by Aeschylus
blinding driving to outrage -
wretched frenzy, cause of all our grief!
Yes, he had the heart
to sacrifice his daughter,
to bless the war that avenged a woman’s loss,
a bridal rite that sped the men-of-war.
‘My father, father !’ - she might pray to the winds;
no innocence moves her judges mad for war.
Her father called his henchmen on,
on with a prayer,
‘Hoist her over the altar
like a yearling, give it all your strength!
She’s fainting - lift her,
sweep her robes around her,
but slip this strap in her gentle curving lips . . .
here, gag her hard, a sound will curse the house’-
and the bridle chokes her voice . . . her saffron robes
pouring over the sand
her glance like arrows showering
wounding every murderer through with pity
clear as a picture, live,
she strains to call their names . . .
I remember often the days with father’s guests
when over the feast her voice unbroken,
pure as the hymn her loving father
bearing third libations, sang to Saving Zeus -
transfixed with joy, Atreus’ offspring
throbbing out their love.
What comes next? I cannot see it, cannot say.
The strong techniques of Calchas do their work.
But Justice turns the balance scales,
sees that we suffer
and we suffer and we learn.
And we will know the future when it comes.
Greet it too early, weep too soon.
It all comes clear in the light of day.
Let all go well today, well as she could want,
Turning to CLYTAEMNESTRA.
our midnight watch, our lone defender,
single-minded queen.
LEADER:
We’ve come,
Clytaemnestra. We respect your power.
Right it is to honour the warlord’s woman
once he leaves the throne.
But why these fires?
Good news, or more good hopes? We’re loyal,
we want to hear, but never blame your silence.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Let the new day shine — as the proverb says -
glorious from the womb of Mother Night.
Lost in prayer, then turning to the CHORUS.
You will hear a joy beyond your hopes.
Priam’s citadel - the Greeks have taken Troy!
LEADER:
No, what do you mean? I can’t believe it.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Troy is ours. Is that clear enough?
LEADER:
The joy of it,
stealing over me, calling up my tears -
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Yes, your eyes expose your loyal hearts.
LEADER:
And you have proof?
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
I do,
I must. Unless the god is lying.
LEADER:
That,
or a phantom spirit sends you into raptures.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
No one takes me in with visions — senseless dreams.
LEADER:
Or giddy rumour, you haven’t indulged yourself -
CLYTAEMNESTRA :
You treat me like a child, you mock me?
LEADER:
Then when did they storm the city?
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Last night, I say, the mother of this morning.
LEADER:
And who on earth could run the news so fast?
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
The god of fire - rushing fire from Ida!
And beacon to beacon rushed it on to me,
my couriers riding home the torch.
From Troy
to the bare rock of Lemnos, Hermes’ Spur,
and the Escort winged the great light west
to the Saving Father’s face, Mount Athos hurled it
third in the chain and leaping Ocean’s back
the blaze went dancing on to ecstasy - pitch-pine
streaming gold like a new-born sun - and brought
the word in flame to Mount Makistos’ brow.
No time to waste, straining, fighting sleep,
that lookout heaved a torch glowing over
the murderous straits of Euripos to reach
Messapion’s watchmen craning for the signal.
Fire for word of fire ! tense with the heather
withered gray, they stack it, set it ablaze -
the hot force of the beacon never flags,
it springs the Plain of Asôpos, rears
like a harvest moon to hit Kithairon’s crest
and drives new men to drive the fire on.
That relay pants for the far-flung torch,
they swell its strength outstripping my commands
and the light inflames the marsh, the Gorgon’s Eye,
it strikes the peak where the wild goats range -
my laws, my fire whips that camp !
They spare nothing, eager to build its heat,
and a huge beard of flame overcomes the headland
beetling down the Saronic Gulf, and flaring south
it brings the dawn to the Black Widow’s face -
the watch that looms above your heads - and now
the true son of the burning flanks of Ida
crashes on the roofs of Atreus’ sons I
And I ordained it all.
Torch to torch, running for their lives,
one long succession racing home my fire.
One,
first in the laps and last, wins out in triumph.
There you have my proof, my burning sign, I tell you -
the power my lord passed on from Troy to me!
LEADER:
We’ll thank the gods, my lady - first this story,
let me lose myself in the wonder of it all !
Tell it start to finish, tell us all.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
The city’s ours - in our hands this very day!
I can hear the cries in crossfire rock the walls.
Pour oil and wine in the same bowl,
what have you, friendship? A struggle to the end.
So with the victors and the victims - outcries,
you can hear them clashing like their fates.
They are kneeling by the bodies of the dead,
embracing men and brothers, infants over
the aged loins that gave them life, and sobbing,
as the yoke constricts their last free breath,
for every dear one lost.
And the others,
there, plunging breakneck through the night-
the labour of battle sets them down, ravenous,
to breakfast on the last remains of Troy.
Not by rank but chance, by the lots they draw,
they lodge in the houses captured by the spear,
settling in so soon, released from the open sky,
the frost and dew. Lucky men, off guard at last,
they sleep away their first good night in years.
If only they are revering the city’s gods,
the shrines of the gods who love the conquered land,
no plunderer will be plundered in return.
Just let no lust, no mad desire seize the armies
to ravish what they must not touch -
overwhelmed by all they’ve won!
The run for home
and safety waits, the swerve at the post,
the final lap of the gruelling two-lap race.
And even if the men come back with no offence
to the gods, the avenging dead may never rest -
Oh let no new disaster strike! And here
you
have it, what a woman has to say.
Let the best win out, clear to see.
A small desire but all that I could want.
LEADER:
Spoken like a man, my lady, loyal,
full of self-command. I’ve heard your sign
and now your vision.
Reaching towards her as she turns and re-enters the palace.
Now to praise the gods.
The joy is worth the labour.
CHORUS:
O Zeus my king and Night, dear Night,
queen of the house who covers us with glories,
you slung your net on the towers of Troy,
neither young nor strong could leap
the giant dredge net of slavery,
all-embracing ruin.
I adore you, iron Zeus of the guests
and your revenge - you drew your longbow
year by year to a taut full draw
till one bolt, not falling short
or arching over the stars,
could split the mark of Paris!
The sky stroke of god! - it is all Troy’s to tell,
but even I can trace it to its cause:
god does as god decrees.
And still some say
that heaven would never stoop to punish men
who trample the lovely grace of things
untouchable. How wrong they are!
A curse bums bright on crime -
full-blown, the father’s crimes will blossom,
burst into the son’s.
Let there be less suffering . . .
give us the sense to live on what we need.
Bastions of wealth
are no defence for the man
who treads the grand altar of Justice
down and out of sight.
Persuasion, maddening child of Ruin
overpowers him - Ruin plans it all.
And the wound will smoulder on,
there is no cure,
a terrible brilliance kindles on the night.
He is bad bronze scraped on a touchstone:
put to the test, the man goes black.
Like the boy who chases
a bird on the wing, brands his city,
brings it down and prays,
but the gods are deaf
to the one who turns to crime, they tear him down.
So Paris learned:
he came to Atreus’ house
and shamed the tables spread for guests,
he stole away the queen.
And she left her land chaos, clanging shields,
companions tramping, bronze prows, men in bronze,
and she came to Troy with a dowry, death,
strode through the gates
defiant in every stride,
as prophets of the house looked on and wept,
‘Oh the halls and the lords of war,
the bed and the fresh prints of love.
I see him, unavenging, unavenged,
the stun of his desolation is so clear -
he longs for the one who lies across the sea
until her phantom seems to sway the house.
Her curving images,
her beauty hurts her lord,
the eyes starve and the touch
of love is gone,
‘and radiant dreams are passing in the night,
the memories throb with sorrow, joy with pain . . .
it is pain to dream and see desires
slip through the arms,
a vision lost for ever
winging down the moving drifts of sleep.’
So he grieves at the royal hearth
yet others’ grief is worse, far worse.
All through Greece for those who flocked to war
they are holding back the anguish now,
you can feel it rising now in every house;
I tell you there is much to tear the heart.
They knew the men they sent,
but now in place of men
ashes and urns come back
to every hearth.
War, War, the great gold-broker of corpses
holds the balance of the battle on his spear!
Home from the pyres he sends them,
home from Troy to the loved ones,
heavy with tears, the urns brimmed full,
the heroes return in gold-dust,
dear, light ash for men; and they weep,
they praise them, ‘He had skill in the swordplay,’
‘He went down so tall in the onslaught,’
‘All for another’s woman.’ So they mutter
in secret and the rancour steals
towards our staunch defenders, Atreus’ sons.
And there they ring the walls, the young,
the lithe, the handsome hold the graves
they won in Troy; the enemy earth
rides over those who conquered.
The people’s voice is heavy with hatred,
now the curses of the people must be paid,
and now I wait, I listen . . .
there - there is something breathing
under the night’s shroud. God takes aim
at the ones who murder many;
the swarthy Furies stalk the man
gone rich beyond all rights - with a twist
of fortune grind him down, dissolve him
into the blurring dead - there is no help.
The reach for power can recoil,
the bolt of god can strike you at a glance.
Make me rich with no man’s envy,
neither a raider of cities, no,
nor slave come face to face with life
overpowered by another.
Speaking singly.
- Fire comes and the news is good,
it races through the streets
but is it true? Who knows?
Or just another lie from heaven?
- Show us the man so childish, wonderstruck,
he’s fired up with the first torch,
then when the message shifts
he’s sick at heart.
- Just like a woman
to fill with thanks before the truth is clear.
- So gullible. Their stories spread like wildfire,
they fly fast and die faster;
rumours voiced by women come to nothing.
LEADER:
Soon we’ll know her fires for what they are,
her relay race of torches hand-to-hand
know if they’re real or just a dream,
the hope of a morning here to take our senses.
I see a herald running from the beach
and a victor’s spray of olive shades his eyes
and the dust he kicks, twin to the mud of Troy,
shows he has a voice - no kindling timber
on the cliffs, no signal-fires for him.
He can shout the news and give us joy,
or else . . . please, not that.
Bring it on,
good fuel to build the first good fires.
And if anyone calls down the worst on Argos
let him reap the rotten harvest of his mind.
The HERALD rushes in and kneels on the ground.
HERALD:
Good Greek earth, the soil of my fathers!
Ten years out, and a morning brings me back.
All hopes snapped but one - I’m home at last.
Never dreamed I’d die in Greece, assigned
the narrow plot I love the best.
And now
I salute the land, the light of the sun,
our high lord Zeus and the king of Pytho -
no more arrows, master, raining on our heads!
At Scamander’s banks we took our share,
your longbow brought us down like plague.
Now come, deliver us, heal us - lord Apollo!
Gods of the market, here, take my salute.
And you, my Hermes, Escort,
; loving Herald, the herald’s shield and prayer! -
And the shining dead of the land who launched the armies,
warm us home . . . we’re all the spear has left.
You halls of the kings, you roofs I cherish,
sacred seats - you gods that catch the sun,
if your glances ever shone on him in the old days,
greet him well - so many years are lost.
He comes, he brings us light in the darkness,
free for every comrade, Agamemnon lord of men.
Give him the royal welcome he deserves!
He hoisted the pickaxe of Zeus who brings revenge,
he dug Troy down, he worked her soil down,
the shrines of her gods and the high altars, gone! -
and the seed of her wide earth he ground to bits.
That’s the yoke he claps on Troy. The king,
the son of Atreus comes. The man is blest,
the one man alive to merit such rewards.
Neither Paris nor Troy, partners to the end,
can say their work outweighs their wages now.
Convicted of rapine, stripped of all his spoils,
and his father’s house and the land that gave it life—
he’s scythed them to the roots. The sons of Priam
pay the price twice over.
LEADER:
Welcome home
from the wars, herald, long live your joy.
HERALD:
Our joy -
now I could die gladly. Say the word, dear gods.
LEADER:
Longing for your country left you raw?
HERALD:
The tears fill my eyes, for joy.
