Helen (1060-1137)

when we have buried my body in the empty tomb?

I will urge him to give me a vessel, from which I shall have the offerings from your tomb let down into the sea’s embrace.

You have spoken well, except for one thing: if he commands you to set up a tomb on the dry land, your pretext comes to nothing.

But I will say it is not the custom in Hellas to bury those who have died at sea on the dry land.

You are setting this right, too; then I will sail with you, and help let down the funeral offerings, in the same ship.

You must above all be at hand,

with your sailors who escaped from the wreck.

Be sure that if I have a ship at anchor, they will be posted, man beside man, each with his sword.

You must direct everything; only let there be winds in our sails to guide us, and a speedy ship.

It will be so; for the deities will bring my troubles to an end. But from whom will you say that you heard I was dead?

From you; allege that you were the only one to escape death, when you were sailing with the son of Atreus, and that you saw him dead.

It is true that these rags thrown around my body

will bear witness with me as to the shipwreck.

They have come at the right time, although then they seemed an ill-timed loss. Perhaps that misery may turn to good fortune.

Should I to enter the house with you, or am I to sit quietly here at this tomb?

Stay here; for if he does something harsh to you, this tomb and your sword would protect you. But I will go into the house, cut off my hair, exchange my white robe for a dark one, and tear my cheek with nails that make the flesh bloody.

For the contest is a great one, and I see two turns of the scale: either I must die if I am detected in my plot, or else come home and save you as well.

Lady Hera, you who lie in the bed of Zeus, grant relief from their labors to two pitiable creatures;

we beg you, casting our arms straight towards heaven, where you have your home in an embroidery of stars. And you, who won the prize of beauty at the price of my marriage, Kypris, daughter of Dione, do not destroy me utterly. You have maltreated me enough before now,

handing over my name, though not my body, to barbarians. Let me die, if you want to kill me, in my native land. Why are you so insatiable for mischief, practising arts of love, deceits, and treacherous schemes, and magic spells that bring bloodshed on families?

If you were only moderate, in other ways you are by nature the sweetest of gods for men; I don’t deny it. Exeunt Helen and Menelaos.