But come--
let's go to bed, let's lose ourselves in love!
Never has longing for you overwhelmed me so,
no, not even then, I tell you, that first time
when I swept you up from the lovely hills of Lacedaemon,
sailed you off and away in the racing deep-sea ships
and we went and locked in love on Rocky Island ...
That was nothing to how I hunger for you now--
irresistible longing lays me low!"
He led the way to bed. His wife went with him.
And now, while the two made love in the large carved bed,
Menelaus stalked like a wild beast, up and down the lines--
where could he catch a glimpse of magnificent Paris?
Not a single Trojan, none of their famous allies
could point out Paris to battle-hungry Menelaus.
Not that they would hide him out of friendship,
even if someone saw him--
all of them hated him like death, black death.
But marshal Agamemnon called out to the armies,
"Hear me now, you Trojans, Dardans, Trojan allies!
Clearly victory goes to Menelaus dear to Ares.
You must surrender Helen and all her treasure with her.
At once--and pay us reparations fair and fitting,
a price to inspire generations still to come!"
So Atrides demanded. His armies roared assent.
BOOK FOUR
The Truce Erupts in War
Now aloft by the side of Zeus the gods sat in council,
conferring across Olympus' golden floor as noble Hebe
poured them rounds of nectar. They lifted golden beakers,
pledging each other warmly, gazing down on Troy ...
But abruptly Zeus was set on infuriating Hera,
courting her fire with cunning, mocking taunts: "So,
those two goddesses there are Menelaus' best defense,
Hera of Argos, Boeotian Athena, guard of armies.
Look at them--sitting apart, watching the dueling.
So they take their pleasure. But Aphrodite here
with her everlasting laughter always stands by Paris
and drives the deadly spirits from her man. Why,
just now she plucked him away, she saved his life
when he thought his end had come. Nevertheless--
clearly victory goes to Menelaus dear to Ares.
So now we plan how the war will all work out:
do we rouse the pain and grisly fighting once again
or hand down pacts of peace between both armies?
Ah if only it might prove well and good to all,
to every immortal god, men might still live on
in royal Priam's citadel. And Helen of Argos?
Menelaus just might lead her home again."
So he mocked
as Athena and Queen Hera muttered between themselves,
huddled together, plotting Troy's destruction.
True, Athena held her peace and said nothing ...
smoldering at the Father, seized with wild resentment.
But Hera could hold the anger in her breast no longer,
suddenly bursting out, "Dread majesty, son of Cronus,
what are you saying? How can you think of making
all my labor worthless, all gone for nothing?
Mortal labor--the sweat I poured, my horses panting,
spent from launching Achaea's armies, heaping pains
on Priam and Priam's sons.
Do as you please--
but none of the deathless gods will ever praise you."
Rising in anger, Zeus who drives the storm clouds
thundered, "Insatiable Hera! How great are the pains
that Priam and Priam's sons have heaped on you
that you rage on, relentless, forever bent on razing
the well-built heights of Troy? Only if you could breach
their gates and their long walls and devour Priam
and Priam's sons and the Trojan armies raw--
then you just might cure your rage at last.
Well, do as you please. But in days to come
don't let this quarrel breed some towering clash
between us both, pitting you and me in conflict.
One more thing--take it to heart, I urge you.
Whenever I am bent on tearing down some city
filled with men you love--to please myself--
never attempt to thwart my fury, Hera,
give me my way. For I, I gave you this,
all of my own free will but hardly willing. No,
of all the cities under the sun and starry skies,
wherever men who walk the earth have dwelled,
Priam and men of Priam who hurls the strong ash spear.
Never once did my altar lack its share of victims,
winecups tipped and the deep smoky savor. These,
these are the gifts we claim--they are our rights."
And Hera the Queen, her eyes wide, answered,
"Excellent! The three cities that I love best of all
are Argos and Sparta, Mycenae with streets as broad as Troy's.
Raze them--whenever they stir the hatred in your heart.
My cities ... I will never rise in their defense,
not against you--I'd never grudge your pleasure.
What if I did protest, forbid you to raze their walls?
What good would protest do? You are far stronger than I.
Still, you must not make my labor come to nothing.
I am a god too. My descent the same as yours--
crooked-minded Cronus fathered me as well,
the first of all his daughters, first both ways:
both by birth and since I am called your consort
and you in turn rule all the immortal gods.
So come, let us yield to each other now
on this one point, I to you and you to me,
and the other deathless powers will fall in line.
But quickly, order Athena down to battle now,
into the killing-ground of Trojans and Achaeans--
and see that the Trojans break the sworn truce first
and trample on the Argives in their triumph!"
The father of men and gods complied at once.
He winged Athena on with a flight of orders: "Quickly!
Down you go to Troy's and Achaea's armies now--
and see that the Trojans break the sworn truce first
and trample on the Argives in their triumph."
So he launched Athena already poised for action.
Down the goddess swept from Olympus' craggy peaks
and dove like a star the son of Cronus flings.
Cronus with all his turning, twisting ways--
a sign to men at sea or a massive army marching,
blazing on with a stream of sparks showering in its wake.
Like a shooting star Athena flashed across the earth,
plunging down in the midst of both camped forces.
Terror gripped the fighters looking on,
stallion-breaking Trojans, Argive men-at-arms.
One would glance at a comrade, groaning, "What next--
battle again, more pain and grisly fighting?
Or pacts between both armies? Peace from Zeus,
the great steward on high who rules our mortal wars?"
As Achaeans and Trojans wondered what was coming,
Athena merged in the Trojan columns like a fighter,
like Antenor's son the rugged spearman Laodocus,
hunting for Pandarus, hoping to find the archer.
Find him she did, Lycaon's skilled, fearless son,
standing by, flanked by the bands of shielded men
who'd trooped with him from Aesepus' dark rapids.
Athena halted be
side him, let her challenge fly:
"Here's glory, son of Lycaon--let me tempt you,
you with your archer's skill! Have you the daring
to wing an arrow at Menelaus? Just think what thanks,
what fame you'd win in the eyes of all the Trojans,
Prince Paris most of all. The first among all,
you'd bear off shining, priceless gifts from him.
Just let him see Menelaus, Atreus' fighting son
brought down by your shaft and hoisted onto his pyre,
mourned with grief and tears! Come, up with you,
whip an arrow at this invincible Menetaus--now!
But swear to Apollo, Wolf-god, glorious Archer,
you'll slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs
when you march home to Zelea's sacred city."
So Athena fired the fool's heart inside him.
Then and there he unstrapped his polished bow,
the horn of a wild goat he'd shot in the chest
one day as the springy ibex clambered down a cliff.
Lurking there under cover, he hit it in the heart
and the fine kill went sprawling down the rocks.
The horns on its head ran sixteen hands in length
and a bowyer good with goat-horn worked them up,
fitted, clasped them tight, sanded them smooth
and set the golden notch-rings at the tips.
Superb equipment--bending it back hard
the archer strung his bow . . .
propping an end against the ground as cohorts
braced their shields in a tight wedge to hide him,
fearing bands of Argives might just leap to their feet
before he could hit Menelaus, Atreus' fighting son.
He flipped the lid of his quiver, plucked an arrow
fletched and never shot, a shaft of black pain.
Quickly notching the sharp arrow on the string
he swore to Apollo, Wolf-god, glorious Archer,
he'd slaughter splendid victims, newborn lambs
when he marched home to Zelea's sacred city.
Squeezing the nock and string together, drawing
the gut back to his nipple, iron head to the handgrip
till he flexed the great weapon back in a half-circle curve--
the bow sprang! the string sang out, arrow shot away
razor-sharp and raging to whip through Argive ranks!
But you,
Menelaus, the blessed deathless gods did not forget you,
Zeus's daughter the queen of fighters first of all.
She reared before you, skewed the tearing shaft,
flicking it off your skin as quick as a mother
flicks a fly from her baby sleeping softly.
Athena's own hand deflected it down the belt
where the gold buckles clasp and breastplates overlap.
The shaft pierced the tight belt's twisted thongs,
piercing the blazoned plates, piercing the guard
he wore to shield his loins and block the spears,
his best defense--the shaft pierced even this,
the tip of the weapon grazing the man's flesh,
and dark blood came spurting from the wound.
Picture a woman dyeing ivory blood red ...
a Carian or Maeonian staining a horse's cheekpiece,
and it's stored away in a vault and troops of riders
long to sport the ornament, true, but there it lies
as a king's splendor, kept and prized twice over--
his team's adornment, his driver's pride and glory.
So now, Menelaus, the fresh blood went staining down
your sturdy thighs, your shins and well-turned ankles.
The lord of men Agamemnon shuddered, frightened
to see the dark blood gushing from the wound.
And veteran Menelaus cringed himself but saw
the lashing-cords and barbs outside the gash
and his courage flooded back inside his chest.
Nevertheless, King Agamemnon, groaning heavily,
grasped Menelaus' hand and spoke out for the men
as friends around him groaned as well: "Dear brother--
that truce I sealed in blood was death for you,
setting you out alone ...
exposed before our lines to fight the Trojans--
Look how the men of Troy have laid you low,
trampling down our solemn, binding truce!
But they will never go for nothing, the oaths,
the blood of the lambs, the unmixed wine we poured,
the firm clasp of the right hand we trusted.
Never--
even if Zeus's wrath does not strike home at once,
he'll strike in his own good time with greater fury.
Transgressors will pay the price, a tremendous price,
with their own heads, their wives and all their children.
Yes, for in my heart and soul I know this well:
the day will come when sacred Troy must die,
Priam must die and all his people with him,
Priam who hurls the strong ash spear!
The son of Cronus,
Zeus, throned aloft in the heavens where he lives,
Zeus himself will brandish over their heads
his black storm-shield, enraged at their deceit.
Nothing can stop it now. All this will come to pass.
But I will suffer terrible grief for you, Menelaus,
if you die now, if you fill out your destiny now--
and I go back to parching Argos in disgrace.
For the men will turn their minds toward home at once,
and we must leave Priam and all the men of Troy
a trophy to glory over, Helen, queen of Argos ...
But the plowland here will rot your bones, my brother,
as you lie dead in Troy, your mission left unfinished.
Then some Trojan will glory, swaggering, arrogant,
leaping down on the grave of famous Menelaus:
'Let Agamemnon wreak his anger so on all his foes!
Just as he led his armies here for nothing, failure.
Now home he's gone to the dear land of his fathers,
his warships empty, leaving behind the hero Menelaus
moldering in his wake!'
So some Trojan will trumpet--
let the great earth gape and take me down that day!"
But the red-haired Menelaus tried to calm him:
"Courage. Don't alarm the men, not for a moment.
The point's not lodged in a mortal spot, you see?
My glittering war-belt stopped the shot in front,
my loin-piece and the plated guard below it,
gear the bronzesmiths hammered out for me."
And marshal Agamemnon took his lead:
"Pray god you're right, dear brother Menelaus!
But the wound--a healer will treat it, apply drugs
and put a stop to the black waves of pain."
Agamemnon turned to the sacred herald:
"Quick, Talthybius. Call Machaon here,
the son of Asclepius, that unfailing healer,
to see to Menelaus, Atreus' fighting son.
An archer's hit him, a good hand at the bow,
some Trojan or some Lycian--all glory to him,
a heavy blow to us."
The herald obeyed at once.
He ran through ranks of Achaeans armed in bronze,
searching for brave Machaon. Find him he did,
standing by, flanked by the bands of shielded men
who'd trooped with him from the stallion-land of Tricca.
He halted beside him there and let his message fly:
"Quickly, son of Asclepius, King Agamemnon calls!
Now see to Menelaus, Achaea's fighting captain.
An archer's hit him, a good hand at the bow,
some Trojan or some Lycian--at! g
lory to him,
a heavy blow to us!"
So the herald shouted,
stirring Machaon's spirit. Back the two men ran
through crowds of troops in Achaea's vast encampment.
And gaining the place where red-haired Menelaus
nursed his wound and a growing ring of warlords
pressed around him, striding into their midst
the godsent healer reached the captain's side
and quickly drew the shaft from his buckled belt--
he pulled it clear, the sharp barbs broke back.
He loosed the glittering belt and slipped it off
and the loin-piece and the plated guard below it,
gear the bronzesmiths made. When he saw the wound
where the tearing arrow hit, he sucked out the blood
and deftly applied the healing salves that Chiron,
friend of Asclepius, gave his father long ago.
And all the while they worked over Menelaus
whose cry could marshal armies, on the Trojans came,
columns armed for assault, and again the Argives
donned their gear and roused their lust for war.
King Agamemnon's hour. You would not find him asleep,
not cringing a moment, hanging back from the struggle--
he pressed for battle now where men win glory.
He left his team and burnished bronze car
with an aide, Eurymedon, Ptolemaeus Piraides' son
reining off to the side his snorting pair of stallions.
He gave him strict orders to keep them close at hand
for the time his knees might buckle with fatigue
from bringing crowds of soldiers into line.
Then out he went on foot to range the ranks.
The charioteers he spotted, fast with teams,
he'd halt beside and spur them on: "My Argives,
never relax your nerve, your fighting strength!
Father Zeus, I swear, will never defend the Trojans,
liars--they were the first to trample on their oaths.
So vultures will eat them raw, their firm young flesh,
and we, we'll drag their dear wives and helpless children
back to the beaked ships, once we've seized their city!"
But any men he saw retreating from hateful battle
he would lash with a sharp burst of rage: "You Argives--
glorious braggarts! Disgraces--have you no shame?
Just standing there, dumbstruck like fawns
done in from hightailing over some big meadow,
winded and teetering, heart inside them spent.
Standing there dazed, your fighting spirit dead--
what are you waiting for? You want these Trojans
to pin you against your high sterns beached in the surf?
To see if Zeus will stretch his hands above your heads
and save your craven lives?"
So the commander
ranged Achaea's ranks and brought them into line.
Moving on through the crowds he found the Cretans
arming for combat now, ringing brave Idomeneus.
Strong as a boar he urged his frontline troops
as Meriones brought the rear battalions up.