The son of Telamon was done. And as
he closed his case, a murmur of assent
rose from the Grecian camp. Laertes’ son
stood up; he fixed his eyes upon the ground
awhile, but then he looked straight at the chiefs
and broke his silence with the gracious speech,
the eloquence expected of Ulysses:
“If things had gone as you and I had wished,
o Greeks, we would not ask who should succeed
to this extraordinary weaponry;
Achilles, you’d still have your arms, and we
would still have you. But unjust destiny
has taken him from us—from you, from me”
(his hand—here—made as if to wipe away
a tear), “and is there anyone more fit
to take the place of great Achilles than
Latin [111–33]
myself, the one who urged the great Achilles
to take his place once more in the Greek army?
But though he seems to be too slow of wit
(and what he seems, in truth is what he is),
do not let Ajax profit from that fact;
nor should my ready wits, o Grecians, count
against me, for my mind has always served
your cause. As for my eloquence—if some
is mine—what is of help to me today
has often intervened on your behalf;
don’t let my quick tongue prompt resentment now—
let each man use the powers that he has.
“For I in truth would hesitate to use
the lineage of a man as proof of worth:
not ancestry—what others may have done—
has weight; it is a man’s own works that count.
But since my rival claims to be the great-
grandson of Jove, then I must say my race
also begins with Jove: I’m just as close
to Jove as Ajax is. Laertes is
my father, and Arcesius was his;
and he was born of Jupiter; in this,
my lineage—unlike the line of Ajax—
there’s none who was an exiled criminal.
And I can add to my nobility,
for on my mother’s side there’s Mercury;
a god was founder of my family
upon both sides. But I don’t claim the prize—
the armor you’ll assign—because of my
maternal ancestry, nor for the fact
that, unlike Telamon, my father was
not stained by his own brother’s blood. Just judge
by deeds—and deeds alone: Ajax deserves
no merit for his father’s having Peleus
as brother, for this test should not depend
on kinship, on one’s lineage; it’s only
one’s worth that weighs. But if the next of kin
Latin [134–54]
are what you would insist on tallying,
why then there are two heirs: Achilles’ father
is Peleus, and Achilles’ son is Pyrrhus.
What right can Ajax claim? Send off these arms
to Phthia, Peleus’ home, or else to Scyrus,
the home of Pyrrhus. Do you seek a cousin?
Then Teucer is as much Achilles’ cousin
as Ajax is. I ask you to consider:
does Teucer claim these arms? And if he did,
would you award them to him? You would not.
Thus, it is clear that naked deeds alone
are to decide this test; and I have done
more than I can retell in this brief talk.
But let me give an orderly account:
“When Thetis, Nereid mother of Achilles,
foresaw her dear son’s doom, she tricked you all;
she dressed him in the clothes of a young girl,
and Ajax, like the rest of you, was fooled.
But I slipped in—among the women’s stuff
that lay about—some weapons, of the sort
to draw a man’s attention. While still dressed
as girl, the hero gripped a shield and lance;
I said: ‘O son of Thetis, Troy must face
her fate, her fall: it’s you whom she awaits.
Why, then, delay the day when she must die?’
I placed my hands upon him, and I sent
the hero off to his heroic tasks.
So all Achilles did, you owe to me;
in truth, his deeds are mine: it is my lance
that wounded warring Telephus and then
healed him, the humbled, beaten suppliant.
The fall of Thebes is my accomplishment,
and Lesbos’ fall; and Tenedos and Chryse
and Cilia—cities of Apollo—fell
because of me; to these you can add Scyrus.
Lymessus’ walls were toppled; you might well
say that my right hand was responsible.
Latin [154–76]
And not to mention other battered walls,
it’s I who gave to you the man who felled
fierce Hector: famous Hector is laid low—
and I brought that about. If I ask now
to have Achilles’ arms, it’s in return
for those with which I had detected him.
I gave Achilles weapons while he lived;
and now that he is dead, I ask them back.
“And when the damage done to one of us
touched every Danaan’s pride, and in the port
of Aulis, on behalf of Menelaus,
a thousand ships had crowded, and we waited
so long for winds to favor us, no hint
of breeze appeared except for inshore winds.
Then Agamemnon was commanded by
the cruel oracle to sacrifice
his guiltless daughter to the fierce Diana.
But he refused to do so, clamoring
against the very gods: he is a king,
but Agamemnon has a father’s feelings.
And it was I who, with my deft words, turned
his warm paternal heart to public cares.
Now I admit (and as I do so, ask
the son of Atreus to pardon this):
I had to plead a cause most difficult—
and not before the most impartial judge.
But he, at last, allowed himself to be
convinced; his people’s good, his brother’s needs,
and, too, the scepter we had given him—
complete command of all our men and fleet—
all these swayed Agamemnon. For our praise,
he was to pay with blood. Then I was sent
as emissary to the mother: she
was not to be persuaded; her assent
I had to win by craft. Imagine Ajax
on such a mission! We would still be stalled
at Aulis, waiting for the wind—becalmed!
Latin [177–95]
“And I was also sent—a daring mission—
as an ambassador to Ilium;
and I saw towering Troy’s great council-hall.
It still was full of mighty warriors.
There—without fear—I carried out the task
entrusted to me; for the common cause
of all the Greeks, I pleaded: charging Paris,
I asked for the return of Helen and
of all the booty; I persuaded Priam—
and, too, Antenor, who agreed with him;
but Paris and his brothers and, with them,
all who had taken part in that great theft
were hard indeed to keep at peace, in check.
You, Menelaus, know how dangerous
that situation was, for you were there;
that was the first of many risks we’ve shared.
“This war is never-ending, so long-drawn:
to retell all my mind and strength have done
would run past measure. After we had clashed
in those first days, the Trojan ranks drew back:
for years on end they stayed within their walls;
we could not meet them in the open field.
And we have only faced them openly
in this, the tenth year. And in that long span,
Ajax, what have you done? You only can
wage war with weapons; how did you serve then?
Whereas for me, those waiting years were spent
in setting traps for Trojans, strengthening
the trenches, and encouraging our friends,
that they might face serenely the long tedium
as we besieged the walls of Ilium.
I showed how food could be supplied—and stores
of weapons; I was an ambassador
when that was called for.
“Now King Agamemnon,
beguiled by a deceitful dream, is sure
Latin [196–216]
that Jove has ordered him to end the war;
so he declares that we must fight no more.
And he can easily defend his plan
by citing Jove: it is the god’s command.
But Ajax certainly should not permit
such a retreat; it’s he who should insist
on Troy’s destruction; after all, he is
a fighter—and the time to fight has come.
And when he sees them start to sail back home,
why doesn’t Ajax check them, take up arms,
and show the straggling mob what’s to be done?
You cannot say this was too much to ask
of one who boasted so, who loved to brag?
Instead, what does he do? He, too, runs off.
I saw you, Ajax, when you turned your back;
I saw you—and I was ashamed. You rush
to spread your faithless sails, as I cry out:
‘What are you doing? Have your minds gone wild,
my friends? You’re leaving Troy when it’s about
to fall? If you sail off at this late date,
what do you carry home, except disgrace?’
With these and other arguments (my rage,
my grief had made my tongue more fluent), I
call back from shore and ships the men in flight.
And Agamemnon summons our allies—
they all are still dismayed, still gripped by fright;
but even then, the son of Telamon
won’t dare to say one word—his mouth stays shut—
but not Thersites, for he dares insult
the king, although—as always—it is I
who make him pay for that. Then I stand up
and urge our trembling troops to charge, to rush
against the enemy; and with my words
I reinstill the courage we had lost.
Since then, whatever bravery may seem
to be his work, indeed belongs to me—
it’s I who dragged back Ajax from retreat.
Latin [217–37]
“And, in the end, can you name any Danaan
who praises you or wants you as his friend?
Whereas the son of Tydeus shares his plans
with me; he prizes me; he always trusts
Ulysses as a comrade: that means much—
among the many thousands who have come
from all of Greece, to be the very one
whom Diomedes chose. And even when
I was not picked by lots, I went with him;
and scorning every peril of the night
and of the enemy, I slaughtered Dolon—
who would have ambushed us, had we not caught
that Phrygian just in time. I killed him, but
before I did, I forced him to reveal
the Trojans’ schemes, their treachery and guile.
By now I had learned all; I could have stopped
our spying mission on the spot—gone back
with honor to our ranks; but not content
with this, I headed for King Rhesus’ tents—
I killed him and his men in their own camp.
And so, a victor, with my wish fulfilled,
I rode back in a captured chariot—
as one would do in a triumphal march—
rejoicing. If you now deny to me
the armor of Achilles (he whose steeds
Dolon had wanted as his promised prize
when he went out to spy on us by night),
then you would be less generous with me
than Ajax was when he said Diomedes
and I might share the weapons of Achilles!
And is there any need to add more feats:
must I remind you of Sarpedon’s ranks,
the Lycians devastated by my blade?
For I laid low—within a lake of blood—
first Coeranos, the son of Iphitus,
and then Alastor, Chromius, Alcander,
Noemon, Halius, and Prytanis;
and I sent Thoon to his death along
Latin [238–59]
with Charops and Chersidamas and one
whom cruel fate had placed beneath my sword,
and that was Ennomos; and others fell—
less famous Lycians—there, beneath the walls
of Troy: and it was I who killed them all.
And now, my fellow Greeks, I bear these wounds
so nobly placed” (and here he bared his chest).
“Words can deceive—but here is truth indeed.
Look now! This is the chest that always fought
on your behalf! This, Ajax cannot match:
the son of Telamon has never shed—
in all these years—a single drop of blood
to help your cause; his flesh has not been touched
by any wound.
“And what if he stood up—
just as he says—to fight for the Greek fleet
against the Trojans and the might of Jove?
He did indeed defend the fleet (and I
would not disdain the good a man has done);
but Ajax should not claim that he alone
deserves the honor others, too, have earned.
For when the Trojans were about to burn
the ships and their defender, he who thrust
the Trojans from the beaches was Patroclus
(he came dressed in Achilles’ guise, and thus
he drove the Trojans back with much assurance).
And Ajax also claims that he alone
was bold enough to challenge Hector’s lance;
but he forgets the king and other chiefs
and me—with all of us prepared to meet
the Trojan; if among us all, just Ajax
was picked, it’s chance—the lots—he has to thank.
But how, brave Ajax, did that duel end?
For Hector left the field untouched, intact.
“What misery is mine when I recall
the day on which the shield, the very wall
Latin [259–81]
and bulwark of the Greeks, Achilles, fell!
My tears, my grief, my fears did not prevent
my lifting up his body from the ground
and bearing back the hero to our camp.
I carried him upon these shoulders—yes,
these shoulders bore the great Achilles’ body
and all his arms and armor—weaponry
that I now hope so fervently to carry:
I have the strength to bear that massive weight,
and I have soul enough to know how great
an honor you would then bestow on me.
Consider, if you will, Achilles’ mother:
would she, the blue-green goddess of the sea,
who did so much for her dear son, aspire
to have his arms, a gift the gods have given,
a precious work of art, be worn by one
who was so rough and crude, a callous soldier?
I’m sure that Ajax never will make out
the shapes enchased by Vulcan on that shield:
the ocean, and dry land, the starry skies,
the Pleiades, the Hyades, the Bear
that never sinks into the sea; the pair
of cities, one at peace and one at war;
and, too, Orion with his gleaming sword.
He asks for arms he’ll never understand.
“And what is there to say about his charge
that I evaded war and all its hard
ordeals, and did not join you at the start,
but waited? Can’t he see that, charging me,
he also has to charge the great Achilles?
If it’s a crime to masquerade, then I
am criminal—and so is the disguise
Achilles wore. And if delay is sinful,
I joined you well before Achilles did.
It was a loving wife who held me back;
a loving mother held Achilles back.
At first, we answered to the wants of women;
Latin [281–302]
but later we gave war our full devotion.
But if by chance I can’t refute this charge,
it does not frighten me—an accusation
that I and the great hero have in common.
In any case it was Ulysses’ wits
that led to the unmasking of Achilles;
but Ajax’ wits did not unmask Ulysses.
“Thus, there’s no need to wonder if the crude
tongue of an Ajax pours out raw abuse
against Ulysses; he insults you, too,
most shamefully. For if I am accused
of infamy for charging Palamedes—
a charge that Ajax says was false—then you,
convicting him, are hardly guiltless, too.
But, for my charges, I produced clear proof—
so clear that he could not defend himself;
and you did not depend on word of mouth—
you saw the evidence with your own eyes:
you saw his treachery—the gold, the bribe.
“And as for Philoctetes’ being now
on Lemnos, Vulcan’s isle, I’m not at all
responsible. It’s you who must defend
that fact—you kept him there, gave your consent.
But I shall not deny that I advised
the son of Poeas to withdraw from war
and all its trials—I told him not to sail
to Troy; I thought that he should rest, to ease
his horrid suffering from the serpent’s bites.
He heeded what I said, and he’s alive.
I offered him that counsel in good faith;
and it brought, too, the best of cures—although,
in any case, good faith clears me of blame.
But if the augurs say that, for the fall
of Troy, we absolutely have to call
for Philoctetes, don’t send me at all.
Send Ajax on that mission to the shores
Latin [302–21]
of Lemnos: he’s the right ambassador.
His eloquence will surely soften up
the hero, driven mad by pain and rage;
or else, if Ajax’ words cannot persuade
the madman, Ajax is astute enough
to find some other way to bear him off
from Lemnos—and to bring him back to us.
But then again, if I should fail to show
concern for you, the Simois will flow
backward, and Ida’s slopes will lose their growth
of foliage, and Greeks will offer aid
to Troy before the feeble mind of Ajax
will ever bring your Philoctetes back.
Yes, you detest my friends, my kings—indeed,
all Greeks; yes, you hate me, harsh Philoctetes,
and heap your countless curses on my head,
and long to clutch me in your suffering hands,
that you might drink my blood; you pray that just
as you were in my clutches, I may be
in yours: and yet, no matter what you do,
I’ll seek you out and try to bring you back.
And I shall gain possession of your shafts
(if Fortune favors me), just as I got
possession of the Trojan augur when
I took him captive, making him reveal
the secrets of the god’s own oracles,
the destiny of Troy they had foretold;
just as I stole the statue of Minerva
from the Palladium, her Phrygian shrine,
with Trojan enemies on every side.
And how can Ajax claim to be my match?
Without that statue—so the fates declared—
Troy never could be ours. And where is Ajax?
Where now are that great warrior’s loud boasts?
Ajax, why are you terror-stricken here?
Why is it that Ulysses now can dare
to pass the watchmen and to put his trust
in night, and then, among the hostile swords,
Latin [321–43]
to penetrate not just Troy’s walls but—more—
the very summit of the citadel,
to steal the goddess’ image from her shrine
and, after threading through the Trojan lines,
to bear that statue back to his own camp?
If I had failed or faltered on that mission,
the son of Telamon might well have worn
in vain his seven-layered bull’s-hide shield
on his left arm. That was the night I won
the very statue that had kept Troy safe:
my theft made possible her fall, her end.
“And stop your frowning and your murmurs, Ajax—
stop trying to remind us that my deeds
were not my own but done with Diomedes.
Of course he shares some credit. But you, too,
were not alone when you held up your shield
to save the allied fleet. You had a crowd
of Greeks beside you; I had only one.
If Diomedes did not know that fighters
must yield before a reasoner, that here
it is the shrewdest, not the strongest man—
however overpowering his right hand—
who is to win the prize, then he’d have sought
these arms himself; so would the other Ajax,
more modest than you are; so would robust
Eurypylus and famed Andraemon’s son;
so would Idomeneus and one who comes,
like him, from Crete, Meriones; to these
add Menelaus. All these men are just
as strong as you—and on the field, their worth
is not less than your own—and yet they chose
to yield before my ingenuity.
In battle, your right hand serves well indeed;
but when it comes to thought, your head has need
of me as guide. You have brute force, while I
must weigh, foresee, and plan; yes, you can fight,
but when we must decide on the right time
Latin [343–64]
to take the field, it’s always my advice
that Agamemnon seeks. While your worth lies
in nothing but your bulk, mine lies in mind.
As much as any ship’s commander stands
above the oarsman, as the general
ranks higher than the simple fighting man,
so, Ajax, am I your superior.
In me, the head indeed outweighs the hand;
all of my power lies in intellect.
“And now, o Grecian chiefs, assign this prize
to one who has stood watch, who served your cause
so faithfully, so anxiously, so long;
grant me this honor as my due reward.
Our work is almost done; I have removed
the obstacles that fate placed on your path;
I’ve made it possible to take tall Troy,
and one can say that I have taken her.
Now, by the hopes we share, and by the walls
of Troy—walls fated soon to fall—and by
the gods, of which I stripped the Trojan side
so recently, and by the little left—
however slight—for shrewdness to effect,
if something calls for my audacity
and willingness, if you should ever think
that there is need to foil some final chance
that fate, however late, reserved for Troy,
remember me! Or if you don’t award
these arms to me, give them to her!” And here
he pointed to Minerva’s fateful statue.
The chiefs were moved indeed—the proof of that
lay in the victory of eloquence:
the mighty hero’s arms and armor went
to the most fluent, most incisive man.
Latin [365–83]