Achilles Goes Beserk

Iliad 21 110ff (Fagles, p 523)
      So the illustrious son of Priam begged for life
but only heard a merciless voice in answer: "Fool,
don't talk to me of ransom. No more speeches.
Before Patroclus met his day of destiny, true,
it warmed my heart a bit to spare some Trojans:
droves I took alive and auctioned off as slaves.
But now not a single Trojan flees his death,
not one the gods hand over to me before your gates,
none of all the Trojans, sons of Priam least of all!
Come, friend, you too must die. Why moan about it so?
Even Patroclus died, a far, far better man than you.
And look, you see how handsome and powerful I am?
The son of a great man, the mother who gave me life
a deathless goddess. But even for me, I tell you,
death and the strong force of fate are waiting.
There will come a dawn or sunset or high noon
when a man will take my life in battle too—
flinging a spear perhaps
or whipping a deadly arrow off his bow."
                                                            At that
Lycaon's knees gave way on the spot, his heart too.
He let go of the spear, he sank back down . . .
spreading both arms wide. Drawing his sharp sword
Achilles struck his collarbone just beside the neck
and the two-edged blade drove home, plunging to the hilt—
and down on the ground he sprawled, stretched facefirst
and dark blood pouring out of him drenched the earth.
Achilles grabbed a foot, slung him into the river,
washed away downstream as he cried above him
savage words to wing him on his way: "There—
lie there! Make your bed with the fishes now,
they'll dress your wound and lick it clean of blood—
so much for your last rites! Nor will your mother
lay your corpse on a bier and mourn her darling son—
whirling Scamander will roll you down the sea's broad bosom!
And many a fish, leaping up through the waves, breaking
the cold ripples shivering dark will dart and bolt
Lycaon's glistening fat! Die, Trojans, die—
till I butcher all the way to sacred Troy—
run headlong on, I'll hack you from behind!
Nothing can save you now—
not even your silver-whirling, mighty-tiding river—
not for all the bulls you've slaughtered to it for years,
the rearing stallions drowned alive in its eddies . . . die!—
even so—writhing in death till all you Trojans pay
for Patroclus' blood and the carnage of Achaeans
killed by the racing ships when I was out of action!"

      The more he vaunted the more the river's anger rose,
churning at heart for a way to halt his rampage,
godlike Achilles, and stop the Trojans' rout.
But now Pelides shaking his long-shadowed spear
was charging Asteropaeus, mad to cut him down—
Pelegon's son, himself a son of the Axius River
broad and fast and Acessamenus' eldest daughter,
Periboea, loved by the deep-swirling stream.
Achilles went for Asteropaeus fresh from the ford,
braced to face him there and brandishing two spears
and the Xanthus filled the Trojan's heart with courage,
the river seething for all the youths Achilles slaughtered,
chopped to bits in its tide without a twinge of pity.
Closing against each other, just about in range,
the magnificent runner Achilles opened up,
"Who on earth are you? Where do you hail from?—
you with the gall to go against my onslaught.
Pity the ones whose sons stand up to me in war!"

      But the noble son of Pelegon answered firmly,
"High-hearted son of Peleus, why ask about my birth?
I hail from Paeonia's rich soil, a far cry from here,
heading Paeonian troops with their long spears,
and this my eleventh day since raising Troy.
My birth? I come from the Axius' broad currents—
Axius floods the land with the clearest stream on earth
and Axius fathered the famous Spearman Pelegon.
Men say I am his son.
Now on with it, great Pelides, let us fight!"
                                                            Menacing so
as brilliant Achilles raised the Pelian ash spear
but the fighting Asteropaeus, quick, ambidextrous,
hurled both spears at once—one shaft hit the shield,
no breakthrough, the shaft could not smash through,
the gold blocked it, forged in the god's gift.
But the other grazed Achilles' strong right arm
and dark blood gushed as the spear shot past his back,   
stabbing the earth hard, still lusting to sink in flesh . . .
But next Achilles, burning to cut down Asteropaeus
hurled his ashen shaft—it flew straight as a die
but a clean miss—it struck the river's high bank
and half the length of the lance stuck deep in soil.
So Achilles, drawing the sharp sword at his hip,
sprang at the man in rage as he tried to wrench
Pelides' spear from the bank but his grip failed.
Three times he tried to wrench it free, tugging madly,
thrice gave up the struggle—the fourth with all his might
he fought to bend Aeacides' shaft and break it off
but before it budged the hero was all over him,
slashing out his life, slitting his belly open—
a scooping slice at the navel and all his bowels
spilled out on the ground, darkness swirled his eyes
as he gasped his breath away. And trampling his chest
Achilles tore his gear off, glorying over him now:
"Lie there with the dead! Punishing work, you see,
to fight the sons of invincible Cronus' son,
even sprung from a river as you are! You- 210
you claimed your birth from a river's broad stream?
Well I can boast my birth from powerful Zeus himselfl
My father's the man who rules the hordes of Myrmidons,
Peleus, son of Aeacus, and Aeacus sprang from Zeus
and as Zeus is stronger than rivers surging out to sea,
so the breed of Zeus is stronger than any stream's.
Here is a great river flowing past you, look—
what help can he give you? Nonel
Nothing can fight the son of Cronus, Zeus,
not even Achelous king of rivers vies with Zeus,
not even the overpowering Ocean's huge high tides,
the source of all the rivers and all the seas on earth
and all springs and all deep wells—all flow from the ocean
but even the Ocean shrinks from the mighty Father's bolt
when terrible thunder crashes down the skies!"
                                                            With that
Achilles pulled his bronze spear from the river bluff
and left him there, the Trojan's life slashed out,
sprawled in the sand, drenched by the black tide—
eels and fish the corpse's frenzied attendants
ripping into him, nibbling kidney-fat away.
But Achilles went for Paeonians, helmets plumed,
still running in panic along the river's rapids
once they saw their finest fall in the onslaught,
beaten down by Pelides' hands and hacking sword.
He killed in a blur of kills—Thersilochus, Mydon,
Astypylus, Mnesus, Thrasius, Aenius and Ophelestes—
still more Paeonian men the runner would have killed
if the swirling river had not risen, crying out in fury,
taking a man's shape, its voice breaking out of a whirlpool:
"Stop, Achilles! Greater than any man on earth,
greater in outrage too—
for the gods themselves are always at your side!
But if Zeus allows you to kill off all the Trojans,
drive them out of my depths at least, I ask you,
out on the plain and do your butchery there.
All my lovely rapids are crammed with corpses now,
no channel in sight to sweep my currents out to sacred sea—
I'm choked with corpses and still you slaughter more,
you blot out more! Leave me alone, have done—
captain of armies, I am filled with horror!"

      And the breakneck runner only paused to answer,
"So be it, Scamander sprung of Zeus—as you command.
But I, I won't stop killing these overweening Trojans,
not till I've packed them in their walls and tested Hector,
strength against strength—he kills me or I kill him!"

Down on the Trojan front he swept like something superhuman
and now from his deep whirls the river roared to Phoebus,
"Disgrace—god of the silver bow and bom of Zeusl
You throw to the winds the will of Cronus' son—
time and again Zeus gave you strict commands:
Stand by the Trojan ranks and save their lives
till the sun goes down at last and darkness shrouds
the plowlands ripe with grain!"
                                                  When he heard that
Achilles the famous Spearman, leaping down from the bluff,
plunged in the river's heart and the river charged against him,
churning, surging, all his rapids rising in white fury
and drove the mass of corpses choking tight his channel,
the ruck Achilles killed-Scamander heaved them up
and bellowing like a bull the river flung them out
on the dry land but saved the living, hiding them down
the fresh clear pools of his thundering whirling current
but thrashing over Achilles' shoulders raised a killer-wave—
the tremendous thrust of it slammed against his shield
and he staggered, lost his footing, his arms flung out
for a tall strong elm, he clung but out it came by the roots,
toppling down, ripping away the whole cliff, blocking the stream
with a tangled snarl of branches crashing into it full length
to dam the river bank to bank-Bursting up from a whirlpool
Achilles dashed for the plain, his feet flying in terror
but the great god would not let up, hurling against him,
Scamander looming into a murderous breaker, dark, over him,
dead set on stopping the brilliant Achilles' rampage here
and thrusting disaster off the struggling Trojan force—
But the hero sprang away, far as a hard-flung spear,
swooping fast as the black eagle, the fierce marauder,
both the strongest and swiftest bird that flies the sky—
on he streaked and the bronze rang out against his chest,
clashing grimly—slipping out from under the wave he fled
with the river rolling on behind him, roaring, huge . . .
As a farmhand runs a ditch from a dark spring, sluicing
the gushing stream through plants and gardens, swinging
his mattock to knock the clods out down the shoot
and the water rushes on, tearing the pebbles loose
and what began as a trickle hits a quick slope and
down it goes, outstripping the man who guides it—
so the relentless tide kept overtaking Achilles,
yes, for all his speed—gods are stronger than men.
Again and again the brilliant swift Achilles whirled,
trying to stand and fight the river man-to-man and see
if all the immortal gods who rule the vaulting skies
were after him, putting him to rout-again and again
the mighty crest of the river fed by the rains of Zeus
came battering down his shoulders, down from high above
bi it Achilles kept on leaping, higher, desperate now
as the river kept on dragging down his knees, lunging
under him, cutting the ground from under hic legs . . .
Pelides groaned, scanning the arching blank sky:
"Father Zeus! To think in all my misery not one god
can bring himself to rescue me from this river!
Then I'd face any fate. And no god on high,
none is to blame so much as my dear mother—
how she lied, she beguiled me, she promised me
I'd die beneath the walls of the armored Trojans,
cut down in blood by Apollo's whipping arrows!
I wish Hector had killed me,
the best man bred in Troy-the killer a hero then
and a hero too the man whose corpse he stripped!
Now look what a wretched death I'm doomed to suffer,
trapped in this monstrous river like some boy, some pig-boy
swept away, trying to ford a winter torrent in a storm!"

      Quick to his cry Poseidon and Pallas moved in close,
stood at his shoulder now and taking human form,
grasped him hand-to-hand, spoke bracing words,
Poseidon who shakes the mainland first to say,
"Courage, Achilles! Why such fear, such terror?
Not with a pair like us to urge you on-gods-in-arms
sent down with Zeus's blessings, I and Pallas Athena.
It's not your fate to, be swallowed by a river:
he'll subside, and soon—you'll see for yourself.
But we do have sound advice, if only you will yield.
Never rest your hands from the great leveler war,
not till you pack and cram the Trojan armies tight
in the famous walls of Troy—whoever flees your onset.
But once you've ripped away Prince Hector's life,
back to the ships you go! We give you glory—
seize it in your hands!"