said: “You’re so hot and tired. Must you rush back to the battlefield? Can’t you stay with me awhile? Stay, only a little while, and let me make you comfortable again.”
“No, I must get back there, dearly as I should love to stay with you and pass some cool and delicious hours in your matchless company. But I am the commander, and must lead my men.”
“You look so solemn—so sad. Have you come to tell me something special?”
“I have had a vision of Troy’s defeat. And among all the scenes of carnage and disaster it drags in its wake, all I can see is one picture: You, in time to come, have been borne away by some mailed conqueror to faroff Greece. And there in Argos, or in Attica, or Sparta, I see you dressed in dull clothing, spinning at the loom, or drawing water under the eye of your mistress—who will not be partial to you for you will be too beautiful, more beautiful than she, whoever she be. And her husband, your master, will be spending his nights with you rather than with her. I see you a servant, a slave. That is what losing means—to be enslaved. And that sight of you there fills me with such sorrowful rage that I feel a giant’s strength, feel that I, personally, could interpose my body between Troy and all the Greek hordes—even if my comrades are cut down—and kill and kill until there is not one Greek left. And so the vision brings its own contradiction. And what do you make of that?”
“What do I make of that? That you are very brave, and very dear. And that I am blessed beyond all women in my husband. For you, I believe, are the mightiest man ever to bear arms, and the noblest heart ever to bear another’s grief. And when you meet Achilles, or Ajax, the gods will favor your cause, for you are living proof that their handiwork is excelling itself.”
“Thank you for those words,” said Hector. “They are the sweetest I have ever heard in all my life. It is true, whether I can conquer Achilles or not, I must challenge him to single combat. These pitched battles waste our forces too much, and we do not have as many men to spare as do the enemy. Yes, I shall fight the strong Achilles, and when I do the memory of your loving words will make a victor’s music in my ears.”
He took his infant son from the nurse’s arms. Lifting him high as if stretching him toward the heavens, he said: “Great Zeus, father of us all, hear a lesser father’s prayer. I am a warrior; some call me a hero, and, as you know, a degree of self-esteem attaches to that condition. Instead of sacrificing a bull to you then, let me sacrifice my self-esteem—which, I assure you, is as huge and hotblooded and rampaging as any bull. Let me ask you this: That when my son is grown and fights his battles, as all men must, and returns therefrom, that men will say of him only this. ‘He is a better man than his father was.’ ”
The baby was frightened by his father’s nodding horsetail plume, and burst into tears. Hector smiled and kissed him, and gave him into his mother’s arms. Then he kissed her, and said: “I must be off now, good wife. I must rout out lazy Paris and try to prevail upon him to do a bit of fighting in this war that he started. Farewell.”
But it took him a while to press through the mob. It seemed all Troy was out in the streets. Since he was their special hero, the people crowded about him, shouting questions, trying to touch him. He kept a smile on his face, but forced his way steadily through the mob. However, his son’s nurse had been so moved by his words on the wall that she had rushed off to tell everyone she could find what her master had said. By the time he reached Paris’ house all Troy was buzzing with his speech to Andromache, and no woman who heard it could refrain from bursting into tears, and thinking critically of her own husband.
He found Paris with Helen, polishing his armor.
“It’s clean enough, brother—too clean. I should prefer to see it bloodied a
“No, I must get back there, dearly as I should love to stay with you and pass some cool and delicious hours in your matchless company. But I am the commander, and must lead my men.”
“You look so solemn—so sad. Have you come to tell me something special?”
“I have had a vision of Troy’s defeat. And among all the scenes of carnage and disaster it drags in its wake, all I can see is one picture: You, in time to come, have been borne away by some mailed conqueror to faroff Greece. And there in Argos, or in Attica, or Sparta, I see you dressed in dull clothing, spinning at the loom, or drawing water under the eye of your mistress—who will not be partial to you for you will be too beautiful, more beautiful than she, whoever she be. And her husband, your master, will be spending his nights with you rather than with her. I see you a servant, a slave. That is what losing means—to be enslaved. And that sight of you there fills me with such sorrowful rage that I feel a giant’s strength, feel that I, personally, could interpose my body between Troy and all the Greek hordes—even if my comrades are cut down—and kill and kill until there is not one Greek left. And so the vision brings its own contradiction. And what do you make of that?”
“What do I make of that? That you are very brave, and very dear. And that I am blessed beyond all women in my husband. For you, I believe, are the mightiest man ever to bear arms, and the noblest heart ever to bear another’s grief. And when you meet Achilles, or Ajax, the gods will favor your cause, for you are living proof that their handiwork is excelling itself.”
“Thank you for those words,” said Hector. “They are the sweetest I have ever heard in all my life. It is true, whether I can conquer Achilles or not, I must challenge him to single combat. These pitched battles waste our forces too much, and we do not have as many men to spare as do the enemy. Yes, I shall fight the strong Achilles, and when I do the memory of your loving words will make a victor’s music in my ears.”
He took his infant son from the nurse’s arms. Lifting him high as if stretching him toward the heavens, he said: “Great Zeus, father of us all, hear a lesser father’s prayer. I am a warrior; some call me a hero, and, as you know, a degree of self-esteem attaches to that condition. Instead of sacrificing a bull to you then, let me sacrifice my self-esteem—which, I assure you, is as huge and hotblooded and rampaging as any bull. Let me ask you this: That when my son is grown and fights his battles, as all men must, and returns therefrom, that men will say of him only this. ‘He is a better man than his father was.’ ”
The baby was frightened by his father’s nodding horsetail plume, and burst into tears. Hector smiled and kissed him, and gave him into his mother’s arms. Then he kissed her, and said: “I must be off now, good wife. I must rout out lazy Paris and try to prevail upon him to do a bit of fighting in this war that he started. Farewell.”
But it took him a while to press through the mob. It seemed all Troy was out in the streets. Since he was their special hero, the people crowded about him, shouting questions, trying to touch him. He kept a smile on his face, but forced his way steadily through the mob. However, his son’s nurse had been so moved by his words on the wall that she had rushed off to tell everyone she could find what her master had said. By the time he reached Paris’ house all Troy was buzzing with his speech to Andromache, and no woman who heard it could refrain from bursting into tears, and thinking critically of her own husband.
He found Paris with Helen, polishing his armor.
“It’s clean enough, brother—too clean. I should prefer to see it bloodied a
Similar Books
