all the Trojan women, one after another . . .
Hard sorrows were hanging over many.
And soon
he came to Priam’s palace, that magnificent structure
built wide with porches and colonnades of polished stone.
And deep within its walls were fifty sleeping chambers
masoned in smooth, lustrous ashlar, linked in a line
where the sons of Priam slept beside their wedded wives,
and facing these, opening out across the inner courtyard,
lay the twelve sleeping chambers of Priam’s daughters,
masoned and roofed in lustrous ashlar, linked in a line
where the sons-in-law of Priam slept beside their wives.
And there at the palace Hector’s mother met her son,
that warm, goodhearted woman, going in with Laodice,
the loveliest daughter Hecuba ever bred. His mother
clutched his hand and urged him, called his name:
“My child—why have you left the bitter fighting,
why have you come home? Look how they wear you out,
the sons of Achaea—curse them—battling round our walls!
And that’s why your spirit brought you back to Troy,
to climb the heights and stretch your arms to Zeus.
But wait, I’ll bring you some honeyed, mellow wine.
First pour out cups to Father Zeus and the other gods,
then refresh yourself, if you’d like to quench your thirst.
When a man’s exhausted, wine will build his strength—
battle-weary as you are, fighting for your people.”
But Hector shook his head, his helmet flashing:
“Don’t offer me mellow wine, mother, not now—
you’d sap my limbs, I’d lose my nerve for war.
And I’d be ashamed to pour a glistening cup to Zeus
with unwashed hands. I’m splattered with blood and filth—
how could I pray to the lord of storm and lightning?
No, mother, you are the one to pray.
Go to Athena’s shrine, the queen of plunder,
go with offerings, gather the older noble women
and take a robe, the largest, loveliest robe
that you can find throughout the royal halls,
a gift that far and away you prize most yourself,
and spread it out across the sleek-haired goddess’ knees.
Then promise to sacrifice twelve heifers in her shrine,
yearlings never broken, if only she’ll pity Troy,
the Trojan wives and all our helpless children,
if only she’ll hold Diomedes back from the holy city—
that wild spearman, that invincible headlong terrorl
Now, mother, go to the queen of plunder’s shrine
and I’ll go hunt for Paris, summon him to fight
if the man will hear what I have to say . . .
Let the earth gape and swallow him on the spot!
A great curse Olympian Zeus let live and grow in him,
for Troy and high-hearted Priam and all his sons.
That man—if I could see him bound for the House of Death,
I could say my heart had forgot its wrenching grief!”
But his mother simply turned away to the palace.
She gave her servants orders and out they strode
to gather the older noble women through the city.
Hecuba went down to a storeroom filled with scent
and there they were, brocaded, beautiful robes . . .
the work of Sidonian women. Magnificent Paris
brought those women back himself from Sidon,
sailing the open seas on the same long voyage
he swept Helen off, her famous Father’s child.
Lifting one from the lot, Hecuba brought it out
for great Athena’s gift, the largest, loveliest,
richly worked, and like a star it glistened,
deep beneath the others. Then she made her way
with a file of noble women rushing in her train.
Once they reached Athena’s shrine on the city crest
the beauty Theano opened the doors to let them in,
Cisseus’ daughter, the horseman Antenor’s wife
and Athena’s priestess chosen by the Trojans. Then—
with a shrill wail they all stretched their arms to Athena
as Theano, her face radiant, lifting the robe on high,
spread it out across the sleek-haired goddess’ knees
and prayed to the daughter of mighty Father Zeus:
“Queen Athena—shield of our city—glory of goddesses!
Now shatter the spear of Diomedes! That wild man—
hurl him headlong down before the Scaean Gates!
At once we’ll sacrifice twelve heifers in your shrine,
yearlings never broken, if only you’ll pity Troy,
the Trojan wives and all our helpless children!”
But Athena refused to hear Theano’s prayers.
And while they prayed to the daughter of mighty Zeus
Hector approached the halls of Paris, sumptuous halls
he built himself with the finest masons of the day,
master builders famed in the fertile land of Troy.
They’d raised his sleeping chamber, house and court
adjoining Priam’s and Hector’s aloft the city heights.
Now Hector, dear to Zeus, strode through the gates,
clutching a thrusting-lance eleven forearms long;
the bronze tip of the weapon shone before him,
ringed with a golden hoop to grip the shaft.
And there in the bedroom Hector came on Paris
polishing, fondling his splendid battle-gear,
his shield and breastplate, turning over and over
his long curved bow. And there was Helen of Argos,
sitting with all the women of the house, directing
the rich embroidered work they had in hand.
Seeing Paris,
Hector raked his brother with insults, stinging taunts:
“What on earth are you doing? Oh how wrong it is,
this anger you keep smoldering in your heart! Look,
your people dying around the city, the steep walls,
dying in arms—and all for you, the battle cries
and the fighting flaring up around the citadel.
You’d be the first to lash out at another—anywhere—
you saw hanging back from this, this hateful war.
Up with you—
before all Troy is torched to a cinder here and now!“
And Paris, magnificent as a god, replied,
“Ah Hector, you criticize me fairly, yes,
nothing unfair, beyond what I deserve. And so
I will try to tell you something. Please bear with me,
hear me out. It’s not so much from anger or outrage
at our people that I keep to my rooms so long.
I only wanted to plunge myself in grief.
But just now my wife was bringing me round,
her winning words urging me back to battle.
And it strikes me, even me, as the better way.
Victory shifts, you know, now one man, now another.
So come, wait while I get this war-gear on,