lather streaming down to the ground from necks and chests.
Their master leapt down from the bright burnished car,
propped his whip on the yoke. His aide lost no time--
the hardy Sthenelus rushed to collect the prizes,
gave their proud troops the woman to lead away
and they carried off the handsome two-eared tripod
as he was loosing the horses from the harness ...
Antilochus next--the son of Nestor drove in second,
beating Atrides not by speed but cunning--
but still Menelaus kept his racers close behind.
Tight as the closing gap between the wheel and horse
when he hauls his master's car top speed across the flats,
the very tip of his tail brushing the running-rim
and the wheel spins closer, hardly a gap between
as he sweeps the open piain--that much, no more,
Menelaus trailed Antilochus, dauntless driver.
At first he'd trailed him a full discus-throw
but now he was closing, gaining on him fast--
yes, Blaze with all her fury and flowing mane,
Agamemnon's mare was coming on with a strong surge
and now if the two teams had a longer course to run
Menelaus would have passed him--no dead heat about it.
Then Idomeneus' good aide Meriones came in fourth,
trailing the famed Atrides by a spear-throw.
His team had sleek manes but the slowest pace afield
and the man himself was the poorest racing-driver.
But Admetus' son Eumelus came in last of all ...
dragging his fine chariot, flogging his team before him.
Seeing him there the swift Achilles filled with pity,
rose in their midst and said these winging words:
"The best man drives his purebred team home last!
Come, let's give him a prize, it's only right--
but second prize, of course--
Tydeus' son must carry off the first."
So he said
and the armies called assent to what he urged.
And now, spurred by his comrades' quick approval,
Achilles was just about to give the man the mare
when Antilochus, son of magnanimous old Nestor,
leapt to his feet and lodged a formal protest:
"Achilles--I'll be furious if you carry out that plan!
Do you really mean to strip me of my prize?--
so concerned that his team and car were wrecked,
and the fellow too, for all his racing skills.
Why, he should have prayed to the deathless gods!
Then he would never have finished last of all.
You pity the man? You're fond of him, are you?
You have hoards of gold in your tents, bronze, sheep,
serving-girls by the score and purebred racers too:
pick some bigger trophy out of the whole lot
and hand it on to the man, but do it later--
or now, at once, and win your troops' applause.
I won't give up the mare! The one who wants her--
step this way and try--
he'll have to fight me for her with his fists!"
He flared up and the swift runner Achilles smiled,
delighting in Antilochus--he liked the man immensely.
He answered him warmly, winged words: "Antilochus,
you want me to fetch an extra gift from my tents,
a consolation prize for Eumelus? I'm glad to do it.
I'll give him the breastplate I took from Asteropaeus.
It's solid bronze with a glittering overlay of tin,
rings on rings. A gift he'll value highly."
He asked Automedon, ready aide, to bring
the breastplate from his tents. He went and brought it,
handed it to Eumelus. The man received it gladly.
But now Menelaus rose, his heart smoldering,
still holding a stubborn grudge against Antilochus.
A crier put a staff in his hands and called for silence.
And with all his royal weight Atrides thundered, "Antilochus--
you used to have good sense! Now see what you've done!
Disgraced my horsemanship--you've fouled my horses,
cutting before me, you with your far slower team.
Quickly, lords of the Argives, all my captains,
judge between us--impartially, no favoritism--
so none of our bronze-armed men can ever say,
'Only with lies did Atrides beat Antilochus out
and walk off with the mare--his team was far slower
but the king's own rank and power took the prize!'
Wait, I'll settle things myself. I have no fear
that any Achaean will accuse me: I'll be fair.
Come over here, Antilochus, royal prince--
this is the old custom. Come, stand in front
of your team and chariot, grasp the coiling whip
that lashed them home, lay your hand on their manes
and swear by the mighty god who grips and shakes the earth
you never blocked my chariot--not by deliberate foul."
Antilochus came to his senses, backed off quickly:
"No more, please. I am much younger than you are,
lord Menelaus--you're my senior, you the greater man.
Well you know how the whims of youth break all the rules.
Our wits quicker than wind, our judgment just as flighty.
Bear with me now. I'll give you this mare I won--
of my own accord. And any finer trophy you'd ask
from my own stores, I'd volunteer at once,
gladly, Atrides, my royal king--anything
but fall from your favor all my days to come
and swear a false oath in the eyes of every god."
With that the son of magnanimous old Nestor
led the mare and turned her over to Menelaus' hands.
And his heart melted now like the dew that wets the com
when the fresh stalks rise up and the ripe fields ripple--
so the heart in your chest was melted now, Menelaus,
and you gave your friend an answer, winged words:
"Antilochus, now it is my turn to yield to you,
for all my mounting anger ...
you who were never wild or reckless in the past.
It's only youth that got the better of your discretion,
just this once--but the next time be more careful.
Try to refrain from cheating your superiors.
No other Achaean could have brought me round so soon,
but seeing that you have suffered much and labored long,
your noble father, your brother too--all for my sake--
I'll yield to your appeal, I'll even give you the mare,
though she is mine, so our people here will know
the heart inside me is never rigid, unrelenting."
He handed back the mare to Antilochus' man.
Noemon led her off while Atrides took instead
the polished cauldron bright in all its sheen.
Meriones, who had come in fourth took fourth prize,
the two bars of gold. That left the fifth unclaimed,
the jar with double handles. Bearing it through the crowd
Achilles gave it to Nestor, standing close beside him,
urging, "Here, old friend--a trophy for you too!
Lay it away as a treasure ...
let it remind you of the burial of Patroclus.
Never again will you see him among the Argives.
I give you this prize, a gift for giving's sake,
for now you will never fight with fists or wrestle,
or enter the spear-throw, or race on sprinting feet.
The burdens of old age already weigh you down."
And Achilles placed the tro
phy in Nestor's hands.
He thrilled to have it and spoke out winging words:
"True, true, my son, all of it, right on the mark.
My legs no longer firm, my friend, dead on my feet,
nor do my arms go shooting from my shoulders--
the stunning punch, the left and right are gone.
Oh make me young again, and the strength inside me
steady as a rock! As fresh as I was that day
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,
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,
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 qu
ickly 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.