Helen of Troy

by Margaret George

  “Let the ships wait!” he cried. “My grandfather is dead already.” Now his obedience to rituals vanished.

  “Your brother Agamemnon is sailing with you. You cannot disrupt ceremony and protocol for a . . . personal matter. Go with the blessings of the gods. And mine.” I smiled wanly at him, then turned away.

  Oh, let him not follow me! Let him depart! I fled beyond our chambers and back out into the courtyard to elude him. But there were no footsteps behind me.

  He, too, was relieved to defer all this.

  Neither of us realized it would be deferred for nigh on twenty years, and that we would meet again only at Troy, with the fires of destruction blazing around us.

  XXIV

  I waited a long time in the courtyard, standing beside a flowering tree. I heard the retainers come for Menelaus, heard him depart. I thought I heard him hesitate, looking for me. But then he was gone, and the sounds faded away as the men marched out of the gates.

  The sanctuary of the sacred snake . . . I was free to go there now. No one could question my movements or behavior. I passed through the courtyard, and into the farther reaches of the palace until I came to the little shrine. It was empty.

  I was relieved. I so badly needed to sit and think. And if I were to leave, I needed to tell the household guardian snake why, and why he could not come with me.

  How could I leave all this? It was part of me, my own self. I sank down on the stone bench and waited. A flickering votive light illuminated the altar. The honey cake and the saucer of milk were there, but there was no sign of the snake.

  I felt a great calmness stealing over me. It was done—whatever happened, it was done. How odd, to say that something that had not yet come about was done. Yet I felt that truth deep inside me. Perhaps it had already been done before I was born.

  A small movement, a twitch. The snake was coming. He glided out from behind the altar and raised his head, looking about him.

  I was overcome with a love for him. He had pledged himself to me, and my family, leaving his life at Epidaurus behind. As I must leave this life behind. The snake would understand. I bent down and told him about it. He looked at me and flicked his tongue out. He had given me his blessing.

  “How can I ever say what I love best about you?” Paris was standing at the far corner of the little chamber. “Perhaps it is that you treat all creatures about you as worthy.”

  I stood up, flew into his arms. For a moment there was nothing but frantic embracing and kissing. I reveled in the feel of his arms, in his shoulders, his flesh.

  At length he pulled away, held me at arm’s length to keep me from burrowing in his arms. “Helen,” he said. “What shall we do?” He paused. “It is all up to you. I will take you with me to Troy, but it is you who will leave all this behind. For you it is loss, for me everything is gain. Therefore I cannot make the decision.”

  Odd how, although we had never spoken directly of it, we both knew this was the only choice. Stay and part, or flee and be together.

  “I cannot let you go!” I cried, clinging to him. No, let the whole earth perish, let the palace of Sparta crumble to dust, but do not let Paris live his life out of my sight.

  “But what of Hermione?” he asked. “You are a mother. You are another man’s wife, yet I have managed to set that aside in my mind. Wives can be replaced; mothers cannot. Believe me, I know.”

  “We’ll take Hermione with us!” I said. Yes, let that be the answer!

  “But you said that she is to be the next queen of Sparta,” said Paris. He was more levelheaded—or feeling more guilty—than I. “How can you deprive Sparta of that?”

  “We’ll ask her!” I said. “Let her decide.”

  “Helen,” he said slowly, turning me around and looking at me. Those eyes—those golden eyes, honey-deep even in the lamplight. “She is nine years old. Can you force her to make such a decision? Any child of that age will decide to go with her mother. It does not mean that is what she would choose later.”

  “But—”

  “You cannot lay such a burden on her shoulders, a burden she will question for the rest of her life.”

  “So we should just steal away? Leave her with no farewell?”

  “A farewell, yes. But do not ask her to make a decision. She will hate you for it later.”

  “How can I leave my child?” I cried.

  “Because you love her, and would not expose her to danger,” said Paris. “And you love Sparta, and will not leave it bereft of a queen.”

  “But she will not know that! She will not understand.”

  “In time, she will.” He clasped me to him. “In time, she will. Just as I did about the actions of my mother and father.”

  But had he truly? They had left him out to die!

  “Helen,” he said. “If we are to leave, we must do it now. When Menelaus discovers it, there will be . . . turmoil. We should leave as quickly as possible after him, to get the greatest head start. Everything is at the ready. It must be tonight.”

  “No! Not tonight! Not on the heels of Menelaus!”

  “Yes, on his heels . . . but we will sail in a different direction.”

  O all the gods! Tonight, while Mother and Father slept, and my brothers, and Hermione—!

  “Whatever it is, it is always too soon,” said Paris. “We are never ready.”

  I looked at him in wonder. “You are only sixteen. How can you know that?”

  “My sixteen years have been filled with unexpected turns and reversals,” he said. “I have been jolted out of one comfortable life already,” he said. “It was painful. But that gives me more experience in this than you.”

  “You left a family but not a kingdom,” I said. “Nor did you leave a wife.”

  “I left a way of life, a belief that I was one man when in fact I was another,” he said. “And true, I did not leave a wife, but a companion of the mountains, a woman who loved me. But she did not belong in the palace. Helen, sometimes there are hard choices to be made. I know many people try to keep both ways, but sometimes you cannot. Is it me, or Menelaus? It is that simple. I cannot claim your loyalty. That belongs to him. I can only appeal to whatever brought us together. Aphrodite and her magic—or her poison.”

  The snake was gliding out across the floor, and he reached our ankles. He twined himself about them, binding them together. I felt his cool smoothness linking us.

  “The sacred snake has spoken,” I said. “He indicates that ours is the true union.”

  “I knew that,” said Paris. “I only wanted you to realize it as well.”

  We parted; he to rouse Aeneas for our escape, me to say my private farewells. If this were an orderly departure, we would have been taken by chariot down to Gytheum with a royal escort in broad daylight, after a ceremonial leave-taking. As it was, we would have to steal the chariots in the dead of night; we would have to use the speed of the chariots to arrive in Gytheum by dawn and sail away. No leisurely walking this time; we could not afford that.

  How could they get the chariots and the horses without alerting the guards? I shuddered. I must leave that to them. If they were caught . . . of course it would be they accused of theft and dishonesty, they who must bear the punishment.

  “Don’t fail!” I whispered to Paris, gripping his arm. “We cannot afford to fail. We have only this one chance.”

  “It will be difficult,” he said. “Aeneas and I do not even know the layout of the royal stables and chariot house. And we cannot make any noise.”

  “Do not think of the difficulties,” I said. “Do not, for an instant, think of them, or you will be undone. Now go, my love. Think only of its being done, and what lies before us.” I turned away, but not before I pointed in the direction he must go. I watched him steal away, a shadow in the moonlight.

  The moonlight. Was that a help or a hindrance? It meant we would not stumble about and did not need to light torches. It also meant that our movements would be visible as we descended the hill and onto
the roadway beside the river. It meant that any Spartan who was sleepless and watching out his window would be able to tell the searchers what direction we had traveled.

  The moon, round and dazzling, hung in the middle of the sky like a white torch. Shadows were short; everything was bathed in an eerie cold light, making things that were soft and rounded by sunlight sharp and hard. It was impossible, of course, but things actually seemed clearer than in daylight.

  The palace . . . every flagstone, every carving on the doors, every jutting corner of the roof was burned into my consciousness. Now I paced it, looking my last at it. I wanted to touch each post, each doorknob, and bid farewell.

  All was hushed. All was holding its breath. I looked at the entrance of the great building.

  You will return. And in moonlight.

  Where had those words come from, whispering in my mind? The snakes of Asclepius . . . was that another of their gifts? Could I discern the broad outlines of the future? Oh, let it not be so. It would be a curse rather than a gift.

  And yet the overwhelming feeling remained. I would return here, walk these paths again. Beyond that, nothing. No knowledge.

  Never mind! I told myself. Those are phantoms, spirits of the future. Tonight there is work to do, action to take.

  I glided—as silently as one of the snakes—into the rooms of my mother and father. They slept soundly. The guards outside slept as well, and I did not wake them. The reflected moonlight showed them well enough, breathing evenly and lying calmly upon their beds, the thick fleeces spread over them for the still-cold night.

  I bent over them. I looked at them, then shut my eyes to call up their images, then looked again to fix them in my mind.

  I longed to lean over and kiss them, but I feared to wake them. My heart ached. “Farewell, Mother and Father,” I bade them silently. “Do not condemn me, do not hate me.”

  I turned away; I could bear to stay no longer. I made my way into the chamber of Hermione. I meant to say my silent goodbye, but when I saw her, I knew I could not leave her.

  I leaned over her, looking at her sleeping peacefully, a slight smile on her lips. She was so lovely; she was so much a part of me, and my days with her were not finished.

  I touched her shoulder. “Hermione,” I whispered.

  Slowly she opened her eyes and looked at me. “Oh . . . Mother,” she murmured.

  “Hermione,” I said, speaking in as quiet a voice as I could, “would you like to go on an adventure?”

  She sighed and wiggled around in the bed. “I don’t know . . . what?” She was still half asleep.

  “Paris and I are going to visit his home. It’s far away, across the seas, in a place called Troy.”

  She struggled to sit up, but failed. She was still drowsy. “How long will you be gone?”

  “I—we don’t know,” I said. “That’s the thing about adventures—when you go, you do not know how long it will take. Usually it takes longer than you expect.”

  “Oh,” she said. “No, I don’t think I want to go.”

  No! She couldn’t say that. “But Hermione, I want you with me.”

  She shook her head stubbornly. “No, no. I don’t want to leave. I have my friends and my tortoises that I have to take care of and I don’t really want to see Troy. I don’t care about Troy.” She smiled and stretched her arms over her head.

  “But Hermione—I will miss you so much. I need you to come with me.”

  “But what of Father?” she asked. “Is he coming, too?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh, well, then. You’ll be back before long.” She giggled.

  No, I wanted to say. No, I won’t. But I could not. “Oh, Hermione. Please come.”

  “Oh, let me think about it. Why are you waking me up to ask me?”

  “Because I must leave now.”

  “In the dark?”

  “Yes. It has to do with the ship . . .”

  She flung her arms around me. “I can’t go now, not in the middle of the night. It’s dark. I don’t want to.”

  “But there’s a full moon. We can see very well.”

  “Mother, I don’t want to go on your adventure,” she said. “Full moon or no.” Her voice was firm.

  “Hold me, then,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and the tears contained within my eyes. I could not tell her anything further. I could not explain. I could only say goodbye, and clasp her to me one last time. Yet surely it was not the last time.

  No. You will gaze on her again, hold her to you. But she will be a grown woman, older than you are now.

  The vision of the future, the mystery I had been granted. A blessing, then, a blessing. I would hold her again! That was all I needed, all I asked to know.

  “Goodbye, my love,” I whispered, pressing my cheek up against hers.

  “Oh, Mother . . . don’t be so serious . . .” She lay back down and was instantly asleep.

  Sobbing, I left the chamber. I leaned against one of the moonlit columns until the scene before me stopped swimming in my tears and my vision cleared.

  Aphrodite must have stolen down between the columns, because I could hear her gentle urges and whispers.

  What else do you need to know? Your daughter will be waiting . . . you will not lose her . . . now you may seek your destiny with Paris . . .

  Cruel goddess! I shot back at her. To you and the undying gods, time is nothing. But to us, us mortals, it is everything. Twenty years is a long time to us, ten, all those years that mean nothing to you. We change; Hermione long hence will not be the little girl snuggling, drowsy and warm, in her bed, flinging her arms around me, talking of tortoises. But all that is of no matter to you!

  No, it isn’t, she admitted; I could almost see her shrug. And you are giving it too much importance yourself. Do you wish to grasp at all that life can allow for you mortals, or do you wish to hang back, say “I cannot, alas, I am not strong enough”?

  Strength has nothing to do with this, I argued. It has to do with decency, and honor, and all those things you seem not to comprehend.

  Then I abandon you, she said. Goodbye, Helen.

  I could feel, for an instant, her leaving. I could feel her draining away, leaving me dull and colorless, as my life had been before the roses. No! I cried. No, don’t leave me!

  Very well, then. Do as I say. Let us have no more of this nonsense, these second thoughts. Go to the stables! Paris is waiting. Obey me! Or . . .

  With a wrench I tore myself away and ran toward the stables. The palace was behind me. I passed the plane tree, with its reaching branches and its thickening trunk. Tree of my marriage, new-planted when I was a bride and new mother. I shielded my eyes from it and ran on.

  Aeneas and Paris had harnessed horses to two chariots. They were busy loading their goods onto them when they looked up and saw me.

  I had never felt more unearthly or detached from my surroundings. I was leaving. I needed to take some of my possessions. I could not take Hermione, I could not take my sacred snake. Perhaps I was possessed with a sort of madness, a feeling that I must take something, something beyond my person and the clothes I was wearing. “I will take my jewels,” I said. “They are mine. And some of the palace gold. I am queen; they are mine by right. We may . . . we may need them!” I bolted back into my quarters, scooping up boxes of jewels, even the hideous heavy gold marriage necklace, although if I had been thinking clearly, I would have shunned it as an evil omen. Then I went into the palace treasury and took gold goblets and platters, stuffing them into baskets. I dragged them back into the stables.

  “Helen!” cried Paris. “This is madness! They will slow the chariots!”

  “I must take something!” I shrieked, until Paris put his hand over my mouth to silence me. Peeling it off, I said, “I must have something, I must take something. You forbade me my daughter!”

  Paris shook his head. “I told you all the reasons why she should not come. I did not forbid you. I have not that power.”

&
nbsp; No, it was not Paris who had denied me. It was Hermione herself. “We need these things!” I said.

  Paris tried to take them off the chariots. “They will call me a thief, and I am no such thing. Or rather . . . I steal only the queen. Nothing else. We have gold aplenty in Troy.”

  Aeneas stayed his arm. “She needs to take them,” he said. “She is, after all, the queen. These things are hers by right. And she wishes not to be a supplicant or a beggar but to have means of her own. She does not wish to cast herself as a refugee upon the shores of Troy.”

  Paris shook his head. “It will slow us down.”

  “If it soothes her and quiets her spirits, let it be.”

  I watched as Paris deferred to his older cousin—an unusual thing in youth. Yet Paris was wise in unexpected ways. “Very well,” he said, and shoved the baskets back onto the chariot. “Now come!” He leapt into the chariot and motioned for me to join him. Aeneas took the second one, and we urged the horses forward, out of the stable and away from the gate.

  “We cannot go through the main gate,” I said. “The guards will stop us and question us. I can command them to open the gates, but why let them know what we are about? There is another, little-used back way. Here.” I pointed toward it.

  Thanks be for the bright moon! We could find the rutted pathway that led around the palace; it waited to join the main road until it reached the banks of the Eurotas. The way was steep, but we were able to traverse it. The rich goods, stuffed into the baskets, jounced and pinned our feet to the floor of the chariot. The hill rushed past us; it was going too fast, too fast, and I could barely glimpse the dark trees around us, let alone grieve over the leave-taking.

  Flat ground: we were on the meadows that bordered the river, running the chariots through the wild fields, searching for the road. We jumped and flew over dirt clods and gulleys; with each jounce we wanted to cry out, in fear and exuberance for this mad venture, but we had to remain silent. The city lay just ahead and we must get past it. The walls were high and in the searching moonlight I could see the shadows between the giant boulders forming them, deep and secret. I murmured something about their strength to Paris.