acheloüs, kingOf rivers, cannot vie with him, nor yetThe great and mighty deep from which proceedAll streams and seas and founts and watery depths.He trembles at the bolt of mighty JoveAnd his hoarse thunder crashing in the sky.”

As thus he spake he plucked from out the bankHis brazen spear, and left the lifeless chiefStretched in the sand, where the dark water steepedHis limbs, and eels and fishes came and gnawedThe warrior’s reins. Achilles hastened on,Pursuing the Pseonian knights, who now,When they beheld their bravest overthrownIn desperate battle by the mighty armAnd falchion of Pelides, took to flightAlong the eddying river. There he slewMydon, Thersilochus, Astypylus,Mnesus, and Thrasius, and struck down in deathAenius and Ophelestes. Many moreOf the Pseonians the swift-footed GreekHad slain, had not the eddying River, rousedTo anger, put a human semblance on,And uttered from its whirling deeps a voice:—

“O son of Peleus! Thou who dost excelAll other men in might and dreadful deeds—For the gods aid thee ever—if the sonOf Saturn gives thee to destroy the raceOf Trojans, drive them from me to the plain,And there perform thy terrible exploits.For now my pleasant waters, in their flow,Are choked with heaps of dead, and I no moreCan pour them into the great deep, so thickThe corpses clog my bed, while thou dost slayAnd sparest not. Now then, withhold thy hand,Prince of the people! I am horror-struck.”

Achilles the swift-footed made reply:“Be it as thou commandest, foster-childOf Jove, Scamander! Yet I shall not ceaseTo slay these treaty-breakers till at lengthI shut them up within their town, and forceHector to meet me, that we may decideWhich shall o’ercome the other—he or I.”

He spake, and rushed upon the men of Troy,Terrible as a god, while from his bedThe eddying River called to Phoebus thus:—

“Why this, thou bearer of the silver bow,Thou son of Jove? Thou heedest not the willOf Saturn’s son, who strictly bade that thouShouldst aid the Trojans till the latest gleamOf sunset, and till night is on the fields.”

And then Achilles, mighty with the spear,From the steep bank leaped into the mid-stream,While, foul with ooze, the angry River raisedHis waves, and pushed along the heaps of deadSlain by Achilles. These, with mighty roarAs of a bellowing ox, Scamander castAground; the living with his whirling gulfsHe hid, and saved them in his friendly streams.In tumult terribly the surges roseAround Achilles, beating on his shield,And made his feet to stagger, till he graspedA tall, fair-growing elm upon the bank.Down came the tree, and in its loosened rootsBrought the earth with it; the fair stream was checkedBy the thick branches, and the prostrate trunkBridged it from side to side. Achilles sprangFrom the deep pool, and fled with rapid feetAcross the plain in terror. Nor did thenThe mighty river-god refrain, but roseAgainst him with a darker crest, to driveThe noble son of Peleus from the field,And so deliver Troy. Pelides sprangA spear’s cast backward—sprang with all the speedOf the black eagle’s wing, the hunter-bird,Fleetest and strongest of the fowls of air.Like him he darted; clashing round his breast,The brazen mail rang fearfully. AskanceHe fled; the water with a mighty roarFollowed him close. As, when a husbandmanLeads forth, from some dark spring of earth, a rillAmong his planted garden-beds, and clearsIts channel, spade in hand, the pebbles thereMove with the current, which runs murmuring downThe sloping surface and outstrips its guide—So rushed the waves where’er Achilles ran,Swift as he was; for mightier are the godsThan men. As often as the noble sonOf Peleus made a stand in hope to knowWhether the deathless gods of the great heavenConspired to make him flee, so often cameA mighty billow of the Jove-born streamAnd drenched his shoulders. Then again he sprangAway; the rapid torrent made his kneesTo tremble, while it swept, where’er he trod,The earth from underneath his feet. He lookedTo the broad heaven above him, and complained:—

“Will not some god, O Father Jove, put forthHis power to save me in my hour of needFrom this fierce river? Any fate but thisI am resigned to suffer. None of allThe immortal ones is more in fault than sheTo whom I owe my birth; her treacherous wordsDeluded me to think that I should fallBeneath the walls of Troy by the swift shaftsOf Phoebus. Would that Hector, the most braveOf warriors reared upon the Trojan soil,Had slain me; he had slain a brave man then,And a brave man had stripped me of my arms.But now it is my fate to perish, caughtIn this great river, like a swineherd’s boy,Who in the time of rains attempts to passA torrent, and is overwhelmed and drowned.”

He spake, and Neptune and Minerva cameQuickly and stood beside him. In the formOf men they came, and took his hand, and cheeredHis spirit with their words. And thus the godNeptune, who makes the earth to tremble, said:—

“Fear not, Pelides, neither let thy heartBe troubled, since thou hast among the gods,By Jove’s consent, auxiliars such as IAnd Pallas. It is not thy doom to beThus vanquished by a river. Soon its rageWill cease, as thou shalt see. Meantime we giveThis counsel; heed it well: let not thy handRefrain from slaughter till the Trojan hostAre all shut up—all that escape thy arm—Within the lofty walls of Troy. Then takeThe life of Hector, and return on boardThy galleys; we will make that glory thine.”

Thus having spoken, they withdrew and joinedThe immortals, while Achilles hastened on,Encouraged by the mandate of the gods,Across the plain. The plain was overflowedWith water; sumptuous arms were floating round,And bodies of slain youths. Achilles leaped,And stemmed with powerful limbs the stream, and stillWent forward; for Minerva mightilyHad strengthened him. Nor did Scamander failTo put forth all his power, enraged the moreAgainst the son of Peleus; higher stillHis torrent swelled and tossed with all its waves,And thus he called to Simoïs with a shout:—

“O brother, join with me to hold in checkThis man, who threatens soon to overthrowKing Priam’s noble city; for no moreThe Trojan host resist him. Come at onceAnd aid me; fill thy channel from its springs,And summon all thy brooks, and lift on highA mighty wave, and roll along thy bed,Mingled in one great torrent, trees and stones,That we may tame this savage man, who nowIn triumph walks the field, and bears himselfAs if he were a god. His strength, I deem,Will not avail him, nor his noble form,Nor those resplendent arms, which yet shall lieScattered along the bottom of my gulfs,And foul with ooze. Himself too I shall wrapIn sand, and pile the rubbish of my bedIn heaps around him. Never shall the GreeksKnow where to gather up his bones, o’erspreadBy me with river-slime, for there shall beHis burial-place; no other tomb the GreeksWill need when they perform his funeral rites.”

He spake, and wrathfully he rose againstAchilles—rose with turbid waves, and noise,And foam, and blood and bodies of the dead.One purple billow of the Jove-born streamSwelled high and whelmed Achilles. Juno saw,And trembled lest the hero should be whirledDownward by the great river, and in hasteShe called to Vulcan, her beloved son:—

“Vulcan, my son, arise! We deemed that thouAnd eddying Xanthus were of equal mightIn battle. Come with instant aid, and bringThy vast array of flames, while from the deepI call a tempest of the winds—the WestAnd the swift South—and they shall sweep alongA fiery torrent to consume the foe,Warriors and weapons. Thou meantime lay wasteThe groves along the Xanthus; hurl at himThy fires, nor let him with soft words or threatsAvert thy fury. Pause not from the workOf ruin till I shout and give the sign,And then shalt thou restrain thy restless fires.”

She spake, and Vulcan at her word sent forthHis fierce, devouring flames. Upon the plainThey first were kindled, and consumed the deadThat strewed it, where Achilles struck them down.The ground was dried; the glimmering flood was stayed.As when the autumnal north-wind, breathingA newly watered garden, quickly driesThe clammy mould, and makes the tiller glad,So did the spacious plain grow dry on whichThe dead were turned to ashes. Then the godSeized on the river with his glittering fires.The elms, the willows, and the tamarisksFell, scorched to cinders, and the lotus-herbs,Rushes, and reeds that richly fringed the banksOf that fair-flowing current were consumed.The eels and fishes, that were wont to glideHither and thither through the pleasant depthsAnd eddies, languished in the fiery breathOf Vulcan, mighty artisan. The strengthOf the great River withered, and he spake:—

“O Vulcan, there is none of all the godsWho may contend with thee. I combat notWith fires like thine. Cease then. With my consentThe noble son of Peleus may drive outThe Trojans from their city. What have ITo do with war—the attack or the defence?”

Thus in that fiery glow he spake, while seethedHis pleasant streams. As over a strong fireA cauldron filled with fat of pampered swineGlows bubbling on all sides, while underneathBurns the dry fuel, thus were his fair streamsScorched by the heat, and simmered, while the blastSent forth by Vulcan, the great artisan,Tormented him, and he besought the aidOf Juno with these supplicating words:—

“Why should thy son, O Juno, wreak on meHis fury, more than on the other gods?My fault is less than theirs who give their aidTo Troy; and I will cease, if thou command.Bid him desist, and here I pledge my oathNot to attempt to save the Trojan raceFrom ruin, though their city sink in flamesBefore the torches of the warlike Greeks.”

This when the white-armed goddess Juno heard,She said to Vulcan, her beloved son:—

“Dear son, refrain; it is not well that thusA god should suffer for the sake of men.”

She spake, and Vulcan quenched his dreadful fires,And back the pleasant waters to their bedWent gliding. Xanthus had been made to yield,And the two combatants no longer stroveSince Juno, though offended, bade them cease,

Yet was the conflict terrible amongThe other gods, as zeal for different sidesImpelled them. With a loud uproar they metEach other in the field; the spacious earthRebellowed to the noise, and the great heavenReturned it. To the ear of Jove it rose,Who, sitting on Olympus, laughed withinHis secret heart as he beheld the godsContending, for not long they stood apart.Shield-breaking Mars began the assault; he rushedToward Pallas, brandishing his brazen spear,And thus accosted her with insolent words:—

“Thou shameless one, thou whose effronteryIs boundless, why wilt thou provoke the godsTo strife? Thy temper is most arrogant.Rememberest thou the time when thou didst promptTydides Diomed to strike at me?It was thy hand that held his shining spear,And aimed it well, and gave the wound; but nowWill I take vengeance on thee for that wrong.”

He spake, and smote Minerva’s fringèd shield,The dreadful aegis, which not even JoveCould pierce with thunderbolts. The murderous MarsSmote it with his huge spear. She only steppedBackward a space, and with her powerful handLifted a stone that lay upon the plain,Black, huge, and jagged, which the men of oldHad placed there for a landmark. This she hurledAt Mars, and struck him on the neck; he fellWith nerveless limbs, and covered, as he lay,Seven acres of the field: his armor clashedAround him in his fall; his locks all soiledLay in the trodden dust. The goddess stoodO’er him, and boasted thus with wingèd words:—

“Fool that thou art, hast thou not learned how muchThe might I boast excels thine own, that thusThou measurest strength with me? Now dost thou feelThy mother’s curse fulfilled, who meditatesThy chastisement, since thou hast left the GreeksAnd joined the treaty-breaking sons of Troy.”

She spake, and turned away her glorious eyes.Jove’s daughter, Venus, took the hand of Mars,And led him groaning thence, while hardly yetHis strength came back. The white-armed Juno saw,And spake to Pallas thus, with wingèd words:—

“See, daughter of the Aegis-bearer, Jove,Unconquerable maid! That shameless one,Through all the tumult, from the thick of fight,Leads hence the murderous Mars; but follow her.”

She spake, and Pallas gladly hastened forth,And, overtaking Venus, dealt at herA mighty buffet on the breast; her heartFainted, her knees gave way; and, as she layProstrate with Mars upon the fruitful earth,Exulting Pallas spake these wingèd words:—

“Would that all those who aid the cause of TroyAnd combat with the mailèd Greeks were thus!Would that they were as hardy and as braveAs Venus here, who ventured to the helpOf Mars, and met the force of my right arm!Then had the stately Ilium been o’erthrownLong since, and we had rested from the war.”

She spake: the white-armed Juno gently smiled.And then King Neptune to Apollo said:—

“Why, Phoebus, stand we thus aloof? it illBecomes us, while the other gods engageIn conflict. ’Twere a shame should we returnUp to Olympus and the brazen hallsOf Jove with no blow struck. Begin, for thouArt younger born, and I, who both in yearsAnd knowledge am before thee, must not makeThe assault. O silly god, and slow of thought!Hast thou indeed forgotten all the wrongsWe suffered once in Troy, and only weOf all the gods, when, sent to earth by Jove,We served a twelvemonth for a certain hireThe proud Laomedon, by whom our tasksWere set? I built a city and a wallOf broad extent, and beautiful, and strongTo stand assault; and, Phoebus, thou didst feedHis stamping oxen, with curved horns, amongThe lawns of woody Ida seamed with glens.But when the welcome hours had brought the dayOf our reward, the ruffian king refusedThe promised wages, and dismissed us bothWith menaces; to bind thee hand and footHe threatened, and to sell thee as a slaveIn distant isles, and to cut off the earsOf both of us. So we returned to heaven,Incensed at him who thus withheld the hireHe promised. Dost thou favor Troy for this?Wilt thou not rather act with us untilThese treaty-breakers, with their children allAnd their chaste matrons, perish utterly?”

Then thus the archer-king, Apollo, spake:“Thou wouldst not deem me wise, should I contendWith thee, O Neptune, for the sake of men,Who flourish like the forest-leaves awhile,And feed upon the fruits of earth and thenDecay and perish. Let us quit the field,And leave the combat to the warring hosts.”

He spake, and turned, afraid to meet in armsHis uncle; but the sylvan Dian heard—His sister, mistress of the beasts that rangeThe wilds—and harshly thus upbraided him:—

“O mighty Archer, dost thou flee and yieldThe victory to Neptune, who bears offA glory cheaply earned? Why dost thou bearThat idle bow, thou coxcomb? I shall hopeNo more to hear thee in our father’s halls.And in the presence of the immortals, boastThat thou wilt fight with Neptune hand to bard.”

The archer-god, Apollo, answered not;But thus the imperial wife of Jupiter,Indignantly and with reproachful words,Rebuked the quivered goddess of the chase:—

“How is it that thou darest, shameless one,Resist me? Thou wilt find it hard, though trainedIn archery, to match thy strength with mine,Though Jove has made thee among womankindA lioness, and though he gives thee powerTo slay whomever of thy sex thou wilt;Yet wilt thou find it easier to strike downThe mountain beasts of prey, and forest deer,Than combat with thy betters. If thou chooseTo try the event of battle, then put forthThy strength against me, and thou shalt be taughtHow greatly I excel in might of arm.”

Thus Juno spake, and grasped in her left handBoth Dian’s wrists, and, plucking with her rightThe quiver from her shoulders, beat with itHer ears, and smiled as under her quick blowsThe sufferer writhed. To earth the arrows fell,And Dian weeping fled. As when a dove,Not fated to be overtaken yet,Flees from a hawk to find her hiding-place,The hollow rock, so Dian fled in tears,And left her arrows. To Latona, then,Heaven’s messenger, the Argus-queller, spake:—

“Far be it from me to contend with thee,Latona; perilous it were to meetA consort of the Cloud-compeller, Jove,In combat. Go and freely make thy boastAmong the gods that thou hast vanquished me.”

He spake: Latona gathered from the groundThe bow and shafts which in that whirl of dustHad fallen here and there, and, bearing them,Followed her daughter, who meantime had reachedOlympus and the brazen halls of Jove.And there, a daughter at her father’s knees,She sat her down, while, as she wept, her robeOf heavenly texture trembled. GraciouslyJove smiled, and drew her toward him and inquired:“What dweller of the sky has dared do this,Dear child, as though some flagrant guilt were thine?”

And thus replied the mistress of the chaseCrowned with the crescent: “Father, ’twas thy queen,The white-armed Juno; she who causes strifeAnd wrath among the gods has done me wrong.”

So talked they, while to sacred Ilium camePhoebus Apollo; ’twas his charge to watchThe well-built city’s ramparts, lest the GreeksThat day should lay it waste against the willOf fate. The other gods went back to heaven,Some angry, some exulting. They sat downBeside the All-Father, him who darkens heavenWith gathered clouds. Meantime Achilles chasedAnd slew the Trojans and their firm-paced steeds.As, when the smoke rolls heavenward from a townGiven by the angry gods a prey to fire,Toil is the lot of all, and bitter woeThe fate of many, such the woe and toilCaused by Achilles to the sons of Troy.

The aged Priam from a lofty towerBeheld the large-limbed son of Peleus rangeThe field, and all the Trojans helplesslyFleeing in tumult. With a cry of griefHe came from that high station to the ground,And gave commandment to the sturdy menWho stood to watch the gates along the wall:—

“Hold the gates open while the flying hostEnter the city; for Achilles comes,Routing them, near at hand, and we may seeTerrible havoc. But when all our troopsAre once within the walls, and breathe again,Shut the close-fitting portals; for I dreadLest that fierce warrior rush into our streets.”

He spake: they drew the bolts and opened wideThe gates, and gave a refuge to the host.Then leaped Apollo forth to meet their flightAnd rescue them. All faint with burning thirst,And grimed with dust, they hurried o’er the plain,And toward the city and its lofty walls,While eagerly Achilles on their trackPressed with his spear; his heart was full of rage,And all on fire his spirit with desireFor glory. Then the Greeks had overthrownThe towery Troy, if Phoebus had not movedAgenor, a young hero, nobly born,Blameless, and brave, Antenor’s son, to meetAchilles. Phoebus breathed into his heartCourage, as, standing by the youth, he leanedAgainst a beechen tree, and, wrapped from sightIn darkness, watched to rescue him from death.Agenor stood as he beheld approachThe mighty spoiler, and, perplexed in mind,Sighed heavily, and said to his great soul:—

“Ah me! If with the routed troops I fleeFrom fierce Achilles, he will overtakeAnd slay me; I shall die as cowards die.But if I leave the host to be pursuedBy Peleus’ son, and by another wayFlee from the wall across the plain, untilI reach the lawns of Ida, and am hidAmong its thickets, then I may at eveBathe in the river and return refreshedTo Troy. But why give way to thoughts like these?For he may yet observe me as I hasteFrom Ilium o’er the plain, and his swift feetMay follow; there will then be no escapeFrom death and fate, since he in might of armExcels all other men. If now I hereConfront him before Troy, I cannot thinkThat he is weapon-proof; one life aloneDwells in him, though Saturnian JupiterBestows on him the glory of the day.”

He spake, and firmly waited for the sonOf Peleus; eagerly his fearless heartLonged for the combat. As a panther leavesThe covert of the wood and comes to meetA huntsman, nor is scared nor put to flightBy noise of baying hounds, not even thoughA spear’s thrust or a javelin flung from farHave wounded him, yet, wounded, he fights on,Until he grapples with his enemyOr perishes—thus did the noble sonOf the renowned Antenor press to tryHis prowess with Achilles, and disdainedTo flee before him. Holding his round shieldBefore his face, and with his lifted spearAimed at the Greek, he shouted thus aloud:—

“Renowned Achilles! Thou dost fondly knowThat thou today wilt overthrow the townOf the magnanimous Trojans. Many toils,Thou fool! must be endured ere that can be;For we are many and are brave who dwellWithin it, and shall well defend the townFor our beloved parents and our wivesAnd little ones. Here shall thou meet thy doom,Brave as thou art, and terrible in war.”

As thus he spake, his powerful hand dismissedThe keen-edged spear, nor missed his aim; it struckThe son of Peleus just below the knee.The tin of which the greave was newly forgedRang shrilly, and sent back the brazen point;It could not pierce the armor which a godHad given. And then the son of Peleus aimedHis weapon at Agenor. Phoebus cameAnd snatched away his triumph, bearing offThe godlike youth, Agenor, in a veilOf darkness from the perils of the war.Then he decoyed Achilles from the hostOf Troy; the archer of the skies put onAgenor’s perfect semblance, and appearedBefore the Greek, and fled; his hasty flightWas followed close. Achilles chased the godEver before him, yet still near, acrossThe fruitful fields, to the deep-eddied streamOf Xanthus; for Apollo artfullyMade it to seem that he should soon o’ertakeHis flying foe, and thus beguiled him on.Meantime the routed Trojans gladly throngedInto the city, filled the streets, and closedThe portals. None now dared without the wallsTo wait for others, or remain to knowWho had escaped with life, and who were slainIn battle; eagerly they flung themselvesInto the city—everyone whose feetAnd knees had borne him from the field alive.