Helen of Troy

by Margaret George

  Suddenly Gelanor was beside me.

  “I have it,” he said.

  His words were a shock. Without knowing it, I had given up hope of discovering the source of my ill health.

  He waved the snake bracelet. “This is it.” He said.

  I took it from him. “Careful,” he said. He raised one eyebrow as I took it gingerly. “But first—are you feeling stronger? And how often did you wear the bracelet?”

  “I—most days, I think. It was one of my favorite pieces of jewelry.”

  “As I thought. Very well. Look at its underside.” He took it back and spread the spirals apart. “This should be smooth. It is not. Look at these grooves.” He stayed my hand. “Do not touch it. Look here. See the scratches and uneven surfaces within it? Someone has made those hollows to put poison in, knowing it will be in contact with your skin for at least all the daylight hours. I found a waxen substance in them and tested it. It was filled with poison. Your skin was drinking it in.”

  “No!” I said, taking the bracelet back. “No!”

  He thought I was lamenting over the evil use of the beautiful bracelet. “We can make you another one,” he said.

  “It is not that,” I said. “It is—this means it is someone close to me.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  We like to imagine that only those who do not know us would wish us ill. To think that those we walk among, eat with, laugh with, hate us and plan to harm us, is soul-chilling. An enemy disguised as a friend is the deadliest of all.

  Menelaus visited me, eager to show me the specially weighted arrows that Gelanor had designed for him.

  “That man,” he said, shaking his head. “His mind is always searching, ferreting. I am thankful he is working for me rather than my enemies.”

  “Which enemies?” I asked, I hoped offhandedly.

  “It’s just a figure of speech,” he said, rising and stretching. “But they say there is no one whose death is not a relief to someone.”

  A chill passed through me.

  “So in that way, we all have enemies.” He looked about for Leucus, his body-servant. “Where is that lad?”

  Lying in bed the next morning, I watched, with slitted eyes, my own attendants gather in the chamber. There came Nomia, slender and tall, invariably—sometimes, I had to admit, gratingly—cheerful. Her father was the opposite: one of Agamemnon’s most glowering soldier-guards. Perhaps she had determined to be pleasant after a childhood darkened by her father’s pique.

  Next were Cissia and Anippe, both of whom I had known since childhood. I had always found Cissia’s sensible placidity soothing, the sort of antidote I longed for after my upsets and excitements. I relied on her more than I liked to admit, if only for a foil to myself. And Anippe had shared my love of dolls and clothes.

  Could any of these three hate me? Or could they be acting under the orders of others?

  Who would be relieved at my death?

  They were moving about the chamber, opening the curtains and filling pitchers of water. Their sweet voices murmured to each other.

  No, it could not be either of them!

  Next came Philyra, the wife of Father’s chief archer, to whom at this very moment Gelanor’s arrows were being presented. She, like me, had fair hair, and we had often laughed about the subtle difference in color. She had flattered me by proclaiming mine to be pure gold, whereas hers tended more toward the red-gold of sunset. “I think the sunset is more precious,” I had said. And I had truly thought her hair to be the lovelier.

  The priestess of Demeter, wise and proper Dirce, strode in. Dirce’s presence always overpowered anyone else in the room, and today was no different.

  I watched the moving shadows in my room. It seemed that I could see more than I normally could; my vision was taking in more than it ever had before.

  I could not see anything in these five women that would cause alarm.

  Last to arrive was Eurybia, because she had to come all the way up the hill from the village. She was a heavy woman, muscular, with a head of hair that must have weighed so much she needed her neck to be as thick as it was to carry it.

  She bent over me, detecting that I was awake.

  “Dear Helen,” she said, “are you feeling better today? Oh, please tell me you are!”

  I raised up on my elbows. “Yes, Eurybia,” I said. “I believe so. I hope so.”

  She smiled. And as I saw that smile, I saw something more. I cannot describe exactly what it was, but there was something else.

  I swung my legs out of bed, and she offered her hand. I took it and stood up. The chamber swam, but I commanded my legs to stay straight.

  My attendants all swarmed around me, and helped support me. They brought out my clothes and offered me many selections, omitting the ones that would wrinkle badly when I—sooner or later—had to lie down. They offered trays of jewelry—large chunky necklaces of agate and rock crystals, anklets of fine gold. Tactfully they did not bring out the tray of gold hair ornaments, which would get crushed when I lay upon a pillow.

  “Your bracelets,” said Anippe, holding up a tray of them.

  They all looked too heavy. I waved them away.

  “We still have not found that snake bracelet, have we?” asked Eurybia. “It is light to wear and does not . . .” What she meant was, I could lie down while wearing it, if need be.

  “No, we have not,” I said. “Perhaps it was stolen.” I looked around at each of them, one at a time.

  When I got to Eurybia, I knew. It was something—something I could see beyond just what my eyes were receiving. I heard her words, but now it was as if I had a secret translation of them, and of their true meaning.

  “But we must find it!” she said.

  “Why?” I said. “There are many other pieces to choose from.”

  “Yes, of course.” She quickly looked away.

  Now. Now was the time to do it, now, in front of the others. I would never have been so bold before, but that was changed, too.

  “Eurybia, why are you trying to kill me?” My voice was so unnaturally calm it did not even sound like mine. “I know it is you.”

  That was the gift of the serpents, I suddenly knew—I could discern character in times of danger, almost as if I were a god. That was what they had given me.

  My sudden attack caught her off balance. “I—I—”

  “It is you!” I pointed at her.

  The others just stared.

  “Why have you done this?” I confronted her, calling on all my power to appear strong and not shake.

  I expected her to deny it, to say that it was my illness that was causing me to speak so.

  Instead she drew herself up and put down the jewelry tray with great dignity.

  “So. I am doomed. I will die anyway for threatening the safety of the queen. Very well. Let me tell you, you blind, stupid girl. Yes, girl. For you are only a girl, yet you have had the entire world handed to you! And why has all this come about? Simply because of your face. I wanted to see you up close, to see what it was that entitled you to all this adulation. What I see does not impress me. So I decided to remove it.”

  I fought for words. “Is that all?”

  “No! You weren’t content with all the worshipping of your looks, but you were greedy and had to take things from other people. You didn’t need to win that race! You had everything else. Why did you take it from my daughter?”

  She was the mother of the girl I had beaten in the maidens’ race!

  “She would never have become queen. She never would have had forty suitors, coming with big bags of gold. She’s as mortal as they come. But her speed—she would have always been able to cherish the memory of winning that race. You robbed her of it!”

  “I didn’t rob her,” I said. “I won it. I was a faster runner.”

  “Yes, because you cheated.”

  “Cheated?”

  “You were Zeus’s daughter. Of course you had extra speed.”

 
“No, I didn’t. The child of a god—even if that is true—is mortal. Didn’t you know that?”

  “They are fleeter, they are more lovely—they aren’t like the rest of us.”

  “Can’t you understand?” I pleaded with her. “Imagine all that anyone ever talked about was your face. Would you not want to be recognized for something else? I knew I was a fleet runner, and I needed to run. If your daughter had been faster, she would have surpassed me.”

  “No!” she said. “You cheated.”

  “What kind of poison did you put into the snake bracelet?” I asked her.

  The others in the chamber had been shocked into silence.

  “I won’t tell you,” she said. “It has long served my family. And just because you, with your special powers, have found me out—”

  But it was Gelanor, with his human powers, who had found her out. I was immensely glad, like Menelaus, that he was not working for our enemies.

  I called the guards. “Take her away,” I said. “Take her away.”

  Father, and Menelaus, would want her executed. I did not. All I wanted was some assurance that she—or an accomplice—would never have access to me again.

  Now it became clear to me—finally, and what sweet knowledge this was—what the serpents had blessed me with: prescience, which is its own kind of wisdom.

  XIX

  Clytemnestra had come for one of her ever more frequent visits, and we were sitting together under Hermione’s tree. Or perhaps “under” is a bit exaggerated; in the five years since it had been planted, it had grown higher than my head, but its lower branches were still too close to the ground for us to sit directly under. We were stretched out on the sweet meadow grass beside it, having our favorite picnic fare, watching our girls play on the hill below us, running and throwing a ball. Iphigenia was eight and my Hermione was five.

  “Ah, she’s a runner like you,” said Clytemnestra. “Look how she’s catching up to Iphigenia.” Both girls were running as fast as they could, tearing through the grass. I shivered, remembering my poisoner.

  “My racing days are, I fear, over,” I said. It was indeed a pity that women’s contests ended with marriage.

  Clytemnestra seemed restless to me, and she declined the rest of the wine. That was how I knew. “Why, you are pregnant!”

  She nodded. “Yes. Agamemnon is pleased, of course, for he hopes for a son, a son he wants to name Orestes . . . ‘the mountaineer.’ Zeus only knows why he would choose that name. He does not come from the mountains.”

  “Perhaps he believes that the name will somehow bring about the event. That Orestes will scale high mountains.”

  She laughed. “He just wants a warrior son. I think . . . he is eager for a war. He is bored, I can tell. Overseeing a peaceful kingdom does not satisfy him.”

  The one thing most rulers prayed for was peace, I thought, deeply grateful that in the five years that Menelaus had been king of Sparta, things had been quiet.

  “Of course, he does not endure deprivation patiently,” she said, almost under her breath.

  I knew what she meant, and that familiar flash of jealousy tore through me. She meant that she and Agamemnon, in the bedchamber . . . But I would not think of it.

  Over the years I had tried to disguise my cold bed from Clytemnestra, believing it to be a form of disloyalty to Menelaus to reveal it. What passed—or did not pass—between us in the dark was private. But it grew harder and harder to pretend, especially when I should have been knowledgeable about things I knew not of. I was surprisingly good at pretense, but I hated it.

  “Yes!” I attempted a knowing smirk.

  “I am afraid that he will satisfy himself with one of the slaves around the palace,” she murmured.

  “If so, he will forget her the moment you come to him again.” Oh, let us leave this subject, before—

  “You have never had this worry about Menelaus?” Her eyes searched mine.

  “I—I—” I could feel blood rushing to my cheeks.

  She laughed. “Oh, forgive me! I forgot how modest you are. You should be beyond this . . . this reticence.” She paused. “After all, you’re twenty-one and have been married for six of those years. What else can we married women speak of?”

  Oh, anything else! I thought. Please, anything else! “Well, there are our children . . . I see that Iphigenia is a gentle girl, but the poetry she composes to accompany her lyre is worthy of . . . well, Apollo must inspire it!”

  She nodded. “Yes, she is a poet. I treasure that; it is rare. Truly, as you said, a gift from Apollo.”

  Just then the two girls came running up, breathless, and threw themselves on the blanket.

  “She always wins the race!” said Iphigenia, pointing at Hermione.

  “Just like her mother,” said Clytemnestra. “But come, you can do things she cannot. Like compose for the lyre.”

  Iphigenia smiled and brushed a strand of hair from her sweaty forehead. She was a pretty girl, with the dark curly hair of her father and the clear skin of her mother. “Yes, I like that best.”

  Hermione rolled over, holding her skinned knees. She spent most of her time outdoors, and would not go near a lyre. Her uncles, my brothers, delighted in teaching her to ride and shoot. My little doll, given to her by Mother, lay neglected.

  Menelaus doted on her, but of course he was assuming she would eventually have a brother. “Oh, my dearest one,” I said, leaning forward and running my hand through her curls. Her hair was bright gold, like mine, and we sometimes played at mixing strands and trying to separate them based on color. We couldn’t, of course, but it made us feel close to see that our hair was identical.

  I looked over at Clytemnestra and felt something . . . something dark and oppressive. It was that unasked-for gift from the serpents, illuminating, hinting at things in people’s hearts. I could see something around them, could hear echoes from deep inside them. Now I saw it with Clytemnestra.

  I had seen too many things I wished I had not, in the years since the snakes had licked my ears; I had been given insight into private matters that should have been barred from me.

  And the priest had said there might be three gifts. Thus far only this one had manifested itself. But perhaps, I consoled myself, there would be no others.

  “Clytemnestra, dear sister”—I almost held my breath in saying it—“is anything amiss?”

  “Why, no,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  So it was not yet, not yet. And pray Zeus, it might never be. But the color that surrounded her was dark and murky. A chill of fear passed over me, like a wind blowing over a field.

  Dead winter. Nothing could move on the waters—ships were lying ashore, their hulls filled with rocks to keep them stable on the pelted seashore, and only the most brave—or foolhardy—would risk actually voyaging on the high seas. Between cities the roads were ice-bound and slippery, and few would venture out. Menelaus and I were among those few. Agamemnon had summoned us to Mycenae—for what we knew not. The message was vague.

  The ground between Sparta and Mycenae lay bleak and the forests were leafless. Hermione tugged at my cloak. “I’m cold,” she said. I could feel her shivering next to me. I peeled off the fleece that rested on my shoulders and fastened its thickness around hers.

  “There, now,” I assured her. “If this can keep a ram warm in the field, it can help you.”

  She smiled back at me. Eight years old now, and still our only, treasured, child.

  “What does Uncle Agamemnon want?” she said.

  “We don’t know,” I answered. “Perhaps he has a surprise.”

  “I don’t want a surprise from Uncle Agamemnon,” she said. “He is scary. But I like seeing Iphigenia and Elektra.”

  In spite of Agamemnon’s hopes, the baby had been a girl. They named her Elektra, meaning “amber,” because her eyes were a lovely golden brown. Iphigenia was eleven now, but unlike other girls her age, she seemed content to play with her younger cousin. I wondered when Agamemnon
would insist on arranging a marriage for her—and to whom.

  Ahead of us, golden in the fading winter sun, I could see the carved stone lions guarding the gateway of Mycenae, rearing over the entrance. I always felt a mixture of awe at their splendor, and dread at what awaited me once I was past them. Mycenae was not a pleasant place to visit, in spite of its grand vistas across the mountains and out to the sea. The palace squeezed me, squeezed me between heavy walls built of enormous boulders and guarded ramparts, and the air was always heavy and damp.

  Once past the lions, we made our way up the steep path that led to the main part of the palace, perched on the highest part of the hill.

  A flock of retainers surrounded us as we climbed. Someone had run ahead to alert Agamemnon, and now he stood at the top of the pathway, the sun behind him, a great looming figure.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” he cried. He swung into view, no longer obliterating the sun. It made him smaller. He stepped forward to embrace Menelaus. “Dear brother!” he cried, clapping his back.

  “Brother!” Menelaus echoed back.

  Together they mounted the great staircase that led up to the palace courtyard.

  We were seated in the megaron in the heart of the palace. A wide hearth held a lively fire, with heaps of pungent cedarwood upon it, and the smoke—not all of it escaped through the round roof-hole—perfumed the air in the hall and softened the faces of the people gathered there.

  Agamemnon still had not revealed why he had summoned us, but from the rank of the guests—all kings or chieftains of nearby cities—I knew it was political. He seemed distracted, nervous, in spite of his attempts to be jovial. The serpent-vision I had been granted enabled me almost to overhear his own thoughts. They were angry and confused. Yet he smiled and smiled.