Homer
Translated by E. V. Rieu, 1950
The story of the Iliad of Homer is set in the tenth and final year of the Trojan War. At the beginning of this extract from the poem, the messenger goddess Iris comes to tell Helen that the Greeks (‘Achaeans’ or ‘Argives’) and Trojans have agreed to a truce. Her lover Paris is to fight her forsaken husband Menelaus, King of Sparta (‘Lacedaemon’) man to man for her and her goods. We meet Priam, King of Troy (‘Ilium’), and a great many of the characters who predominate on the battlefield, including Menelaus’ brother Agamemnon, the leader of the Greek army.
Meanwhile Iris brought the news to white-armed Helen, disguising herself as Helen’s sister-in-law, Laodice, the most beautiful of Priam’s daughters, who was married to the lord Helicaon, Antenor’s son. She found Helen in her palace, at work on a great purple web of double width, into which she was weaving some of the many battles between the horse-taming Trojans and the bronze-clad Achaeans in the war that had been forced upon them for her sake. Iris of the Nimble Feet went up to her and said: ‘My dear sister, come and see how strangely the Trojan and Achaean soldiers are behaving. A little while ago they were threatening each other with a terrible battle in the plain and looked as though they meant to fight to the death. But now the battle is off, and they are sitting quietly there, leaning on their shields, with the long javelins stuck on end beside them, while Paris and the redoubtable Menelaus are to fight a duel for you with their great spears, and the winner is to claim you as his wife.’
This news from the goddess filled Helen’s heart with tender longing for her former husband and her parents and the city she had left. She wrapped a veil of white linen round her head, and with the tear-drops running down her cheeks set out from her bedroom, not alone, but attended by two waiting-women. Aethre daughter of Pittheus, and the ox-eyed lady Clymene. In a little while they reached the neighbourhood of the Scaean Gate.
At this gate, Priam was sitting in conference with the Elders of the city, Panthous and Thymoetes, Lampus and Clytius, Hicetaon, offshoot of the War-god, and his two wise counsellors, Ucalegon and Antenor. Old age had brought their fighting days to an end, but they were excellent speakers, these Trojan Elders, sitting there on the tower, like cicadas perched on a tree in the woods chirping delightfully. When they saw Helen coming to the tower, they lowered their voices. ‘Who on earth,’ they asked one another, ‘could blame the Trojan and Achaean men-at-arms for suffering so long for such a woman’s sake? Indeed, she is the very image of an immortal goddess. All the same, and lovely as she is, let her sail home and not stay here to vex us and our children after us.’
Meanwhile, Priam had called Helen to his side. ‘Dear child,’ he said, ‘come here and sit in front of me, so that you may see your former husband and your relatives and friends. I bear you no ill will at all: I blame the gods. It is they who brought this terrible Achaean war upon me. And now you can tell me the name of that giant over there. Who is that tall and handsome Achaean? There are others taller by a head, but I have never set eyes on a man with such good looks or with such majesty. He is every inch a king.’
‘I pay you homage and reverence, my dear father-in-law,’ replied the gracious lady Helen. ‘I wish I had chosen to die in misery before I came here with your son, deserting my bridal chamber, my kinsfolk, my darling daughter and the dear friends with whom I had grown up. But things did not fall out like that, to my unending sorrow. However, I must tell you what you wished to know. The man you pointed out is imperial Agamemnon son of Atreus, a good king and a mighty spearman too. He was my brother-in-law once, shameless creature that I am – unless all that was a dream.’
When he heard this the old man gazed at Agamemnon with envious admiration. ‘Ah, lucky son of Atreus,’ he exclaimed, ‘child of fortune, blessed by the gods! So you are the man whom all these thousands of Achaeans serve! I went to Phrygia once, the land of vines and galloping horses, and learnt how numerous the Phrygians are when I saw the armies of Otreus and King Mygdon encamped by the River Sangarius. I was their ally and I bivouacked with them that time the Amazons, who fight like men, came up to the attack. But even they were not as many as these Achaeans with their flashing eyes.’
The old man, noticing Odysseus next, said: ‘Tell me now, dear child, who that man is. He is shorter than King Agamemnon by a head, but broader in the shoulders and the chest. He has left his armour lying on the ground, and there he goes, like a bellwether, inspecting the ranks. He reminds me of a fleecy ram bringing a great flock of white sheep to heel.’
‘That,’ said Helen, child of Zeus, ‘is Laertes’ son, Odysseus of the nimble wits. Ithaca, where he was brought up, is a poor and rocky land; but he is a master of intrigue and stratagem.’
The wise Antenor added something to Helen’s picture of Odysseus. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I can endorse what you say, for Odysseus has been here. He came with Menelaus on an embassy in your behalf, and I was their host. I entertained them in my own house, and I know not only what they look like but the way they think. In conference with the Trojans, when all were standing, Menelaus with his broad shoulders overtopped the whole company; but Odysseus was the more imposing of the two when both were seated. When their turn came to express their views in public, Menelaus spoke fluently, not at great length, but very clearly, being a man of few words who kept to the point, though he was the younger of the two. By contrast, when the nimble-witted Odysseus took the floor, he stood there with his head bent firmly down, glancing from under his brows, and he did not swing his staff either to the front or back, but held it stiffly, as though he had never handled one before. You would have taken him for a sulky fellow and no better than a fool. But when that great voice of his came booming from his chest, and the words poured from his lips like flakes of winter snow, there was no man alive who could compete with Odysseus. When we looked at him then, we were no longer misled by appearances.’
Aias was the third man whom the old king noticed and enquired about. ‘Who is that other fine and upstanding Achaean,’ he asked, ‘taller than all the rest by a head and shoulders?’
‘That,’ said the gracious lady Helen of the long robe, ‘is the huge Aias, a tower of strength to the Achaeans. And there on the other side is Idomeneus, standing among the Cretans like a god, with his Cretan captains gathered round him. My lord Menelaus often entertained him in our house, when he paid us a visit from Crete. And now I have picked out all the Achaeans whom I can recognize and name, except two chieftains whom I cannot find, Castor, the tamer of horses and Polydeuces the great boxer, my own brothers, borne by the same mother as myself. Either they did not join the army from lovely Lacedaemon, or if they crossed the seas and came here with the rest, they are unwilling to take part in the fighting on account of the scandal attached to my name and the insults they might hear.’
She did not know, when she said this, that the fruitful Earth had already received them in her lap, over there in Lacedaemon, in the country that they loved.
Heralds, meanwhile, were bringing through the town the wherewithal for the treaty of peace, two sheep and a goatskin bottle full of mellow wine, the fruit of the soil. The herald Idaeus, who carried a gleaming bowl and golden cups, came up to the old king and roused him to action. ‘Up, my lord,’ he said. ‘The commanders of the Trojan and Achaean forces are calling for you to come down onto the plain and make a truce. Paris and the warrior Menelaus are going to fight each other with long spears for Helen. The winner is to have the lady, goods and all, while the rest make a treaty of peace, by which we stay in deep-soiled Troy, and the enemy sail home to Argos where the horses graze and Achaea land of lovely women.’
The old man shuddered when he heard this; but he told his men to harness horses to his chariot, and they promptly obeyed. Priam mounted and drew back the reins, Antenor got into the splendid chariot beside him, and they drove their fast horses through the Scaean Gate towards the open country.
When they reached the assembled armies, they stepped down from their chariot onto the bountiful earth and walked to a spot midway between the Trojans and Achaeans. King Agamemnon and the resourceful Odysseus rose at once; and stately heralds brought the victims for the sacrifice together, mixed wine in the bowl, and poured some water on the kings’ hands. Then Agamemnon drew the knife that he always carried beside the great scabbard of his sword, and cut some hair from the lambs’ heads. The hair was distributed among the Trojan and Achaean captains by the heralds. And now Agamemnon lifted up his hands and prayed aloud in the hearing of all: ‘Father Zeus, you that rule from Mount Ida, most glorious and great; and you, the Sun, whose eye and ear miss nothing in the world; you Rivers and you Earth; you Powers of the world below that make the souls of dead men pay for perjury; I call on you all to witness our oaths and to see that they are kept. If Paris kills Menelaus, let him keep Helen and her wealth, and we shall sail away in our seagoing ships. But if red-haired Menelaus kills Paris, the Trojans must surrender Helen and all her possessions, and compensate the Argives suitably, on a scale that future generations shall remember. And if, in the event of Paris’ death, Priam and his sons refuse to pay, I shall stay here and fight for the indemnity until the war is finished.’
Agamemnon now slit the lambs’ throats with the relentless bronze and dropped them gasping on the ground, where the life-force ebbed and left them, for the knife had done its work. Then they drew wine from the bowl in cups, and as they poured it on the ground they made their petitions to the gods that have been since time began. The watching Trojans and Achaeans prayed as well – the same prayer served them both. ‘Zeus, most glorious and great, and you other immortal gods; may the brains of whichever party breaks this treaty be poured out on the ground as that wine is poured, and not only theirs but their children’s too; and may foreigners possess their wives.’ Such were their hopes of peace, but Zeus had no intention yet of bringing peace about.
Dardanian Priam now made himself heard. ‘Trojans and Achaean men-at-arms,’ he said, ‘attend to me. I am going back to windy Ilium, since I cannot bear to look on while my own son fights the formidable Menelaus. All I can think is that Zeus and the other immortal gods must know already which of the two is going to his doom.’
With these words, the venerable king put the lambs in the car and himself mounted and drew back the reins. Antenor took his place beside him in the splendid chariot, and the two drove off on their way back to Ilium.
Priam’s son Hector and the admirable Odysseus proceeded to measure out the ground, and then to cast lots from a metal helmet to see which of the two should throw his bronze spear first. The watching armies prayed, with their hands raised to the gods – the same prayer served them both. ‘Father Zeus, you that rule from Mount Ida, most glorious and great; let the man who brought these troubles on both peoples die and go down to the House of Hades; and let peace be established between us.’
They made their prayers; and now great Hector of the flashing helmet shook the lots, turning his eyes aside. One of the lots leapt out at once. It was that of Paris.
The troops sat down in rows, each man by his high-stepping horses, where his ornate arms were piled; and Prince Paris, husband of Helen of the lovely hair, put on his beautiful armour. He began by tying round his legs a pair of splendid greaves, which were fitted with silver clips for the ankles. Next he put a cuirass on his breast. It was his brother Lycaon’s and he had to adjust it. Over his shoulder he slung a bronze sword with a silver-studded hilt, and then a great thick shield. On his sturdy head he set a well-made helmet. It had a horse-hair crest, and the plume nodded grimly from the top. Last, he took up a powerful spear, which was fitted to his grip.
Battle-loving Menelaus also equipped himself in the same way; and when both had got themselves ready, each behind his own front line, they strode out between the two forces, looking so terrible that the spectators were spellbound, horse-taming Trojans and Achaean men-at-arms alike. The two men took their stations not far from one another on the measured piece of ground, and in mutual fury brandished their weapons. Paris was the first to hurl his long-shadowed spear. It landed on the round shield of Menelaus. But the bronze did not break through; the point was bent back by the stout shield. Then Menelaus son of Atreus brought his spear into play, with a prayer to Father Zeus: ‘Grant me revenge, King Zeus, on Paris, the man who wronged me in the beginning. Use my hands to bring him down, so that our children’s children may still shudder at the thought of injuring a host who has received them kindly.’
With that, he balanced his long-shadowed spear and hurled it. The heavy weapon struck the round shield of Priam’s son. It pierced the glittering shield, forced its way through the ornate cuirass, and pressing straight on tore the tunic on Paris’ flank. But Paris swerved, and so avoided death. Menelaus then drew his silver-mounted sword, swung it back, and brought it down on the ridge of his enemy’s helmet. But the sword broke on the helmet into half a dozen pieces and dropped from his hand. Menelaus gave a groan and looked up at the broad sky. ‘Father Zeus,’ he cried, ‘is there a god more spiteful than yourself? I thought I had paid out Paris for his infamy, and now my sword breaks in my hand, when I have already cast a spear for nothing and never touched the man!’
With that he hurled himself at Paris, seized him by the horsehair crest, and swinging him round, began to drag him into the Achaean lines. Paris was choked by the pressure on his tender throat of the embroidered helmet-strap, which he had fitted tightly round his chin; and Menelaus would have hauled him in and covered himself with glory, but for the quickness of Aphrodite Daughter of Zeus, who saw what was happening and broke the strap for Paris, though it was made of leather from a slaughtered ox. So the helmet came away empty in the great hand of the noble Menelaus. He tossed it, with a swing, into the Achaean lines, where it was picked up by his own retainers, and flung himself at his enemy again, in the hope of despatching him with his bronze-pointed spear. But Aphrodite used her powers once more. Hiding Paris in a dense mist, she whisked him off – it was an easy feat for the goddess – and put him down in his own perfumed fragrant bedroom. Then she went herself to summon Helen.
She found Helen on the high tower, surrounded by Trojan women. Aphrodite put out her hand, plucked at her sweet-scented robe, and spoke to her in the disguise of an old woman she was very fond of, a wool-worker who used to make beautiful wool for her when she lived in Lacedaemon. ‘Come!’ said the goddess, mimicking this woman. ‘Paris wants you to go home to him. There he is in his room, on the inlaid bed, radiant in his beauty and his lovely clothes. You would never believe that he had just come in from a duel. You would think he was going to a dance or had just stopped dancing and sat down to rest.’
Helen was perturbed and looked at the goddess. When she observed the beauty of her neck and her lovely breasts and sparkling eyes, she was struck with awe. But she made no pretence of being deceived. ‘Lady of mysteries,’ she said, ‘what is the object of this mummery? Now that Menelaus has beaten Paris and is willing to take home his erring wife, you are plotting, I suppose, to carry me off to some still more distant city, in Phrygia or in lovely Maeonia, for some other favourite of yours who may be living in those parts? So you begin by coming here, and try to lure me back to Paris. No; go and sit with him yourself. Forget that you are a goddess. Never set foot in Olympus again, but devote yourself to Paris. Pamper him well, and one day you may be his wife – or else his slave. I refuse to go and share his bed again – I should never hear the end of it. There is not a woman in Troy who would not curse me if I did. I have enough to bear already.’
The Lady Aphrodite rounded on her in fury. ‘Obstinate wretch!’ she cried. ‘Do not provoke me, or I might desert you in my anger, and hate you as heartily as I have loved you up till now, rousing the Trojans and Achaeans to such bitter enmity as would bring you to a miserable end.’
Helen was cowed, child of Zeus though she was. She wrapped herself up in her white and glossy robe, and went off without a sound. Not one of the Trojan women saw her go: she had a goddess to guide her.
When they reached the beautiful house of Paris, the maids in attendance betook themselves at once to their tasks, while Helen, the great lady, went to her lofty bedroom. There the goddess herself, laughter-loving Aphrodite, picked up a chair, carried it across the room and put it down for her in front of Paris. Helen, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, sat down on it, but turned her eyes aside and began by scolding her lover: ‘So you are back from the battlefield – and I was hoping you had fallen there to the great soldier who was once my husband! You used to boast that you were a better man than the mighty Menelaus, a finer spearman, stronger in the arm. Then why not go at once and challenge him again? Or should I warn you to think twice before you offer single combat to the red-haired Menelaus? Do nothing rash – or you may end by falling to his spear!’
Paris had his answer ready. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘do not try to put me on my mettle by abusing me. Menelaus has just beaten me with Athene’s help. But I too have gods to help me, and next time I shall win. Come, let us go to bed together and be happy in our love. Never has such desire overwhelmed me, not even in the beginning, when I carried you off from lovely Lacedaemon in my seagoing ships and we spent the night on the isle of Cranae in each other’s arms – never till now have I been so much in love with you or felt such sweet desire.’
As he spoke, he made a move towards the bed, leading her to it. His wife followed him; and the two lay down together on the well-made wooden bed.
Meanwhile Menelaus was prowling through the ranks like a wild beast, trying to find Prince Paris. But not a man among the Trojans or their famous allies could point him out to the warrior Menelaus. Not that if anyone had seen him he would have hidden him for love: they loathed him, all of them, like death. In the end King Agamemnon made a pronouncement: ‘Trojans, Dardanians and allies, listen to me. The great Menelaus has won: there is no disputing that. Now give up Argive Helen and her wealth, and compensate me suitably on a scale that future generations shall remember.’
Atreides had spoken. The Achaeans all applauded.
The truce, alas, does not last. The gods ensure that it is broken and that the Trojan War continues until many more people have lost their lives.