Helen of Troy

by Margaret George

  Deiphobus shook his head. “I have no magic spear, old man. Mine has a head like yours. But you may use it.”

  The priest grabbed it and threw it at the horse’s rounded belly. It made a hollow sound as it struck.

  I had not seen Deiphobus in days. As I said, he kept well away from my chamber, lest he suffer further embarrassments. He looked at me for an instant, then turned away. At this charged moment, I wanted to go to him, whisper in his ear, Some wishes are better left unpursued. The granting of them only leads to more misery. But I did not. I stood rooted where I was.

  “Let us build a fire under it if we cannot pierce it!” Laocoön cried. “This platform is handy. It will hold a pile of wood. Torch it, and send the Greeks hidden inside scrambling out to save their lives!” He walked backward, entreating the crowd. The people stared back at him, silent. “Oh, you fools!” He looked around. “At least test the thing before you bring it in!” But the crowd kept clapping and calling out, “A horse for Troy! A horse for Troy!”

  Then, before our horrified eyes, a huge serpent shot out of the plain, reared up, and coiled itself around Laocoön and his sons, strangling them and then dragging them off toward the sea. No one moved to help them. Their wavering cries resounded across the fields.

  “Athena!” cried the credulous people. “Athena has punished him for his blasphemy! This proves that she wants us to take the horse into Troy.”

  “It proves nothing other than that Athena has a vested interest in seeing you take the horse into Troy,” cried Cassandra. She was brave. I admired her as she stepped forward, daring Athena to strike again. “Oh, foolish Trojans! Whose goddess is Athena? Does she not watch over Odysseus? Over Achilles? Is she not the protective goddess of Athens, city of Greeks? Why would she wish good upon Troy?”

  “We have a temple to her here!” one man yelled back. “Her special statue is here!”

  “Every city has a temple to Athena and a statue,” she answered. “It proves nothing. Athena, like all the gods, adopts certain humans, humors and pampers them beyond reason. She is insulted if you do not have a temple, but having one means nothing to her.”

  “Priam, your daughter is mad!” someone called out. “Stifle her!”

  Cassandra twisted around and screamed at him, “You cannot mute the truth!”

  “Cassandra, dear.” Priam came to her and encircled her with his arm.

  “Troy deserves her doom, then!” said Cassandra. “I leave it to you. I shall perish with you! But I see my end, whereas you are blind.” She pushed off his arm and tore toward the city, her gown streaming.

  LXIX

  It was midmorning. The stubborn townsfolk threw ropes around the horse’s neck and affixed a loop to the platform to enable them to drag the horse toward the south gate. Even so, it was very slow. The horse was heavy—too heavy, perhaps, for it to be empty?—and the rollers slid out from under the platform. Several times the horse lurched and almost slid off its carrier. Each time it was saved, righted, and sent on its ponderous way. When it approached the south gate, Priam insisted on a little ceremony to bless its entrance into the city. The doors were pulled back as far as they would go, like stretching a grin, and all the people together had to shove as well as pull to get it through. The top of the horse’s head cleared the lintel by only a hand span.

  Oh, how thorough the Greeks were. How well they had figured.

  Priam blessed it as it jerked through the gate, calling upon it to begin the era of plenty for Troy.

  Heaving it up to the citadel proved more difficult. The street angled upward and soon the pulling stopped; it required shoving. The entire apparatus was very heavy, and only the determination of the Trojans was able to budge it on the steepest stretches. The sun went down with it stuck halfway up, the temple within sight but still far away.

  They could not leave the horse where it was; it would roll back, crashing back through the gate. So they strained themselves shoving it, grunting and groaning. No horse or ox could pull the structure, as it was impossible to hitch any animals to it; only the muscles of determined men could do so. Thus Troy strained to accomplish her own doom.

  It was late before the horse arrived at the temple of Athena, coming to rest on a paved expanse of ground alongside it. My and Hector’s palaces overlooked it.

  From my chamber I could see the people of Troy throwing flowers upon the platform of the horse, could hear the music of the flute players and singers extolling the horse. Below me wine-bearers had brought out Troy’s last remaining amphoras of wine, and they were sloshing it about with abandon. Drunken men and women reeled away, dancing—and falling—around the horse. Giggling, they got up, weaving their unsteady way about it.

  As I gazed down upon it from the height of my window, the horse looked like a child’s toy, even to the ropes dangling from the platform. I had seen clay and wooden wagons, laden with sweets or dolls, being pulled along by children on just such strings. The top of the horse did not show any dent or outline of a door. But it had to be hollow inside.

  A late-rising moon was struggling to surmount the walls, and when it finally burst over them it flooded the city with unearthly, cold light, making the torches look bright yellow. The sudden glare of extra light fired the revelers, as if the heavens themselves had joined the celebrations. Sleepers stirred and tumbled out of their houses, gleefully parading in their nightclothes. Vendors—long vanished from the streets of Troy—suddenly set up stalls, and jugglers and acrobats thronged the summit of the citadel, weaving in and out amongst the crowd, performing for free.

  Up on the actual platform of the horse, lovers swarmed and embraced, and little boys competed to see who could climb up its legs the fastest. Someone started a throwing contest for empty amphoras, smashing them down the streets, rousting even more people out of their houses.

  “Troy is free—Troy is free—Troy is free—” lines of people started chanting as they swayed, holding hands, up and down the streets and around the horse, tottering, falling, laughing, crying.

  The horse. The horse. Now it was inside the city, lodged in our very midst. Apollo, as builder of the city walls, promised divine protection for those walls, but neglected to offer the same promise for the city itself. Usually if walls stood stoutly, nothing could penetrate them. But not so in this case.

  It seemed to me that I could almost see inside the horse, and what I saw were dark, hunched shadows that moved ever so slightly. It was like looking through a cloud, discerning something dimly. The special sight of the serpents had not deserted me.

  I put on my long trailing robe and forced myself down to where the horse was. The crowd was very thick and I hated the push and warm closeness of the masses of people. One of my guards cleared a path for me, so that I could step up onto the platform. Flickering torches showed the seams of the boards used to seal up the horse’s rounded belly. I could not see any opening, but in the darkness it was hard to tell.

  How many men could this device hold? How many moving shadows had I seen? There was not much room in it, and the men would have to be crouched in uncomfortable positions, but perhaps as many as six might be inside. But that would be enough—enough to open the city gates, so that hundreds could pour in. But that meant they would have to reach the gates undetected, after the crowd thinned and vanished, and Troy drifted into sleep.

  The wood had been too thick to be pierced by spears, and the people of Troy would not hear of setting fire to it, especially now that it was within the city.

  What else could be used to pass into the horse to test and disable it? Sound—blare of trumpets, music, or voices. Voices. How long had it been since the Greeks had heard the voices of their wives and mothers and children? What would hearing them again do to them?

  Who was likely to be inside? Would it be the men of rank, or men deemed unimportant and easily sacrificed if they were discovered? But one man I knew would be there: Odysseus. It was against his nature to send others and wait to hear what had happened, to hold sti
ll and miss out on a daring raid. He would be in there, and possibly Menelaus and Agamemnon. I could sound like Clytemnestra, and like Penelope—who was, after all, my cousin—and for Menelaus my own voice would be enough. The lesser Ajax might be in there, but I had no idea of any of his loved ones; he was said to be a cruel and vicious man, but that does not mean some fool of a woman did not love him.

  I approached the horse, stood by its side. My guard yelled and held up his hands, calling for silence. The music stopped and the loud noises of the crowd died away. I banged on the belly of the horse to catch the ears of whoever was inside. I believed now that men were there; I would not speak to empty air. I filled my lungs and, holding my breath for a moment, willed myself to become Clytemnestra, remembering her voice.

  “My dear Agamemnon, my lord and master”—that should please him—“I long for your return, to stand by my side once more. I cannot endure this separation; I think I shall go mad.” All the time I was speaking, I circled the horse. The crowd hung on my words, puzzled. “Oh, come to me!”

  I thought I heard a creaking from inside the horse, but it was impossible to tell. Just the shifting of people on the platform could cause the structure to groan. “Wait no longer!” I begged. “I am here. I have followed you to Troy.”

  The sound inside had stopped.

  “Odysseus, I know you are there.” My voice changed, becoming higher and lighter. “I know you all too well, husband of mine. The years on rocky Ithaca have been so hard I cannot tell you of them. There are men who think to persuade me that you have perished here at Troy, and who want to force me to wed. So I have fled here. If you are nearby, show yourself to me. Otherwise I shall mourn you as gone. I know that if you yet live, you will be here. So close to me at this moment!”

  The utter stillness in the horse told me that the men were holding their breaths, trying not to move a flicker. I signaled to my guard and he smacked the horse with his spear. My hope that this would startle them into betraying themselves was disappointed.

  Now for Menelaus—if he was within. He was the most likely to crumble. “Menelaus, dear husband! It is I, Helen. Forgive me, take me back! I fall at your feet and supplicate you. I long to see your face again, the face that has haunted me for all these years, years of longing. I wear the lovely jewel you gave me!” Oh, let the shade of Paris be truly far away in Hades, lest he hear these lies.

  Now I could detect the slightest little murmur of sound, less even than the scrambling of mice, from within the horse. (But what if it were mice? That was possible. Was I singing only to rodents?) But no trapdoor was flung open, no Menelaus jumped down to confront me.

  Three more times I circled the horse, calling on the three men. But I failed to stir them, if indeed they were in there. Sadly, I turned away.

  “Continue your carousing,” I told the people. “Make as much noise as you like.” Immediately they sprang back to life, as if they had been turned briefly into statues and now were released to move again.

  My palace echoed as I returned to my chambers. I must be the only person in Troy to stay inside, alone, on this night, I thought. I stood at my highest window and looked out toward the shore and the deserted Greek camp. In the moonlight I thought I could see movement on the water, but it was only waves. The Greek ships would be out of sight already if they had sailed two days ago.

  I wished with all my being that Paris stood here beside me. It would never feel normal to be without him, even if I lived to a wintry old age. If only I had kept his helmet after all. How foolish of me to give it away. How blinded with grief I was, not thinking at all. Now it was as if I had given Paris himself away, for anything he had touched or been proud of was part of him.

  Down below they were still dancing around the horse, drinking and yelling. Was this truly the end of the Trojan War? All those lives lost, and then, in the end, nothing but a wooden horse for a prize? I had been right—it was a toy, a mocking toy that we were left holding. What would Paris have said about it? This stupid thing cheapened us, made us and our love seem a toy as well. Perhaps there was no one in it at all, and it was nothing more than a parting insult from the Greeks.

  I sat alone watching the moonlight creep across the floor, rigid and seized with grief. I do not know how long I sat there, but later I realized that the noise below had died away. I went to the window and looked down, to see the last of the revelers stumbling away, tripping over discarded garlands. A boy with a flute was weaving his steps around the horse’s legs, playing a few plaintive notes, and then he, too, left, and the horse stood alone in the moonlight.

  It was the very deadest time of night—long past midnight, when all creatures are normally sleeping. I, too, must try to sleep. But instead I went to the box where I kept the brooch from Menelaus and fastened it upon my shoulder. I had told him I wore it. Perhaps I thought by doing so, I would induce Menelaus—if indeed he was within the horse—to come forth. Perhaps this object would have some power to draw him, just as the helmet would have kept Paris nearer to me.

  I lay down on my bed, feeling too tired even for sleep. I heard the heavy footsteps of Deiphobus coming toward my chamber, hesitating at the thresh-old, then turning away. He did not come in anymore, but often I had heard him approach and then withdraw. He went into the chamber where he kept his bed and lay down. Soon his loud breathing told me he was sound asleep. He never had trouble sleeping. His thoughts were simple and he was utterly free, like a three-year-old, of any troubling questions to wrack his mind.

  As I lay quietly, something still prevented me from sleep. Now I know it was my guardian, the god appointed to keep me safe. Aphrodite? Did she still care for me? Or had she vanished with Paris? Persephone, my childhood allegiance? I had neglected her, but perhaps she did not neglect me. Awake, I heard a soft sound down by the horse. It was muffled, but it sounded like a creak, followed by a thud. I flung off my covers and flew to the window, where I beheld the outlines of forms descending on ropes from the horse’s belly, little lumps like beads on a necklace, but beads that moved.

  Yes. The horse had carried men inside it. Even as I clutched the windowsill, I saw them land on the platform and then steal away, down the main street. They were headed for the gates—to fling them open.

  “Stop!” I cried. “Stop! Guards!”

  One of the men halted and looked up at me. The moonlight hit his face underneath his cap. It was Odysseus.

  “Silence!” he hissed. “We are here to rescue you!” His voice carried up to where I leaned from the window.

  “You are here to kill!” I shot back. “Guards! Guards!” I yelled.

  But all the guards had deserted their posts, drunk and sleeping in the shadows of what they assumed was safety.

  “Her first! Her first!” A voice I knew well reached me. Menelaus had slithered down the rope and stood beside Odysseus, pointing at the window. “Get her! Get her! Forget the gates!”

  Fool that I was, to have betrayed my station. Why had I not kept silent?

  “She is yours,” said Odysseus. “None of us may lay hands on her.” With that, he leapt from the platform and rushed down the main street. Behind him, the others, descending from the horse, their legs wrapped around the dangling rope, slid quickly and followed him.

  Menelaus made for the palace. I must withdraw, hide myself. All I could think was, I cannot be taken by him! The thought of seeing him, confronting him, was revolting. Menelaus did not know Troy. I could hide somewhere—where? Menelaus! For so long he had been but a name, an old memory. Now he stalked the streets of Troy, he was within our very sacred precincts.

  And oh! he was quick. I had forgotten the young runner who had competed for me. Before I could descend the stairs, he was rushing up them. But he turned right instead of left, coming into the room where Deiphobus slept.

  I had to get away. Where was he? As I glanced into the chamber I saw him approaching Deiphobus, saw him yank his head up by the hair. Wide startled eyes looked at Menelaus.

  “You
are Deiphobus?” Menelaus asked as if he were meeting him in a council chamber.

  Deiphobus tried to grab his sword rather than answering. Menelaus ran him through, thrusting a sword clean through his throat. “Answer first,” he spat. “Only an enemy reaches for a weapon before responding.” He jerked the body off the couch, where it fell with a loud thud. It rolled over once and then sprawled in an embarrassing position, legs wide open, tunic hiked up.

  I ran down the stairs. Menelaus spun on his heels, sighting me. “Helen!” he called. “Helen!”

  I fled, down the stairs and out of the palace, the beautiful palace Paris and I had built together. He was here; Menelaus was here, killing. He would kill me as well. Let it be at some site worthy of the deed. I ran across the open courtyard and into the temple of Athena. But even as I did, I knew this temple would not shelter me. From the first moment I had beheld her primitive and ugly image on that first day in Troy, I had felt her animosity. But I rushed to her nonetheless.

  I took hold of the base of her statue, babbling supplications. At its feet I saw the gold marriage chain I had offered her long ago. It was neatly coiled and even had fresh flowers twined about it.

  Heavy behind me I heard Menelaus’s footsteps. There was a rasp as he drew his sword from its sheath. I bent my head and clutched the wood of Athena’s statue. I would meet death like one of the sacrificial animals, dedicating myself. But all I could see was the face of Paris. It was he I would die for. I was glad to do so. Paris, I come! I trembled and waited.

  Instead, cruel fingers twisted themselves in my hair.

  “A quick killing is too easy for you,” the voice was saying. “Speak first, before you die.”

  I was hauled to my feet, my hands pried from the altar. I kept my eyes shut. I wanted to see only the face of Paris.