With that, he balanced his long-shadowed spear and hurled it. The heavy weapon struck the round shield of Priam’s son. It pierced the glittering shield, forced its way through the ornate cuirass, and pressing straight on tore the tunic on Paris’ flank. But Paris swerved, and so avoided death. Menelaus then drew his silver-mounted sword, swung it back, and brought it down on the ridge of his enemy’s helmet. But the sword broke on the helmet into half a dozen pieces and dropped from his hand. Menelaus gave a groan and looked up at the broad sky. ‘Father Zeus,’ he cried, ‘is there a god more spiteful than yourself? I thought I had paid out Paris for his infamy, and now my sword breaks in my hand, when I have already cast a spear for nothing and never touched the man!’

With that he hurled himself at Paris, seized him by the horsehair crest, and swinging him round, began to drag him into the Achaean lines. Paris was choked by the pressure on his tender throat of the embroidered helmet-strap, which he had fitted tightly round his chin; and Menelaus would have hauled him in and covered himself with glory, but for the quickness of Aphrodite Daughter of Zeus, who saw what was happening and broke the strap for Paris, though it was made of leather from a slaughtered ox. So the helmet came away empty in the great hand of the noble Menelaus. He tossed it, with a swing, into the Achaean lines, where it was picked up by his own retainers, and flung himself at his enemy again, in the hope of despatching him with his bronze-pointed spear. But Aphrodite used her powers once more. Hiding Paris in a dense mist, she whisked him off – it was an easy feat for the goddess – and put him down in his own perfumed fragrant bedroom. Then she went herself to summon Helen.

She found Helen on the high tower, surrounded by Trojan women. Aphrodite put out her hand, plucked at her sweet-scented robe, and spoke to her in the disguise of an old woman she was very fond of, a wool-worker who used to make beautiful wool for her when she lived in Lacedaemon. ‘Come!’ said the goddess, mimicking this woman. ‘Paris wants you to go home to him. There he is in his room, on the inlaid bed, radiant in his beauty and his lovely clothes. You would never believe that he had just come in from a duel. You would think he was going to a dance or had just stopped dancing and sat down to rest.’