The Iliad: Book 14

Gripping a sturdy spear, bronze-edged and sharp,
he no sooner left his tent than stopped at once—
what a grim, degrading piece of work he saw.

As a huge ground swell boils up on the open seas,
soundless, foreboding a hurricane's howling onslaught
rearing but never rolling back or forth...all adrift
till one steady, decisive blast comes down from Zeus—
so the old man thrashed things out, torn two ways

His mind in turmoil, this way seemed the best:
he'd head for Atreus' son.

Not even the stretch of beach, broad as it was,
could offer berths to all that massed armada

How shameful—and now the rest of our men-at-arms
must harbor anger against me deep inside their hearts,
just like Achilles.

The rampart's down, there, the great wall we trusted,
our impregnable shield for the ships and men themselves.

If you'll only hear me out and take my lead,
not glare at me in resentment, each of you,
since I am the youngest-born in all our ranks.

But then she saw great Zeus at rest on the ridge
and the craggy heights of Ida gushing cold springs
and her heart filled with loathing.

...and she might drift an oblivious, soft warm sleep
across his eyes and numb that seething brain.

Hera cleansed her enticing body
of any blemish, then she applied a deep olive rub,
the breath-taking, redolent oil she kept beside her…
one stir of the scent in the bronze-floored halls of Zeus
and a perfumed cloud would drift from heaven down to earth.

Now, dazzling in all her rich regalia, head to foot,
out of her rooms she strode and beckoned Aphrodite

I am off to the ends of the fruitful, teeming earth

And Aphrodite the daughter of Zeus went home
but Hera sped in a flash from Mount Olympus' peak
and crossing Pieria's coast and lovely Emathia
rushed on, over the Thracian riders' snowy ridges,
sweeping the highest summits, feet never touching the earth
and east of Athos skimmed the billowing, foaming sea

The white-armed goddess Hera complied at once.
She swore as he urged and sounded out the names
of all the gods in the Tartarean Pit we call the Titans.

And filled with guile the noble Hera answered,
"I am off to the ends of the fruitful, teeming earth..."

And the kings themselves, overcoming their wounds,
arrayed them all in proper battle-order.

Not so loud the breakers bellowing out against the shore,
driven in from open sea by the North Wind's brutal blast,
not so loud the roar of fire whipped to a crackling blaze
rampaging into a mountain gorge, raging up through timber

Too fast for them, here was a ring of Trojan chiefs:
Aeneas, Polydamas and the royal prince Agenor,
Sarpedon the Lycians' captain, valiant Glaucus

Now the renowned spearman Ajax rushed against him

So Ajax vaunted, knowing his victim full well,
and a raw revulsion seized the Trojans' hearts.