by Ben Bova
Dropping to one knee before her, Paris said, “You must be golden-haired Helen, Queen of Sparta. I have heard that you are the most beautiful woman in the world and now I can see that it is true.”
Had he not been a royal visitor and under the protection of not only the rules of hospitality but the power of distant Troy, Menalaos’ kinsmen would have whipped him out of the palace and sent him on his way home. But none of those frowning old men were at the stables that morning, thank the gods.
Helen could barely speak, his words and his beauty had taken her breath away. At last she managed to say graciously, “Rise, prince of Troy.”
He got to his feet and stood before her, smiling a smile so brilliant that the sun itself seemed dimmed.
“I had hoped to meet you, Queen Helen,” he said. “The gods have been kind to me on my last day here in Sparta.”
“Your last day?” she blurted.
He nodded, and his smile turned sad. “Yes. I have waited for your royal husband for many days.”
“He was called away to Crete, his grandfather’s funeral …”
“I know. But I can wait for his return no longer. I must start back to Troy tomorrow.”
Helen’s legs seemed to go weak; she leaned on me for support. I knew the thoughts racing through her mind: she had finally met this prince and now he was going to leave her! I could almost hear her calling to Aphrodite, begging the goddess to help her.
“Must you go?” Helen asked, her voice a breathless whisper.
“I would stay longer if I could,” Paris said to her, “just to gaze into your blue eyes.”
Helen’s cheeks burned red and she had to look away from him. Paris went on, “But my ship is ready and your husband’s tribute has been counted and loaded onto the wagons. Besides,” he glanced back over his shoulder, “his kinsman would not be pleased if I remained here to woo you.”
Speechless, Helen merely stood there quaking like a helpless girl facing a lion—a lion she wanted to embrace, even if he would rend her limb from limb.
Then Paris said, “The nobles feast me to night in the great hall. Afterward I take leave of Sparta and ride to my swift ship at sunrise tomorrow.”
Helen stood tongue-tied until I whispered in her ear. She repeated my words aloud.
“I will join you at the feast, then,” she said, looking surprised to hear her own voice saying it.
His radiant smile returned. “Then at least I will have one last memory of the most beautiful woman in the world to carry back to Troy with me.”
And I could tell the thoughts whirling through Helen’s mind: would that he could have more than a memory to bring back to Troy with him!
As if he could read Helen’s mind, Paris said in a half-whisper, “If I were not a prince, with the responsibilities my father has laid on my shoulders, I would steal you away from Sparta.”
With that, he turned and strode away, back to his men, leaving Helen standing there half-fainting.
4
Despite the warnings of the noble Spartan ladies, Helen summoned the royal chamberlain and told him she would attend the eve ning’s feast in her husband’s place. He looked stunned, and left Helen’s chambers as fast as his legs could carry him. Within minutes Menalaos’ three closest cousins were scratching at her door. When I admitted them, they told Helen flatly that women were not allowed at the men’s feasting unless the king himself permitted it.
“I am not a mere woman,” she said, as haughtily as she could. “I am the queen and you will do as I command. Only my husband can gainsay me.”
Good, my nursling, I cheered silently. But I knew that inwardly Helen was trembling like a leaf in a windstorm. She looked past the bearded, sour-faced men, to me, who stood behind them. I smiled encouragement to her. The noblemen grumbled and argued for a while but Helen stood firm. At last they bowed to her demand, grudgingly. As soon as the door closed behind them, she bade me summon all her servants. She was going to see Paris again! She wanted to look her absolute best for him.
All that day we prepared. It was high summer, yet even though the sun was bright, a cold wind swept down from the mountains like a chilling omen. I paid it no heed as Helen selected her best gown of pure white linen and a gold corselet that cinched her waist, modest yet flattering. Three serving women spent the whole afternoon oiling and curling her hair and then pinning it up demurely.
“You don’t want to look too alluring for the visitor,” one of the maids said, giggling.
Another added, “Especially with your husband away.”
They laughed like carefree girls, thinking forbidden thoughts of romance and seduction. Little did any of us realize what was to befall us.
“I hear the Trojan prince is as handsome as Apollo,” the third maid said.
“And how would you know that?” I demanded, growing irritated at their simpering.
“Oh, the word has spread throughout the palace, Apet. They say that in bed he makes love like Zeus!”
“And he’s as big as Herakles.”
“Be silent!” I commanded, fearful that they would see how Helen’s face was flushed with desire.
Menalaos’ palace was a sorry place to host a prince of Troy. Rough gray stone walls and dirt floors. For decoration there was little more than shields and spears adorning the rooms. Even Helen’s own chamber had only one small mirror, which she herself had brought in her dowry. Troy was a magnificent city, we had both heard: rich and cultured.
“It is not as glorious as the cities of the Nile, such as Memphis or Thebes,” I told her, “but it is as far above Sparta as a palace is to a pigsty.”
I could see Helen picturing in her mind’s eye the graceful columns and fine draperies and silks that graced the palace in Troy where Paris lived.
At last the time arrived. Quaking with fear and a yearning passion, Helen took her husband’s place at the farewell feast for Alexandros. I accompanied her into the dining hall, such as it was, and stood behind her high-backed chair, silently watching and listening.
The old men of the court frowned and muttered in their beards, shaking their heads as Helen sat at the head of Menalaos’ feasting table that evening, next to his empty chair. They were all kin to her husband, and shocked that a woman would present herself alone at the men’s meal. Yet none of them had the strength to contradict the queen.
The dining hall was the largest room in the palace. It was already filled with the high and mighty of her husband’s court. Menalaos’ kinsmen seated themselves along the heavy oaken table, looking like a scowling, grumbling collection of graybeards, whispering among themselves and clucking their tongues like any clutch of gossiping old women. Paris was not yet present.
The old men got to their feet, grudgingly, I thought, as Helen took her place at the head of the long plank table. They were shocked at her effrontery, of course, but Helen cared not. She was burning to see this handsome young man from far-off Troy one final time before returning to the dismal fate that awaited her as Queen of Sparta.
The fire in the circular hearth, off in the farthest corner of the hall, was banked down to proper cooking heat and a boar from the afternoon’s hunt was roasting on the slowly turning spit, the odor from its dripping juices filling the hall with a delicious aroma. For once, the smoke from the fire rose obediently through the roof hole and was borne way by the twilight breeze.
All of Sparta’s nobles were at the table; servants were already pouring wine into their cups. Yet the chair to Helen’s right remained empty.
“Where is our guest?” she asked.
“Washing his dainty feet, I suppose,” said the grizzled old man sitting beside the empty chair.
“The afternoon’s hunt must have fatigued him,” said the noble across the table, with heavy sarcasm. He had lost an eye in battle years ago and wore a stained black patch over the empty socket.
“He’s probably perfuming his curly locks and trying to decide which cloak he should wear,” added a third of the seated nobles.<
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They all laughed heartily. Their opinion of the Trojan prince was not high.
Just then the court crier stamped his staff on the stone flagging by the great door and called:
“Prince Alexandros of Troy, known as Paris!”
He had dressed magnificently, in a splendid cloak of royal blue and a chiton embroidered with flowers around the neck. His midnight-dark hair had been curled and gleamed with oil. Yet it was his smile, his sparkling eyes, that made even my old heart leap.
Helen scarcely could speak to him once he took his place at her right hand. He was polite to her and chatted amiably with the elders at the table. They addressed him with deference, as befitted a prince of powerful Troy, and kept their disdain well hidden.
“I am very flattered that you have granted me the honor of your company this day,” he said to Helen. “You look even more beautiful now than you did this morning.”
I knew that Helen’s heart was racing like a foolish girl’s. Her breath caught in her throat. His smile was dazzling. His eyes seemed to be searching hers, trying to read her spinning thoughts.
“The prince of Troy is very kind,” she managed to say.
“Not at all. Anyone with even a single eye in his head can see that your beauty rivals Aphrodite’s.” He winked outrageously at the one-eyed nobleman sitting across from him.
A wintry chill fell along the entire length of the dining table. The old men did not approve of a handsome young prince speaking to their lord’s wife, nor did they appreciate jokes made at their expense. And even the dullest among them must have known by now that the two of them had met by the stables earlier in the day.
If Paris was aware of their displea sure, he gave no sign of it. He turned back to Helen, his smile still radiant.
“Truly, I am honored that you chose to take your husband’s place this evening.”
Helen’s voice caught in her throat. She could do nothing but stare at Paris like a moonstruck girl.
“The gods spin out our fates,” said Paris. “Zeus himself has given me this chance to see you, and I should be content.”
“But you are not content?” Helen managed to utter.
“How should I be? I have been granted a vision of paradise and now I must leave and never see you again.”
What could Helen reply to that? She lowered her eyes and felt the warmth of his smile upon her—and the murderously cold angry stares of her husband’s kin.
Paris turned from her and began to describe Troy to the men along the table, the city’s many towers, the splendors of the royal palace with its gardens and beautiful tapestries and floors of polished stone. He seldom glanced at Helen, but I knew he was speaking to her, not the rough-bearded men who cared little for such elegance. Helen longed to see Troy, to see for herself the beauty and delight that he described. Paris was wooing her with words, in front of her husband’s kinsmen. My own heart raced at his audacity.
The meal finished all too soon. Helen rose from her chair and bade Paris farewell, knowing that he would leave on the morrow with the grudgingly given tribute that he was to carry back to Troy.
“Perhaps someday I can visit Troy,” she said, never realizing what thoughts it stirred in his breast.
Paris smiled his brightest. “Perhaps,” he murmured.
Then she left the dining hall and went to her bedchamber, with me beside her. Her face was downcast, her heart empty and sad that she would never see this handsome, exciting man again.
As soon as we stepped into her bedchamber and closed the door behind us, I told Helen, “You have won his heart, my lamb. He is smitten with your beauty.”
“What good is that now?” she asked, forlorn.
“You will see,” I replied, smiling. “You will see.”
I brought out her best nightgown and insisted that she wear it. When Helen realized what I expected she sat on the edge of the bed, so stunned was she with surprise and sudden hope.
“It cannot be!” she protested. “Apet, he would have to be mad to come here.”
“He is mad,” I replied happily. “Your beauty has driven him insane with desire.”
She was about to shake her head, but instead she whispered, “Could it be? Could it truly be?”
“I have prayed to the old goddess that you might be delivered from Sparta,” I told her as I slid the gown over her head. “And I have done more than pray, my nursling.”
“What do you mean?” Helen demanded. “What have you done, Apet?”
I smiled mischievously. “There will be no guard at your door this night, my lovely. No servants will linger in your quarters.”
Helen could do nothing but stare at me, knowing that I was risking my life for her. There were no secrets that could stand against palace gossip.
“Apet, by tomorrow—”
I placed a silencing finger against my lips. “By tomorrow the world will be changed, my pet. You will see.”
Helen went to bed, almost reluctantly, but she could not sleep, could not even close her eyes. I stood in the closet next to her room, waiting. But I fingered the Cretan dagger I always carried beneath my robe, just in case my dear one needed my protection.
Long after all the palace was quiet and dark, I still stood there while Helen lay awake, staring into the shadows. Then the door creaked softly. Someone entered her room. I knew who it was. I knew who I wanted it to be. Helen dared not speak or move or even breathe.
A crescent moon cast dim silver light through the bedchamber’s only window, past the fitfully billowing curtains. He sat on the bed beside her, his form a black shadow against the breeze-stirred drapery. My heart raced madly.
“Helen,” he whispered.
“Prince Alexandros,” she found the courage to whisper back.
“Paris,” he said.
“Paris.”
“I can’t leave without making love to you, Helen. Your beauty has enchanted me.”
“But the servants …”
“No one will bother us. Your maidservant has seen to that.”
“If anyone in the palace—”
“I don’t care.”
“This is madness!”
“Yes, of course it is,” he replied, with a soft laugh. “I am mad about you.”
“No,” she said, so softly I barely heard it.
“How could any man set eyes upon you and not want to love you?” he whispered, bending over her so close she could feel his warm breath against her throat.
“I am married to Menalaos. He will kill us both.”
“Then we will die,” sighed Paris as he lay down on the bed beside her and slowly began to undo her nightgown.
Helen did nothing to resist him. His hands caressed her naked flesh, his lips covered hers.
For the first time in her life Helen felt truly aroused. Paris knew how to stroke her, how to pleasure her with touch and tongue and soft, whispered words. She was drowning in delight, all thoughts, all fears, all cares washed away in throbbing tides of ecstasy. At the last, she jammed her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming aloud with sheer rapture.
There was nothing in Helen’s world except Paris. She had no husband, no daughter, no father or mother or night or day. She surrendered herself to Aphrodite completely and knew at last the meaning of her mother’s smile when she asked if all-powerful Zeus had fathered her.
The moon sank behind the dark hills and the first rose-tinged fingers of dawn began to light the sky.
“Go quickly,” she said to Paris. “Go and forget me and this night. Go and pray that Menalaos never finds out what we have done.”
He leaned close to her, so close that their lips almost touched. “I can’t,” he said.
“You must go!” she insisted. “And quickly, before anyone else arises.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“Menalaos will kill us both!”
He smiled down at me. “Not if you come with me to Troy.”
“To Troy?” The thought seemed to stun her.
A princess of Troy. Wife of Paris in the many-towered city by the Dardanelles. A city of gentility and beauty, fabled throughout the world. It was impossible. It could never be. Yet to be a princess in civilized Troy would be far better than being a queen in Menalaos’ Sparta.
Paris jumped to his feet and reached for his clothes. “Quickly,” he said. “My men are waiting at the palace’s main gate. Get dressed!”
In a daze, hardly believing what was happening to her, Helen did as he commanded. It was as if her true self was far away, watching this bewildered young woman obeying the bidding of the handsome prince of Troy. I came in and helped her to dress, then Paris wrapped her in his own brilliant blue cloak and pulled its hood over her head.
Like children playing a game the two of them stole through the stillsleeping palace and out to the mounted men waiting impatiently for their prince, while I roused a pair of slumbering slaves to quickly stuff as much of Helen’s clothes as they could into a pair of large wooden chests while I packed all her jewelry into a large woolen sack. It was almost too heavy for me to carry, but I would not let the slaves touch it.
They loaded the chests onto a mule cart as Paris lifted Helen up onto his horse and seated her behind him. She clutched his strong body and rested her head against his back. I climbed by myself onto the cart that one of Paris’ men drove. Then we were away, leaving Sparta, leaving her husband and her life, riding into a new dawn. How we got past the gates I do not know; Paris’ Trojan companions either bribed the guards or slew them, I never asked even later, when I wondered about it.
I felt weak with relief. Paris would take care of Helen. He would sweep her across the sea to a new life and make certain that everything was right. Menalaos was already fading into a distant, hateful dream.
With the sky brightening into a new day we galloped down the rutted road to the distant harbor. The cart I rode in jounced and groaned so badly I thought it would fall apart long before we reached the water’s edge. But soon enough we saw the square sail of Paris’ boat, with its sign of a white heron painted upon it.