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
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.