the great Peleus to the sea-goddess Thetis.
Among the men, the gods mingled,
all except Eris,
dancing to the music of an inspired bard--singing
and striking up his rousing song on his lyre--and
feasting on the finest of food—
bread, appetizers, platters of meat, fat rich loins aplenty—
filling their bellies with the choicest
deep-red wine glinting in golden cups, when Eris,
goddess of discord entered, well miffed,
eyes burning with fury and decked with snaky locks.
She threw a golden apple into the crowd, planting a seed of feud.
On the apple was inscribed “for the fairest one”.
A drape of silence fell over the hall
as Eris transformed into a black hawk and flew off into the setting sun,
its bright red-orange rays
stretching out into the sky, clinging on to the last few moments of day.
Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite, all three great goddesses of Mount
Olympus, strode toward the irresistible piece of fruit
claiming the title. So Zeus, king of the gods,
son of Cronus, father to Athena and Aphrodite, chose Paris,
the Trojan prince, son of Priam and Hekabe, to make the pronouncement.
Athena was the first, sauntering over to Paris, she bent down
and whispered into his ear: “I will give you wisdom,
and you shall be the wisest man in the world.”
Next came Hera. Leaning down she spoke In a soft voice:
“I will give you absolute power and wealth.”
Paris’ eyes lit, aglow, as bright as the Sun herself,
but before he could accept Hera’s bribe, he felt a silky hand
brush the hair by his ear and heard these sweet words spoken:
“I, the fairest, Aphrodite, will give you love—
the most beautiful woman alive, the fairest of mortals.”
Paris sat there pondering each bribe, tugged in three
directions by each offer; but the temptation of one gift was
just too strong …. And so the Trojan prince seized the golden
fruit in his palm and holding it up to Aphrodite, said, “to the fairest.”
Athena, roaring with anger, her sea-gray eyes afire with
vehemence, fastened her golden sandals on her soft velvety feet,
secured her glistening robe, and soared, in the form of an eagle,
out of the palace and over the Ocean, churning the
water white, sweeping up waves, in fury, along her path.
Two dusks later she reached the heights of Mount Olympus,
and in a deep cave on the highest slope, she found her lair,
just as she had left it, fire blazing on the hearth, the sweet scent of
pale honey wafting in the air, the golden bed draped with silk sheets,
her owl roosting on the sacred olive tree.
And in the brightest corner she set eyes on her dear companion,
Nike, goddess of victory, who had remained behind to finish her weaving—
the fine tapestry she was to give as a
wedding present to the immortal sea goddess.
And so Athena began to tell her of the feast
from beginning to end, her eyes blazing with fury
as she roared about the apple and foolish Paris:
“How dare that mortal Paris give the golden fruit to the
goddess of love, Aphrodite, who promises married women away—
like Helen of Argos, daughter of Zeus—and seduces them for
foreign men. Every being from Heaven to Hell knows that I am the
fairest. Fools, they are, these parasites, every last one of them.”
And the goddess of victory spoke, calming the bright-eyed Athena:
“There will come a day when the foolish prince will pay in full. His
city will fall under the great wrath of the gods, and his most
prized warriors and possessions will be lost in blood shed over his
soil. He will perish on this soil sodden with blood and tears.”
And so Nike drew up a potion to sooth Athena’s wild spirit
and gave Pallas a golden goblet to drink from. And the
bright-eyed goddess mounted her bed and fell off into a
lulling sleep as she dreamed of her revenge.
Several weeks came to pass, and on the fourth week, Dawn, with her
rose-red fingers, shone above the serene sea, and the clear-eyed
Pallas rose, feasted on food and drink, and peered down from the
heights of Mount Olympus as the Trojan War began.
For ten long years, Athena watched over the Achaeans,
squabbling with other gods over their favorites on the Troy side.
When the dispute arose between King Agamemnon, Atreus’ son,
and Achilles of the swift feet, son of Peleus,
over Achilles’ prize, Briseis, Athena arrived, appearing only to
the warrior, Achilles, and sojourned the sword that was to leave his
sheath and send the king to the House of Death.
When the great warrior Achilles sought to kill Hector and
avenge his cohort Patroklus, Pallas disguised herself in the shape of Deiphobus
and cunningly tricked the Trojan prince into fighting the great Achaean warrior.
And when Odysseus led the Achaeans into Troy,
hidden within the wooden horse—
his scheming plan to conquer Troy and bring an end to the bloodshed
and squabbling of men and gods alike—
and Helen taunted the men calling their names in the sweet alluring voices of their lovers
the bright-eyed Pallas,
in her immense light, led the illustrious Helen away.
And the city of Troy fell in destruction, soil covered with lifeless bodies,
streams flowing red with blood, and smoke and ashes grazing the sky.
The lustrous Athena delighted in her revenge and feasted
on the libations and offerings poured out to her from the Achaeans,
their hearts filled with hope of a safe return,
in particular the royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, mastermind of war,
whom she knew was destined to see the shores of his homeland,
Ithaca, once again. And she once again
retreated to her lair on Mount Olympus, glorified,
and falling into a golden sleep, dreamed about the work ahead of her
to return the Achaean warrior to his home.
Written by T. Morikawa, Class of 2007
Links