Helen of Troy (79 page)

He looked at me oddly. “No, that we did not.” He was still breathing heavily, his chest heaving. “But perhaps we would have had the light not failed.”

Hector exhorted all the Trojan women to supplicate the Pallas Athena with gifts and prayers. Hecuba, holding the finest-woven bolt of cloth from her treasure chamber as offering, led the princesses in solemn procession at dawn. Behind them came the wives and daughters of the commanders and councilors. I was not invited. My presence would upset the ladies and disrupt the mood. I watched them from my high window as they shuffled into the temple beneath us.

Later that morning Paris and I went to see the wounded in the lower city, lying in painful rows waiting for aid. Many women were tending them, and I saw the pots of unguents Gelanor had prepared standing at the head of each row. Aeneas, a highborn warrior, would not be among them, but these were the men who bore the true brunt of the fighting.

“Today’s fighting went well, as far as it was allowed to. They must stop these pauses!” Gelanor said.

“You only say that because you want to try out your insect bombs,” I said.

“I do confess, I think I have perfected them. And the plague-ridden garments in the temple can serve as a last defense.”

Paris looked at the row of tossing, groaning men. “Tomorrow at this time—” He squared his shoulders. “I must go arm. We are to fight again. Hector will lead us out shortly.”

I had betaken myself to the guard tower, so that I might watch them depart. I found it empty—curious, but perhaps the archers only manned it when a battle was in progress and there was a chance the enemy would approach. Or perhaps the guards were changing their watch.

Down below I could hear the gathering troops. They were waiting for Hector. Just then someone entered the guard tower. I could not see who—I could only discern that he wore the crested helmet of a soldier. I shrank back into a corner to watch. Then I saw that the soldier was not alone—a woman was with him, a woman carrying a baby. But the poor light obscured their features. The woman held out the child to him. The child cried and shrank away, and the man took off his helmet and laid it aside.

“There, there,” he said, and I recognized the voice. It was Hector.

“He is frightened of the horsehair crest.” The familiar voice of Andromache. “To have a soldier for a father is always to be fearful.” She clutched his arm. “Hector, do not leave us!”

I saw his backlit profile move in a startled jolt. “Woman, what can you be thinking?” His voice, always deep and measured, was sorrowfully puzzled.

“You are all I have now,” she said. “My father, my brothers, all dead, killed by the vile Achilles. You are my only family. I beg you, do not go out there! Lest he kill you as well! And I have nothing! And your dear son, Astyanax, be left fatherless!”

“If I desert my men, then all will lose heart, and Troy fall,” he said. He stepped away from her, as if to protect himself.

“How can one man be the sole protection of an entire city?” she cried. “There are hundreds, thousands of others here. But they are not the heir of Troy, the son of Priam, the father of my son.”

“If the heir of Priam shirks, then why should anyone fight?” Hector spoke slowly. His very deliberate framing of his words betrayed how deeply he had thought about it. “Oh, Andromache!” Now he clasped her to himself. “You have barely touched upon it.” He bowed his head. “If Troy falls . . .”

Andromache made an inchoate sound of distress and buried herself deeper against Hector’s breast.

“What I cannot bear is the thought that you will be led away captive, or that our son will perish. The only consolation is that I will be dead by then, buried, and cannot see or hear the cries as Troy dies.”

“But then . . . why must you go forth? If there is no hope, why go?”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Because I can think both things at once. Troy needs me—Troy is doomed. May my son grow up to be a greater warrior than I—my son will die. I have no god or goddess mother or father. I am entirely mortal and the gods do not strive to protect me. So I must fight as a man alone and uncovered. But that is what I was born to do.” He slowly pulled away from Andromache and held up little Astyanax. Now the child laughed and gurgled, touching his father’s face.

“Here. Take him.” He thrust him back at Andromache and slid his helmet on. “Farewell.”

Brutal in his abruptness, he turned on his heel and left. Perhaps that was the only way he could force himself to do it.

Andromache stood weeping, holding Astyanax, who joined in, wailing.

I did not want her to see I was there and had witnessed all that passed between her and Hector. Such private moments should remain private. Slowly, holding my breath, I crept toward the door. She was not looking; her head was bent over her son’s, her eyes squeezed shut. I did not know how long I could keep so silent; my lungs were bursting, but I dared not breathe. Gradually I edged outside and tiptoed down the ladder. At the bottom, I gasped for air.

“Helen!”

Too late I saw the helmet and recognized it; a muscular arm hooked around me and pulled me behind the ladder.

“How long were you listening?” Hector was angry.

“I was there first,” I said, realizing I sounded like a child justifying myself. “I thought I was alone. I meant to be alone—my presence disturbs people now. But I need to watch, to know what is happening, as much—no, more than they!”

His arm relaxed and he released me. “It is best that of all people, it was you who overheard me.” He spoke in a low voice. “Things are not as simple to you as they are to others, who have never seen the other side.”

“Alas, that I have seen what I have seen.”

“We have both seen many things from the beginning that others are blind to. That is why I can entreat you: take care of Andromache and my son when the time comes.” Before I could protest, he said, “As I said—and you heard—the unbearable part is knowing what will happen to her when—if—Troy falls. But you will survive, you can protect her.”

“I will be the first to reap the fury of the Greeks when they storm us. If they do.” I was careful to add the
if
.

“No. They will spare you. You are one of them, and they will want to take you back as their prize of war.”

“No!” I cried. “I’d rather die!”

“But you won’t,” he said flatly. “You are strong. You are a survivor. And if she clings to you, Andromache will be spared, and my son as well.”

“Please, Hector!” I laid my fingers across his mouth. “Do not speak these words. They carry their own power. Do not make it happen.”

“I need to know I have your promise,” he said, removing my hand. “Then I can fight content.”

“Very well, then, I promise. But I promise a future that may never come about.”

“That is enough for me,” he said. “Take Andromache with you wherever you go.” He stepped out from the shadow of the ladder and fastened the strap of his helmet. “I must wait no longer,” he said, and fell in with his marching men on their way out of the city.

LVI

H
ector survived that day’s battle, and reentered the city to great acclaim. Then he vanished into his house, where I knew Andromache embraced him, ignorant that he had consigned her to me for safekeeping.

I was greatly disturbed over his charge: both to look after her, and that I would, regardless of what happened, survive.
You are a survivor,
he had said, making it sound an ugly thing. A survivor was a rodent—was there not the adage about abandoning sinking ships?—who scavenged for himself, utterly without pride or morals, who lived only for himself. Was it the opposite of being noble? What was it Gelanor had said about Hector, that he was too noble and that was no way to win wars?

Were Gelanor and I two of a kind, he with his insect bombs and heated sand, and I with my instinct for self-preservation? But surely Hector was wrong. Had self-preservation been utmost in my mind, I never would have run away from Sparta.

Yes, he was wrong. He had to be.

Several days passed—an informal truce. Then word reached me that Antenor had suggested that tired old idea that Helen be returned to the Greeks. Before he could air this publicly, I knew I should call upon him.

On official business, no one could refuse to see the notorious Helen. I knew Antenor would not turn me away, no matter his private feelings. When I was announced at the door, I was told the councilor would see me straight-away. He came in, trailing his long robe. His face wore a smile, as assumed as his emblems of office.

“My dear princess,” he said, inclining his head.

“Esteemed councilor,” I said.

“Come, let us speak privately.” He swept out his arm expansively, a signal to his servants that this meeting must not be disturbed. I followed him back into shadowy quarters.

The room was not large, but each object in it was chosen with an eye to pleasure. There was a shapely clay vase with a dark octopus design resting on the floor, and several cups of pure gold were displayed on shallow shelves jutting from the walls. The chairs were draped with deep-dyed fabrics from Sidon and even the stools had carved feet, inlaid with ivory. Two bronze incense burners were smoking.

Antenor nodded toward them. “One holds dried cypress, the other hyssop,” he said. “I find either by itself to be too strong, but when they are blended”—he stepped forward and fanned the smoke—“what a marriage!” He inhaled deeply. Only then did he turn to me. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“You know well enough,” I said, settling myself on one of the chairs—oddly uncomfortable despite their drapings. “Your suggestion that once again I be returned to the Greeks. Surely you are aware that my return is no longer enough to avert the war.” Should I tell him of my own attempt? No.

“And why do you say this?” he asked.

“The only one who cares about that is my former husband, Menelaus,” I said. “As for the others, they will not rest until they have plundered Troy and taken her riches.”

He was observing me with a curious stare. Did he not understand? “I heard Agamemnon speak of Troy long ago. He wanted to come here. Returning me will not dissuade him.”

Antenor leaned back and crossed his arms. “Are you afraid to return to them?”

This was too much! “No! I was prepared to do so. But wiser heads convinced me it was to no purpose. And I listened. The Greeks did not come all this way for Helen. I am not so deluded as to think so.”

He looked at me as if he didn’t know whether I could be trusted. I looked back at him. The long-ago hints of my mother to my father about a Trojan visitor during his absence began to circle in my head.

He was handsome, comely. The sort a queen might welcome, after a long stretch of loneliness. His hair, the way it grew in a whorl from his crown, was like mine.

“You are a wise woman,” he finally said.

“I have inherited it,” I answered.

“From whom?”

“I know not, but whoever it is, I should honor him.”

“Indeed, one should honor one’s ancestors.” He nodded. “So there will be no proposal to the Greeks. Very well. Now, my friend—”

“Are you my friend? If so, I am glad of it. Friends often stretch a long way back and I understand you once visited Sparta and saw my mother and father.”

He spread his hands. “Your father was away. Fighting the Hippocoon. But your gracious mother welcomed me. She ushered me into the palace—a glorious place high above the plain and the meandering Eurotas. I remember we—”

“Undoubtedly you were entertained in the proper fashion,” I suggested.

He gave what passed with him as a frown—he was so polite he never truly frowned. “But before that she took me for a long walk beside the Eurotas, which was in spate from the melting winter snows. Delightful river! And there were the most stately swans there, larger than any I had ever seen. One of them chased us! I do believe . . . oh, forgive me, Helen, if I fumble in searching for it . . . he had the most magnificent feathers, unlike any I had ever seen—blindingly white . . .” He got up and rifled through a small patterned wooden box. “It is here somewhere, I know it . . .” At length he grabbed a feather and waved it. “Here! Here is that feather!” He placed it in my hand.