Zeus and Poseidon taught you horsemanship, every sort,
so there’s no great need for me to set you straight.
Well you know how to double round the post ...
but you’ve got the slowest nags—a handicap, I’d say.
Yet even if other teams are faster, look at their drivers:
there’s not a trick in their whips that you don’t have at hand.
So plan your attack, my friend, muster all your skills
or watch the prize slip by!
It’s skill, not brawn, that makes the finest woodsman.
By skill, too, the captain holds his ship on course,
scudding the wine-dark sea though rocked by gales.
By skill alone, charioteer outraces charioteer.
The average driver, leaving all to team and car,
recklessly makes his turn, veering left and right,
his pair swerving over the course—he can’t control them.
But the cunning driver, even handling slower horses,
always watches the post, turns it close, never loses
the first chance to relax his reins and stretch his pair
but he holds them tight till then, eyes on the leader.
Now, the turn itself—it’s clear, you cannot miss it.
There’s a dead tree-stump standing six feet high,
it’s oak or pine, not rotted through by the rains,
and it’s propped by two white stones on either side.
That’s your halfway mark where the homestretch starts
and there’s plenty of good smooth racing-room around it—
it’s either the grave-mound of a man dead long ago
or men who lived before us set it up as a goal.
Now, in any event, swift Achilles makes it
his turning-post. And you must hug it close
as you haul your team and chariot round but you
in your tight-strung car, you lean to the left yourself,
just a bit as you whip your right-hand horse, hard,
shout him on, slacken your grip and give him rein.
But make your left horse hug that post so close
the hub of your well-turned wheel will almost seem
to scrape the rock—just careful not to graze it!
You’ll maim your team, you’ll smash your car to pieces.
A joy to your rivals, rank disgrace to yourself ...
So keep your head, my boy, be on the lookout.
Trail the field out but pass them all at the post,
no one can catch you then or overtake you with a surge—
not if the man behind you were driving huge Arion,
Adrastus’ lightning stallion sired by the gods,
or Laomedon’s team, the greatest bred in Troy.”
Nestor sat down again. He’d shown his son the ropes,
the last word in the master horseman’s skills.
Now after Meriones yoked his sleek horses fifth,
they boarded their cars and dropped lots in a helmet.
Achilles shook it hard—Antilochus’ lot leapt out
so he drew the inside track.
Next in the draw came hardy lord Eumelus,
Atrides Menelaus the famous spearman next
and Meriones drew the fourth starting-lane
and Tydides Diomedes drew the fifth and last,
the best of them all by far at driving battle-teams.
All pulled up abreast as Achilles pointed out the post,
far off on the level plain, and stationed there beside it
an umpire, old lord Phoenix, his father’s aide-in-arms,
to mark the field at the turn and make a true report.
Ready—
whips raised high—
at the signal all together
lashed their horses’ backs and shouted, urging them on—
they broke in. a burst of speed, in no time swept the plain,
leaving the ships behind and lifting under their chests
the dust clung to the teams like clouds or swirling gales
as their manes went streaming back in the gusty tearing wind.
The cars shot on, now jouncing along the earth that rears us all,
now bounding clear in the air but the drivers kept erect
in the lurching cars and the heart of each man raced,
straining for victory—each man yelled at his pair
as they flew across the plain in a whirl of dust.
But just out of the turn,
starting the homestretch back to sunlit sea
the horses lunged, each driver showed his form,
the whole field went racing full tilt and at once
the fast mares of Eumelus surged far out in front—
And after him came Diomedes’ team, Tros’s stallions
hardly a length behind now, closing at each stride
and at any moment it seemed they’d mount Eumelus’ car,
their hot breath steaming his back and broad shoulders,
their heads hovering over him, breakneck on they flew—
and now he’d have passed him or forced a dead heat
if Apollo all of a sudden raging at Diomedes
had not knocked the shining whip from his fist.
Tears of rage came streaming down his cheeks
as he watched Eumelus’ mares pulling farther ahead
and his team losing pace, no whip to lash them on ...
But Athena, missing nothing of Phoebus’ foul play
that robbed Diomedes, sped to the gallant captain,
handed him back his whip, primed his team with power
and flying after Admetus’ son in full immortal fury
the goddess smashed his yoke. His mares bolted apart,
careening off the track and his pole plowed the ground
and Eumelus hurled from the chariot, tumbling over the wheel,
the skin was ripped from his elbows, mouth and nostrils,
his forehead battered in, scraped raw at the brows,
tears filling his eyes, his booming voice choked—
But veering round the wreck Diomedes steered his racers
shooting far ahead of the rest, leaving them in the dust
as Athena fired his team and gave the man his glory.
And after him came Atrides, red-haired Menelaus,
next Antilochus, urging his father’s horses:
“Drive, the two of you—full stretch and fast!
I don’t tell you to match the leader’s speed,
skilled Diomedes’ team—look, Athena herself
just fired their pace and gave their master glory.
But catch Menelaus’ pair—fast—don’t get left behind—
or Blaze will shower the two of you with disgrace—
Blaze is a mare! Why falling back, my brave ones?
I warn you both—so help me it’s the truth—
no more grooming for you at Nestor’s hands!
The old driver will slaughter you on the spot
with a sharp bronze blade if you slack off now
and we take a lesser prize. After them, faster—
full gallop—I’ll find the way, I‘ve‘got the skill
to slip past him there where the track narrows—
I’ll never miss my chance!”
Whipped with fear