*
Starting at the base, the flames wrapped the pyre in spirals of fire.
Aeneas had come to fetch me, raising me from the sand of the plain and using his cloak to wipe my bloodstained hands, and to spread the news, ask for a truce, and give orders for wood to be collected in the courtyard for the pyre. It was Aeneas who carried the torch, a long arc of red fire in the cold transparent air, to the base of the bed of wood impregnated with oil.
The Trojan court was drawn up in order, motionless. Cassandra stood straight and slender, her hair made fiery by the light from the flames. Andromache, no longer veiled but barely conscious, was as pale as foam. The face of Aeneas was dark with fury under his helm. My veins no longer ran with blood, but liquid steel. The Kindly Ones were screaming inside me with Nemesis on my shoulder, knife ready in her claw-like fingers, as I watched my last love burn.
When I left the city the moon was high, fuller now than two nights before, a sinister convex moon for the night of my revenge. My feet made no noise on the sand, and I was sustained by the conviction of a duty properly performed. The pyre had burned itself out many hours before, and the ashes and bones had been collected in a golden urn. I went with Aeneas to bury it in the forest, the urn in my hands, my fingers giving a last caress when Aeneas delicately took it from me and settled it in the black earth of his childhood where it was hidden by ivy and leaves, leaving no sign of his grave. Priam, howling mad as he staggered from room to room, had raised no objection, and silver coins had been mixed with Hector’s ashes to pay for his passage to the underworld and make sure the ferryman would not leave him behind.
On the way back, my footsteps and those of Aeneas echoed like funeral drums. He went to Cassandra and I to Callira. I sat for long hours on the edge of my bed with my hands in my lap, useless woman’s hands that no one had ever taught to kill. White palms and slender fingers; the soft skin of a woman who had never had to work the earth or lift a sword. Hands too weak, perhaps, for a man but strong enough for me. Deaf to Callira calling me I waited for night, then, throwing a cloak around my shoulders, I left the city by the secret door I had used that afternoon with Aeneas. With death walking at my side, I followed the river as far as the plain; whether my death or another’s it was not my privilege to know. But on the sandy soil that night my shadow was darker than usual. The moonlight had raised a light mist from the Scamander, like an irregular stain on the water among the reed beds and on the fords, which lay like half-submerged marine monsters near the surface of the water. I approached the Greek defenses, ready, if necessary, to swim the river to get past them. With a dagger in my belt and an unfeeling heart, I went forward with death in my wake and my head held high. It was when I heard an irregular spasmodic thrashing of water like an animal in the final spasms of its death agony, that I saw him. The moon was casting a silver light on the back of Achilles.
26
He called me by name: Helen. Then, with water up to his waist, he came closer to the bank and watched me. I wanted to hate him, but could not. I looked at his face, and he was as close to me as he had ever been. “You haven’t changed.”
“Nor you.” But in fact he had changed; he looked crueler, his handsome face more crafty.
“You’re alone,” I said.
“With Hector dead, I have no more enemies.”
“Then what are you here for?”
He fixed his eyes on me. “For what you have brought me.” When I stepped back, he smiled. “You haven’t even tried to hide your dagger.”
I looked down; the slender blade was reflecting the light from a now cloudless sky. “Maybe I was expecting you to kill me.”
“Then you’re out of luck, Helen. My time for killing is past; all that is left for me is to accept my own death.”
He pulled himself up on the bank with water running off his body, painfully similar to a forgotten ghost of long ago. His beauty hurt me because it reminded me how much I had left behind.
“So it’s death you want?”
He inclined his head; his lips still curved in that strange smile. “You’ve been listening to too many stories, Helen, all that stuff about the wrath of Achilles burning up Asia Minor. Last night I was so angry I wanted to tear Hector to pieces with my teeth and eat his heart, and pierce his heels so I could pull him through the dust behind my chariot. But this morning when he came from Troy I knew he was just like me, another lonely man crushed beneath the overwhelming weight of a stupid destiny. So I left him to you. I’ve lost too much, Helen. I thought I could find oblivion in water, but there is too much blood on my hands, it won’t wash off.”
“Did you love Patroclus so much?”
“I loved him as a brother and as a friend. As a lover, as a master, and as the son I’ve never had.”
“But you do have a child, Achilles.” Stupid, obvious, forgotten words. My anger was dispersing to the far corners of my heart, washed away by the waters of the Scamander as I stood before a man who remembered me from other times. Deep in his eyes, I could see myself again. He looked puzzled for a moment; then understood.
“Hermione?”
I nodded.
He shook his head. “You should have come away with me, Helen of Troy.” No longer of Sparta, no longer of Greece. Of Troy.
“I know. But it’s too late now.”
“It’s never too late.”
He moved a step nearer, and suddenly I was afraid. I took out the knife and pointed it at him. He did not stop, but came forward until its slender, almost invisible point just touched his skin, but when I tried to step back he smiled and grabbed my wrist.
“You’d not be much good as a soldier, Helen. When your enemy’s near you have to stick your knife in, you can’t draw back. You came for revenge, remember; have you already forgotten that Hector died this morning?”
Of course I remembered, and I felt I could never stop seeing his lifeless open eyes. But Achilles was before me and my hand was shaking.
“Lighten the earth for me, Helen of Troy, spirit of fire. Make it lighter for me.”
His lips touched mine and he pulled me close with his left arm around my back; his other hand, still gripping my wrist, lifted and twisted, plunging the blade into his naked flesh as if it had been nothing more than sand. I opened my eyes wide, trying to release the knife, but his arm held me tightly, until his strength ran out and he collapsed on the sand at my feet.
He could hardly breathe but was still smiling.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to feel any more pain.”
“Then you’re a coward, Achilles of Phthia.”
He laughed, and grimaced with pain.
“I haven’t much time. Tell me you loved me, Helen.”
I stroked his face and a lock of wet, heavy hair. His hands were lying useless by his sides, hands that a few hours earlier had taken Hector’s life. But no grief was crying out inside me, and my heart was calm. The Kindly Ones had been placated; I remembered Hector’s smile: It’s him or me, Helen my love, him or me, and in any case he’ll soon be joining me. In another world we would have been friends.
“I believe you,” I murmured to the night, and bent over Achilles, my lips touching his. “I love you,” I whispered, and it was true. With his death I was burying myself: Helen of Sparta, Helen of Troy, Helen the Foreign Bitch; the world was leaving me, as it left Hector the day before he died. Saying farewell. The pain was a dull useless pulse, and in any case only mine.
Achilles smiled. “With Patroclus, then, there have been two of you. A lot for one man … perhaps too much. We’ll meet again, Helen of Troy.”
“On the far side of the Styx?”
His smile widened. “There’s no Styx or Acheron, don’t believe fairy tales, my sweet darling, my strong spirit of fire.”
He gave a start, squeezed my hand hard and shuddered.
I whispered in his ear, “Hermione has your eyes.”
When I lifted my head, he was dead. But there was still the shadow o
f a smile on his lips.
I got up. I had neither the strength nor the inclination to pull out the dagger. I was weightless, as if even the inconstant light of the moon could be enough to carry me off. Next morning when I woke, grief would seize me and rip me to pieces like a wild animal. But not now. I looked toward Troy: the city was dark, enclosed in its own mourning, motionless and proud against a sky whitened by the moon. I began to walk, my shadow stretching obliquely behind me. Now I really was alone. When I reached the loop of the river I looked back. There lay Achilles, stretched on the ground, his arms loose, on his lips that secret smile. In the silver light of the moon he looked like a sleeping god.
27
Two days later it started raining. I scarcely felt the first drop on the skin of my right shoulder. When I looked up the sky was a lake of milk crossed by ragged clouds like dirty lambs. Then came the second and third drops and I held out my arms. Then the occasional drops became an incessant hammering and finally a waterfall, making my hair and clothes grow heavy and stick to my body, until it seemed my very skin had been impregnated, and become smoother and harder. The sky turned gray and then black, and it was not until nightfall that Callira managed to get me to come in. I curled up on my bed like a child and waited, my eyes open to the red light from the brazier. Soon the animal beneath my skin would wake.
From a distance we had watched the flames from the pyre of Achilles, listened to the mourning of the Greeks and been aware of their funeral games. We heard the noisy lamentations of the Myrmidons as they marched naked across the plain in salute to their leader, their heads strewn with dust, beating their spears on their shields and shouting their war cry until they were hoarse.
I watched them and envied them. I had the blood of Achilles on my hands and carried the memory of Hector behind my eyes, but I could not cry out or weep. For hours I gazed at the sky, listening all night to the rain on the roof, as the drops beat down in the same rhythm as my exhausted heart. A soft rhythm, because it had no energy left. Rather, a dull pain was biting my vitals, dull because there had been too much pain, always too much of it, and by now there was nothing left in me for it to seize and devour.
When next morning Callira came to draw back the curtains on a world still gray with rain, I did not move. She spoke but I hardly listened; I could hear the slow cadenced rhythm of her voice but could not distinguish words. It was only when that subdued music stopped that I opened my mouth. My voice was harsh, as though it had not been used for centuries: “Why have you never gone away?”
“Because you are all I have, Helen.”
*
Then I must have fallen asleep without realizing it, because I was woken by hammering on the door. Callira’s voice rose above the insistent drumming. “She’s asleep! Leave her in peace!”
“Out of my way, slave!”
A blow and a cry. I sat up, not a conscious gesture but a reflex, and by the time Paris broke the door open I was already on my feet. The door struck the wall and bounced back. Through the doorway I could see Callira’s legs stretched out on the floor. They were moving, but feebly, and ignoring Paris I rushed toward her. But he grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me back.
“Not so fast.” He smelt of wine.
I faced him, my previous indifference replaced by calm fury. “Let me past.”
“No. Your whoring days are over.” He spoke firmly despite the drink.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your lover’s been cremated on his pyre. You’ll never see him again.”
“Not true. All I need is to die.”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Of course. Hector the hero. The fearless general, the just man. No better than me, when it came to it. He too deceived his wife with the first woman who walked past.”
“Don’t talk about things you don’t know about and will never understand.”
“It’s not worth playing games with me, Helen. I know you too well …”
I looked at his face; the face of a stranger, with savage hatred carved into the corners of his mouth. A man I had loved and followed. And now that man didn’t exist anymore.
“You’ve never known me, Paris. Lust isn’t love. I came here for your sake, and when you grew tired of me, I learned how to live on my own. You have no right to reproach me.”
“No right? What right are you talking about, woman?” He angrily grabbed the table by the wall and overturned it. The pitcher of water was smashed to pieces, and bracelets fell into the widening pool of liquid.
I smiled, scornfully. “Menelaus never rejected me. But to you I was never anything more than a tart.”
“Not true!” He moved the upset table out of his way and advanced on me, glaring. I held my ground and looked back at him.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I said coldly. “I’ve seen worse things than drunk cowards.”
A violent slap caught me on the cheek, knocking me against the edge of the bed. I pulled myself out of his reach, laughing. “What a pity you didn’t put all that manly strength into fighting the Greeks, my dear Trojan prince.”
“Shut up. Silence. How dare you mock me!”
He grabbed my wrist and dragged me along the floor.
“Go on, hit me, don’t be afraid.” I was light-headed. What did I care? I was beyond fear. “I’m only a pathetic unarmed woman, go on.”
He hesitated, staring at me.
“What’s the matter?” I taunted him, my cheek throbbing. “Don’t you still find me beautiful, Paris? Surely I’m still the stunning luxury slave girl you got bored with after little more than a year? Worth a war, eh, Paris?”
“For you. To think I did all this for you,” he hissed. “My people have died for you. My country has been ruined for your sake!”
“For me?” I echoed, unable to believe my ears. “Oh no. All to suit your own whims, Paris. You stupid, vicious, spoiled child.”
“How dare you!” A second blow thudded into my temple, and I would have been knocked flat if he hadn’t been holding me up by the arm. Everything became confused and a terrible pain throbbed in the empty spaces of my head. But Paris was not satisfied.
“You made a laughing stock of me. You and the heir to the throne, the favorite son, the matchless brother … But now your lover’s dead, so you’re quite right, you’re nothing but my tart …”
He let go of my arm, but before I had time to pull myself together and get up he was on me, forcing me to my knees, my reflexes too slow, my arms too weak to free myself. When I screamed, it was his turn to laugh.
“Yes …” he panted, forcing my thighs apart. “My tart.”
My cries became a single continuous scream and I pummeled his back, but the bestial grunting in my ears went on until the black outline of another man appeared at the edge of my field of vision. The weight of Paris instantly slipped off me and I lay still.
“You animal! You cowardly beast, get to your feet!”
It was the voice of Aeneas. I forced myself to open my eyes and saw his face twisted with rage. Paris seemed to shrink under the furious glare of Aeneas. His lip was already split, and now Aeneas struck him again without meeting any resistance. His eyes blank, huddled on the floor with his undone clothes hanging off him like rags, Paris began to weep.
Disgusted, Aeneas clenched his fists, ready to strike again.
“Please stop, Aeneas. Let him go,” I whispered with what little voice I still had left. I thought he had not heard, but he hesitated and looked at me. “It’s not worth it,” I breathed, feebly trying to readjust my tunic, but Aeneas was too quick for me. He knelt down and wrapped me in my shawl, which had been lying on a chair.
“I’ll take you to Cassandra,” he murmured, lifting me in his arms. As we turned to go he stopped beside the heap on the floor that was Paris. “Out of here before I get back.”
Over Aeneas’s shoulder I could see a lost expression on Paris’s face as he raised his head; he was a child again, a little boy drunk with wine and b
eaten too hard. But I had no strength left to pity him. I rested my head on Aeneas’s shoulder and closed my eyes.
Callira hurried up before we went outside.
“You were right to call me,” Aeneas reassured her. “She’s all right now. Please tidy up. I’m taking her to Princess Cassandra.”
I would have liked to open my eyes to smile at Callira but I hadn’t the strength. Her deft hands pulled my shawl over my head, then I was outside in the rain with Aeneas.
“He loved you.” The voice of that brusque and taciturn man was cracked, like a plain parched by a long drought. “Don’t listen to Paris. He loved you. He was my brother, and you will always be my sister.”
Suddenly my tears came, brought on by the rough loyalty of Aeneas. They overflowed and mingled with the rain. Long soft sobs from my throat made my whole body tremble. The past. The past. The past. It would never again be the present, always the past, until I rejoined him beyond time. The past, the past, the past. Hector, Achilles. Between them and me the shadow of death under this gentle rain. Realizing I was weeping Aeneas stopped, got down on the ground in the rain and laid me beside him. With my eyes closed I hugged him, burying my face in the folds of clothing around his neck. He held me close with furious desperation; I could feel his face pressed against me; though unlike mine his body was not trembling, his heart was beating to a sorrowful rhythm. We lay in the rain on the empty road without moving until we had both finished weeping, and only then did he get to his feet again. I looked at him. My brother indeed. My twin in pain. He offered me his hand to help me up, and when I was back on my feet we walked on up the hill side by side, his arm around my waist so I should not fall, my head on his shoulder.
Memoirs of a Bitch Page 16