Source-groundedThe Odyssey
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Item · Collective

sword and bronze-shod spear of Neoptolemus

Published entity metadata

Read-only identity and editorial metadata.

Canonical name
sword and bronze-shod spear of Neoptolemus
Disambiguator
None
Kind
Item
Scope
Collective
Editorial note
No editorial note published.

Aliases

0

No aliases recorded.

Location presence

Phase 6 currently covers 24 processed books.

0

No presence observations in the processed scope.

Claims

1
·Remembered

Inside the wooden horse, Neoptolemus grips his sword and bronze-shod spear while breathing fury against the enemy.

See evidence text
“grasping the handle of his sword and his bronze-shod spear, and breathing fury against the foe”

Additional evidence

Evidence records not already represented by a claim.

1
·Reported
“the handle of his sword and his bronze-shod spear”

Passage preview

Book 11 · Passage 43

‘‘I have heard nothing,’ I answered, ‘of Peleus, but I can tell you all about your son Neoptolemus, for I took him in my own ship from Scyros with the Achaeans. In our councils of war before Troy he was always first to speak, and his judgement was unerring. Nestor and I were the only two who could surpass him; and when it came to fighting on the plain of Troy, he would never remain with the body of his men, but would dash on far in front, foremost of them all in valour. Many a man did he kill in battle—I cannot name every single one of those whom he slew while fighting on the side of the Argives, but will only say how he killed that valiant hero Eurypylus son of Telephus, who was the handsomest man I ever saw except Memnon; many others also of the Ceteians fell around him by reason of a woman’s bribes. Moreover, when all the bravest of the Argives went inside the horse that Epeus had made, and it was left to me to settle when we should either open the door of our ambuscade, or close it, though all the other leaders and chief men among the Danaans were drying their eyes and quaking in every limb, I never once saw him turn pale nor wipe a tear from his cheek; he was all the time urging me to break out from the horse—grasping the handle of his sword and his bronze-shod spear, and breathing fury against the foe. Yet when we had sacked the city of Priam he got his handsome share of the prize money and went on board (such is the fortune of war) without a wound upon him, neither from a thrown spear nor in close combat, for the rage of Mars is a matter of great chance.’