The Fall of Troy by Quintus (4th century AD) Book One: How Troy Died for the Queen of the Amazons, Penthesilea

When godlike Hector by Peleides slain

Passed, and the pyre had ravined up his flesh,

And earth had veiled his bones, the Trojans then

Tarried in Priam's city, sore afraid

Before the might of stout-heart Aeacus' son:

As kine they were, that midst the copses shrink

From faring forth to meet a lion grim,

But in dense thickets terror-huddled cower;

So in their fortress shivered these to see

That mighty man. Of those already dead

They thought of all whose lives he reft away

As by Scamander's outfall on he rushed,

And all that in mid-flight to that high wall

He slew, how he quelled Hector, how he haled

His corse round Troy; -- yea, and of all beside

Laid low by him since that first day whereon

O'er restless seas he brought the Trojans doom.

Ay, all these they remembered, while they stayed

Thus in their town, and o'er them anguished grief

Hovered dark-winged, as though that very day

All Troy with shrieks were crumbling down in fire.

Then from Thermodon, from broad-sweeping streams,

Came, clothed upon with beauty of Goddesses,

Penthesileia -- came athirst indeed

For groan-resounding battle, but yet more

Fleeing abhorred reproach and evil fame,

Lest they of her own folk should rail on her

Because of her own sister's death, for whom

Ever her sorrows waxed, Hippolyte,

Whom she had struck dead with her mighty spear,

Not of her will -- 'twas at a stag she hurled.

So came she to the far-famed land of Troy.

Yea, and her warrior spirit pricked her on,

Of murder's dread pollution thus to cleanse

Her soul, and with such sacrifice to appease

The Awful Ones, the Erinnyes, who in wrath

For her slain sister straightway haunted her

Unseen: for ever round the sinner's steps

They hover; none may 'scape those Goddesses.

And with her followed twelve beside, each one

A princess, hot for war and battle grim,

Far-famous each, yet handmaids unto her:

Penthesileia far outshone them all.

As when in the broad sky amidst the stars

The moon rides over all pre-eminent,

When through the thunderclouds the cleaving heavens

Open, when sleep the fury-breathing winds;

So peerless was she mid that charging host.

Clonie was there, Polemusa, Derinoe,

Evandre, and Antandre, and Bremusa,

Hippothoe, dark-eyed Harmothoe, Alcibie,

Derimacheia, Antibrote,

And Thermodosa glorying with the spear.

All these to battle fared with warrior-souled

Penthesileia: even as when descends

Dawn from Olympus' crest of adamant,

Dawn, heart-exultant in her radiant steeds

Amidst the bright-haired Hours; and o'er them all,

How flawless-fair soever these may be,

Her splendour of beauty glows pre-eminent;

So peerless amid all the Amazons

Unto Troy-town Penthesileia came.

To right, to left, from all sides hurrying thronged

The Trojans, greatly marvelling, when they saw

The tireless War-god's child, the mailed maid,

Like to the Blessed Gods; for in her face

Glowed beauty glorious and terrible.

Her smile was ravishing: beneath her brows

Her love-enkindling eyes shone like to stars,

And with the crimson rose of shamefastness

Bright were her cheeks, and mantled over them

Unearthly grace with battle-prowess clad.

Then joyed Troy's folk, despite past agonies,

As when, far-gazing from a height, the hinds

Behold a rainbow spanning the wide sea,

When they be yearning for the heaven-sent shower,

When the parched fields be craving for the rain;

Then the great sky at last is overgloomed,

And men see that fair sign of coming wind.

And imminent rain, and seeing, they are glad,

Who for their corn-fields' plight sore sighed before;

Even so the sons of Troy when they beheld

There in their land Penthesileia dread

Afire for battle, were exceeding glad;

For when the heart is thrilled with hope of good,

All smart of evils past is wiped away:

So, after all his sighing and his pain,

Gladdened a little while was Priam's soul.

As when a man who hath suffered many a pang

From blinded eyes, sore longing to behold

The light, and, if he may not, fain would die,

Then at the last, by a cunning leech's skill,

Or by a God's grace, sees the dawn-rose flush,

Sees the mist rolled back from before his eyes, --

Yea, though clear vision come not as of old,

Yet, after all his anguish, joys to have

Some small relief, albeit the stings of pain

Prick sharply yet beneath his eyelids; -- so

Joyed the old king to see that terrible queen --

The shadowy joy of one in anguish whelmed

For slain sons. Into his halls he led the

Maid, And with glad welcome honoured her, as one

Who greets a daughter to her home returned

From a far country in the twentieth year;

And set a feast before her, sumptuous

As battle-glorious kings, who have brought low

Nations of foes, array in splendour of pomp,

With hearts in pride of victory triumphing.

And gifts he gave her costly and fair to see,

And pledged him to give many more, so she

Would save the Trojans from the imminent doom.

And she such deeds she promised as no man

Had hoped for, even to lay Achilles low,

To smite the wide host of the Argive men,

And cast the brands red-flaming on the ships.

Ah fool! -- but little knew she him, the lord

Of ashen spears, how far Achilles' might

In warrior-wasting strife o'erpassed her own!

But when Andromache, the stately child

Of king Eetion, heard the wild queen's vaunt,

Low to her own soul bitterly murmured she:

"Ah hapless! why with arrogant heart dost thou

Speak such great swelling words? No strength is thine

To grapple in fight with Peleus' aweless son.

Nay, doom and swift death shall he deal to thee.

Alas for thee! What madness thrills thy soul?

Fate and the end of death stand hard by thee!

Hector was mightier far to wield the spear

Than thou, yet was for all his prowess slain,

Slain for the bitter grief of Troy, whose folk

The city through looked on him as a God.

My glory and his noble parents' glory

Was he while yet he lived -- O that the earth

Over my dead face had been mounded high,

Or ever through his throat the breath of life

Followed the cleaving spear! But now have I

Looked -- woe is me! -- on grief unutterable,

When round the city those fleet-footed steeds

Haled him, steeds of Achilles, who had made

Me widowed of mine hero-husband, made

My portion bitterness through all my days."

So spake Eetion's lovely-ankled child

Low to her own soul, thinking on her lord.

So evermore the faithful-hearted wife

Nurseth for her lost love undying grief.

Then in swift revolution sweeping round

Into the Ocean's deep stream sank the sun,

And daylight died. So when the banqueters

Ceased from the wine-cup and the goodly feast,

Then did the handmaids spread in Priam's halls

For Penthesileia dauntless-souled the couch

Heart-cheering, and she laid her down to rest;

And slumber mist-like overveiled her eyes [depths

Like sweet dew dropping round. From heavens' blue

Slid down the might of a deceitful dream

At Pallas' hest, that so the warrior-maid

Might see it, and become a curse to Troy

And to herself, when strained her soul to meet;

The whirlwind of the battle. In this wise

The Trito-born, the subtle-souled, contrived:

Stood o'er the maiden's head that baleful dream

In likeness of her father, kindling her

Fearlessly front to front to meet in fight

Fleetfoot Achilles. And she heard the voice,

And all her heart exulted, for she weened

That she should on that dawning day achieve

A mighty deed in battle's deadly toil

Ah, fool, who trusted for her sorrow a dream

Out of the sunless land, such as beguiles

Full oft the travail-burdened tribes of men,

Whispering mocking lies in sleeping ears,

And to the battle's travail lured her then!

But when the Dawn, the rosy-ankled, leapt

Up from her bed, then, clad in mighty strength

Of spirit, suddenly from her couch uprose

Penthesileia. Then did she array

Her shoulders in those wondrous-fashioned arms

Given her of the War-god. First she laid

Beneath her silver-gleaming knees the greaves

Fashioned of gold, close-clipping the strong limbs.

Her rainbow-radiant corslet clasped she then

About her, and around her shoulders slung,

With glory in her heart, the massy brand

Whose shining length was in a scabbard sheathed

Of ivory and silver. Next, her shield

Unearthly splendid, caught she up, whose rim

Swelled like the young moon's arching chariot-rail

When high o'er Ocean's fathomless-flowing stream

She rises, with the space half filled with light

Betwixt her bowing horns. So did it shine

Unutterably fair. Then on her head

She settled the bright helmet overstreamed

With a wild mane of golden-glistering hairs.

So stood she, lapped about with flaming mail,

In semblance like the lightning, which the might,

The never-wearied might of Zeus, to earth

Hurleth, what time he showeth forth to men

Fury of thunderous-roaring rain, or swoop

Resistless of his shouting host of winds.

Then in hot haste forth of her bower to pass

Caught she two javelins in the hand that grasped

Her shield-band; but her strong right hand laid hold

On a huge halberd, sharp of either blade,

Which terrible Eris gave to Ares' child

To be her Titan weapon in the strife

That raveneth souls of men. Laughing for glee

Thereover, swiftly flashed she forth the ring

Of towers. Her coming kindled all the sons

Of Troy to rush into the battle forth

Which crowneth men with glory. Swiftly all

Hearkened her gathering-ery, and thronging came,

Champions, yea, even such as theretofore

Shrank back from standing in the ranks of war

Against Achilles the all-ravager.

But she in pride of triumph on she rode

Throned on a goodly steed and fleet, the gift

Of Oreithyia, the wild North-wind's bride,

Given to her guest the warrior-maid, what time

She came to Thrace, a steed whose flying feet

Could match the Harpies' wings. Riding thereon

Penthesileia in her goodlihead

Left the tall palaces of Troy behind.

And ever were the ghastly-visaged Fates

Thrusting her on into the battle, doomed

To be her first against the Greeks -- and last!

To right, to left, with unreturning feet

The Trojan thousands followed to the fray,

The pitiless fray, that death-doomed warrior-maid,

Followed in throngs, as follow sheep the ram

That by the shepherd's art strides before all.

So followed they, with battle-fury filled,

Strong Trojans and wild-hearted Amazons.

And like Tritonis seemed she, as she went

To meet the Giants, or as flasheth far

Through war-hosts Eris, waker of onset-shouts.

So mighty in the Trojans' midst she seemed,

Penthesileia of the flying feet.

Then unto Cronos' Son Laomedon's child

Upraised his hands, his sorrow-burdened hands,

Turning him toward the sky-encountering fane

Of Zeus of Ida, who with sleepless eyes

Looks ever down on Ilium; and he prayed: "Father, give ear!

Vouchsafe that on this day Achaea's host may fall before the hands

Of this our warrior-queen, the War-god's child;

And do thou bring her back unscathed again

Unto mine halls: we pray thee by the love

Thou bear'st to Ares of the fiery heart

Thy son, yea, to her also! is she not

Most wondrous like the heavenly Goddesses?

And is she not the child of thine own seed?

Pity my stricken heart withal! Thou know'st

All agonies I have suffered in the deaths

Of dear sons whom the Fates have torn from me

By Argive hands in the devouring fight.

Compassionate us, while a remnant yet

Remains of noble Dardanus' blood, while yet

This city stands unwasted! Let us know

From ghastly slaughter and strife one breathing-space!"

260 In passionate prayer he spake: -- lo, with shrill scream

Swiftly to left an eagle darted by

And in his talons bare a gasping dove.

Then round the heart of Priam all the blood

Was chilled with fear. Low to his soul he said:

"Ne'er shall I see return alive from war Penthesileia!"

On that selfsame day

The Fates prepared his boding to fulfil;

And his heart brake with anguish of despair.

Marvelled the Argives, far across the plain

Seeing the hosts of Troy charge down on them,

And midst them Penthesileia, Ares' child.

These seemed like ravening beasts that mid the hills

Bring grimly slaughter to the fleecy flocks;

And she, as a rushing blast of flame she seemed

That maddeneth through the copses summer-scorched,

When the wind drives it on; and in this wise

Spake one to other in their mustering host:

"Who shall this be who thus can rouse to war

The Trojans, now that Hector hath been slain --

These who, we said, would never more find heart

To stand against us? Lo now, suddenly

Forth are they rushing, madly afire for fight!

Sure, in their midst some great one kindleth them

To battle's toil! Thou verily wouldst say

This were a God, of such great deeds he dreams!

Go to, with aweless courage let us arm

Our own breasts: let us summon up our might

In battle-fury. We shall lack not help

Of Gods this day to close in fight with Troy."

290 So cried they; and their flashing battle-gear

Cast they about them: forth the ships they poured

Clad in the rage of fight as with a cloak.

Then front to front their battles closed, like beasts

Of ravin, locked in tangle of gory strife.

Clanged their bright mail together, clashed the spears,

The corslets, and the stubborn-welded shields

And adamant helms. Each stabbed at other's flesh

With the fierce brass: was neither ruth nor rest,

And all the Trojan soil was crimson-red.

300 Then first Penthesileia smote and slew

Molion; now Persinous falls, and now

Eilissus; reeled Antitheus 'neath her spear

The pride of Lernus quelled she: down she bore

Hippalmus 'neath her horse-hoofs; Haemon's son

Died; withered stalwart Elasippus' strength.

And Derinoe laid low Laogonus,

And Clonie Menippus, him who sailed

Long since from Phylace, led by his lord

Protesilaus to the war with Troy.

Then was Podarces, son of Iphiclus,

Heart-wrung with ruth and wrath to see him lie

Dead, of all battle-comrades best-beloved.

Swiftly at Clonie he hurled, the maid

Fair as a Goddess: plunged the unswerving lance

'Twixt hip and hip, and rushed the dark blood forth

After the spear, and all her bowels gushed out.

Then wroth was Penthesileia; through the brawn

Of his right arm she drave the long spear's point,

She shore atwain the great blood-brimming veins,

And through the wide gash of the wound the gore

Spirted, a crimson fountain. With a groan

Backward he sprang, his courage wholly quelled

By bitter pain; and sorrow and dismay

Thrilled, as he fled, his men of Phylace.

A short way from the fight he reeled aside,

And in his friends' arms died in little space.

Then with his lance Idomeneus thrust out,

And by the right breast stabbed Bremusa.

Stilled For ever was the beating of her heart.

She fell, as falls a graceful-shafted pine

Hewn mid the hills by woodmen: heavily,

Sighing through all its boughs, it crashes down.

So with a wailing shriek she fell, and death

Unstrung her every limb: her breathing soul

Mingled with multitudinous-sighing winds.

Then, as Evandre through the murderous fray

With Thermodosa rushed, stood Meriones,

A lion in the path, and slew: his spear

Right to the heart of one he drave, and one

Stabbed with a lightning sword-thrust 'twixt the hips:

Leapt through the wounds the life, and fled away.

Oileus' fiery son smote Derinoe

'Twixt throat and shoulder with his ruthless spear;

And on Alcibie Tydeus' terrible son Swooped, and on

Derimacheia: head with neck

Clean from the shoulders of these twain he shore

With ruin-wreaking brand. Together down

Fell they, as young calves by the massy axe

Of brawny flesher felled, that, shearing through

The sinews of the neck, lops life away.

So, by the hands of Tydeus' son laid low

Upon the Trojan plain, far, far away

From their own highland-home, they fell.

Nor these Alone died; for the might of

Sthenelus Down on them hurled Cabeirus' corse, who came

From Sestos, keen to fight the Argive foe,

But never saw his fatherland again.

Then was the heart of Paris filled with wrath

For a friend slain. Full upon Sthenelus

Aimed he a shaft death-winged, yet touched him not,

Despite his thirst for vengeance: otherwhere

The arrow glanced aside, and carried death

Whither the stern Fates guided its fierce wing,

And slew Evenor brazen-tasleted,

Who from Dulichium came to war with Troy.

For his death fury-kindled was the son

Of haughty Phyleus: as a lion leaps

Upon the flock, so swiftly rushed he: all

Shrank huddling back before that terrible man.

Itymoneus he slew, and Hippasus' son Agelaus: from

Miletus brought they war

Against the Danaan men by Nastes led,

The god-like, and Amphimachus mighty-souled.

On Mycale they dwelt; beside their home

Rose Latmus' snowy crests, stretched the long glens

Of Branchus, and Panormus' water-meads.

Maeander's flood deep-rolling swept thereby,

Which from the Phrygian uplands, pastured o'er

By myriad flocks, around a thousand forelands

Curls, swirls, and drives his hurrying ripples on

Down to the vine-clad land of Carian men

These mid the storm of battle Meges slew,

Nor these alone, but whomsoe'er his lance

Black-shafted touched, were dead men; for his breast

The glorious Trito-born with courage thrilled

To bring to all his foes the day of doom.

And Polypoetes, dear to Ares, slew

Dresaeus, whom the Nymph Neaera bare

To passing-wise Theiodamas for these

Spread was the bed of love beside the foot

Of Sipylus the Mountain, where the Gods

Made Niobe a stony rock, wherefrom

Tears ever stream: high up, the rugged crag

Bows as one weeping, weeping, waterfalls

Cry from far-echoing Hermus, wailing moan

Of sympathy: the sky-encountering crests

Of Sipylus, where alway floats a mist

Hated of shepherds, echo back the cry.

Weird marvel seems that Rock of Niobe

To men that pass with feet fear-goaded: there

They see the likeness of a woman bowed,

In depths of anguish sobbing, and her tears

Drop, as she mourns grief-stricken, endlessly.

Yea, thou wouldst say that verily so it was,

Viewing it from afar; but when hard by

Thou standest, all the illusion vanishes;

And lo, a steep-browed rock, a fragment rent

From Sipylus -- yet Niobe is there,

Dreeing her weird, the debt of wrath divine,

A broken heart in guise of shattered stone.

All through the tangle of that desperate fray

Stalked slaughter and doom. The incarnate

Onset-shout Raved through the rolling battle; at her side

Paced Death the ruthless, and the

Fearful Faces, The Fates, beside them strode, and in red hands

Bare murder and the groans of dying men.

That day the beating of full many a heart,

Trojan and Argive, was for ever stilled,

While roared the battle round them, while the fury

Of Penthesileia fainted not nor failed;

But as amid long ridges of lone hills

A lioness, stealing down a deep ravine,

Springs on the kine with lightning leap, athirst

For blood wherein her fierce heart revelleth;

So on the Danaans leapt that warrior-maid.

And they, their souls were cowed: backward they shrank,

And fast she followed, as a towering surge

Chases across the thunder-booming sea

A flying bark, whose white sails strain beneath

The wind's wild buffering, and all the air

Maddens with roaring, as the rollers crash

On a black foreland looming on the lee

Where long reefs fringe the surf-tormented shores.

So chased she, and so dashed the ranks asunder

Triumphant-souled, and hurled fierce threats before:

"Ye dogs, this day for evil outrage done

To Priam shall ye pay! No man of you

Shall from mine hands deliver his own life,

And win back home, to gladden parents eyes,

Or comfort wife or children. Ye shall lie

Dead, ravined on by vultures and by wolves,

And none shall heap the earth-mound o'er your clay.

Where skulketh now the strength of Tydeus' son,

And where the might of Aeacus' scion?

Where is Aias' bulk? Ye vaunt them mightiest men

Of all your rabble. Ha! they will not dare

With me to close in battle, lest I drag

Forth from their fainting frames their craven souls!"

Then heart-uplifted leapt she on the foe,

Resistless as a tigress, crashing through

Ranks upon ranks of Argives, smiting now

With that huge halberd massy-headed, now

Hurling the keen dart, while her battle-horse

Flashed through the fight, and on his shoulder bare

Quiver and bow death-speeding, close to her hand,

If mid that revel of blood she willed to speed

The bitter-biting shaft. Behind her swept

The charging lines of men fleet-footed, friends

And brethren of the man who never flinched

From close death-grapple, Hector, panting all

The hot breath of the War-god from their breasts,

All slaying Danaans with the ashen spear,

Who fell as frost-touched leaves in autumn fall

One after other, or as drops of rain.

And aye went up a moaning from earth's breast

All blood-bedrenched, and heaped with corse on corse.

Horses pierced through with arrows, or impaled

On spears, were snorting forth their last of strength

With screaming neighings. Men, with gnashing teeth

Biting the dust, lay gasping, while the steeds

Of Trojan charioteers stormed in pursuit,

Trampling the dying mingled with the dead

As oxen trample corn in threshing-floors.

Then one exulting boasted mid the host

Of Troy, beholding Penthesileia rush

On through the foes' array, like the black storm

That maddens o'er the sea, what time the sun

Allies his might with winter's Goat-horned Star;

And thus, puffed up with vain hope, shouted he:

"O friends, in manifest presence down from heaven

One of the deathless Gods this day hath come

To fight the Argives, all of love for us,

Yea, and with sanction of almighty Zeus,

He whose compassion now remembereth

Haply strong-hearted Priam, who may boast

For his a lineage of immortal blood. For this,

I trow, no mortal woman seems,

Who is so aweless-daring, who is clad

In splendour-flashing arms: nay, surely she

Shall be Athene, or the mighty-souled

Enyo -- haply Eris, or the Child Of Leto world-renowned.

O yea, I look To see her hurl amid yon Argive men

Mad-shrieking slaughter, see her set aflame

Yon ships wherein they came long years agone

Bringing us many sorrows, yea, they came

Bringing us woes of war intolerable. Ha! to the home-land

Hellas ne'er shall these

With joy return, since Gods on our side fight."

In overweening exultation so

Vaunted a Trojan. Fool! -- he had no vision

Of ruin onward rushing upon himself

And Troy, and Penthesileia's self withal.

For not as yet had any tidings come

Of that wild fray to Aias stormy-souled,

Nor to Achilles, waster of tower and town.

But on the grave-mound of Menoetius' son

They twain were lying, with sad memories

Of a dear comrade crushed, and echoing

Each one the other's groaning. One it was

Of the Blest Gods who still was holding back

These from the battle-tumult far away,

Till many Greeks should fill the measure up

Of woeful havoc, slain by Trojan foes

And glorious Penthesileia, who pursued

With murderous intent their rifled ranks,

While ever waxed her valour more and more,

And waxed her might within her: never in vain

She aimed the unswerving spear-thrust: aye she pierced

The backs of them that fled, the breasts of such

As charged to meet her. All the long shaft dripped

With steaming blood. Swift were her feet as wind

As down she swooped. Her aweless spirit failed

For weariness nor fainted, but her might

Was adamantine. The impending Doom,

Which roused unto the terrible strife not yet

Achilles, clothed her still with glory; still

Aloof the dread Power stood, and still would shed

Splendour of triumph o'er the death-ordained

But for a little space, ere it should quell

That Maiden 'neath the hands of Aeaeus' son.

In darkness ambushed, with invisible hand

Ever it thrust her on, and drew her feet

Destruction-ward, and lit her path to death

With glory, while she slew foe after foe.

As when within a dewy garden-close,

Longing for its green springtide freshness, leaps

A heifer, and there rangeth to and fro,

When none is by to stay her, treading down

All its green herbs, and all its wealth of bloom,

Devouring greedily this, and marring that

With trampling feet; so ranged she, Ares' child,

Through reeling squadrons of Achaea's sons,

Slew these, and hunted those in panic rout.

From Troy afar the women marvelling gazed

At the Maid's battle-prowess. Suddenly

A fiery passion for the fray hath seized

Antimachus' daughter, Meneptolemus' wife,

Tisiphone. Her heart waxed strong, and filled

With lust of fight she cried to her fellows all,

With desperate-daring words, to spur them on

To woeful war, by recklessness made strong.

"Friends, let a heart of valour in our breasts

Awake! Let us be like our lords, who fight

With foes for fatherland, for babes, for us,

And never pause for breath in that stern strife!

Let us too throne war's spirit in our hearts!

Let us too face the fight which favoureth none!

For we, we women, be not creatures cast

In diverse mould from men: to us is given

Such energy of life as stirs in them.

Eyes have we like to theirs, and limbs: throughout

Fashioned we are alike: one common light

We look on, and one common air we breathe:

With like food are we nourished -- nay, wherein

Have we been dowered of God more niggardly

Than men? Then let us shrink not from the fray

See ye not yonder a woman far excelling

Men in the grapple of fight? Yet is her blood

Nowise akin to ours, nor fighteth she

For her own city. For an alien king

She warreth of her own heart's prompting, fears

The face of no man; for her soul is thrilled

With valour and with spirit invincible.

But we -- to right, to left, lie woes on woes

About our feet: this mourns beloved sons,

And that a husband who for hearth and home

Hath died; some wail for fathers now no more;

Some grieve for brethren and for kinsmen lost.

Not one but hath some share in sorrow's cup.

Behind all this a fearful shadow looms,

The day of bondage! Therefore flinch not ye

From war, O sorrow-laden! Better far

To die in battle now, than afterwards

Hence to be haled into captivity

To alien folk, we and our little ones,

In the stern grip of fate leaving behind

A burning city, and our husbands' graves."

So cried she, and with passion for stern war

Thrilled all those women; and with eager speed

They hasted to go forth without the wall

Mail-clad, afire to battle for their town

And people: all their spirit was aflame.

As when within a hive, when winter-tide

Is over and gone, loud hum the swarming bees

What time they make them ready forth to fare

To bright flower-pastures, and no more endure

To linger therewithin, but each to other

Crieth the challenge-cry to sally forth;

Even so bestirred themselves the women of Troy,

And kindled each her sister to the fray.

The weaving-wool, the distaff far they flung,

And to grim weapons stretched their eager hands.

And now without the city these had died

In that wild battle, as their husbands died

And the strong Amazons died, had not one voice

Of wisdom cried to stay their maddened feet,

When with dissuading words Theano spake:

"Wherefore, ah wherefore for the toil and strain

Of battle's fearful tumult do ye yearn,

Infatuate ones? Never your limbs have toiled

In conflict yet. In utter ignoranee

Panting for labour unendurable,

Ye rush on all-unthinking; for your strength

Can never be as that of Danaan men,

Men trained in daily battle. Amazons

Have joyed in ruthless fight, in charging steeds,

From the beginning: all the toil of men

Do they endure; and therefore evermore

The spirit of the War-god thrills them through.

'They fall not short of men in anything:

Their labour-hardened frames make great their hearts

For all achievement: never faint their knees

Nor tremble. Rumour speaks their queen to be

A daughter of the mighty Lord of War.

Therefore no woman may compare with her

In prowess -- if she be a woman, not

A God come down in answer to our prayers.

Yea, of one blood be all the race of men,

Yet unto diverse labours still they turn;

And that for each is evermore the best

Whereto he bringeth skill of use and wont.

Therefore do ye from tumult of the fray

Hold you aloof, and in your women's bowers

Before the loom still pace ye to and fro;

And war shall be the business of our lords.

Lo, of fair issue is there hope: we see

The Achaeans falling fast: we see the might

Of our men waxing ever: fear is none

Of evil issue now: the pitiless foe

Beleaguer not the town: no desperate need

There is that women should go forth to war."

So cried she, and they hearkened to the words

Of her who had garnered wisdom from the years;

So from afar they watched the fight.

But still Penthesileia brake the ranks, and still

Before her quailed the Achaeans: still they found

Nor screen nor hiding-place from imminent death.

As bleating goats are by the blood-stained jaws

Of a grim panther torn, so slain were they.

In each man's heart all lust of battle died,

And fear alone lived. This way, that way fled

The panic-stricken: some to earth had flung

The armour from their shoulders; some in dust

Grovelled in terror 'neath their shields: the steeds

Fled through the rout unreined of charioteers.

In rapture of triumph charged the Amazons,

With groan and scream of agony died the Greeks.

Withered their manhood was in that sore strait;

Brief was the span of all whom that fierce maid

Mid the grim jaws of battle overtook.

As when with mighty roaring bursteth down

A storm upon the forest-trees, and some

Uprendeth by the roots, and on the earth

Dashes them down, the tail stems blossom-crowned,

And snappeth some athwart the trunk, and high

Whirls them through air, till all confused they lie

A ruin of splintered stems and shattered sprays;

So the great Danaan host lay, dashed to dust

By doom of Fate, by Penthesileia's spear.

But when the very ships were now at point

To be by hands of Trojans set aflame,

Then battle-bider Aias heard afar

The panic-cries, and spake to Aeacus' son:

"Achilles, all the air about mine ears

Is full of multitudinous eries, is full

Of thunder of battle rolling nearer aye.

Let us go forth then, ere the Trojans win

Unto the ships, and make great slaughter there

Of Argive men, and set the ships aflame.

Foulest reproach such thing on thee and me

Should bring; for it beseems not that the seed

Of mighty Zeus should shame the sacred blood

Of hero-fathers, who themselves of old

With Hercules the battle-eager sailed

To Troy, and smote her even at her height

Of glory, when Laomedon was king.

Ay, and I ween that our hands even now

Shall do the like: we too are mighty men."

He spake: the aweless strength of Aeacus' son

Hearkened thereto, for also to his ears

By this the roar of bitter battle came.

Then hasted both, and donned their warrior-gear

All splendour-gleaming: now, in these arrayed

Facing that stormy-tossing rout they stand.

Loud clashed their glorious armour: in their souls

A battle-fury like the War-god's wrath

Maddened; such might was breathed into these twain

By Atrytone, Shaker of the Shield,

As on they pressed. With joy the Argives saw

The coming of that mighty twain: they seemed

In semblance like A1oeus' giant sons

Who in the old time made that haughty vaunt

Of piling on Olympus' brow the height

Of Ossa steeply-towering, and the crest

Of sky-encountering Pelion, so to rear

A mountain-stair for their rebellious rage

To scale the highest heaven. Huge as these

The sons of Aeacus seemed, as forth they strode

To stem the tide of war. A gladsome sight

To friends who have fainted for their coming, now

Onward they press to crush triumphant foes.

Many they slew with their resistless spears;

As when two herd-destroying lions come

On sheep amid the copses feeding, far

From help of shepherds, and in heaps on heaps

Slay them, till they have drunken to the full

Of blood, and filled their maws insatiate

With flesh, so those destroyers twain slew on,

Spreading wide havoc through the hosts of Troy.

There Deiochus and gallant Hyllus fell

By Alas slain, and fell Eurynomus

Lover of war, and goodly Enyeus died.

But Peleus' son burst on the Amazons

Smiting Antandre, Polemusa then,

Antibrote, fierce-souled Hippothoe,

Hurling Harmothoe down on sisters slain.

Then hard on all their-reeling ranks he pressed

With Telamon's mighty-hearted son; and now

Before their hands battalions dense and strong

Crumbled as weakly and as suddenly

As when in mountain-folds the forest-brakes

Shrivel before a tempest-driven fire.

When battle-eager Penthesileia saw

These twain, as through the scourging storm of war

Like ravening beasts they rushed, to meet them there

She sped, as when a leopard grim, whose mood

Is deadly, leaps from forest-coverts forth,

Lashing her tail, on hunters closing round,

While these, in armour clad, and putting trust

In their long spears, await her lightning leap;

So did those warriors twain with spears upswung

Wait Penthesileia. Clanged the brazen plates

About their shoulders as they moved. And first

Leapt the long-shafted lance sped from the hand

Of goodly Penthesileia. Straight it flew

To the shield of Aeacus' son, but glancing thence

This way and that the shivered fragments sprang

As from a rock-face: of such temper were

The cunning-hearted Fire-god's gifts divine.

Then in her hand the warrior-maid swung up

A second javelin fury-winged, against

Aias, and with fierce words defied the twain:

"Ha, from mine hand in vain one lance hath leapt!

But with this second look I suddenly

To quell the strength and courage of two foes, --

Ay, though ye vaunt you mighty men of war

Amid your Danaans! Die ye shall, and so

Lighter shall be the load of war's affliction

That lies upon the Trojan chariot-lords.

Draw nigh, come through the press to grips with me,

So shall ye learn what might wells up in breasts

Of Amazons. With my blood is mingled war!

No mortal man begat me, but the

Lord Of War, insatiate of the battle-cry.

Therefore my might is more than any man's."

With scornful laughter spake she: then she hurled

Her second lance; but they in utter scorn

Laughed now, as swiftly flew the shaft, and smote

The silver greave of Aias, and was foiled

Thereby, and all its fury could not scar

The flesh within; for fate had ordered not

That any blade of foes should taste the blood

Of Aias in the bitter war. But he

Recked of the Amazon naught, but turned him thence

To rush upon the Trojan host, and left

Penthesileia unto Peleus' son

Alone, for well he knew his heart within

That she, for all her prowess, none the less

Would cost Achilles battle-toil as light,

As effortless, as doth the dove the hawk.

Then groaned she an angry groan that she had sped

Her shafts in vain; and now with scoffing speech

To her in turn the son of Peleus spake: "

Woman, with what vain vauntings triumphing

Hast thou come forth against us, all athirst

To battle with us, who be mightier far

Than earthborn heroes? We from Cronos' Son,

The Thunder-roller, boast our high descent.

Ay, even Hector quailed, the battle-swift,

Before us, e'en though far away he saw

Our onrush to grim battle. Yea, my spear

Slew him, for all his might. But thou -- thine heart

Is utterly mad, that thou hast greatly dared

To threaten us with death this day! On thee

Thy latest hour shall swiftly come -- is come!

Thee not thy sire the War-god now shall pluck

Out of mine hand, but thou the debt shalt pay

Of a dark doom, as when mid mountain-folds

A pricket meets a lion, waster of herds.

What, woman, hast thou heard not of the heaps

Of slain, that into Xanthus' rushing stream

Were thrust by these mine hands? -- or hast thou heard

In vain, because the Blessed Ones have stol'n

Wit and discretion from thee, to the end

That Doom's relentless gulf might gape for thee?"

He spake; he swung up in his mighty hand

And sped the long spear warrior-slaying, wrought

By Chiron, and above the right breast pierced

The battle-eager maid. The red blood leapt

Forth, as a fountain wells, and all at once

Fainted the strength of Penthesileia's limbs;

Dropped the great battle-axe from her nerveless hand;

A mist of darkness overveiled her eyes,

And anguish thrilled her soul. Yet even so S

till drew she difficult breath, still dimly saw

The hero, even now in act to drag

Her from the swift steed's back. Confusedly

She thought: "Or shall I draw my mighty sword,

And bide Achilles' fiery onrush, or

Hastily cast me from my fleet horse down

To earth, and kneel unto this godlike man,

And with wild breath promise for ransoming

Great heaps of brass and gold, which pacify

The hearts of victors never so athirst

For blood, if haply so the murderous might

Of Aeacus' son may hearken and may spare,

Or peradventure may compassionate

My youth, and so vouchsafe me to behold

Mine home again? -- for O, I long to live!"

So surged the wild thoughts in her; but the Gods

Ordained it otherwise. Even now rushed on

In terrible anger Peleus' son: he thrust

With sudden spear, and on its shaft impaled

The body of her tempest-footed steed,

Even as a man in haste to sup might pierce

Flesh with the spit, above the glowing hearth

To roast it, or as in a mountain-glade

A hunter sends the shaft of death clear through

The body of a stag with such winged speed

That the fierce dart leaps forth beyond, to plunge

Into the tall stem of an oak or pine.

So that death-ravening spear of Peleus' son

Clear through the goodly steed rushed on, and pierced

Penthesileia. Straightway fell she down

Into the dust of earth, the arms of death, I

n grace and comeliness fell, for naught of shame

Dishonoured her fair form. Face down she lay

On the long spear outgasping her last breath,

Stretched upon that fleet horse as on a couch;

Like some tall pine snapped by the icy mace

Of Boreas, earth's forest-fosterling

Reared by a spring to stately height, amidst

Long mountain-glens, a glory of mother earth;

So from the once fleet steed low fallen lay

Penthesileia, all her shattered strength

Brought down to this, and all her loveliness.

Now when the Trojans saw the Warrior-queen

Struck down in battle, ran through all their lines

A shiver of panic. Straightway to their walls

Turned they in flight, heart-agonized with grief.

As when on the wide sea, 'neath buffetings

Of storm-blasts, castaways whose ship is wrecked

Escape, a remnant of a crew, forspent

With desperate conflict with the cruel sea:

Late and at last appears the land hard by,

Appears a city: faint and weary-limbed

With that grim struggle, through the surf they strain

To land, sore grieving for the good ship 1ost,

And shipmates whom the terrible surge dragged down

To nether gloom; so, Troyward as they fled

From battle, all those Trojans wept for her,

The Child of the resistless War-god, wept

For friends who died in groan-resounding fight.

Then over her with scornful laugh the son

Of Peleus vaunted: "In the dust lie there

A prey to teeth of dogs, to ravens' beaks,

Thou wretched thing! Who cozened thee to come

Forth against me? And thoughtest thou to fare

Home from the war alive, to bear with thee

Right royal gifts from Priam the old king,

Thy guerdon for slain Argives? Ha, 'twas not

The Immortals who inspired thee with this thought,

Who know that I of heroes mightiest am,

The Danaans' light of safety, but a woe

To Trojans and to thee, O evil-starred!

Nay, but it was the darkness-shrouded

Fates And thine own folly of soul that pricked thee on

To leave the works of women, and to fare

To war, from which strong men shrink shuddering back."

So spake he, and his ashen spear the son

Of Peleus drew from that swift horse, and from

Penthesileia in death's agony.

Then steed and rider gasped their lives away

Slain by one spear. Now from her head he plucked

The helmet splendour-flashing like the beams

Of the great sun, or Zeus' own glory-light.

Then, there as fallen in dust and blood she lay,

Rose, like the breaking of the dawn, to view

'Neath dainty-pencilled brows a lovely face,

Lovely in death. The Argives thronged around,

And all they saw and marvelled, for she seemed

Like an Immortal. In her armour there

Upon the earth she lay, and seemed the

Child Of Zeus, the tireless Huntress Artemis

Sleeping, what time her feet forwearied are

With following lions with her flying shafts

Over the hills far-stretching. She was made

A wonder of beauty even in her death

By Aphrodite glorious-crowned, the Bride

Of the strong War-god, to the end that he,

The son of noble Peleus, might be pierced

With the sharp arrow of repentant love.

The warriors gazed, and in their hearts they prayed

That fair and sweet like her their wives might seem,

Laid on the bed of love, when home they won.

Yea, and Achilles' very heart was wrung

With love's remorse to have slain a thing so sweet,

Who might have borne her home, his queenly bride,

To chariot-glorious Phthia; for she was

Flawless, a very daughter of the Gods,

Divinely tall, and most divinely fair.

Then Ares' heart was thrilled with grief and rage

For his child slain. Straight from Olympus down

He darted, swift and bright as thunderbolt

Terribly flashing from the mighty hand

Of Zeus, far leaping o'er the trackless sea,

Or flaming o'er the land, while shuddereth

All wide Olympus as it passeth by.

So through the quivering air with heart aflame

Swooped Ares armour-clad, soon as he heard

The dread doom of his daughter. For the Gales,

The North-wind's fleet-winged daughters, bare to him,

As through the wide halls of the sky he strode,

The tidings of the maiden's woeful end.

Soon as he heard it, like a tempest-blast

Down to the ridges of Ida leapt he: quaked

Under his feet the long glens and ravines

Deep-scored, all Ida's torrent-beds, and all

Far-stretching foot-hills. Now had Ares brought

A day of mourning on the Myrmidons, But

Zeus himself from far Olympus sent

Mid shattering thunders terror of levin-bolts

Which thick and fast leapt through the welkin down

Before his feet, blazing with fearful flames.

And Ares saw, and knew the stormy threat

Of the mighty-thundering Father, and he stayed

His eager feet, now on the very brink

Of battle's turmoil. As when some huge crag

Thrust from a beetling cliff-brow by the winds

And torrent rains, or lightning-lance of Zeus,

Leaps like a wild beast, and the mountain-glens

Fling back their crashing echoes as it rolls

In mad speed on, as with resistless swoop

Of bound on bound it rushes down, until

It cometh to the levels of the plain,

And there perforce its stormy flight is stayed;

So Ares, battle-eager Son of Zeus,

Was stayed, how loth soe'er; for all the Gods

To the Ruler of the Blessed needs must yield,

Seeing he sits high-throned above them all,

Clothed in his might unspeakable. Yet still

Many a wild thought surged through Ares' soul,

Urging him now to dread the terrible threat

Of Cronos' wrathful Son, and to return

Heavenward, and now to reck not of his Sire,

But with Achilles' blood to stain those hands,

The battle-tireless. At the last his heart

Remembered how that many and many a son

Of Zeus himself in many a war had died,

Nor in their fall had Zeus availed them aught.

Therefore he turned him from the Argives -- else,

Down smitten by the blasting thunderbolt,

With Titans in the nether gloom he had lain,

Who dared defy the eternal will of Zeus.

Then did the warrior sons of Argos strip

With eager haste from corpses strown all round

The blood-stained spoils. But ever Peleus' son

Gazed, wild with all regret, still gazed on her,

The strong, the beautiful, laid in the dust;

And all his heart was wrung, was broken down

With sorrowing love, deep, strong as he had known

When that beloved friend Patroclus died.

Loud jeered Thersites, mocking to his face:

"Thou sorry-souled Achilles! art not shamed

To let some evil Power beguile thine heart

To pity of a pitiful Amazon

Whose furious spirit purposed naught but ill

To us and ours? Ha, woman-mad art thou,

And thy soul lusts for this thing, as she were

Some lady wise in household ways, with gifts

And pure intent for honoured wedlock wooed!

Good had it been had her spear reached thine heart,

The heart that sighs for woman-creatures still!

Thou carest not, unmanly-souled, not thou,

For valour's glorious path, when once thine eye

Lights on a woman! Sorry wretch, where now

Is all thy goodly prowess? where thy wit?

And where the might that should beseem a king

All-stainless? Dost not know what misery

This self-same woman-madness wrought for Troy?

Nothing there is to men more ruinous

Than lust for woman's beauty; it maketh fools

Of wise men. But the toil of war attains

Renown. To him that is a hero indeed

Glory of victory and the War-god's works

Are sweet. 'Tis but the battle-blencher craves

The beauty and the bed of such as she!"

So railed he long and loud: the mighty heart

Of Peleus' son leapt into flame of wrath.

A sudden buffet of his resistless hand

Smote 'neath the railer's ear, and all his teeth

Were dashed to the earth: he fell upon his face:

Forth of his lips the blood in torrent gushed:

Swift from his body fled the dastard soul

Of that vile niddering. Achaea's sons

Rejoiced thereat, for aye he wont to rail

On each and all with venomous gibes, himself

A scandal and the shame of all the host.

Then mid the warrior Argives cried a voice:

"Not good it is for baser men to rail

On kings, or secretly or openly;

For wrathful retribution swiftly comes.

The Lady of Justice sits on high; and she

Who heapeth woe on woe on humankind,

Even Ate, punisheth the shameless tongue."

So mid the Danaans cried a voice: nor yet

Within the mighty soul of Peleus' son

Lulled was the storm of wrath, but fiercely he spake:

"Lie there in dust, thy follies all forgot!

'Tis not for knaves to beard their betters: once

Thou didst provoke Odysseus' steadfast soul,

Babbling with venomous tongue a thousand gibes,

And didst escape with life; but thou hast found

The son of Peleus not so patient-souled,

Who with one only buffet from his hand

Unkennels thy dog's soul! A bitter doom

Hath swallowed thee: by thine own rascalry

Thy life is sped. Hence from Achaean men,

And mouth out thy revilings midst the dead!"

So spake the valiant-hearted aweless son

Of Aeacus. But Tydeus' son alone

Of all the Argives was with anger stirred

Against Achilles for Thersites slain,

Seeing these twain were of the self-same blood,

The one, proud Tydeus' battle-eager son,

The other, seed of godlike Agrius: Brother of noble

Oeneus Agrius was; And Oeneus in the

Danaan land begat

Tydeus the battle-eager, son to whom

Was stalwart Diomedes. Therefore wroth

Was he for slain Thersites, yea, had raised

Against the son of Peleus vengeful hands,

Exeept the noblest of Aehaea's sons

Had thronged around him, and besought him sore,

And held him back therefrom. With Peleus' son

Also they pleaded; else those mighty twain,

The mightiest of all Argives, were at point

To close with clash of swords, so stung were they

With bitter wrath; yet hearkened they at last

To prayers of comrades, and were reconciled.

Then of their pity did the Atreid kings --

For these too at the imperial loveliness

Of Penthesileia marvelled -- render up

Her body to the men of Troy, to bear

Unto the burg of Ilus far-renowned

With all her armour. For a herald came

Asking this boon for Priam; for the king

Longed with deep yearning of the heart to lay

That battle-eager maiden, with her arms,

And with her war-horse, in the great earth-mound

Of old Laomedon. And so he heaped

A high broad pyre without the city wall:

Upon the height thereof that warrior-queen

They laid, and costly treasures did they heap

Around her, all that well beseems to burn

Around a mighty queen in battle slain.

And so the Fire-god's swift-upleaping might,

The ravening flame, consumed her. All around

The people stood on every hand, and quenched

The pyre with odorous wine. Then gathered they

The bones, and poured sweet ointment over them,

And laid them in a casket: over all

Shed they the rich fat of a heifer, chief

Among the herds that grazed on Ida's slope.

And, as for a beloved daughter, rang

All round the Trojan men's heart-stricken wail,

As by the stately wall they buried her

On an outstanding tower, beside the bones

Of old Laomedon, a queen beside

A king. This honour for the War-god's sake

They rendered, and for Penthesileia's own.

And in the plain beside her buried they

The Amazons, even all that followed her

To battle, and by Argive spears were slain.

For Atreus' sons begrudged not these the boon

Of tear-besprinkled graves, but let their friends,

The warrior Trojans, draw their corpses forth,

Yea, and their own slain also, from amidst

The swath of darts o'er that grim harvest-field.

Wrath strikes not at the dead: pitied are foes

When life has fled, and left them foes no more.

Far off across the plain the while uprose

Smoke from the pyres whereon the Argives laid

The many heroes overthrown and slain

By Trojan hands what time the sword devoured;

And multitudinous lamentation wailed

Over the perished. But above the rest

Mourned they o'er brave Podarces, who in fight

Was no less mighty than his hero-brother

Protesilaus, he who long ago

Fell, slain of Hector: so Podarces now,

Struck down by Penthesileia's spear, hath cast

Over all Argive hearts the pall of grief.

Wherefore apart from him they laid in clay

The common throng of slain; but over him

Toiling they heaped an earth-mound far-descried

In memory of a warrior aweless-souled.

And in a several pit withal they thrust

The niddering Thersites' wretched corse.

Then to the ships, acclaiming Aeacus' son,

Returned they all. But when the radiant day

Had plunged beneath the Ocean-stream, and night,

The holy, overspread the face of earth,

Then in the rich king Agamemnon's tent

Feasted the might of Peleus' son, and there

Sat at the feast those other mighty ones

All through the dark, till rose the dawn divine.

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