Death of Ajax, Henri Serrur, 1820
by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from Archias, The Greek Anthology, vii, 147.
Only you, Ajax,
when all Greeks fled
to the beach in total rout,
stood firm; that shield
as broad as an oak tree
blocked their way.
The stones they hurled,
the arrows raining down,
were as nothing to you.
Even when swords and spears
came at you, you held
the Trojans back. One shout
from your great lungs sufficed
to send them scurrying
to regroup and come again.
Just as some crag above the main
holds back a hurricane,
you the enemy daunted.
Re-armed and driven wild
with courage from seeing you,
we were not vanquished
that day.
Troy fell,
and all you asked
was one great boon:
the armor of Achilles.
This Pallas Athena
refused to grant you.
It wasn’t as though
you could wear it:
a stripling one quarter
your girth he was.
Prizeless, you raged,
and rage became madness.
All who came near
to reason with you,
you slaughtered as though
we had become enemies.
Your tent was your madhouse.
Cruel were the Fates
who willed this, leading astray
the good intent of Athena.
As we learned to our woe
you were indestructible,
a killing machine
who could clear the whole world
of its inhabitants if rage,
that rage, kept growing on.
Ares had opened War
and could not put the lid back on,
and so, at last,
the hand that killed you
was the only one that could:
your own.
