Helen of Troy (30 page)

People began to talk to their companions, talk of pleasant, inconsequential things. But Agamemnon’s voice cut through the murmurs. “Tell us, good prince. Tell us why your father cast you out of the palace,” he persisted.

“Mmmm . . .” Paris was chewing the meat.

“Oh, young man, seek not to evade the question!” Agamemnon tried to sound jolly.

Paris took his time finishing the mouthful of meat and at length said, “If you are determined to have it, here it is, though I fear it may sound the wrong note in this happy company. There was an omen about my birth, an omen that said I would be the destruction of Troy. So they sought to prevent that.” I could hear the tiny tremor in his voice. Curses to Agamemnon for forcing him to say this—this which must cause him distress!

“So that is what Priam meant when he said, ‘Better Troy should fall than that my wonderful son should be lost again,’ ” said Father. “I see.” He wiped his mouth. “Well, that’s a brave father!”

“Now, wouldn’t you do the same for us?” teased Castor, leaning toward Father.

Father laughed. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’d be better off if I’d sent you off to the Taygetus mountains, like other parents do bad children.”

“Well, you would have had to send both of us,” said Polydeuces. “We do not tolerate being separated.”

“It doesn’t happen very often,” said Agamemnon. “Royal families hardly ever expose infants nowadays. Only the most dreadful situation would require it.” He took a long, slow drink from his cup, then set it down slowly, precisely. Then he gave Paris a riveting look, settling back in his chair.

Mother, beside him, looked at both the guests and asked brightly, “And are you married?” But I knew the question was not innocent and was meant for Paris, not Aeneas.

“Yes, madam, I am,” said Aeneas. His dark hair shone like a raven’s wing as he dipped his head politely, catching glints of the torchlight. “I have the privilege to be married to Creusa, the daughter of King Priam.”

Mother raised her eyebrows. “My, my. The son-in-law of the king himself! But isn’t—wasn’t—there a prophecy about your descendants ruling Troy, and so—”

“Enough, enough prophecies!” Paris waved his arm in dismissal. “They take away our appetites, our appetites for this fine food, and make us rude guests.”

So far I had not really looked at him; because he was so close beside me, I could not see him unless I turned my head completely around. I started to do so and caught Mother staring at me.

“And are you married, Paris?” she persisted.

“No, I am not,” he said. “But I pray daily to Aphrodite, that she will send me a wife of her choosing.”

Castor burst out in a laugh that made him spray wine out of his mouth all over the table. He smeared it around, attempting to clean it up. “Oh, oh, my boy, you have quite a sense of humor.”

“He’s so used to saying it, I think he’s come to believe it,” said Aeneas. “He just keeps repeating it whenever his family urges him to marry.”

“He isn’t old enough,” said Menelaus. I realized those were the first words he had spoken during the meal. “He is intelligent enough to know that.”

“How old
are
you, Paris?” Mother asked, with that artificial brightness. Why had she taken a dislike to him?

“Sixteen,” he said.

Sixteen! Nine years younger than I!

“A mere lad,” said Agamemnon. “But then, that’s what cowherds usually are—lads.”

“He isn’t a cowherd!” I said.

“Oh, but I
was
a cowherd, and a very good one, too,” said Paris quickly. “Those were dreamy days, there in the mountains—the cedars with their blue and purple shadows, the south wind in the trees, the waterfalls and meadows of flowers—yes, memories I cherish, those days with my cattle.”

“Is that Zeus mountain very high?” asked Hermione.

“Yes, very high indeed, and big, wide, with lots of little mountains around it. Mind you, it’s not as high as Mount Olympus, which no man can climb, but it’s high enough to get foggy and cold and let you lose your way.”

Just then there was a flourish and a special course was announced. One of the slaves, a pretty girl, gestured toward a cauldron being wheeled in and said, “The famous black broth of Sparta!” A slave behind her set out bowls for each of us.

The black broth of Sparta: supposedly it could be stomached only by true Spartans.

I had grown up drinking it, and did not find it distasteful, although even I preferred clear almond broth. The blackness of the broth came from swine’s blood; its pungent taste from the vinegar and salt mixed with it. The slave ladled some into my bowl and sprinkled it with goat cheese. The characteristic odor of the soup, reminiscent of standing downwind from a fresh sacrifice, wafted up from the bowls.

When Paris and Aeneas were served, all eyes fastened on them. They both smiled, but after the first sip Aeneas looked to be in pain. He held the liquid in his mouth and had to command his throat to open and accept it. Then it was Paris’s turn. He turned the bowl up to his mouth and I could hear him gulping it down. Then I saw the empty bowl set back on the table. He had swallowed it all in only one gulp.

“Ah,” he said. “Justly famous.”

I knew he must have swallowed it so swiftly to avoid savoring and actually tasting it.

Mother motioned to the server. “More for Prince Paris,” she said, and his bowl was refilled.

“Your kindness is striking,” said Paris. He picked up the bowl and held it in his fingers. “And what of the others?” he asked. No one else had a second helping. But it would not have mattered; we were inured to it.

“I’ll have some,” said Agamemnon, holding out his bowl.

There was no help for it, and Paris drank his down. I could sense his throat trying to close, but he mastered it.

“Bravo! Bravo!” said Castor. “And he didn’t even grimace.”

“I suppose you must be used to rough fare, having grown up in that cowherd’s hut,” said Mother. “This is probably dainty to you.”

“No, madam,” said Paris. “Hardly dainty, but distinctive. And in the hut of my foster father we ate well enough, simple food, but simple is best—closest to that which the gods give us.”

“So you are most at home in huts?” Mother could not have sounded more puzzled and disapproving.

“I can be at home anywhere,” said Paris. “Even in a foreign place like Sparta. Fortunate, isn’t it? The world is my home.”

“Yes, that is fortunate,” said Menelaus. “That means you can never be an exile.”

A noise near the hearth behind us caught our attention. I turned, just as Menelaus said, “Here are the dancers! Let us leave this table.”

Ten lithe boys, wearing only short tunics, stood in line, holding balls in each hand. Their leader bowed to us and explained their dance; they came from Crete. At the mention of Crete, Menelaus sighed. Soon he would be sailing there.

At a hand clap, the dancers began to weave and move swiftly in a pattern that seemed very intricate to me, coming together in a circle, then falling back, then exchanging places in an elaborate design. Just when it seemed most confusing and complicated, they began tossing balls to one another, catching them as they moved, so the dance was a swirl of movement and color. Their skill at throwing and catching while moving was breathtaking.

We stood around them in our own circle, and I was on the side opposite from Paris. I could only glimpse him through the movement; in the dull light he was almost hidden.

The dancers pranced out of the hall and the singers filed in, clutching their lyres. Bowing, they looked around and addressed us all, saying the usual things about not being worthy, and so on. Menelaus waved his arm impatiently for them to get on with it. This was the part of a ceremonial feast where everyone was ready to depart but custom demanded extensive entertainment, and the higher-ranking the guests, the more extensive.

The singers stood straight as the columns in the hall, holding their lyres out and closing their eyes. One by one they sang, sweet songs of dawn and dusk and the beauty of the stars. Paris had crept closer to me; now only Hermione was between us. I saw her pull on Paris’s hand and point to a lyre.

“That’s made of a tortoiseshell!” she murmured.

“Yes, indeed,” said Paris brightly.

“That’s wrong!” said Hermione, her voice too loud. “They shouldn’t kill them for that!”

Paris bent down and made a “quiet” signal to her, but she went on. “I have them for pets. People shouldn’t kill them for their shells!”

“Not even for sweet music?” said Paris.

“Not even!”

Paris now knelt on one knee. “And where do you keep these pets?” he asked. “Will you show them to me?”

“They’re in a secret place,” said Hermione.

“But will you show me? I am a special visitor.”

“Yes . . . they’re only secret from the singers, because I don’t want any of them to steal my pets!”

“Tomorrow, then? Do you promise?”

“Yes,” she said, bowing her head and feeling very important. “But you must meet me here, at midday, and I’ll take you.”

“May I come, too?” I asked her. I did not know about these secret tortoises.

“No,” she said. “You’re friends with the singers, you might tell them.”

“I’m not friends with them. I’ve never met them before.”

“Oh, let her come,” said Paris. “I promise she will not tell anyone about them.”

“How do you know that?” said Hermione. “You aren’t her!”

Yes, I am,
his mouth soundlessly said.

“All right,” said Hermione. “If you really want her to . . .”

The singers were finishing up, at long last, and we could end the evening. The foreign guests each had to make a little speech, and so did Father and Menelaus and I. I merely said, politely, I was thankful that the gods had sent them to us.

XXIII

T
he next morning I watched Menelaus standing listlessly while his attendant helped him dress, bringing out several tunics and mantles before he selected one. He set others aside to take with him to Crete.

“Do you not wish to go to Crete because you dislike traveling by water, or because the death of your grandfather saddens you?” I asked.

“Both,” he said.

“Then you can be happy that he reached the end of his life quietly,” I said. “You know that common wisdom—until the last day of life, we can count no man fortunate.”

“Yes, I know. Fortunes reverse themselves overnight. Thus we are always in a race to the grave, to get there unscathed.”

From outside, the spring noises of birdsong and playing children intruded into the chamber. “Oh, let us not be so gloomy. Life is more than that. They also say that our best revenge against death is to live each day and extract its joys to the full.”

“Like stepping on a grape?” Menelaus laughed. “My dear wife, when did you become such a philosopher?”

Since Paris came. I seek to explain it all to myself, to set it in ways I can grasp
. . . I smiled back at him and shrugged.

Menelaus would be busy that day, preparing for his journey. His usual attendants came in, as well as women. One of them—that pretty girl I had noticed presenting the black broth—brought in a small locking box that she claimed was waterproof.

“For the voyage,” she said, smiling.

I was wondering why a kitchen slave was now bringing personal items, when I received a message from Mother, requesting that I come to her chambers.

* * *

I found her at her loom, surrounded by skeins of dyed wool. She had several wheeled baskets arrayed around her, each holding different colors; I saw light blue, pale pink, bright red, yellow, and a startling deep purple, made from the type of shellfish Gelanor had collected. I thought of the live ones we had brought back to Menelaus; by the time he had seen them, they had died. I bent down and picked up one of the balls of yarn, this one a green as dark as cypress.

“What story are you telling?” I asked her.

“The unfinished story of our house,” she said. Her face, fuller with the years, was not soft today. Its lines and planes seemed etched.

“Where have you got to?” I moved beside her, trying to see the pattern.

“As far as I dare,” she said. She looked around to be sure we were alone. “And you have gone as far as you dare, if you do not wish to destroy the tapestry of our family!”