Helen of Troy (54 page)

At home . . . at home . . . I was frantic to return safely to Troy . . . was that home now? My sister Clytemnestra was now a shadowy figure, wife of my enemy, Agamemnon, whereas Andromache was my companion, a fellow outsider who had been brought to Troy. How complicated my allegiances and loyalties had grown, like a monstrous and many-tendriled plant.

We grew weary, stumbling along. Sometimes we sat to rest, but not for long. The nearby howls of animals and the batting of wings had us back on our feet quickly. But at last the darkness lessened on the eastern side of the forest, and we knew we were delivered from the hand of night.

The sunrise was glorious. The light burst on us and filled the sky. At once everything around us was revealed. We were upon the lower flanks of the mountain, where it dwindled to gentle humps and dips. Ahead of us we could see open meadows, deep green.

“Thanks be to . . . whatever gods watch over you,” Andromache said. “For me, it is Hestia.”

“For me . . .” I could not say
Aphrodite,
it was too embarrassing. “It is Persephone.”

“The goddess of death?” Andromache took my hand. “I would not have thought it. She has few devotees, though, so she must appreciate you.”

“She is much more than the queen of Hades,” I said. “She loves life, as we do. That is why it was so difficult for her to leave it.” It took a dark night of wandering for me to appreciate even more her joy when she came back to the light and air of the upper earth.

Paris and Hector were waiting for us on the far side of the meadow. They had waited all night. Their faces revealed their relief upon seeing us, and they pulled us up into the chariot to make for Troy.

“What happened there?” asked Hector.

“We cannot divulge it,” Andromache said. “But perhaps it will reward us with what we most desire.” She looked down at her wine-stained gown. “It is a pledge,” she said.

XXXVIII

O
ur house was rising. It thrust itself up through the fog that was Troy in winter as if it were seeking the vanished sun, boldly claiming it for its own.

We were meeting on a cold day with the artists who would make our walls sing with beauty. They would design and paint scenes of our choosing—we would select the story to be told, they would tell it.

“I don’t want the usual,” said Paris. “Warriors prancing about, or hunters tripping after their prey. Or more labors of Heracles.” He had wrapped himself in a thick robe to ward off the chill, but still he shivered. The wind was moaning outside, seeking entrance into our chamber.

The painter and his apprentice looked eager to comply. When Paris offered no suggestions, the painter said, “May we have your preferences, then?”

“You are the artist!” said Paris. “It is up to you to think of what I might want.”

“But, my prince, once it is painted on the walls it cannot be erased. We would never proceed without knowing what it is you wish to see. We could make sketches first on pottery.” The artist shrugged. “But we would still like some guidance.”

“Paris,” I said. “Could we possibly have the springs and glens of Mount Ida? They were so magnificent. And since this is all within our own will and whim, may we show the wildflowers? I know they bloom only for a short time, but on our walls they could bloom forever. And when we are wrapped in wool and surrounded by fog, we could look upon them and all but smell the perfume.”

He nodded. “That would be an unusual decoration. No people at all. But, my love, let it be as you wish.”

We had been choosing plasterers and tilers and gilders and timberers and hearth-men for what seemed forever. Paris wanted rafters gleaming in gold, wanted marble thresholds and cedar-lined chambers. Each decision seemed to occupy a full day.

But the days were increasingly dark and dreary, and we were glad of a diversion. Let us immerse ourselves in the color of rafter paint and thickness of the wood for the inner doors. Let us shut out the murmurs from the streets of Troy and the rumors that curled, smokelike, under our thresholds: rumors that spoke of the Greeks and their fleet, a fleet gathering at Aulis—in winter, a thing unheard-of.

We were shut in upon ourselves. Mist swirled through the streets, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of us as we measured our steps to the temple at the summit or made our way down to the gates.

Evadne came to me before a late winter dawn had truly passed into daylight, so shaken she knelt by my side. She had risen from a dream that began at dusk and held her captive all night. “I must speak of it,” she said. “I must, to purge myself of the knowledge. I cannot carry it within myself in secret.”

“Speak, then. But first, take some nourishment.” She looked ravaged.

“No,” she said. “I am too poisoned within.”

Then she told it, in hesitant whispers—what she had seen on the shores of Greece, at a place called Aulis. That was where Agamemnon had gathered his gigantic fleet, ready to sail for Troy.

“And it was huge, my lady,” she said. “The ships darkened the water, with their black-tarred hulls, spreading across the whole bay.”

I shuddered. He had succeeded, then, in raising his full army. The other kings did not deny him, like the wily king of Cyprus.

The winds blew steadily from the east, trapping them in the bay day after day, until their supplies dwindled and they began to quarrel. Then Calchas, the Trojan priest who had been sent to Delphi by Priam, appeared in her dream, advising Agamemnon what to do.

“He had become one of them,” she said. “He stood at Agamemnon’s right hand. But he did such evil that Priam can be thankful he no longer serves in Troy. He advised him that Artemis was holding them prisoners by the contrary wind, and that she demanded a sacrifice from him. He must kill his oldest daughter, Iphigenia, on an altar.”

I felt my heart jump. “A human sacrifice? But we do not—”

“That is what Agamemnon said. He refused.”

Yes. Of course he would.

“But it was no use. The winds kept blowing, and the men began crying for Agamemnon to do it, threatening to mutiny if he did not. And so he . . . sent for Iphigenia, pretending—oh, heaping shame upon shame—that she was to marry Achilles. That she should bring a wedding gown. She did.”

“But Achilles . . .” My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. How was he there?

“He was not a party to it. He knew nothing of it. Iphigenia asked to see him, of course, and then she was told the truth.”

I shut my eyes. What did she do? “Did she beg? Protest? Fight?” I could not begin to imagine what she would have done in this hopeless horror. She had always been a quiet child, but that did not mean she would not struggle.

“She did all of those things. Begging availed her nothing. Protesting and arguing fell on Agamemnon’s hardened heart. Her fight was quickly subdued. So, when all had failed, she turned the other way, gave herself willingly. She asked to be allowed to pray privately to her patron gods, and to dress herself in the wedding robes. She looked sorrowfully at her father and told him she was a willing sacrifice for Greek honor.”

Greek honor! No, Agamemnon’s honor!

“They came for her and escorted her out of the tent and to the altar, where, like a sacrificial animal—”

I shrieked, unable to hear more.

She sat silently. Finally she said, “Artemis kept the bargain. The fleet has sailed. It is on its way.”

For a long time we sat unmoving. The chamber lightened and the feeble rays of the winter sun finally entered through the window.

“I must go,” she said, rising.

“Are you delivered of the evil vision now?” I asked. “Are you Evadne again, free of it?”

“Yes, but it is a dreadful burden to be delivered of. Now it will live in others, in everyone in Troy.”

After she left, I sat, stunned, by myself. I could not even tell Paris. Not yet. I could not bear to tell him what my family had done to itself. The curse on our houses was coming true. Mother dead—Iphigenia murdered by her father. I needed to mourn Iphigenia in quiet and in solitude. And to reach out, somehow, to my bereaved sister, who had endured the unendurable, with my mind and spirit, and hope she could feel it.

Within a few days, all of Troy knew the Greek fleet was on the sea. It was impossible that the whole world did not know; the news traveled faster than the ships themselves.

Calchas was another matter. He had sent a private message to Priam about his new allegiance. Priam called a conference about him, lamenting his defection.

“He sent us a message,” said Helenus. “He did not desert, he merely—”

“Do not dress it in other words,” cried Priam. “We sent him out as a loyal Trojan, to ascertain what our future held. Instead, he has bolted and allied himself with the Greeks.”

Cassandra knelt. “Perhaps, Father, he received some information from the seer at Delphi that sent him on this course.”

“Then why should he not have reported it to us first?” cried Priam.

“I think that is obvious,” said Hector, stepping forward. “He was told that he must go to the Greeks. Why he was told that, we cannot know.”

“That they would be victorious?” Deiphobus raised his voice. “I cannot imagine what else it could have been. What else would send him scuttling to the other side?” Now he, too, edged close to Priam in a possessive way.

“Cowardice? Or even loyalty? Suppose the oracle foretold the downfall of the Greeks. Might he have received instructions to go cast himself upon them, give them false readings?” Helenus said. “Perhaps he is amongst them to mislead them.” His voice was, as always, low and faintly insidious.

“Wishful thinking, Helenus. Should it be true, we will rejoice, but for now we must look on it more glumly, seeing only the worst. To look for the best and refuse to consider the worst is a crime against ourselves,” said Antenor. He made it sound like a crime against good manners as well.

“What of his brother, Pandarus? Might he have received some word?” Paris asked.

Priam twisted up his face. He was reluctant to consider anything Paris might suggest. “Yes, send for him,” he finally said, nodding to a messenger.

“Perhaps we have worried overmuch about omens,” said Hector. “I, for one, feel that to keep alert and strong is the best omen for success. Or victory. Calchas would still be here if we had not gone a-wailing after oracles and omens. Then we would have no need to worry about what he told the Greeks.”

“Already you, and others, speak of victory,” noted Antenor. “To speak of victory is to invoke the specter of defeat, its twin.”

“Oracles—defeat—you sound like frightened children,” snorted Hector.

A stir. Pandarus was brought in, swatting aside the insistent arm of his accompanying servant. “Begone!” He flicked him away. Then he turned to Priam and smiled broadly. “Most esteemed king,” he said. “For what honor have you called me away from my melancholy supper?”

“You have never had a melancholy moment in your life,” said Hector.

“I do try to avoid them,” he admitted. “But into every life . . .” He sighed and shrugged. “In what way might my simple thoughts be of benefit to this august company?” He ran his hand over his balding head.

“Just this. Have you knowledge of your brother, Calchas? Have you any word from him?”

Pandarus looked genuinely surprised. “No, my lord. Not since he left our shores some time ago. Why—have you?”

“Yes!” said Priam. “He has gone over to the Greeks, and has given them favorable prophecies regarding the outcome of an attack on us.”

“I—I—cannot imagine that!” he finally muttered. His jaunty manner had vanished. “I cannot question his loyalty.”

“Begin to question it now!” bellowed Priam. “When actions do not square with words, trust the actions. Choose what you see people do, not what you imagine they would like to do. He is sailing with the Greeks. They are preparing to descend on Troy even as these words leave my lips.”

“But, good sir, it is too early to sail.” He looked around as if to garner nods and agreements.

“Not for them, apparently,” said Hector. “They will be here soon enough, buoyed up by whatever your brother has told them.”

“But . . . what can I do?” he said. “I will not see him. I can only say that if he has joined them, it was because he was forced to. He never would have done so by his own will. He is loyal, sir. He is loyal!”