As the Trojans mourned, the Achaeans went
to their ships on the Hellespont, each man
scattering to his own ship. But Achilles
did not allow the Myrmidons to scatter
and addressed his warlike comrades, saying:
“Swift-riding Myrmidons, my faithful
friends, before we loosen our single-hoofed
horses from their chariots, let us first go
to Patroclus and mourn him, for it is right
to honor the dead. After we have mourned,
we will unyoke our horses and eat as one.”

When he finished, he led them in mourning.
They drove their fine horses around the corpse
three times, joined by Thetis, who lifted
their cries. The sands and their armor were wet
with tears, for they yearned for this man who
filled enemies with fear. Peleus’ son led the cries
and put his hands on Patroclus’ chest and said:
“Hail, Patroclus, even in the home of Hades,
for I am fulfilling my vow to avenge your death
by dragging Hector here and feeding him
to the dogs and beheading twelve noble
Trojan sons in front of your funeral pyre.”

So saying, he devised shameful acts for Hector
and set him face-down in the dust by Patroclus’
bier. Then the men stripped off their bronze
armor, unyoked their neighing horses, and sat
beside Aeacus’ swift-footed grandson’s ship as he
prepared a funeral feast to sate their stomachs.
Many bright oxen were killed with a knife,
as were many sheep, bleating goats, and fat,
white-tusked swine—all laid out and roasted
on the flames of Hephaestus. And blood was
collected in cups and set around the dead man.

Then, after much coaxing, for his heart
still raged, the Achaean leaders led the swift-
footed son of Peleus to noble Agamemnon.
When they arrived at Agamemnon’s tent,
they quickly ordered the clear-voiced heralds
to light a fire under a great cauldron, hoping
to persuade Achilles to wash off the blood
and gore. But he sternly refused, telling them:
“No, by Zeus, the highest and greatest of gods,
for I must not let water wash my head until
I can put Patroclus on the fire, pile earth
upon him, and cut my hair, for I will never
be seized by a greater grief while I still live.
For now let us attend this wretched feast,
but at dawn, lord Agamemnon, have your men
gather firewood, place it near the corpse,
and prepare a fitting passing for one heading
into darkness so steady fire will consume him
quickly and the army can return to its tasks.”

So he said, and all listened and obeyed.
After quickly preparing the meals, each man
feasted, and no one’s heart was left wanting.
When the meal ended and all were satisfied,
each man went to his tent to rest, but Peleus’
son sat with the Myrmidons in an open space
by the shore of the loud-roaring sea, groaning
deeply as the waves crashed onto the shore.
When sweet sleep took hold, lifting the grief
from his heart and resting his weary limbs
after chasing Hector around windy Ilios,
the spirit of poor Patroclus appeared to him,
looking just as he always had: same size, same
eyes, same voice, and same clothes. And he
stood over Achilles’ head and said to him:
“You sleep and have forgotten me, Achilles.
You cared when I was alive but not now that
I am dead. So bury me so I can pass through
the gates of Hades. The shades bar my way,
refusing to let me join them in the wide-gated
house beyond the river, so I wander aimlessly.
Now, I beg you, take my hand, for I will never
leave Hades once you have given me my fire.
We will never again in life sit apart from others
and devise plans, for the dreadful fate I was
assigned at birth has swallowed me whole.
But it is also your fate, godlike Achilles,
to die under the walls of the wealthy Trojans.
And I ask one more thing, if you will obey:
let our bones lie together in death, Achilles,
like when we were children living in your house
after Menoetius brought me, still just a lad,
to your land from Opoeis because I had
killed Amphidamus’ son in a fit of rage
over dice—a foolish accident. Horseman
Peleus took me into his home, raising me
kindly and appointing me your attendant.
So let our bones be joined in a single golden
urn, the one your revered mother gave to you.”

Then swift-footed Achilles replied to him:
“Why have you come here, my loyal friend,
and charged me with these tasks? Still, I will
do all these things and obey your commands.
Now stand closer so we can hold each other
and find comfort from our deadly sorrows.”

So saying, he reached for his friend, but found
only air, for the spirit had disappeared like
smoke into the earth. An astonished Achilles
sprang up, clapped his hands, and exclaimed:
“Alas, something—a soul or shade—lives on
in the house of Hades, even if the mind
is gone, for all night long the lifelike spirit
of poor Patroclus stood over me, weeping
and wailing and telling me what to do.”

So he said, his words stirring sorrow in all,
and they cried around the corpse until rosy-
fingered dawn appeared. Then Agamemnon
ordered noble Meriones, attendant of brave
Idomeneus, to lead out men and mules
from all over camp to collect wood. Carrying
axes and well-twisted ropes in their hands
and leading their mules, they traveled up,
down, and all around many hills until they
reached the steps of many-fountained Ida
where they set to work with fine-edged bronze
felling oak trees that came crashing down.
Then the Achaeans split the trunks and tied
them behind the mules, whose hooves tore
into the earth as they pulled over the brush
to the plain. And Meriones, kind Idomeneus’
attendant, ordered all woodcutters to carry
logs. They piled these on the shore where
Achilles planned a great barrow for Patroclus.

After throwing down the boundless wood,
they sat and waited. Achilles then ordered
the warlike Myrmidons to put on their bronze
belts and yoke their horses to chariots; so they rose,
donned their armor, and mounted their chariots,
warriors and charioteers alike. The chariots led,
countless foot soldiers followed, and in the middle
they carried Patroclus, his body covered in hair
they had cut and thrown over him. Behind
them noble Achilles held his head and wept,
for he was sending his noble friend to Hades.

When they reached Achilles’ chosen spot,
they set Patroclus down and laid wood over
him. Then swift-footed Achilles, on impulse,
stood away from the pyre and cut the blonde
hair he had grown long for the river Spercheus.
Looking sadly out at the wine-dark sea, he said:
“Spercheus, Peleus vowed that after I returned
home to my dear father’s land, I would honor
you by cutting my hair, offering a holy hecatomb,
and slaying fifty uncastrated rams in your waters,
at the site of your smoking altar. So he vowed,
but you did not fulfill his request. Since I will
never return to my dear father’s land, I offer
my hair to Patroclus to carry with him.”

So saying, he put the hair in his dear friend’s
hands, thus rousing in all the desire to mourn.
Then the sun would have set on their tears had
Achilles not approached Agamemnon and said:
“Son of Atreus, the Achaeans obey your words
above all others. The time for mourning is past,
so send them away from the fire and order them
to cook their meals. Those closest to the dead will
see to the rest, and let the leaders stay as well.”

Hearing this, the lord of men, Agamemnon,
sent the men back to their well-balanced ships,
while those closest to the dead stayed, piled
wood to make a hundred square foot pyre,
and set Patroclus on top, their hearts breaking.
Then they flayed and prepared many fat sheep
and sleek, shambling oxen; and noble Achilles
took all the fat, covered the body from head
to toe, and piled the animals around him.
He leaned two double-handled jars of honey
and oil against the bier and threw four strong-
necked horses onto the fire as they wailed.
Of the nine dogs Patroclus had under his table,
Achilles slayed two and added them to the fire.
And with his bronze he killed twelve noble sons
of great-hearted Trojans, rage burning his soul.
Then he lit the relentless fire until it spread
and, with a wail, called his dear friend’s name:
“Hail, my Patroclus, even in the home of Hades,
for I have now fulfilled my promise to you:
twelve noble sons of great-hearted Trojans
burn together with you; but Hector, Priam’s
son, will not be devoured by fire but by dogs.”

So he vowed, but no dogs came near Hector,
for Aphrodite, Zeus’ daughter, kept the dogs
away both day and night and anointed him
with rose-scented ambrosia so his skin would not
be torn as Achilles dragged him. And Phoebus
Apollo sent a dark cloud down from heaven
to cover the area around the body so the sun’s
fury would not cook his tendon and limbs.

But Patroclus’ pyre failed to kindle, so again
swift-footed, noble Achilles devised a plan.
Away from the fire, he prayed to the North
and West Winds, promising great offerings,
pouring libations from a golden chalice,
and asking them to come quickly so the wood
would kindle and the corpse burn. Iris heard
his prayer and hurried to the winds, who were
together in stormy West Wind’s house enjoying
a feast. Iris halted at the stone threshold,
and when the winds saw her, they rose quickly,
each man calling her over to sit beside him.
But she refused to sit, saying to them:
“I cannot sit, for I must return to the streams
of Oceanus and to Ethiopia, where they are
sacrificing hecatombs to the gods, and I must
share in the feast. But Achilles prays to the North
and blustering West Winds, promising great
offerings if you would stir the flames on the pyre
where Patroclus lies, grieved by all Achaeans.”

So saying, she left, and they rose with a rushing
cry and drove the clouds before them. Blowing
over the sea, their whistling blasts stirring
the waves, they soon reached fertile Troy and fell
on the pyre, and an inhuman flame arose.
All night long winds beat the flaming pyre,
and all night long swift-footed Achilles used
a two-handled cup to take wine from a golden
bowl and pour it out, wetting the earth as he
called to the spirit of poor Patroclus. Just as
a father cries over his son’s burning bones, a son
newly-wed whose death devastated his parents,
so Achilles cried ceaselessly over his friend’s
burning bones as he moved around the pyre.

When the morning star lit the earth and sky
and saffron-robed dawn spread over the sea,
the funeral pyre died and its flames ceased.
The winds returned once again to their homes
over the Thracian sea, which swelled as they
passed. Then the son of Peleus left the pyre
and laid down, exhausted, yearning for sweet
sleep; but the son of Atreus and his men
gathered together, and their noisy arrival
woke him, so he sat up and addressed them:
“Son of Atreus and other Achaean leaders,
first quench with your bright wine the last
of the flames. Then let us separate the bones
of Patroclus, Menoetius’ son, from the rest;
they should be easy to spot for he was placed
in the middle of the pyre while the rest burned
on the edges, horses mixed with men. Then let
us wrap them in a double layer of fat and put
them in a golden urn until I, too, am hidden
in Hades. And do not build for him a great
barrow, just a suitable one; later, when I am
gone, you Achaeans who are left by the benched
ships can build a barrow both high and wide.”

All obeyed the words of Peleus’ swift-footed son.
First, they quenched the pyre with bright wine
wherever the fire burned and the ash was thick.
Then they tearfully gathered their kind friend’s
white bones, wrapped them in a double layer
of fat, put them in a golden urn, set the urn
in his tent, and covered it with fine linen cloth.
Next they marked out a circle, laid a foundation
around the pyre, piled earth over it to form
a barrow, and started to leave. But Achilles had
them stay and sit in assembly. Then he carried
prizes out from his ships: cauldrons, tripods, horses,
mules, cattle, well-girdled women, and grey iron.

First he set out fine prizes for the swift-footed
charioteers: a woman skilled in noble craftwork
to take away and a handled tripod holding
twenty-two measures for the victor; for second
place, a six-year-old, unbroken mare, pregnant
with a mule foal; for third place, a new, unfired
cauldron, still shining bright and holding four
measures; for fourth place, two talents of gold;
and for fifth place, a new, two-handled jar.
Then he stood up and addressed the Argives:
“Son of Atreus and other well-greaved Argives,
these are the prizes that await the charioteers.
If this contest were held in honor of some other
Achaean, then I would take first prize back
to my tent, for you know my horses surpass all
others, being immortal, given by Poseidon
to my father Peleus, who gave them to me.
But I will stay here with my single-hoofed horses,
who have lost their famed charioteer, a kind
man who would often pour soft olive oil
on their manes after washing them in bright
water. So they will stand there, mourning him,
their manes resting on the ground, their hearts
torn. But those Achaeans who trust their horses
and their joined chariots should get ready.”

So said Peleus’ son, and the charioteers quickly
rose. By far the first to stir was the lord of men,
Eumelus, Admetus’ son and a skilled horseman.
Then came mighty Diomedes, Tydeus’ son,
who led by the yoke the Trojan horses he took
from Aeneas, though Apollo saved Aeneas himself.
Next to rise was fair-haired Menelaus, Atreus’ son,
Zeus-born, leading his swift horses, Agamemnon’s
mare Aethe and his own Podargus. Echepolus,
Anchises’ son, had given Agamemnon the mare
as a gift so he would not have to go to Ilios but stay
behind and enjoy himself, for Zeus had given
him great wealth and he lived in spacious Sicyon;
now Menelaus led out this eager-to-race mare.
The fourth to yoke his fair-maned horses was
Antilochus, noble son of high-hearted King
Nestor, Neleus’ son; swift, Pylos-bred horses drew
his chariot. His father stood near him, offering
words of advice to a son who already understood:
“Antilochus, you are young but loved by Zeus
and Poseidon, who taught you all about horses;
there is no need to teach you more, for you know
how to turn at the post. But you have the slowest
horses in the race, so I fear it will be difficult
for you. The other men’s horses are faster,
but the men are no better at strategy than you.
So come, dear boy, fill your mind with cunning
plans and do not let those prizes slip past you.
Just as skill is better than might for a wood-cutter,
and just as skill helps a pilot guide his swift ship
safely through rough winds on the wine-dark
sea, so skill will help one charioteer beat the rest.
A man who trusts only in his horses and chariot
will turn recklessly this way and that, his horses
running all over the course and out of control.
But a clever man driving inferior horses keeps
his eye on the post and turns sharply, holds
his oxhide reins taut at the start, maintains
a steady pace, and watches the leader closely.
Now here is a sure sign that will not go unnoticed:
there is a dry stump, an oak or pine about six
feet high that rain has not rotted away; two
white stones are fixed against it on either side,
and the ground around it is smooth for driving.
This was once a grave marker for a man long
dead or the goal in some ancient race, but swift-
footed Achilles has made it his turning post.
Drive your horses and chariot right up to it
while you lean to the left of your well-plaited
chariot and call out to the horse on the right,
goading him on as you loosen the reins.
But drive your left horse so close to the post
that the nave of the well-made wheel nearly
hits it—but do not touch the stone or you
will harm the horse and break the chariot,
and the others will cheer and you will be
disgraced. So be smart, son, and stay alert,
for if you pass the rest at the turning point,
then no man will catch you or burst past you,
not even the swift horse of Adrastus, Arion,
who comes from immortal stock, or one
of Laomedon’s wonderful local horses.”

So saying, Nestor, son of Neleus, sat down,
having explained every last thing to his son.

And Meriones was fifth to yoke his fair-maned
horses. They mounted their chariots and threw
down lots. Achilles cast them, and out fell
the lot of Nestor’s son, Antilochus, followed
in turn by the lots of lord Eumelus, spear-famed
Menelaus, Meriones, and finally Diomedes,
who drove the best horses by far. They then
lined up in rows, and Achilles pointed out
the turning post on the smooth plain and set
there as look-out godlike Phoenix, his father’s
follower, to watch the race and report the truth.

Holding their whips high over the horses, they
lashed at them and shouted their names as
they sped swiftly away from the ships and over
the plain. The dust rose up under the horses’
breasts like clouds in a violent storm, their manes
streaming against the rushing wind. The chariots
were pressed into the fertile land one minute
and tossed airborne the next, and the drivers
stood in the chariots with their hearts throbbing
as they yearned for victory and called out
to their horses flying over the dusty plain.

When the swift horses were in the final stretch,
returning to the grey sea, each man’s true merit
was revealed as the horses quickened their pace.
The swift mares of Pheres’ grandson, Eumelus,
were in the lead, just ahead of the Trojan stallions
of Diomedes, which were so close they seemed
ready to mount Eumelus’ chariot, their breath
warming his back and shoulders and their heads
hovering just behind as they ran. And Diomedes
would have drawn even or driven past had
Phoebus Apollo not held a grudge against him
and knocked the shining whip out of his hands.
Angry tears poured out as he watched the mares
pull away and his own horses slow, for they ran
without a goad. But Athena knew Apollo had
cheated Tydeus’ son, so she hurried to the leader
of men, returned his whip, and gave his horses
strength. Then, in revenge, she went after the son
of Admetus and broke his horses’ yoke, and they
scattered over the course. The chariot pole hit
the ground, and Eumelus flew from the chariot
and landed near a wheel; his elbows, mouth,
and nose were stripped of skin, his forehead was
bruised above the eyebrows, his eyes were filled
with tears, and his rich voice was silenced.
Tydeus’ son turned his single-hoofed horses
aside and moved into the lead, for Athena had
strengthened his horses and given him glory.
Behind him was fair-haired Menelaus, Atreus’
son, but Antilochus called to his father’s horses:
“Hurry, you two, and run as fast as you can.
I do not order you to match the stallions
of skilled Diomedes, for Athena has made
his horses swift and has given him glory.
But catch Menelaus’ horses and do not let
them escape, or you will be shamed, for Aethe
is a mare. Why is she leaving you behind?
I tell you now, and it will come to pass:
Nestor, shepherd of the people, will show
no mercy but kill you with a sharp sword
if we win a lesser prize through your lack
of effort. So hurry up and run as fast as you
can, and I will devise a plan to slip past
them on the narrow road—this I promise.”

The horses, hearing their master’s rebuke,
trembled and sped up for a while, and soon
Antilochus found a narrow gap in the road:
a hollow dip where winter rains had broken
away part of the road. Menelaus drove
at the dip, hoping others would hold back,
but Antilochus turned his single-hoofed horses
to the side of the road and pursued him.
Frightened, Atreus’ son said to Antilochus:
“Antilochus, hold your horses and stop driving
recklessly. The road is narrow here but widens
soon. Do not hit my chariot and harm us both.”

So he said, but Antilochus whipped his horses
and drove even harder—as if he had not heard.
They ran as far as a discus can be thrown
from the shoulder of a young man testing
his strength, but then the mares of Atreus’ son
backed off, for Menelaus chose to slow down
and not risk the single-hoofed horses colliding
in the track, upturning the chariots, and hurling
the men into the dust—all in the rush for victory.
And fair-haired Menelaus scolded Antilochus:
“Antilochus, most malicious of men, be off!
We Achaeans were fools to think you wise.
Still, you will not win the prize without an oath.”

So he said and then called out to his horses:
“Do not hold back and stand around grieving
in your hearts. Their feet and knees will tire
before yours do, for they have lost their youth.”

The horses cowered with fear at their master’s
rebuke, ran faster, and soon caught the others.

The Argives sat in assembly and watched
the horses as they flew over the dusty plain.
Idomeneus, the Cretan leader, was first to spot
them, for he sat apart from the others, high up
in a lookout spot. When he heard a man’s
distant shouts, he quickly recognized the voice.
Soon after, he saw a horse in the lead, a bay
with a white, moon-like spot on his forehead.
He then stood and said to the other Achaeans:
“Friends, leaders, and rulers of the Achaeans,
am I alone or can you also see the horses?
A different charioteer and horses now seem
to be in the lead; the mares must have fallen
in the plain. They were the best off the line
and I saw them go first around the turning
point, but now I cannot to see them though
my eyes can see the entire Trojan plain.
Perhaps the driver lost his reins or lost control
and missed the mark when he made the turn,
or perhaps he was thrown to the earth,
breaking the chariot and sending the mares
bolting away in a frenzy. But stand up and see
for yourselves, for I think the man in front
is an Aetolian and an Argive king: mighty
Diomedes, the son of horse-tamer Tydeus.”

Then Ajax, son of Oïleus, scornfully replied:
“Idomeneus, why must you brag? The swift
horses are far from us, rushing over the plain.
You are not the youngest among the Argives
nor are your eyes the sharpest, so why do
you talk so rashly? There are better men
than you here, so do not be such a braggart.
Eumelus’ mares still lead, as they did before,
and he stands behind them, holding the reins.”

This angered the Cretan lord, who replied:
“Ajax, great at insults but witless and cruel
and worst among the Argives: come, let us
wager a tripod or a cauldron on which horses
lead, and let Agamemnon, son of Atreus,
judge. Then you will learn by paying up.”

So he said, enraging swift Ajax, son of Oïleus,
who stood quickly, ready to respond with harsh
words; and the fight between them would have
escalated had Achilles not stepped in and said:
“Ajax and Idomeneus, end this rage-filled
argument. It is not proper, and you would
censure others who acted in this way.
Now sit and wait for the horses, for they
are quickly coming closer, aiming for victory.
Then you will all see which Argive horses
are in the lead and which are in second.”

So saying, Tydeus’ son approached them,
driving hard and lashing his whip as the high-
stepping horses sped along. Dust spattered
the driver as his gold and tin-covered chariot
followed closely behind the swift-footed horses;
and as they sped along, the chariot’s wheel
tracks were hidden from sight by the powdery
dust. Diomedes stopped in front of the assembly,
sweat oozing down his horses’ necks and chests.
He then leapt down from the bright chariot
onto the earth and set the whip near the yoke.
Noble Sthenelus wasted no time, taking
the prizes and giving the woman and handled
tripod to his great-hearted comrades to carry
away before unyoking the horses himself.

The next to drive his horses in was Antilochus,
Nestor’s son, who beat Menelaus not by speed
but by cunning; even so, Menelaus’ swift horses
were close behind. Just as a horse who struggles
to draw his lord over a plain can run so close
to the wheels of a chariot that the outmost
hairs on his tail touch the rims, so close was
Menelaus to noble Antilochus at the end.
At first, he was as far behind him as a man
can cast a discus, but he soon closed the gap
thanks to the might of Aethe, Agamemnon’s
fair-maned mare. If the race had lasted
any longer, he would have passed Antilochus
with ease. Meriones, the mighty attendant
of Idomeneus, finished a spear-cast behind
noble Menelaus, for his fair-maned horses
were slowest of all and he was the weakest
driver in the race. But the son of Admetus
came dead last, dragging his fine chariot
and driving his horses before him. When he
saw Eumelus, swift-footed Achilles felt pity,
so he stood among the Argives and said:
“The single-hoofed horses of the best driver
finished last; come, let us give him a second-
place prize, but let Tydeus’ son take first.”

All Achaeans agreed with his words, and he
would have given Eumelus the horse had
Antilochus, great-hearted Nestor’s son, not
stood and pled his case to Peleus’ son, Achilles:
“I will be angry with you, Achilles, if you do
as you say, for you plan to take my prize away
because this good man’s chariot and horses
came to harm. But if he had simply prayed
to the gods, then he would not have finished
last. But if you pity him and care for him,
then there is, in your tent, ample gold, bronze,
sheep, handmaids, and single-hoofed horses;
pick one of these and give it to him as a prize,
either now or later, so the Achaeans will praise
you. But I will not give up the mare, and any
man who tries will have to face me in combat.”

Hearing this, swift-footed noble Achilles smiled,
pleased with Antilochus, who was his dear
comrade. Then he replied to him, saying:
“Antilochus, if you want me to give Eumeus
some other prize from my tent, then I will give
him the breastplate I took from Asteropaeus,
which is bronze with a thin, circular plating
of shimmering tin. It is a very worthy prize.”

So saying, he told Automedon to fetch it
from the tent; he did so, and upon his return,
gave it to Eumelus, who accepted it happily.

Suddenly, Menelaus stood, his broken-heart
furious at Antilochus. A herald placed a scepter
in his hands and called for the Argives to be
silent, and then godlike Menelaus said to them:
“Antilochus, once so wise, look what you have
done. You have shamed my skills and harmed
my horses by throwing your lesser mounts
in the way. Come, Argive leaders and rulers,
and judge between us, impartially, or else
some future bronze-clad Achaean will say:
‘Menelaus cheated Antilochus; his horses
were weaker, but he went away with the mare
because he himself was more powerful.’
But I will speak the truth, and I think no other
Danaan will counter me, for it will be right.
Come here, Zeus-blessed Antilochus. Stand
and take in your hands the pliant whip you
used to drive your horses and chariot and swear
to the earth-shaker that you did not, of your
own free will, hinder my chariot by trickery.”

Antilochus then shrewdly replied to him:
“Hold on now. I am younger than you, lord
Menelaus, and you are older and worthier.
You know young men readily cause offense,
their minds impatient but their wisdom slight.
So be patient; I will give you the mare I won.
And if you desire another prize from my house,
I will give it to you, Zeus-nourished one, for I
do not wish to lose your respect for the rest
of my days and speak falsely before the gods.”

So saying, Nestor’s great-hearted son handed
the mare to Menelaus, warming his heart.
Just as dew on ears of corn warms a standing
crop, allowing the bristling fields to grow,
so also was your heart warmed, Menelaus.
Then he spoke winged words to Antilochus:
“Antilochus, I will end my anger against you
for you were never before foolish or unstable,
even if youthful passion ruled you today.
In future, do not cheat those better than you.
No other Achaean would have persuaded me
so quickly, but you and your father and brother
have struggled and suffered much for my sake.
So I will yield to your prayer and give you
the mare, though she is mine, so all may know
that my heart is neither arrogant nor cruel.”

Then he gave the mare to Noëmon, comrade
of Antilochus, and took the shining cauldron
for himself. Meriones took the fourth prize, two
talents of gold, but the fifth prize, a two-handled
jar, was not claimed, so Achilles carried it through
the assembly and gave it to Nestor, telling him:
“Take this treasure, old man, as your memento
of Patroclus’ funeral, for you will never again
see him among the Argives. I give to you
this prize uncontested for you will never again
box or wrestle or hurl spears or run a race,
for old age weighs heavily upon you.”

So saying, he gave the jar to Nestor, who took
it gladly and replied to him with winged words:
“All that you say is true, my son; my limbs are
no longer firm, nor my feet, and my arms do
not move so swiftly from my shoulders. If only
I were as young and as strong as I was on the day
the Epians buried lord Amarynceus at Buprasium,
and his sons set out prizes to honor the king.
I had no equal back then, not among the Epeians
or Pylians or great-hearted Aetolians. In boxing,
I beat Clytomedes, Enops’ son; in wrestling,
I beat Ancaeus of Pleuron, who faced me;
I outran Iphiclus, a good man; and outthrew
Phyleus and Polydorus with the javelin.
Only in the chariot race did Actor’s two sons
outrace me, ganging up to prevent my victory,
for the best prizes were saved for this race.
They were twins: one held the horses, held
the horses, and the other worked the whip.
That was then, but now let younger men do
this work. I must give in to wretched old age,
though I was once the greatest of warriors.
So go and honor your friend with contests.
I accept this gratefully, and it warms my heart
that you consider me a friend and did not
forget to honor me among the Achaeans.
May the gods grant you great favors in return.”

After hearing the words of Neleus’ son, the son
of Peleus went through the large Achaean
crowd and set out prizes for the boxing match.
He led into the assembly and tethered a sturdy,
six-year-old, unbroken mule, toughest to tame,
and for the loser he set out a two-handled cup.
Then he stood among the Argives and spoke:
“Son of Atreus and other well-greaved Argives,
I call on the two best men to raise their fists
and fight for these prizes. For the man whom
Apollo grants endurance before all Achaeans,
let him lead this sturdy mule back to his tent;
and let the loser take this two-handled cup.”

Achilles’ words roused Epeius, son of Panopeus,
a large, powerful man well-skilled in boxing,
who rose, took hold of the sturdy mule, and said:
“Whoever wants the two-handled cup, let him
come and claim it, for no Achaean will outbox
me and lead away this mule. I am the best.
Does it matter that I fall short in battle?
A man cannot be skilled in all things. But I
tell you now, and surely it will come to pass:
I will rip that man’s flesh and break his bones.
Make sure his kin are in the crowd, for they will
have to carry him out after I pummel him.”

Hearing this, the crowd fell silent. Only Euryalus
stood to face him: a godlike man whose father,
King Mecisteus, Talaus’ son, once went to Thebes
for the funeral of Oedipus and outboxed all
of Cadmus’ sons. Spear-famed Diomedes was
eager for Euryalus to win, so encouraged him
and acted as his second. First, he put a belt
around him and then gave him fine leather
thongs for his hands. Once girded, the two went
to the center of the ring, stood face-to-face,
raised their sturdy hands, and fell on each other,
their fists firing fierce blows, their teeth grinding
terribly, and their limbs covered in sweat. But just
as Euryalus spotted an opening, noble Epeius
struck him in the cheek, and Euryalus’ glistening
legs collapsed under him. As when a fish leaps
out of waters roughened by the North Wind
and onto a seaweed-strewn shore until a black
wave covers it, so fell Euryalus. But a gracious
Epeius helped him up, and his friends came
and led him away, his feet dragging behind him,
his head leaning to one side, and his mouth
spitting thick blood. They soon set him down,
still dazed, and went to fetch the two-handled cup.

Soon after, Peleus’ son set out for the Danaans
the prizes for the third event, arduous wrestling:
a tripod made to stand on a fire for the winner,
which the Achaeans valued at twelve oxen,
and a woman skilled in handiwork for the loser,
which the Achaeans valued at four oxen.
Then he stood and addressed the Achaeans:
“Who will rise up and wrestle for this prize?”
At these words, great Telamonian Ajax stood,
as did wise and cunning Odysseus. They girded
themselves, went to the center of the assembly,
and gripped each other with their stout arms
like gable roof rafters joined together in a high
house by a famed craftsman to keep out heavy
winds. Their backs creaked under the tangled
strain of strong hands, sweat poured down
in waves, and blood-red bruises shot up around
their ribs and shoulders as both men battled
for victory and for the prized tripod. Odysseus
could not trip or throw Ajax, nor could Ajax
move Odysseus, whose great strength held firm.
Soon the well-greaved Achaeans grew bored,
and great Telamonian Ajax said to Odysseus:
“Son of Laertes, wily Odysseus, either you
lift me or I you, and let Zeus decide the rest.”

Then Ajax tried to lift him, but Odysseus used
his cunning and struck the hollow of his knee,
throwing Ajax backwards, and Odysseus fell
on his chest as the astonished crowd looked on.
Stout Odysseus tried to lift Ajax, moving him
a little off the ground but no higher; then he
crooked his knee into Ajax’s, and they fell down
next to one another and were covered in dust.
And they would have risen and wrestled a third
time had Achilles not stopped them and said:
“Enough! Do not wear yourselves out or do
harm. You are both winners, so split the prizes
equally and go, so other Achaeans can compete.”

Hearing this, they eagerly obeyed, wiped
away the dust, and put on their tunics.

Peleus’ son quickly set out prizes for the foot-
race: a well-made silver mixing bowl that held
six units and was the most beautiful on earth,
since it was made by Sidonians, expert crafters,
brought over the misty waters by Phoenicians,
and given as a gift to Thoas. It was then
given to the hero Patroclus by Euneos, Jason’s
son, as ransom for Lycaon, son of Priam.
Now, in honor of his friend, Achilles set it
out as prize for whomever won the foot race.
For second, he set out a great ox, rich in fat,
and for third he set out a half talent of gold.
Then he stood and adressed the Achaeans:
“Rise, those who wish to race for this prize.”
So he said, and up rose swift Ajax, Oïleus’
son, wily Odysseus, and Antilochus, Nestor’s
son, who was the fastest of all the youths.
They lined up, Achilles showed them the goal,
and the race was off. Oïleus’ son quickly took
the lead, but noble Odysseus was as close
to him as a well-girdled woman’s breast is
to a weaving rod when she carefully draws
it to her chest while pulling the spool past
the warp—so close was Odysseus. His feet
struck Ajax’s footprints before the dust had
settled, his breath blew on Ajax’s head as he
sped along, and all the Achaeans cheered
him on as he struggled for victory. But when
they neared the end of the race, Odysseus
prayed in his heart to bright-eyed Athena:
“Hear me, goddess: do not let my feet fail.”
So he prayed, and Pallas Athena heard him
and lightened his limbs, both feet and hands.
But when they reached the finish and the prize
was in sight, Athena hindered Ajax and made
him slip and fall in the dung of the bellowing
bulls that swift Achilles slew in Patroclus’
honor, and Ajax fell face-first into the dung.
Thus wily Odysseus won the race and took
the bowl, and noble Ajax finished second
and took the ox; and as he held the ox’s horn
and spat out the dung, he said to the Argives:
“Well, the goddess made me slip; she stands
by Odysseus like a mother and helps him.”

So he said, and all laughed merrily at him.
Then Antilochus smiled as he carried away
the final prize, and he said to the Argives:
“Friends, you know it is true when I say that
the gods always honor older men. Ajax is
only slightly older than I am, but Odysseus
is from an earlier generation of men—
a green old age, men say. Other Achaeans
struggle to compete with him, save Achilles.”

So he said, honoring the swift-footed son
of Peleus. Then Achilles answered him:
“Antilochus, your praise is not in vain, so I
will add a half-talent of gold to your prize.”

He put the gold in the hands of a pleased
Antilochus and then brought to the assembly
a long-shadowed spear, helmet, and shield:
Sarpedon’s battle gear, which Patroclus had
stripped from him. And he said to the Argives:
“For these prizes, we need two men, the best
warriors, to put on their armor and fight
before the assembly with flesh-cutting bronze.
The first man to cut the other’s armor, pierce
his flesh, and draw his dark blood will get
a beautiful silver Thracian sword, which I
took from Asteropaeus. Let both men carry
off this armor and share it, and we will
set out a fine banquet for them in our tents.”

So he said, and Telamonian Ajax rose, as did
Tydeus’ son, mighty Diomedes. They armed
on opposite ends of the crowd and then came
together, eager for battle and glaring harshly;
and wonder filled all Achaeans. Three times
they charged each other, and three times they
clashed. Then Ajax struck the well-balanced
shield of Diomedes but did not pierce his skin,
for the breastplate protected him from the spear.
Soon after, Tydeus’ son sought to strike over
Ajax’s shield and sink the spear into his neck.
This so frightened the Achaeans that they
called for the fight to end and the prizes to be
split. But Achilles gave Diomedes the great
sword along with its scabbard and fine baldric.

Then the son of Peleus set out a lump of iron
once thrown by mighty Eëtion before swift-
footed Achilles killed him and carried the iron
away on his ships with his other possessions.
And Achilles stood and addressed the Argives:
“Rise up, whoever wants to win this prize.
Though his rich fields are far away, the victor
will have this iron to use for five full years,
fully supplying his shepherds and plowmen
so they will need no more iron from the city.”

So he said, and up rose staunch Polypoetes,
strong and godlike Leonteus, Telamonian
Ajax, and noble Epeius. As they lined up
in a row, noble Epeius took the mass,
whirled, and hurled it, and all the Achaeans
laughed. Next up was Leonteus, son of Ares;
then Telamonian Ajax hurled the mass
with his massive hands and sent it farther
than the others. But when staunch Polypoetes
took the iron, he threw it as far as a herdsman
throws his staff over a herd of cattle: so far
was his throw past all the others. The crowd
cheered, and Polypoetes’ comrades carried
their mighty king’s prize to the hollow ships.

Achilles next set down dark iron as the prize
for archery: ten double axes and ten half-axes.
He placed a ship’s mast with a cobalt prow
far off in the sands, tied a thin string around
a wild dove’s foot, and ordered the men
to shoot at it: “Whoever hits the wild dove
will lift and carry home all the double axes,
but whoever hits the cord but misses the bird,
a lesser shot, will take the half-axes as prizes.”

So he said, and up sprang mighty lord Teucer
and Meriones, Idomeneus’ noble attendant.
They cast their lots into a bronze helmet,
and Teucer drew first shot. He quickly fired
his arrow, but he did not vow to sacrifice
to Apollo a hecatomb of first-born lambs,
so he missed the bird, due to Apollo’s grudge,
but his sharp arrow hit the string tied to the bird’s
foot, cutting clean through it. The dove flew
into the sky, the string hung down to the earth,
and the crowd cheered aloud. Then Meriones
took the bow from Teucer’s hands, joined it
with the arrow he was holding while Teucer
shot, and vowed to far-shooter Apollo
to sacrifice a hecatomb of first-born lambs.
He saw the wild dove fly into the clouds, and as
she circled he shot her square beneath the wing,
the arrow passing clean through and dropping
down at Meriones’ feet. Meanwhile, the bird
fell atop the mast of a cobalt-prowed ship,
her head hanging low and her feathers drooping;
life soon left the bird, and she fell from the mast
while the army looked on in amazement.
Meriones took all ten double axes, and Teucer
took the half-axes back to the hollow ships.

Then Peleus’ son brought out a long-shadowed
spear and unfired cauldron adorned with flowers
that was worth an oxen, and the javelin hurlers
stood up: Agamemnon, the wide-ruling son
of Atreus, and Meriones, the noble attendant
of Idomeneus. To them noble Achilles said:
“Son of Atreus, we know you surpass all
others in the casting of spears; therefore, take
this prize back to your ship, but let us give
the spear to the warrior Meriones, should
your heart allow it. I myself desire this.”

So he said, and Agamemnon, lord of men,
agreed. He gave the bronze spear to Meriones
and handed his own prize to his herald Talthybius.