“Gladly will I tarry here,” answered his friend surlily; “but much good will it do us, for Jove, the Thunderer, does not intend the victory for us, but for the Trojans.” However, they set forth together and plunged amongst the swarms of soldiers like two raging lions, driving them backward, as waves are whipped by the wind. Hector saw this from afar and quick as a flash he bore down upon them in his chariot, sprang to earth, and met the heroes on foot.
“Look,” cried Diomedes to Ulysses when he saw him; “there cometh our destruction. But let us stand firm, we will not flee.”
They stood awaiting him with their lances in position, and at the moment when Hector emerged from the crowd Diomedes’ spear struck his helmet with such force that he was thrown stunned to the ground. But the weapon had not wounded him, for his iron helmet was not broken, and before Diomedes had time to rush upon him with his sword, Hector had jumped up and plunged back into the crowd. Ulysses’ lance had missed the mark, and before the two had recovered their weapons Hector was safely on his chariot. Diomedes stamped his foot with rage. He now set upon the enemy more murderously than ever, and as he drove them back and was nearing the tomb of the old Trojan King Ilus, he was met by Paris, who stayed his mad impetuosity. Hiding behind a pillar of the tomb, he let fly one of his never-failing arrows, which struck Diomedes, pinning his foot to the ground. He saw the hero falter and stand still and sprang from his hiding place crying in triumph: “Ha! it was a good shot. But how gladly would I have pierced a vital part and taken thy life!”
“Miserable coward!” roared Diomedes. “Hadst thou met me in the open thy bow and arrow had helped thee little. And now thou boastest as though thou hadst conquered me, and it is but a scratch. It is as though a mosquito had stung me. Woe unto thee when I catch thee!” However, the wound was troublesome enough, for he could not stand on his foot, and Paris would perhaps have ventured to shoot a second arrow, if Ulysses had not come up in the nick of time. He placed himself in front of his friend and covered him with his shield, while Diomedes sat on the ground and drew the arrow out of his foot, which caused him sharp pain. He then called for his charioteer and drove back to the ships, his heart full of bitterness.
Ulysses remained behind alone, for his companions had retreated in terror, and now he found himself suddenly surrounded by the Trojans. He could not escape and resolved to sell his life dearly with the blood of his enemies. He met their attack like a wild boar at bay, and so savage was his onslaught that the enemy, surprised, stood still and none dared come near him. But when he had stabbed Charops, the noble son of Hippasus, his brother Socus, full of grief and anger, stepped boldly forward to avenge him, crying: “Murderous Ulysses, either thou shalt boast that thou hast slain both of Hippasus’ sons or thou shalt die by my hand!” With this he threw himself upon Ulysses with his spear and did actually pierce the shield and coat of mail, tearing the flesh and causing him to start back. But when Ulysses felt that the wound was not mortal, he quickly hurled his own lance, crying: “Miserable man, thou too art destined to fall this day by my hand!” Socus shrieked aloud, for the weapon had pierced clean through his breast.
On the other side of the battlefield the fighting was equally fierce. Hector and Paris were busy with spear and bow. Paris wounded the venerable Machaon, a good soldier and much prized for his surgical skill, for he had saved many lives. Therefore his friends were anxious about him and Nestor lifted him into his chariot and drove quickly away with him to camp. There they dismounted to refresh themselves in the cool breeze from the sea and to dry their damp clothing. Then they entered Nestor’s tent, where he bound up his friend’s wound and gave him food. While they were eating Patroclus entered the tent. Achilles had sent him to inquire who the wounded man was whom he had seen brought in by Nestor’s chariot. For Achilles was accustomed, when the Greeks were fighting, to station himself on the high deck of his vessel to watch the fray, not without regrets that he was condemned to idleness; often his hand would grasp his sword involuntarily. His joy over the overthrow of the Achaians was the sweetest revenge he had for his wounded pride.
“Ah, here is Patroclus,” cried Nestor. “Enter, friend, and sit down with us. I have not seen thee for a long time.”
“Do not press me, venerable sir,” answered Patroclus. “I may not remain, for I must take the tidings to Achilles for which he has sent me, and now that I have seen Machaon I must away. Thou well knowest how impatient he is.”
But Nestor continued: “We thought that Achilles was no longer interested in our fate. And hast thou, his friend and companion, no influence with him? Canst thou not win him with persuasive words and tame his proud heart? That was what thy good father expected.” Patroclus was moved by his words, and promising to do what he could, took his leave.
Once more the Achaians were obliged to take refuge behind the walls of the camp. Hector, followed by the victorious Trojans, drove all before him. When the greater part of the Achaians had reached the shelter of the gate, Hector gave orders that all the charioteers should leave their chariots and lead their bands on foot across the moat, for he was determined to climb or tear down the flimsy walls. Hector was successful, although there was a fearful struggle at the wall. The Achaians defended their last stand with desperate courage, while the Trojans were just as determined to accomplish their purpose of driving the enemy from their coasts and burning their ships that day.