Helen of Troy (102 page)

Now Polyxena stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “The day he slew my brother Troilus? He remembers seeing me then? He should curse that day, and anything his eyes looked upon. I have, and I despise your father. Tell him that when he appears in your dreams!”

“Your feelings are of no matter. He will have your blood, lady, and have it spilled on his tomb. Then and only then will the war be over.”

“Troy is a heap of ashes, its dead smothered under fallen stones and burning timbers, and he needs another killing to complete the war?” Her voice had faded, as if she had used all her strength in remembering Troilus.

“Who can fathom the desires and needs of the dead?” he said. I remembered the cold shade of Paris. “I resent it, too, my lady. Why should not having his son come to Troy be enough for him? Why does he need
you
?”

“Because he is a cruel and violent man,” said Polyxena. “It is as simple as that. He murdered as long as he was able, now he recruits others to carry on murder in his name.”

“Kill me!” I cried. “It is I Achilles should want as a blood-price. My husband killed him.”

Neoptolemus gave a horrid little smile. “I’ve no doubt he lusts for you, that much is true. He sighed to have you walk by his side on the White Isle, where I am told he paces. But,
Mother,
I need you here.”

With a choking cry of revulsion, I bent my head. I could barely stand to look upon him. So I did not see Polyxena shake off her mother’s hands and stand before him.

“This will end the war? This will be the last killing?” she asked him.

“Yes,” said Neoptolemus. That much I heard. “Then we will sail for home, abandon Trojan shores forever.”

“And I shall have a tomb? A proper tomb?”

“Child, what are you thinking of?” Hecuba shrieked.

“I want a white marble tomb,” she said. “Nowhere near Achilles.” She paused. “And I want it to say that, as the innocent blood of a Greek princess sent the ships here, the innocent blood of a Trojan princess sent them home!”

“No, no!” cried Hecuba.

“Oh, Mother, cease!” Polyxena commanded her. “Do you think I wish to leave the land of my home? Go to be a slave, endure the sweaty fumblings of some vile Greek? Do you think it will be better for Andromache there than for me inside a white tomb?” She turned back to Neoptolemus. “I am sure you sweat and fumble, and I do not envy Andromache. Truly, I prefer the tomb.”

Neoptolemus bit his lip at the insult, but did not strike her. “You shall have it.” He looked to the door. “The preparations should take time, but we shall hurry them. By sundown, we will both have our wishes: you will be in a tomb and we will be readying our ships for home.”

He left the house, and the women encircled Polyxena, weeping and lamenting. It was a grotesque reenactment of a wedding. They would attire her, dress her in her finest robes (if any remained from Troy), adorn her with the royal fillet, anoint her with scented oils, and whisper secrets in her ear. In marriage, those who had ventured into marriage long ago imparted their wisdom. But there was no one present who could help her, arm her, for the dark place where she was going.

Near sundown, two soldiers came for Polyxena. She had been dressed in white robes, a makeshift royal diadem, made of a linen strip torn from Hecuba’s gown, tied around her head. There were no jewels, no gold. They were being counted in Agamemnon’s tent, heaped up and inventoried. Even sacrificial cattle had their horns gilded, but she went unadorned to her slaying. Someone had brought a handful of meadow flowers and these were fashioned into a necklace and bracelet of sorts, yellow and red against her flesh.

“But we will accompany her on her journey,” I insisted to the soldiers.

Hecuba, calm now, embraced Polyxena. “It is only for a short time,” she said. “You spoke true. You are privileged to leave all this behind. Greet your father, greet Hector, greet Troilus, and tell them I will hurry to their sides.”

Polyxena turned her head and kissed Hecuba’s cheek. “I will, Mother. Now I take my leave of you all, whom I love.” Tears traced themselves down her cheeks.

“Come!” The two soldiers grabbed both of her arms and steered her outside.

Hecuba and I followed, as did Andromache and Polyxena’s sisters. No one stayed behind.

The tumulus of Achilles was only a short distance from the Greek ships. It reared toward the sky, its soil already covered with grass and flowers. Achilles had died long enough ago for the meadow to begin reclaiming it.

Someday this will be flat, I thought. Storms will beat upon it, wear it away, and shepherds will let their sheep feed on the grass. The tumulus of Achilles will shrink and shrivel and melt away. And Troy will be likewise. The mound where it was—I glanced toward the place, where now the smoke was barely rising—will disappear.

An altar had been set up before the tumulus—a heap of stones with a flat stone atop it. A fire was burning before it, as if that would cleanse the foul murder shortly to take place.

Lined up on one side were Agamemnon, Menelaus, and all of the Greek leaders. Of course they would be here to witness it. There was no bloodshed they did not wish to participate in, to relish.

Agamemnon spoke of appeasing the gods and needing a safe passage home. He spoke of the similar sacrifice he had offered to enable the ships to cross.

“And you’ve not yet paid for that sacrifice!” screamed Cassandra. “But you will!”

Agamemnon gave a discreet cough and soldiers apprehended her and hustled her away. Now I saw her twin, Helenus, bowing his head and looking ashamed, standing with his captors. I also saw Antenor, misery written on his face, and his wife Theano, standing before him.

They led Polyxena to the altar. “My tomb,” she said. “It is all arranged?”

Antenor made a gesture. “Yes, my child. It is as near to Troy as possible. I have seen to that.”

I expected her to castigate him as a traitor, cooperating with the Greeks. But she was past that. “I thank you,” she said. “And you will tend it?”

“Someone will,” he said. “I may not be allowed to remain here. But I promise it shall be tended.”

“And not by the same person tending Achilles’s mound here? I want no part of him. Hands that touch his tomb may not touch mine.”

“Princess, I promise,” he said. Sobs cut off his voice.

“Proceed!” ordered Neoptolemus. Several strapping soldiers stepped up.

“Need we so many?” asked Polyxena.

“To convey you,” said Neoptolemus. He addressed the silent mound. “Father! As you have commanded, we have brought you the princess Polyxena. She will shed her blood here on your tomb. And you will then free us of your wrath!”

Why should he be wrathful? So the selfish, demanding child was demanding even in death. Or perhaps it was not Achilles himself, but the memory he had left behind in the minds of others that was so unreasonably demanding. We go one further in our idols, our gods, making them require things they would not think of.

Five men hoisted Polyxena aloft. She lay daintily in their arms, her ankles crossed modestly, her head back. She had bound her hair so that it would not impede their blades finding her throat. She had a dreamy look on her face, and had refused the blindfold.

They bore her to the altar. There they halted.

“You die to appease the gods!” cried one of the soldiers. I noticed—dreadful, the things you notice at such moments, odd splotches of calm—that no priest was present. Of course: the god demanding blood was Achilles, not any being of Olympus.

Another of the soldiers pulled on her bound hair to extend her neck. She closed her eyes. I could see her lips moving. She was speaking to someone, addressing someone, but no one could hear.

“Now!” A dagger came from nowhere, but did not hesitate; it slashed across her white throat and a gush of blood spurted up, hitting the soldier’s chin, dripping off, bright scarlet.

She lay still. She did not struggle, or clutch at her throat, or convulse. Instead she was like a carved piece of ivory, utterly unmoving. Why did not her body rebel, heave, jerk? Had she commanded it to imitate the ivory?

Her eyes were closed and stayed closed. Her lips were curved into a placid smile. Slowly they laid their burden down, let her lie on the altar bleeding to death. Still she did not move, not even a twitch. It was as if she had died the instant the blade had touched her, died by her own stern admonition.

It was difficult to determine when she was dead. Gingerly they touched the soles of her feet with the point of the fatal dagger, and they did not curl upward. Someone put a feather in front of her nostrils to see if it stirred. It did not. Someone else laid a finger on her neck to test for a pulse.

At length Neoptolemus shouted, “It is done! My father is satisfied!”

Antenor stepped forward. “I shall convey the body to the waiting sepulcher, with all due respect.” Now I could see, from the way her body draped on the litter, that she was truly dead.

Such courage. She was worthy of her warrior brothers. Her fame would last as long as Achilles or Patroclus or Hector’s. Fortunate, blessed daughter of Troy!

Oh, what a world, when to die is deemed more noble than to live.

For the rest of us, less noble: we must grace a celebratory banquet for the departure of the Greeks.

“And now to the feast!” Agamemnon stood before the crowd like a ship’s prow. “To speed us on our way!”

While we had been at the tumulus, soldiers had been readying the beach. For the high-ranking, makeshift tables had been set up, stools brought to allow worthy legs to rest. Resin-dipped torches, thrust into the sand, created a flickering yellow fence around the area. Huge fires were burning, several oxen—or something else?—roasting over them in varying stages of readiness. Amphoras of wine were lined up like trees in a forest, ready to be felled. Some youngsters were testing their flutes and older boys were plucking their lyres. The line of ships helped to cut off the worst of the wind.

Night was falling; the sun had set and even the glow on the horizon had faded. A few stars were already appearing. Had Polyxena gone there? Was she among the stars—she who had been with us when the sun had risen? There were stories about people being carried up to live with the stars, or being changed into a star. But we know too little of this.

The table of honor—inasmuch as it was a table—would seat Agamemnon, Odysseus, Menelaus, Nestor, Idomeneus, Diomedes, Philoctetes, and, shame of it all, Sinon, little Ajax, and Neoptolemus. Lesser men would be allowed to stand around it and share in the speeches and bantering. We captives were to stand farther back, serving as sauces for the meat, an appetite stimulant to help them digest their spoils. Had even the cattle come from Troy? Or were these men eating the flesh of the slain horses?

Mercifully the dim light softened the faces of the flushed Greek warriors. I could see Agamemnon’s, turned red by the bonfire flames, his dark beard now streaked with white. As he talked and flashed his teeth, I could see that several were missing. Well, he was of that age. Nestor looked no older than he had when I first met him, but battle makes old men younger and young men older. Idomeneus—he seemed aged, and I had heard that he had lost his speed on the battlefield.

Agamemnon walked down the table, distributing goblets. “Gold of Troy!” he said. “It is fitting!” He pulled one after another out of a sack and handed them to his men. They were all different, collected from looted Trojan homes. Some might have been Priam’s, but they might just as well have come from wealthy Trojan merchants. In his wake came servers pouring wine into them.

The oxen were carved with much shouting and glee. Huge hunks of steaming meat were put on the men’s platters. None was offered to us, but we could not have eaten in any case. I looked on both sides of me, at Andromache, Laodice, Ilona, Hecuba. Their eyes were dull and their mouths set. They would endure:
perseverance,
that sad virtue of women.

“My men!” Agamemnon was crying. “Did we ever truly believe this day would come? Troy is destroyed. We are victorious. It has been many a long year. But I am grateful for you who stood the course. We have lost many, and those of us who remain must remember them. Without them we would not be here to speak these words. Now, as for the treasure—”

How quickly he got to that!

“—as we cannot give due reward to those who have perished, it is fitting that we divide them amongst ourselves in their honor. We have gold, we have jewels, we have fine carvings, and armor, and many other things, all . . . rescued . . . from Troy.” At a nod from him, boys trotted out with litters heaped with booty. A large chest was laid at Agamemnon’s feet. He lifted the lid. “These are the special treasures, which I will personally award.” He bent down and scooped up a gold diadem. It must have belonged to Priam. “This is for you, brother.” He gestured to Menelaus. “When you return to your throne in Sparta, you will wear diadems once again.” Suddenly he broke off. “I know many kings have laid aside their diadems to fight here with me. Now you have your reward, and for the rest of your lives you can wear your diadems in peace.”

Menelaus took the offered gold. Suddenly Hecuba screamed, “If you wear my husband’s diadem, death fastens itself around your head as you fasten it.”

Agamemnon scowled. “Lady, if you cannot keep silent, you must be removed.”

Hecuba let out a hideous cackle. “Removed? As Priam was, as Astyanax was, as my daughter was just this afternoon?”

“If you had removed Paris as you intended, none of this would have come about.” Menelaus glared at her. “You could have been spared all this. As for your warning . . .” Calmly he tied the diadem around his head. “It fits nicely.”

“A circlet of death!” she cried. “Good. Now you can wait for it.” She looked around at everyone. “When will it come? A sweet summer afternoon? A nasty, ill-howling winter’s evening? You cannot guard against it. It will be ugly. Priam will see to that. And waiting for it will make it all the worse.”

“Take her away,” said Agamemnon.

As the soldiers moved toward her, she laughed. “I take myself away!” she said, and seemed to shrink and become shadowy. The soldiers lunged for her, but all they caught was a black dog, yelping and biting.