Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
Once each side had formed up under its own captains, the Trojans came on with shouting and clamor, like a flock of cranes: for when the cranes have fled the winter and its endless rain, they fly screaming toward the streams of Ocean, carrying death and doom down upon the Pygmy men, and in the gray dawn they bring their savage quarrel with them through the air. The Achaeans, by contrast, came on in silence, breathing fury, their hearts set on standing by one another. As when the South Wind pours mist over mountain peaks, mist that shepherds hate but a thief finds better than night, mist so thick a man can see no farther than he can throw a stone — so now a cloud of dust rose beneath the marching feet of the armies as they crossed the plain at a furious pace.
When the two sides had closed to striking distance, Paris, godlike to look at, stepped out in front of the Trojan ranks. A leopard skin was slung across his shoulders, a curved bow at his side, and a sword; and brandishing two bronze-tipped spears, he called out a challenge to every champion among the Argives, daring any one of them to fight him face to face in the terrible press of battle.
Menelaus, dear to the war god, saw him come striding out in front of the throng, and his heart leapt the way a lion's does when it comes upon a great carcass — a horned stag, say, or a wild goat — and, half-starved, tears into it even as swift hounds and strong young hunters come rushing down on it. So Menelaus rejoiced when his eyes fell on godlike Paris, for he was certain now he would make the offender pay. At once he sprang down from his chariot in full armor.
But when Paris saw him appear there among the champions, his heart failed him, and he shrank back into the ranks of his own comrades to escape his fate — the way a man who stumbles on a snake in a mountain glen recoils, trembling seizes his limbs, and he backs away, his cheeks gone pale. Just so, in fear of Menelaus, godlike Paris melted back into the proud crowd of Trojans.
Hector saw it and turned on him with bitter words: "Paris, curse of your good looks, chaser of women, deceiver — better you had never been born, or died before your wedding day! In fact I wish it, and it would have been far better than this shame, this thing you've become that everyone can point at. I can hear the long-haired Achaeans laughing now, certain they'd picked a champion for his handsome face, when there's no strength in you, no courage in your heart at all. Was this the man who once gathered his loyal crew, sailed the sea in his ships, and mingled with a foreign people only to carry off a beautiful woman from a distant land — a woman married into a house of spearmen — bringing ruin on your father, on this whole city, on all your people, joy to your enemies and shame to yourself? And now you won't even stand against Menelaus, dear to the war god? You'd soon learn what kind of man it is whose lovely wife you're holding. Your lyre would be no help to you then, nor Aphrodite's gifts, nor your hair, nor your looks, once you were down there in the dust. No — the Trojans are simply too timid; if they weren't, you'd have been stoned in a coat of rock by now for all the harm you've caused."
And godlike Paris answered him: "Hector, that rebuke of yours was fair, not unfair — your heart is always like an axe that never dulls, that a skilled carpenter drives through timber to shape a ship's plank, giving force to his swing — so unyielding is the spirit in your chest. But don't throw golden Aphrodite's gifts in my face. A god's shining gifts are not something a man can simply toss aside, however much he might want to — no one takes those for himself. Now, though, if you want me to fight and do battle, make the rest of the Trojans sit down, and the Achaeans too, and put Menelaus, dear to the war god, and me alone in the middle to fight over Helen and all her possessions. Whichever of us wins and proves the better man, let him take the woman and all the goods and carry them home; and let the rest of you seal friendship and swear a solid oath — you Trojans to go on living in fertile Troy, and they to return to horse-pasturing Argos and the land of lovely women."
So he spoke, and Hector rejoiced greatly to hear it, and went out into the space between the armies and held back the Trojan ranks, gripping his spear by the middle, and they all sat down where they stood. But the long-haired Achaeans kept aiming arrows and stones at him, until Agamemnon, lord of men, called out in his great voice: "Hold back, Argives! Do not shoot, young men of Achaea! Hector of the flashing helmet wants to say something." So he spoke, and they held off from fighting and fell silent at once, and Hector spoke to both sides: "Hear me, Trojans and well-armored Achaeans, and I will tell you what Paris proposes — he, on whose account this quarrel has arisen. He asks that the rest of the Trojans and all the Achaeans lay their fine weapons down on the bountiful earth, while he and Menelaus, dear to the war god, fight alone in the middle over Helen and all her possessions. Whichever of them wins and proves the better man, let him take the woman and all the goods and carry them home; and let the rest of us seal friendship with a solid oath."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent and still. Then Menelaus, master of the war cry, spoke among them: "Now hear me too, for the grief that has come home to my heart is greater than any man's. I believe the time has come for Argives and Trojans to part ways, since you have all suffered so much on account of my quarrel and the wrong Paris began. Whichever of us two is fated to die, let him die; and let the rest of you part quickly and go your ways. Bring two lambs, one white and one black, for Earth and Sun; and we will bring a third for Zeus. And bring the mighty Priam here himself, so that he may swear the oath in person — since his sons are arrogant and not to be trusted — lest anyone break the oaths of Zeus through treachery. Young men's minds are always unsteady, but when an old man takes part, he looks both ahead and behind, so that the outcome may be the best for both sides."
So he spoke, and Achaeans and Trojans alike rejoiced, hoping now for an end to this miserable war. They reined their horses in along the ranks and climbed down and stripped off their armor, laying it on the ground close together, with only a narrow strip of earth between the two sides. And Hector sent two heralds hurrying to the city to bring the lambs and to summon Priam, while lordly Agamemnon sent Talthybius down to the hollow ships to fetch a lamb, and Talthybius did not disobey noble Agamemnon.
Meanwhile Iris came as a messenger to white-armed Helen, taking the form of her sister-in-law, the wife of Antenor's son — lordly Helicaon's wife, Laodice, loveliest of Priam's daughters. She found her in her chamber, weaving a great double-folded purple cloth, into which she was working the many labors that the horse-taming Trojans and bronze-clad Achaeans were enduring for her sake at the hands of the war god. Swift-footed Iris came and stood close beside her and said: "Come here, dear girl, and see the astonishing thing the horse-taming Trojans and bronze-clad Achaeans are doing — men who a moment ago were carrying tearful war against each other on the plain, longing for the ruin of battle. Now they sit in silence; the fighting has stopped. They lean on their shields, their long spears planted beside them in the ground. But Paris and Menelaus, dear to the war god, are going to fight for you with their long spears, and whoever wins will call you his own dear wife."
So the goddess spoke, and put in her heart a sweet longing for her husband before, and for her city, and for her parents. At once Helen veiled herself in shimmering white linen and hurried from her room, shedding soft tears — not alone, for two attendants went with her, Aethra, daughter of Pittheus, and ox-eyed Clymene. Quickly they reached the Scaean gates.
There, around Priam, sat Panthous and Thymoetes, Lampus and Clytius, and Hicetaon, offshoot of the war god, with Ucalegon and Antenor, both wise men — the elders of the people, seated by the Scaean gates. Age had freed them from war, but they were fine speakers still, like cicadas that perch in the trees of a forest and pour out their delicate song. Such were the leaders of the Trojans as they sat there on the tower. When they caught sight of Helen coming up onto the tower, they murmured softly to one another, winged words: "No one could blame the Trojans and the well-armored Achaeans for suffering so long over a woman like this one — she is terrifyingly like the immortal goddesses to look at. And yet, even so, lovely as she is, let her sail home, rather than stay behind as a curse for us and for our children after us."
So they said; but Priam called out to Helen: "Come here, dear child, and sit in front of me, so you may see your former husband, and your kinsmen, and your friends. You are not to blame in my eyes — the gods are to blame, who set this tearful war against the Achaeans in motion. Come, tell me the name of that huge man over there, that Achaean so fine and so tall. There are others taller by a head, true, but I have never yet set eyes on one so handsome, nor one who carries himself with such dignity — he looks every bit a king."
And Helen, shining among women, answered him: "You are a man I hold in reverence and in dread, dear father of my husband. I wish bitter death had pleased me before I ever came here with your son, leaving behind my marriage bed, my kinsfolk, my beloved daughter, and the sweet company of friends my own age. But that was not to be, and so I waste away in tears. Still, I will tell you what you ask. That man is Agamemnon, son of Atreus, ruler of a vast realm, both a good king and a mighty spearman. He was my brother-in-law once, shameless woman that I am — if he ever truly was."
So she spoke, and the old man marveled at him and said: "O fortunate son of Atreus, child of destiny, blessed by heaven — how many young Achaean men you have under your command! Once I went to vine-rich Phrygia, and there I saw a great host of Phrygian men with their swift horses, the people of Otreus and godlike Mygdon, camped then along the banks of the Sangarius; and I myself was counted among them as an ally, on the day the man-fighting Amazons came. But not even they were as numerous as these bright-eyed Achaeans."
Next, catching sight of Odysseus, the old man asked again: "Come, tell me about this other one too, dear child — who is he? He is shorter than Agamemnon, son of Atreus, by a head, but broader across the shoulders and chest to look at. His armor lies there on the bountiful earth, but he himself moves up and down the ranks of men like the leader of a flock. I would compare him to a thick-fleeced ram, moving through a great flock of white sheep."
And Helen, daughter of Zeus, answered him: "That one is Laertes' son, Odysseus of many wiles, raised in the land of rocky Ithaca, a man who knows every kind of cunning trick and clever plan."
Then wise Antenor spoke up in turn: "Woman, what you have just said is nothing but the truth. Odysseus came here once before, on an embassy concerning you, together with Menelaus, dear to the war god. I welcomed them both as guests in my own house, and came to know their bearing and their shrewd minds. When they stood among the assembled Trojans, Menelaus was the broader across the shoulders; but when the two of them sat, Odysseus had the more commanding presence. And when it came time for each to weave his words and arguments before everyone, Menelaus spoke fluently — few words, but very clear, since he was no man of many words, nor one who missed the mark, though he was the younger of the two. But when Odysseus of the many schemes rose to speak, he would stand still, eyes fixed down on the ground, and neither move the staff backward nor forward, but hold it stiffly, like a man with no idea what he was doing — you would have taken him for some sullen fool. But once that great voice came booming from his chest, and words came pouring down like snow in winter, then no other mortal alive could have matched Odysseus; and none of us, seeing him, still marveled at his looks the way we had before."
Then, catching sight of Ajax a third time, the old man asked: "Who is that other Achaean man, so fine and so tall, towering over the Argives by a head and by the width of his shoulders?" And long-robed Helen, shining among women, answered him: "That huge man is Ajax, bulwark of the Achaeans. And over there, on the far side, standing among the Cretans like a god, is Idomeneus, with the Cretan captains gathered around him. Menelaus, dear to the war god, often hosted him as a guest in our own house, whenever he came from Crete. Now I can see all the rest of the bright-eyed Achaeans, men I could easily recognize and name for you — but there are two I cannot find among the leaders of the people: Castor, breaker of horses, and Polydeuces, the fine boxer, my own brothers, born of the same mother as me. Either they never left lovely Lacedaemon with the rest, or else they came here in the seafaring ships but now refuse to go down into the ranks of fighting men, for fear of the shame and disgrace that fall on me." So she said — but the life-giving earth already held them fast, back there in Lacedaemon, in their own dear native land.
Meanwhile heralds were carrying the sacred pledges of the gods through the city — two lambs, and wine that gladdens the heart, the fruit of the earth, in a goatskin bag — and the herald Idaeus carried a shining bowl and golden cups. He came and stood by the old man and urged him on: "Rise up, son of Laomedon — the leading men of the horse-taming Trojans and the bronze-clad Achaeans are calling for you to come down to the plain and swear a solid oath. For Paris and Menelaus, dear to the war god, are going to fight with their long spears over the woman, and whoever wins will have the woman and the goods that go with her; and the rest of us, once we have sworn friendship on a solid oath, will go on living in fertile Troy, while they sail home to horse-pasturing Argos and the land of lovely women."
So he spoke, and the old man shuddered, but ordered his companions to yoke the horses, and they obeyed at once. Priam mounted the chariot and drew the reins back taut, and Antenor climbed up beside him onto the splendid car, and the two of them drove their swift horses out through the Scaean gates toward the plain. When they had come to where the Trojans and Achaeans stood, they stepped down from the chariot onto the bountiful earth and walked into the space between the two armies. At once Agamemnon, lord of men, rose up, and with him rose Odysseus of many wiles; and the noble heralds gathered the sacred pledges of the gods and mixed wine in the bowl, and poured water over the hands of the kings.
Then the son of Atreus drew with his hand the dagger that always hung beside the great scabbard of his sword, and cut hair from the heads of the lambs, and the heralds distributed it among the leading men of Troy and Achaea. And among them the son of Atreus lifted his hands and prayed aloud: "Father Zeus, who rules from Ida, most glorious, greatest of all; and Helios, who sees all things and hears all things; and you rivers, and you earth, and you powers below who punish the dead who swore falsely in life — be witnesses, and watch over these solid oaths. If Paris kills Menelaus, then let him keep Helen and all her possessions, and we will sail home in our seafaring ships. But if fair-haired Menelaus kills Paris, then let the Trojans give back Helen and all her possessions, and pay the Argives whatever compensation is fitting, a debt that will be remembered even by generations still to come. But if Priam and Priam's sons refuse to pay me that debt once Paris has fallen, then I myself will go on fighting for the payment owed, staying right here, until I reach the end of this war."
With that, he cut the throats of the lambs with the pitiless bronze, and laid them down on the ground, gasping, their life ebbing away — for the bronze had stripped the strength from them. Then, drawing wine from the mixing bowl into their cups, they poured it out and prayed to the gods who live forever. And this is what many a man among the Achaeans and Trojans said: "Zeus, most glorious, greatest of all, and you other immortal gods — whichever side is first to do wrong against these oaths, may their brains spill out on the ground just as this wine now spills—"
...may their own brains spill on the ground like this wine, theirs and their children's, and let their wives be made slaves to other men." So they prayed, but Zeus, son of Cronos, did not yet grant fulfillment to any of it.
Then Priam, son of Dardanus, spoke among them: "Hear me, Trojans and well-greaved Achaeans. I am going back now to windy Troy, since I cannot bear to stand and watch with my own eyes my dear son fighting against Menelaus, whom Ares loves. Zeus surely knows this, and the other deathless gods, which of the two is fated to meet his end."
So speaking, the godlike man set the lambs in his chariot and climbed up himself, and drew the reins back tight; beside him Antenor mounted the splendid car. The two of them turned and rode back toward Troy.
Hector, son of Priam, and godlike Odysseus first paced out the ground, then took the lots and shook them together in a bronze helmet, to decide which of the two champions would be first to hurl his bronze spear. The armies prayed, lifting their hands to the gods, and this is what one would say, Achaean or Trojan alike: "Father Zeus, who rules from Ida, most glorious, greatest of all — whichever man brought this trouble on both our peoples, grant that he die and go down into the house of Hades, and let the rest of us make friendship and oaths of good faith."
So they said, and great Hector of the flashing helmet shook the lots, looking away as he did it, and at once Paris's lot leapt out. Then the men sat down in their ranks, each where his high-stepping horses and gleaming armor lay, and godlike Paris, husband of lovely-haired Helen, began to put on his fine armor.
First he set the fine greaves around his shins, fitted with silver ankle-clasps. Next he strapped on the breastplate of his brother Lycaon around his chest — it fit him well. Over his shoulders he slung his silver-studded bronze sword, and then his great, heavy shield. On his strong head he set a well-made helmet crowned with horsehair, and the plume nodded terribly above it. He took up a sturdy spear that suited his grip. Menelaus, dear to Ares, armed himself the same way.
When each had armed among his own men on his own side, they strode out into the open ground between the Trojans and Achaeans, glaring fiercely, and wonder held all who watched them, the horse-taming Trojans and the well-greaved Achaeans alike. They came close and took their stand in the measured space, brandishing their spears, raging at one another. Paris cast first, hurling his long-shadowed spear, and struck the shield of Atreus's son, evenly balanced on every side, but the bronze did not break through; the point bent back against the strong shield. Then Menelaus, son of Atreus, rose for his own throw, praying to father Zeus:
"Lord Zeus, grant that I punish the man who wronged me first — godlike Paris — and bring him down under my hands, so that even men born in later times will shudder to wrong a host who has offered him friendship."
So speaking, he balanced his long-shadowed spear and threw it, and struck the shield of Priam's son, evenly balanced on every side. The heavy spear drove straight through the shining shield and through the finely worked breastplate as well, slicing the tunic clean along his flank — but the man twisted aside and escaped black death.
Then the son of Atreus drew his silver-studded sword, and rising up he struck the ridge of Paris's helmet; but the sword shattered into three pieces, even four, around it, and fell from his hand. The son of Atreus groaned, looking up at the wide sky: "Father Zeus, no other god is crueler to me than you! I truly thought I would make Paris pay for his wickedness, but now my sword has broken in my hands, and my spear flew from my grip for nothing — I never even hit him." With that he sprang forward and seized Paris by the horsehair crest of his helmet, and swinging him around began to drag him back toward the well-greaved Achaeans.
The finely embroidered strap under Paris's soft chin was choking him, the strap that held the helmet fast beneath his jaw. And now Menelaus would have dragged him off and won glory beyond telling, had Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, not been quick to notice: she snapped the strap, cut as it was from the hide of a slaughtered ox, so that the helmet came away empty in his strong hand. The hero spun it around and flung it among the well-greaved Achaeans, and his devoted comrades gathered it up. Then he sprang back again, eager to kill Paris with his bronze spear — but Aphrodite snatched him away,
easily, as a god can, wrapping him in thick mist, and set him down in his own fragrant bedchamber. Then she went herself to summon Helen, and found her on the high tower, with a crowd of Trojan women gathered around her. Taking hold of her sweet-smelling robe, the goddess shook it, and, disguised as an old woman — an old wool-worker who used to card fine wool for Helen back in Lacedaemon, and whom Helen loved best of all her servants — in that shape she spoke to her: "Come here — Paris is calling you home. He is there in his room, on the inlaid bed, shining with beauty and fine clothes. You would never think he had just come from fighting a man, but rather that he was going to a dance, or had just now risen from one to sit down."
So she spoke, and stirred the heart in Helen's breast. And when Helen noticed the goddess's very beautiful neck, her lovely breasts, and her shining eyes, she was struck with wonder, and spoke to her, calling her by name: "Strange goddess, why do you long to deceive me like this? Will you carry me off even further, to some other populous city, in Phrygia or lovely Maeonia, if there too you have some favorite among mortal men? Is it because Menelaus has now beaten godlike Paris, and means to take hateful me back home with him, that you have come here now with treachery in your heart? Go sit beside him yourself — leave the paths of the gods, never turn your feet back toward Olympus again, but hover over him forever and keep watch over him, until he makes you his wife, or else his slave. I am not going there — it would be shameful for me to share that man's bed now. All the women of Troy would blame me for it afterward, and my heart already carries grief enough."
Then Aphrodite answered her in anger: "Don't provoke me, reckless woman, or in my rage I may abandon you, and hate you as fiercely as I have loved you until now, and stir up terrible hatred between both sides, Trojans and Danaans alike — and you would come to a wretched end." So she spoke, and Helen, daughter of Zeus, grew afraid, and went, wrapping herself in her bright white robe, in silence, and none of the Trojan women noticed her go; the goddess led the way.
When they reached Paris's beautiful house, the attendants quickly turned back to their tasks, while Helen, radiant among women, went up to the high-roofed bedchamber. There smiling Aphrodite herself took a chair and carried it over, setting it before Paris, and Helen, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, sat down facing him, turning her eyes away, and rebuked her husband:
"So you've come back from the fighting. I wish you had died there instead, beaten by that stronger man who used to be my husband. You used to boast that you were better than Menelaus, dear to Ares, in strength and hands and spear. Go on, then — challenge Menelaus, dear to Ares, to fight you again, face to face. No, I tell you to stop, and not to fight Menelaus in single combat, foolishly, without thinking, or you may soon go down under his spear."
Paris answered her: "Wife, don't scold my heart with such harsh words. This time Menelaus has won, with Athena's help; another time I will beat him, for we too have gods on our side. But come, let us go to bed and take our pleasure in love. Never has desire wrapped my senses around like this, not even when I first carried you off from lovely Lacedaemon and sailed away with you in my seafaring ships, and we lay together in love on the island of Cranae — not even then did I want you as I want you now, and sweet longing seizes me." So he spoke, and led the way to the bed, and his wife went with him.
So the two of them lay down together on the polished bed, while the son of Atreus ranged through the crowd like a wild beast, searching everywhere to see if he might catch sight of godlike Paris. But none of the Trojans or their renowned allies could point Paris out to Menelaus, dear to Ares — and it was not out of any love for him that they would have hidden him had they seen him, for he was hated by all of them alike, hated as black death itself.
Then Agamemnon, lord of men, spoke among them: "Hear me, Trojans and Dardanians and allies: the victory clearly belongs to Menelaus, dear to Ares. So now give back Argive Helen, together with all her possessions, and pay the compensation that is fitting, one that will be remembered even among men yet to come." So spoke the son of Atreus, and the rest of the Achaeans shouted their assent.