As a father weeps when he burns his son's bones,
dead on his wedding day,
and his death has plunged his parents in despair ...
so Achilles wept as he burned his dear friend's bones,
dragging himself around the pyre, choked with sobs.
At that hour the morning star comes rising up
to herald a new day on earth, and riding in its wake
the Dawn flings out her golden robe across the sea,
the funeral fires sank low, the flames died down.
And the winds swung round and headed home again,
over the Thracian Sea, and the heaving swells moaned.
And at last Achilles, turning away from the corpse-fire,
sank down, exhausted. Sweet sleep overwhelmed him.
But Agamemnon's followers grouped together now
and as they approached Achilles
the din and trampling of their feet awoke him.
He sat up with a start and made his wishes known:
"Atrides--chiefs of Achaea's united forces--
first put out the fires with glistening wine,
wherever the flames still bum in all their fury.
Then let us collect the bones of Menoetius' son Patroclus,
pick them out with care--but they cannot be mistaken:
he lay amidst the pyre, apart from all the others
burned at the edge, the ruck of men and horses.
Then let us place his bones in a golden urn,
sealed tight and dry with a double fold of fat,
till I myself lie hid in the strong House of Death.
For his barrow, build him nothing large, I ask you,
something right for the moment. And then, later,
Achaeans can work to make it broad and lofty,
all who survive me here,
alive in the benched ships when I am gone."
And the men obeyed the swift runner's orders.
They first put out the fires with glistening wine,
far as the flames had spread and the ashes bedded deep.
In tears they gathered their gentle comrade's white bones,
all in a golden urn, sealed with a double fold of fat,
and stowed the urn in his shelter, covered well
with a light linen shroud, then laid his barrow out.
Around the pyre they planted a ring of stone revetments,
piled the loose earth high in a mound above the ring
and once they'd heaped the barrow turned to leave.
But Achilles held the armies on the spot.
He had them sit in a great and growing circle--
now for funeral games--and brought from his ships
the trophies for the contests: cauldrons and tripods,
stallions, mules and cattle with massive heads,
women sashed and lovely, and gleaming gray iron.
First,
for the fastest charioteers he set out glittering prizes:
a woman to lead away, flawless, skilled in crafts,
and a two-eared tripod, twenty-two measures deep--
all that for the first prize.
Then for the runner-up he brought forth a mare,
unbroken, six years old, with a mule foal in her womb.
For the third he produced a fine four-measure cauldron
never scorched by flames, its sheen as bright as new.
For the fourth he set out two gold bars, for the fifth,
untouched by fire as well, a good two-handled jar..
And he rose up tall and challenged all the Argives:
"Atrides--Achaeans-at-arms! Let the games begin!
The trophies lie afield--they await the charioteers.
If we held our games now in another hero's honor,
surely I'd walk off to my tent with first prize.
You know how my team outstrips all others' speed.
Immortal horses they are, Poseidon gave them himself
to my father Peleus, Peleus passed them on to me.
But I and our fast stallions will not race today,
so strong his fame, the charioteer they've lost,
so kind--always washing them down with fresh water,
sleeking their long manes with smooth olive oil.
No wonder they stand here, mourning ...
look, trailing those very manes along the ground.
They both refuse to move, saddled down with grief.
But all the rest of you, come, all Achaeans in camp
who trust to your teams and bolted chariots--
take your places now!"
Achilles' call rang out
and it brought the fastest drivers crowding forward.
The first by far, Eumelus lord of men sprang up,
Admetus' prized son who excelled in horsemanship
and following him Tydides, powerful Diomedes,
yoking the breed of Tros he'd wrested from Aeneas
just the other day when Apollo saved their master.
Then Atreus' son Menelaus, the red-haired captain
born of the gods, leading under the yoke his racers,
Blaze, Agamemnon's mare, and his own stallion Brightfoot.
Anchises' son Echepolus gave Agamemnon Blaze,
a gift that bought him off from the king's armies
bound for windy Troy: he'd stay right where he was,
a happy man, since Zeus had given him vast wealth
and he lived in style on Sicyon's broad dancing rings.
His was the mare Atrides harnessed, champing for the race.
And the fourth to yoke his full-maned team was Antilochus,
the splendid son of Nestor the old high-hearted king,
lord Neleus' offspring. A team of Pylian purebreds
drew his chariot. His father stood at his side,
lending sound advice to the boy's own good sense:
"Young as you are, Antilochus, how the gods have loved you!
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
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 Argi
ves, 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,