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King Nestor Remembers
As the sun sprang up, leaving the brilliant waters in its wake,
climbing the bronze sky to shower light on immortal gods
and mortal men across the plowlands ripe with grain —
4 the ship pulled into Pylos, Neleus’ storied citadel,
where the people lined the beaches,
6 sacrificing sleek black bulls to Poseidon,
god of the sea-blue mane who shakes the earth.
They sat in nine divisions, each five hundred strong,
each division offering up nine bulls, and while the people
10 tasted the innards, burned the thighbones for the god,
the craft and crew came heading straight to shore.
Striking sail, furling it in the balanced ship,
they moored her well and men swung down on land.
Telemachus climbed out last, with Athena far in front
and the bright-eyed goddess urged the prince along:
“Telemachus, no more shyness, this is not the time!
We sailed the seas for this, for news of your father —
where does he lie buried? what fate did he meet?
19 So go right up to Nestor, breaker of horses.
20 We’ll make him yield the secrets of his heart.
Press him yourself to tell the whole truth:
he’ll never lie —the man is far too wise.”
The prince replied, wise in his own way too,
“How can I greet him, Mentor, even approach the king?
I’m hardly adept at subtle conversation.
Someone my age might feel shy, what’s more,
interrogating an older man.”
“Telemachus,”
the bright-eyed goddess Athena reassured him,
“some of the words you’ll find within yourself,
30 the rest some power will inspire you to say.
You least of all —I know —
were born and reared without the gods’ good will.”
And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead
as he followed in her footsteps —man and goddess
35 gained the place where the Pylians met and massed.
There sat Nestor among his sons as friends around them
decked the banquet, roasted meats and skewered strips for broiling.
As soon as they saw the strangers, all came crowding down,
waving them on in welcome, urging them to sit.
40 Nestor’s son Pisistratus, first to reach them,
grasped their hands and sat them down at the feast
on fleecy throws spread out along the sandbanks,
43 flanking his brother Thrasymedes and his father.
He gave them a share of innards, poured some wine
in a golden cup and, lifting it warmly toward Athena,
46 daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder,
greeted the goddess now with an invitation:
“Say a prayer to lord Poseidon, stranger,
his is the feast you’ve found on your arrival.
50 But once you’ve made your libation and your prayer —
all according to ancient custom —hand this cup
of hearty, seasoned wine to your comrade here
so he can pour forth too. He too, I think,
should pray to the deathless ones himself.
All men need the gods . . .
but the man is younger, just about my age.
That’s why I give the gold cup first to you.”
With that
Pisistratus placed in her hand the cup of mellow wine
and Pallas rejoiced at the prince’s sense of tact
60 in giving the golden winecup first to her.
At once she prayed intensely to Poseidon:
“Hear me, Sea-lord, you who embrace the earth —
don’t deny our wishes, bring our prayers to pass!
First, then, to Nestor and all his sons grant glory.
Then to all these Pylians, for their splendid rites
grant a reward that warms their gracious hearts.
And last, Poseidon, grant Telemachus and myself
safe passage home, the mission accomplished
that sped us here in our rapid black ship.”
70 So she prayed, and brought it all to pass.
She offered the rich two-handled cup to Telemachus,
Odysseus’ son, who echoed back her prayer word for word.
They roasted the prime cuts, pulled them off the spits
and sharing out the portions, fell to the royal feast.
Once they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
old Nestor the noble charioteer began, at last:
“Now’s the time, now they’ve enjoyed their meal,
to probe our guests and find out who they are.
Strangers —friends, who are you?
80 Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes?
81 Out on a trading spree or roving the waves like pirates,
sea-wolves raiding at will, who risk their lives
to plunder other men?”
Poised Telemachus answered,
filled with heart, the heart Athena herself inspired,
to ask for the news about his father, gone so long,
and make his name throughout the mortal world.
“Nestor, son of Neleus, Achaea’s pride and glory —
where are we from, you ask? I will tell you all.
We hail from Ithaca, under the heights of Nion.
90 Our mission here is personal, nothing public now.
I am on the trail of my father’s widespread fame,
you see, searching the earth to catch some news
of great-hearted King Odysseus who, they say,
fought with you to demolish Troy some years ago.
95 About all the rest who fought the Trojans there,
we know where each one died his wretched death,
but father . . . even his death —
the son of Cronus shrouds it all in mystery.
No one can say for certain where he died,
100 whether he went down on land at enemy hands
101 or out on the open sea in Amphitrite’s breakers.
That’s why I’ve come to plead before you now,
if you can tell me about his cruel death:
perhaps you saw him die with your own eyes
or heard the wanderer’s end from someone else.
106 More than all other men, that man was born for pain.
Don’t soften a thing, from pity, respect for me —
tell me, clearly, all your eyes have witnessed.
I beg you —if ever my father, lord Odysseus,
110 pledged you his word and made it good in action
once on the fields of Troy where you Achaeans suffered,
remember his story now, tell me the truth.”
Nestor the noble charioteer replied at length:
“Ah dear boy, since you call back such memories,
such living hell we endured in distant Troy —
we headstrong fighting forces of Achaea —
so many raids from shipboard down the foggy sea,
118 cruising for plunder, wherever Achilles led the way;
119 so many battles round King Priam’s walls we fought,
120 so many gone, our best and bravest fell.
121 There Ajax lies, the great man of war.
There lies Achilles too.
123 There Patroclus, skilled as the gods in counsel.
And there my own dear son, both strong and staunch,
125 Antilochus —lightning on his feet and every inch a fighter!
But so many other things we suffered, past that count —
what mortal in this wide world could tell it all?
Not if you sat and probed his memory, five, six years,
delving for all the pains our brave Achaeans bore there.
130 Your patience would fray, you’d soon head for home . . .
Nine years we wove a web of disaster for those Trojans,
pressing them hard with every tactic known to man,
and only after we slaved did Zeus award us victory.
And no one there could hope to rival Odysseus,
not for sheer cunning —
at every twist of strategy he excelled us all.
Your father, yes, if you are in fact his son . . .
I look at you and a sense of wonder takes me.
Your way with words —it’s just like his —I’d swear
140 no youngster could ever speak like you, so apt, so telling.
As long as I and great Odysseus soldiered there,
why, never once did we speak out at odds,
neither in open muster nor in royal council:
forever one in mind, in judgment balanced, shrewd,
we mapped our armies’ plans so things might turn out best.
But then, once we’d sacked King Priam’s craggy city,
Zeus contrived in his heart a fatal homeward run
for all the Achaeans who were fools, at least,
dishonest too, so many met a disastrous end,
150 thanks to the lethal rage
of the mighty Father’s daughter. Eyes afire,
Athena set them feuding, Atreus’ two sons . . .
They summoned all the Achaean ranks to muster,
rashly, just at sunset —no hour to rally troops —
and in they straggled, sodden with wine, our heroes.
The brothers harangued them, told them why they’d met:
a crisis —Menelaus urging the men to fix their minds
on the voyage home across the sea’s broad back,
but it brought no joy to Agamemnon, not at all.
160 He meant to detain us there and offer victims,
anything to appease Athena’s dreadful wrath —
poor fool, he never dreamed Athena would not comply.
The minds of the everlasting gods don’t change so quickly.
So the two of them stood there, wrangling, back and forth
till the armies sprang up, their armor clashing, ungodly uproar —
the two plans split the ranks. That night we barely slept,
seething with hard feelings against our own comrades,
for Zeus was brooding over us, poised to seal our doom . . .
At dawn, half of us hauled our vessels down to sea,
170 we stowed our plunder, our sashed and lovely women.
But half the men held back, camped on the beach,
waiting it out for Agamemnon’s next commands
while our contingent embarked —
we pushed off and sailed at a fast clip
as a god smoothed out the huge troughing swells.
176 We reached Tenedos quickly, sacrificed to the gods,
the crews keen for home, but a quick return was not
in Zeus’s plans, not yet: that cruel power
loosed a cursed feud on us once again.
180 Some swung their rolling warships hard about —
Odysseus sailed them back, the flexible, wily king,
veering over to Agamemnon now to shore his fortunes up.
But not I. Massing the ships that came in my flotilla,
I sped away as the god’s mischief kept on brewing,
185 dawning on me now. And Tydeus’ fighting son
186 Diomedes fled too, rousing all his comrades.
Late in the day the red-haired Menelaus joined us,
188 overtook us at Lesbos, debating the long route home:
189 whether to head north, over the top of rocky Chios,
190 skirting Psyrie, keeping that island off to port
191 or run south of Chios, by Mimas’ gusty cape.
We asked the god for a sign. He showed us one,
he urged us to cut out on the middle passage,
194 straight to Euboea now,
escape a catastrophe, fast as we could sail!
A shrilling wind came up, stiff, driving us on
and on we raced, over the sea-lanes rife with fish
198 and we made Geraestus Point in the dead of night.
Many thighs of bulls we offered Poseidon there —
200 thank god we’d crossed that endless reach of sea.
Then on the fourth day out the crews of Diomedes,
breaker of horses, moored their balanced ships
at Argos port, but I held course for Pylos, yes,
and never once did the good strong wind go limp
from the first day the god unleashed its blast.
And so, dear boy, I made it home from Troy,
in total ignorance, knowing nothing of their fates,
the ones who stayed behind:
who escaped with their lives and who went down.
210 But still, all I’ve gathered by hearsay, sitting here
in my own house —that you’ll learn, it’s only right,
I’ll hide nothing now.
212 They say the Myrmidons,
213 those savage spearmen led by the shining son
of lionhearted Achilles, traveled home unharmed.
215 Philoctetes the gallant son of Poias, safe as well.
216 Idomeneus brought his whole contingent back to Crete,
all who’d escaped the war —the sea snatched none from him.
But Atreus’ son Agamemnon . . . you yourselves, even
in far-off Ithaca, must have heard how he returned,
220 how Aegisthus hatched the king’s horrendous death.
But what a price he paid, in blood, in suffering.
Ah how fine it is, when a man is brought down,
to leave a son behind! Orestes took revenge,
he killed that cunning, murderous Aegisthus,
who’d killed his famous father.
And you, my friend —
how tall and handsome I see you now —be brave, you too,
so men to come will sing your praises down the years.”
Telemachus, weighing the challenge closely, answered,
“Oh Nestor, son of Neleus, Achaea’s pride and glory,
230 what a stroke of revenge that was! All Achaeans
will spread Orestes’ fame across the world,
a song for those to come.
If only the gods would arm me in such power
I’d take revenge on the lawless, brazen suitors
riding roughshod over me, plotting reckless outrage.
But for me the gods have spun out no such joy,
for my father or myself. I must bear up,
that’s all.”
And the old charioteer replied,
“Now that you mention it, dear boy, I do recall
240 a mob of suitors, they say, besets your mother
there in your own house, against your will,
and plots your ruin. Tell me, though, do you
let yourself be so abused, or do people round about,
stirred up by the prompting of some god, despise you now?
Who knows if he will return someday to take revenge
on all their violence? Single-handed perhaps
or with an Argive army at his back? If only
the bright-eyed goddess chose to love you just
as she lavished care on brave Odysseus, years ago
250 in the land of Troy where we Achaeans struggled!
I’ve never seen the immortals show so much affection
as Pallas openly showed him, standing by your father —
if only she’d favor you, tend you with all her heart,
many a suitor then would lose all thought of marriage,
blotted out forever.”
“Never, your majesty,”
Telemachus countered gravely, “that will never
come to pass, I know. What you say dumbfounds me,
staggers imagination! Hope, hope as I will,
that day will never dawn . . .
not even if the gods should will it so.”
260 “Telemachus!”
Pallas Athena broke in sharply, her eyes afire —
“What’s this nonsense slipping through your teeth?
It’s light work for a willing god to save a mortal
even half the world away. Myself, I’d rather
sail through years of trouble and labor home
and see that blessed day, than hurry home
to die at my own hearth like Agamemnon,
killed by Aegisthus’ cunning —by his own wife.
269 But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods
270 can defend a man, not even one they love, that day
when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.”
“Mentor,”
wise Telemachus said, “distraught as we are for him,
let’s speak of this no more. My father’s return?
It’s inconceivable now. Long ago the undying gods
have sealed his death, his black doom. But now
there’s another question I would put to Nestor:
Nestor excels all men for sense and justice,
his knowledge of the world.
Three generations he has ruled, they say,
280 and to my young eyes he seems a deathless god!
Nestor, son of Neleus, tell me the whole story —
how did the great king Agamemnon meet his death?
Where was Menelaus? What fatal trap did he set,
that treacherous Aegisthus, to bring down a man
far stronger than himself? Was Menelaus gone
from Achaean Argos, roving the world somewhere,
so the coward found the nerve to kill the king?”
And old Nestor the noble charioteer replied:
289 “Gladly, my boy, I’ll tell you the story first to last . . .
290 Right you are, you guess what would have happened
if red-haired Menelaus, arriving back from Troy,
had found Aegisthus alive in Agamemnon’s palace.
No barrow piled high on the earth for his dead body,
no, the dogs and birds would have feasted on his corpse,
sprawled on the plain outside the city gates, and no one,
no woman in all Achaea, would have wept a moment,
such a monstrous crime the man contrived!
But there we were, camped at Troy, battling out
the long hard campaign while he at his ease at home,
300 in the depths of Argos, stallion-country —he lay siege
to the wife of Agamemnon, luring, enticing her with talk.
At first, true, she spurned the idea of such an outrage,
303 Clytemnestra the queen, her will was faithful still.
And there was a man, what’s more, a bard close by,
to whom Agamemnon, setting sail for Troy,
gave strict commands to guard his wife. But then,
that day the doom of the gods had bound her to surrender,
Aegisthus shipped the bard away to a desert island,
marooned him there, sweet prize for the birds of prey,
310 and swept her off to his own house, lover lusting for lover.
And many thighbones he burned on the gods’ holy altars,
many gifts he hung on the temple walls —gold, brocades —
in thanks for a conquest past his maddest hopes.
Now we,
you see, were sailing home from Troy in the same squadron,
Menelaus and I, comrades-in-arms from years of war.
316 But as we rounded holy Sounion, Athens’ headland,
317 lord Apollo attacked Atrides’ helmsman, aye,
with his gentle shafts he shot the man to death —
an iron grip on the tiller, the craft scudding fast —
320 Phrontis, Onetor’s son, who excelled all men alive
at steering ships when gales bore down in fury.
So Menelaus, straining to sail on, was held back
till he could bury his mate with fitting rites.
But once he’d got off too, plowing the wine-dark sea
325 in his ribbed ships, and made a run to Malea’s beetling cape,
farseeing Zeus decided to give the man rough sailing,
poured a hurricane down upon him, shrilling winds,
giant, rearing whitecaps, monstrous, mountains high.
There at a stroke he cut the fleet in half and drove
330 one wing to Crete, where Cydonians make their homes
331 along the Iardanus River. Now, there’s a sheer cliff
332 plunging steep to the surf at the farthest edge of Gortyn,
out on the mist-bound sea, where the South Wind piles breakers,
334 huge breakers, left of the headland’s horn, toward Phaestos,
with only a low reef to block the crushing tides.
In they sailed, and barely escaped their death —
the ships’ crews, that is —
the rollers smashed their hulls against the rocks.
But as for the other five with pitch-black prows,
340 the wind and current swept them on toward Egypt.
So Menelaus, amassing a hoard of stores and gold,
was off cruising his ships to foreign ports of call
while Aegisthus hatched his vicious work at home.
344 Seven years he lorded over Mycenae rich in gold,
once he’d killed Agamemnon —he ground the people down.
346 But the eighth year ushered in his ruin, Prince Orestes
home from Athens, yes, he cut him down, that cunning,
murderous Aegisthus, who’d killed his famous father.
Vengeance done, he held a feast for the Argives,
350 to bury his hated mother, craven Aegisthus too,
the very day Menelaus arrived, lord of the warcry,
freighted with all the wealth his ships could carry.
So you,
dear boy, take care. Don’t rove from home too long,
too far, leaving your own holdings unprotected —
crowds in your palace so brazen
they’ll carve up all your wealth, devour it all,
and then your journey here will come to nothing.
Still I advise you, urge you to visit Menelaus.
He’s back from abroad at last, from people so removed
360 you might abandon hope of ever returning home,
once the winds had driven you that far off course,
into a sea so vast not even cranes could wing their way
in one year’s flight —so vast it is, so awesome . . .
So, off you go with your ships and shipmates now.
Or if you’d rather go by land, there’s team and chariot,
my sons at your service too, and they’ll escort you
367 to sunny Lacedaemon, home of the red-haired king.
Press him yourself to tell the whole truth:
he’ll never lie —the man is far too wise.”
So he closed
370 as the sun set and darkness swept across the earth
and the bright-eyed goddess Pallas spoke for all:
“There was a tale, old soldier, so well told.
373 Come, cut out the victims’ tongues and mix the wine,
so once we’ve poured libations out to the Sea-lord
and every other god, we’ll think of sleep. High time —
the light’s already sunk in the western shadows.
It’s wrong to linger long at the gods’ feast;
we must be on our way.”
Zeus’s daughter —
they all hung closely on every word she said.
380 Heralds sprinkled water over their hands for rinsing,
the young men brimmed the mixing bowls with wine,
they tipped first drops for the god in every cup
then poured full rounds for all. They rose and flung
the victims’ tongues on the fire and poured libations out.
When they’d poured, and drunk to their hearts’ content,
Athena and Prince Telemachus both started up
to head for their ship at once.
But Nestor held them there, objecting strongly:
“Zeus forbid —and the other deathless gods as well —
390 that you resort to your ship and put my house behind
like a rank pauper’s without a stitch of clothing,
no piles of rugs, no blankets in his place
for host and guests to slumber soft in comfort.
Why, I’ve plenty of fine rugs and blankets here.
No, by god, the true son of my good friend Odysseus
won’t bed down on a ship’s deck, not while I’m alive
or my sons are left at home to host our guests,
whoever comes to our palace, newfound friends.”
“Dear old man,
you’re right,” Athena exclaimed, her eyes brightening now.
400 “Telemachus should oblige you. Much the better way.
Let him follow you now, sleep in your halls,
but I’ll go back to our trim black ship,
hearten the crew and give each man his orders.
I’m the only veteran in their ranks, I tell you.
All the rest, of an age with brave Telemachus,
are younger men who sailed with him as friends.
I’ll bed down there by the dark hull tonight,
408 at dawn push off for the proud Cauconians.
Those people owe me a debt long overdue,
410 and no mean sum, believe me.
But you, seeing my friend is now your guest,
speed him on his way with a chariot and your son
and give him the finest horses that you have,
bred for stamina, trained to race the wind.”
With that the bright-eyed goddess winged away
in an eagle’s form and flight.
Amazement fell on all the Achaeans there.
The old king, astonished by what he’d seen,
grasped Telemachus’ hand and cried out to the prince,
420 “Dear boy —never fear you’ll be a coward or defenseless,
not if at your young age the gods will guard you so.
Of all who dwell on Olympus, this was none but she,
423 Zeus’s daughter, the glorious one, his third born,
who prized your gallant father among the Argives.
Now, O Queen, be gracious! Give us high renown,
myself, my children, my loyal wife and queen.
And I will make you a sacrifice, a yearling heifer
broad in the brow, unbroken, never yoked by men.
I’ll offer it up to you —I’ll sheathe its horns in gold.”
430 So he prayed, and Pallas Athena heard his prayer.
And Nestor the noble chariot-driver led them on,
his sons and sons-in-law, back to his regal palace.
Once they reached the storied halls of the aged king
they sat on rows of low and high-backed chairs.
As they arrived the old man mixed them all a bowl,
stirring the hearty wine, seasoned eleven years
before a servant broached it, loosed its seal.
Mulling it in the bowl, old Nestor poured
a libation out, praying hard to Pallas Athena,
440 daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder.
Once they had poured their offerings, drunk their fill,
the Pylians went to rest, each in his own house.
But the noble chariot-driver let Telemachus,
King Odysseus’ son, sleep at the palace now,
on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade,
with Prince Pisistratus close beside him there,
the young spearman, already captain of armies,
though the last son still unwed within the halls.
The king retired to chambers deep in his lofty house
450 where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed.
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
old Nestor the noble chariot-driver climbed from bed,
went out and took his seat on the polished stones,
a bench glistening white, rubbed with glossy oil,
placed for the king before his looming doors.
There Neleus held his sessions years ago,
a match for the gods in counsel,
but his fate had long since forced him down to Death.
Now royal Nestor in turn, Achaea’s watch and ward,
460 sat there holding the scepter while his sons,
coming out of their chambers, clustered round him,
462 hovering near: Echephron, Stratius, Perseus
463 and Aretus, Thrasymedes like a god, and sixth,
young lord Pisistratus came to join their ranks.
They escorted Prince Telemachus in to sit beside them.
Nestor, noble charioteer, began the celebration:
“Quickly, my children, carry out my wishes now
so I may please the gods, Athena first of all —
she came to me at Poseidon’s flowing feast,
470 Athena in all her glory!
Now someone go to the fields to fetch a heifer,
lead her here at once —a herdsman drive her in.
Someone hurry down to Prince Telemachus’ black ship
and bring up all his crewmen, leave just two behind.
475 And another tell our goldsmith, skilled Laerces,
to come and sheathe the heifer’s horns in gold.
The rest stay here together. Tell the maids
inside the hall to prepare a sumptuous feast —
bring seats and firewood, bring pure water too.”
480 They all pitched in to carry out his orders.
The heifer came from the fields, the crewmen came
from brave Telemachus’ ship, and the smith came in
with all his gear in hand, the tools of his trade,
the anvil, hammer and well-wrought tongs he used
485 for working gold. And Athena came as well
to attend her sacred rites.
The old horseman passed the gold to the smith,
and twining the foil, he sheathed the heifer’s horns
so the goddess’ eyes might dazzle, delighted with the gift.
490 Next Stratius and Echephron led the beast by the horns.
Aretus, coming up from the storeroom, brought them
lustral water filling a flower-braided bowl,
in his other hand, the barley in a basket.
Thrasymedes, staunch in combat, stood ready,
whetted ax in his grasp to cut the heifer down,
and Perseus held the basin for the blood.
Now Nestor the old charioteer began the rite.
498 Pouring the lustral water, scattering barley-meal,
he lifted up his ardent prayers to Pallas Athena,
500 launching the sacrifice, flinging onto the fire
the first tufts of hair from the victim’s head.
Prayers said, the scattering barley strewn,
suddenly Nestor’s son impetuous Thrasymedes
strode up close and struck —the ax chopped
the neck tendons through —
and the blow stunned
the heifer’s strength —
The women shrilled their cry,
Nestor’s daughters, sons’ wives and his own loyal wife
508 Eurydice, Clymenus’ eldest daughter. Then, hoisting up
the victim’s head from the trampled earth, they held her fast
510 as the captain of men Pisistratus slashed her throat.
Dark blood gushed forth, life ebbed from her limbs —
they quartered her quickly, cut the thighbones out
and all according to custom wrapped them round in fat,
a double fold sliced clean and topped with strips of flesh.
And the old king burned these over dried split wood
and over the fire poured out glistening wine
while young men at his side held five-pronged forks.
Once they’d burned the bones and tasted the organs,
they sliced the rest into pieces, spitted them on skewers
520 and raising points to the fire, broiled all the meats.
521 During the ritual lovely Polycaste, youngest daughter
of Nestor, Neleus’ son, had bathed Telemachus.
Rinsing him off now, rubbing him down with oil,
she drew a shirt and handsome cape around him.
Out of his bath he stepped, glistening like a god,
strode in and sat by the old commander Nestor.
They roasted the prime cuts, pulled them off the spits
and sat down to the feast while ready stewards saw
to rounds of wine and kept the gold cups flowing.
530 When they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
Nestor the noble chariot-driver issued orders:
“Hurry, my boys! Bring Telemachus horses,
a good full-maned team —
hitch them to a chariot —he must be off at once.”
They listened closely, snapped to his commands
and hitched a rapid team to a chariot’s yoke in haste.
A housekeeper stowed some bread and wine aboard
and meats too, food fit for the sons of kings.
Telemachus vaulted onto the splendid chariot —
540 right beside him Nestor’s son Pisistratus,
captain of armies, boarded, seized the reins,
whipped the team to a run and on the horses flew,
holding nothing back, out into open country,
leaving the heights of Pylos fading in their trail,
shaking the yoke across their shoulders all day long.
The sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark
547 as they reached Phera, pulling up to Diocles’ halls,
548 the son of Ortilochus, son of the Alpheus River.
He gave them a royal welcome; there they slept the night.
550 When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
they yoked their pair again, mounted the blazoned car
and out through the gates and echoing colonnade
they whipped the team to a run and on they flew,
holding nothing back —and the princes reached
the wheatlands, straining now for journey’s end,
so fast those purebred stallions raced them on
as the sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark.