my ribs ache. I yearn to turn,
to switch my spine and roll back this way, that way,
listing my limbs to one side or the other,
making my way toward more songs of sorrow.
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For someone in my state, this counts as music:
sobbing desolation: a noise no one can dance to.
The Greek ships swiftly rowed
across the dark blue sea
through welcoming Hellenic harbors
to holy Troy.
Pipes played a hateful song of triumph,
flutes chimed their horrible harmonic sound.
The ships, rigged out with woven ropes,
the craft of Egypt,*21
pursued the hateful wife of Menelaus
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into the bays of Troy, my Troy!
That woman brought disgrace upon her brothers,*22
and shame to Sparta;*23
she killed my Priam, who fathered
a crop of fifty sons.*24
And as for me, poor Hecuba:
that woman shipwrecked all my hopes.
Look where I’m sitting: by the tents
of Agamemnon!
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I am a slave now, just a poor old woman,
taken from my home,
my hair all shorn.*25 I’m ruined, like my city.
Ah, we poor wives
of those Trojan warriors, whose bronze spears could not save us.
Poor girls, what terrible weddings for you!
Troy is smoking, slowly burning; we are crying.
I will lead the cries of lamentation,
like a mother bird with her squawking fledglings—
not with a song and dance
like those I used to lead,
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feet tapping gladly
for the gods of Troy,
while Priam leaned upon his royal staff.
(Half the Chorus have now gathered around Hecuba.)
strophe 1
FIRST SEMI-CHORUS:*26 Hecuba, why are you shouting? What’s all the commotion?
What are you trying to say? I heard from inside
your pitiful lamentations.
Fear shoots through our hearts,
all of us Trojan women in here,
crying about our loss of freedom.
HECUBA: Dear children, the men who row the Achaean ships
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are starting now, their hands on the oars.
SEMI-CHORUS: Oh, no, what now? What do they want of me?
Will they take me from my home and over the sea?
HECUBA: I don’t know, but I can guess. This means our ruin.
FIRST SEMI-CHORUS: Oh! Oh, no!
Poor women of Troy!
Come out from the tents to discover the pain you must suffer.
The Greeks are setting out for home.
HECUBA: Stop! No, no!
Don’t send my poor Cassandra out,
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crazy Cassandra, that the gods drove mad,
to be mocked by the Greeks! Don’t add more pain
to my pain. Oh, no, no, no!
O Troy, poor pitiable Troy! There’s no more Troy.
We have to leave our home:
some of us alive, the dead already gone.
(Enter Second Semi-Chorus.)
antistrophe 1
SECOND SEMI-CHORUS: Ah, tell me! Shaking with fear, I left these tents,
the tents of Agamemnon, to hear from you,
my queen, what’s going on. Do the Greeks
plan to kill me? Do they?
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Or are the sailors getting ready
at the prows, to lift the oars?
HECUBA: Child,*27 I, too, was struck with terror, trembling: before dawn
my soul was wide awake, so I came here.
SECOND SEMI-CHORUS: Has there been any herald from the Greeks?
Do you know whose slave I’ll be? I’m full of dread.
HECUBA: I think the time of drawing lots is near.
SECOND SEMI-CHORUS: Oh, no!
Will it be a man from Argos, or from Thessaly,
or will I have to travel to an island,
when I get taken from my home, far, far from Troy?
HECUBA: Ah, the pity of it!
I am a poor old woman; who will be my master?
Who must I serve, where will I go?
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I am useless, I am old and weak,
I am like a corpse,
all I can do is honor the dead, and hardly that.
Oh! Think of it!
Will I have to serve them as a door-keeper,
or a nanny? When I was once a queen,
and had the glory of the throne of Troy?
strophe 2
CHORUS:*28 Ah! Ah! How can we find the words to wail
this degradation?
Now I shall no longer spin the shuttle
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back and forth on my own native loom.
I will never see my parents’ home again;
this is the last time, this is the end. And worse to come:
I’ll either be forced to bed with a Greek
—a curse upon that night, that destiny!—
or else I’ll be just a poor household slave,
drawing water from their holy spring, Pirene.*29
I hope I go to the famous, happy land
of Theseus: Attica.*30
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But I never want to see the whirling Spartan river,
the Eurotas, or the home of hateful Helen;
may I never be a slave to Menelaus,
who sacked my town of Troy.
antistrophe 2
I’ve heard about the holy river-valley,
under Mount Olympus, Vale of Tempe.
They say it’s thick with wealth,
weighted with fertile harvests.
That’s my second choice of country; first is Athens,
holy, sacred country of the hero, Theseus.
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Just north of Carthage there’s another country,
home to Mount Etna, holy to Hephaestus,
Sicily, mother of mountains;*31
I hear it’s famous for its victory-songs.*32
And another land
lies near the Ionian Sea,*33
which the beautiful river Crathis
waters and nourishes
with holy streams that dye hair red or golden,*34
and make the country rich and happy in its men.
(Enter Talthybius.)*35
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Look! Here comes the messenger from the Greek army,
to serve our share of news.
He’s walking very fast, he’s in a hurry.
What will he say? What news will he bring? We know already
that all of us are slaves to the land of Greece.
TALTHYBIUS:*36 So, Hecuba! We’re old acquaintances.
I’ve often come from the Greek camp to Troy,
Talthybius the herald. Now, my lady,
I’ve come again with news to share with you.
HECUBA: This is it. Dear girls, this is what I feared. The moment I’ve long been dreading.
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TALTHYBIUS: Your lots have been assigned, if that’s your fear.
HECUBA: Oh! Oh! Where? Where?
A city in Thessaly?
Will it be Thebes?
TALTHYBIUS: Each to a different man, not all together.
HECUBA: Who goes to whom then? Who’s the lucky girl
that gets to stay in Troy?
TALTHYBIUS: Ask about each in turn, not all at once.
HECUBA: My child, my poor daughter,
who’ll get her? Tell me, who’ll get Cassandra?
TALTHYBIUS: King Agamemnon got her as his prize.
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HECUBA: Oh, no! To make her serve as a slave to that Spartan wife?*37
No, no!
TALTHYBIUS: No, to
be his secret second wife.
HECUBA: But she’s a virgin of Apollo! Chastity was given to her as a prize, by the god with golden hair!
TALTHYBIUS: Passion pierced the king for the god-struck girl.
HECUBA: Daughter, throw them down, your holy branches!
Take off your priestess clothes,
take off the wreaths you wear!
TALTHYBIUS: But isn’t it great? The bed of a king is hers.
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HECUBA: No, oh, no!—But tell me, what about my youngest?
The child you took from me? Where can I find her now?
TALTHYBIUS: Are you asking about Polyxena?
HECUBA: Yes. How did her lot fall out? Who will she be yoked to?
TALTHYBIUS: It’s set for her to serve Achilles’ tomb.
HECUBA: O, O, O! My daughter, serve a tomb?
But what Greek law or custom is this?
How is this possible, my friend?
TALTHYBIUS: Count your daughter happy. She’ll do well.
HECUBA: What do you mean?
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Tell me, is she alive? Does she still see the sun?
TALTHYBIUS: She’s in fate’s hands; she’ll be set free from pain.*38
HECUBA: What about the wife of Hector, the brilliant bronze-armed warrior?
Poor Andromache? What does her future hold?
TALTHYBIUS: Achilles’ son has got her as his prize.
HECUBA: And I, who will I serve? I can’t do much:
I need a stick as my third leg, grasped in my poor old hand.
TALTHYBIUS: Ithacan Lord Odysseus got you as his slave.
HECUBA: Ah! Ah!
I’ll beat my shorn old head,
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I’ll tear both cheeks with my nails.
No, no, no!
I’ve been assigned to serve
a filthy liar,
an enemy to justice, a lawless monster,
who turns everything upside-down
and back again,
with his double tongue,
transforming friends to enemies and back.*39
Mourn for me, women of Troy.
I am so unlucky: I am ruined.
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What misery! I got
the worst of all the lots.
CHORUS: You know your fate, my lady. What of mine?
What man will take me? To which part of Greece?
(Talthybius addresses the soldiers in attendance.)
TALTHYBIUS: Go, you slaves, and bring Cassandra here,
quick as you can, so I can hand her over
to the general, then I’ll take the other captives,
and pass them out to their allotted masters.
But hey! What is that light inside the tent?
Those Trojan girls are up to something—burning
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their rooms,*40 to stop us taking them away
to Greece? Are they attempting suicide,
setting themselves on fire? Free people hate
submitting to the yoke. Death may be best
for them, but not the Greeks—and they’ll blame me.
So I must stop it: open up the doors!
HECUBA: There is no fire, no burning. My mad daughter
Cassandra’s rushing out here, with a torch.*41
strophe
CASSANDRA:*42 (entering) Bring the light! Hold it up!
Oh, look! Look!
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I’ll glorify this holy place with light. O marriage god!
What joy for the bridegroom!
What joy for me, my wedding day!
My royal Argive wedding!
Hymen,*43 O Hymen, lord of marriage!
Mother, since you’re always weeping,
and lamenting my dead father,
and our beloved country,
I myself will burn the torch
for my own wedding,
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make it blaze with brightness, sparkling,
offering you, Hymen,
offering you, Hecate,*44
light for a young girl’s wedding
in the traditional way.
antistrophe
Lift your feet to the sky! Lead the dance, lead the dance!
Cry aloud and sing “Hurrah, bravo!”*45
As we did in those happy days
of my father’s life. Dancing is holy.
Lead the dance, Lord Apollo. In the midst of your laurels,*46
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in your temple I’ll sacrifice for you.
Hymen, O Hymen, O Hymen!
Dance, Mother, lead us in dancing,
Twirl your feet this way and that, with mine,
show us the steps we love!
Shout out the wedding song!
Celebrate the bride
with songs and calls of joy!
Come, girls of Troy, in your prettiest dresses,
sing for my wedding!
Sing for the husband destined
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to share my bed.
CHORUS: Queen, will you not stop your daughter’s frenzy?
She might go skipping off to the Greek camp!
HECUBA: Hephaestus,*47 you bless mortal marriages
with light; but this flame burning here is bitter.
I had high hopes for you, my child. All dashed.
I never thought you’d marry in this way:
forced by Greek soldiers with their swords and spears.
Give me the torch. You’re whirling like a wild thing,
not carrying it straight. Your troubles, child,
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have not restored your sanity. You’re still
mad as you were. Women, take in the torches,
and change these wedding songs to tears of grief.
CASSANDRA: Mother, crown me! I have won the prize!
Be happy! I am marrying the king!
Send me to him: or, if I hesitate,
push me to him. If my prophetic god*48
tells true, this famous Greek king, Agamemnon,
will have worse luck in his affair with me
than Helen had.*49 I’ll kill him, sack his home,
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revenge for my dead brothers and dead father.
Enough of that. I won’t sing of the axe
to fall upon my neck and those of others,*50
the struggles of the matricide,*51 begun
by this, my wedding, nor the overthrow
of all the house of Atreus. But I’ll tell
how Troy is better off than all those Greeks.
I’ll speak with inspiration, but quite calmly.*52
The Greeks destroyed thousands of men, in quest
of just one woman, Helen: one man’s passion.
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Their clever general killed the child he loved,*53
for enemies he hated! Gave away
the joys of home and children, for his brother,*54
for a wife who ran off freely, not abducted!
When they arrived here, by Scamander’s banks,
They died and died, though no one made them leave
the citadels and borders of their home.
Those caught by Ares never got to see
their children, nor be wrapped in winding sheets
by their own wives. They lie in a foreign land.
The Greeks at home are doing just as badly.
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Their wives are widowed, then they die. Their parents
die bereft, as if they’d had no children:
no one will come to bless their tombs with blood.*55
Best not to talk of things that bring more shame:
my Muse must not sing only of disaster.>*56
As for the Trojans: well, first they won glory
by dying for their country. Those that were taken
by spears were borne home by their families.
The earth of home holds safe their
bodies, buried
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properly, by the hands of those that loved them.
And all those Trojans who weren’t killed in battle
still went on living with their wives and children,
joys far distant from the Achaean soldiers.*57
I know you mourn for Hector: but now hear
the truth. He’s dead and gone, but he’s a hero.
The Greek invasion gave him this great name.
His courage would be still unknown, if they
had stayed in Greece. If Paris hadn’t taken
Helen, he’d have some unknown wife at home!
400
Sensible people should not wish for war,
but if it comes, be noble in defeat.
That saves us from disgrace, and wins us glory.
So, Mother, do not pity Troy, or me
for my new “husband,” since I shall destroy
my enemy, and yours, by marrying him.
CHORUS: How merrily you laugh at your misfortune!
Do your songs hold riddles you’ll reveal?
TALTHYBIUS: (to Cassandra) If Apollo had not made you mad,
you would not get away with burdening
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my generals with bad omens for their journey.
(aside) But even those who have the name of wise,
the generals, are no better than these nothings.
The king of all the Greeks, the son of Atreus,*58
has chosen as his special concubine
this crazy girl! I may be just a poor man,
but I would never go to bed with her.
(to Cassandra) Now, as for you, I know your mind’s not right,
so I’ll consign your raving to the winds—
your praises for the Trojans and your blame
of Greeks. No matter. But now follow me,
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down to the ships, a fine bride for our leader.
(to Hecuba) And you: Laertes’ son will come to get you;
follow him. The Greeks say that the woman
you’ll serve, Odysseus’ wife, is good and decent.
CASSANDRA: A clever servant! Why do heralds have
so much respect, when all humanity hates them,
underlings to kings and governments?
Do you say Odysseus will bring
my mother to his house? What of Apollo?
His words to me foretell that she will die
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right here at Troy. The rest is shame: I’ll skip it.*59
And he, poor man,*60 can’t know what kind of pain
awaits him still. My sufferings, and those
of Troy, will seem like gold to him. He’ll sail
ten years, then come alone to his own land.
[…]*61
He’ll pass the narrow gorge where terrible
Charybdis lives, and in the hills he’ll meet
The Greek Plays Page 77
