He's just assaulted Love, he stabbed her wrist-- like something superhuman he even charged at me! So Apollo calls to Ares, god of war.
Hector is rallied and the fighting is full-on. Meanwhile, Hera complains to Zeus about Ares: "aren't you incensed at Ares and all his brutal work?
Zeus sends Athena against Ares; she urges Diomedes to attack him. With the help of Athena diverting Ares' spear, Diomedes is able to wound Ares, who complains to Zeus about favoritism: Zeus always sides with Athena 5.
But Ares, god of war, is surprisingly chewed out in this war epic: "You -- I hate you most of all the Olympian gods" 5. Ares is, however, cleaned up; and at the end of the book, no gods are involved in the war directly. The poet does not present the deaths of the soldiers in quantifiable terms, but rather presents death as personal. As Tamara Neal has argued, injury becomes a mark of heroic identity. The injured body becomes a site of differentiation of one person and allows us to distinguish his character from among those who fight.
How a character is injured, how he experiences the physical pain, the treatment he undergoes, and whether he receives divine favour are among some of the means by which the poet communicates the p.
The ability to endure suffering or to exhibit self-control while undergoing the treatment of a wound also shows his moral excellence. These actions and responses often showcase the strength, self-restraint, and physical prowess of the hero. For example, the juxtaposition of numerous examples of Trojans who faint from wounding alongside examples of Achaians who maintain consciousness in similar circumstances communicates the greater strength of character of the Greeks.
The immediacy of death that typifies Homeric accounts adds to its starkness. Homer primarily describes the death of Simoeis through natural similes, the effect of which is to remind the audience that human beings, while they strive for glory and honour, remain bound to the end of all natural beings, which exist in an ongoing cycle of life and death, in which impermanence of state is fundamental to human p. The activities described on the shield, of course, are perennial human activities.
Human agriculture, marriage, war, birth, and death all will continue. However, particularly in the context of a defeated Troy, where the Trojans will no longer continue to participate in these activities as a unified community, the permanence of these activities as human activities is not necessarily reason for consolation.
He dropped then to the ground in the dust, like some black poplar, which in the land low-lying above a great marsh grows smooth trimmed yet with branches growing at the uttermost tree-top; one whom a man, a maker of chariots fells with the shining iron, to bend it into a wheel for a fine-wrought chariot, and the tree lies hardening by the banks of a river.
Euphorbos, too, is described as akin to a flower that briefly blooms, then is torn out of the ground and knocked down by the wind XVII. The details of Simoeis as treasured by his particular mother in his individual being contrast with the description of his death and the possibility that in war his life was simply used and then set aside once its utility had passed.
The tree, once used for the chariot, is discarded and left abandoned beside the river. Similarly, the poet suggests, Simoeis is used for the war and then forgotten. As Weil has argued, the epic reveals how the force of war converts a man from a person to a thing. In addition, the possibility of being set aside and forgotten after death is never fully overcome in the Iliad. While Weil captures the dehumanizing elements of war, other elements of the epic seek to preserve the possibility of a respectful response to the dead.
The possibility of mere utility of soldiers is tempered by two other, interrelated concepts that weave their way through the Iliad : memory and narrative. Being remembered takes place primarily through narrative and through the high respect p. The importance and significance of caring for the body and mourning the dead in public is something that Greeks and Trojans alike consider significantly worthy of respect. Both when Patroklos dies and when Hektor is finally to be buried, the significance of burial of the dead necessitates a break in the usual structures of war and division of people into ally and enemy.
The rules of engagement include a space for the suspension of hostility so that people may mourn. The tradition of burying the dead and the significance of ensuring that each man is found and remembered lies on an even higher plane of customary law for the two warring parties than does the outcome of individual battles. If with the thin edge of the bronze he takes my life, then let him strip my armor and carry it back to the hollow ships, but give my body to be taken home again, so that the Trojans and the wives of the Trojans may give me in death the rite of burning.
But if I take his life, and Apollo grants me the glory, I will strip his armor and carry it to sacred Ilion and hang it in front of the temple of far-striking Apollo, but his corpse I will give back among the strong-benched vessels so that the flowing-haired Achaians may give him due burial and heap up a mound upon him beside the broad passage of Helle.
The rituals and obligations surrounding care of the dead require that even in the midst of war, civilization cannot be set aside entirely. First, they highlight the interpersonal and political nature of wounds suffered in battle.
Second, human wounds become the occasion for virtue in enduring suffering. While not all wounds result in death, p. However, Homer also uses wounding as a reminder of human finitude and the real losses of war, as well as virtue. A story with a beginning, middle, and end creates narrative meaning for human communities in a way that divine wounds cannot.
Vulnerability to wounding and death both deepens interpersonal and political bonds and creates the possibility of a meaningful narrative for those communities. Schein usefully provides a framework of two complementary structural principles that guide the shape of the Iliad.
At the same time, Schein argues that much of the overall movement of the Iliad is an inevitable, unstoppable movement toward death and destruction, a movement seen in three distinct stages to the structure of the Iliad.
We might see the Iliad as divisible into three sections, each of which features the virtues of the characters of Diomedes, Patroklos, and Achilles, respectively. Whereas Diomedes p. This movement toward death culminates as Achilles fights against the river god, Skamander, proclaims that he would fight even against Apollo, were he able XXII.
On the one hand, we are all like Achilles bound for eventual death. The end of the story for each human being is essentially the same in that the narratives of our individual lives each come to an end.
Endings are often abrupt and unexpected, and have profound consequences for families and communities. It is in the narrative meaning that is imposed on a life—especially, but not only, after the fact—that order and some degree of closure can come into being.
He must decide whether he wishes to live a long, domestic, uneventful life, or a short but heroic one, and in choosing his short life but heroic death, both his life and his manner of death are tied to glory for Troy, and to his passionate, loyal friendship for Patroklos.
His choice is explicitly one that is made in the light of what will be said about him, the meaning his life will take on within a narrative context. That life, though abruptly ended in one sense, is also given a structure and symmetry that his manner of death imposes on the shape of the larger story.
In fact, the narrative of his life and death is not only what gives order to his own life; his story is also the centre of the story of the Iliad itself, a story which provides an entire community with a set of narrative meanings that ground its social and political identity as Greek.
This, too, seems to be a point capable of extension to characterizing human vulnerability. While p. Particular events are connected to other events and persons in a narrative structure that becomes meaningful for the larger community that tells and hears the story. I argue that Achilles must also come to accept his powerlessness to prevent time from moving forward.
Long ago, Zielinski argued that even simultaneous time is represented sequentially in the Iliad. Achilles not only feels his pride damaged; he also initially resists the forward movement of time and remains in his anger about the past.
For a while, he even behaves as if time has been suspended in his political and psychological removal from the Greeks, while physically being present in their midst. Only when he accepts the necessity of the one-way directionality of time and embraces his own temporal nature, can Achilles return to action. I suggest that Achilles is emblematic of an individual who struggles with pain and grief, at times responding to that grief through withdrawal, at times with rage.
Instead, his virtue lies in part in his responses to his vulnerability, and his eventual acceptance of the inevitability of death and the loss of honour and of friends as part of living well.
When Achilles is still unwilling to go into battle, even after Agamemnon has promised him many gifts as recompense, his former tutor and guardian, Phoenix, appeals to his own human weakness and suffering as part of what binds Achilles to him, and what ought also to bind Achilles to the other Argives who now suffer IX.
While he loses a connection to his own father, he describes Peleus as having received him as a father does. Achilles needed others in order to survive, and the clear message here is that others now depend upon him. While Plutarch includes them in Mor. There, Phoenix recalls his desire to kill his own father in order to defend his mother, a decision he was only prevented from carrying out by other relatives and their pleadings. There, Phoenix is presented as sympathetic to human weakness to anger in particular, and its limiting effects on rational, moral action.
It is precisely because of his shared experience of dishonour and anger that Phoenix can speak to the same condition in Achilles, both able to sympathize with him and also to recommend a different course of action in the light of his past experience.
For example, Nestor remarks, when Patroklos comes to visit the wounded who are resting on the ships, that Achilles is pitiless XI. Burkert, in contrast, argues that pity in Homer means acting in a particular way, rather than experiencing a particular emotion; in his view, expressions of pity are intended to communicate acting mercifully toward others. For example, even the gods, who cannot fully sympathize with the situation of a dying man, take pity on human beings.
While he threatens to use his anger against Hera, in the end, his sense of pity for Hektor has a higher priority than his anger in action: Hektor is given a second wind and allowed to achieve greater glory before his destined end. However, Achilles does not resolve his own conflict as rapidly as does Zeus. As Achilles slowly acknowledges and accepts his own vulnerability and that of others—particularly in the loss of Patroklos—his capacity to feel pity is actualized.
Patroklos, too, seems to be deeply affected by the prospect of a wounded healer. His vulnerability has a direct effect on the vulnerability of others. Patroklos is responsive to the demands of the immediate situation as he recognizes that time is essential, and heals those whom Machaon cannot attend.
In contrast, Achilles has acted as though he has all the time in the world to decide whether and when he might return to fight with the Achaians, as if time were somehow suspended, or the war remained at the same point in his absence.
One such display of his utter removal is the scene of Achilles idly singing and playing the lyre while the war continues on IX. One effect of its absence from the narration communicates that no content can compare with the sound of the war surrounding him.
Only when Achilles confronts and acknowledges that time continues and the effects of war continue, regardless of his own removal, does Achilles rejoin the battle. Achilles must learn to accept the sense in which human life moves always forward, and cannot return to the past. While the immortals can step aside, return to Mount Olympus, and play music while the wars continue, for Achilles to remove himself does not cease the war itself.
Vulnerability and temporality are here interlinked. The wounding and deaths of others are powerful reminders that time moves forward and that temporality cannot be escaped, as Patroklos recognizes but p. Achilles refuses to acknowledge a kind of vulnerability to time itself; such avoidance has profoundly negative political consequences. Saxonhouse has argued that part of what Achilles must learn is that the inequitable distribution of goods and honours is part of ordinary human life and must be accepted as an inevitable limit.
Patroklos takes on his work in tending to the wounded Eurypylus. But we also see his capacity for fury in battle as he kills many Trojans with fierceness reminiscent of that of Achilles before meeting his death. Twice Patroklos takes on the social role of another member of the community in their absence: in the healer Machaon and the warrior Achilles.
Perhaps surprisingly, these warrior and healing roles are connected not only in Patroklos, but also potentially in Achilles. Eurypylus says that Patroklos can help him since Achilles knows which medicines to place on the wound once it has been cleaned because the centaur Cheiron told him of these medicines XI.
A man is down we prized on a par with noble Hector— Aeneas, proud Anchises' son. Save our comrade! As Ares whipped the fighting spirit in each man Sarpedon taunted Hector: "Hector, where has it gone- that high courage you always carried in your heart? No doubt you bragged that you could hold your city without an army and Trojan allies—all on your own, just with your sister's husbands and your brothers. But where are they now? I look, I can't find one. They cringe and cower like hounds circling a lion.
We-your allies here-we do your fighting for you. And I myself, Hector, your ally-to-the-death, a good long way I came from distant Lycia, far from the Xanthus' rapids where I left my loving wife, my baby son, great riches too, the lasting envy of every needy neighbor. And still I lead our Lycians into battle. I chafe to face my man, full force, though there's not a scrap of mine for looting here, no cattle or gold the foe could carry off.
But you, you just stand there-don't even command the rest to brace and defend their wives. Beware the toils of war. All this should obsess you, Hector, night and day. You should be begging the men who lead your allies' famous ranks to stand and fight for all they're worth— you'll ward off all the blame they hurl against you. And Sarpedon's charge cut Hector to the core. Down he leapt from his chariot fully armed, hit the ground and brandishing two sharp spears went striding down his lines, ranging flank to flank, driving his fighters into battle, rousing grisly war—and round the Trojans whirled, bracing to meet the Argives face-to-face: but the Argives closed ranks, did not cave in.
Remember the wind that scatters the dry chaff, sweeping it over the sacred threshing floor, the men winnowing hard and blond Demeter culling grain from dry husk in the rough and gusting wind and under it all the heaps of chaff are piling white.
Charioteers swung chariots round, thrust the powerful fist of fury straight ahead and murderous Ares keen to help the Trojans shrouded the carnage over in dense dark night- lunging at all points, carrying out the commands of Phoebus Apollo, lord of the golden sword, who ordered Ares to whip the Trojans' war-lust once he spotted Athena veering off the lines, great Pallas who'd rushed to back the Argives. Out of his rich guarded chamber the god himself launched Aeneas now, driving courage into his heart and the captain took his place amidst his men.
And how they thrilled to see him still alive, safe, unharmed and marching back to their lines, his soul ablaze for war, but his men asked him nothing.
The labor of battle would not let them, more labor urged by the god of the silver bow and man-destroying Ares and Strife flaring on, headlong on.
The Achaeans? The two Aeantes, Tydides and Odysseus spurred them on to attack. The troops themselves had no fear, no dread of the Trojans' power and breakneck charges, no, they stood their ground like heavy thunderheads stacked up on the towering mountaintops by Cronus' son, stock-still in a windless calm when the raging North Wind and his gusty ripping friends that had screamed down to rout dark clouds have fallen dead asleep.
So staunch they stood the Trojan onslaught, never shrinking once as Atrides ranged the ranks, shouting out commands: "Now be men, my friends! Courage, come, take heart! Dread what comrades say of you here in bloody combat! When men dread that, more men come through alive— when soldiers break and run, good-bye glory, good-bye all defenses! Now his shield took powerful Agamemnon's spear but failed to deflect it, straight through it smashed, bronze splitting his belt and plunging down his guts— he fell, thundering, armor ringing against him.
There— Aeneas replied in kind and killed two Argive captains, Diocles' two sons, Orsilochus flanking Crethon. Their father lived in the fortress town of Phera, a man of wealth and worth, born of Alpheus River running wide through Pylian hills, the stream that sired Ortilochus to rule their many men. Ortilochus sired Diocles, that proud heart, and Diocles bred Orsilochus twinned with Crethon drilled for any fight.
And reaching their prime they joined the Argives sailing the black ships outward bound for the stallion-land of Troy, all for the sons of Atreus, to fight to the end and win their honor back- so death put an end to both, wrapped them both in night.
Fresh as two young lions off on the mountain ridges, twins reared by a lioness deep in the dark glades, that ravage shepherds' steadings, mauling the cattle and fat sheep till it's their turn to die-hacked down by the cleaving bronze blades in the shepherds' hands.
So here the twins were laid low at Aeneas' hands, down they crashed like lofty pine trees axed. Both down but Menelaus pitied them both, yes, and out for blood he burst through the front, helmed in fiery bronze, shaking his spear, and Ares' fury drove him, Ares hoping to see him crushed at Aeneas' hands.
Antilochus marked him now, great Nestor's son went racing across the front himself, terrified for the lord of armies—what if he were killed? Their hard campaigning just might come to grief.
As Aeneas and Menelaus came within arm's reach, waving whetted spears in each other's faces, nerved to fight it out, Antilochus rushed in, tensing shoulder-to-shoulder by his captain now- and Aeneas shrank from battle, fast as he was in arms, when he saw that pair of fighters side-by-side, standing their ground against him.
Once they'd dragged the bodies back to their lines they dropped the luckless twins in companions' open arms and round they swung again to fight in the first ranks.
And next they killed Pylaemenes tough as Ares, a captain heading the Paphlagonian shieldsmen, hot-blooded men. Menelaus the famous spearman stabbed him right where he stood, the spearpoint pounding his collarbone to splinters. Antilochus killed his charioteer and steady henchman Mydon, Atymnius' strapping son, just wheeling his racers round as Antilochus winged a rock and smashed his elbow- out of his grip the reins white with ivory flew and slipped to the ground and tangled in the dust.
Antilochus sprang, he plunged a sword in his temple and Mydon, gasping, hurled from his bolted car facefirst, head and shoulders stuck in a dune a good long time for the sand was soft and deep—his lucky day— till his own horses trampled him down, down flat as Antilochus lashed them hard and drove them back to Achaea's waiting ranks. But Hector marked them across the lines and rushed them now with a cry and Trojan shock troops backed him full strength.
And Ares led them in with the deadly Queen Enyo bringing Uproar on, the savage chaos of battle— the god of combat wielding his giant shaft in hand, now ranging ahead of Hector, now behind him. Ares there— and for all his war cries Diomedes shrank at the sight, as a man at a loss, helpless, crossing a vast plain halts short at a river rapids surging out to sea, takes one look at the water roaring up in foam and springs back with a leap.
So he recoiled, shouting out to comrades, "Oh my friends, what fools we were to marvel at wondrous Hector, what a spearman, we said, and what a daring fighter! But a god goes with him always, beating off disaster— look, that's Ares beside him now, just like a mortal! Give ground, but faces fronting the Trojans always— no use trying to fight the gods in force. Down they went and the Great Ajax pitied both, he strode to their side and loomed there, loosed a gleaming spear and struck down Amphius, Selagus' son who had lived at ease in Paesus, rich in possessions, rich in rolling wheatland But destiny guided Amphius on, a comrade sworn to the cause of Priam and all of Priam's sons.
Now giant Ajax speared him through the belt, deep in the guts the long, shadowy shaft stuck and down he fell with a crash as glorious Ajax rushed to strip his armor—Trojans showering spears against him, points glittering round him, his shield taking repeated hits. He dug his heel in the corpse, yanked his own bronze out but as for the dead man's burnished gear-no hope. The giant was helpless to rip it off his back. Enemy weapons beating against him, worse, he dreaded the Trojans too, swarming round him, a tough ring of them, brave and bristling spears, massing, rearing over their comrade's body now and rugged, strong and proud as the Great Ajax was, they shoved him back—he gave ground, staggering, reeling.
So fighters worked away in the grim shocks of war. And Heracles' own son, Tlepolemus tall and staunch. Closing quickly, coming head-to-head the son and the son's son of Zeus who marshals storms, Tlepolemus opened up to taunt his enemy first: "Sarpedon, master strategist of the Lycians, what compels you to cringe and cower here?
You raw recruit, green at the skills of battle! They lie when they say you're born of storming Zeus. Look at yourself. How short you fall of the fighters sired by Zeus in the generations long before us! Why, think what they say of mighty Heracles- there was a man, my father, that dauntless, furious spirit, that lionheart. He once sailed here for Laomedon's blooded horses, with just six ships and smaller crews than yours, true, but he razed the walls of Troy, he widowed all her streets.
You with your coward's heart, your men dying round you! You're no bulwark come out of Lycia, I can tell you— no help to Trojans here. For all your power, soldier, crushed at my hands you'll breach the gates of Death! But Sarpedon the Lycian captain faced him down: "Right you are, Tlepolemus! Your great father destroyed the sacred heights of Troy, thanks, of course, to a man's stupidity, proud Laomedon.
That fool—he rewarded all his kindness with abuse, never gave him the mares he'd come so far to win. But the only thing you'll win at my hands here, I promise you, is slaughter and black doom. Gouged by my spear you'll give me glory now, you'll give your life to the famous horseman Death!
In fast reply Tlepolemus raised his ashen spear and the same moment shafts flew from their hands and Sarpedon hit him square across the neck, the spear went ramming through-pure agony- black night came swirling down across his eyes.
But Tlepolemus' shaft had struck Sarpedon too, the honed tip of the weapon hitting his left thigh, ferocious, razoring into flesh and scraping bone but his Father beat off death a little longer. Heroic Sarpedon— his loyal comrades bore him out of the fighting quickly, weighed down by the heavy spearshaft dragging on.
But hurrying so, no one noticed or even thought to wrench the ashen javelin from his thigh so the man could hobble upright. On they rushed, bent on the work of tending to his body. Tlepolemus— far across the lines the armed Achaeans hauled him out of the fight, and seasoned Odysseus saw it, his brave spirit steady, ablaze for action now.
What should he do? But no, it was not the gallant Odysseus' fate to finish Zeus's rugged son with his sharp bronze, so Pallas swung his fury against the Lycian front. Whirling, killing Coeranus, Chromius and Alastor, killing Alcander and Halius, Prytanis and Noemon- and stalwart Odysseus would have killed still more but tall Hector, his helmet flashing, marked him quickly, plowed through the front, helmed in fiery bronze, filling the Argives' hearts with sudden terror.
And Zeus's son Sarpedon rejoiced to see him striding past and begged him in his pain, "Son of Priam, don't leave me lying here, such easy prey for the Danaans-protect me!
Later I'll bleed to death inside your walls. Clearly it's not my fate to journey home again to the fatherland I love, to bring some joy to my dear wife, my baby son. But Sarpedon's loyal comrades laid him down, a man like a god beneath a fine spreading oak sacred to Zeus whose shield is banked with clouds. The veteran Pelagon, one of his closest aides, pushed the shaft of ashwood out through his wound— his spirit left him-a mist poured down his eyes.
A gust of the North Wind blowing round him carried back the life breath he had gasped away in pain. But the Argive fighters? Facing Ares' power and Hector helmed in bronze, they neither turned and ran for their black ships nor traded blows with enemies man-to-man. Backing over and over, the Argives gave ground, seeing the lord of battles lead the Trojan onset.
Who was the first they slaughtered, who the last, the brazen god of war and Hector son of Priam? Teuthras first, Orestes lasher of stallions next, an Aetolian spearman Trechus, Oenomaus and Helenus, Oenops' son, and Oresbius cinched with shining belt who had lived in Hyle hoarding his great wealth, his estate aslope the shores of Lake Cephisus, and round him Boeotians held the fertile plain.
But soon as the white-armed goddess Hera saw them mauling Argive units caught in the bloody press, she winged her words at Pallas: "What disaster!
Daughter of storming Zeus, tireless one, Athena- how hollow our vow to Menelaus that he would sack the mighty walls of Troy before he sailed for home- if we let murderous Ares rampage on this way. Up now, set our minds on our own fighting-fury!
Hera queen of the gods, daughter of giant Cronus, launched the work, harnessed the golden-bridled team and Hebe quickly rolled the wheels to the chariot, paired wheels with their eight spokes all bronze, and bolted them on at both ends of the iron axle.
Fine wheels with fellies of solid, deathless gold and round them running rims of bronze clamped fast— a marvel to behold! The silver hubs spin round on either side of the chariot's woven body, gold and silver lashings strapping it tight, double rails sweeping along its deep full curves and the yoke-pole jutting forward, gleaming silver.
There at the tip she bound the gorgeous golden yoke, she fastened the gorgeous golden breast straps next and under the yoke Queen Hera led the horses, racers blazing for war and the piercing shrieks of battle.
Then Athena, child of Zeus whose shield is thunder, letting fall her supple robe at the Father's threshold— rich brocade, stitched with her own hands' labor— donned the battle-shirt of the lord of lightning, buckled her breastplate geared for wrenching war and over her shoulders slung her shield, all tassels flaring terror-Panic mounted high in a crown around it, Hate and Defense across it, Assault to freeze the blood and right in their midst the Gorgon's monstrous head, that rippling dragon horror, sign of storming Zeus.
Then over her brows Athena placed her golden helmet fronted with four knobs and forked with twin horns, engraved with the fighting men of a hundred towns. Then onto the flaming chariot Pallas set her feet and seized her spear-weighted, heavy, the massive shaft she wields to break the battle lines of heroes the mighty Father's daughter storms against.
A crack of the whip— the goddess Hera lashed the team, and all on their own force the gates of heaven thundered open, kept by the Seasons, guards of the vaulting sky and Olympus heights empowered to spread the massing clouds or close them round once more.
Now straight through the great gates she drove the team, whipping them on full tilt until they came to Zeus the son of Cronus sitting far from the other gods, throned on the topmost crag of rugged ridged Olympus. And halting her horses near, the white-armed Hera called out at once to the powerful son of Cronus, pressing home her questions: "Father Zeus, look— aren't you incensed at Ares and all his brutal work?
Killing so many brave Achaeans for no good reason, not a shred of decency, just to wound my heart! While there they sit at their royal ease, exulting, the goddess of love and Apollo lord of the silver bow: they loosed this manic Ares—he has no sense of justice. Father Zeus.
I wonder if you would fume at me if I hurled a stunning blow at the god of war and drove him from the fighting? Launch Athena against him- the queen of plunder, she's the one—his match, a marvel at bringing Ares down in pain. So he urged and the white-armed goddess Hera obeyed at once. And again she lashed her team and again the stallions flew, holding nothing back, careering between the earth and starry skies as far as a man's glance can pierce the horizon's misting haze, a scout on a watchtower who scans the wine-dark sea— so far do the soaring, thundering horses of the gods leap at a single stride.
And once they reached the plains of Troy where the two rivers flow, where Simois and Scamander rush together, the white-armed goddess Hera reined her team, loosing them from the chariot-yoke and round them poured' a dense shrouding mist and before their hoofs the Simois sprang ambrosial grass for them to graze. The two immortals stepped briskly as wild doves, quivering, keen to defend the fighting men of Argos.
Once they gained the spot where the most and bravest stood, flanking strong Diomedes breaker of wild stallions— massed like a pride of lions tearing raw flesh or ramping boars whose fury never flags— the white-armed goddess Hera rose and shouted loud as the brazen voice of great-lunged Stentor who cries out with the blast of fifty other men, "Shame!
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