The fleet of Agamemnon moored along
that Thracian coast: the wind had grown too strong—
and so he waited for the seas to calm.
There, from a giant fissure in the earth,
a sudden apparition burst: Achilles,
as awesome as he was in life. His stance
was threatening, his gaze as grim as when
he had unjustly menaced Agamemnon
with his drawn sword. He said: “O you, Achaeans,
would you sail off without remembering me?
Does all the gratitude I’ve earned deserve
to be interred with me? Take care! Don’t leave
my tomb unhonored: if you would appease
Latin [427–48]
Achilles’ Shade, Polyxena must be
the sacrifice you bring!” The ruthless Shade
had spoken, and his comrades soon obeyed.
Wrenched from her mother’s arms (Polyxena
was the sole comfort left to Hecuba),
that fearless virgin, with a strength beyond
a woman’s, was led out—assigned by fate,
a victim—to Achilles’ tomb: they placed
the brave girl at the cruel altar’s side.
She understood that this ferocious rite
was being readied now to end her life;
when she saw Neoptolemus nearby
with sword in hand, she stared hard at his eyes:
“My noble blood is yours to use!” she cried;
“I’m ready; pierce my throat or pierce my chest!”
(and these she bared). “How could you think that I,
Polyxena, would ever want to live
as someone’s slave? And will you pacify
some deity with such a sacrifice?
Oh, would my mother might be spared this sight!
That is my only wish. It is for her
I worry; it is she who lessens, thwarts
my joy in death—though it is not my death
but her own life that she should now lament.
May you, I pray, stand back, that I may go
as a free spirit to the Shades below—
if what I ask is just—and do not touch
my virgin body with your rough male hands.
Whoever he may be, the one you seek
to please by sacrificing me will take
more pleasure in the blood of a free woman.
And if the final words that leave my lips
move any of you (it is Priam’s daughter—
and not a prisoner—who asks you this),
give my cadaver back to my dear mother,
and ask no ransom of her. Let her tears—
not gold—pay for the right of sepulture.
For that sad right she did pay once before
Latin [448–73]
with gold, too—at a time when she still could.”
Such were her words. The crowd could not hold back
the tears that she herself kept well in check.
The priest—he, too, was weeping—plunged his blade,
against his will, into her proffered breast.
On weakened knees she sank down to the ground;
but to the end her spirit never failed.
And as she fell, the girl took care to veil
her body—to preserve her modesty.