not need to be asked twice. The night before the race, as he mounted the chariot’s wheels on their polished axles, Myrtilus switched the bronze linchpins that held the wheels in place with fake ones made of beeswax.
The day of the race dawned at last. Pelops stepped aboard his golden chariot, lifted Hippodamia to his side, and cracked the whiplash. The winged horses sprang at his urging, and in the blink of an eye left Pisa far behind. Pelops rode for dear 110 life, one eye on the road ahead, another on the road behind, in fear of the brutal king. Oinomaus took his time, offered an unblemished ram to war-like Zeus, prayed for success. Little did he know the god, sick of all the slaughter, now turned a deaf ear to his plea. The king then climbed aboard his waiting car, and bade his driver set off in hot pursuit.
They flew on like the wind, farther than ever before, but Pelops was nowhere to be seen. In no time at all, sacred Corinth itself hove into view, and the old king raged at the 120 thought the race was lost. Just then, before them on the rocky path, gleamed Pelops’ golden car. Oinomaus drew back his arm to spear the upstart between the shoulders, to rip out his life. But as he did, the chariot hit a bump, both wheels flew off their axles, and the car overturned and broke into pieces. Myrtilus rolled with the fall, but the old king pitched forward into the dust, tangled in the reins.
The horses galloped on, dragging Oinomaus over the sharp rocks, and with his last breath the old king cursed Myrtilus for his betrayal. As for the gory palace of Oinomaus, Zeus 130 lord of lightning struck it with his thunderbolt, wrapped it in tongues of flame, burned it to the ground.
