Helen of Troy (45 page)

Ahead of us Priam and Hecuba walked slowly, but not hesitantly. They knew their way. I tried to follow them exactly.

A hint of a sweet scent came to me from the void. It was a flower, a flower I had known, but what was it? The scent was light and teasing as a whisper. A white flower . . . that was all I could remember.

Suddenly Priam and Hecuba stopped and bowed. The flickering torches showed a life-sized statue of a female with glaring eyes. Her right hand held a spear, and her left a distaff and spindle. This Athena was crudely made and had no grace about her—a strange thing, since the statue was made by the goddess herself.

“Our great protector, the Pallas Athena, now looks down upon you, child.” Priam took my hand, led me close to the statue, and addressed the goddess. “Great one, she has come to Troy seeking a safe haven. Grant it to her. And confer your blessings on the union between my son and this new daughter of Troy.” Paris took his place beside me.

Suddenly I saw the white flowers at the base of the statue; their perfume enveloped me. But the statue had no feet. She had no legs, either.

“Before taking Paris as your husband, and Troy as your city, you must renounce your former ones,” said Priam. “Is there something from Sparta that you can offer up here to Athena?”

I knew what I longed to be free of. All along the voyage I had thought of flinging it into the sea, but the waste of that had stayed my hand. Now I could separate myself from it. I did not know why I had brought it in the first place, except that in my leaving I had not thought clearly.

“Yes . . . Father,” I said. “But I must send my advisor to get it.”

“Advisor?”

“Yes, the wisest man in Sparta, whom I brought with me.”

Hecuba turned her dark eyes upon me. “No word of a wise man of Sparta has ever reached our ears,” she said.

“He was a privately wise man, great queen, not a public one.” I whispered to one of the king’s attendants to go fetch the man Gelanor and tell him to bring . . .

“Let us continue our ceremony,” said Priam. He turned back to the Pallas Athena. “You who came to us from the heavens, to my grandfather Ilus, the founder of Ilium, of Troy, and without whose protection we would perish, send us a sign that you accept the woman Helen, also called in her new life Cycna, amongst us. We know the sign may not appear at this moment, and that we must be alert for it. But you will not fail us. And while we wait, we will welcome her and join her hands with those of Paris.” He turned slowly back to me, just as Gelanor entered the temple and made his way to us. He held a box in his outstretched arms, which he placed in Priam’s.

Priam opened it, to see the heavy gold marriage chain of Menelaus within. In the torchlight the gold shone almost red. I could see his eyes widen.

“Great king,” I said, “this Spartan gold was hung around my neck on the day Menelaus made me his. I gladly and freely relinquish it. Do what you will with it. It binds me no longer.”

I could see Priam fighting within himself to muster the high-mindedness to give it to the goddess. He took it out and fondled it, on the pretext of inspecting its links. Finally he raised it aloft and said, “By this token of your former life, you have proved that you hand your past to us. Your present and your future will be in Troy.” Slowly he knelt and placed it before Athena. Then he turned again to us and clasped his hand on top of Paris’s and mine. It was done, then, and done publicly.

“They are joined,” he said, and a polite ripple of murmurs buzzed in the temple, echoing slightly against the stones. Then he looked at Gelanor. “And do you give this wise man to Troy as well?” he asked.

“You must ask him,” I demurred.

Gelanor made no answer. He merely looked at me and said, “I have now seen you safely to Troy, as I promised.”

Instead of feeling safe, I felt a great hostility from the goddess Athena. It wafted out from her statue as surely as the scent of the flowers. But what had I ever done to her to incur her enmity?

XXXII

W
e were to leave the temple, but I dreaded turning my back on the goddess in her displeasure. If we were not to turn our backs on earthly kings, how much less would the gods tolerate it? But how could I refuse to follow Priam and Hecuba as they made their stately way out? Paris clasped my hand and in its warmth I felt safe, but at the same time the intensity of Athena’s displeasure increased. I could sense, rather than see, Gelanor behind me, impatient to leave me in the hands of the Trojans.

In the short time we had been gone, the main courtyard—not the inner one around which the sons and daughters had their apartments—had been transformed into a place of feasting. The altar was cleansed and an ox stood placidly by waiting to be sacrificed, its horns gilded, its proud head held high. Several priests flanked it, and already the roasting fires were lit. The beast looked on the flames that would consume it, but without knowledge, just as we may pass the place where our bones will lie, and linger upon it to pick flowers.

“Helen, this is my eldest son, Hector.” Priam turned me to face a dark-haired man. “Hector, this is the choice of your brother Paris for his bride.”

“Oh, Father, why do you introduce him so modestly?” said Paris. “Eldest son is the least of it. Why not say,
my joy, my pride, the strength of Troy? The glory of the—”

“Elder brother will do,” said Hector. He had a pleasant voice, neither too loud nor silkily soft, either of which often mar an otherwise appealing man. In his face I saw no resemblance to Priam or Hecuba or to his brother. “Welcome to Troy,” he said. But in those three words I heard shadows of others unsaid. “I see that the goddess has accepted you as one of us.”

It was premature, but polite, to assume so.

“I am grateful,” I said. The longer I looked at him, the more appealing he was, in that he lacked any displeasing features. He was without blemish. Even his ears were exactly the right size, as perfectly shaped as if they were cast from a mold.

“See, you cannot help staring at him!” Paris chided me. “You have fallen under his spell, like everyone in Troy.” Did he mean this, or was he teasing?

“Brother, you are the one people call godlike,” said Hector. Now he smiled, and the smile transformed his face. Where he had been appealing, he was now masterful. “Paris and his golden hair.” He laughed, but kindly.

“Ah, but men won’t follow me,” said Paris.

“Only women.” Hector shrugged his shoulders—shoulders that I now noticed were very broad. “Lady, we knew the only woman he could end up with was one prettier than himself, and there were none until you.”

“I meant into battle,” said Paris quietly. So he had been stung. The lightness had left his voice.

“We’ve had no battles since you came to Troy,” said Hector. “So you cannot know how you would fare leading men into battle.”

“Oh, I could lead them—but would they follow?”

“That, little brother, is something you must wait to find out. But not too soon, not too soon—it is quiet in the lands around Troy, and that is as pleasant as the late afternoon when the sun warms the hillsides.”

“Hector’s favorite time of day.” Suddenly someone was standing beside him—a tall woman, almost as tall as Hector himself.
Athena!
flashed through my mind. But an Athena who stood lovely and serene, not the strange one I had just come from.

“Andromache, my wife.” Hector encircled her with his arm.

“Welcome to Troy,” she said. “I, too, came from another city. I am from Thebe, where my father is king of the Kilikes.”

“It is near Plakos, a spur on the southern flanks of Mount Ida. Andromache is used to woods and mountains. When she longs for them overmuch, we betake ourselves to our side of Ida. There lie woods, springs, and slopes enough for anyone.” Hector pulled her close to him. “Are there not?”

“The woods of home are always different,” said Andromache. “Perhaps because they are home. Surely the trees are the very same.”

“I, too, come from a place with mountains and woods,” I said. “The peaks of Taygetus are high and often snow-crowned, and the slopes are covered in pines and oaks.”

“I have found everything I wish in Troy,” Andromache said. “May you do so as well.” She laughed. Her laugh was like one of the mountain brooks. “Although it is so very flat!”

A great bellow split the night. It was the loudest I had ever heard, and I cringed. The ox was being sacrificed.

There was a scurrying around the makeshift altar. The priests would have to attend to all the horrid details—the blood, the steaming entrails, the flailing, the carving. Even from our safe distance, I could smell the blood. I felt dizzy, and put my hand to my mouth.

“Catch her, Paris, catch her.” The voice was like the sound of chariot wheels running over gravel. “She would appear to have a squeamish disposition.”

“Aesacus.” Paris turned to him. “My half-brother,” he said. The chill in his voice was not well disguised.

A small man stood before me, his face all but hidden beneath the ample folds of his hooded mantle. Paris yanked it back. A short-cropped head, closeset dark eyes, and a lined face confronted me.

With slow dignity, the man pulled his hood back in place. “Please, dear brother, it is cold tonight. Do not vent your hostility upon my poor head.”

“My elder brother by Priam’s first wife,” Paris muttered.

“Oh, why stop there?” He turned to me, and false-confided, “Why does he not tell you all? My brother—half-brother—is too kind. That must come from his mother Hecuba, although, the gods know, she is rarely kind—rather than from our mutual father.” He smiled and adjusted his hood. Now I could see his face. It reminded me of some night creature, wedge-shaped and alert.

I waited. I did not have long to wait.

“I have the gift of prophecy.”

Not another one. So Priam had spoken truly. Troy was full of prophets.

“Yes?” I responded.

“Hecuba had her dream . . . that dream in which she brought forth a firebrand that destroyed Troy. It was I who told her what it meant.” He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “This is our chance to test the gods and their dire prophecies. How do we know any of them are true?” He stepped forward and took Paris’s face in his hands. “The gods commanded us to destroy you. Someone disobeyed, and now you stand before us, tall and straight and glorious. The gods rewrite their instructions all the time. Why should we follow their first orders?”

Scowling, Paris jerked his hands away. “Stop it, Aesacus. You have had too much wine.”

He shrugged and smoothed the folds of his cloak. “Yes, perhaps. They are serving the best tonight, in your honor. I make it a point to take large portions of good things. As with the gods—when they give you fine things you should help yourself quickly, before they change their minds.”

Gelanor glided up to us as Aesacus slipped away. A faint smile played on his face and he sighed. “Now my conscience is at peace,” he said. “I can leave you, with no nagging worries about your welfare.”

“Must you leave?” asked Paris. “Why hurry away?”

Gelanor laughed. “Already much time has passed since I left Sparta. More time will pass before I reach it again. I dare not linger.”

“Oh, but linger a few days. To scurry off in haste might be insulting to the Trojans.”

Again he laughed. “I doubt any Trojan gives a cow’s udder whether I stay or go.”

“That’s not so. You heard the king asking if you intended to stay. He would welcome you.” I would not beg him, but oh! how I wished to persuade him. But I knew that he was usually proof against my persuasions.

“There is nothing useful for me to do here, and you know I live only in my usefulness. I set you a task: within the next few days convince me there is need for me in Troy and I will stay awhile. But only for a while. Troy can never be home to me.” The dull tone of his voice made the words thud.

“Do not be hasty,” I said.

“I am not. I know myself. Do you know yourself?”

“Everyone is so gloomy!” cried Paris. “Stop this talk of gods and omens and knowing yourself. Can we not just drink our wine and embrace?”

“For some people, that serves well enough,” Gelanor said.

The flames were leaping in the courtyard as the ox meat was roasting, fat sizzling as it dripped onto the fire, sending clouds of smoke swirling and disappearing into the night sky. People crowded around, eager for the first bites. In their wait, they consumed more and more wine, making their heads swirl like the smoke. The din increased, as if the crowd had grown.