As they fought beside the well-benched ships,
Patroclus came to Achilles, shepherd of men,
shedding hot tears like a spring whose dark
waters pour down from an impassable cliff.
Seeing him, swift-footed, noble Achilles took
pity and addressed him with winged words:
“Patroclus, why do you weep like a young girl
running to her mother and asking to be picked up
while clutching her robe, looking at her tearfully,
and refusing to let go until the mother relents?
Like her, you shed round tears, Patroclus.
Have you something to tell the Myrmidons
and I? Have you alone heard news from Pythia?
Does Menoetius, son of Actor, or Peleus, son
of Aeacus, still live among the Myrmidons?
We would grieve greatly if they were dead.
Or do you mourn the Argives who die beside
the hollowed ships because of their wrongdoing?
Do not hold it in but tell me and let us both know.”

Groaning deeply, rider Patroclus answered him:
“Achilles, son of Peleus, greatest Achaean, do not
reproach me, for woe has fallen upon the Achaeans.
In fact, all the men who were bravest in battle lie
beside the ships, wounded by arrows or spears:
Mighty Diomedes, son of Tydeus, spear-famed
Odysseus, and Agamemnon were struck by spears,
and Eurypylus was hit in the thigh by an arrow.
Healers skilled in many drugs are busy mending
their injuries, but you are unmendable, Achilles.
May no anger take hold of me like the one that
curses your spirit. How will those to come profit
if you fail to halt the Argives’ shameful ruin?
Pitiless man, your father was not rider Peleus,
nor your mother Thetis; rather, the grey sea bore
you onto steep cliffs, for your mind is hard as rock.
But if some prophecy holds you back, something
your revered mother shared with you from Zeus,
then let me set out and let the Myrmidon army
follow, so we may act as a light for the Danaans.
And let me cover my shoulders with your armor
so the Trojans will take me for you and refrain
from fighting. Then the warlike sons of Achaea
may take a breath, for there is little rest in battle.
We unwearied can easily drive weary men away
from the ships and tents and towards the city.”

So he said, but his prayers were foolish, for they
were fated to lead to a foul end: his own death.
Greatly angered, swift-footed Achilles replied to him:
“Zeus-born Patroclus, what words you speak!
I care about no prophecy, nor has my revered
mother shared with me any words from Zeus.
But a great grief has comes over my heart and soul,
for a man who is my equal is willing to deprive
me of my prize since his authority is greater.
I have suffered a deep pain in my heart for the girl
that the Achaean sons granted me as a prize, won
with my spear when I sacked a well-walled city
but taken from my hands by the son of Atreus,
lord Agamemnon, like I was some dishonored
exile. But we can put these things behind us.
I never wanted my heart to be angry forever.
Indeed, I said that I would not cease my wrath
until the noise of battle reached my ships. So put
my splendid armor on your shoulders and lead
the warlike Myrmidons into battle if, indeed,
the Trojan cloud of darkness has surrounded
our ships and forced the Argives back against
the beach with only a sliver of land to stand on.
Since they do not see the front of my shining helmet
nearby, the whole city of Troy now descends
upon them, but they would flee and fill a gully
with their dead if lord Agamemnon treated me
with respect. But now they fight around the camp,
no spear rages in the hands of Diomedes, Tydeus’
son, that would stave off Danaan ruin, and I
have not heard the son of Atreus’ voice howling
from his hated head. Meanwhile, man-slaying
Hector’s calls to his men echo round, and war
cries fill the plain as Trojans best Achaeans.
Even so, Patroclus, attack in force and defend
our ships lest they burn them with furious fire
and take away our desired return home.
But obey these words I place into your mind
so that you bring me great honor and glory
from all the Danaans and they bring back
the lovely girl and grant me glorious gifts as well:
once you have driven them from the ships,
come back, and if the loud-thundering spouse
of Hera offers you glory, do not fight the warlike
Trojans without me and diminish my honor.
And as you delight in battle and slay Trojans,
do not lead your men to Ilios or some immortal
gods will descend from Olympus and intervene.
After all, far-shooter Apollo loves them dearly.
So come back once you have saved the ships
and let the others battle upon the plain.
Father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo, I wish
no Trojan could escape death, nor any
Argive, and that we, alone, could escape
ruin and topple the sacred towers of Troy.”

While these two were speaking, Ajax retreated,
for he was overwhelmed by the mind of Zeus
and by the noble Trojans whose fiery missiles
clanged like dreadful rain on the shining helmet
that covered his temple and on his well-bossed
chin-straps. Though his left shoulder grew weary
from holding steady his flashing shield, the missile
barrage could not dislodge him. Still, he panted
painfully, unable to catch a breath, as a steady
stream of sweat cascaded down across his limbs
and danger closed in on him from all sides.

Tell me, muses who have homes on Olympus,
how was fire first flung onto the Achaean ships?

Hector stood near Ajax and slashed his ashen
spear with his great sword, shearing away
the spearhead’s base. The bronze fell to the dust
with a clang, leaving Ajax holding a useless stick.
Ajax recognized the work of the gods and felt
dread in his heart, for high-thundering Zeus
had foiled his battle plans in favor of a Trojan
victory. Thus he retreated from the missiles
while the Trojans hurled an unquenchable fire
onto the swift ship, and the flames quickly spread.

As the ship’s stern was enveloped in fire,
Achilles struck his thighs and said to Patroclus:
“Hurry, Zeus-born Patroclus, master of horses,
for I see a blazing fire by the ships. They must
not seize our ships or we cannot escape. So don
your armor at once, and I will gather the men.”

So he said, and Patroclus armed himself
in bright bronze. First, he put over his shins
a pair of fine greaves fitted with silver fasteners.
He next covered his chest with the well-wrought
breastplate of Aeacus’ swift-footed grandson.
Then he slung over his shoulders a silver-studded
bronze sword and a large, sturdy shield, and he
set atop his noble head a well-made helmet
with a horsehair crest that bobbed fearfully.
Finally, he took two strong spears that fit his grasp
but left the large, heavy, and powerful spear
of Aeacus’ noble grandson, for no other Achaean
was skilled enough to wield it but Achilles:
an ashen spear from Pelion’s peak that Chiron
gave his dear father, a gift for slaying heroes.
To quickly yoke the horses, he called Automedon,
whom he honored most after Achilles and whom
he trusted above all to stand by his side in battle.
So Automedon led to the yoke the swift horses
Xanthus and Balius, who flew like the wind,
born to Zephyrus by the harpy Podarge as she
grazed on grass beside the Oceanus stream.
On the side traces he put the blameless Pedasus,
taken by Achilles after he sacked the city of Eëtion;
being mortal, he followed the immortal steeds.

Meanwhile, Achilles went to the Myrmidons
and arranged them beside the tents in full armor.
Like a pack of ravenous wolves with hearts
full of fury who, after slaying and devouring
a horned mountain stag and coating their cheeks
red with blood, descend down to a dark spring
to lap up the black water with their narrow tongues
and to belch out bloody gore, their hearts sated
and their stomachs glutted, so the Myrmidon
lords and leaders swarmed around the noble
attendant of Aeacus’ swift-footed grandson.
With them stood warlike Achilles urging
on the shield-bearing men and the horses.

Achilles, dear to Zeus, led a fleet of fifty swift
ships to Troy, and in each ship there were fifty
men, his comrades, stationed at the oars. Five
were made leaders and trusted to give orders,
while he in his great might was lord over all.
One troop was led by Menesthius of the bright
breatplate, son of Spercheius, the rain-fed river;
fair Polydora, daughter of Peleus, bore him
to tireless Spercheius, a woman with a god,
but he was born in name to Borus, Perieres’ son,
who wed her after paying countless bride-prices.
Warlike Eudorus led the second troop, born
out of wedlock to a fine dancer, Polymele,
daugher of Phylas. Swift-appearing Hermes fell
in love after seeing her dance among the choir
of Artemis of the golden bow and echoing hunt.
Later, Hermes went to the upper chamber to lie
with her in secret, and she bore him a noble son,
Eudorus, a swift runner and speedy warrior.
But after Eileithyia’s sharp pains led the child
into the light and he saw the sun’s rays, then
stout Echecles, son of Actor, led her to his home,
after paying the huge bride-price, and old
Phylas raised and reared Eudorus with dear
affection as if he were his own son. The third
troop’s leader was warlike Peisander, the son
of Maemalus, who was the best spear fighter
among the Myrmidons save for Peleus’ son.
Old horseman Phoenix led the fourth troop,
and Alcimedon, great son of Laerces, the fifth.
Once Achilles had arranged the troops
into battalions, he gave them a stern order:
“Myrmidons, do not forget the threats you
made at the Trojans from the swift ships as I
raged, when you each accused me, saying:
‘Cruel son of Peleus, your mother raised you
on gall, pitiless, for you force us to stay beside
the ships. Let us return home in our seafaring
ships since this foul rage has filled your soul.’
So you often said against me, but the great
battle you longed for is now before you, so fill
your hearts with might and fight the Trojans.”

So he said, stirring the might in each man’s soul,
and the ranks drew tighter after hearing their king.
Just as a man building the wall of a house fits
together stones able to withstand a mighty wind,
so the men were pressed together, bossed shield
on bossed shield, helmet on helmet, and man
on man, all standing so close that their horsehair
plumes touched each time they moved their heads.
Before them all stood two warriors, Patroclus
and Automedon, both ready to fight in the front
lines of the Myrmidons. Meanwhile, Achilles went
into his tent and opened the lid of the well-made
chest silver-footed Thetis had put it in his ship
to take with him to Troy, filling it with tunics,
cloaks, and wool blankets to keep out the wind.
Inside was a fashionable goblet that no one but
Achilles drank bright wine from, nor did he use
it to make offerings to any god but father Zeus.
He lifted the cup, purified it with sulphur, washed
it in river water, and then washed his own hands
before pouring bright wine into it. Then he stood
in the forecourt and prayed, pouring out the wine
while looking up to heaven, and Zeus took notice:
“Zeus, lord of Dodona, Pelasgian, living far off
and ruling wintry Dodona with your prophets,
the Selli, who sleep on the ground with unwashed
feet;^[1] just as before when you heard my prayers
and honored me by smiting the great Achaean
army, so now hear my prayers once again.
I will remain beside the assembled ships, but I
send my comrade into battle alongside many
Myrmidons. Bring him glory, O far-seeing Zeus,
and fill his heart with courage so that Hector
will know whether my attendant has the skill
to fight alone or whether his hands hold hatred
only when I enter into the fury of Ares. But once
he has driven the war cries from the ships, then
let him return unhurt to the swift ships with all
his armor and his close-fighting comrades.”

So he prayed, and counselor Zeus heard him,
granting one wish but not the other: Patroclus
would drive the battle from the ships, but he
would not safely return from the fight. After
pouring the libation and praying to father
Zeus, Achilles returned to his tent, returned
the goblet to the chest, and stood outside, eager
to watch the Trojans and Achaeans in grim battle.

Those following great-hearted Patroclus marched
confidently towards the Trojans and attacked.
At once, they poured out like wasps at a wayside
that young boys frequently and foolishly anger
by irritating them in their nests beside the road,
thereby creating a common threat for many,
for whenever a passing traveler disturbs them
accidentally, the insects swarm out with furious
hearts and attack en mass to protect their young.
With the same heart and spirit, the Myrmidons
poured out of the ships and uttered violent cries.
And Patroclus called out loudly to his comrades:
“Myrmidons, comrades of Achilles, son of Peleus:
be men and remember your rushing courage.
Honor Achilles, the greatest Argive in the fleet,
for we are his brave fighting force. Make sure
Atreus’ son, wide-ruling Agamemnon, knows
that he blindly dishonored the best Achaean.”

So he said, stirring the rage in each man’s heart,
and they fell on the Trojans as one, and around
them the ships rang with fierce Achaean roars.

But when the Trojans saw Menoetius’ stout son
and his attendant in their bright armor, panic
filled their hearts and battle lines shook for they
thought the swift-footed son of Peleus had lost
his wrath and found friendship, and each man
glanced around for an escape from utter death.

Patroclus was first to shoot his shining spear
straight into the heart of the panic-stricken
enemy by the stern of great-hearted Protesilaus’
ship, striking Pyraechmes, leader of Paeonians,
marshalers of horses, from Amydon by the wide-
flowing Axius. The spear struck his right shoulder,
and he fell on his back in the dust with a groan.
The other Paeonians panicked, for Patroclus had
slain their leader and foremost fighter. He drove
them from the ships and put out the blazing fire.
The ship was left half-burnt as the Trojans fled
with a deafening noise and the Danaans poured
over the hollow ships, creating an unceasing
noise. Just as Zeus, gatherer of lightning,
will move a dense cloud from a mountaintop,
revealing many peaks, rocky cliffs, and valleys
and sending down boundless aether from heaven,
so the Danaans, having quenched the fire aboard
the ships, took a breath, though the war raged on;
for the Achaeans had not yet driven the warlike
Trojans from the black ships, but they stood firm
and gave ground from the ships only when forced.

The ranks broke among the leaders as man slew
man. First, Menoetius’ stout son shot Areilycus
in the thigh with his sharp spear as he turned
to flee; the bronze drove clean through and broke
the bone, and he fell face-first in the dirt. Then
warlike Menelaus struck Thoas in the chest where
his shield did not protect him, loosening his limbs.
And the son of Phyleus saw Amphiclus charging,
but Meges was quicker and struck him in the leg
where the muscles are thickest. The spearpoint
tore his tendon and darkness covered his eyes.
Then Nestor’s son Antilochus struck his sharp spear
into Atymnius, driving the bronze into the flank,
and he fell forward. An enraged Maris was near
and lunged his spear at Antilochus who stood
over his brother’s body, but godlike Thrasymedes
was quicker and struck Maris square in the shoulder.
The spearpoint severed the base of the arm
from the muscles and dashed the bone into pieces,
and he fell with a thud as darkness covered his eyes.
So these two, slain by two brothers, went to Erebus:
two noble comrades of Sarpedon and spearmen
sons of Amisodarus, who reared the monstrous
Chimera, a danger to many men. Then Ajax,
son of Oïleus, took Cleobulus alive in the chaos
of the throng and slashed him in the neck
with his hilted sword until the blade grew warm
with blood; and Cleobulus’ eyes clouded over
with death and resistless fate. Then Peneleos
and Lyco rushed each other with swords after
their spears missed their marks. Lyco slashed
at Peneleos’ horsehair helmet, but the blade
shattered around the hilt. Then Peneleos struck
his neck under Lyco’s ear, and the sword sliced
through until only skin was left to hold it in place.
His head hung down on one side and his limbs
collapsed. Then Meriones chased down Acamas
and struck his right shoulder as he was mounting
his chariot, and darkness covered his eyes as he
fell. Then Idomeneus struck his ruthless bronze
in Erymas’ mouth, pushed the spear clean through
and under the brain, and shattered bone. His teeth
were forced out, both eyes were filled with blood,
he coughed up blood through his mouth and nose,
and a black cloud of death enveloped him.

Thus each Danaan leader slew his man.
Just as ravenous wolves attack lambs or kids
scattered on a mountain by a foolish shepherd,
picking them out of the flock and quickly
tearing apart those whose hearts are weakest,
so the Danaans attacked the fright-filled
Trojans who had lost their mighty mettle.

Great Ajax tried again and again to hurl
his spear at bronze-clad Hector, but Hector’s
warcraft and bull’s-hide shield protected him
from the darts and spears whistling past. He knew
the battle was turning against him, but he held
his ground and tried to save his faithful friends.

Just as a cloud leaves Olympus and moves
into the upper air when Zeus sends a storm,
so from the ships came the terrified cries
of a disorderly retreat. Hector’s swift horses
carried him away in his armor, abandoning
the Trojan soldiers trapped by the well-dug
ditch, where many swift horses broke their front
poles and left their master’s chariots behind.
Patroclus pursued, calling eagerly to the Danaans,
devising evil for the Trojans, who cried in fear
as they scattered, filling the path and sending
a dust cloud high into the air as the horses strained
to return to the city from the ships and tents.
When Patroclus saw men in panic, he drove
after them with a cry, and men fell face-first under
the axles of empty chariots as they rattled away.
Straight over the trench and beyond leapt the swift,
immortal horses given to Peleus as gifts by the gods,
and Patroclus’ heart yearned to reach and attack
Hector, but Hector’s horses carried him away.
Just as on an autumn day a storm oppresses all
the black earth once Zeus pours rain down furiously
upon it, having grown angry at men who use
violence to lead, who use bent judgments to foil
justice, and who care nothing for the gods’
wrath; and as all the rivers flood, the streams
cut channels into many hillsides until they roar
out of the mountains and into the gleaming
sea, destroying the works of men, so also was
the mighty roar of the galloping Trojan horses.

But Patroclus cut off the front lines’ retreat
and went back to pin them by the ships without
letting them return to the city. Then he rode
between the ships and river and high wall
and slayed them in revenge for his fallen friends.
First, his shining spear hit Pronous in the chest
where his shield did not protect him; his limbs
went limp, and he fell with a thud. Next, he rushed
Thestor, son of Enops, who sat on his well-made
chariot cowering in fear, for the reins had fallen
from his hands. Patroclus pierced his right jaw,
drove the spear through his teeth, and dragged
him over the chariot rail like a fisherman on a rock
dragging a sacred fish onto land with a gleaming
bronze hook. So he dragged him, bright spear
in mouth, out of the chariot and threw him
down face-first, and life left him as he fell.
Then Patroclus stoned a charging Erylaus
square in the forehead, splitting his head in two
under his stout helmet, and he fell to the earth,
life-destroying death spreading over him.
Erymas, Amphoterus, Epaltes, Tlepolemus,
son of Damastor, Echius, Pyris, Ipheus, Euippus,
and Polymelus, son of Argeas—one after the other,
he brought them down to the earth that feeds many.

When Sarpedon saw his beltless friends bested
by the hands of Patroclus, son of Menoetius,
he reproached the godlike Lycians, crying:
“Shame, Lycians. Why do you flee? Now be swift,
for I will face this man and find out who this is
who rules the fight and has done the Trojans such
harm, loosening the knees of many noble men.”

So saying, he leapt in full armor from his chariot
to the ground; seeing him, Patroclus did likewise.
Like two hooked-talon and curved-beak vultures
uttering loud cries and fighting atop a high rock,
the two men shouted and charged at one another.
The son of wily Cronos looked and felt pity,
and he spoke to Hera, his wife and sister, saying:
“Woe is me, for Sarpedon, dearest of men to me,
is fated to be slain by Patroclus, son of Menoetius!
My heart is torn in two as I consider whether
to snatch him up from this woeful battle and take
him to the rich lands of Lycia, or let him perish
now at the hands of the son of Menoetius.”

In reply, the revered, ox-eyed Hera said to him:
“Terrible son of Cronos, what words you say!
If you wish to free a mortal man who was
destined by fate to die a hateful death, then
do it, but not all the other gods will approve.
And I will also say this, and take it to heart:
if you send Sarpedon home alive, then consider
that other gods may wish to carry their dear sons
out of dread battle, for many sons of immortals
are fighting around Priam’s great city, and you
would invite grave resentment among them.
But if he is dear to you and your heart grieves,
then allow him to perish in mighty combat
at the hands of Patroclus, son of Menoetius;
but when his life and soul have left his body,
then send death and sweet sleep to carry him
away to the land of spacious Lycia where
his brothers and kin can bury him with barrow
and pillar, for that is the honor of the dead.”

So she said, and the father of gods and mortals
obeyed, but he sent bloody teardrops to the ground
in honor of his dear son, who was set to be killed
by Patroclus in fertile Troy, far from his father’s land.

When the two men converged on one another,
Patroclus struck famed Thrasymelus, lord
Sarpedon’s noble attendant, hitting him
in the lower belly and loosening his limbs.
Sarpedon lashed back, but his shining spear
missed and struck the horse Pedasus in the right
shoulder; he shrieked, breathed his last, and fell
to the dust with a cry as his spirit flew away.
With the trace horse in the dust, the others split
apart, and the yoke creaked, tangling the reins.
But spear-famed Automedon fixed this: drawing
his sharp sword from his stout thighs, he quickly
cut the trace horse loose, steadying the other two,
and then pulled the reins tight. Once again,
the warriors resumed their heart-devouring strife.

Again Sarpedon missed with his shining spear
as the point passed over Patroclus’ left shoulder.
Then Patroclus attacked him with his bronze,
and the shot from his hand was not in vain,
striking him in the chest, near his throbbing
heart. Sarpedon fell like an oak tree or white
poplar or tall pine that is cut down by carpenter
axes and made into ship’s timber. So also did
Sarpedon lay in front of his horses and chariot,
wailing and clawing at the blood-soaked dust.
Or like a fierce bull in a herd of shambling
cattle who is killed by a lion and dies groaning
under the lion’s jaws, so beneath Patroclus
did the leader of the Lycian warriors struggle
in death, calling out to his beloved comrade:
“Dear Glaucus, fighter among men, go now
and be a spearman and bold warrior and let
bitter battle be your desire—if you are quick.
First, go among the men and urge the Lycian
leaders to fight for Sarpedon, and then you
yourself must defend me with your bronze.
For I will be a cause of shame and rebuke for you
for the rest of your life if you let the Achaeans
strip my armor here beside the gathered ships.
So hold your ground and rouse the army.”

So he said as death filled his nostrils and eyes.
Patroclus put his foot on Sarpedon’s chest and drew
the spear from his flesh, and the diaphragm came
with it, releasing his soul as he released the spear-
point. And the Myrmidons kept the snorting horses
from fleeing, for they had left their lord’s chariot.

The sound of Sarpedon’s voice filled Glaucus
with terrible grief, for he was unable to defend
him, and he squeezed his own arm, for he was
still bothered by the wound he received when
Teucer’s arrow struck him as he scaled the high
wall. So he prayed to free-shooter Apollo, saying:
“Hear me, lord, be you in Lycia’s rich lands
or in Troy, for you can hear a man’s troubles
from anywhere, and trouble has now come
to me. A sharp pain from a deep-struck wound
pierces my arm and weighs down my shoulder,
I cannot check the flow of blood or grip
my spear, I am unable to fight the enemy,
and we have lost our greatest man, Sarpedon,
son of Zeus, who did not protect his child.
So please, my lord, cure my deep wound,
numb my pain, and give me strength so I can
call my comrades, the Lycians, and urge them
to fight while I myself protect the fallen body.”

So he prayed, and Phoebus Apollo heard him
and at once stopped his pain, dried the deep
wound’s black blood, and put courage in his heart.
Glaucus knew in his mind that the great god
had quickly answered his prayer, and he rejoiced.
First, he went around rousing the Lycian leaders
to fight for Sarpedon. Then with great strides
he went among the Trojans, past Polydamas, son
of Panthous, and godlike Agenor, and came
to stand beside Aeneas and Hector, marshaller
of spears, and spoke to them with winged words:
“Hector, your allies are risking their lives for you
far from their friends and homes, but you are
wholly ignoring them and doing nothing to aid
them. Sarpedon, leader of the Lycian warriors
who guarded Lycia with justice and might, lies
dead, slain by brash Ares and Patroclus’ mighty
sword. So defend him, friend, and do not shame
your soul by letting the Myrmidons strip his armor
and harm his corpse as revenge for all the Danaans
that we killed with our spears by the swift ships.”

So saying, the Trojans were filled with unbearable,
uncontrollable grief, for though Sarpedon was
a foreigner, he was the city’s buttress, a leader
of many men and the finest of fighters. Enraged
by Sarpedon’s death, Hector led them straight
to the Danaans. But the Achaeans were urged
on by savage-hearted Patroclus, son of Menoetius,
who spoke first to the already battle-eager Ajaxes:
“You two Ajaxes must defend against the enemy.
Be the warriors you have always been—or greater.
Sarpedon lies dead, the first to scale the Achaean
wall, so let us seize him, mutilate his corpse, strip
the armor from his shoulders, and use our pitiless
bronze to kill his friends who wish to defend him.”

So he said, and they were eager to fight their foes.
When both sides had marshaled their forces,
the Trojans, Lycians, Myrmidons, and Achaeans
came together and battled around the corpse as
terrible shouts rang out and weapons clanged loudly.
And Zeus placed deathly darkness around the battle,
so a fierce fight would be waged over his dear son.

First, the Trojans repelled the bright-eyed Achaeans,
for the man who was in no way the Myrmidon’s
worst was hit: the son of great-hearted Agacles,
noble Epeigeus, former king of bustling Budeum,
who, after slaying a noble cousin, came as
a suppliant to Peleus and silver-footed Thetis,
and they sent him with Achilles, breaker of ranks,
to horse-famed Ilios so he might fight the Trojans.
As he grabbed the corpse, shining Hector struck
him in the head with a large stone, splitting his head
in two inside his strong helmet. He fell face-first
atop the corpse, and life-crushing death covered
him. Patroclus grieved for his fallen comrade
by driving through the battle like a swift hawk
who sends jackdaws and starlings scattering;
so you, Patroclus, sent the Lycians and Trojans
scattering, your heart enraged for your friend.
He struck Sthenelaus, dear son of Ithaemenes,
on the neck with a boulder, tearing their tendons.
And noble Hector and his finest fighters retreated
as far as a man casts a long javelin when testing
his strength in a contest or else in battle when he
faces a dangerous enemy, so great was the distance
that the Trojans retreated from the Achaeans.
Glaucus, now the Lycian leader, was first to turn,
and he slew great-hearted Bathycles, dear son
of Chalcon, who lived in Hellas and was among
the richest Myrmidons. Glaucus hit him square
in the chest with his spear just before he was
overtaken, and Bathycles fell with a thud.
The Trojans rejoiced as they stood over him,
but great grief fell over the Achaeans, though
they did not forget their might and carried
their rage straight at their foes. Meriones then
slew the well-armed Trojan leader Laogonus,
Onetor’s bold son, a priest of Idean Zeus^[2] who
was honored like a god by his people, striking
him in the lower jaw and ear until his soul left
his limbs and hateful darkness seized him.
Then Aeneas threw his bronze spear at Meriones,
hoping to hit him as he advanced behind his shield,
but Meriones kept his eyes on him and avoided
the bronze spear, bending forward as the weapon
fixed itself into the ground, making the butt-end
quiver; only then did Ares still its mighty fury.
And Aeneas’ spear-point rattled in the earth
after flying fruitlessly from his mighty hands.
Then Aeneas, his heart full of rage, said:
“Meriones, you are a fine dancer, but my spear
would have ended you for good had it struck.”

Spear-famed Meriones answered him, saying:
“You are a strong fighter, Aeneas, but you cannot
silence the rage of every man who defends himself
against you, for you too are mortal. No matter
the might of your hands, if my sharp spear hit
you square in the middle, you would give glory
to me and your soul to Hades of the famous steeds.”

So he said, but mighty Patroclus rebuked him:
“You are a good man, Meriones, so why say
such things? Dear friend, the Trojans will be long
dead before harsh words force them to give up
the corpse. Our hands, not our words, will win
the battle, so quit making speeches and fight.”

So saying, godlike Patroclus led the way,
and the rest followed. Just as the noises made
by wood-cutters in a mountain glen can be heard
from afar, so the sounds of bronze, leather,
and well-made shields rose from the wide earth
as they struck at each other with swords and leaf-
shaped spears. But no man, not even a friend,
would recognize noble Sarpedon, for he was
wrapped from head to foot in missiles, blood,
and dust. They battled around the corpse just as
in springtime, when buckets overflow with milk,
farmhouse flies swarm around milk-filled pails.
So, too, did they swarm around the corpse. Zeus
did not turn his shining eyes from the fierce combat
but kept constant watch, debating in his heart
whether it was time, during this mighty battle
over the body of Sarpedon, for Hector to slay
Patroclus with his bronze and strip his armor
from his shoulders or whether to allow him
to increase his toil of war and to slay many
more. Eventually, he decided it would be best
for the brave attendant of Achilles, son of Peleus,
to force the Trojans and bronze-clad Hector back
to the city and to take many lives. First, he filled
Hector’s heart with cowardice, so Hector leapt
on his chariot to flee and called the other Trojans
to follow, for he saw the scales of Zeus had tipped.
The valiant Lycians also did not wait but fled
after seeing their king struck in the heart and lying
in a pile of corpses, for many had fallen on him
when Cronos’ son drew tight the fierce combat.
Then the Achaeans stripped the flashing bronze
from Sarpedon’s shoulders, and Menoetius’ son
gave it to his comrades to take to the hollow
ships. But cloud-gatherer Zeus said to Apollo:
“Dear Phoebus, take Sarpedon out of missile
range, carry him far away, cleanse him of black
blood by washing him in a river, anoint him
with ambrosia, and dress him in divine clothes.
Then give him to the swift escorts, twins Sleep
and Death, to quickly take him to wide Lycia’s
rich lands and lay him down so his brothers
and kin may give him a solemn burial with barrow
and gravestone, for that is the honor of the dead.”

So he said, and Apollo did not disobey his father.
He went from mount Ida to the dread battlefield
and carried noble Sarpedon out of missile
range. Then he washed him in the river,
anointed him with ambrosia, dressed him
in divine clothes, and gave him to the swift
escorts, the twin brothers Sleep and Death,
who set him down in wide Lycia’s rich lands.

But Patroclus, like a reckless child, ordered
his horses and Automedon to chase the Trojans
and Lycians. If only he had obeyed the words
of Peleus’ son, he would have escaped black death.
But the mind of Zeus is mightier than a mortal’s,
for he frightens even brave men and robs them
of victory with ease by urging them to fight—
just as he now stirred the soul of Patroclus.

Patroclus, who was first and who was last to be
slain when the gods called you to your death?
Adrastus was first, followed by Autonous,
Echeclus, Perimus son of Megas, Epistor,
Melanippus, Elasus, Mulius, and Pylartes:
he slew them all, and the rest turned to flee.

Then the Achaeans would have seized high-
gated Troy under Patroclus’ spear-raging hands
had Phoebus Apollo not stood on the well-built
wall with thoughts of death and of Troy’s
salvation. Three times Patroclus reached
the high wall, and three times Apollo beat back
the shining shield with his immortal hands.
But as Patroclus made his fourth godlike
assault, Apollo called to him with a terrible cry:
“Retreat, godlike Patroclus, for the city of proud
Trojans is not fated to fall by your spear, nor
by that of Achilles, who is far better than you.”

So he said, and Patroclus gave ground
to avoid the wrath of far-striker Apollo.

Hector held his single-hoofed horses behind
the Scaean gate, unsure whether to press on
or to order his army to gather inside the wall.
As he considered, Phoebus Apollo came up
to him in the guise of stout, strong Asius,
horse-taming Hector’s uncle, brother
of Hecuba, and son of Dymas, who lived
in Phrygia by the waters of the Sangarius.
Thus disguised, Apollo, son of Zeus, said to him:
“Hector, why did you stop fighting? You must
not. If I were stronger than you, not weaker,
then you would regret holding back from battle.
So drive your chariot against Patroclus, seek
to slay him, and Apollo may give you glory.”

So saying, Apollo returned to the war of men,
plunging the Argive throng into a grave panic
and giving great glory to the Trojans and Hector.
Meanwhile, shining Hector ordered skilled
Cebriones to whip the horses back into battle,
but he left the other Danaans alone and instead
drove his solid-hoofed horses against Patroclus.
Opposite him, Patroclus leapt from his chariot
to the ground. Holding a spear in his left hand,
he picked up a jagged stone with his right,
planted his feet, and hurled it, and the shot
was not in vain, for it hit Hector’s charioteer,
Cebriones, noble Priam’s bastard son,
on the forehead as he held the horses’ reins.
The stone crushed both eyebrows and broke
the skull-bone, his eyes fell to the dust in front
of his feet, and he fell from the well-made
chariot like a diver as the life left his bones.
Then horseman Patroclus mocked him, saying:
“Alas, how nimble he is, tumbling so easily.
If he were in the fish-filled sea, he would satisfy
many by diving for oysters and leaping from ships
in stormy weather just as he now lightly tumbles
head-first from the chariot to the ground.
Clearly, the Trojans have acrobats too.”

So saying, he sprang upon heroic Cebriones
like a lion who is hit in the chest while laying
waste to a farmhouse, thus curbing his courage.
So you, Patroclus, pounced furiously on Cebriones.
But Hector leapt from his chariot to the ground,
and the two fought like a pair of brave, starving
lions fighting over a slain deer atop a mountain.
So over the body of Cebriones did these masters
of the war cry—Patroclus, son of Menoetius,
and glorious Hector—struggle to cut each other’s
flesh with ruthless bronze. Hector took hold
of his head and did not let go, and Patroclus
took hold of his feet, and all around them
Trojans and Danaans joined in bitter battle.

Just as the East and South Winds battle each
other in a mountain dell by shaking the deep
forest oak, ash, and smooth-barked cornel trees,
throwing their long, slender boughs at one another,
and creating a deafening din of breaking branches,
so the Trojans and Achaeans attacked each other,
neither side thinking of deadly panic. Many sharp
spears were struck around Cebriones, many
winged arrows leapt from bowstrings, and many
boulders were hurled against shields as men fought
in a cloud of dust over the body of this mighty
man whose horsemanship was forgotten.

While Helios stood high in the heavens, arrows
on both sides hit their targets and men fell,
but when the time came for the unyoking of oxen,^[3]
then the Achaeans proved the stronger. They drew
Cebriones away from the arrows and Trojan
cries and stripped the armor from his shoulders.
Then Patroclus leapt on the Trojans. Three times
he uttered a terrible cry and sprang at them
like a god, and each time he killed nine men.
But when you made your fourth godlike assault,
Patroclus, your life came to an end, for you were
met in fierce combat by Phoebus, the terror.
Patroclus did not see him in the press of battle,
for Apollo was shrouded in a thick mist when
he stood behind him and struck him in the back
and broad shoulders with the flat of his hand,
making his eyes spin. Then Phoebus Apollo
knocked his hollow-eyed helmet off his head;
it rattled and rolled under the horses’ hooves,
covering the horse-hair plumes with blood and dust.
Never had the gods allowed these plumes to be
sullied, for they guarded the fair head and brow
of godlike Achilles. But now Zeus gave it to Hector
to wear on his head, though his end was also near.
Now, the long-shadowed spear in Patroclus’ hands
was broken, the fringed shield on his shoulders
had dropped to the ground, and his breastplate
had been unfastened by lord Apollo, son of Zeus.
His mind fell into a stupor, his body went numb,
and he stood stunned. Then he was hit from behind
in the shoulder by the sharp spear of a Dardanian,
Euphorbus, Panthous’ son, the best of his age
with the spear, with a horse, and with his feet.
In his first chariot lesson, he knocked twenty
from their horses; now he was first to spear
you, horseman Patroclus—but not to death.
He pulled his ashen spear out of your flesh
and retreated into the throng, unwilling to face
even an unarmed Patroclus. Then Patroclus,
broken by the god’s blow and by the spear,
drew back to his comrades to avoid his fate.

Seeing great-hearted Patroclus drawing back
after being struck by a sharp spear, Hector came
up to him through the ranks, thrust his spear
into his side, and drove the bronze clean through.
He fell with a thud, and the Achaeans cried out.
Just as on the peak of a mountain a lion fights
a tireless boar over a small spring from which
both want to drink, and the lion’s strength wins
out once the boar starts gasping for breath,
so Menoetius’ noble son, having slain many,
was slain by the spear of Hector, Priam’s son,
who then stood over him in triumph and said:
“Patroclus, did you imagine that you would
ravage our city, enslave the women of Troy,
and take them back to your dear father’s land?
Fool! Before them stand Hector’s swift horses,
and my spear is best among the warlike Trojans,
for I defend them from doomsday. But as for you,
vultures will devour you here. Poor man, even
great Achilles could not save you. When you
left and he remained, he must have told you:
‘Horse-master Patroclus, do not return to me
or the hollow ships until you have torn deadly
Hector’s tunic and drenched it in his blood.’
So I imagine he said to your foolish heart.”

With your life spent, you answered him, Patroclus:
“Boast away, Hector, for Zeus, son of Cronos,
and Apollo have granted you victory, besting me
easily by taking the armor from my shoulders.
But if twenty like you had faced me, then they
would all be dead, slaughtered by my spear.
Deadly fate and the son of Leto killed me,
as did Euphorbus; you are merely the third.
But I say this now, and hold it in your heart:
you shall not live long, for death and resistless
fate stand beside you, to cut you down using
the hands of Achilles, Aeacus’ noble grandson.”

As he spoke these words, death covered him,
his soul left his limbs, and he flew to Hades,
mourning his fate, leaving manhood and youth
behind. And though dead, Hector spoke to him:
“Patroclus, why do you prophecy my death?
Perhaps Achilles, child of fair-haired Thetis,
will be first to fall by my spear and lose his life.”

Saying this, he set his foot on the corpse, pulled
the bronze spear from the wound, pushed him
back, and set off after Automedon, swift-footed
attendant of Aeacus’ grandson, eager to strike
him; but Automedon was carried off by the swift,
immortal horses given to Peleus as gifts by the gods.