In the same breath, shining Hector reached down
for his son—but the boy recoiled,
cringing against his nurse’s full breast,
screaming out at the sight of his own father,
terrified by the flashing bronze, the horsehair crest,
the great ridge of the helmet nodding, bristling terror—
so it struck his eyes. And his loving father laughed,
his mother laughed as well, and glorious Hector,
quickly lifting the helmet from his head,
set it down on the ground, fiery in the sunlight,
and raising his son he kissed him, tossed him in his arms,
lifting a prayer to Zeus and the other deathless gods:
“Zeus, all you immortals! Grant this boy, my son,
may be like me, and rule Troy in power
and one day let them say, ‘He is a better man than his father!—
when he comes home from battle bearing the bloody gear
of the mortal enemy he has killed in war—
a joy to his mother’s heart.
So Hector prayed
and placed his son in the arms of his loving wife.
Andromache pressed the child to her scented breast,
smiling through tears. Her husband noticed,
and filled with pity now, Hector stroked her gently,
trying to reassure her, repeating her name, “Andromache,
dear one, why so desperate? Why so much grief for me?
No man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate.
And fate? No one alive has ever escaped it,
neither brave man nor coward, I tell you—
it’s born with us the day that we are born.
So please go home and tend to your own tasks,
the distaff and the loom, and keep the women
working hard as well. As for the fighting,
men will see to that, all who were born in Troy
but I most of all.”
Hector aflash in arms
took up his horsehair-crested helmet once again.