Hecuba (305-398)

because he asked a victim. For here is a source of weakness to many states, whenever a man of brave and generous soul receives no greater honor than his inferiors. Now Achilles, lady, deserves honor at our hands,

since on behalf of Hellas the man died most nobly. Is not this a foul reproach to treat him as a friend in life, but, when he is gone from us, to treat him so no more? Enough! what will they say, if once more there comes a gathering of the army and a contest with the foe?

Shall we fight or nurse our lives, seeing the dead have no honors? For myself, indeed, when alive, if my daily store were scant, yet it would be all-sufficient, but my tomb I should wish

to be an object of respect, for this gratitude has long to run. You speak of cruel sufferings; hear my answer. Among us are grey old women and men no less miserable than you, and brides bereft of gallant husbands,

over whom this Trojan dust has closed. Endure these sorrows; for us, if we are wrong in resolving to honor the brave, we shall bring upon ourselves a charge of ignorance; but as for you barbarians, do not regard your friends as such and pay no homage to your gallant dead,

so that Hellas may prosper and you may reap the fruits of such policy.

Alas! how cursed is slavery always in its nature, forced by the might of the stronger to endure unseemly treatment.

Daughter, my pleading to avert your bloody death

was wasted idly, hurled forth on the air; but you, if endowed with greater power than your mother, make haste to utter every pleading note like the tuneful nightingale, to save your soul from death. Throw yourself pitiably at Odysseus’ knees,

and try to move him—here is your plea: he too has children—to feel pity for your sad fate.

Odysseus, I see you hiding your right hand beneath your robe and turning away your face, so that I may not touch your beard.

Take heart; you are safe from the suppliant’s god in my case, for I will follow you, both because I must and because it is my wish to die; for if I were unwilling, a coward would I show myself, a woman faint of heart. Why should I prolong my days? I whose father was lord

of all the Phrygians, my chiefest pride in life. Then I was nursed on fair hopes to be a bride for kings, the center of keen jealousy among suitors, to see whose home I would make my own; and over each lady of Ida I was queen;

ah me! admired among maidens, equal to a goddess, save for death alone, but now I am a slave! That name first makes me long for death, so strange it sounds; and then perhaps my lot might give me

to some savage master, one that would buy me for money—me the sister of Hector and many others—who would make me knead him bread within his halls, or sweep his house or set me working at the loom, leading a life of misery;

while some slave, bought I know not where, will taint my bed, once deemed worthy of royalty. No, never! Here I close my eyes upon the light, free as yet, and dedicate myself to Hades. Lead me away, Odysseus, and do your worst,

for I see nothing within my reach to make me hope or expect with any confidence that I am ever again to be happy. Mother, do not seek to hinder me by word or deed, but join in my wish for death before I meet with shameful treatment undeserved.

For whoever is not used to taste of sorrows, though he bears it, yet it galls him when he puts his neck within the yoke; far happier would he be dead than alive, for life bereft of honor is toil and trouble.

A wondrous mark, most clearly stamped, does noble birth

imprint on men, and the name goes still further where it is deserved.

A noble speech, my daughter! but there is sorrow linked with its noble sentiments. Odysseus, if you must please the son of Peleus, and avoid reproach,

do not slay this maid, but lead me to Achilles’ pyre and torture me unsparingly; it was I that bore Paris, whose fatal shaft laid low the son of Thetis.

It is not your death, my lady, that Achilles’ ghost

has demanded of the Achaeans, but hers.

At least then slaughter me with my child; so shall there be a double drink of blood for the earth and the dead that claims this sacrifice.

The maiden’s death suffices; no need to add

a second to the first; would we did not need even this!

Die with my daughter I must and will.

How so? I did not know I had a master.

I will cling to her like ivy to an oak.