Helen of Troy (47 page)

“Helen! Paris!” they cried. Flowers, fruits, dyed clay-bead necklaces pelted us, and some landed in the chariot. “We adore you! We worship you!”

Paris turned to me. “Now you see how the true Trojans feel,” he said.

A man leapt up in front of the chariot and lunged, grasping it. For an instant he hung over the rails, his face pushed up to ours. “The most beautiful woman in the world!” he proclaimed. “It’s true! And now she’s ours!” He swung himself around by one arm, hanging off the chariot. “She’s ours! She’s a
Trojan!”

Was he drunk? He fell off the chariot and rolled in the dust, as supple as a tumbler, then picked himself up and laughed. Had wine loosened his limbs thus? No matter. He was cheering, cheering for
us.

“Helen! Helen!” they cried.

I raised my arms, and indicated the man standing beside me. “Paris!” I answered them. “Paris, my love!”

A roar went up, as we gathered speed and left the last of the lower city behind.

“They love you,” said Paris, as soon as it was safe to slow down. “Did you not hear them roar? As loud as a Syrian lion?”

“I have never heard a Syrian lion,” I said. “I must take your word for it.” We threw our heads back and laughed in the bracing air. Before us stretched a wide level plain, covered with new spring grass and wildflowers. But I saw no horses.

“The horses graze nearer the flanks of the mountains in high summer,” said Paris. “But just now they are still on the plain. Look more closely.”

I squinted and then was able to make out herds of animals, placidly moving about the green expanse. “I think I see them,” I finally said.

“They number some two hundred,” said Paris. “Some are quite wild, and require a long taming process. Hector is superb at that, so one of his nicknames is Breaker of Horses.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I am also good, but I have reaped no nickname.”

Did he resent this? “Show me,” I said, to bury my own question.

We made our way out to where the nearest herd was pasturing. It was a difficult passage, as the chariot tracks dwindled away. Some fifty horses were eating and looked up warily when we approached.

Paris stepped down from the chariot, moving in measured steps. I followed him. “Careful not to startle them,” he said. “These are almost wild.”

Some of the horses snorted and moved away from us. Others stood their ground but with nostrils flared. Most of them were a dull dun color with black mane and tail—the same colors, I had been told, as the wild horses in Thrace.

Paris made his way over to one, sidling up to it. Tentatively he put out his hand, but the horse moved away, retreating and staring back at him with wide dark eyes.

“This one is truly unbroken,” he said. He left it and approached another. It merely watched him with placid curiosity as he came closer. Slowly he extended his arm and touched the horse’s neck, and although it made a flapping noise of exhalation from its nostrils, it stood its ground.

“Have you ever been ridden?” Paris whispered. He came closer and began stroking the horse on its back and sides. Still the horse did not move. “I think yes, you have.” It was not much of a leap to get onto the horse’s back; none of these horses were very large.

The horse shivered and then started galloping from a standstill. Paris clung to its mane, wrapping his long legs around its flanks. The horse thundered across the plain, its tail streaming out, its head extended in a flat line. Then it started to buck. The horse was not tame after all; clearly no one had ridden it before.

I watched in helpless fear as the horse twisted and arched its back. All I saw were its hooves and its tail as it tried to dislodge its unwelcome passenger. Once—twice—thrice—that dreadful arch shadowed itself against the bright green grass. Then the figures separated, and Paris flew through the air. The horse galloped off.

I ran as fast as I could to him. The ground was rough, and I kept tripping on clods of dirt and clumps of weeds.

Paris was lying on his back, framed by wildflowers and grass. His arms were flung out on either side of him, and his head lay at a frightening angle. He did not move.

“Oh!” I rushed to him and cradled his head. Still no movement. Was he breathing? I scarcely breathed myself as I laid my palm on his chest and felt a slight rise and fall.

His eyes were closed, and I gazed down at him, frightened. What if he never opened them? What if—

Just then he groaned and his eyes fluttered open. For an instant they were unfocused, then he saw me. “I was wrong,” he said. “This horse had never been ridden.” He lay still. “Is anything broken, I wonder?” Slowly he sat up and flexed and tested his arms. Then he moved his legs, shaking his feet and then drawing up his knees. Finally he leaned far over and arched his back. “It hurts, but it all moves,” he said. “Even Hector would have had trouble with that horse.” He shook his head.

“You stayed on him a long way,” I said.

“He was swift and a pleasure to ride—for a while.” He looked about. “I must remember that horse. I will reclaim him for myself. He had a black spot just behind his right ear. Someday we shall ride together again.” He stood up, and cried out in pain. “In the meantime, I shall mend, and the horse shall forget.”

“Let me bring the chariot over,” I said, steadying him. “Do not try to walk.” Before he could protest, I hurried back to the chariot, where the horses were patiently waiting. Leaping in, I urged them forward over the bumpy ground; the wheels shuddered but rolled through the grass. Paris climbed in, wincing a bit as he gripped the rail. I started to turn the horses around, but he shook his head.

“No, I have more places to show you,” he said. “Look! The sun is climbing in a perfect sky, and the day is young. It is too early to retreat. Here, I’ll show you—there’s a path alongside the Scamander, just where you see that line of trees. We can follow it down to the sea.”

The chariot fought its way through the meadow until we reached the smooth path he spoke of, shaded by pink-flowering tamarisk trees. The Scamander, not as large as the Eurotas, flowed swiftly. I assumed it was fed with the melting snow from Mount Ida. Did not the snows linger there until almost midsummer?

“Indeed they do,” said Paris. “I have seen snowbanks there right beside the blooming crocus and hyacinths. But the Scamander’s water doesn’t come from snow. Its source is two streams that bubble up almost side by side—one very hot and the other very cold! They are on the other side of Troy. The women have their washing troughs there.”

“Why, that’s impossible! A hot stream and a cold one—no, it cannot be.” I laughed. “Or is it part of the magic of Troy, a place unlike any other?”

“Just so,” said Paris. “And I will show them to you and dispel your doubts. Later. Just now we are heading in another direction, the direction of the Hellespont.”

The chariots made its way along the smooth path toward the shining sea. When we reached the beach we stepped out of the chariot. Paris was hobbling, but he insisted it was of no import, and he led me down to the wide beach, gray and littered with seashells. The roar of the sea filled our ears.

“Look! Look over there!” He pointed to a dark line across the sea, beyond the bay where we now stood. “The opposite shore is so close, and yet so difficult to reach.”

I could see the low hills, framed by the choppy reflections in the water. “Because of the currents?”

“Yes. They run so swiftly, and there are two of them—one on the surface and one underneath. Both have ferocious pulls. The main, upper current sweeps you westward, out to sea. It is so relentless that if you wish to cross at the narrowest point, you must cast off far downstream. It is impossible to cross directly. And if you miss your landing point, you are doomed. Well, doomed to explore the Black Sea if you are pulled the other way by the undercurrent. Perhaps that is not a bad thing.”

“They say the Black Sea is rich with goods men covet,” I said. At that moment I could not name them, though.

“Yes, silver, gold, timber, amber, linen, and many other things; they pass in and out of the Hellespont in good sailing weather.”

“Who has those trading rights?”

He looked startled. “Anyone who can get there,” he said. “There is no one to grant or deny trading rights. Who would have the power to do so?”

“I have heard that you Trojans hold ships to pay a toll.”

“The farther away, the stranger the tale,” he said. “By the time it reaches Sparta, it is twisted indeed. We have no means of actually holding ships,” he said. “How would we do that? There exists no way to erect a barrier across this passage. As it is, the winds aid us. If they blow in the wrong direction, a ship must pull up here”—he indicated the beach—“and wait it out. Then they run out of water. So they must come to us, because we
do
have the means of guarding the Scamander. In that way I suppose you could say we ‘exact’ tolls, but the gods decide who gets delayed, not us. Of course, they decide to aid us most of the time!”

“I am afraid that this tale—true or not—may spur the Greeks to come here, claiming they must rescue me, but truly to seize this toll station which they believe exists.” I could imagine Agamemnon forging such a plan, convincing his ignorant followers that this was imperative.

“They will come, then, to take something that does not exist. The Greeks are free to travel the Hellespont whenever they wish. It is Poseidon, not us, who determines their success.”

“But what, then, does give Troy its wealth?”

“Many caravans coming from the East converge here,” said Paris. “They reach the Hellespont and can go no farther on land. They must either transfer their goods to ships and ferry them across, or load them onto camels and swing far eastward for a further long land journey. So they prefer to sell as many goods as they can here, and people come from many quarters to buy. We host this gathering, each summer, and grow rich from the cruelty of the seas in hindering land travel beyond us. And then there are our famous Trojan-bred horses—which you have just seen.”

“But surely it is not only that!” I thought of the dazzling palace atop Troy, of the great walls, dressed in shining stone, thick and yet decorative with offsets which allowed the play of shadows at different times of day, the clean, wide streets.

“No, not just that,” said Paris. “It is the fruit of being isolated, far from the strife that tears apart other cities in the thick of things, and of having a wise ruler.”

“But—can that be enough?”

“Think,” he said. “Think of the peace and security of being apart, undisturbed. Think of the difference between a ruling family of wisdom and one of folly. Add to that the peculiarities of our location, making the trade fair a necessity, and yes . . . that accounts for most of it.”

“So it is an absence of evil things, coupled with two lucky things, that makes Troy legendary,” I said.

“Yes,” Paris answered. “Simple things have complicated implications.” He wrapped his arms around me. “People always underestimate the importance of simple things. Or assume that an almost-wise ruler is the same as a wise one. Yet it makes a tremendous difference who is on a throne.”

“And after Priam—who rules?”

“Hector,” he said. “We can all be happy that in this case the eldest is the best man for the position. The gods have been good to us in that way—in many ways, truly.”

The wind whipped my covering from my head, blowing it swiftly away, and the brisk sea air tore my hair loose from its restraints. “I would not like to sail here,” I said, clutching the strands of flying hair.

“Few ships do like it,” said Paris. “Well, shall we leave this place? Have you seen enough? Let us turn our gaze to Mount Ida, in the opposite direction.” Taking the reins from me, bracing his feet, he turned the chariot around to face Troy. It lay spread out on the flanks of its cliff, the lower city gradually thinning out, like a foamy wave spending itself on a beach, the higher city within its walls tightly self-contained and compact.

Far away I could see a great mass topped in white. “Is that Mount Ida?” I asked. “It looks too far to go today.”

“Yes, it is. We should plan a special trip there. But look!” He guided my head to gaze toward the faraway peak. “Zeus lives there. Or so they say. I myself have never seen him. And the highest top is disappointing—an ugly expanse of stone-strewn ground with no life. Thus many things are best appreciated from afar. But its lower slopes are glorious—they call it ‘many-fountained Ida,’ and so it is. One stream after another rushes down, with green glens and flowering meadows everywhere. I will take you there, and show you my foster father and the place where I was raised.”

Would he also show me the spot where they had left him out to die? Was it an open space where the wild beasts could find him more easily, and the sun burn him quickly? I clutched him to me. To think that this came so close to happening.

“What is it?” he asked. “Do you see something I do not?”

Perhaps, I thought. But it is in the past. And before us I see only the grandeur of Ida and the splendor of Troy.

XXXIV