Fourth came Nestor’s son Antilochus, whose stallions were bred at Sandy Pylus. He knew a great deal about chariot-racing, but Nestor could not resist offering him seasonable advice. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘though young, you have enjoyed the favour of Zeus and Poseidon, and learned to drive from them; so I hardly need instruct you myself in the art of wheeling around a post. Yet these nags of ours are pretty slow, and I fear their performance may be disappointing, unless you exploit your superior skill. Chariot-racing is like sailing: a clever helmsman can steer close to the wind, where anyone else would be taken aback or blown off course; a clever charioteer can outwit an inexperienced rival. Never make a wide sweep at the turning-post—as greenhorns do who rely on their team to think for them—and thus lose control! Watch the post, and decide just how far to force your horses down the straight, holding them well in hand; but keep one eye on whatever chariot has gained the lead!
‘Now, pay attention: the turning-post will be a stout tree-stump, flanked by two white stones. Whether it is oak or pine, whether a monument raised to some ancient hero, or the turning-post of an abandoned race-track, I neither know nor care. At all events, the ground is smooth there, and you may drive in perfect safety. Let your near-horse hug the post, until the wheel almost grazes it; but check him a little. As you do so, lean to the left, lash the off-horse, give him free rein, then haul him round. Be careful not to foul the flanking stones; otherwise the chariot will be smashed, your horses crippled, and everyone will deride you. Time the race precisely; and if you can gain the lead at the turn, nobody else has a chance, however fast his beasts—though he were driving divine Arion (once the property of Adrestus), or Laomedon’s horses, the fastest in Troy.’
Nestor finished talking and resumed his seat.
The fifth competitor who accompanied these champions to the starting-line was Meriones the Cretan. Achilles asked them to mark lots and drop them in his helmet. Then he shook it, and Antilochus’ lot leaped out first. Thus he won the innermost lane. Eumelus was placed second; Menelaus, third; Meriones, fourth; and Diomedes, outermost, though easily the best charioteer present.
They formed up, wheel to wheel. Achilles showed them the distant post, where the venerable Phoenix, his former tutor, would act as umpire and report on mishaps or irregularities.
At a given signal, the five drivers lashed their horses, slapped them with the reins, yelled and shouted, each intent on glory. Away they flew—dust rising like a cloud or whirlwind, manes streaming, and the chariots often bouncing high into the air.
All teams negotiated the post successfully, and came thundering back. The field had strung out: the Thessalian mares first, but so closely followed by Diomedes’ Dardanians that these seemed about to leap into Eumelus’ chariot, and their breath warmed his broad shoulders. Doubtless the race would have ended either in a dead-heat, or a victory for Diomedes, had not Apollo, who bore him a grudge, knocked the whip from his hand. Diomedes wept tears of rage to see the Thessalians scudding along more swiftly than ever, while his own team slowed down. But Apollo’s foul play incensed Athene. She picked up the whip, restored it to Diomedes, and gave the Dardanians greater speed. Then, angrily darting at his rival’s chariot, she snapped the yoke. His mares bolted in different directions, the pole dropped, the wheels jolted to a standstill, and Eumelus was thrown forward over the rail, barking his elbows, chin and nose as he fell, and severely bruising his forehead.
Diomedes took the inner lane, and kept well ahead; Athene had invigorated his horses and wanted some of the fame for herself.
Next came Menelaus, hotly challenged by Antilochus, who was shouting at his Pylians: ‘On you go, fly like the wind! We have no chance against Diomedes and Pallas Athene; but catch Menelaus at all costs! Aethe is only a mare—do you want her to ridicule my two sturdy stallions? Imagine letting that team win! Listen to me—and this is not an idle threat—unless we carry off the second prize, King Nestor will no longer make much of you, but use his sword on your hides instead. After them, at full gallop; and trust me to get the better of Menelaus as soon as the track narrows.’
His angry tones impressed the stallions. They swept forward to where a torrent had eaten away half the track. Menelaus headed for the sunken part and, seeing Antilochus follow suit, expostulated: ‘Son of Nestor! What reckless driving! There is not width enough for both of us. Wait until we have some elbow-room, else you will foul my wheel and wreck both chariots!’
Feigning deafness, Antilochus plied his lash more fiercely than before. The teams ran neck and neck for the length of a discus-throw and then, to avoid a certain collision, Menelaus yielded: in his view, a prize could be too dearly won. He yelled as Antilochus went past: ‘A plague on you! Despite your reputation as a well-behaved young man I never in my life met anyone so rash, or so malicious. Claim the second prize, and you will be tried for dangerous driving!’
Then he reproved his horses: ‘You may feel sore, foolish beasts, but why slacken your speed? Those Pylian stallions cannot keep it up; they are too long in the tooth. Chase them!’
On rushed the four chariots in a thick cloud of dust. King Idomeneus of Crete, seated somewhat higher than his companions, was the first to distinguish a horse—chestnut, with a round white blaze—and at the same time heard Diomedes’ distant but familiar shout. Standing up, he cried: ‘Friends, Princes, Councillors, does anyone else recognize the leading team? Eumelus’ Thessalians, which were ahead at the turn, have apparently come to grief; they are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he lost control of the reins and fouled the post? If so, he will inevitably have taken a toss and smashed his chariot, leaving the mares to wander off the course. Stand up yourselves, and look! Surely, the driver is King Diomedes of Argos?’
Little Ajax rudely interrupted Idomeneus: ‘Why always advance such absurd claims? The chariots are too far away for recognition by even the keenest-sighted of us; let alone so bleary-eyed a fellow as you! Bragging in royal company is the height of ill-manners. Allow me to inform you that Eumelus’ mares, driven by Eumelus himself, still keep the lead.’
Idomeneus burst out: ‘Son of Oïleus, I object to these spiteful remarks. The sole advantages you have over the rest of us are that your tongue is looser and your mind shallower. What about wagering a tripod or a cauldron on the issue, with the High King as umpire? I should like to make you pay for a lesson in courtesy.’
Little Ajax’s rejoinder was even more offensive, but Achilles smothered the dispute. ‘Enough of that, my lads!’ he shouted. ‘Set an example in decent behaviour. You would both hasten to suppress any foul-mouthed quarrel among your comrades. Stay seated, if you please, and watch! The winner’s name will soon be common knowledge.’
He had scarcely spoken, when Diomedes came into full view, dust-begrimed, and flogging the Dardanians with blows delivered straight from the shoulder, as they scudded towards the finishing-line. His chariot, decorated in gold and tin, had travelled so fast that it scarcely left wheel-tracks on the soil. He reined in amid general applause, sprang to the ground, and unharnessed the horses, leaning his whipstock against their yoke. Sthenelus at once sent the slave-girl and the three-legged cauldron down to Diomedes’ lines.
Antilochus ran second, after snatching a clever victory from Menelaus. It was a close tussle: no greater distance separated them than lies between the rump of a chariot-horse and the wheel-rim—which its tail brushes as it trots. Though Antilochus’ manoeuvre had gained him the length of a discus-throw, Aethe and Podargus reduced it to almost nothing—another couple of strides, and they would have won.
Meriones followed a spear-cast in rear of these two, and won the fourth prize. Finally Eumelus appeared, driving his Thessalian mares before him and dragging the car by its pole. Achilles rose to greet Eumelus, exclaiming: ‘The best man comes last, and on foot! Diomedes has clearly earned the first prize; you deserve the second.’
This remark was greeted with a roar of assent, but before he could give the brood-mare to Eumelus, Antilochus entered a protes
t: ‘My lord Achilles, if you do that, I will be furious. Granted, he is a good driver; granted, he was unfortunate in breaking his yoke. Yet a timely prayer to an Immortal would have saved him from finishing fifth. Since he stands so high in your esteem, why not award him a worthy consolation prize? Your store-huts are bursting with treasure: gold, bronze, fast horses, attractive women-slaves. The sooner you offer him something valuable, the louder your comrades’ applause. But nobody save myself shall lead away that mare; I will fight whoever attempts it.’
Achilles smiled, recognizing a kindred spirit. ‘By all means, Antilochus,’ he answered. ‘Eumelus shall have his consolation prize. What of the tin-inlaid bronze corslet captured from Asteropaeus? He is sure to appreciate that.’ Automedon fetched the corslet, and Eumelus was overjoyed.
‘Menelaus’ complaint had still to be settled, so Talthybius set a gold-studded wand in his hand, and called for silence.
Menelaus spoke: ‘You used to be a prudent young man, Prince Antilochus! How dared you publicly humble me by thrusting your slow horses in front of my admirable team? I would ask these kings and Councillors to judge the case, without fear or favour, but that some people might afterwards remark: “Menelaus has brow-beaten the son of Nestor into surrendering his prize. Rank and influence, of course, secured him the verdict; yet, whatever he may say, his horses were no match for those Pylians.”
‘I shall therefore try the case myself, counting on this Assembly’s approval, when it sees how justly I handle it. Bring your equipage here, if you please, Prince Antilochus; then face the horses, touch them with your whip and swear by Poseidon, Earth-Enfolder and Earth-Shaker, that you did not maliciously force my chariot out of the running.’
Antilochus replied: ‘I ask pardon, my lord Menelaus! You are far older than I am, higher in rank, and a better man; but, as you must know, it is easy for a youngster to go wrong from hastiness and lack of thought. Pray, therefore, allow me to surrender the mare; and, if you need further proof of my sincere regret, assess the damages to your dignity, and I will pay them on the nail: to avoid either forfeiting your esteem or incurring the displeasure of Heaven.’
He untethered the mare and brought her over to Menelaus. The sequel was a complete reconciliation.
As ripening corn is softened by the dew,
So, angry man, let my plea soften you!
Menelaus’ anger died. ‘Antilochus,’ he answered, ‘I had never before seen you act irresponsibly, and am sure that this incident will teach you never again to play tricks on your elders. It would have been difficult for another Greek to make me relent, yet your whole family has fought well in support of our cause; and you have my free pardon. Indeed, since you acknowledge that this mare is rightfully mine, she shall be yours as a gift; and no one henceforth will, I hope, dare call me vainglorious or unreasonable.’
Menelaus handed the mare to Antilochus’ charioteer Noëmon; but took the bright new cauldron offered as a third prize. Meriones had won the two gold ingots; and, when Eumelus, content with Asteropaeus’ corslet, failed to claim the fifth prize—a bronze urn—Achilles carried it along the ranks until he reached Nestor. ‘Take this, venerable hero,’ he said, ‘and treasure it in memory of Patroclus, whom we shall see no more: a prize for which you need not compete, being already too old to attempt the other events: boxing, wrestling, javelin-throwing and running.’
Nestor gratefully accepted the urn. ‘That is true enough, my son,’ he agreed. ‘I can no longer trust my legs or feet, or swing my arms lightly to and fro. Ah, that I were the man I once was: when King Amarynceus died and his sons held funeral games in his honour at Epeian Buprasion! Neither the Epeians, nor my own Pylians, nor the brave Aetolians could overcome me. I entered for the boxing match and flattened Clytomedes, son of Enops; I entered for the wrestling match and threw Ancaeus of Pleuron; I entered for the foot-race and left Iphiclus, a magnificent performer, far behind; I entered for the javelin-throw and beat Phyleus and Polydorus. I should have finished first in the chariot-race, too; but Actor’s sons were so ambitious for victory, because this event carried the most valuable prizes, that they cut across my lane and crowded me out. They were twins, and took turns at the whip and the reins. Yes, that was a lifetime ago, and now I must leave athletic exercises to my juniors; age cripples even famous champions. Well, pray continue to honour the late Prince Patroclus with these games. Meanwhile, accept my gratitude. I am enchanted that you still think warmly enough of your venerable friend—I reciprocate the sentiment—to give him a prize which is no more than his due. May Heaven grant you all happiness!’
***
Achilles went back to his place, where he announced prizes for the boxing match. The winner would get a strong, unbroken, six-year-old mule (here he produced and tethered this almost untameable beast); the loser, a two-handled goblet.
Huge, tough Epeius sprang up. Laying hold of the mule, he shouted: ‘Anyone is welcome to that goblet; but the mule must be mine! Though I may rank low as a chariot-fighter—no one man can excel in everything!—I have yet to meet the Greek who will out-box me. My challengers’ comrades should stand ready to lug him away when he has been sufficiently battered.’
A deep silence reigned. Gallant Euryalus, son of Mecisteus and grandson of the Argive King Talaus, alone dared face Epeius. Diomedes groomed him for the fight: tightening his boxing-belt; winding rawhide straps across the flat of each hand; securing them at the wrists; and all the while giving him hearty encouragement. He recalled how, when Oedipus, the famous Theban king, died in battle, Euryalus’ father Mecisteus had attended his funeral games and won every contest.
Epeius and Euryalus advanced towards each other. Both raised their weighted fists, and the match began. Soon they were sweating hard, grinding their teeth and going at it hammer and tongs until, at last, Epeius rushed in decisively. Euryalus, crouching to block his lead, caught a powerful uppercut on the cheekbone.
This beach so virginal and bare
Dark piles of weed now stain;
The brutal north wind brought it there—
But look, a fish leaps in the air,
And then flops back again.
Up went Euryalus, and then down, just like that fish! Epeius amicably heaved him upright and let Diomedes’ Argives return their champion to his place: feet trailing, and dizzy head drooping. They fetched him the two-handled goblet, while he spat blood from his torn mouth.
***
Achilles announced prizes for the third event: a wrestling match. The winner would obtain a large, three-legged cauldron, valued at twelve cows; the loser, a highly-skilled slave-woman valued at four. ‘Competitors, forward!’ he cried.
Great Ajax and Odysseus the Crafty accepted the invitation. Having donned boxing-belts, they came together and grappled; arching their bodies until they might have been a securely locked gable built to baffle the worst storm. Their bones creaked, sweat bathed their flanks, and bloody claw-marks scarred ribs and shoulders. Each had set his heart on the cauldron, yet neither could disturb the other’s balance by any amount of tripping or shaking. Ajax, aware that the Greeks were already losing interest, gasped: ‘Son of Laertes, no more of this! Throw me, or else I will throw you, and let Zeus choose between us!’
With a tremendous effort he lifted Odysseus from the ground; but, as he did so, received a heavy kick at the hollow of his knee and, to everyone’s surprise, tumbled over backwards with Odysseus on top of him. In the next round, failing to swing Ajax clear off his feet, Odysseus crooked a knee behind the leg which withstood him, and heaved. Down they went into the dirt, side by side.
The match was stopped by Achilles. ‘Desist, my lords!’ he cried. ‘Enough punishment has been given and taken, and the spectators have two other events to watch. Since you can both claim a victory, both shall be awarded a cauldron of identical size.’
Ajax and Odysseus were not sorry to wipe themselves clean and resume their tunics, while Achilles announced the following prizes for the foot-race:
‘
First Prize: an engraved silver mixing-bowl of Sidonian workmanship; capacity more than sixteen gallons, the handsomest ever seen, and valued at one hundred oxen. It was the Phoenicians’ gift to King Thoas of Lemnos; but Euneus, son of Jason the Argonaut by Thoas’ daughter Hypsipyle, bought Prince Lycaon with it from Prince Patroclus, my representative.
‘Second Prize: an enormously fat ox.
‘Third Prize: half an ingot of gold.’
Then he shouted: ‘Competitors, forward!’
Great Ajax and Odysseus again rose, and Antilochus, the fastest runner of his generation, made the third. They crouched in a row, and Achilles showed them the turning-post.
At his signal they flashed away, each eager to establish a lead. Ajax secured it, but Odysseus pressed him so hard that the distance between them was no more than separates a weaving-rod from a noblewoman’s breast as she draws the spool across her loom. Odysseus trod in Ajax’s foot-steps before the dust had time to settle in them, and breathed hot against his neck. The Greeks applauded such courage and persistence.
As they rounded the bend, Odysseus prayed silently to Athene: ‘Owl-Eyed Goddess, speed my feet!’ At once she made them light as air, and his hands too. The rivals were spurting to the finish, when Ajax fell; because Athene tripped him on a patch of slippery dung, where oxen had been slaughtered for Patroclus’ pyre; his mouth and nostrils got clogged with the nasty stuff. Odysseus consequently won the race and the mixing-bowl; Ajax, only the fat ox. He grasped one of its horns, spitting out dung and expostulating: ‘A scandal! Athene lost me the race. That virgin goddess has always mothered Odysseus!’
A roar of sympathetic laughter greeted Ajax’s sally, and then Antilochus crossed the line. He smilingly claimed the last prize. ‘Friends,’ he said, ‘I call you to witness that Heaven favours elder men even in funeral games. Ajax has a few years’ advantage of me, but Odysseus might be my father! A green old age surely awaits him, since none of us can yet outstrip him—the Swift-Footed son of Peleus alone excepted.