The Heroides. 13.

 13. Laodamia to Protesilaus

She, who sends this, wishes loving greetings to go to whom it’s sent:
from Thessaly to Thessaly’s lord, Laodamia to her husband.
Rumour has it you’re held at Aulis by delaying winds:
ah! when you left me, where were those winds then?
Then the sea should have obstructed your oars:
that would have been a useful time for raging waters.
I might have given my husband more kisses, and more requests,
and there was much I wanted to say to him.
You were driven headlong from here and there was a wind that might
have been summoned for your sails, that the sailors loved, not I.
It was a wind fit for a sailor, not one fit for a lover:
I was freed from your embrace, Protesilaus, and my tongue,
commissioning you, left the words unfinished:
it could scarcely say a sad: ‘Farewell.’
The North Wind leaned down, and filled your departing sails,
and soon my Protesilaus was far away.
While I could still see my husband, I delighted in watching
and your eyes were followed, all the way, by mine:
when I could no longer see you, I could see your sail,
your sail held my gaze for a long time.
But once I could not see you, or your vanishing sail,
and I could look at nothing except the waves,
the light went with you too, and suffocating darkness rising,
they say that, my knees failed, and I sank to the ground.
Your father Iphiclus, and mine, aged Acastus, and my mother
could scarcely revive me, with icy water, in my misery.
They went about their kind action, but vainly for me:
I’m angry I wasn’t allowed to die in my distress.
When consciousness returned, my pain returned with it:
a rightful affection hurts my chaste heart.
I take no care about displaying my hair neatly combed,
nor does it please me to cover my body with golden dresses.
I run, here and there, like one you’d think had been touched
by the rod of the twin-horned god, just as madness drives me.
The women of Phylace gather round, and they call to me:
‘Put on your royal garments, Laodamia!’
Of course she should wear clothes steeped in purple,
while he wars beneath the walls of Troy!
She to comb her hair? A helmet to weigh his down?
She should bear new dresses, her husband heavy armour?
Let them say, that as I can, I imitate your hardships, with harshness,
and, by my circumstances, act out the sad war.
Paris, son of Priam, harmful to your people through your beauty,
be as cowardly an enemy as you were an evil guest!
I wish you’d reproached your Spartan bride for her character,
or that she’d been displeased with yours.
Menelaus you suffer too much for the one you lost,
alas! with what grieving you’ll avenge her.
Gods, I beg you, keep all dark omens from us
and let my husband dedicate weapons to Jove, on his return!
But I’m afraid whenever the miserable war comes to mind:
my tears flow like snows melting in the sun.
Troy and Tenedos, Simois, Xanthus, Ida, are names
that almost scare me by their very sound.
That guest would not have dared to take her, unless
he could defend himself: he knew his strength.
He came, as rumour has it, remarkable with all that gold,
bearing the wealth of Phrygia on his back,
powerful in men, and ships, to wage a war –
and what part, and how much, of his kingdom follow him?
I suspect these things conquered you, sister of Leda’s Twins,
I think these things may bring disaster on the Greeks.
I do not know this Hector whom I fear: Paris said that Hector
wages war with a blood-stained sword in his hand:
If I’m dear to you, beware Hector, whoever he might be:
have the memory of that name stamped on your heart!
When you shun him, remember to shun the others,
and imagine there are many Hectors there,
and make sure you say, when you prepare to fight:
‘Laodamia herself ordered me to forbear.’
If it’s possible for Troy to fall to the Greek army,
let it fall without you receiving any wounds.
Let Menelaus fight and strain against the enemy:
among enemies, let the wife be sought by the husband.
Your cause is different: fight so as to live,
and be able to return to your wife’s loving breast!
I beg you, Trojans, spare this one of all your enemies,
don’t let my blood flow from his body!
He’s not one to charge into battle with naked blade
and bear savage feelings towards men.
He’s better suited, by far, to making love than fighting.
Let others make war: let Protesilaus love!
Now I confess: I wish I’d called you back, and shown my feelings:
my tongue was stilled, for fear of evil omens.
When you wished to leave your father’s door,
your feet showed signs of stumbling on the threshold.
When I saw, I groaned, and said, secretly in my heart:
‘I pray this might be a sign of my husband’s returning!’
I tell you this now, so you aren’t too brave in battle.
Make sure all my fears vanish on the wind!
Also I know not what unjust death fate promises,
to the first Greek who touches Trojan soil:
unhappy the woman who grieves for the first man slain!
I wish the gods might not make you over-eager!
Among the thousand ships let yours be the thousandth,
and the last to be wrecked by the tormenting waters!
This also I forewarn you of: be the last to leave the vessel!
Where you land is not your father’s country.
When you return sail your ship with canvas and oars together,
and reach your own shore with all speed!
Whether Phoebus hides, or stands high above the earth,
come quickly to me by day, or come to me by night:
All the better if you come at night. Night is pleasing to girls,
whose necks have arms to embrace them.
I try to grasp deceitful dreams in my empty bed:
while I’m without true joys, false ones must give me pleasure.
But why does your pale image appear to me?
Why do so many plaintive sounds rise to your lips?
I shake off sleep, and revere these phantoms of the night:
no altar in Thessaly’s free from the smoke of my gifts:
I offer incense, with tears too, that blazes as it’s scattered,
so that the flames sputter, as they do when wine’s poured on.
When will I lead you home again, clasped in my loving arms,
to free my joy from this listlessness?
When will it be, that, truly joined with me in the one bed,
you’ll recall the splendid deeds of your battles?
While you tell me of them, while listening delights,
you’ll still snatch many kisses, and give many in return.
rightly, in their retelling, the words are stopped:
the tongue’s more easily refreshed by sweet delay.
But when Troy comes to mind, so do the winds and seas:
firm hope fails, overcome by anxious fears.
It troubles me too, that the winds prevent your ship from leaving:
you prepare to go with the waves against you.
Who would return to his country, obstructed by the wind?
You sail, from your country, though the sea denies you!
Neptune himself offers no road, to his own city, Troy.
Where do you rush to? Go back to your homes!
Where do you rush to, Greeks? Heed the winds’denial!
This is no sudden chance – this is divine delay.
What do you seek by such warfare but a shameful adulteress?
Ships, from the Inachus, back your sails while you may!
What do I say? Do I call you back? Let the omen at your going
be recalled, and gentle winds might favour calm seas.
I’m envious of the Trojan women, who, though they see
the tearful funerals of their people, though the enemy are nearby,
the new bride herself, with her own hands, places the helmet
on her brave husband’s head, and gives him his Trojan weapons:
gives him his weapons, and while she does so, snatches a kiss –
that kind of service will be sweet for both –
and she leads her husband out, and gives him orders to return,
and says: ‘Be sure you bring Jove’s weapons back!’
Bearing his lady’s recent orders with him,
he’ll fight with caution, and see their home again.
Leading him back, she takes his shield, loosens his helmet again,
and takes his weary body to her breast.
We are unsure: troubled, everything hems us in:
whatever might happen, fear thinks it fact.
While you bear arms, a soldier in a remote world,
your wax image recalls your face to me:
I speak endearments to it, words that I owe to you,
and it receives my embrace.
Believe me this image is more than it seems:
add sound to wax, and it would be Protesilaus.
I gaze at it, and hold it to my breast, in place of my true husband
and I complain to it, as if it might answer back.
By your return, by your body, by my gods, I swear,
and by the twin torches of our love and our marriage,
and by your head, itself, that you might bring back to me again,
so that I might see its grey hairs grow in time to white,
wherever you call from to me, I will come to accompany you,
whether what – alas! – I fear might be, or whether you survive.
Let this letter end with a last small request:
if you care for me, let your care be for yourself!