wed to Antenor’s son, Helicaon’s bride Laodice,
the loveliest daughter Priam ever bred.
And Iris came on Helen in her rooms ...
weaving a growing web, a dark red folding robe,
working into the weft the endless bloody struggles
stallion-breaking Trojans and Argives armed in bronze
had suffered all for her at the god of battle’s hands.
Iris, racing the wind, brushed close and whispered,
“Come, dear girl, come quickly—
so you can see what wondrous things they’re doing,
stallion-breaking Trojans and Argives armed in bronze!
A moment ago they longed to kill each other, longed
for heartbreaking, inhuman warfare on the plain.
Now those very warriors stand at ease, in silence—
the fighting’s stopped, they lean against their shields,
their long lances stuck in the ground beside them.
Think of it: Paris and Menelaus loved by Ares
go to fight it out with their rugged spears—
all for you—and the man who wins that duel,
you’ll be called his wife!”
And with those words
the goddess filled her heart with yearning warm and deep
for her husband long ago, her city and her parents.
Quickly cloaking herself in shimmering linen,
out of her rooms she rushed, live tears welling,
and not alone—two of her women followed close behind,
Aethra, Pittheus’ daughter, and Clymene, eyes wide,
and they soon reached the looming Scaean Gates.
And there they were, gathered around Priam,
Panthous and Thymoetes, Lampus and Clytius,
Hicetaon the gray aide of Ares, then those two
with unfailing good sense, Ucalegon and Antenor.
The old men of the realm held seats above the gates.
Long years had brought their fighting days to a halt
but they were eloquent speakers still, clear as cicadas
settled on treetops, lifting their voices through the forest,
rising softly, falling, dying away ... So they waited,
the old chiefs of Troy, as they sat aloft the tower.
And catching sight of Helen moving along the ramparts,
they murmured one to another, gentle, winged words:
“Who on earth could blame them? Ah, no wonder
the men of Troy and Argives under arms have suffered
years of agony all for her, for such a woman.
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—