The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  this is the old custom. Come, stand in front

  of your team and chariot, grasp the coiling whip

  that lashed them home, lay your hand on their manes

  and swear by the mighty god who grips and shakes the earth

  you never blocked my chariot—not by deliberate foul.”

  Antilochus came to his senses, backed off quickly:

  “No more, please. I am much younger than you are,

  lord Menelaus—you’re my senior, you the greater man.

  Well you know how the whims of youth break all the rules.

  Our wits quicker than wind, our judgment just as flighty.

  Bear with me now. I’ll give you this mare I won—

  of my own accord. And any finer trophy you’d ask

  from my own stores, I’d volunteer at once,

  gladly, Atrides, my royal king—anything

  but fall from your favor all my days to come

  and swear a false oath in the eyes of every god.”

  With that the son of magnanimous old Nestor

  led the mare and turned her over to Menelaus’ hands.

  And his heart melted now like the dew that wets the com

  when the fresh stalks rise up and the ripe fields ripple—

  so the heart in your chest was melted now, Menelaus,

  and you gave your friend an answer, winged words:

  “Antilochus, now it is my turn to yield to you,

  for all my mounting anger ...

  you who were never wild or reckless in the past.

  It’s only youth that got the better of your discretion,

  just this once—but the next time be more careful.

  Try to refrain from cheating your superiors.

  No other Achaean could have brought me round so soon,

  but seeing that you have suffered much and labored long,

  your noble father, your brother too—all for my sake—

  I’ll yield to your appeal, I’ll even give you the mare,

  though she is mine, so our people here will know

  the heart inside me is never rigid, unrelenting.”

  He handed back the mare to Antilochus’ man.

  Noëmon led her off while Atrides took instead

  the polished cauldron bright in all its sheen.

  Meriones, who had come in fourth took fourth prize,

  the two bars of gold. That left the fifth unclaimed,

  the jar with double handles. Bearing it through the crowd

  Achilles gave it to Nestor, standing close beside him,

  urging, “Here, old friend—a trophy for you too!

  Lay it away as a treasure ...

  let it remind you of the burial of Patroclus.

  Never again will you see him among the Argives.

  I give you this prize, a gift for giving’s sake,

  for now you will never fight with fists or wrestle,

  or enter the spear-throw, or race on sprinting feet.

  The burdens of old age already weigh you down.”

  And Achilles placed the trophy in Nestor’s hands.

  He thrilled to have it and spoke out winging words:

  “True, true, my son, all of it, right on the mark.

  My legs no longer firm, my friend, dead on my feet,

  nor do my arms go shooting from my shoulders—

  the stunning punch, the left and right are gone.

  Oh make me young again, and the strength inside me

  steady as a rock! As fresh as I was that day

  the Epeans buried lord Amarynceus in Buprasion

  and his sons held games to celebrate the king ...

  No one could match me there, none among the Epeans,

  not even our own Pylians, or Aetolia’s hardy men.

  At boxing I destroyed Clytomedes, Enops’ boy.

  Ancaeus of Pleuron wrestled against me—down he went.

  Fast as Iphiclus was, I raced him to his knees,

  with a spear I outhurled Phyleus, Polydorus too.

  Only at chariot-racing the sons of Actor beat me—

  two against one, cutting before me, hellbent to win,

  for the biggest prize was left for the last event.

  But it took twins—one with the reins rock-steady,

  holding them rock-steady, the other lashed the team.

  So that’s the man I was ... but now’s the time

  for the younger men to lock in rough encounters,

  time for me to yield to the pains of old age.

  But there was a day I shone among the champions.

  Well,

  you must get on with your friend’s burial now—

  the games must go on—

  but I accept this gladly, my old heart rejoices.

  You never forget my friendship, never miss a chance

  to pay me the honor I deserve among our comrades.

  For all that you have done for me, Achilles,

  may the immortals fill your cup with joy!”

  He savored every word of Nestor’s story.

  Then Achilles made his way through crowds of troops

  and set out prizes next for the bruising boxing-match.

  He fetched and tethered a heavy-duty mule in the ring,

  six years old, unbroken—the hardest kind to break—

  and offered the loser a cup with double handles.

  He rose up tall and challenged all the Argives:

  “Son of Atreus—all you Achaean men-at-arms!

  We invite two men—our best—to compete for these.

  Put up your fists, fight for what you’re worth.

  The man that Apollo helps outlast the other—

  clearly witnessed here by Achaea’s armies—

  he takes this beast of burden back to his tents

  but the one he beats can have the two-eared cup.”

  And a powerful, huge man loomed up at once,

  Panopeus’ son Epeus, the famous boxing champion.

  He clamped a hand on the draft mule and shouted,

  “Step right up and get it—whoever wants that cup!

  This mule is mine, I tell you. No Achaean in sight

  will knock me out and take her—I am the greatest!

  So what if I’m not a world-class man of war?

  How can a man be first in all events?

  I warn you, soldiers—so help me it’s the truth—

  I’ll crush you with body-blows, I’ll crack your ribs to splinters!

  You keep your family mourners near to cart you off—

  once my fists have worked you down to pulp!”

  Dead silence. So the armies met his challenge.

  Only Euryalus rose to take him on, heroic volunteer,

  bred of Talaus’ blood and a son of King Mecisteus

  who went to Thebes in the old days, when Oedipus fell,

  and there at his funeral games defeated all the Thebans.

  The spearman Diomedes served as the man’s second,

  goading him on, intent to see him win.

  First he cinched him round with the boxer’s belt

  then taking rawhide thongs, cut from a field-ox,

  wrapped his knuckles well.

  Both champions, belted tight,

  stepped into the ring squared off at each other and let loose,

  trading jabs with their clenched fists then slugged it out—

  flurries of jolting punches, terrific grinding of jaws,

  sweat rivering, bodies glistening-suddenly Euryalus

  glanced for an opening, dropped his guard and Epeus hurled

  his smashing roundhouse hook to the head—a knockout blow!

  He could keep his feet no longer, knees caved in on the spot—

  as under the ruffling North Wind a fish goes arching up

  and flops back down on a beach-break strewn with seaweed

  and a dark wave blacks him out. So he left his feet

  and down he went—out cold—but big-heart
ed Epeus

  hoisted him in his arms and stood him upright.

  A band of loyal followers rushed to help him,

  led him out of the ring, his feet dragging,

  head lolling to one side, spitting clots of blood ...

  still senseless after they propped him in their corner,

  and they had to fetch the two-eared cup themselves.

  Quickly

  Achilles displayed before the troops the prizes set

  for the third event, the grueling wrestling-match.

  For the winner a large tripod made to stride a fire

  and worth a dozen oxen, so the soldiers reckoned.

  For the loser he led a woman through their midst,

  worth four, they thought, and skilled in many crafts.

  And he rose up tall and challenged all the Achaeans:

  “Now two come forward—fight to win this prize!”

  And the giant Ajax got to his feet at once,

  Odysseus stood up too,

  an expert at every subtle, cunning hold.

  Both champions, belted tight, stepped into the ring

  and grappling each other hard with big burly arms,

  locked like rafters a master builder bolts together,

  slanting into a pitched roof to fight the ripping winds.

  And their backbones creaked as scuffling hands tugged

  for submission-holds and sweat streamed down their spines

  and clusters of raw welts broke out on ribs and shoulders

  slippery, red with blood, and still they grappled, harder,

  locking for victory, locked for that burnished tripod:

  Odysseus no more able to trip and bring to ground

  his man than Ajax could—Odysseus’ brawn held out.

  A stalemate. And the troops were growing bored,

  so at last the giant Ajax spurred his rival,

  grunting, “Son of Laertes—resourceful one, enough—

  you hoist me or I hoist you—and leave the rest to Zeus.”

  As Ajax heaved him up Odysseus never missed a trick—

  he kicked him behind the knee, clipping the hollow,

  cut his legs from under him, knocked him backward—

  pinned as Odysseus flung himself across his chest!

  That roused the crowd, they leaned to look and marveled.

  The next throw now—long—enduring Odysseus’ turn...

  he tried to hoist Great Ajax, budged him a little

  off the ground, true, but he could not heave him clear,

  then hooked him round a knee and down they sprawled together,

  both men clenched in a death-lock, tussling round in dust.

  And now they’d have jumped up, gone for the third fall

  if Achilles himself had not stepped in and stopped them:

  “No more struggling—don’t kill yourselves in sport!

  Victory goes to both. Share the prizes. Off you go,

  so the rest of the men can have a crack at contests.”

  And they listened gladly, nodding at his decision,

  wiped the dust from their backs and pulled their shirts on.

  Achilles quickly set out prizes for the footrace.

  A silver bowl, gorgeous, just six measures deep

  but the finest mixing bowl in all the world.

  Nothing could match its beauty—a masterpiece

  that skilled Sidonian craftsmen wrought to perfection,

  Phoenician traders shipped across the misty seas

  and mooring in Thoas’ roads, presented to the king.

  Euneus son of Jason gave it to Prince Patroclus,

  the ransom paid to release Lycaon, Priam’s son.

  This was the bowl Achilles offered up at games

  to commembrate his great friend—for the one racer

  who proved the fastest on his feet. For the runner-up

  he produced a massive ox with rippling folds of fat

  and half a bar of gold for him who came in last.

  He rose up tall and challenged all the Achaeans:

  “Now men come forward, fight to win this prize!”

  And the racing Oilean Ajax sprang up at once,

  Odysseus quick at tactics too, then Nestor’s son,

  Antilochus, fastest of all the young men in the ranks.

  Achilles pointed out the post ...

  They toed the line—

  and broke flat out from the start and Ajax shot ahead

  with quick Odysseus coming right behind him, close

  as the weaver’s rod to a well-sashed woman’s breast

  when she deftly pulls it toward her, shooting the spool

  across the warp, still closer, pressing her breast—

  so close Odysseus sprinted, hot on Ajax’ heels,

  feet hitting his tracks before the dust could settle

  and quick Odysseus panting, breathing down his neck,

  always forcing the pace and all the Argives shouting,

  cheering him on as he strained for triumph, sprinting on

  and fast in the homestretch, spurting toward the goal

  Odysseus prayed in his heart to blazing-eyed Athena,

  “Hear me, Goddess, help me—hurry, urge me on!”

  So Odysseus prayed and Athena heard his prayer,

  put spring in his limbs, his feet, his fighting hands

  and just as the whole field came lunging in for the trophy

  Ajax slipped at a dead run—Athena tripped him up—

  right where the dung lay slick from bellowing cattle

  the swift runner Achilles slew in Patroclus’ honor.

  Dung stuffed his mouth, his nostrils dripped muck

  as shining long-enduring Odysseus flashed past him

  to come in first by far and carry off the cup

  while Ajax took the ox. The racer in all his glory

  just stood there, clutching one of the beast’s horns,

  spitting out the dung and sputtering to his comrades,

  “Foul, by heaven! The goddess fouled my finish!

  Always beside Odysseus—just like the man’s mother,

  rushing to put his rivals in the dust.”

  They all roared with laughter at his expense.

  Antilochus came in last and carried off his prize

  with a broad smile and a joke to warm his comrades:

  “I’ll tell you something you’ve always known, my friends—

  down to this very day the gods prefer old-timers.

  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