Helen of Troy (97 page)

“How could you, how could you, how dare you show yourself, you shameless . . .” And then Menelaus was blathering, sweeping me toward him. “Cover yourself!” The brooch—his brooch—holding the shoulders of my gown had been ripped open by his rough handling of me, and he had glimpsed my breasts. He started weeping.

“Stop it!” I commanded him. “Kill me. Now!”

But all he did was bury his head in his hands and cry, loudly. “My wife, my dearest . . .”

Oh, this was torture! Was there no honorable end to it?

I looked down, and the front of my gown was covered in blood, seeping out from the cursed brooch.

“Stop the killing!” I took his hands away. “Look at me. Call off your countrymen from their mission. Let Troy go. Let it live. Then . . . I shall go with you and be your wife again.”

Was it truly I who spoke those shocking, unthinkable words? But all was lost, and Paris gone. If by sacrificing myself I could save others, what matter?

“It is too late,” he said. “They will sate their hatred of Troy.”

Now I knew why the brooch spouted blood; it was blood yet to come.

“You gave me this.” I pointed to it.

“With each drop that oozes from it, know you caused it,” he said. “Is that not fitting?”

“It is the Greeks who have caused the bloodshed,” I said.

“You shall lie in my bed again, covered with blood or no,” he said. “I gladly smear myself with it, if I can smear myself with the scent of you along with it.” He shoved me out the door and into the open air, then dragged me back into the palace. “Blood and Helen are inextricably intertwined.”

LXX

O
nce back inside, he recoiled at the realization he was standing in Paris’s domain. He jerked me against himself and steered me from the room, bending my left arm painfully behind me. And just so, I left the bedchamber I had shared with Paris, never to behold it again. “There’s work to do in Troy,” he muttered.

“More killing?” I trembled to ask. The wet ooze of the brooch felt cold against my skin.

“Killing the likes of which no one has ever seen, for Troy is larger and richer than any other city.” We were descending the steps, Menelaus stumbling in the unfamiliar darkness. But he kept his tight grip on my arm, propelling me downward.

All was silent in the halls below; people slept in a drunken stupor, garlands still twined about their necks. Some wore half-smiles, others lolled gape-mouthed. Menelaus steered me through them, stepping around them.

I pushed them with my foot, crying, “Awake! Awake! Troy is betrayed!”

“You—!” Menelaus spun me by my arm, turning me toward him, slapping my face. Warm blood trickled from my nose. “Another sound, and . . .” he drew back his fist.

The sleepers were stirring. “Raise the cry! The Greeks are in the streets!” I cried, before he hit me so hard I spun to the floor, landing on my knees.

But I was free. Shielded by the mounds of people, I crawled away, lost in their arms and legs while Menelaus turned and turned helplessly in the dull light, seeking me. I gave thanks, now, for all these strangers.
Xenia,
the laws of hospitality that Paris had outraged under Menelaus’s roof, now saved me. Our uninvited guests were my salvation.

They were roused, and leapt to their feet. “Greeks? Greeks here?” they cried.

“They came from the horse,” I shouted. “From the belly of the horse! To the gates. Guard the gates!”

At the sound of my voice, Menelaus gave a roar and charged toward its origin. But again darkness and the crowd saved me. I ducked down and, borne along with the surge toward the street, emerged from the palace safely.

The horse stood on the paving stones, the trapdoor in its belly hanging open, escape ropes dangling down. It was empty now, its deadly cargo discharged. The Greeks had rushed elsewhere; only Menelaus had been distracted by seeing me. The streets were still, hushed as if lying under an enchantment. I hurried toward the walls, and as I careened down, I saw people slumped in doorways sleeping off their wine, murmuring in pleasure at some foggy dream. I tried to shake as many awake as I could, but some were still so drunk they could barely move.

There could not have been more than ten men in the horse, and their task must have been to steal through the streets and open the gates. Their fellows—who had never sailed away at all, but hidden someplace nearby—would then come streaming in, with the full strength of their army.

But if the gates could hold, then the Trojans could make short work of the few Greeks—bottle them up in Troy, corner them, slay them. The gates must stay closed! I rushed down the streets, the cold night air slapping my face, stinging where Menelaus had hit it.

Looming ahead of me was the Scaean Gate, flanked by the Great Tower. It was ominously dark and quiet. I saw no sentries on duty. Had they, too, drunk themselves into oblivion around the horse? Oh, the sorrow for Troy if they had.

The huge wooden bolt was still in place, resting in its socket. But there was no one to protect it. Oh, let the tower beside it be manned! But my thumps on the door echoed mournfully, and no one opened it.

The tower where Hector had stood, bidding Andromache to be brave. For the first time I was thankful Hector was gone, and could not see this shameful moment, the moment his fellow Trojans had deserted their posts. What matter, then, that Hector was so brave, if a city could be lost through carelessness?

“Helen.” Someone stepped out of the darkness. But it was not a Trojan. He would have called me “Princess Helen.” This was a Greek, who called me roughly by name. Other Greeks were already here. They had not been delayed like Menelaus.

It was Ajax, the nasty little Ajax. “No need to knock. No knocking can rouse them. They were in a stupor; we have made that stupor eternal.” He advanced toward me, his narrow face twisted in a semblance of a smile. Then suddenly he lunged toward me, grabbing me. “This prize is for Menelaus,” he breathed, so close I could smell it. “Hold her here,” he ordered one of the others.

An overmuscled young man clamped his hands on my shoulders. “With pleasure,” he said. “Who could not hold Helen with the greatest pleasure?”

Ajax laughed. “Take your pleasure of her, who’s to know? Nothing she says will be believed. Menelaus knows she is a liar.”

The soldier led me away. I heard the scrambling of Greeks behind me, their groans as they slid the bolt back. The gate began to creak as they pulled it open.

Open. Open. Troy was doomed! I cried out, but the soldier shook me. “It is too late,” he said. “And you could not have stopped it.”

Unlike Menelaus and Ajax, he was comically respectful of me. His hands trembled as they held me, and he seemed hesitant to push me.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Why should you care?” he replied. Ah! He was flattered that I wanted to know.

“So I may reward you for your gentleness, if ever I have the power.”

“You never will,” he said brusquely. “Your power is eclipsed. It falls with Troy.”

“But if it does not?” Press him, Helen, I told myself. Press him. He may become your only friend among the Greeks.

“It has,” he persisted. “When the dumb Trojans brought the horse inside the walls, your power passed away.”

“That is for Menelaus to say.”

“Menelaus hates you,” he said. “He means to kill you. He told us so. And when I hand you over to him, he will do so.”

I forced myself to laugh. Laughter was so alien to this moment that it startled him. “I have already seen Menelaus. He did not slay me.” I turned my face so the faint light would illuminate it, show my nose. “He smacked me. But he took me back. He will not harm me.” I took a deep breath. “He wants me.”

“My name is Leos,” he finally said.

“Very well, Leos. I shall remember you when I return to Sparta.” Return to Sparta! May that never come to pass!

“I thank you, my lady.”

He was so young. Young as Paris had been, young as I had been. Gone forever to me, that innocence and that excitement. Nothing left now but cunning, strategy, perseverance: the gifts of age and disillusionment.

He left me unguarded, releasing me by the wall, smiling at me. He thought me secure enough, beaten. He turned his attention to the gates, which the invaders were straining to open.

I watched helplessly as it swung open. The outside told all the tale: the entire Greek army was streaming across the plain, making for Troy.

The invaders were turning to their comrades, eager to welcome them. I slunk away, hugging the wall, and then made for the citadel using the winding outer streets. I fleetingly hoped the young soldier—what was his name?—Leos would not be punished for his dereliction. But this was war.

The citadel was still deceptively quiet, still under a spell. Nothing had yet happened here, though the empty horse reared mockingly above us. But down below, I could hear the shouts and cries as the Greeks poured into Troy.

There was no sign of Menelaus. He had evidently hurried to his men at the walls, letting me go. Why did no one rouse? What sorcery was this? The hall of the palace was empty of its sleepers, but where had they gone?

I ran into Andromache’s palace and shouted, “Awake! Awake! The Greeks are in Troy!” But I heard nothing.

I rushed down the streets, banging on each door. I nudged the drunken sleepers. But it was no use. Troy slumbered on, determined to make its last night ordinary; it could not comprehend that the end had come.

The end of the world. The end of the world of Troy.

Evadne. Gelanor. I must find them, save them. We could flee together. Evadne had had a little chamber in the palace, but when I looked for her there, it was empty. Gelanor’s house halfway down the winding street—I banged on the door, forced it open, but he was not there. Oh, where had they gone?

Then the clamor began. Clamor—no, it was more than clamor. It was the very death cries of Troy. Wails and screams floated up to the citadel. The Greeks were in the city near the gates, slaughtering everything in their path. They were hungry. For so many long years they had endured exile and frustration. Now all that burst forth, exploded as they stormed into Troy.

Sacker of cities:
the honorific of Achilles. But like all neat titles, it failed to convey the depth and essence of it. The Greeks would sack Troy, and Troy would cease to exist. That was what sacking meant. The smoldering ruins were the last token, after the treasures had been taken, the women raped and sold into slavery, the men slain, the children run through with swords. It was a final judgment, the ultimate punishment that wiped the very name of the city from history. And who was this judge, who had the power to decide the fate of a great city like Troy? Ah, better not to ask. For the judge was flawed, bribed, venal, petty. No true judge at all. We require more of our human judges than we do of our godly ones.

I had no fear. The worst had already befallen me, and now all I could hope to do was lessen, in any small way, the fate awaiting the—still sleeping?—Trojans. I went from door to door, banging, shouting. Finally, almost all at once, the people sprang to life, flung open the doors, looked wildly about, heard the din far below. The soldiers—where were the soldiers? I sought Antimachus in his headquarters, halfway down the city. The farther I descended, the louder the noises and the nearer the danger, like the pounding of surf far below a rock. Antimachus was groggily shaking his head, staggering to shake off the sleep. He stared at me, muttering, “Thrashed by Deiphobus?”

“No, by Menelaus! The Greeks are here, they’ve killed Deiphobus and are in the city. Where are your men?”

“In the barracks.”

The barracks were by the lower city. They were already fighting, or being slaughtered, then. “Your guards, then? Where are they?”

He rushed to call them out, turning only to shout at me, “Hide yourself. Find a place of safety.”

I laughed hysterically. The entire city would be a tinderbox—where in a kiln could one hide? Only the well, with its steep steps descending to the water, might offer any refuge. And if the buildings around it collapsed and blocked its entrance, then I would be trapped down there to die like a starving rat. I tore away from him and sought Antenor. There was no hope for any of us, but it is better to meet your enemy on your feet than sleeping.