Four Tragedies and Octavia

by Seneca

  The play is derived from the Hecuba and The Trojan Women of Euripides, but breaks new ground in the scene of dispute between Agamemnon and Pyrrhus and in Andromache’s struggle to save her child from Ulysses.

  The title appears as ‘Troades’ in one group of manuscripts and as ‘Troas’ in another – which would mean ‘the Trojan woman’ or ‘the Trojan story’. The singular title is the one generally known to the Elizabethan translators.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  HECUBA, widow of King Priam

  ANDROMACHE, widow of Hector

  ASTYANAX, her son, a child

  HELEN

  POLYXENA, daughter of Hecuba

  AGAMEMNON, commander of the Greeks

  PYRRHUS, son of Achilles

  ULYSSES

  TALTHYBIUS, a Greek herald

  CALCHAS, a prophet

  AN ELDER

  A MESSENGER

  CHORUS of captive Trojan women

  Greek soldiers

  *

  Scene: at Troy, outside the ruined city, near the tomb of Hector

  ACT ONE

  Hecuba, Chorus

  HECUBA: The man who puts his trust in kingly power,

  The potentate wielding authority

  In his high court, having no fear of gods

  And their capricious will, the man who takes

  His happy state for granted – let that man

  Look upon me, and upon thee, O Troy.

  Here is the proof, the strongest ever given

  By Fate, to show on what uncertain ground

  The pomp of power stands. Here lies in ruin

  The masterpiece of gods, the tower of Asia.

  To her defence allies had come from far,

  From the nine mouths of frozen Tanäis,

  And from the birthplace of the dawn, where Tigris

  Pours his hot stream into the ruby sea;

  Hither had come the queen of virgin tribes1

  Whose frontiers face the nomad Scythians

  And threaten foemen on the Pontic shore.

  Yet she was vanquished; yet she was destroyed;

  Great Pergamum lies low; her massive walls,

  With all their towering beauty, are brought down,

  Her houses all in ashes. Flames still leap

  Around the royal palace, smoke goes up

  From every corner of the wide domain

  Of prince Assaracus,2 but even fire

  Cannot delay the conquerors’ plundering hands.

  The town is looted even while it burns.

  Billows of smoke conceal the sky; dense clouds

  Blacken the daylight with a pall of soot,

  The reek of Ilium. There the victor stands,

  His vengeance not yet satisfied; with Troy’s

  Slow death before his eyes, now the destroyer

  Forgives her ten years’ toil. Her agony

  Appalls him too, and even seeing her vanquished

  He hardly can believe such victory

  Was possible. Already ravishers

  Are carrying away the spoils of Troy,

  More booty than a thousand ships can hold.

  Hear this, ye powers of heaven, ye gods above

  That ever fight against me; this I swear

  By the ashes of my home, by Phrygia’s king

  Now lying under all the Troy he ruled;

  And by the ghost of him1 who, while he stood,

  Kept Troy upright; by all you lesser ghosts,

  My many many children: all this woe,

  All the disasters that were once foretold

  (Although her god forbade us to believe her)

  By the impassioned voice of Phoebus’ bride,2

  All these things I, I Hecuba foresaw –

  When I was pregnant with a son, I saw

  What was to come, and spoke my fears; Cassandra

  Was not the first unheeded prophetess.

  And who has laid these fires among your streets?

  Not the sharp Ithacan, 3 nor his companion 4

  In nightly escapades, nor traitor Sinon; 5

  That fire was mine, my hand had lit the faggots1

  Whose blaze consumes you now.

  But why should I,

  An aged lingering relic, now lament

  Over the ruins of a fallen city?

  Troy’s doom is now old history. Remember,

  Unhappy woman, what you have lately seen:

  The execrable murder of a king –

  Achilles’ son (who could believe such sin?)

  At the king’s altar, sword in hand, his left

  Clutching the king’s hair – how he savagely

  Forced the head back and drove the foul blade deep

  Into the old man’s throat; and when in triumph

  He drew it out again, it came out dry.

  What other man would not have stayed his rage,

  What man would not have spared an aged life

  Already at the door of death, or feared

  The witnessing gods and the divine respect

  Of royalty overthrown? There Priam lies,

  Father of many kings, and has no tomb;

  Troy blazes, but there is no fire for him.

  And still the gods are not yet satisfied;

  The lots are being drawn, assigning wives

  And daughters of the royal house of Priam

  To their new masters; I shall be one of them,

  A prize whom no one wants. They take their pick,

  One claiming Hector’s wife, one Helenus’,

  And one Antenor’s wife; even Cassandra

  Does not lack suitors; my name is the one

  They fear to draw, mine is the only name

  That still holds terror for a Greek. Come, friends,

  Can you no longer weep? Come, let me hear you,

  Friends and fellow-prisoners; beat your breasts;

  Honour the name of Troy. Let your laments

  Be heard on Ida, fatal judgement-seat1

  And source of all our woe.

  CHORUS: Well may you ask us to weep;

  It is no new thing, we are well acquainted with tears.

  Year after year we have wept,

  Since a traveller from Troy2 set foot ashore

  At Amyclae in Greece,

  Since a ship of Cybele’s holy pine

  Sailed over the sea.

  Ten snows have whitened Ida’s head,

  Ten times her woods have built our funeral pyres,

  Ten harvests has the reaper, at his peril,

  Gathered in the Sigean fields;

  And we have known no day without its grief.

  Now we have cause to weep afresh.

  Weep, women, weep! And you, our queen,

  Raise your poor hands.

  Let our mistress lead, and her lowly servants will follow;

  Mourning is the work we all know well.

  HECUBA: You are my faithful friends in my time of sorrow.

  Loose your hair, let it fall on your bowed shoulders,

  Let it be dirtied in the hot dust of Troy.

  Fill your hands with dust, it is all we can take

  Away from Troy.

  Let every arm be stretched forth; loosen your garments

  And tie them around you, be naked to the womb –

  Do you still want to cover your breast, shy prisoner –

  For what husband’s sake?

  Tie your cloaks round your dropped tunics, women;

  Hands must be free to beat the mad rhythm of lament.

  Good… good… I like to see you thus,

  My women of Troy.

  Now let me hear you weep again;

  Weep as you never wept before.

  This is for Hector.

  CHORUS: We have loosed our hair, as for many a death before;

  Tangled it falls from its knot;

  We have smeared warm ash on our faces.

  We have bared our shoulders and tied our fallen garments round our loins;r />
  Our naked bosoms cry for the beating hand.

  Work, Grief, with all your might!

  Let our cries be heard on the Rhoetian shore;

  Let Echo throw them back from her mountain caves –

  Not only our last syllables as at other times,

  But every word of our lament for Troy.

  Let us be heard on every sea,

  And in all the sky.

  Hands, spare not your strength;

  Heavily beat the breast;

  What was enough before is not sufficient now.

  This is for Hector.

  HECUBA: Yes, Hector, for you I am striking these arms,

  For you these bleeding shoulders;

  For you a mother’s hands tear at her breast;

  For you I beat my head.

  Here, where I scarred my flesh at your funeral,

  Let the wound open again and the blood pour down.

  You were our country’s tower,

  Her stay against the Fates,

  Shield of the Trojans when they wearied.

  You were our wall,

  On your shoulders for ten years our city stood;

  With you she fell.

  Hector’s last day of life

  Was the end of his country’s life…

  Enough for Hector. Let a new dirge be sung.

  This is for Priam.

  CHORUS: Ruler of Phrygia, hear our mourning.

  Father, twice captive, receive our tears.

  All that has befallen Troy, under your rule,

  Has twice befallen her.

  Twice she has faced the arrows of Hercules,1

  Twice seen her walls assaulted by Grecian arms.

  Now, after the burial of Hecuba’s children,

  After the funerals of all the princely family,

  Your death, father,

  Ends the long procession to the grave.

  Headless now you lie on the Sigean sands,

  A victim slain in the sight of Jupiter.

  HECUBA: No! Change that strain, daughters of Troy!

  You must not pity my Priam’s death.

  ‘Priam is happy’ you must cry.

  He has gone free into the deep of death;

  He will never wear the yoke of a conquering Greek.

  He will never face again the sons of Atreus

  Or the treacherous Ulysses; not for him

  The prisoner’s part in an Argive triumph,

  The shoulder bowed under victor’s trophies.

  No one will bind those hands that held a sceptre;

  He will not be seen paraded through Mycenae,

  Running behind Agamemnon’s chariot

  With golden shackles on his wrists.

  CHORUS: ‘Happy is Priam’, we cry.

  He has taken his kingdom with him.

  Now he walks through the safe shadows of Elysian groves,

  Happy among the pious dead;

  He will join Hector there.

  Happy is Priam, happy is every man

  That has died in battle

  And taken with him his life’s fulfilment.

  ACT TWO

  Talthybius, Pyrrhus, Agamemnon, Calchas

  TALTHYBIUS: How long the waiting! Ever the long delay

  When Greek ships lie at anchor, waiting to sail

  In search of war, waiting to sail for home!

  CHORUS: What are they waiting for? Why are the ships

  Held back? What god forbids their homeward voyage?

  TALTHYBIUS: I shudder to tell; I shake with fear. I saw –

  Who will believe portents more terrible

  Than can be true? – and yet I saw them all.

  The first rays of the Sky God had but grazed

  The mountain tops, light chasing dark away,

  When from earth’s hidden depths a roar was heard,

  And a convulsion tore her inside out.

  The tree-tops rocked, forest and sacred grove

  Echoed the thunder; Ida was split in two,

  And rocks came tumbling down. Not only earth

  Did shake; the sea stood still, knowing her son

  Achilles to be near. A rift appeared,

  Caves yawned, hell gaped, earth parted and revealed

  A way from worlds below to worlds above.

  His tomb was burst asunder and there stood

  The living ghost of the Thessalian leader,

  Just as he looked when he was conquering Thrace

  In practice for the punishment of Troy;

  Or when he smote the white-plumed son1 of Neptune;

  Or when, with bloody slaughter in the field,

  He choked the rivers with his dead, and Xanthus,

  Turned out of its accustomed course, became

  A creeping swamp of gore; or when he stood

  Proud and victorious in his chariot,

  Dragging great Hector – dragging Troy – behind him.

  And now in every quarter of the coast

  His angry voice was heard: ‘Go, cowards, go!

  Steal off, leaving unpaid the debt you owe

  To my departed spirit; go, hoist sail

  And launch your thankless fleet upon my sea!

  It cost you dearly once, and shall again,

  To appease Achilles’ wrath. Polyxena

  Was promised me; let her be sacrificed

  Over my ashes; by the hand of Pyrrhus;

  And let my tomb be watered with her blood.’

  And with those awful words he took his leave

  Of this world’s light, and went back to the dead.

  As he descended, earth was joined again

  And its deep caverns closed. The sea lies calm

  And motionless, the wind is gentle now,

  Only a ripple whispers on the water,

  And we have heard the Tritons from the deep

  Singing the hymn of marriage.

  PYRKHUS [to Agamemnon]: So, when you spread your sails in eager haste

  To cross the sea for home, you had forgotten –

  You had forgotten Achilles, it appears.

  You had no thought for him whose single hand

  Had so struck Troy, her fall might be delayed

  But only this remained, to see which way

  Her towers would fall. Now, willing you may be,

  And anxious, as you say, to grant his wish –

  It is too late; already all your chiefs

  Have claimed their spoils. What lesser prize is left,

  Fit to be given for valour such as his?

  Is it a little debt we owe to him,

  When, though advised to stay away from war

  And live his life out in tranquillity,

  Passing the years of Nestor, he renounced

  His mother’s plot to hide him in disguise,1

  Meaning to prove himself in arms a man?

  And did not then his prentice hand receive

  Its baptism of blood, of royal blood,

  When that unfriendly king, rude Telephus,

  Would bar him from the warring land of Mysia –

  And lived to learn how strong, yet merciful,

  That hand could be? Thebes fell to his assault,

  Eëtion was overthrown and saw

  His kingdom lost. A like fate overtook

  The little hill-town Lyrnesus; and more –

  The famous place where Briseis was taken;

  Chryse, where kings had fought, laid low; and Tenedos,

  Whose story is well known; then Scyros,

  Rich pasture land of Thracian flocks; and Lesbos,

  Breakwater of the Aegean sea; and Cilia,

  Beloved by Phoebus; nor do we forget

  The land washed by the spring flood of Caÿcus.

  And all this havoc, all this scourge of nations,

  These countless cities scattered to the winds

  As by some huge tornado, might have been

  For any other man the crown and summit

  Of a career of
glorious victory.

  Achilles took them in his stride. He came;

  My father came to you with this behind him.

  All these his other glorious wars he fought

  As practice for one war. But leave aside

  His other exploits; with but one alone

  He could have been content – with Hector. Troy?

  My father conquered Troy; you have but spoiled it.

  It is my joy to tell the famous deeds

  Of my illustrious sire – how Hector fell

  In his own father’s sight; how Memnon fell

  Before his uncle’s eyes; grieving for him,

  His stricken mother’s face was overcast

  And that day’s dawn was dull.1 Even the victor

  Was harrowed at the sight of his own act;

  That was the first time that Achilles learnt

  A goddess’s son could die. Then our last foe,

  The Amazon queen, fell to his sword. Achilles

  Deserves all you can pay, if the account

  Be rightly reckoned – even if he should ask

  A young girl’s life – from Argos – or Mycenae.

  Do you deny it? Do you now condemn

  What once has been allowed, or think it brutal

  To sacrifice a daughter of King Priam

  To the son of Peleus? You once sacrificed

  A daughter of your own for Helen’s sake.

  I only claim what precedent approves.

  AGAMEMNON: Young men cannot restrain their violence;

  It is their common fault. The zeal of youth

  Inspires them generally; Pyrrhus here

  Is driven by his father’s spirit too.

  But I have borne the boasts and menaces

  Of that proud son of Aeacus ere now,

  And have not flinched. Who has most power to act,

  Should have most power to endure. What then?

  Do you think fit to soil the honoured shade

  Of an illustrious leader with foul murder?

  Ere you do that, you would do well to learn

  What acts are fitting for a conqueror,

  What penalties for the conquered. Power unchecked

  Has never lasted long; tempered with reason

  It can endure. Wherever Fortune’s hand

  Has lifted and upheld the power of man

  Over his fellow-men, there it behoves him

  To hold his privilege in check, to fear

  Each change of wind and the too generous gods.

  Greatness can fall at a touch; my victory

  Has taught me that. If Troy’s fall makes us proud

  And insolent, we Greeks, let us remember,

  Are standing in the place from which she fell.

  I own I have been guilty, I have been headstrong

  In exercise of power, I have been proud;