Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
So the Trojans mourned throughout the city. But the Achaeans, once they reached their ships and the Hellespont, scattered, each man to his own ship — all except the Myrmidons. Achilles would not let them scatter, but spoke instead to his war-loving companions:
"Swift-horsed Myrmidons, my trusted friends, let us not yet unyoke our sure-footed horses from the chariots. Let us drive them close, horses and cars together, and mourn Patroclus — that is the honor due the dead. When we have had our fill of grim lamenting, we will unyoke the horses and all take supper here together."
So he spoke, and they cried out together in grief, Achilles leading them. Three times they drove their sleek-maned horses around the corpse, wailing, and Thetis stirred in them a longing to weep still more. The sand grew wet, the men's armor grew wet with tears — such was the loss of the man who had driven fear before him.
Among them Achilles led the thick, throbbing lament, laying his man-slaying hands on his companion's chest:
"Farewell to you, Patroclus, even in the house of Hades. Everything I promised you before, I am now making good — I have dragged Hector here to give raw to the dogs to tear apart, and I will cut the throats of twelve splendid sons of the Trojans before your pyre, in fury at your killing."
So he spoke, and plotted shameful treatment for godlike Hector, stretching him face down in the dust beside the bier of Menoetius' son. The rest of them each took off their gleaming bronze armor and unyoked their high-necked horses, and sat down in their thousands beside the ship of swift-footed Achilles, grandson of Aeacus, who gave them a rich funeral feast. Many white oxen bellowed as the iron cut their throats around the body, many sheep and bleating goats, and many white-tusked hogs rich with fat were stretched out to singe over the flame of Hephaestus. All around the corpse, blood ran in pools thick enough to fill a cup.
But the kings of the Achaeans led the swift-footed son of Peleus, their lord, to godlike Agamemnon, working hard to win him over, for his heart was still raging over his friend. When they came to Agamemnon's shelter, he ordered his clear-voiced heralds at once to set a great cauldron over the fire, so they might persuade the son of Peleus to wash the clotted blood from his body.
But Achilles refused flatly, and swore an oath besides: "No, by Zeus, highest and greatest of the gods — it is not right for water to come near my head until I have laid Patroclus on the fire and heaped up his grave-mound and cut my hair, since no second grief like this will ever again reach my heart while I live among the living. Still, for now let us give in to this grim feast. At dawn, lord of men Agamemnon, rouse the men to bring wood and to provide all that is fitting for a corpse to have on its way down into the misty dark, so that the tireless fire may burn him quickly out of our sight, and the army may turn back to its work."
So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed him. Eagerly they each made ready their supper and ate, and no man's appetite lacked its fair share of the feast. When they had put away their desire for food and drink, the rest went off to their shelters to sleep, each man to his own, but the son of Peleus lay groaning heavily among his many Myrmidons, on the shore of the crashing sea, in a clear space where the waves washed up on the beach.
There sleep seized him, loosening the cares from his heart, pouring sweetly over him — for his shining limbs were worn out with chasing Hector toward windy Troy. Then the spirit of unhappy Patroclus came to him, in every way like the living man himself — the same stature, the same fine eyes, the same voice, and wearing the same clothes on his body. It stood over Achilles' head and spoke to him:
"You sleep, Achilles, and you have forgotten me. You never neglected me while I lived, only now that I am dead. Bury me as quickly as you can, so I may pass through the gates of Hades. The spirits, the phantoms of the dead who have finished with toil, keep me at a distance and will not let me join them beyond the river, and I wander aimlessly through the wide gates of the house of Hades. Give me your hand, I beg you — for once you have given me to the fire, I will never come back again from Hades. No longer will we sit apart from our other companions and make our plans together, alive; the hateful fate that was mine from birth has swallowed me. And you too, Achilles, equal of the gods — it is your fate to die beneath the walls of the wealthy Trojans."
"One more thing I will say, and ask of you, if you will grant it: do not let my bones be laid apart from yours, Achilles, but together, just as we were raised together in your house — when Menoetius brought me, still a small boy, from Opoeis to your home, because of a grim killing, the day I killed the son of Amphidamas — a child, and unwilling, but enraged over a game of dice. Then the horseman Peleus took me into his house and raised me kindly and named me your attendant. So let one urn hold both our bones together — the golden two-handled urn your queenly mother gave you."
Achilles answered him: "Why have you come to me here, dear life, with all these instructions? I will carry out everything for you, and obey all that you ask. But come closer — let us hold each other, if only for a moment, and take what comfort we can in grim lamenting."
So saying he reached out with his own hands, but could not take hold — the spirit went below like smoke, gibbering faintly. Achilles sprang up in amazement, struck his hands together, and cried out in grief:
"So it is true — even in the house of Hades something remains, a spirit and an image, though the mind is not in it at all. All night long the spirit of unhappy Patroclus stood over me, weeping and grieving, and gave me each instruction — it was wonderfully like the man himself."
So he spoke, and stirred in all of them a longing to weep. Rosy-fingered Dawn found them still mourning around the pitiful corpse. Then lord Agamemnon sent men and mules out from every shelter to gather wood, with a good man in charge, Meriones, attendant of brave Idomeneus. They went out carrying axes for cutting timber and well-woven ropes, the mules going ahead of them. Up and down, across and slanting, they made their way, and when they reached the foothills of many-fountained Ida, they set at once to felling tall-crowned oaks with the sharp bronze, working fast — and the trees fell with a great crash. The Achaeans split them and lashed them to the mules, who tore up the earth with their hooves, eager to reach the plain through the dense undergrowth. All the woodcutters carried logs, as Meriones, attendant of brave Idomeneus, had ordered.
They threw the wood down on the shore in a long row, at the place where Achilles had planned a great burial mound for Patroclus and for himself. When they had piled the vast wood everywhere, they sat down together and waited there. And at once Achilles gave orders to his war-loving Myrmidons to strap on their bronze and each yoke his horses to the chariots.
The men rose and armed themselves, and mounted the chariots, drivers and fighting-companions together, the charioteers in front and behind them a cloud of foot soldiers, thousands of them, and in their midst the companions carried Patroclus. They covered the whole body with the locks of hair they cut and threw upon it, and behind, godlike Achilles held the head, grieving — for he was sending a noble companion down to Hades. When they reached the place Achilles had marked out, they set the body down and quickly heaped up a great pile of wood.
Then swift Achilles thought of one more thing. Standing apart from the pyre, he cut off the golden lock of hair he had grown long in offering to the river Spercheius, and looking out over the wine-dark sea he said with feeling:
"Spercheius, my father Peleus prayed to you in vain, that when I returned home to my own dear country I would cut this hair for you and offer a sacred hundred head, and fifty rams besides, unmated, at your springs, where you have your sacred ground and smoking altar. So the old man prayed, but you did not grant his wish. Now, since I will never return to my own dear country, let me give this hair to the hero Patroclus to carry with him."
So saying, he placed the lock of hair in his dear companion's hands, and stirred in all of them a longing to weep. And the light of the sun would have gone down on their mourning, had Achilles not quickly stepped up to Agamemnon and said:
"Son of Atreus, since the army of the Achaeans will obey your word before any other's, they have had their fill of weeping now — send them away from the pyre and tell them to prepare their meal. We who are closest to the dead man will see to the rest of this; let the chief men stay here with us."
When Agamemnon, lord of men, heard this, he sent the army away at once to their ships, while the mourners who were closest stayed behind and piled up the wood, building a pyre a hundred feet on each side, and on its top, grieving in their hearts, they laid the body. In front of the pyre they skinned and dressed many fat sheep and shambling, curved-horned cattle, and great-hearted Achilles took the fat from all of them and wrapped the corpse in it from head to foot, then heaped the flayed carcasses around it. He set jars of honey and oil leaning against the bier, and flung four proud-necked horses onto the pyre with a heavy groan.
The lord had nine dogs that fed from his table, and of these he slit the throats of two and threw them on the pyre as well. And twelve noble sons of the great-hearted Trojans he killed with bronze — his heart set on cruel work — and let loose the iron fury of the fire to feed on all of it. Then he cried aloud and called his dear companion by name:
"Farewell to you, Patroclus, even in the house of Hades. Everything I promised you before, I am now making good. Twelve noble sons of the great-hearted Trojans — the fire is devouring them all now with you. But Hector, son of Priam, I will not give to the fire to feed on — the dogs will have him instead."
So he spoke in threat, but the dogs never came near Hector's body, for Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, kept the dogs away from him day and night, and anointed him with rose-sweet, immortal oil, so that Achilles would not tear his skin as he dragged him. And Phoebus Apollo brought down a dark cloud from the sky over the plain, and covered the whole space where the corpse lay, so that the sun's fierce heat would not shrivel the flesh on his sinews and limbs before its time.
But the pyre with Patroclus' body would not catch fire. Then swift-footed, godlike Achilles thought of another plan. Standing apart from the pyre, he prayed to the two winds, the North Wind and the West Wind, promising them handsome offerings, and poured many libations from a golden cup, begging them to come, so that the wood might quickly catch and blaze and burn the bodies. Iris heard his prayers and went swiftly as a messenger to the winds.
They were gathered together in the halls of the blustering West Wind, feasting, when Iris came running and stood on the stone threshold. The moment they saw her with their eyes, they all sprang up, and each called her to sit by him. But she refused to sit, and said:
"I cannot stay — I am off again to the streams of Ocean, to the land of the Ethiopians, where they are offering hundred-fold sacrifices to the gods, so that I too may share in the sacred feast. But Achilles is praying to the North Wind and the loud West Wind to come, and promises fine offerings, if you will stir up the fire of the pyre where Patroclus lies, mourned by all the Achaeans."
So she spoke and departed, and the winds rose up with an unearthly roar, driving the clouds before them. Quickly they reached the sea and blew across it, and the wave rose under their shrill blast; they came to fertile Troy and fell upon the pyre, and the fire roared up tremendously. All night long together they beat the flame of the pyre, blowing hard and shrill, and all night long swift Achilles, drawing wine from a golden mixing-bowl in a two-handled cup, poured it on the ground, drenching the earth, and called out to the spirit of unhappy Patroclus.
As a father grieves burning the bones of his son, a bridegroom newly married, whose death has brought grief to his poor parents, so Achilles grieved as he burned his companion's bones, dragging himself around the pyre, groaning heavily. At the hour when the morning star rises to bring light over the earth, and after it saffron-robed dawn spreads over the sea, at that hour the fire died down and the flame went out. The winds turned back again to go home over the Thracian sea, and it groaned, churning with a heavy swell.
The son of Peleus then moved away from the burnt-out pyre and lay down, worn out, and sweet sleep fell upon him. But the others gathered together around the son of Atreus, and the noise and tramp of their approach woke him. He sat up straight and spoke among them:
"Son of Atreus, and the rest of you, finest men of the Achaeans — first put out with dark wine every part of the pyre the fire's fury has reached, and then let us gather the bones of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, picking them out carefully — they are easy to tell apart, for he lay in the middle of the pyre while the others burned separately at the edges, horses and men mixed together. Let us lay his bones in a golden urn, wrapped in a double fold of fat, until I myself am hidden away in Hades. As for the mound, I do not ask you to labor over it greatly — just a fitting one — but later the Achaeans can build it broad and high, those of you who are left behind me in the many-benched ships."
So he spoke, and they obeyed the swift son of Peleus. First they put out with dark wine every part the flame had reached, as far as the fire had burned, and the deep ash settled.
Weeping, they gathered the white bones of their gentle companion into a golden urn, wrapped in a double fold of fat, and set them in the shelter, covering them with a fine linen cloth. They marked out the circle of the tomb and laid its foundation around the pyre, and at once heaped up the piled earth. Once they had raised the mound, they turned to go back. But Achilles kept the army there and made them sit down in a wide assembly, and brought out prizes from his ships — cauldrons and tripods, horses and mules, strong-headed cattle, well-girdled women, and grey iron.
For the swift charioteers he set out splendid prizes first: for the winner, a woman skilled in fine handwork to lead away, and an eared tripod holding twenty-two measures. For the man who came second he set a mare, six years old, unbroken, carrying a mule foal in her womb. For the third he set down a fine untouched cauldron, still bright, holding four measures. For the fourth he set two talents of gold, and for the fifth an unfired two-handled bowl.
Then he stood up and spoke among the Argives: "Son of Atreus, and the rest of you well-greaved Achaeans — these are the prizes waiting in the field for the charioteers. If we Achaeans were holding these games for some other man, I myself would drive off with the first prize to my shelter — you know how far my horses surpass all others in excellence, for they are immortal, and Poseidon gave them to my father Peleus, who in turn gave them to me. But I will hold back, and my sure-footed horses too, since they have lost the glory of so gentle a driver, one who so often poured smooth oil on their manes after washing them in clear water."
"For him they stand grieving, and their manes trail in the dust, and they stand there with heavy hearts. But the rest of you, take your places throughout the camp — whichever of the Achaeans trusts his horses and his well-fitted chariot." So spoke the son of Peleus, and the swift charioteers gathered.
By far the first to rise was Eumelus, lord of men, dear son of Admetus, a master of horsemanship. After him rose Diomedes, mighty son of Tydeus, leading under the yoke the Trojan horses he had once taken from Aeneas, when Apollo snatched the man himself to safety.
After him rose fair-haired Menelaus, son of Atreus, sprung from Zeus, and led under the yoke his swift horses, Aithe, Agamemnon's mare, and his own horse Podargus. Aithe had been given to Agamemnon by Echepolus, son of Anchises, as a gift, so that he would not have to follow him to windy Troy but could stay behind and enjoy himself — for Zeus had given him great wealth, and he lived in spacious Sicyon. This mare, straining to run, Menelaus now led under the yoke.
Antilochus, fourth, made ready his long-maned horses—the shining son of proud old Nestor, of the line of Neleus. His swift-footed team, bred at Pylos, drew the chariot, and his father came close beside him, giving good advice to a mind already sound.
"Antilochus, young as you are, Zeus and Poseidon have loved you and taught you every kind of horsemanship, so there's little need for me to instruct you further—you already know well how to turn the post. But your horses are the slowest in the field, and I fear this race will go badly for you.
The other men's horses are faster, but the men themselves know no more than you do how to plan a race. So come, dear boy, put every kind of cunning in your heart, so the prize doesn't slip past you. It's skill, not strength, that makes the better woodsman; skill lets a helmsman steer his swift ship straight though the winds batter it on the wine-dark sea; and skill lets one driver beat another.
A man who trusts to his horses and chariot alone swings wide and careless, first this way, then that, and his horses wander all over the course—he can't hold them in check. But the man who knows his tricks, even driving weaker horses, keeps his eye always on the turning-post and cuts it close, never forgetting how to give his horses rein from the very start, holding them firm and watching the man in front.
Now I'll tell you a landmark, and you won't mistake it. There stands a dry stump, about a fathom above the ground, oak or pine—it hasn't rotted in the rain—and two white stones lean against it, one on each side, at the narrowing of the road, with smooth going for chariots all around it.
It's either some dead man's grave-marker from long ago, or else it was a turning-post in the days of men before us, and now swift-footed godlike Achilles has made it the mark for this race. Press close against it and drive your chariot and horses right by it, and lean yourself a little to the left in your well-built car, while you goad the right-hand horse on with a shout and give him rein.
Let your left-hand horse hug the post so close that the hub of your well-made wheel seems to graze it—but take care not to touch the stone,
or you'll hurt your horses and wreck your chariot. That would delight the others and shame you. So keep your wits about you and be careful. If you can pass the post first in the tight turn, no one will catch you from behind or overtake you, not even if he drove godlike Arion himself in pursuit—Adrastus's swift horse, sprung from the gods—or the horses of Laomedon, the best ever bred here."
So spoke Nestor, son of Neleus, and sat back down in his place, having told his son the secrets of the race.
Meriones, fifth, made ready his long-maned horses. They mounted their chariots and threw in the lots. Achilles shook them, and out leaped the lot of Antilochus, Nestor's son; after him drew mighty Eumelus; then the son of Atreus, spear-famed Menelaus; then Meriones was given his place; and last of all, best of them by far, Tydeus's son Diomedes drew to drive.
They took their places in a row, and Achilles pointed out the turning-post, far off on the level plain, and set old Phoenix, his father's companion, there as an observer to watch the running and report the truth.
Then all together they raised their whips over the horses, snapped the reins against them, and shouted them on eagerly, and the horses swiftly covered the plain, leaving the ships behind. Under their chests the dust rose up like a cloud or a whirlwind, and their manes streamed back on the rushing wind.
The chariots now hugged the bountiful earth, now leaped into the air, and the drivers stood braced in their cars, each man's heart pounding
with the hunger for victory, each shouting on his own team, and the horses flew on, raising dust across the plain. But when the swift horses had run the last stretch of the course, back toward the grey sea, then each team's true strength showed itself, and suddenly the race grew fierce. First to pull ahead were the fleet-footed mares of the son of Pheres. Right behind them came Diomedes's Trojan stallions, not far off at all but close on their heels, always seeming about to step up onto Eumelus's very car, and their breath warmed Eumelus's broad back and shoulders
as they raced with heads lowered right above him. And now Diomedes would have passed him, or at least made it a dead heat, if Phoebus Apollo, still angry at the son of Tydeus, had not struck the shining whip out of his hands. Tears of rage sprang from Diomedes's eyes, seeing the mares still pulling further and further ahead while his own team, without the goad, lost ground running.
But Apollo's trick on Diomedes did not escape Athena's notice. She hurried at once to the shepherd of his people, gave him back his whip, and put fresh spirit into his horses.
Then, furious, she went after the son of Admetus and shattered his chariot yoke—his mares bolted apart off the road, the pole crashed to the ground, and Eumelus himself was flung from the car beside the wheel, scraping his elbows, mouth, and nose raw and bruising his forehead above the eyebrows. His eyes filled with tears and his strong voice caught in his throat.
Diomedes swerved his sure-footed horses around him and shot far out ahead of the rest, for Athena had put strength into his team and set glory on him.
Behind him came fair-haired Menelaus, son of Atreus. But Antilochus called out to his father's horses: "You two, get moving—stretch out now, as fast as you can! I'm not asking you to race against those horses of brave Diomedes, since Athena has just now given them speed and set glory on their driver.
But catch the horses of the son of Atreus—don't fall behind, and quickly, or that mare Aithe, female that she is, will heap shame on you both! Why are you falling back, my best ones? I tell you plainly, and it will happen just as I say:
there'll be no more care for you from Nestor, shepherd of his people—he'll cut you down with the sharp bronze at once, if through your carelessness we bring home the lesser prize! So come on, press hard, hurry all you can—I'll work out the trick myself, to slip past him where the road narrows. It won't get past me."
So he spoke, and the horses, fearing their master's rebuke, ran harder for a little while. Soon battle-hardy Antilochus saw a narrow place where the road sank low—a gully in the earth, where the winter rains had gathered
and broken through the roadway, hollowing out the whole hollow there. Menelaus was driving through it, avoiding the risk of wheel colliding with wheel. But Antilochus veered his sure-footed horses off the road there, cutting slightly to the side, and drove on in pursuit.
The son of Atreus took fright and shouted at him: "Antilochus, you're driving recklessly—rein in your horses! The road is narrow here, though it opens wider further on for passing. You'll wreck us both if you ram your chariot into mine!"
So he spoke, but Antilochus drove on even harder, plying the goad, as if he hadn't heard a word.
For about as far as a discus flies from a strong man's shoulder, thrown by a young man testing his strength, that far they raced side by side—then Menelaus's team fell back, for he himself deliberately eased off the reins, afraid the sure-footed horses might collide there on the road, overturn the well-built chariots, and send the drivers sprawling in the dust in their eagerness for victory.
Then fair-haired Menelaus called out to him in anger: "Antilochus, no man alive is more reckless than you! Go, and be damned—we Achaeans were wrong to call you wise after all.
But even so, you won't carry off the prize without swearing an oath." With that he called out to his own horses: "Don't hold back now, don't stand there heartsick! Their legs and knees will tire before yours do—they're both past their youth."
So he spoke, and the horses, fearing their master's rebuke, ran harder still and soon closed the gap. Meanwhile the Argives, sitting in the gathering place, watched the horses come flying, raising dust across the plain. Idomeneus, lord of the Cretans, was the first to make out the leaders,
for he sat apart from the crowd, up high with a clear view over everything. Hearing a driver's shout from far off, he recognized it, and picked out a horse in front, a splendid animal, chestnut all over except for a round white mark on its forehead, bright as the moon.
He stood up straight and spoke among the Argives: "Friends, leaders and captains of the Argives, am I the only one who can make out the horses, or can you too? It looks to me like a different team is now in front, and a different driver shows up in the lead—those mares that were ahead
must have come to grief out on the plain, for I saw them clearly rounding the turning-post first, and now I can't spot them anywhere, though my eyes keep sweeping the whole Trojan plain looking for them. Either the reins slipped from the driver's hands and he couldn't hold his team steady around the post and missed the turn there—
I'd guess he was thrown out there and smashed his chariot, while the mares bolted away, overcome with panic. But get up and look for yourselves—I can't make it out clearly. The man in front looks to me like
an Aetolian by birth, who rules among the Argives—Diomedes, mighty son of horse-taming Tydeus." Swift Ajax, son of Oileus, rebuked him crudely: "Idomeneus, why must you always run your mouth? Those high-stepping horses are still far off, out on the wide plain.
You're not so much younger than the rest of us here, nor are your eyes the sharpest in any head, and yet you're always talking out of turn. There's no need for you to run on like this—there are better men here than you. The horses in front are the same ones they were before,
Eumelus's mares, and he's the one standing in the car holding the reins." The Cretan leader answered him angrily: "Ajax, best at quarrels, worst at judgment, in everything else you fall behind the other Argives, for your mind is stubborn as stone. Come now, let's wager a tripod or a cauldron on it,
and let Agamemnon, son of Atreus, judge between us, so you'll learn by paying up which team is really ahead." So he spoke, and swift Ajax, son of Oileus, sprang up at once, furious, ready to answer with harsh words in return, and the quarrel between the two would have gone further still,
had not Achilles himself stood up and spoken: "No more now, Ajax and Idomeneus, trading these bitter words back and forth—it isn't fitting. You'd be angry yourselves at anyone else who acted this way. Sit down instead in the gathering place and watch the horses—
they're pressing hard for victory and will soon be here themselves, and then each of you will see for himself which Argive team is in front and which behind." So he spoke, and just then Diomedes, son of Tydeus, came driving up close, plying the whip steadily from the shoulder, and his horses
lifted high, eating up the road at a swift pace. Flecks of dust kept striking the driver, and the chariot, plated with gold and tin, sped along behind his flying horses—so light was the wheel-track their rims left behind them in the thin dust, so swiftly did the pair go flying. He drew up in the middle of the gathering place, sweat pouring in streams down from the horses' necks and chests onto the ground.
He himself leaped down from the gleaming chariot to the earth and leaned his whip against the yoke. Nor did stalwart Sthenelus waste any time, but at once claimed the prize, giving it to his high-spirited comrades to lead away—the woman—and to carry off the eared tripod, while he himself unyoked the horses.
After him came Antilochus, grandson of Neleus, driving his horses in—he'd passed Menelaus by cunning, not by speed—yet even so Menelaus kept his swift horses close behind. As close as a horse runs behind the wheel when it strains at the chariot, pulling its master across the plain—the tip hairs of its tail brush the wheel-rim as it runs right behind, with hardly any
gap between them as it races across the open plain—so close was Menelaus now behind peerless Antilochus. At first he'd trailed by a discus-throw, but he quickly closed the distance, for the fine spirit of Agamemnon's lovely-maned mare, Aithe, kept rising. Had the course run on any longer, he would have passed him and left no doubt at all about it.
Meriones, brave Idomeneus's attendant, trailed noble Menelaus by a spear-cast, for his lovely-maned horses were the slowest of all
and he himself was the poorest driver in the field. Last of all came the son of Admetus, dragging his fine chariot and driving his horses on ahead of it. Swift-footed godlike Achilles saw him and pitied him, and stood up among the Argives to speak winged words:
"The best man drives his sure-footed horses in last. Come, let's give him a prize, as is fitting—second place—but let the son of Tydeus take the first." So he spoke, and they all agreed, just as he asked. And he would have given him the horse, since the Achaeans approved,
had not Antilochus, great-hearted Nestor's son, risen and answered Achilles, son of Peleus, with justice on his side: "Achilles, I'll be very angry with you if you carry through with this. You mean to take my prize away, on the grounds that his chariot and swift horses were wrecked—
and he's a fine man himself. Well, he should have prayed to the immortals—then he wouldn't have come in dead last of all. If you pity him, and he's dear to your heart, you have plenty of gold in your hut, and bronze, and sheep, and slave women too, and sure-footed horses.
Take some of those later and give him an even greater prize, or do it right now, so the Achaeans will praise you for it. But the mare I won't give up—let any man who wants her try me for her with his fists!" So he spoke, and swift-footed godlike Achilles smiled,
pleased with Antilochus, since he was a dear friend of his, and answered him with winged words: "Antilochus, since you ask me to give Eumelus something else from my own stores, I'll do that too. I'll give him the breastplate I stripped from Asteropaeus,
bronze, with a bright casting of tin running all around it—it will be worth a great deal to him." So he spoke, and told his dear comrade Automedon to fetch it from his hut. Automedon went and brought it back, and put it into Eumelus's hands, who received it gladly.
Then Menelaus, too, rose up, his heart sore, still bitterly angry at Antilochus. The herald put the staff in his hand and called for silence among the Argives, and then the godlike man spoke: "Antilochus, you used to have sense—look what you've done now!
You've disgraced my skill and fouled my horses by cutting yours in front of them, though yours were far the worse. Come now, leaders and captains of the Argives, judge between the two of us, fairly, with no favoritism, so that none of the bronze-armored Achaeans will ever say:
'Menelaus beat Antilochus by force with lies and made off with the mare, though his own horses were far worse, since he himself outranks him in strength and standing.' No—I'll judge the matter myself, and I don't think any other Danaan will find fault with me, for my judgment will be fair.
Antilochus, come here, prince that you are, as custom demands—stand in front of your horses and chariot, take in your hand the slender whip you drove with before, lay your hand on your horses, and swear by the Earth-shaker who holds and shakes the earth that you did not deliberately foul my chariot by trickery." Then wise Antilochus answered him: "Bear with me now—I'm a good deal younger
than you, lord Menelaus, and you're my elder and my better. You know how a young man's offenses tend to go—his mind is quicker, but his judgment thinner.
So let your heart be patient with me. The mare I won, I'll give to you myself, freely. And if you asked me for something even greater from my own house, I'd rather give it to you at once than fall out of your favor forever, prince, and be guilty in the eyes of the gods." So speaking, great-hearted Nestor's son led the mare
and put her into Menelaus's hands, and Menelaus's heart warmed with joy, as when the dew settles on the ears of a ripening crop, while the fields stand thick with grain—so, Menelaus, your heart warmed within you.
He spoke, calling to him with winged words: “Antilochus, this once I yield to you, angry though I am, since you were never a reckless or thoughtless man before now — it was youth that got the better of your judgment this time. Be careful in future not to outwit your betters again. No other man of the Achaeans would have won me over so quickly. But you have suffered much and toiled much, you and your good father and your brother, for my sake, so I will give way to your pleading. I will even give you the mare, mine though she is, so that these men here may know that my heart was never arrogant or unyielding.”
So he spoke, and gave the mare to Antilochus' companion Noemon to lead away; and Antilochus then took the shining cauldron for himself. Meriones, who had come in fourth, lifted the two talents of gold. The fifth prize was left over, a two-handled bowl, and Achilles carried it through the gathering of Argives and gave it to Nestor, saying as he stood beside him,
“Here, old man, let this too be a treasure for you, a memorial of Patroclus' burial — for you will never see him again among the Argives. I give you this prize outright, since you will not box or wrestle for it, nor enter the javelin-throwing, nor race on foot; harsh old age already presses hard upon you.”
So saying he set it in Nestor's hands, and the old man received it gladly, and spoke to him with winged words: “Yes, my son, all you have said is fitting and true. My limbs are no longer steady, my feet, nor do my arms fly out light and quick from either shoulder as they once did. How I wish I were young again, and my strength as sure as it was on the day the Epeians buried lord Amarynceus at Buprasium, and his sons set out prizes for the king.
“There no man was my equal, neither among the Epeians nor the Pylians themselves nor the great-hearted Aetolians. In boxing I beat Clytomedes son of Enops, in wrestling Ancaeus of Pleuron, who stood up against me; in the footrace I outran Iphiclus, good man though he was, and with the spear I threw farther than Phyleus and Polydorus. Only in the chariot race did the two sons of Actor beat me, by crowding ahead of me, jealous for the victory, because the greatest prizes had been left there for that event.
“They were twins, and one always held the reins steady, held them steady, while the other plied the whip. So it was with me then; but now younger men must take on such contests. I must yield to grim old age, though once I stood out among the heroes. Go now, and honor your companion with these games. This gift I accept gladly, and my heart rejoices that you remember me with such kindness, and do not forget the honor that is my due among the Achaeans. May the gods grant you a rich return for it.”
So he spoke, and the son of Peleus made his way back through the great crowd of Achaeans, once he had heard out the whole speech of the son of Neleus. Next he set out the prizes for painful boxing: he led out and tethered in the gathering a hard-working mule, six years old and unbroken, the hardest kind to break, and for the man who was beaten he set out a two-handled cup. Then he stood up and spoke among the Argives:
“Son of Atreus, and all you other well-greaved Achaeans, for this contest we call for two men, the best there are, to raise their fists high and strike — whichever man Apollo grants the endurance to win, and all the Achaeans see it, shall lead the hard-working mule back to his tent; but the loser shall carry off the two-handled cup.”
So he spoke, and at once a big, fine man stood up, skilled in boxing, Epeius son of Panopeus; he laid his hand on the hard-working mule and said, “Let the man who wants that two-handled cup come closer — I say no other Achaean will lead off that mule by beating me at boxing, since I claim to be the best. Isn't it enough that I fall short of you all in battle? No man can be skilled in every kind of work.
“I tell you plainly, and it will be done: I will tear his flesh open and crack his bones. Let his kinsmen stay close together here, ready to carry him off once my fists have brought him down.”
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent. Only Euryalus rose to face him, a godlike man, son of lord Mecisteus, son of Talaus — the man who once went to Thebes, after Oedipus had fallen, for his funeral games, and there beat all the Cadmeans.
Famed Diomedes, son of Tydeus, took him in hand, encouraging him with words, and wanted badly for him to win. He threw a loincloth around him first, and then gave him well-cut leather straps cut from the hide of a field-ox. The two of them, girded now, went out into the middle of the gathering, faced each other, raised their heavy fists together, and fell to it, their heavy hands crashing together. A terrible grinding of jaws rose up, and sweat streamed from every limb; then brilliant Epeius rushed in and caught him with a blow to the cheek as he looked for an opening — he could not stand up under it much longer,
for his shining limbs gave way beneath him at once. As a fish leaps up on a weed-strewn beach when the north wind's chill ruffles the water, and then the dark wave covers it again, so Euryalus leapt up under the blow; but great-hearted Epeius caught him in his arms and set him upright. His companions crowded around him and led him through the gathering, his feet trailing, spitting thick blood, his head lolling to one side; they carried him off, his senses gone, and set him down among them, and went themselves and fetched the two-handled cup.
Then the son of Peleus at once set out the prizes for the third contest, for painful wrestling, showing them to the Danaans: for the winner a great tripod to stand over the fire, which the Achaeans valued among themselves at twelve oxen; and for the loser he brought out a woman skilled in many crafts, valued at four oxen. He stood up and spoke among the Argives:
“Rise, you two who will try this contest as well.” So he spoke, and great Telamonian Ajax rose up, and crafty Odysseus rose too, a man who knew every trick. Girded now, the two of them went out into the middle of the gathering,
and gripped each other in their strong arms, like rafter-beams that a skilled builder locks together to brace a high roof against the force of the winds. Their backs creaked under the strong grip of their bold hands, and sweat ran down in streams; welts sprang up thick and red with blood along their ribs and shoulders. Both strained hard, ever eager for the victory and the finely wrought tripod, and neither Odysseus could throw and bring Ajax down, nor could Ajax throw him — Odysseus' strength held firm.
But when they had tired out the well-greaved Achaeans watching, great Telamonian Ajax said to him, “Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, either lift me, or I will lift you — the rest will be Zeus' concern.” So saying he lifted him; but Odysseus did not forget his cunning: he struck him behind the knee, caught him off balance, loosened his legs, and threw him backward, so that Odysseus fell on top of his chest. The onlookers watched in wonder and amazement.
Then in his turn much-enduring Odysseus tried to lift him, and moved him a little off the ground, but could not lift him fully; he hooked a knee behind Ajax's, and both men fell to the ground together, close beside one another, and were soiled with dust. And now they would have leapt up and wrestled a third time, but Achilles himself rose and held them back:
“Strain no more, wear yourselves out no further with this hard struggle. The victory belongs to you both alike; take equal prizes and go, so that other Achaeans may have their turn at the games.” So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed, and wiping the dust from themselves, put their tunics back on.
Then the son of Peleus at once set out the prizes for the footrace: a mixing bowl of silver, finely wrought, holding six measures, and far the most beautiful on the whole earth, since skilled Sidonian craftsmen had made it well, and Phoenician traders had carried it over the misty sea and set it down in harbor, and given it as a gift to Thoas; Euneus son of Jason had paid it as ransom to Patroclus the hero for Lycaon, son of Priam. This bowl Achilles set out as a prize in honor of his friend, for whichever man proved swiftest of foot in the race; for second place he set out a great ox, fat with suet;
and for last place, half a talent of gold. Then he stood up and spoke among the Argives: “Rise, you who will try this contest too.” So he spoke, and at once swift Ajax son of Oileus rose up, and crafty Odysseus, and after them Nestor's son Antilochus, who could outrun every young man there. They stood in a row, and Achilles showed them the turning point. The course stretched out from the starting line, and at once Ajax, son of Oileus, shot into the lead; and close behind him ran godlike Odysseus,
as close as the weaving-rod lies to a well-girdled woman's breast when she draws it skillfully in her hands, pulling the spool of thread out past the warp, and holds it close to her breast — so close behind ran Odysseus, his feet striking in Ajax's own footprints before the dust could even settle there, and his breath came down warm on Ajax's head as he ran on, light and swift; and all the Achaeans shouted encouragement as he strained for the victory, urging him on hard as he ran. But when they were coming to the end of the course, Odysseus prayed in his heart to grey-eyed Athena:
“Hear me, goddess; come to my aid now and speed my feet.”
So he prayed, and Pallas Athena heard him, and made his limbs light — his feet, and his arms above them. And just when they were about to make their final dash for the prize, Ajax slipped as he ran — Athena tripped him — right where the dung lay scattered from the bellowing cattle that swift-footed Achilles had slaughtered in honor of Patroclus; his mouth and nose filled with cattle dung. So much-enduring godlike Odysseus, arriving first, snatched up the mixing bowl, and glorious Ajax took the ox. He stood there, holding the horn of the field-ox in his hands,
spitting out the dung, and said to the Argives, “Ah, the goddess tripped up my feet — she who always stands by Odysseus and helps him, like a mother.” So he spoke, and all of them laughed heartily at him. Then Antilochus, smiling, carried off the last prize, and spoke among the Argives: “I will tell you all something you already know, friends — that the gods still honor the older generation, even now. Ajax is only a little older than I am, but this man belongs to an earlier generation, to men of an earlier age —
they call him a green old man; and it is a hard thing for an Achaean to race against him, except for Achilles.” So he spoke, giving honor to the swift-footed son of Peleus. And Achilles answered him, saying, “Antilochus, your praise of me will not go unrewarded — I will add half a talent of gold to your prize.” So saying he placed it in his hands, and Antilochus received it gladly.
Then the son of Peleus carried out a long-shadowed spear and set it down in the gathering, and with it a shield and a bright helmet — the armor of Sarpedon, which Patroclus had stripped from him. He stood up and spoke among the Argives:
“For this contest we call two men, the best there are, to put on their armor, take up the bronze that cuts flesh, and test each other before the whole assembly. Whichever of the two is first to reach the other's fair flesh, drawing blood through armor to the dark blood within, to him I will give this fine silver-studded sword, a handsome Thracian blade I took from Asteropaeus; but the armor the two of them shall share between them, and we will set a good feast before them in our tents.”
So he spoke, and great Telamonian Ajax rose up, and Diomedes, mighty son of Tydeus, rose as well. When the two of them had armed themselves apart on either side of the crowd, they came together in the middle, eager to fight, glaring terribly at one another, and wonder held all the Achaeans. When they had closed the distance between them,
three times they rushed at each other, three times they closed in hard combat. Then Ajax struck the perfectly round shield but did not reach the flesh, for the corselet within held firm; and Diomedes, reaching over the great shield, kept aiming the point of his gleaming spear again and again at Ajax's neck. Then the Achaeans, fearing for Ajax, called out for them to stop and share the prizes equally.
Even so, the hero gave the great sword to the son of Tydeus, together with its sheath and its well-cut baldric. Then the son of Peleus set out a lump of raw pig iron, which the great strength of Eetion used to hurl, before swift-footed godlike Achilles killed him and carried it off in his ships along with his other possessions. He stood up and spoke among the Argives:
“Rise, you who will try this contest too. Even if the winner's fertile fields lie very far off, he will have enough iron here to supply him for five full years going round; for his shepherd or his plowman will have no need to go into town for iron — this will provide it.” So he spoke, and Polypoetes, staunch in battle, rose up, and mighty Leonteus, a match for the gods, and Ajax son of Telamon, and godlike Epeius. They took their places in a row, and godlike Epeius took hold of the mass and hurled it, spinning; and all the Achaeans laughed at the throw.
Leonteus, scion of Ares, threw second; and third, great Telamonian Ajax hurled it from his strong hand, and it flew past every other man's mark. But when staunch Polypoetes took up the mass, he threw it as far again as a herdsman throws his crook, and it goes whirling on through a herd of grazing cattle — so far beyond the whole field did his throw carry, and the crowd roared out. Polypoetes' strong companions stood up and carried the king's prize back to the hollow ships.
Then Achilles set out dark iron for the archers: he laid down ten double axes and ten single ones, and set up the mast of a dark-prowed ship far off in the sand; to its top he tied a trembling dove by a slender cord, and told the archers to shoot at that. “Whoever hits the trembling dove shall take all ten double axes home with him; whoever misses the bird but hits the cord — since his aim falls short of the mark — shall carry off the single axes.”
So he spoke, and mighty lord Teucer rose up, and Meriones, brave attendant of Idomeneus, rose with him. They shook lots in a bronze helmet and drew them, and Teucer's lot came out first. At once he loosed an arrow with all his strength, but he did not vow to Apollo that he would offer a splendid sacrifice of firstborn lambs;
and he missed the bird, for Apollo begrudged him that — but he struck the cord by the bird's foot, where it was tied, and the sharp arrow cut the cord clean through. The dove shot up into the sky, and the cord fell loose to the ground; and the Achaeans shouted. Meriones, eager now, snatched the bow quickly from Teucer's hand
— he had held an arrow ready all along, while Teucer took his aim — and at once he vowed to Apollo, lord of the far-flying arrows, that he would offer a splendid sacrifice of firstborn lambs. High up under the clouds he spotted the trembling dove; there, as it circled, he struck it underneath the wing, and the arrow passed clean through and fell back to earth, fixing itself in the ground at Meriones' feet; but the bird, perching on the mast of the dark-prowed ship,
let its neck droop and its thick feathers fell loose around it; its life fluttered swiftly out of its limbs, and it dropped far from where it had been struck, and the people watched in wonder and amazement. Meriones took up all ten double axes, and Teucer carried the single axes back to the hollow ships.
Then the son of Peleus carried in a long-shadowed spear and set it down, together with an unfired cauldron worked with flowers, worth an ox, and brought them into the gathering; and the spearmen stood up — mighty wide-ruling Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and Meriones, brave attendant of Idomeneus. But swift-footed godlike Achilles spoke among them: “Son of Atreus, we all know how far you surpass every man here,
and how far you excel all others in strength and in the power of the spear; so take this prize and go back to the hollow ships, and let us give the spear to the hero Meriones instead, if you are willing in your heart — that is what I ask of you.” So he spoke, and Agamemnon, lord of men, did not refuse; he gave the bronze spear to Meriones, and the hero handed his own splendid prize to the herald Talthybius.