Helen of Troy (59 page)

“So tell them to us!” barked Deiphobus, sounding almost like one of Priam’s dogs. “Don’t keep them a secret!”

“Yes, son,” said Priam. “Speak.”

“To start with, there’s the one that as long as the Pallas Athena is here in Troy, we are protected.”

“Of course she’ll stay here!” cried Troilus. “She isn’t about to run away!”

“She hasn’t any legs.” Philomena giggled. My thought exactly, but I could never have said it out loud.

“Another is that someone must come and attack Troy with the arrows of Heracles.”

“Helen—isn’t there a Greek with those arrows?” Hector asked.

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” I said. “His name is Philoctetes. But I don’t know if he would have joined Agamemnon.”

“Then there is something about Thracian horses drinking from the Scamander River. If they drink from it, then Troy is protected.”

“Thracian horses drink from the Scamander all the time,” said Paris. “The imported ones we are rearing on the plain.”

“I think these Thracian horses have to be brought by actual Thracians, not tended by Trojans.”

“The traders who bring them during the fair—they must water them from the Scamander.” Troilus said. “They don’t go all the way to the springhouse near the temple of Apollo where the water is purest. I take my horses there, but they don’t.”

“The Simoïs is closer. I think they go there,” said Antenor. I had not seen him join the group, so quietly had he come in. He had a young man with him, whom I guessed to be his son. Oddly, with so elegant a father, his son was very rumpled. Perhaps he was trying to be an anti-Antenor. If we cannot surpass our parents, we become their opposites.

“We have control over that prophecy,” said Deiphobus. “If any Thracians land with horses, we’ll make them go to the Scamander. What else?”

“The son of Achilles must come.”

“The son? Achilles doesn’t have a son,” I said.

“Not that anyone knows of,” said Paris. “There could be one.”

“Do bastards count?” asked Thymoetes, narrowing his one good eye.

“I don’t know,” Helenus admitted. “I will have to find the precise wording of the prophecy.”

“Is that all of them?” asked Hector. “I think we are protected against them.”

“There’s one more,” said Priam, “but I shall not speak it aloud here in public. It is enough that I remember it, and I know what must be done to prevent its being fulfilled.”

XLI

T
roy waited, as the spring advanced and the ships must surely be making their way to our shores. It was the dreadful time of waiting before an action, when all preparations have been made and anything further is but nervous repetition, when the body and mind long for the release of action. Still each bright day brought nothing on the seas and no advance parties from the land side. There were rumors—but then there are always rumors—that some embassy was on its way from the Greeks. How many emissaries, and when they would come, or if the rumor was even true, no one knew.

In the streets of Troy, people were tense with waiting, and they no longer smiled as they passed me. Some seemed suddenly to look away, drawing their mantles closer about them and pressing against their side of the walls.

At the great well where women passed up and down the steps in a graceful ascent and descent, like a dance before a god, they began giving me wide berth. As I picked my way carefully down the smooth steps one bright morning, I noticed that the women around me disappeared, and I was alone as I descended deeper and the natural light from the opening above grew dim. The steps echoed as I trod them; usually the many footfalls inside made a sort of music.

The torches in their wall-sockets flickered and the water far below reflected the bright red and gold flames. It was still; it always was, as the water flowed in gently from a calm spring.

At last I reached the bottom where I could dip my jug into it—I need not fetch water, but I found it relaxing and I liked being able to say to Paris I provided the drinking water for the ewers in our inmost chamber; I always flavored them with petals of roses. As I did so—as the jug disrupted the calm surface and created new ripples on it—suddenly, even the faint light from above was cut off. I heard a loud clunk as the wooden cover was dropped into place overhead. Suddenly there was no light at all save that from the guttering torches. They leapt and protested as if gasping for air.

Clutching my jug, I climbed slowly up to the top. The well cover was securely in place. I pushed on it and found it impossible to lift. Something must be weighing it down. Or a bolt must be holding it.

Someone had locked me down here.

Why? Who? And how could I escape? I started pounding on the wood, but it muffled my fists. I cried out. Surely my voice must carry through the wood, but no one answered, no one raised the imprisoning lid.

I sank down on one of the steps. The stone was cold and damp. I felt my heart pounding at the thought of being held here below the ground.

But I forced myself to think clearly. This was a public well, the main one near the temple of Athena. People needed to use it. It could not be cut off for long, with no explanation. Therefore whoever had locked me in foresaw only a short time for me to be held here utterly invisible. But what was happening of such importance for only a few hours? And why must I be invisible?

There must be someone I should not see—or who must not see me. The Greeks. Had an embassy come? Why should I be hidden away? What were they afraid of? Surely not that I would decide to return to the Greeks? Everyone, except Paris, would rejoice at that.

But . . . perhaps not. There were those in Troy who wanted this war, and did not want anything to hinder its progression.

Or could it be that someone did not want the Greeks to glimpse me, for fear they would try to rescue me then and there? Or perhaps . . . Oh, this was futile. There were many reasons why someone would want to prevent me from seeing the Greeks, and the Greeks from seeing me.

The damp seeped into my gown and I started to shiver. My feverish response had died away, too, and now the cold sweat soaked me and made my teeth chatter. I hunched myself up on a step and pulled my mantle as tightly as I could about me, but it was a thin one; after all, spring was here.

I seemed to wait there forever. In a muffled way, I heard people come to the well and mutter when they saw it covered. Gradually light faded from around the cracks, and by that I knew night was coming on. Hours, long hours, passed. From my filled jug I had water to drink, but my stomach cried out for food. Far below me the torches guttered and burned out, their fuel consumed. Utter darkness enveloped me.

Only the faint streaks of light coming in through the well cover told me morning had come. By that time I was slumped against the wall and shivering uncontrollably. Why had no one complained about the covered well? But then—my heart sank in remembering it—there were other wells in Troy. Perhaps someone had spread word that this well had poisoned water. In that case they would keep it closed for a long time.

As the day crept on, I suddenly heard, even through the stifling wood, a great hue and cry: screams, yells, and war cries. Then it died away. Desperate, I began pounding on the cover. But no one heard it; perhaps no one was nearby. I kept hitting the cover and crying out so loudly I hurt my own ears. I should have done this straightaway; I was much weaker now and less likely to be heard. But now I was panicked. I knew I could not endure another night here.

Suddenly the cover was wrenched off and the frantic face of Paris peered down at me. “Oh, my dearest!” he cried, then burst into tears. “Who has done this to you?” He leapt down and stood beside me. “Are you all right? Can you climb out? No, never mind, I will carry you.” Over my protests, he bent down, picked me up, and carried me out into the daylight. Never had the light of the sun seemed more beautiful to me.

A crowd of curious faces surrounded us. Silently they gave way so Paris could carry me through the circle.

“What happened?” I said. “I was fetching water when suddenly the lid of the well closed above me. Was it an accident?”

“No accident,” he said. “Menelaus and Odysseus have been here. Clearly someone did not wish you to see them, or them to see you.”

Menelaus! Here! “Truly?”

“Yes,” he said. “Menelaus demanded that you appear and tell him, in person, that you were here of your own free will. He said that without hearing it from your own lips, he would never believe that his loyal and loving wife was not held a prisoner. Priam sent for you, but when his men returned alone, Odysseus accused him of making a mockery of the embassy, and said this proved that you were a prisoner whom they dared not produce.”

“Why did
you
not speak out?” I expected him to say that he had, but the sight of his face drove Menelaus into a fury.

“I was not there,” he said. “Someone drugged my wine and I fell into a stupor that lasted all day. Priam sent for me, and his men could not rouse me. I have no memory of this. But they returned to the council saying I was drunk on my bed.”

“Oh, all the gods!” Our enemy was both bold and clever. Now Paris was a dissipated weakling in the eyes of the Greeks.

“Then, at some point, Deiphobus grew so angry at their insult to Priam’s honor that he rushed at the Greeks with his sword. Antimachus shouted that the best action would be to kill Menelaus and Odysseus and throw their bodies over the wall—”

“No!” My heart started pounding as I pictured it.

“The rest of the chamber backed Deiphobus. Except Antenor—he cried out, saying that although he was a true witness that you were here of your own choice, nonetheless honor demanded that you be returned peacefully to Menelaus. Then the council attacked
him.
He and the Greeks had to flee to his house for safety. Menelaus and Odysseus left early this morning, under heavy guard.”

They would never forgive this insult. And they would believe I was part of it, that I deliberately flaunted them, avoiding them and refusing to speak to them, or else that I was indeed a prisoner—both reasons for war. Menelaus . . . Menelaus would want personal vengeance on me and on Paris.

“Menelaus is a gentle man, but this affront is personal,” I said. “He will believe both I and the Trojans spurn him and want war. Nothing could be further from the truth!”

“Our enemy has gained a brilliant victory. I do not know who laid me low. And you have no idea who closed the well?”

“No. I was far below, down at the water level. I never saw the person, not even the hands.”

“Still, it should not be too hard to identify him. Or her.”

“Why do you say that? We have many enemies.” The enormity of that simple statement stung.

“But very few in Troy who hate us enough to wish death on their fellow Trojans. I tell you, it will be clear enough who is behind this.”

We needed to find out, but when the moment came I would hate to look at his or her face and
know
.

And Paris might be wrong. It might not be hatred of us that occasioned this, but pure lust for war.

XLII