Helen of Troy (98 page)

He was up, armed, and his wife Theano was dressed for traveling. “Laocoön was right, the horse was filled with evil,” he said. “Oh, Helen!” He shook his head when he beheld my bruised face. “You must flee with Theano,” he said.

“It is impossible,” I said. “The guards deserted their posts. All the gates are shut fast except the Scaean one, and I saw how many Greeks it took to open it. We women could not do it.”

Antenor twitched. “You saw it? You have been there?”

“I knew it! She signaled to them. She—”

“Silence, Theano!” Antenor glared at her. “There are those who always held you would betray Troy to the Greeks, but I never believed that.”

“There are those who said the same of you, since you were conciliatory to them and harbored Menelaus and Odysseus on their ill-fated embassy here,” I answered. “In my case it is not true, nor, I believe, is it in yours. I saw what I saw at the gate because Menelaus came looking for me when he left the horse, and captured me, but I escaped and ran to the gate. The citadel is still quiet—but they will seek it out as soon as they can. I know not where Priam or any of the royal family is—their palace was silent and I dared not linger and penetrate inside.”

Antenor sighed. “May your guardian goddess protect you,” he finally said. “We have no other hope. Theano, gather up the other women. Perhaps if you are all in one group they will spare you.”

The proud priestess sneered. “Make it easy for them, having us all together waiting for them?”

I left the quarreling couple; nothing further for me to do with them now. I would not join her group. Now the streets were ringing with noise and filling with panicked people. All of Troy had awakened at once, awakened to horror.

I saw Aeneas running up the street toward his house. “Aeneas! Aeneas!” I cried, but he did not hear me. Behind him, like a wave, came a company of Greeks, screaming and slashing, cutting down everyone around them to clear the street. The dead fell heavily, and far from clearing the street, their bodies blocked it. The Greeks leapt over them, pursuing the others who had fled toward the citadel. The force of the crowd pressed me against a wall, almost flattening me. Those of us wedged against the sides were overlooked by the bloodlusting soldiers seeking the treasures of the palaces above.

Gelanor. I was near Gelanor’s house again, and vainly I tried to fight my way back to his door and see if this time I could find him, but I could not force my way through the crowd. Instead I was carried along with it, floating in it like a piece of dust. I did not see Menelaus again, nor any Greek I recognized, just dozens of regular soldiers.

Long habits of deference halted the crowd at the entrance to Priam’s palace and the upper citadel; even panic and mayhem could not loosen the iron grip of custom. Some of them surged up to the horse, where they had earlier frolicked away their lives; others ran into the temple of Athena, hoping for sanctuary. The festal greens recently hung on the temple to celebrate the Trojan victory over the Greeks welcomed them.

Then, suddenly, the Greeks were upon them. With screams and war cries they plunged toward the people, and the crowds fled into the temple. I ran with them, though I had been cornered by Menelaus there. The goddess gave no protection to any of them; all the confines of the temple did was box them up to make them easier to kill. Where hymns of praise had resounded off the walls, now screams and thuds and clashing metal echoed.

The soldiers made short work of the terrified, confused people, and their sacrifice to Athena covered the floor of her temple. Because I had been squeezed into one corner, behind a screen, they did not see me, but I peered out through the holes in the wooden screen to see the horror. When it grew eerily quiet, except for the laughs and brays of the soldiers, the altar cleared away and I saw Cassandra clinging to the base of the statue, weeping and trembling.

“No, no!” she was crying, as a man wrenched her away, pulling the sacred Pallas Athena with her. The princess and the statue fell heavily to the floor; the desecrated statue rolled a few feet away, and the man kicked it, lunging on Cassandra, tearing at her clothes, and raping her as she screamed for help. He did not stop; he finished his work as his fellow soldiers stood by watching, then he rose and, hugging her across her middle, dragged her from the altar and out the temple door. As he passed, I saw his face. It was little Ajax, laughing like a madman.

Screaming now myself, I bolted from my hiding place and tore out the door after them. Off to one side I glimpsed the affronted Pallas Athena lying abandoned on the floor. I should have righted her, but instead I fled to Priam’s palace.

LXXI

T
he outer courtyard was now a bobbing mass of people, dark shapes bouncing up and down, eerily lit by the torches the Greeks carried, a grotesque version of a nighttime festivity. Instead of flutes and singing, there were screams and keening; instead of wine, there were sprays of bright blood; instead of acrobats, there was the writhing of people desperate to escape. Dogs rushed through the crowd, howling and biting, and horses, loosened from their pens, careened about, trampling the dead and crushing the living. I thought to hear resounding crashes as the gods joined in, Poseidon roaring, waves tearing at the base of Troy, Zeus sending his lethal lightning. But there was nothing but the sound of human anguish.

Priam’s palace! Enveloped in a sea of people, its guards valiantly protected the doors against the people beating against them, trying to force their way in, as if their king would save them. The Greeks pursued them, cutting them down with spear and sword. Up on the roof, guards pried loose the tiles and hurled them down on their assailants; they felled some, but most of the Greeks laughed at the ineffectual missiles.

Behind me I heard yells as Trojans turned on the Greeks near the temple. I saw—but just barely, as it was so dark and I was now across the courtyard—some Greeks trying to climb back inside the horse. Unable to pull themselves up the ropes quickly enough, they were slain by the Trojans and fell heavily to the base of the horse.

Now the soldiers were ramming themselves against the palace door; the guards had been overwhelmed. The door strained and even the wood bulged, but it held. Then a Greek soldier pushed in front of all the others and halted them. “Cease!” he screamed. His voice broke—indeed, it sounded as if it had barely taken on an adult timbre. “I will open this door!”

He turned and held out his arms, and the soldiers obeyed.

In the mayhem, I was astonished that anyone would even hear, let alone obey. He was tall, but slight, confirming my impression of extreme youth. He was wearing a helmet that obscured his face, but his neck was slender and his torso long, with almost gangling arms and legs. He held a gigantic shield, worked with intricate art. The carvings caught the meager light and revealed their fine workmanship. This was the shield of someone confident it would never be captured, for who else would carry such a valuable thing into battle?

Achilles. The shield of Achilles. Suddenly I knew to whom it now belonged. This was Neoptolemus, his son. The youngling. Now the last of the prophecies was fulfilled for the fall of Troy.

“Yield, old man!” he was screaming.

How old are you, lad? I asked him, silently. Fifteen at most? It can be no more than that.

He grabbed some flaming torches from the soldiers and lobbed them up onto the roof, hitting several defenders, who fled their places.

“Smash it again!” he directed his soldiers. They obligingly rushed against the door and this time it groaned and splintered.

“Let me, let me!” Neoptolemus jumped at the door and wrenched it off its hinges, although the real work had been done by others. “I conquer!” he yelled. “Stay here!” he commanded the men. “I go inside alone. Let the glory be mine!”

He must have had loyal guardsmen, for they held back the other Greeks while he strode inside. He seemed concerned only that another warrior would steal his glory; the terrified, heedless crowd, me along with them, streamed in unhindered.

The first thing that struck me was how quiet the inner courtyard was. The rows of potted trees and flowers were still set in orderly lines, still proclaiming that life was peaceful. The doors of the apartments belonging to Priam’s sons and daughters were closed, it is true, but they were still intact, their brass ornamentation polished, now reflecting the torches of those who came to destroy them.

I tore myself out of the crowd and ran ahead of them. I almost caught up to Neoptolemus, but I did not want him to see me and turn on me. So I slunk along behind him, hugging the shadows.

At the far end of the courtyard, at the altar of the three-eyed Zeus, I saw a gathering of people. I sank down behind one of the potted trees and looked through their branches to see who it was. Behind me I heard the rush of people pressing forward.

Hecuba. She was standing at the altar, embracing her daughters, huddled on either side of her. Polyxena was there, and Laodice, and Ilona. Hecuba’s black eyes darted around the courtyard searching for adversaries, bracing for them.

Neoptolemus leapt forward, landing almost at their feet. He pulled off his helmet and peered at them. “You must be Hecuba,” he said, thrusting his face up into hers. “And you—who might you be?” Quick as a lizard’s tongue, he flicked out his sword and poised it on Polyxena’s throat.

“Polyxena,” she cried.

“My father fancied you,” he said. “Perhaps he’ll have you yet.” His high-whining youngster’s voice was bloodcurdling in its ignorant remorselessness. “And you?” he said to the others. Trembling, they gave their names.

Just then Priam rushed up, fully armed. He had been fumbling in the shadows, strapping on his breastplate and his sword, and now he lunged at Neoptolemus, missing him.

“Old man!” Neoptolemus sounded delighted. “Attacking me! You must be King Priam! How foolish, to think you could oppose me!”

“You are a cruel and inept child,” said Priam. “A poor wavering reflection of your father. I met him, we talked as men together. He would spare the old and the weak. Look into your heart to see him. Be worthy of him.” He circled Neoptolemus.

Neoptolemus gave a nasty laugh as he turned, keeping Priam within his sights. “My father had one leading trait—to win, to cover himself in glory, to vanquish his enemies.”

Priam stopped, faced him. “It is no glory to vanquish enemies that are aged or helpless.”

“An enemy is an enemy. Many poisonous snakes are small and seemingly helpless.”

“Men are not snakes.”

“Are they not, then? Men are worse. A snake kills only when it is threatened, when someone steps across its path or disturbs its burrow—but men?”

Priam then drew himself up to his full height, and he became, for that instant, the Priam I had first seen. “Are you not doing just that? And may I not defend it as a poisonous snake might? Yet that does not mean I am dangerous and must be destroyed. Have mercy on my nest, my wife, my children.”

Neoptolemus just laughed. “Supplicate your gods, take your farewell.”

Just then one of Priam’s sons darted out from near where I was crouched hiding. “Die, you Greek!” he cried. His voice was even higher than Neoptolemus’s.

It was Polites, Priam’s next youngest son after Polydorus. Neoptolemus swung around and ran him through with a sword: two children, one killing the other. The child lay limp on the floor; Priam slipped in his blood as he rushed to attack Neoptolemus with his bare hands, a wavering war cry resounding from his old throat. Clutching, Priam tightened his grip on the young man’s neck, holding him fast as he toppled backward. For an instant they rolled and tussled together, Priam’s face contorted with the effort of squeezing so hard.

But then Neoptolemus rose like an inexorable force, drawing Priam with him. With one arm he held Priam fast, with the other he drew back his sword.

“Farewell, old man!” he said with mock affection as he swung his sword and sliced off Priam’s head. It flew off, rolling away, while the body slumped beside the Zeus altar, spouting blood. The head came to rest looking upward, eyes wide with horror, staring at the rivulets of its own blood trickling down the monument.