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Iliad 10 523ff (Fagles,
p 291)
With
that, just as Dolon reached up for his chin
to cling with a frantic hand and beg for life,
Diomedes struck him square across the neck—
a flashing hack of the sword—both tendons snapped
and the shrieking head went tumbling in the dust.
They tore the weasel-cap from the head, stripped
the wolf pelt, the reflex bow and long tough spear
and swinging the trophies high to Pallas queen of plunder,
exultant royal Odysseus shouted out this prayer:
"Here, Goddess, rejoice in these, they're yours!
You are the first of all the gods we'll call!
Now guide us again, Athena, guide us against
that Thracian camp and horses!"
So Odysseus prayed
and hoisting the spoils over his head, heaved them
onto a tamarisk bush nearby and against it heaped
a good clear landmark, clumping together reeds
and fresh tamarisk boughs they'd never miss
as they ran back through the rushing dark night.
On they stalked through armor and black pools of blood
and suddenly reached their goal, the Thracian outpost.
The troops were sleeping, weary from pitching camp,
their weapons piled beside them on the ground,
three neat rows of the burnished well-kept arms
and beside each man his pair of battle-horses.
Right in the midst lay Rhesus dead asleep,
his white racers beside him, strapped by thongs
to his chariot's outer rail. Spotting him first
Odysseus quickly pointed him out to Diomedes:
"Look, here's our man, here are his horses.
The ones marked out by the rascal we just killed.
On with it now—show us your strength, full force.
Don't just stand there, useless with your weapons.
Loose those horses—or you go kill the men
and leave the team to me!"
Athena, eyes blazing,
breathed fury in Diomedes and he went whirling
into the slaughter now, hacking left and right
and hideous groans broke from the dying Thracians
slashed by the sword-the ground ran red with blood.
As a lion springs on flocks unguarded, shepherd gone,
pouncing on goats or sheep and claw-mad for the kill,
so Tydeus' son went tearing into that Thracian camp
until he'd butchered twelve. Each man he'd stand above
and chop with the sword, the cool tactician Odysseus
grappled from behind, grabbing the fighter's heels,
dragging him out of the way with one thought in mind:
that team with their flowing manes must get through fast,
not quake at heart and balk, trampling over the dead,
those purebred horses still not used to corpses.
But now the son of Tydeus came upon the king,
the thirteenth man, and ripped away his life,
his sweet life as he lay there breathing hard.
A nightmare hovered above his head that night—
Diomedes himself! sped by Athena's battle-plan—
while staunch Odysseus loosed the stamping horses,
hitched them together tight with their own reins
and drove them through the nick,
lashing them with his bow: he forgot to snatch
the shining whip that lay in the well-wrought car.
He whistled shrill, his signal to rugged Diomedes
pausing, deep in thought . . . what was the worst,
most brazen thing he could do? Seize the car
where the handsome armor lay and pull it out
by the pole or prize it up, bodily, haul it off—
or tear the life from still more Thracian troops?
His mind swarming with all this, Pallas Athena
swept to his side and cautioned Diomedes, "Back—
think only of getting back, great son of Tydeus!
Back to the ships, quick, or you'll run for your life!
Some other god—who knows?—may wake the Trojans."
The goddess'
voice—he knew it, mounted at once
as Odysseus whacked the stallions smartly with his bow
and they made a run for Achaea's rapid ships.
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