but she refused, pressing on with her message:
“No time for sitting now. No, I must return
to the Ocean’s running stream, the Aethiopians’ land.
They are making a splendid sacrifice to the gods—
I must not miss my share of the sacred feast.
But I bring Achilles’ prayers!
He begs you to come at once, Boreas, blustering Zephyr,
he promises splendid victims—come with a strong blast
and light the pyre where Patroclus lies in state
and all the Argive armies mourn around him!”
Message delivered, off she sped as the winds rose
with a superhuman roar, stampeding clouds before them.
Suddenly reaching the open sea in gale force,
whipping whitecaps under a shrilling killer-squall
they raised the good rich soil of Troy and struck the pyre
and a huge inhuman blaze went howling up the skies.
All night long they hurled the flames—massed on the pyre,
blast on screaming blast—and all night long the swift Achilles,
lifting a two-handled cup, dipped wine from a golden bowl
and poured it down on the ground and drenched the earth,
calling out to the ghost of stricken, gaunt Patroclus.
As a father weeps when he burns his son’s bones,
dead on his wedding day,
and his death has plunged his parents in despair ...
so Achilles wept as he burned his dear friend’s bones,
dragging himself around the pyre, choked with sobs.
At that hour the morning star comes rising up
to herald a new day on earth, and riding in its wake
the Dawn flings out her golden robe across the sea,
the funeral fires sank low, the flames died down.
And the winds swung round and headed home again,
over the Thracian Sea, and the heaving swells moaned.
And at last Achilles, turning away from the corpse-fire,
sank down, exhausted. Sweet sleep overwhelmed him.
But Agamemnon’s followers grouped together now
and as they approached Achilles
the din and trampling of their feet awoke him.
He sat up with a start and made his wishes known:
“Atrides—chiefs of Achaea’s united forces—
first put out the fires with glistening wine,
wherever the flames still bum in all their fury.
Then let us collect the bones of Menoetius’ son Patroclus,
pick them out with care—but they cannot be mistaken:
he lay amidst the pyre, apart from all the others
burned at the edge, the ruck of men and horses.
Then let us place his bones in a golden urn,
sealed tight and dry with a double fold of fat,
till I myself lie hid in the strong House of Death.
For his barrow, build him nothing large, I ask you,
something right for the moment. And then, later,
Achaeans can work to make it broad and lofty,
all who survive me here,
alive in the benched ships when I am gone.”
And the men obeyed the swift runner’s orders.
They first put out the fires with glistening wine,
far as the flames had spread and the ashes bedded deep.
In tears they gathered their gentle comrade’s white bones,
all in a golden urn, sealed with a double fold of fat,
and stowed the urn in his shelter, covered well
with a light linen shroud, then laid his barrow out.
Around the pyre they planted a ring of stone revetments,
piled the loose earth high in a mound above the ring
and once they’d heaped the barrow turned to leave.
But Achilles held the armies on the spot.
He had them sit in a great and growing circle—
now for funeral games—and brought from his ships
the trophies for the contests: cauldrons and tripods,
stallions, mules and cattle with massive heads,
women sashed and lovely, and gleaming gray iron.
First,
for the fastest charioteers he set out glittering prizes:
a woman to lead away, flawless, skilled in crafts,
and a two-eared tripod, twenty-two measures deep—
all that for the first prize.
Then for the runner-up he brought forth a mare,
unbroken, six years old, with a mule foal in her womb.
For the third he produced a fine four-measure cauldron
never scorched by flames, its sheen as bright as new.
For the fourth he set out two gold bars, for the fifth,
untouched by fire as well, a good two-handled jar..
And he rose up tall and challenged all the Argives:
“Atrides—Achaeans-at-arms! Let the games begin!
The trophies lie afield—they await the charioteers.
If we held our games now in another hero’s honor,
surely I’d walk off to my tent with first prize.
You know how my team outstrips all others’ speed.
Immortal horses they are, Poseidon gave them himself
to my father Peleus, Peleus passed them on to me.
But I and our fast stallions will not race today,
so strong his fame, the charioteer they’ve lost,
so kind—always washing them down with fresh water,
sleeking their long manes with smooth olive oil.
No wonder they stand here, mourning ...
look, trailing those very manes along the ground.
They both refuse to move, saddled down with grief.
But all the rest of you, come, all Achaeans in camp
who trust to your teams and bolted chariots—
take your places now!”
Achilles’ call rang out
and it brought the fastest drivers crowding forward.
The first by far, Eumelus lord of men sprang up,
Admetus’ prized son who excelled in horsemanship
and following him Tydides, powerful Diomedes,
yoking the breed of Tros he’d wrested from Aeneas
just the other day when Apollo saved their master.
Then Atreus’ son Menelaus, the red-haired captain
born of the gods, leading under the yoke his racers,
Blaze, Agamemnon’s mare, and his own stallion Brightfoot.
Anchises’ son Echepolus gave Agamemnon Blaze,
a gift that bought him off from the king’s armies
bound for windy Troy: he’d stay right where he was,
a happy man, since Zeus had given him vast wealth
and he lived in style on Sicyon’s broad dancing rings.
His was the mare Atrides harnessed, champing for the race.
And the fourth to yoke his full-maned team was Antilochus,
the splendid son of Nestor the old high-hearted king,
lord Neleus’ offspring. A team of Pylian purebreds
drew his chariot. His father stood at his side,
lending sound advice to the boy’s own good sense:
“Young as you are, Antilochus, how the gods have loved you!