Helen of Troy

by Margaret George

  “Nor are you,” said Priam, who had come rushing from the summit, his robes flapping out behind him.

  I peered down over the wall to see where Achilles was. His cries and poundings had ceased, and he was turning away from the gate, shouldering his spear. Beneath the plates that shielded his cheeks and the long nose guard, I saw his thin lips drawn in a tight line. His armor was splendid, decorated with scenes worked in the breastplate and shield. No one else had anything remotely like it; even his greaves winked silver from their clasps. This was the boy who had insisted on racing the tired Menelaus up the hill, the boy hiding his muscled arms under a girl’s tunic on Scyros. So he was still, at the age of eighteen or so, a swift runner, but it seemed he was running only to carry out the bidding of Menelaus. Just then he jerked his head up and saw me.

  “Helen!” he shouted. “So you are indeed there in Troy! Do you come out to watch your kin? To gloat at us? See, men, here she is!” Achilles motioned to his cohorts, pointing at me.

  “I told you not to stand at the walls!” Hecuba jerked me back. “You can cause great harm by being visible!”

  That had been my curse all my life.

  “We must make sure you are safe,” said Hecuba crisply. “It is our duty to protect you.”

  Our warriors were pouring back into the city; the encounter was over. They were welcomed with shouts and roars of approval. Later the old councilors and the commanders would confer about the mistakes made, the weak points in the Trojan defense, and how to correct them. But for now, it was enough that the men had returned safely and the attack on the western wall had been repelled. Several Greek soldiers lay dead at the bottom of the wall, crushed by stones flung on them or killed by toppling to the ground.

  There was no official celebration, but spirits were high and that night many bands of young men, fresh from their first brief foray out in war, caroused through the streets, singing and drinking. Paris and I could hear their voices echoing from wall to wall in the streets, but we shuddered in our chamber. Paris had been only too glad to shed his armor, which now lay in a heap in the wooden trunk, and kept saying, “They mean it. They mean it. They are here to fight a war.” He acted as though he only just now believed it.

  “Where were you? I did not see you,” I said. I had asked him to lie flat on the bed, so that I could soothe his back with scented oil. Several torches flickered on the walls, but still the light was poor and the room shadowy.

  “You should not have been looking,” he said. It was hard to hear his words with his face down. “It was dangerous.”

  “So your mother told me,” I said. “Nonetheless, I was able to watch for a while, before I had to draw back.”

  “I was on the eastern side of the city. They had attacked that gate as well,” he murmured. “Ah, that feels delightful.” I was massaging the muscles under his shoulder blades, kneading the tenseness out of them. “I fear nonetheless I shall be sore tomorrow, as I’m not used to heaving a heavy shield about. It strained my left arm.”

  “Did you see . . . ?”

  “I recognized no one. They were all strangers to me.” He stretched and arched his back. “It is odd, how they knew about the weakness in the western wall,” he mused. “Ordinarily one would not expect an attack there, as it is so close to the Scaean Gate and the Great Tower. Not unless they somehow knew of the vulnerability there.”

  “As if someone told them,” I said.

  “It is not visible from the other side,” he said. “No one would have reason to suspect it is thin and weak there. Perhaps a seer—”

  “Or perhaps something less than a seer, just an ordinary traitor,” I said. “Were any Trojans captured today?”

  “None that I know of,” said Paris.

  “Good. For a man does not have to be a traitor to tell what he knows, if he is tortured enough.”

  Paris slid out from under my hands and sat up. “Torture? Do your countrymen torture captives?”

  “They claim they do not, but why, then, do the prisoners we capture often kill themselves?”

  “Let no Trojan fall into their hands, then,” he finally said.

  The Greek commander, Agamemnon, did not hesitate to sacrifice his own daughter, so he was hardly likely to treat enemy prisoners gently. No one should fall into his hands. What a pity my sister had.

  XLVI

  We shall proceed regardless!” Hecuba announced her decision to Priam and dared him to countermand her order. “Our daughter shall not be robbed of her day by the Greeks.”

  In the days just before the assault, Laodice had at last found her bridegroom: Helicaon, the son of Antenor. Priam and Antenor had made the arrangements, and Laodice was giddy with relief. She was now eighteen years old and seemed to have longed for marriage the entire time I had been in Troy. Helicaon was a winsome, if perpetually disheveled young man. She probably had visions of transforming him into a replica of his fastidious father.

  But all that was before the battle around our walls, was before more Trojan blood had been spent, before our wounded hobbled through the streets. Thus Hecuba’s resolution was a surprise.

  “But the people . . .” Priam said. “Might it not seem a mockery to them, after our losses?”

  “No! It will serve to show them we in Troy do not buckle or break under our losses.”

  Laodice turned to me. “Helen, you shall help me choose my gown, select my jewels.” Her eyes still held that reverence that I wished would abate, as it caused jealousy in the family.

  Jewels . . . I thought of the strange jewel Menelaus had bequeathed to me, with its threatening message. For Helen, my wife, that she may count the cost of her love.

  Love of whom? Himself? Paris? In any case, I had left the brooch in its box.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I said. “But Ilona has exquisite taste in jewels. I am sure she—”

  “I want your help,” she said stubbornly.

  * * *

  Now at high noon we stood in Priam’s courtyard to begin the betrothal ceremony. Outside, we could hear the shouts of the people, who sounded even more defiant than Hecuba. They cheered for the brave king and queen and their celebration in the face of danger.

  In Troy, the betrothal was the most binding and solemn ceremony, rather than the wedding. And they had other special rituals as well: seven flowers from seven hillsides, seven wines from seven vineyards, seven waters from seven sacred springs. All these were mixed and handed around in a confusing medley of chants and gestures that comprised the Trojan bond of commitment.

  Rather than the fragrant, floating gowns they usually wore, the women were attired in coarse, undyed wool. This was Laodice’s own touch.

  “This is a war wedding and we must dress accordingly,” she had said. She also asked the men to wear the tunics and cloaks they used in the field. So we were a dull-hued group, the only bright colors the red of Cassandra’s and Helenus’s hair and the glow of amethyst, amber, and gold on necks, ears, and arms.

  Everyone was there. There must have been well over a hundred people, since the elders, councilmen, cousins, and half-siblings were included. I wondered about the bastards and other wives of Priam. In all the time I had been here, I still had never formally met them, so that even if they were here today, I would never recognize them. I assumed Hecuba would not tolerate the presence of the other wives, at least not on this day, but their sons might be another matter.

  “As you share with us the joy of our betrothal, we share with you the pain of your casualties,” said Helicaon. “We do not hold it lightly.” He himself had been out in the field, but returned safe from the fray.

  “Let us contribute!” cried Troilus, from the thick of the crowd. “Let us sacrifice for the cause!” He strode forward and grabbed a bread basket off the feast table, dumping the loaves out. “Men and women of Troy! Your gold and jewels!” He peeled off a gleaming arm bracelet and threw it in the basket. Someone else snatched the basket and tossed a ring into it. More baskets followed, and soon they we
re heaped full of treasure, the women competing to see who could strip off necklaces and earrings the fastest.

  Paris pulled off his arm cuff and added it to the collection. I wondered if I should slip away and get the brooch from Menelaus. It would be an ironic use for it.

  “To them it is a game.” Hector spoke quietly next to me. “They do not understand. Not yet.” He sounded weary. “But we do, do we not, Helen?”

  I stepped back so that we would be less likely to be overheard. Paris was talking eagerly to Helenus and did not notice.

  “I am not sure I know what you mean,” I whispered.

  “You know the men who have come here, what they are capable of. I know the man I faced outside—Achilles. Now I dread what I know must come.”

  “Troy can rely on your courage,” I said. Even as I said them, the words sounded a sop to a child.

  “You disappoint me,” he said. “Do not mouth token, pretty words. You know the truth.” He looked sadly at the excited crowd, reveling in their light and voluntary sacrifices. “Let them have their hour of play. The other hours will follow soon enough.”

  Laodice looked blissfully up at Helicaon, her future settled at last. There are certain women who cannot rest until they are married; there are others who cannot rest until they are free. Helicaon seemed unaware that he had just delivered Laodice from her restlessness, and stood grinning from having too much wine, swaying a bit.

  Deiphobus drifted by, arm in arm with the old councilor Clytius. Together they cast lascivious eyes at me, the exact same look, one eye surrounded by wrinkles and the other not. Deiphobus always made me shudder.

  The treasure baskets were listing under their contents, the flower garlands were drooping, and the wine was running low. The celebration drew to its natural close, and people were drifting away, when we heard a tumult outside. A huge crowd was surging up toward the portico, gesturing and crying out that someone had a message for Helen.

  “Bring him in, then!” said Priam, addressing them from the portico.

  “He’s not in the city, he stands outside the walls and calls for Helen, queen of Sparta.”

  “Bid him deliver his message and be gone, then,” said Priam. “On my daughter’s betrothal day, I’ll not—”

  “He’ll speak only to Helen. If she does not appear on the walls, tomorrow he’ll lob fiery arrows into the city.”

  “Shoot him!”

  “We can’t, he’s protected by a gigantic shield that’s as tall as he is and half circular like a tower.”

  Ajax! Ajax had come before the walls of Troy to speak to me. But Ajax was not a man of words, or even of thoughts.

  “I’ll go,” I said. I did not wish to have Laodice’s day, even the very end of it, interrupted or spoiled.

  “Not alone,” said Paris, stepping beside me.

  When we reached the walls near the Scaean Gate, I saw the Ajax shield down on the field, looking like a little fortress. I stood on the broad top of the wall and cried out, “Helen, princess of Troy, is here. Speak!”

  “I speak only to Helen, queen of Sparta!” A dreadfully familiar voice rang out from behind the shield.

  “Then you have come in vain, for there is no such woman here.”

  “Oh, I think there is, lady, and I think she is speaking now.” Agamemnon stepped out from behind the shield.

  His stocky, truculent body, his cocked, arrogant head—I had hoped never to see them again. Time had done nothing to make them less repulsive to me. A horrid laugh followed his words.

  “The queen of Sparta is no more,” I insisted, keeping my voice steady. Hordes of Trojans were lined up along the walls listening, but Agamemnon stood alone on the plain.

  “Indeed not, for she killed herself from shame over you.”

  But I already knew that, and he could not add to my sorrow. I did not answer.

  “And the present queen of Sparta is killing herself of shame as well,” he bellowed.

  Still I did not answer, but stood as still as possible, as if by not moving I could dismiss him.

  “Do you wonder if your brothers are out there in my army? Coming for you? Do you think they’ll rescue you when Menelaus seeks his revenge? Well, lady, look no more for them, for they rest beneath the earth of Sparta!”

  I felt myself move, now, felt as if I would tumble from the walls. Paris steadied me.

  “Your mother is dead, your brothers are dead, your daughter has been taken away to Mycenae, and your husband hates you and means to destroy you. So think upon what you have wrought for the sake of that slight man standing by your side!”

  Instead of answering him, I turned to the archers in the tower. “Shoot him if you can, for the coward hides behind the shield of another and greater warrior, cowering like a dog!”

  At that Agamemnon bellowed again, but ducked his head behind the shield. A roar of laughter came from the watching Trojans.

  “See how he slinks and trembles,” said Paris, grabbing a bow from one of the wall archers and quickly fitting it with an arrow. He sent it flying, where it glanced off the edge of the Ajax shield with a hollow ring. Agamemnon shrank down to avoid it.

  Paris sent a second arrow hurtling toward the shield, where it stuck in the thick bullhide, trembling.

  Just then a chariot raced up, driven by a ferocious charioteer. Agamemnon jumped into it, securing the shield behind him; the chariot rumbled away, its wheels sending up swirls of dust. The shield faced us like a wall. Paris attempted to shoot high, so that the flight-arc of the arrow would overreach the shield and land inside it, but they were too far away.

  “A coward’s address, and a coward’s retreat,” cried Paris to the crowd. “Such is the mettle of the high commander of the enemy army.”

  The crowd laughed hysterically and cheered.

  But, alone in our quarters, I wept. My brothers, my dear brothers gone . . . How? How had they died? Together, in an accident or battle? Separately, from illness?

  “It may not be true,” said Paris, knowing why I wept without my saying a word. “He is a liar, we know that. He said what was most calculated to wound you.”

  “It is true about my mother,” I said.

  “He may have compounded truths with lies. After all, he lured his own daughter to her doom with a lie about marrying Achilles.”

  And could it be true about Hermione? Sent to Mycenae? “Hermione . . .”

  “Your sister loves her, and it may be better for her to be with a woman who will speak kindly of you,” said Paris. “Helen, you have paid dearly for coming with me. Would you take it back, knowing what you now know?” He drew me close to him, as easily as pulling a feather. I felt as insubstantial as one.

  “No,” I said. “If I were standing with you in the moonlight in the courtyard in Sparta again, and Aeneas had gone to ready the chariots, and I could say, No, depart without me—I would not. Rather I would say, even more strongly, Let us mount the chariots and be gone.”

  “The road was rough and dangerous from that first descent,” he said. “We have, it seems, been pursued and fleeing ever since.”

  But the memories were warm ones. “Cranae—the islands—into the gates of Troy—I thought we were safe at last.” Now the warmth was replaced by a spreading chill, as if Troy were suddenly enveloped by a creeping mist.

  “We are safe,” he assured me.

  I did not, would not tell him that Hector felt otherwise.

  * * *

  That night, unable to sleep, pictures of Polydeuces and Castor careening through my mind, I stole away from our bed. One never feels more awake and sleepless than lying alert beside a slumbering companion.

  I roamed the chambers, coming at last to the one where my empty loom stood. Now, suddenly, I knew the pattern I would create upon it. I would show both sides of my life, make them one by weaving them into one design. Until I had confronted Agamemnon on the walls, I had thought my old life was no longer a part of me. Now I knew that I would forever be Helen of Sparta as well as Helen of T
roy. Within Helen there could be many Helens. Only by admitting the Spartan Helen into my presence again could she be rendered harmless.

  I would—I was absorbed as I sketched out the design in my mind—make the outer borders of the tapestry Sparta, encircled on the outer rim by the Eurotas, using gray-blue thread. The inner circle, a clear and brighter blue, would be the sea between Sparta and Troy, and the heart of the weaving would be Troy, with its citadel in the center. And hovering at the rim of these worlds would be Persephone and Aphrodite, who held me in their watch.

  I must not forget. I must capture it all now, for in the morning it would fade, and it was so clear now. I fumbled for the pieces of broken pottery we kept for such use, and in the dim light of a dying oil lamp I traced out the design, the design that would knit the broken pieces of Helen into a whole.

  Sunlight and a gentle touch on my shoulder woke me. Paris was standing beside me in the early morning.

  “I am here,” he said. He did not say, Do not grieve, or Put it from your mind. He knew me so perfectly he knew that would be impossible.

  XLVII

  For the following days, all was quiet. The Greeks disappeared behind their line of ships—where our spies reported they were building a defensive wall—and it would have been easy to pretend they were not there. But the days of pretending were over.

  Priam called many assemblies, and let everyone speak freely. One or two voices were raised questioning what the Greeks seemed to be aware of. How did they know about the party en route to Dardanos? How did they know about the weak spots in the western wall? Spies must have penetrated.

  Priam directed workmen to strengthen the western wall immediately. We had been spared a dreadful fate that would have been due to our earlier neglect.

  Everyone agreed that the heated sand had worked impressively well, and that the archers in the towers had taken a toll on the enemy. Gelanor reported that his work on insect bombs was proceeding well. He expected to have clay and straw containers full of bees, wasps, scorpions, and stinging ants ready to fling at the adversary soon.