Look at Ajax now, with only a few years on me.
But Odysseus--why, he's out of the dark ages,
one of the old relics--
but in green old age, they say. No mean feat
to beat him out in a race, for all but our Achilles."
Bantering so, but he flattered swift Achilles
and the matchless runner paid him back in kind:
"Antilochus, how can I let your praise go unrewarded?
Here's more gold--a half-bar more in the bargain."
He placed it in his hands, and he was glad to have it.
Then Achilles carried into the armies' broad ring
a spear trailing its long shadow, laid it down
and beside it placed a battle-shield and helmet,
the arms Patroclus stripped from lord Sarpedon.
And Achilles rose and challenged all the Argives:
"We invite two men--our best--to compete for these.
Full battle-gear, take up your slashing bronze lances.
Fight it out with each other, duel before the troops!
The soldier who gets in first and cuts a rival's flesh,
who pierces armor to draw blood and reach his entrails--
I'll give that man this broadsword, silver-studded,
handsome Thracian work I stripped from Asteropaeus.
But both fighters will share this armor, bear it off,
and we'll give them a victor's banquet in our tents."
Huge Telamonian Ajax rose to meet the challenge,
Tydeus' son rose too, the powerful Diomedes.
Both men armed at opposite sides of the forces,
into the ring they strode and met, burning for battle,
glances menacing, wild excitement seizing all their comrades.
And just coming in range, just closing on each other ...
they made three rapid charges, three lunges and then--
Ajax stabbed through Tydides' round balanced shield
but failed to reach his flesh--saved by the breastplate
just behind the buckler! But now Diomedes thrusting
over the giant's massive shield, again and again,
threatened to graze his throat--the spearpoint glinting sharp--
and such terror for Ajax struck his Argive friends
they cried for them to stop, to divide the prizes,
"Share and share alike!" But the hero Achilles
took the great long sword and gave it to Diomedes,
slung in its sheath on a supple, well-cut sword-strap.
And now Achilles set out a lump of pig iron,
the shot Eetion used to put with all his power
before the swift runner Pelides brought him down
and hauled it off in the ships with all his other wealth.
Achilles rose up tall and challenged every Achaean:
"Now men come forward--compete to win this prize!
An ingot big enough to keep the winner in iron
for five wheeling years. Though his rich estates
lie far away in the country, it won't be want of iron
that brings his shepherd or plowman into town--
he'll be well-stocked at home."
That was his offer.
Up stood Polypoetes, always braced for battle,
Leonteus flanked him, strong, intense as a god,
then Telamon's son Great Ajax, lord Epeus too.
They stood in a row. Big Epeus hefted the iron,
swung and heaved it--and comrades burst out laughing.
Next the veteran Leonteus gave the weight a hurl.
then Ajax came up third and the giant flung it hard
with his rippling brawny arm to pass all other marks.
But then Polypoetes braced for battle took the weight
and far as a seasoned herdsman flings his throwing staff,
whirling in flight across his cows to keep them all in line--
so far he outhurled the whole field. The armies roared.
And the powerful Polypoetes' men sprang up to bear
the king's trophy back to their hollow ships.
Archery next--
and again Achilles set out iron, dark gray trophies,
ten double-headed axes, ten with single heads.
He stepped the mast of a dark-prowed man-of-war
far down the beach and tethered a fluttering dove
atop the pole, its foot looped with a light cord,
then challenged men to shoot and hit that mark:
"The man who hits the fluttering dove up there
can carry the whole array of double-axes home!
Whoever misses the bird but still hits the cord--
he's the loser, true, but he takes the single heads."
Teucer the master archer rose to meet the challenge,
Meriones joined him, Idomeneus' rough-and-ready aide.
They dropped lots in a bronze helmet, shook it hard
and the lot fell to Teucer to shoot first ...
He quickly loosed an arrow, full-draw force
but never swore to the Archer
he'd slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs,
so he missed the dove--Apollo grudged him that--
but he hit the cord that tethered the bird's foot,
the tearing arrow split the cord straight through
and the bird shot into the sky and left the tether
dangling down to ground. The armies roared applause.
But already clutching a shaft while Teucer aimed
Meriones leapt to snatch the bow from his hand
and quickly swore to the distant deadly Archer
he'd slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs--
Up under the clouds he glimpsed the fluttering dove
and there as she wheeled he hit her right beneath the wing
and straight through the heart and out the arrow passed,
plunged at Meriones' foot and stabbed the earth hard.
The dove settled onto the mast of the dark-prowed ship,
her neck wrenched awry, her beating wings went slack
and life breath flew from her limbs that instant--
down she dropped, a long drop down to the ground.
The armies looked on wonder-struck and marveled.
Meriones carried off the double-axes, all ten,
Teucer took the singles back to his hollow ships.
Finally
Achilles produced a spear that trailed its long shadow,
a cauldron too, untouched by fire, chased with flowers
and worth an ox, and set them down in the ring.
And now the spear-throwers rose up to compete,
Atrides Agamemnon, lord of the far-flung kingdoms,
flanked by Idomeneus' rough-and-ready aide Meriones
but the swift runner Achilles interceded at once:
"Atrides--well we know how far you excel us all:
no one can match your strength at throwing spears,
you are the best by far!
Take first prize and return to your hollow ships
while we award this spear to the fighter Meriones,
if that would please your heart. That's what I propose."
And Agamemnon the lord of men could not resist.
Achilles gave the bronze-shod spear to Meriones.
And the winning hero Atrides gave his own prize
to his herald Talthybius--the king's burnished trophy.
BOOK TWENTY-FOUR
Achilles and Priam
The games were over now. The gathered armies scattered,
each man to his fast ship, and fighters turned their minds
to thoughts of food and the sweet warm grip of sleep.
But Achilles kept on grieving for his friend,
the memory burning on ...
and all-subduing sleep could not take him,
not now, he turned and twisted, side to side,
he longed for Patro
clus' manhood, his gallant heart--
What rough campaigns they'd fought to an end together,
what hardships they had suffered, cleaving their way
through wars of men and pounding waves at sea.
The memories flooded over him, live tears flowing,
and now he'd lie on his side, now flat on his back,
now facedown again. At last he'd leap to his feet,
wander in anguish, aimless along the surf, and dawn on dawn
flaming over the sea and shore would find him pacing.
Then he'd yoke his racing team to the chariot-harness,
lash the corpse of Hector behind the car for dragging
and haul him three times round the dead Patroclus' tomb,
and then he'd rest again in his tents and leave the body
sprawled facedown in the dust. But Apollo pitied Hector--
dead man though he was--and warded all corruption off
from Hector's corpse and round him, head to foot,
the great god wrapped the golden shield of storm
so his skin would never rip as Achilles dragged him on.
And so he kept on raging, shaming noble Hector,
but the gods in bliss looked down and pitied Priam's son.
They kept on urging the sharp-eyed giant-killer Hermes
to go and steal the body, a plan that pleased them all,
but not Hera, Poseidon or the girl with blazing eyes.
They clung to their deathless hate of sacred Troy,
Priam and Priam's people, just as they had at first
when Paris in all his madness launched the war.
He offended Athena and Hera--both goddesses.
When they came to his shepherd's fold he favored Love
who dangled before his eyes the lust that loosed disaster.
But now, at the twelfth dawn since Hector's death,
lord Apollo rose and addressed the immortal powers:
"Hard-hearted you are, you gods, you live for cruelty!
Did Hector never bum in your honor thighs of oxen
and flawless, full-grown goats? Now you cannot
bring yourselves to save him--even his corpse--
so his wife can see him, his mother and his child,
his father Priam and Priam's people: how they'd rush
to bum his body on the pyre and give him royal rites!
But murderous Achilles--you gods, you choose to help Achilles.
That man without a shred of decency in his heart . . .
his temper can never bend and change--like some lion
going his own barbaric way, giving in to his power,
his brute force and wild pride, as down he swoops
on the flocks of men to seize his savage feast.
Achilles has lost all pity! No shame in the man,
shame that does great harm or drives men on to good.
No doubt some mortal has suffered a dearer loss than this,
a brother born in the same womb, or even a son ...
he grieves, he weeps, but then his tears are through.
The Fates have given mortals hearts that can endure.
But this Achilles--first he slaughters Hector,
he rips away the noble prince's life
then lashes him to his chariot, drags him round
his beloved comrade's tomb. But why, I ask you?
What good will it do him? What honor will he gain?
Let that man beware, or great and glorious as he is,
we mighty gods will wheel on him in anger--look,
he outrages the senseless clay in all his fury!"
But white-armed Hera flared at him in anger:
"Yes, there'd be some merit even in what you say,
lord of the silver bow--if all you gods, in fact,
would set Achilles and Hector high in equal honor.
But Hector is mortal. He sucked a woman's breast.
Achilles sprang from a goddess--one I reared myself:
I brought her up and gave her in marriage to a man,
to Peleus, dearest to all your hearts, you gods.
All you gods, you shared in the wedding rites,
and so did you, Apollo--there you sat at the feast
and struck your lyre. What company you keep now,
these wretched Trojans. You--forever faithless!"
But Zeus who marshals the storm clouds warned his queen,
"Now, Hera, don't fly into such a rage at fellow gods.
These two can never attain the same degree of honor.
Still, the immortals loved Prince Hector dearly,
best of all the mortals born in Troy ...
so I loved him, at least:
he never stinted with gifts to please my heart.
Never once did my altar lack its share of victims,
winecups tipped and the deep smoky savor. These,
these are the gifts we claim--they are our rights.
But as for stealing courageous Hector's body,
we must abandon the idea--not a chance in the world
behind Achilles' back. For Thetis is always there,
his mother always hovering near him night and day.
Now, would one of you gods call Thetis to my presence?--
so I can declare to her my solemn, sound decree:
Achilles must receive a ransom from King Priam,
Achilles must give Hector's body back."
So he decreed
and Iris, racing a gale-wind down with Zeus's message,
mid-sea between Samos and Imbros' rugged cliffs
dove in a black swell as groaning breakers roared.
Down she plunged to the bottom fast as a lead weight
sheathed in a glinting lure of wild bull's horn,
bearing hooked death to the ravenous fish.
And deep in a hollow cave she came on Thetis.
Gathered round her sat the other immortal sea-nymphs
while Thetis amidst them mourned her brave son's fate,
doomed to die, she knew, on the fertile soil of Troy,
far from his native land. Quick as the wind now
Iris rushed to the goddess, urging, "Rise, Thetis--
Zeus with his everlasting counsels calls you now!"
Shifting on her glistening feet, the goddess answered,
"Why ... what does the great god want with me?
I cringe from mingling with the immortals now--
Oh the torment--never-ending heartbreak!
But go I shall. A high decree of the Father
must not come to nothing--whatever he commands."
The radiant queen of sea-nymphs seized a veil,
blue-black, no robe darker in all the Ocean's depths,
and launched up and away with wind-swift Iris leading--
the ground swell round them cleaved and opened wide.
And striding out on shore they soared to the high sky
and found farseeing Zeus, and around him all the gods
who live in bliss forever sat in a grand assembly.
And Thetis took a seat beside the Father,
a throne Athena yielded. Hera placed in her hand
a burnished golden cup and said some words of comfort,
and taking a few quick sips, Thetis gave it back ...
The father of men and gods began to address them:
"You have come to Olympus now, immortal Thetis,
for all your grief--what unforgettable sorrow
seizes on your heart. I know it well myself.
Even so, I must tell you why I called you here.
For nine whole days the immortals have been feuding
over Hector's corpse and Achilles scourge of cities.
They keep urging the sharp-eyed giant-killer Hermes
to go and steal the body. But that is not my way.
I will grant Achilles glory and so safeguard
your awe and love of me for all the years to come.
>
Go at once to the camp, give your son this order:
tell him the gods are angry with him now
and I am rising over them all in deathless wrath
that he in heartsick fury still holds Hector's body,
there by his beaked ships, and will not give him back--
perhaps in fear of me he'll give him back at once.
Then, at the same time, I am winging Iris down
to greathearted Priam, commanding the king
to ransom his dear son, to go to Achaea's ships,
bearing gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage."
So he decreed
and Thetis with her glistening feet did not resist a moment.
Down the goddess flashed from the peaks of Mount Olympus,
made her way to her son's camp, and there he was,
she found him groaning hard, choked with sobs.
Around him trusted comrades swung to the work,
preparing breakfast, steadying in their midst
a large fleecy sheep just slaughtered in the shelter.
But his noble mother, settling down at his side,
stroked Achilles gently, whispering his name: "My child--
how long will you eat your heart out here in tears and torment?
All wiped from your mind, all thought of food and bed?
It's a welcome thing to make love with a woman ...
You don't have long to live now, well I know:
already I see them looming up beside you--death
and the strong force of fate. Listen to me,
quickly! I bring you a message sent by Zeus:
he says the gods are angry with you now
and he is rising over them all in deathless wrath
that you in heartsick fury still hold Hector's body,
here by your beaked ships, and will not give him back.
O give him back at once--take ransom for the dead!"
The swift runner replied in haste, "So be it.
The man who brings the ransom can take away the body,
if Olympian Zeus himself insists in all earnest."
While mother and son agreed among the clustered ships,
trading between each other many winged words,
Father Zeus sped Iris down to sacred Troy:
"Quick on your way now, Iris, shear the wind!
Leave our Olympian stronghold--
take a message to greathearted Priam down in Troy:
he must go to Achaea's ships and ransom his dear son,
bearing gifts to Achilles, gifts to melt his rage.
But let him go alone, no other Trojan attend him,
only a herald with him, a seasoned, older one
who can drive the mules and smooth-running wagon
and bring the hero's body back to sacred Troy,
the man that brilliant Achilles killed in battle.
Let him have no fear of death, no dread in his heart,
such a powerful escort we will send him--the giant-killer
Hermes will guide him all the way to Achilles' presence.
And once the god has led him within the fighter's shelter,
Achilles will not kill him--he'll hold back all the rest: