by their master’s threats they put on a fresh burst
for a length or two but suddenly brave Antilochus
saw the narrow place where the road washed out—
a sharp dip in the land where massing winter rains
broke off the edge, making it all one sunken rut.
There Atrides was heading—no room for two abreast—
but Antilochus swerved to pass him, lashing his horses
off the track then swerving into him neck-and-neck
and Atrides, frightened, yelled out at the man,
“Antilochus—you drive like a maniac! Hold your horses!
The track’s too narrow here—it widens soon for passing—
watch out—you’ll crash your chariot, wreck us both!”
So he cried but Antilochus drove on all the wilder,
cracking his lash for more speed like a man stone deaf.
As far as a full shoulder-throw of a whirling discus
hurled by a young contender testing out his strength,
so far they raced dead even. But then Menelaus’ pair
dropped back as he yielded, cut the pace on purpose—
he feared the massive teams would collide on the track
and the tight-strung cars capsize, the men themselves
go sprawling into the dust, striving, wild for triumph.
As his rival passed the red-haired captain cursed him:
“Antilochus—no one alive more treacherous than you!
Away with you, madman—damn you!
How wrong we were when we said you had good sense.
You’ll never take the prize unless you take the oath!”
Turning back to his team, calling, shouting them on:
“Don’t hold back, don’t stop now—galled as you are—
that team in the lead will sag in the leg before you—
robbed of their prime, their racing days are done!”
And lashed with fear by their master’s angry voice
they put on a surge, closing on them fast.
And all the while
the armies tense in a broad circle watched for horses
flying back on the plain in a rising whirl of dust.
The first to make them out was the Cretan captain.
Idomeneus sat perched on a rise outside the ring,
a commanding lookout point, and hearing a driver
shouting out in the distance, recognized the voice,
could see a stallion too—far in the lead, unmistakable—
a big chestnut beauty, all but the blaze he sported
stark white on his forehead, round as a full moon.
He sprang to his feet, calling down to cohorts,
“Friends—lords of the Argives, O my captains—
am I the only one who can spot that pair
or can you see them too?
Seems to me it’s a new team out in front,
a new driver as well, just coming into sight.
The mares of Eumelus must have come to grief,
somewhere downfield—they led on the way out.
I saw them heading first for the turn, by god,
but I can’t find them now—anywhere—hard as I look,
left and right, scanning the whole Trojan plain.
He lost his reins, he lost control of his horses
round the post and they failed to make the turn—
that’s where he got thrown, I’d say, his chariot smashed
and his horses went berserk and bolted off.
Stand up,
look for yourselves! I can’t make them out ...
not for certain, no, but the leader seems to me
an Aetolian man by birth—he’s king of the Argives,
horse-breaking Tydeus’ son, rugged Diomedes!”
But quick Little Ajax rounded on him roughly:
“Loose talk, Idomeneus—why are you always sounding off?
They still have a way to go out there, those racing teams.
You too, you’re a far cry from the youngest Argive here,
nor are the eyes in your head our sharpest scouts
but you’re always blustering, you, you foul-mouthed—
why must we have you blurting out this way
in the face of keener men?
Those mares in front are the same that led before—
they’re Eumelus’ mares, look, and there’s Eumelus now,
astride his chariot, gripping the reins himself!”
But the Cretan captain burst back in answer,
“Ajax, champion wrangler in all the ranks! Stupid too,
first and last the worst man in the Argive armies—
stubborn, bullnecked fool. Come now,
let’s both put up a tripod or a cauldron,
wager which horses are really out in front
and we’ll make Atrides Agamemnon our referee—
you’ll learn, don’t worry, once you pay the price!”
Ajax rose in fury to trade him taunt for taunt,
and now the two of them might have come to blows
if Achilles himself had not stood up to calm them:
“Enough! No more trading your stinging insults now,
Ajax, Idomeneus! It’s offensive—this is not the time.
You’d be the first to blame a man who railed this way.
Sit down in the ring, you two, and watch the horses—
they’ll be home in a moment, racing hard to win.
Then each can see for himself who comes in second,
who takes off first prize.”
In the same breath
Diomedes came on storming toward them—closer, look,
closing—lashing his team nonstop, full-shoulder strokes,
making them kick high as they hurtled toward the goal.
Constant sprays of dust kept pelting back on the driver,
the chariot sheathed in gold and tin careering on
in the plunging stallions’ wake, its spinning rims
hardly leaving a rut behind in the thin dust
as the team thundered in—a whirlwind finish!
He reined them back in the ring with drenching sweat,
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,