Beauty, terrible beauty!
A deathless goddess—so she strikes our eyes!
But still,
ravishing as she is, let her go home in the long ships
and not be left behind ... for us and our children
down the years an irresistible sorrow.”
They murmured low
but Priam, raising his voice, called across to Helen,
“Come over here, dear child. Sit in front of me,
so you can see your husband of long ago,
your kinsmen and your people.
I don’t blame you. I hold the gods to blame.
They are the ones who brought this war upon me,
devastating war against the Achaeans—
Here, come closer,
tell me the name of that tremendous fighter. Look,
who’s that Achaean there, so stark and grand?
Many others afield are much taller, true,
but I have never yet set eyes on one so regal,
so majestic ... That man must be a king!“
And Helen the radiance of women answered Priam,
“I revere you so, dear father, dread you too—
if only death had pleased me then, grim death,
that day I followed your son to Troy, forsaking
my marriage bed, my kinsmen and my child,
my favorite, now full-grown,
and the lovely comradeship of women my own age.
Death never came, so now I can only waste away in tears.
But about your question—yes, I have the answer.
That man is Atreus’ son Agamemnon, lord of empires,
both a mighty king and a strong spearman too,
and he used to be my kinsman, whore that I am!
There was a world ... or was it all a dream?”
Her voice broke but the old king, lost in wonder,
cried out, “How lucky you are, son of Atreus,
child of fortune, your destiny so blessed!
Look at the vast Achaean armies you command!
Years ago I visited Phrygia rife with vineyards,
saw the Phrygian men with their swarming horses there—
multitudes—the armies of Otreus, Mygdon like a god,
encamped that time along the Sangarius River banks.
And I took my stand among them, comrade-in-arms
the day the Amazons struck, a match for men in war.
But not even those hordes could match these hordes of yours,
your fiery-eyed Achaeans!”
And sighting Odysseus next
the old king questioned Helen, “Come, dear child,
tell me of that one too—now who is he?
Shorter than Atreus’ son Agamemnon, clearly,
but broader across the shoulders, through the chest.
There, you see? His armor’s heaped on the green field
but the man keeps ranging the ranks of fighters like a ram—
yes, he looks to me like a thick-fleeced bellwether ram
making his way through a big mass of sheep-flocks,
shining silver-gray.”
Helen the child of Zeus replied,
“That’s Laertes’ son, the great tactician Odysseus.
He was bred in the land of Ithaca. Rocky ground
and he’s quick at every treachery under the sun—
the man of twists and turns.”
Helen paused
and the shrewd Antenor carried on her story:
“Straight to the point, my lady, very true.
Once in the past he came our way, King Odysseus
heading the embassy they sent for your release,
together with Menelaus dear to Ares.
I hosted them, treated them warmly in my halls
and learned the ways of both, their strategies, their traits.
Now, when they mingled with our Trojans in assembly,
standing side-by-side, Menelaus’ shoulders
mounted over his friend’s in height and spread,
when both were seated Odysseus looked more lordly.
But when they spun their appeals before us all,
Menelaus spoke out quickly—his words racing,
few but clear as a bell, nothing long-winded
or off the mark, though in fact the man was younger.
But when Odysseus sprang up, the famed tactician
would just stand there, staring down, hard,
his eyes fixed on the ground,
never shifting his scepter back and forth,
clutching it stiff and still like a mindless man.
You’d think him a sullen fellow or just plain fool.
But when he let loose that great voice from his chest
and the words came piling on like a driving winter blizzard—
then no man alive could rival Odysseus! Odysseus ...
we no longer gazed in wonder at his looks.”
Catching sight
of a third fighter, Ajax, the old king asked her next,
“Who’s that other Achaean, so powerful, so well-built?
He towers over the Argives, his head, his massive shoulders!”
And Helen in all her radiance, her long robes, replied,
“Why, that’s the giant Ajax, bulwark of the Achaeans.
And Idomeneus over there—standing with his Cretans—
like a god, you see? And the Cretan captains
form a ring around him. How often Menelaus,
my good soldier, would host him in our halls,
in the old days, when he’d sail across from Crete.
And now I see them all, the fiery-eyed Achaeans,
I know them all by heart, and I could tell their names ...
but two I cannot find, and they’re captains of the armies,
Castor breaker of horses and the hardy boxer Polydeuces.
My blood brothers. Mother bore them both. Perhaps
they never crossed over from Lacedaemon’s lovely hills
or come they did, sailing here in the deep-sea ships,
but now they refuse to join the men in battle,
dreading the scorn, the curses hurled at me ...”
So she wavered, but the earth already held them fast,
long dead in the life-giving earth of Lacedaemon,
the dear land of their fathers.
Now through Troy
the heralds brought the offerings for the gods,
sacred victims to bind and seal the oaths:
two lambs and the wine that warms the heart,
the yield of the vine, filling a goatskin sack,
and the herald Idaeus carried a gleaming bowl
and golden winecups. Reaching the old king’s side
the crier roused him sharply: “Son of Laomedon, rise up!
They are calling for you now, commanders of both armies,
stallion-breaking Trojans and Argives armed in bronze—
come down to the plain so you can seal our oaths.
Now Paris and Menelaus, Atrides loved by Ares,
will fight it out with their rugged spears for Helen,
and Helen and all her treasures go to the man who wins.
The rest will seal in blood their binding pacts of friendship.
Our people will live in peace on the rich soil of Troy.
Our enemies sail home to the stallion-land of Argos,
the land of Achaea where the women are a wonder.”
A shudder went shooting through the old man
but he told his men to yoke the team at once.
They promptly obeyed and Priam climbed aboard,
pulling the reins back taut. Antenor flanked him,
mounting the gleaming car, and both men drove the team
through the Scaean Gates, heading toward the plain.
Reaching the front, they climbed down from the chariot,
onto the earth that feeds us all, and into the space
between Achaean and Trojan
lines they marched.
Lord Agamemnon rose at once to greet them both
with the great tactician Odysseus by his side.
The noble heralds brought on the victims
marked for the gods to seal and bind the oaths.
They mixed the contenders’ wine in a large bowl
and rinsed the warlords’ waiting hands with water.
Atreus’ son drew forth the dagger always slung
at his battle-sword’s big sheath, cut some tufts
from the lambs’ heads, and heralds passed them round
to Achaean and Trojan captains. Then Atreus’ son
Agamemnon stood in behalf of all, lifted his arms
and prayed in his deep resounding voice, “Father Zeus!
Ruling over us all from Ida, god of greatness, god of glory!
Helios, Sun above us, you who see all, hear all things!
Rivers! And Earth! And you beneath the ground
who punish the dead—whoever broke his oath—
be witness here, protect our binding pacts.
If Paris brings Menelaus down in blood,
he keeps Helen himself and all her wealth
and we sail home in our racing deep-sea ships.
But if red-haired Menelaus brings down Paris,
the Trojans surrender Helen and all her treasures.
And they pay us reparations fair and fitting,
a price to inspire generations still to come.
But if Priam and Priam’s sons refuse to pay,
refuse me, Agamemnon—with Paris beaten down—
then I myself will fight it out for the ransom,
I’ll battle here to the end of our long war.”
On those terms
he dragged his ruthless dagger across the lambs’ throats
and let them fall to the ground, dying, gasping away
their life breath, cut short by the sharp bronze.
Then dipping up the wine from the mixing bowls,
brimming their cups, pouring them on the earth,
men said their prayers to the gods who never die.
You could hear some Trojan or Achaean calling, “Zeus—
god of greatness, god of glory, all you immortals!
Whichever contenders trample on this treaty first,
spill their brains on the ground as this wine spills—
theirs, their children’s too—their enemies rape their wives!”
But Zeus would not fulfill their prayers, not yet ...
Now Priam rose in their midst and took his leave:
“Hear me, Trojans, Achaeans geared for combat—
home I go to windy Ilium, straight home now.
This is more than I can bear, I tell you—
to watch my son do battle with Menelaus
loved by the War-god, right before my eyes.
Zeus knows, no doubt, and every immortal too,
which fighter is doomed to end all this in death.”
And laying the victims in the chariot, noble Priam
climbed aboard, pulling the reins back taut.
Antenor flanked him, mounting the gleaming car,
and back they drove again, heading home to Troy.
But Priam’s son Prince Hector and royal Odysseus
measured off the ground for single combat first,
then dropped two stones in a helmet, lots for casting—
who would be first to hurl his bronze-tipped spear?
The armies prayed and stretched their hands to the gods.
You could hear some Trojan or Achaean pleading, “Father Zeus!
Ruling over us all from Ida, god of greatness, glory!
Whoever brought this war on both our countries,
let him rot and sink to the House of Death—
but let our pacts of friendship all hold fast!”
So they prayed
as tall Hector, eyes averted under his flashing helmet,
shook the two lots hard and Paris’ lot leapt out.
The troops sat down by rank, each beside his horses
pawing the ground where blazoned war-gear lay. And now—
one warrior harnessed burnished armor on his back,
magnificent Paris, fair-haired Helen’s consort.
First he wrapped his legs with well-made greaves,
fastened behind the heels with silver ankle-clasps,
next he strapped a breastplate round his chest,
his brother Lycaon’s that fitted him so well.
Then over his shoulder Paris slung his sword,
the fine bronze blade with its silver-studded hilt,
and then the shield-strap and his sturdy, massive shield
and over his powerful head he set a well-forged helmet,
the horsehair crest atop it tossing, bristling terror,
and last he grasped a spear that matched his grip.
Following step by step
the fighting Menelaus strapped on armor too.
Both men armed at opposing sides of the forces,
into the no man’s land between the lines they strode,
glances menacing, wild excitement seizing all who watched,
the stallion-breaking Trojans and Argive men-at-arms.
Striking a stand in the dueling-ground just cleared
they brandished spears at each other, tense with fury.
Suddenly Paris hurled—his spear’s long shadow flew
and the shaft hit Menelaus’ round shield, full center—
not pounding through, the brazen point bent back
in the tough armor.
But his turn next—Menelaus
reared with a bronze lance and a prayer to Father Zeus:
“Zeus, King, give me revenge, he wronged me first!
Illustrious Paris—crush him under my hand!
So even among the men to come a man may shrink
from wounding the host who showers him with kindness.”
Shaking his spear, he hurled and its long shadow flew
and the shaft hit Paris’ round shield, hit full center—
straight through the gleaming hide the heavy weapon drove,
ripping down and in through the breastplate finely worked,
tearing the war-shirt, close by Paris’ flank it jabbed
but the Trojan swerved aside and dodged black death.
So now Menelaus drew his sword with silver studs
and hoisting the weapon high, brought it crashing down
on the helmet ridge but the blade smashed where it struck—
jagged shatters flying—it dropped from Atrides’ hand
and the hero cried out, scanning the blank skies,
“Father Zeus—no god’s more deadly than you!
Here I thought I’d punish Paris for all his outrage—
now my sword is shattered, right in my hands, look,
my spear flew from my grip for nothing—I never hit him!”
Lunging at Paris, he grabbed his horsehair crest,
swung him round, started to drag him into Argive lines
and now the braided chin-strap holding his helmet tight
was gouging his soft throat—Paris was choking, strangling.
The Iliad Page 19
