Troy
Page 6
I wish I could rise and greet the day. Dawn is the only goddess who greets a sinner kindly, and her time, when no one else is awake, is the one time even the guilty may stand tall with no fear of condemnation. But no, I am bound fast by these bloody chains, not daring to rise for fear of waking the man beside me and rousing either his love or wrath—I know not which I fear more. My husband, you ask? Oh yes, he is my husband, wedded not by law but by the richer vows of sour love, fear, and the blood of countless men. Cursed day, the day the sons of Priam set foot on Argos’ shore! And curse my weak, childish heart for blindly believing his honeyed words, so sweet in the mouth but sickening to swallow. He said it would be alright, he promised I would always be protected and loved. Yet your love, Paris, was no such love as I desired, but a consuming of me, body and soul. Like a fool I went, I came to this unholy union, my blind eyes wide open to dreams and petty promises.
Silently I slip from beneath the white sheets and approach the window. The sand glows in the midst of the morning and the sea roils with Poseidon’s stirring. They are momentary respite from my restless sleep, offering enveloping solitude on their blissfully unpeopled bosoms.
But a figure breaks my communion. She, just visible from my narrow window, picks her way down to the edge of the waters. Raising her arms, she pours out what I imagine to be wine in libation for the gods. The breeze scatters the wine on the sea, blessed drops of thanks and appeal. I envy her, for though she is almost certainly a slave, she can escape into a moment of freedom. I am a prisoner of my own doing, made more wretched by that knowledge. As Aurora completes her task and the sun takes his place over the horizon, I watch the woman enjoy her stolen time. In spite of myself, I cannot suppress the disloyal wish that I was her.
Paris
I wake as she slides from the bed, her long hair glowing like pale fire down her back. She glances at me furtively, afraid of losing her secret moments to her own clumsiness, but I feign sleep. After ten years of war, her slightest movement shakes me from my slumber into bleak wakefulness.
I lay still in the bed, stealing her solitude through slitted eyes. This is my favorite time to watch her, when she is most beautiful and vulnerable in the raw light. Her golden hair, her white hands, the curve of her cheek—these, bathed in the dawn, recall a sweeter time when we were truly lovers. Ah, I pity those days, for they knew not what was to follow. In those days, she was the wife of a king, though but a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Our diplomatic visit was meant to be routine, an assurance of continued good relations with the Argives. I had been before with my brother to the cold bachelor halls of Menelaus, but on that event found them transformed by a gentler hand. She came and greeted us as hostess and queen, shy in her newly acquired role and frankly curious about our company. As she offered me her hand, she did not lower her eyes as a less interested girl might have but met my gaze. Then, silently, she resumed her place by her husband.
Shall I tell how I was seated beside her at the banquet that night? Shall I tell how, while my brother and her husband discussed politics, I wooed her with soft words and laughter? Shall I tell how white was the moonlight when we shared our first kiss?
It would only bore you to hear such a story, and pain me to rake up memories. I can see her face when she agreed to come with me, her body when we first joined our love. I can see her tears when her husband began his pursuit and the bruises on her wrists from restraining her against rejoining him. And it seems to me, when she stands silhouetted at the window and watches the dawn break, that she is the sinless Helen of our first meeting, a girl in her first fragile bloom.
Her neck arches, and although she does not move or make a sound, I know she is weeping. I know every movement, every tone of her voice and shade of her face. For a moment I am moved with the old love, now tainted with pity and smothered by her fear and regret. I rise and stand behind her at the window, wishing I could hold her and comfort her and knowing that time is past.
Helen
His breath on my hair startles me. Unable to help myself, I flinch. He was watching me from the bed, he feels my rejection now. He knows me, and I know him, as though he were a piece of myself I hate but cannot destroy because I fear the pain.
His hands mold themselves to my shoulders, taking no heat and adding no warmth. The morn is chill in our windowed room, and our thin nightclothes do little to shield us. We are shrouded in white, this boy and I, as though we were still innocent and unstained. What a lie! And yet we deceive no one.
My gaze strays out the window again. She is gone now, that unnamed woman, her libation offered and her stock of hoarded loneliness lost in a reckless gamble. Perhaps she will never again have a moment alone and her prayers to the gods will go unanswered, blown awry by the stiff ocean breezes.
Paris enfolds me in his arms with a dry kiss, trying futilely to revive the corpse of our withered love. He is my prison, keeping me from my half-considered purpose.
The breeze is nearly gone by the time it reaches our unbarred window, but it is enough to stir my gown and hair and yearning for freedom. My body has not grown stout through the years of this marriage, and I can still slip out onto the parapet through the stone frame. We used to climb out and sit for hours, watching the stars and speaking the nonsense that all lovers share. He would quell my fears about the future and bring my thoughts back to an endless perfect present. But it is many years since even his slender build has been able to fit through our window.
The parapet is high above the beach where the Argives are camped. When we were younger, Paris used to hold me against the giddiness and we would lean over the edge and watch the stars on the water. Now when I leave him at night, there is nothing to hold me against vertigo. I lean over and watch the stars spin from water to sky and wonder, would it really be such a bad thing to become one with them in a final, flighted sacrifice of belated atonement?
Paris
Under the cover of darkness, she came to my ship. A hooded cloak concealed her bright hair, and the moon gleamed on the bits of white dress that protruded from beneath the dark fabric. I led her by the hand across the bobbing boards and held her, in the secret silence so delicious to lovers, until she fell asleep.
In the morning she awoke, lovely as Dawn herself in all her golden beauty. I kissed her hands and face until she laughed, that she would not notice the new, steady movement of the ship. It was not until she stood to dress that she felt the sway of a greater current than the ocean’s gentle rocking. For a moment she did not understand. Then her eyes grew wide, and I watched realization dawn with horror and remorse on her face.
I leapt for her too late to contain her, and she rushed across the deck into the full blaze of sunlight. Too late again was I to prevent her from gauging the distance between her and Argos or from spying a grim white sail billowing towards us. From his ship in our fleet, Hector shouted a black oath at me as with a cry Helen darted to the railing and made to fling herself into the sea after the Argive ship.
I seized her around the waist, pinioned her arms to subdue her. Catching her slender wrists, I called for full speed ahead. For the ship pursuing was certainly Menelaus’ ship, and we were doomed to a war of honor whether we had her or not, so we at least ought to retain our prize.
Hours later, when the Argive ship had retreated, for proper backup no doubt, Hector summoned me to his ship. I shall never forget it, for, instead of cursing me roundly he only stared, with a look so stern and disappointed that I could not help but go down on my knees in supplication. He said nothing, only put me away with a curl of his lip. I turned like a dog and fled back to Helen, my stolen bride.
She greeted me not with sweet kisses but fear, the terror of one who knows he has unforgivably angered the gods. When I approached, she flung out a hand as if to stop me. Did she not know we were damned, apart or together? I clasped her hand and kissed her on the mouth. She trembled as I pressed the livid bruises on her wrist. They were my doing, the product of my restraint. She struggled feebly against m
e, fearful of pain and tormented by guilt, but I would not let her go.
At that moment, our lives began to unravel.
Andromache
She approaches our table as though she were ashamed, and so she should be. I do not blame her for being beautiful and young and losing her head, for we all are impetuous at some point in our youth. But as the gods are my witness, may I be damned to eternal torment if I ever forgive her for causing the war between us and the Argives.
At least she has the grace to bow her head and hide behind that hair when my husband greets her. I ought to be more gracious today, too, for I have had the guilty pleasure of my husband at my side, a felicity denied many other Trojan women. Have we all not been selfish for love?
Hector is grave this morning, although he takes care to hide his heavy heart. He spoons gruel into our son’s mouth with foolish banter, and I cannot keep a smile from my sober lips. I have never loved him better than this day, when he will go to the beach and fight. There is an ache in my arms to reach over and cling to him, and my tongue is saturated with unspoken pleas. Can we not be selfish for a while longer? Can we not be selfish as Helen and Paris are selfish?
I know the answer: No. It cannot be helped. I tidy up my unpleasant emotions and pack them away in the back of my heart, to be looked over once Hector is gone and there is no one to see me crumble. I am strong—it is necessary that I am strong, whether I would be or not. In the battle against my nature, I shall prevail.
Hector dangles a spoon filled with mush by Astyanax’s little mouth, blowing absurd bubbles back at our baby. He steals a glance at me when Astyanax is occupied, a look filled with mixed mirth and sorrow. I look on him with dry eyes and smile.
Hector
My eyes sting in the bright morning light. At least, that is what I tell myself when I glance back at the sun and my wife and tear up. I am not ashamed, but it is not a day when the burden of emotions can be shared.
My boy’s babble breaks in on my stinging eyes, and I return to feeding him. He is just two, not so young that he requires feeding but not so old that he rejects the luxury. I send another spoonful of mush into the small oozing mouth and scrape up the excess. Andromache is watching us, I can tell, although she sits silently in her usual place with her usual calm expression. I wish, just for one morning, that the three of us were alone and she would sit right beside me and I could feel her soft skin and hair even as we fed our child. But it is right that we should preserve decorum and that this breakfast should be no different than any other. I am the commander of the army and she is my wife, and we cannot change anything now.
Astyanax has signaled the end of his breakfast by dashing aside the proffered mush, and Andromache comes with a napkin to wipe off the sticky flailing hands and open mouth. For a moment I can smell her sweet scent and feel her gown against my leg. It is more than I could have asked for.
But the end of breakfast marks the end of my time here, at least for the present. Servants begin to clear the table. I fiddle with my napkin, trying to buy more time. But when they come and ask if I am done, I cannot lie. I rise without meeting Andromache’s eyes, for I know they are filled with an emotion I cannot endure. By the time she has lifted Astyanax from his chair and straightened her gown, we are both in control again. She draws near to show off our boy, and for the first time this morning I break with custom and take her hand.
The momentary dread in her eyes shows that she knows this is the end, but she does not sully our dignity with passionate pleas or tears. I am proud of my wife. The stern tilt of her head and her straight shoulders testify that in all things she is my equal, and her courage bolsters my conviction of war. I am no longer bound to Troy but released into battle, even to my death. I have separated from this place, and, though I have yet to take my leave, she knows I am already gone.
Helen
Paris slumbers peacefully until late in the morning while the family breakfasts. I do not return to sleep after my fleeting moments stolen at the window, though Paris entices me back to bed. When he is again sleeping, I crawl from the bed and don my customary white garments. They are reminder enough of the deception we live, my own private penance. I wear them not out of habit nor of fancy but of guilt, because although his family has at least superficially forgiven me and welcomed me into their fold, I cannot forgive myself for what I have done. But it would be ungrateful to air my regret after they have been so unwarrantedly kind, so I wear my virginal white to clothe my shame.
Hector greets me genially at the breakfast table, and after a moment Andromache wishes me a good morning. Though she takes care to hide it like the woman of good breeding that she is, it is evident to me that while my brother has made peace with my actions, my sister has not found it in her heart to do the same. And how can I cast blame? Shall I condemn her sin in light of my greater one? I have endangered her husband and his city and people, perhaps threatening her very life and that of her son. She has no cause to forgive me.
And yet—and yet, as I see her dignity give way to love with her son and more with her husband, I wish that this gracious woman could have been my friend and sister. Perhaps in another life we might have been family and I might have learnt from her wisdom and courage. It can never be so here.
Priam and Hecuba—mother and father of a sort to me, I suppose—take their leave of the table and repair to the upper throne room. I rise as well and make to follow, for my days are spent in making theirs easier and caring for them and the palace. But today there is a reason behind their destination: From there, they can watch the battle unfold, the battle that today Hector will join against the Argives.
Priam presses Hector’s hand and gives a last blessing, while Hecuba weeps softly. In all these years, I have never seen her weep. Priam at last leads her away, and I am left with my brother and sister.
I cannot think of anything to say to this man whom I have so deeply wronged, and my words are drowned suddenly in tears. It is as though I myself am drawing the sword to kill him.
He must see it in my face, for he catches me in an embrace as though I truly were his sister and smiles as if I could be forgiven.
Andromache
When he takes my hand, I know it is time for our goodbye. He leads me out of the palace and up the stairs to the parapet above the city gate. The sea breeze tousles his hair, and he breathes it deeply, like a man set free. It occurs to me that he knows what is going to happen and has finally accepted it.
We stare out at the massed Argive army, spread out over the sand with their boats grounded half in the sea. He has brought me here because I must know the truth of our condition, because he respects me, but in truth I wish our parting could have been in private where I could have wept once he had gone.
But he is proud, and he will not find cause to be ashamed of me. I will look upon the armies with a clear eye and a steadfast heart and bid my husband farewell with the entirety of the Trojans and Argives as witness, if they so choose.
Hector holds both my hands, but it is not enough for me. Aphrodite, let it not be enough for him! Let us not part in this cool way, like strangers steeped in reticence. I long for his embrace, just once, just once.
I am not disappointed. The goddess must hear my prayer, for he pulls me in against his chest and wraps his arms around me. My cheek presses the burnished bronze of his armor, and I can hear his heart echo within. This is where I belong. I turn my face away from the beach and close my eyes. If I never open them, he will never leave.
Our son tugs at my skirts, begging a moment with his father. Hector lays a hand on the child’s forehead, and our babe begins to cry in fear at the unknown helmeted face. But Hector soothes him as only he can, and whispers a blessing over our son.
I cannot see for the beauty of the moment. The sun grows too golden, the stones too white. I close my eyes as Hector kisses me, and by the time I open them to the oppressive brightness, he is gone.
Helen
From the beach below the throne room there ris
es a great roar. At first it seems to be the surf, but when I go to the window at Priam’s bidding I realize that it is the voices from thousands of Argive and Trojan throats. The armies form walls with a long lane separating them, rushing towards each other. From our vantage point it seems that they are very small and moving very slowly, machines of ineluctable doom. A shining bronze speck heads the Trojan side, and a gold speck the Argive—our Hector and the famed Achilles, charging with eyes only for each other. A ring soon forms around the two of them, giving them a wide arena in which to fight to the death.
Words fall excitedly from my mouth as aged Priam and Hecuba demand the details that they cannot bear to see. The bronze and gold specks swirl in a point of shining fervor. Betimes Hector seems to be gaining, betimes Achilles. Meanwhile, the battle rages around the eye of their storm.
Through the side window I can see Andromache, following that central battle with a pale face. Her child stands beside her on uncertain legs, and she does not seem to know that she clutches his hand with unnecessary force. But the babe is silent, as if he knows the potential tragedy waiting to unfold.
Suddenly they are running, the bronze and the gold, up towards the walls of Troy. I crane my neck to see them, watch as the bronze figure enters some low scrub by the main gate. Andromache’s face is white, white. The gold figure attacks the scrub with a bellow of rage, and the bronze shoots out the other side. They are hemmed against the walls of Troy by their own men, eager for the outcome.