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-hearted 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,