The Iliad

by Robert Fagels

  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

  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 ou
t 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,

  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—