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.
Noëmon 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 trophy 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