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,