Helen of Troy (50 page)

“Yet I am barren!” she murmured. “Day after day, these chambers echo with only adult voices.” She gestured toward her vast halls, her spacious chambers.

“You are young—” I would begin. Always she would cut me off.

“Young! You know better than that! I am past twenty, by my reckoning. Is that young?”

“I am past twenty-five,” I would reply.

“And? I see no children with Paris. You had your daughter at sixteen. And now—nothing!”

I would wince. Yes, that was true. And I longed for a child with Paris.

“The gods cannot deny Hector a child,” I would say. It was an unsatisfactory answer, but the only one I could give. As I had come to know him, I thought Hector one of the finest men the gods had ever fashioned. Not because he was a warrior, not because of his bearing, but because he was the sort of man who would always judge fairly, who saw and considered everything before him.

“The gods can do anything they like,” she would say. “You know that, Helen.” She would smile gently. “You are next of kin to them.”

“You mean that old swan story?” I would laugh.

“Not just from an amusing story, but your whole manner. I think there are some of us closer to the heavens than others.”

Such talk made me uncomfortable, as it always had. “Is it not time for the sweets?” I would ask her. “Your attendant is late.”

Summer came to Troy, warm sweet winds replacing the relentless sweep of the chill blasts. The grass on the plain sprang bright and green, and the Scamander shrank to a gurgling placid stream. The other river on the plain, the Simoïs, transformed itself into a series of pools as its sources dried up in the heat. It was always cool up on the heights of the city, though, and the workmen were able to continue building our palace without slowing their efforts. They said it would be ready for us by the time the days grew short again. The furnishings and decorations would come later, of course. The workmen grunted as they indicated that artists always took a long time, and were unreliable in any case. The third story had not yet risen; Gelanor was still building his clay and stick models and adding weights to it to see how it would fare. For a time he had spoken of a fourth story, but lately he had not mentioned it. Perhaps his model had collapsed when he fashioned its fourth story.

As I was mixing two types of dried meadow herbs to make a sweet-smelling potpourri for our chambers, Paris burst in and cried, “See what’s coming into Troy!” His face was flushed with excitement and he grabbed my hands so quickly I dropped the herbs onto the floor.

“Never mind the mess! Let’s go see before it gets too crowded!” Pulling me along, he rushed down the main street and toward the Dardanian Gate, where a big throng was already gathered. Someone was trying to pry the doors even farther open, so that a large object outside, groaning on a lurching platform, could be wedged in through the gate.

The crowd was already so thick we could hardly move, so Paris said, “Up into the guard tower, where we can look down on it.” We scrambled up the ladder to the platform where the archers and guards manned the tower, and from its window I could see a long golden statue. Its body was that of a lion, but it had the head of a woman.

“Straight from Egypt,” a swarthy little man with monkey arms was crying. “And what will you pay for it? I’ll not haul it a step farther unless someone is willing to buy it! I’m a fool to have brought it all this way on the promise of a man who, evidently, does not exist!”

“Was his name, by any chance, Pandarus?” someone yelled.

The statue’s owner shook his head.

“Pandarus likes such things. Or perhaps it was Antenor?”

At the sound of “Antenor” the crowd roared. I remembered the man had been elegantly dressed, so I was not surprised when someone else called out, “Oh, Antenor would never want anything so vulgar and outsized.”

“Vulgar?” its owner cried. “This is a statue from a palace of a pharaoh!”

“Stolen, I’ll warrant.” I saw Deiphobus run his hands along it, careless of dirtying it.

“If it is, the owner will not follow it here.” The man winked. “Now, which lucky Trojan will take possession of it?”

“It’s a sphinx, you know,” a dried husk of an old man said. “Sometimes they ask riddles, sometimes they tell the future. The one Oedipus encountered killed people. Perhaps you must be an Egyptian to safely own one.”

“Troy needs a sphinx!” a guardsman bellowed. “All great cities need a sphinx, and are we not the greatest city of all?”

“Yes, indeed!” the owner jumped in. “Along the Nile, there’s a city that has a whole avenue of sphinxes. You should not be outdone by—”

“I’ll warrant it has one less now!” Deiphobus said. His tone was always nasty, even when he tried to disguise it as a joke.

“We could set it up in the open space beside the lower well. And we’ll plant flowers around it, yes, and have a fountain running, and people can sit in the shade—”

“Troy deserves it!” A woman cried out.

“How could we have gone so long without one?” Another wondered.

“You see?” The owner shrugged. “Now, don’t fight over it, but who’s to be the proud owner?”

“Troy will.” Priam suddenly appeared by its side. “I, its king, will give this to the city of Troy as a gift.” He patted its back. “We must continually make Troy more beautiful.” He motioned to the workmen standing idly by the cart. “You can get it through here, even if it’s narrow. And take it to the square, as you heard.”

The owner almost rubbed his hands, but stopped himself with a twitch. “Very good, sir. But may I say, why only one? I can get you another. You know what they say—one statue is a lonely one, but two is a collection.”

Hector appeared and, putting his arm around Priam, gave the merchant a look. “Don’t press your luck, my friend.”

Laughing and skipping, the crowd fell in behind the sphinx and helped push it along. Someone brought out wine, even though it was early, and a boy started piping. We descended from the tower and followed the crowd to the paved area, watching as the sphinx was settled into its temporary place.

“I do believe my courtyard will now look bare without its own sphinx,” said Pandarus, who had arrived late on the scene.

“Confess. Confess. You were the one who ordered it, weren’t you?” Hector teased him.

Pandarus gave a look of mock horror. “Oh, no, not me! My weakness is furniture with inlays, as you well know.”

“As well my back knows,” Hector said. “Hideously uncomfortable things!”

“Inlaid furniture?” The merchant must have had superhuman hearing. “I have lovely stools and tables still on my ship. Just down there!” He pointed toward the landing place. “I can fetch them in an instant!”

When Pandarus said, “Inlaid with what?” Hector groaned.

“Now you are finished!” he said.

“Ivory, or mother-of-pearl. Whichever you prefer, sir, I have them both!”

“Ummm . . .”

“Bring your wares up here!” someone in the crowd shouted. “Let’s see them all!”

“Yes, bring them all!”

“I’ll need help,” the merchant said, “to carry so much.”

Like children, the Trojans rushed out to his ship and soon returned laden with boxes and bags and carts. They spread them out on the smooth pavement of the square and let the merchant announce each thing and offer it. All the while they were gleefully commenting and bidding against one another.

Wool carpets—alabaster vials—dog collars studded with carnelian—woven sun hats—painted vases—ivory hair combs: all were snatched up by the eager crowd. Larger items like the inlaid furniture, which was truly exquisite, went more slowly. True to his word, the merchant had other statues with him, but smaller ones and no more sphinxes. These disappeared into houses and courtyards. Occasionally a spouse could be heard saying, “Dear, perhaps we should wait for the trade fair, and see what’s offered there . . .”

Paris whispered in my ear, “Shall we get something for our new palace?”

“No,” I said. “How can we furnish what exists only in a dream?” I was unsure about the safety of the new dwelling and buying something for it seemed premature.

The crowd gleefully turned from the merchant’s dwindling store of goods and began to chant, “Greek treasure! Greek treasure!”

The puzzled man said, “I do have a few jars from Mycenae, with exceptionally nice handles,” and began pawing through one of the carts.

But the people cried out, “We have our own Greek treasure, the best there is! Helen, the queen of Sparta!”

“What did we pay for her?” one man yelled.

“Nothing! She was free! A gift to Troy!”

“I’ll drink to that!” Wineskins were passed over shoulders.

I saw Priam frowning, over by the sphinx, as he heard the cries.

In the privacy of our apartments, Paris looked around wistfully and said, “I thought his hearth stools most attractive. We will have so many hearths in our new home.”

The Trojans seemed to favor much richer surroundings than we had in Sparta. Even Paris, for all his simple upbringing in a herdsman’s hut, wanted them. Perhaps it was something in the blood. “Your father was most . . . generous.” I wanted to say
extravagant
but did not wish to criticize.

“He sees himself as father of Troy, and wants his children to be happy.”

How indulgent. The thought of Father and his stinginess flashed through my mind. Father . . . what had he done when he awoke that morning and I was gone? Had he . . . was there any possibility he had summoned the suitors, tried to rally them? And Mother . . . and Hermione . . . I ached to hold them both, and they were so far away, unreachable. I had rejected Idomeneus because I did not want to be separated from my family by a sea, and now I was.

“You look sad,” said Paris, coming over to me.

“I was thinking of my family, and especially my daughter.”

“We knew it would be difficult,” he said.

“I did not know how difficult, and how painful,” I admitted. It is impossible to experience loss in advance. “Paris, would you like a child?”

“Yes, of course. Our child. But it could never be Hermione. Each child is different, as all of Father’s are. I am not Deiphobus, nor Deiphobus, Hector.”

“I know that!” His answer, meant to be soothing, increased my pain. “But it could bring us joy.” Joy that would exist side by side with loss.

“Then let us hope the gods send us a son or daughter,” he said.

Forgive me, Hermione, I begged her in my mind. I do not seek to replace you, for I know that is impossible. I seek only to find a way to remain a mother.

The next morning I received a summons, disguised as an invitation, to join Hecuba and her daughters in the women’s quarters of the palace. I was apprehensive at the same time as I was flattered, pleased to be included. The queen had never called upon me nor invited me to call upon her since I had arrived in Troy. I said as much to Paris.

“Be careful what you promise her,” he said. “She may want something.”

My suspicions were confirmed, then, although that took the pleasure from the invitation. “I shall be on my guard,” I assured him.

Hecuba was already surrounded by her daughters when I arrived at the specified time; obviously they had gathered earlier. She was standing in their midst and I instantly thought of the proud Niobe and her seven lovely daughters. The tallest was not her own daughter but Andromache, who was as stately and graceful as a tall poplar. But all the rest were hers, and they clustered around her like flowers of the field, differing greatly in coloring but all with clear complexions and shining eyes. There was one I had not seen before, younger than the others, about the same age as . . . Hermione. Envy of Hecuba swept over me, but I forced myself to smile and ask the little one, “What is your name? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Philomena,” she said politely.

“My youngest daughter,” Hecuba said. “She has seen ten Trojan winters.

One with snow!” She gestured around her. “You know the rest?”

Some better than others, but none well. Creusa was rarely apart from Aeneas, so the times I saw him I also saw her. Cassandra, with her red hair, was easy to recognize. Laodice—the one who had spoken of marriage—yes, I remembered her, but I had seen little of her since that first night in the courtyard. There was another girl whose looks were unusual but memorable. Her nose was too large, her lips too thin and straight, her forehead too broad, but somehow all these elements came together in a haunting face not easily forgotten—one I would remember when more perfect ones had faded from my memory. Just as I was thinking that, Hecuba encircled her shoulders protectively and kissed her cheek. “Polyxena,” she said. “Just twelve.”

The last, a slender dark girl with haunting beauty, introduced as Ilona, merely stared and said little. I could not tell if her quietness was from shyness or hostility. In the beginning, it is impossible to know.

The girls fell away from their mother’s side, like a colorful knot untying itself. I noticed how they all wore a different color, and I marveled at the array of choices in Troy. A table to one side was listing under bolts of cloth with more colors.

“Now that you are a daughter of Troy, it is only fitting that you should join with the others,” said Hecuba, assessing me. “I have been remiss not to have included you earlier.”

“It was lonely, being the only one not born of Hecuba. Although, of course, she has been like a mother to me,” Andromache hastened to add.

“It is time some of my other sons married,” said Hecuba, shaking her head. “And some of my other daughters, as well. Only Creusa, alone of all my dear ones, has been so fortunate as to wed. We will remedy that. That is what we are here for.” She turned to me. “You had that suitors’ contest, the one you . . . told me about. Do you think we should have such a one in Troy?” Her eyes were searching, inquisitive.

I looked around at her daughters. What a dreadful thing to endure! “No,” I said. “Such a contest is tedious, embarrassing, and expensive.”

“And then you ran off with someone who didn’t even come to the contest.” Laodice giggled. “Isn’t that funny?”

Hecuba gave her a cold look. “
Funny
is not the word I should choose.”