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.
Now he’d have hauled him off and won undying glory
but Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter quick to the mark,
snapped the rawhide strap, cut from a bludgeoned ox,
and the helmet came off empty in Menelaus’ fist.
Whirling it round the fighter sent it flying
into his Argives scrambling fast to retrieve it—
back at his man he sprang, enraged with brazen spear,
mad for the kill but Aphrodite snatched Paris away,
easy work for a god, wrapped him in swirls of mist
and set him down in his bedroom filled with scent.
Then off she went herself to summon Helen
and found her there on the steep, jutting tower
with a troop of Trojan women clustered round her.
The goddess reached and tugged at her fragrant robe,
whispering low, for all the world like an old crone,
the old weaver who, when they lived in Lacedaemon,
wove her fine woolens and Helen held her dear.
Like her to the life, immortal Love invited,
“Quickly—Paris is calling for you, come back home! There he is in the bedroom, the bed with inlaid rings—
he’s glistening in all his beauty and his robes!
You’d never dream he’s come from fighting a man,
you’d think he’s off to a dance or slipped away
from the dancing, stretching out at ease.”
Enticing so
that the heart in Helen’s breast began to race.
She knew the goddess at once, the long lithe neck,
the smooth full breasts and the fire in those eyes—
and she was amazed, she burst out with her name:
“Maddening one, my Goddess, oh what now?
Lusting to lure me to my ruin yet again?
Where will you drive me next?
Off and away to other grand, luxurious cities,
out to Phrygia, out to Maeonia’s tempting country?
Have you a favorite mortal man there too?
But why now?—
because Menelaus has beaten your handsome Paris
and hateful as I am, he longs to take me home?
Is that why you beckon here beside me now
with all the immortal cunning in your heart?
Well, go to him yourself—you hover beside him!
Abandon the gods’ high road and be a mortal!
Never set foot again on Mount Olympus, never!—
suffer for Paris, protect Paris, for eternity...
until he makes you his wedded wife—that or his slave.
Not I, I’ll never go back again. It would be wrong,
disgraceful to share that coward’s bed once more.
The women of Troy would scorn me down the years.
Oh the torment—never-ending heartbreak!“
But Aphrodite rounded on her in fury:
“Don’t provoke me—wretched, headstrong girl!
Or in my immortal rage I may just toss you over,
hate you as I adore you now—with a vengeance.
I might make you the butt of hard, withering hate
from both sides at once, Trojans and Achaeans—
then your fate can tread you down to dust!”
So she threatened
and Helen the daughter of mighty Zeus was terrified.
Shrouding herself in her glinting silver robes
she went along, in silence. None of her women
saw her go ... The goddess led the way.
And once they arrived at Paris’ sumptuous halls
the attendants briskly turned to their own work
as Helen in all her radiance climbed the steps
to the bedroom under the high, vaulting roof.
There Aphrodite quickly brought her a chair,
the goddess herself with her everlasting smile,
and set it down, face-to-face with Paris.
And there Helen sat, Helen the child of Zeus
whose shield is storm and lightning, glancing away,
lashing out at her husband: “So, home from the wars!
Oh would to god you’d died there, brought down
by that great soldier, my husband long ago.
And how you used to boast, year in, year out,