Helen of Troy

by Margaret George

  No more were needed. The first one in the neck had severed his life’s blood, which poured on into the dust.

  It did not take long. He died quickly. Too quickly, for one who had killed so many. On the walls, we stared in disbelief at the still, sprawled figure, expecting it to leap up and taunt us. But it did not.

  The usual battle ensued over his corpse. The hulking Ajax carried it off, after spearing Glaucus, who had attempted to secure it for the Trojans. Ajax wounded Aeneas as well, and hit Paris with a huge rock, knocking him to his knees. Odysseus appeared from nowhere and fought to cover Ajax as he retreated; they managed to secure the armor and take it back to their camp. The Greek army retreated with them, and soon the plain was empty, save for the carpet of corpses littering it, fallen like leaves.

  Troy threw open the great doors of the gate, but everyone was so stunned by what had happened that silence greeted Paris as he drove Hector’s horses inside. The slayer of Achilles received no tumultuous cheers, betraying the fact that the Trojans as well as the Greeks had thought him invulnerable and had never truly considered the possibility, had never dared to dream that he might ever lie dead at a Trojan hand. The unthinkable had happened and they could only stare dumbly.

  I alone rushed forward; I leapt into his chariot and embraced him, my head spinning. He was safe. He had killed Achilles. I was more thankful for the first than for the second. Even I could not comprehend that our scourge was gone.

  “I am in awe,” I whispered. “You have delivered Troy!”

  He tightened his arm around me. He seemed unable to speak. Perhaps he had stunned himself. He looked out, searching the crowd, watching for Priam and Hecuba.

  “They are most likely in the palace,” I said, reading his thoughts. “With all the sorrows, Priam does not stand at the walls any longer to witness the carnage on the field.”

  “But someone must have told him!” said Paris. “Surely he knows by now.”

  Indeed they must have. But I needed to think of something to soothe him, he was so raw and longing for a word from the stern Priam, a word of praise which he had surely earned. “Age has weakened him and sorrow has taken its toll. He and Hecuba await you, I am sure, at the palace, where you may speak in private.”

  Suddenly on all sides of the chariot surrounding us the people came to life. They began waving and stamping and cheering. There were no flowers to shower on Paris—how could anyone gather them when the fields had become dangerous?—but their glad songs and cries were just as sweet and beautiful.

  “Paris! Paris!”

  “You are greater than Hector!”

  At that he answered, “No, for Hector was our finest warrior.”

  “Who killed Achilles?” they shot back. “The finest warrior is the one who kills our greatest enemy, not one who is killed by him!”

  “He’ll attack us no more. He’s gone, he’s dead—where is the body?” a man called.

  “Dragged away! They’ll sing to it and bow to it and have games for it, but all the while it’s rotting and the worms, his lowly enemies, are feasting on him!” Paris’s words were so savage I was taken aback. “I hate him for what he has done,” he hissed to me. “Even if I watched the worms twining and coiling within him, it would not be enough.”

  Yes, we all hated him that much. I remembered the insolent little boy at the suitors’ contest. I had wanted to slap him even then. Perhaps if someone had, he would not have grown into a killing maniac. But then I remembered the boy I had seen at Scyros, forced to play the girl because of his protective mother. Then he had been wistful, winsome. He had been held back from his destiny and had strained against it. Well, now he had pursued it to its furthest end.

  The chariot wound its way up the wide road running through Troy and toward its summit; the horses had to make their way slowly through the crowds, which grew larger the higher we went. At Priam’s great palace Paris stepped out and said, “I go now to lay my victory before the king. There will be celebrations afterward, of that I am sure. Go home and raise prayers of thanks that our great enemy is gone.”

  “We shall raise prayers of thanks for you!” they cried.

  How long had Paris waited to hear those words?

  “We must thank the gods,” he finally said.

  “Thank them for you!” they repeated. He smiled, drinking in the words he had waited years to hear.

  “I thank them for my life,” he said. “And I thank them for you.”

  Then he ducked inside the gates of the palace, pulling me with him. We ran through the courtyard, and then, with a nod to the guards, into the sanctuary of the palace itself.

  All was eerily quiet. No one from the family thronged the courtyard, although Priam’s daughters and remaining sons and sons-in-law lived there. Where had they hidden themselves?

  Paris barged into the royal chambers, crying out for Priam.

  “Father! Father! Have you not heard? Have you not beheld the fighting?”

  Only an echoing silence answered. Then Paris began to scream, “You watched from the walls when Hector was slain! Watched and leaned forward to call out to him! And yet, when I, and Deiphobus, and Helenus were on the field, you hid yourself. I killed Achilles! I killed him! Not your precious Hector, nor your baby Polites, nor Troilus, but I, Paris, your castaway! And now can you not even greet me!”

  More silence and darkness.

  “As you put me out on Mount Ida, so now I turn my back on you!” he cried. “I would not restore Achilles to life, I would not undo what I have done, but now I taste the full measure of an ungrateful father and what that means. Henceforth, old man, I have nothing to do with you!”

  “Paris!” I clutched his arm. “Pray, do not speak in haste.”

  He turned to look at me, the dim light barely showing his eyes. “In haste? These words are a lifetime in coming.”

  As he turned to go, Priam tottered at the head of the steps leading to his private apartment. “Pray, wait!” His voice, usually strong, now sounded old and quavering. Stiffly, he descended the stairs and came to Paris across the polished floor. Behind him, Hecuba made her way. Shuffling forward, he held out his hands. “Son.” He embraced Paris, clutching him to himself. Then he stepped back.

  “You have avenged Hector,” he said. “I kneel before you.” Before he could bow, Paris took his arm. “No. It was bad enough you had to kneel to that butcher Achilles. Never kneel to your own son.”

  Priam straightened himself, looked Paris in the eye. “You are truly noble,” he said. “Perhaps the noblest of all. How could I not have seen it?”

  “It never had a chance to show itself until now,” said Hecuba. “But my Paris was strong enough to wait until his time came around.”

  “I could have died waiting for that time, and would you have noticed?” cried Paris.

  “A man must prove himself. The gods choose the hour.” She looked at him, her gaze unwavering.

  “You are not a natural mother,” he said.

  “Then you do not know mothers,” she replied. “Or rather, mothers of kings and princes. They are different.”

  He brushed her aside. “In my life, I would have preferred one of those other mothers.”

  “Perhaps I would have preferred different sons—or a different husband who did not already have children by a first wife—what we prefer is of no account.” Hecuba stared at him. “Do you not, even now, understand this?” Then she smiled, held out her arms. “I salute you, I rejoice that you have killed our greatest enemy. I care not how he was killed, by spear or by arrow, only that his heart is stilled and he raises his arm no more.” She inclined her head. “Hail, Paris, prince of princes. You are my dear son.”

  “At last,” he said, draped across our bed. “After all these years, she finally proclaims me her dear son.”

  I hated seeing him lying like that. It was too much as Penthesileia’s body had lain, slung across the horse. “Get up,” I said. “Please, I want to see your face.”

  And indeed, I n
ever tired of looking at it. But it was older. No longer a boy’s. He had spoken of waiting all the years for words from Hecuba. The war . . . the war had gone on forever, stretching out like eternity, and within it, inside the walls of Troy, time seemed to have stayed still, holding its breath. But outside those walls, it had rushed on, and suddenly its passage stared us in the face. No wonder Priam seemed so stooped and feeble, no wonder Hecuba was worn away with grief. And Paris grown bitter with waiting.

  “You have killed Achilles,” I said, still marveling at it, hoping that now his vexation would subside at last. “You have performed the bravest feat in Troy! You are her hero, her savior!”

  “He lay there, gasping out his last,” said Paris, relishing the memory. “The great man, the son of a goddess, the man who made Hector turn tail and run around the walls of Troy, and then who dragged him—”

  “Oh, do not think on it!”

  “And who ambushed and killed sweet Troilus! I killed him! I robbed him of his life, I stilled his sword arm. Can anyone imagine how that felt?” He gave a nervous laugh. “Even I cannot recount how it felt. I was astounded, disbelieving, and now it seems like a dream. Helen!” he grasped my arm. “I saw him wheeze, and gasp, and pitch forward, and saw his color change, and saw the dark blood gushing out. And then he did not rise. He did not drag himself upright. I knew then he was doomed. He was dying; he was dead: Achilles.”

  “Glory to you,” I said, stroking his hair. Slowly I clasped him to me, half expecting to feel not flesh but cold stone, as if he had already been turned into a victory monument. “Now they will surely write songs and poems about us,” I said. “Your eternal fame is assured.”

  His hands trembled a bit on my back. “You were the only one who believed in me, who saw what was there.”

  Yes, long ago I had told myself, Everything he learns will make him more and more outstanding among men, until there is no touching him. “When first we set out, I loved seeing the young you beside me and knowing the man you would grow into,” I said.

  “But my mother did not! Never did!”

  “A wife has a different loyalty. I chose you. A mother cannot choose her children. And she has other children, whereas I had only one husband.”

  “Some still say you have two, even now,” he said. Was he asking a question, or merely arguing?

  “People talk and say foolish things. My loyalty was and is only to you. Ah, but my child and my husband were pulling me apart.” I had gone with the husband, but my heart still sought my child. Child no longer, though. The years that were aging us were turning her into a woman.

  “You have had a long wait for vindication,” I said. “But I never doubted it would come.”

  LXII

  Beaten, like a cur that has been whipped, the Greeks slunk back behind their lines. They vanished from the plain, and never was an empty expanse lovelier to behold in all its stark nakedness. The Greek tents, the Greek camp-fires, no longer flapped in the wind or winked at night, insulting our eyes.

  Troy rallied. Her spirits rose; the wounded stopped arriving on litters and the ones already being treated within the walls began to recover. Repairs were made to weakened sections of the walls, and forays out into the countryside for supplies were safe again, for the moment.

  Priam ordered a day to honor Paris, and, after riding through the streets in his shining armor, to shrill cries of acclaim, Paris ended at the temple of Athena high in the citadel. Entering the sacred spot, he dedicated his victory to the city’s protective goddess, the Pallas Athena. Standing behind him, I did not think the goddess looked any more welcoming than she had that first time I had beheld her, that fearsome time when I was trying to win the acceptance of Priam and Hecuba. Athena was a stern goddess, touchy and prone to change sides in a moment. I, for one, did not trust her to protect Troy anymore than she had protected Hector.

  Afterward there was the customary feast and celebration in Priam’s palace. The tables were more sumptuously arrayed than usual. Our food supplies having been replenished, we had fresh venison and pork and delightful stuffed cheese, as well as good wine from Thrace. There were even sweets of plump figs and grapes in a dark spiced syrup.

  Deiphobus and Helenus smiled when they spoke but glowered when they stood unobserved—as they thought—in the shadows. Paris had now eclipsed them; Paris was to be Hector’s successor.

  I delighted in taunting Deiphobus. I had always disliked him—he combined crudeness with gloating, and there was something inherently dishonest about him. I would never have trusted him to carry out even the most impersonal, unimportant task without trying to secure some benefit to himself. He fancied himself irresistible to women, too. They say confidence is a gift of the gods. I say ill-placed confidence is the gods’ jest on a fool.

  True to form, he sidled up to me. “My lady Helen,” he began, “your Paris has indeed scored a mighty blow against the Greeks. Their Achilles has fallen. We all breathe easier.” As if to underscore his point, he moved closer to me and sighed.

  “Are you troubled by a chest disorder, my lord?” I asked. “Your breathing sounds labored—perhaps you have an illness. You should see a physician.”

  “I always find myself short of breath around you.” He stared hungrily.

  “The best remedy, then, is for you to keep a long, safe distance between us. Let me help you!” I turned and walked away. I held my back straight, but I was insulted. I felt assaulted, as assaulted as the walls of Troy when the Greeks had stormed them.

  I hurried toward Paris, who was standing beside one of the shields in Priam’s hall, admiring it. All around us in the hall, torches blazed. People were circling around the tables, eating. War talk blazoned forth. Wherever Paris strode, people fell away as if he were a god. Even if he did not savor it, I would. Every smitten face, every awkward bow, every stammered compliment—yes, I would sup full on this food. I had waited too long for it—for others to see in him what I had seen from the beginning, from that moment when I had first beheld him in Sparta.

  Our commanders were now confident that the danger had passed. Antimachus gave a stirring speech down by the city gates a few days later, to the effect that the Greeks had received such a telling blow they were mortally affected. Gelanor’s spies confirmed it—they reported that spirits were so low in the Greek camp, preparations were under way for withdrawal. The ships were being readied, and the soldiers were eager to depart.

  Encouraged, Priam sent his son Helenus to speak with them, arrange terms for ending the war. In his expansive mood, he was even willing to draw up a treaty of peace between the Trojans and the Greeks. They responded by holding Helenus captive.

  Everyone was stunned. The celebratory mood was shattered. Priam was reeling as if from a sword strike: another of his sons in the hands of the Greeks! He was shocked into collapse, and Hecuba tended him in the palace, speaking for him. “Get my son back!” she said. “Get my son back!” It had a dreadfully familiar ring.

  Helenus did not return. Cassandra grieved for him, burning lumps of figwort and resin incense, sending her pleas to heaven and toward her brother.

  “We are linked,” she said. For once her expressionless blue eyes showed life, as if Helenus had bestowed his on her when he was captured. “I feel his mind, I feel his thoughts. Oh, to fall into their hands! They will not release him, I know it.” She turned to Paris—she always ignored me—and flung herself on him, crying, “I see it all!”

  Gently he took her hands. “And what do you see, dear sister?”

  “I tremble to disclose it,” she murmured. She shook her head as if to clear it, and her lank red hair flew all about, finally settling like dead snakes on her shoulders and back. “He will betray us.”

  “What?” Paris cried. “How?”

  Her voice was dull and so soft I had to strain to hear her. “He knows all the prophecies—as do I—concerning the fall of Troy. The ones left to be fulfilled.”

  Afterward, in the privacy of our upper chambers, we spoke f
urther about them, these prophecies daring the Greeks to fulfill them.

  “Two prophecies have been fulfilled, and there are three left,” he said. “It has been a long time since the second one, involving the Thracian horses, but there is no time limit on a prophecy. Of all things, it has the most patience. Now we must worry about the arrows of Heracles.”

  “The arrows of Heracles—Philoctetes has them.”

  “Yes, when Heracles was dying, he gave his bow and arrows to a lad who was willing—when no one else would step up to the task—to light his funeral pyre and end his misery. That was Philoctetes as a boy. Now the Greeks will bring him here, feel bound to retrieve him from the island, along with his bow and arrows.”

  “What matter?” I asked quickly—too quickly. “You are the premier bowman of the war.”

  “These arrows never miss, so it is said,” Paris corrected me. “And they are deadly, since Heracles dipped them in the slain Hydra’s blood. They cause a man’s blood to boil, and his flesh to melt, and there is no remedy. Oh, if Philoctetes comes here—”

  “Perhaps he won’t,” I said. “Perhaps he is dead of his wound. He has resided alone on the island since the start of the war.”

  “Even if he is, they will find the bow and arrows,” said Paris. “Someone else will wield them. And fulfill the prophecy.”

  “Troy will fall because one man has a deadly bow and arrows? Troy is bigger than that!”

  Paris looked at me almost pityingly. “The prophecy is not concerned with the size of Troy, nor who is slain,” he said. “It matters only that the bow and arrows of Heracles, given to Philoctetes, come to Troy. That is all the prophecy specified. Perhaps it would count if the arrows were fired into the wall!”

  “Let them do so,” I hissed. Oh, enough of prophecies, of the war, of suspense.

  It was night. Paris was standing with his back to me, looking out the window into the deep, star-filled night. The gentle curve of his white wool robe seemed to glow in the dim light of the chamber. I rushed to him and embraced him from behind. The wool, soft as a baby’s cheek, slid under my fingers. I held him tight, my arms enclosing him. Slowly he turned to me. He had that smile that was only a hint of a smile on his lips.