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Vol. 36 No 3-4
Greek Poetry: New Voices and Ancient Echoes

Spring 1999

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Homer

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From: Iliad (Book VI, lines 390-496, omitting 396-98)


As the housekeeper finished,   Hector dashed back 
The way he had come    up the well-built streets. 
Race through the city,   each Skaian gates, 
Thinks 'Shall I go through them,   through to the battlefield?' — 
But — rushing to meet him —   his Andromache, his wife, 
The great-hearted daughter   of gutsy Eetion. 
With her the nurse,   and, nestling in her arms, 
His son, the littl'un,   the loved one, their baby, 
Their morning star —   Scamandrios — 
So Hector had named him —   but known as Astyanax — 
That's Prince-of-the-city —   to the people in general, 
Hector being   the bastion of Troy. 
In silence he looked at his son, and smiled. 
Andromache pressed on him,   pouring tears. 
Taking his hand   in hers, she said: 
`My wonderful man,   your will is a death-dealer. 
You're merciless to your baby   and to me — I'm nothing, 
If I'm widowed — if the Achaeans   kill you — they'll do it — 
Whole mob in a rush.   I'd rather — if it happened — 
If I lost you — have the earth   heaped on me. 
For with you away,   all warmth vanishes. 
I have no father.   No honourable mother. 
Noble Achilles   killed my father. 
He sacked the well-built   city of the Cilicians, 
Our Thebe,   with its towering gates, 
And did for Eetion,   but dishonour — no. 
No stripping of the corpse:   respect. A proper 
Pyre for my father,   in full armour, burnished, 
And the grave-mound afterwards...   Elm trees were planted 
All round by the nymphs   of ridge and rockface, 
Daughters of the aegis-   doom-dealer Zeus. 
And the seven brothers   brought up with me —
On one day — death,   for every one of them. 
Noble Achilles,   that nimble runner, 
Leapt on them among   their lazy-footed oxen 
And the shining fleeces   of their sheep. And mother — 
Who was queen of the forestland   climbing Mount Plakos — 
He lugged her here   like loot, though later 
He did free her —   for a priceless ransom, 
And she died from the arrows   of Artemis at home. 
So Hector, to me   you are mother, and father, 
And my family of brothers   .. as I feel .. your .. 
Strong body ..   in bed beside me. 
Take pity on us. Stay   on the tower here. 
Or its widow and orphan   for wife and child. 
Have you noticed—by the fig-tree—   our fortifications 
Are most easily scaleable?   They could be climbed there. 
Three times there've been champions  attempting it — the two 
Ajaxes, Idomeneus,   and Diomedes, 
Powerful Tydeus-son.   Put a guard there. 
Was that some prophet's   recommendation? 
Or themselves on their own —   a sudden insight?' 
Hector answered her —   his helmet was sparkling: 
'I also, my wife,   am worrying about these things. 
But — Trojan women   with trailing dresses — 
I'd be ashamed to confront them if   I funked the battle. 
I obey the orders   my own guts give me 
To fight in the front line   with my Trojans, to be brave 
All the time —   I've taught myself how. 
So I gain for my father   some glory .. and for me. 
Yes — deep inside me —   I surely know 
There will come a day   of death for holy 
Troy, for Priam   whose spear is of ash-wood, 
And for Priam's people.   But the pain in store
For Troy as a whole,   for Priam, the king, 
For my mother, Hecuba —   that hurts me less —
My brothers too —   brave, the lot of them —
Falling in the dust   at the feet of their killers —
It's the thought of you   that tears me .. you, 
Sobbing as a Greek   in his brazen tunic 
Drags you away   to rob you of your freedom. 
You .. in Argos ..   at someone else's loom,
Weaving their wool ..   and water-carrying 
From a Greek stream   in Sparta or Thessaly, 
Your freedom violated   by force ... Will someone, 
Seeing the tears   you are shedding, say: 
'That was Hector's wife.   Of all horsetaming Trojans 
He was their chief   champion in the war.' 
So someone may say.   More sorrow for you. 
No husband to shield you   from the shame of slavery. 
Oh may I be dead,   and deep under grave-mound, 
Ere I hear you weeping,   as you're hauled away.' 
Then radiant Hector   reached for his son. 
But the baby cried,   and clung to the breasts 
Of his bright-girdled nurse.   The boy was terrified, 
Afraid of the sight   of the father who loved him 
In his bronze helmet —   the horsehair crest 
Shuddering on top   of the shiny thing — horrible. 
Laughter out loud   from the loving father 
And lady Andromache.   Down with the helmet. 
Radiant Hector   hurriedly takes it 
Off his head, and places it,   gleaming, on the ground. 
Then he kissed his dear son,   caught him up in his hands, 
And prayed to Zeus,   and the rest of the gods:
'Zeus, and all gods, grant, I pray 
My son to excel   in this city like me, 
To have strength like mine,   to be Troy's king, 
And for people to declare, as he   comes home from battle, 
`He's far, far better   than his father.' So may 
He kill and bring back   the bloody armour, 
Making the heart   of his mother glad.' 
Then he placed his baby   in his loving wife's arms. 
She took him to her breast,   crying and laughing. 
Her perfumed breast.   Pity seized Hector. 
His hand caressing   her, he said: 
'My wonderful wife,   don't wound your spirit 
With too much sorrow.   For they shall not — no one 
Shall hurl me down   into Hades .. till Destiny 
Lets them ... But fleeing   Fate is impossible. 
For coward, for champion —   no escape. Never. 
Go home now. Attend   to the tasks of the house: 
Your weaving, your spinning.   Supervise 
The work of our servants.   Worrying about the war — 
That's for men — all of us,   and me, specially.' 
Then radiant Hector   grabbed the helmet 
With its horse-hair plume.   Home went his wife, 
Turning round often,   her tears pouring down.

Translated by Leo Aylen

Page(s) 207-210

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