by Ben Bova
Statues lined this corridor, most of them life-size, some smaller, several so large that their heads or outstretched arms scraped the polished beams of the high ceiling.
“The city’s gods,” my courtier explained. “Most of these statues stood outside the city’s four main gates, before the war. Of course we brought them in here for safekeeping from the despoiling Achaians.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
The statues seemed to be marble. To my surprise, they were brightly painted. Hair and beards were deep black, with bluish highlights. Gowns and tunics were mostly gold, and real jewels adorned them. The flesh was delicately colored, and the eyes were painted so vividly that they almost seemed to be watching me.
I could not tell one from another. The gods all seemed broad-shouldered and bearded, the goddesses ethereally beautiful. Then I recognized Poseidon, a magnificently muscular figure with a deep curly beard who bore a trident in his right hand.
We stepped out of the chilly entrance hall and into the warming sunlight of a courtyard. A huge statue, much too large to fit indoors, stood just before us. I craned my neck to see its face against the crystal-blue morning sky.
And felt my knees give way.
It was the Golden One. Perfect in every detail, as if he had sat for a portrait. Every detail except one: The Trojan artist had painted his hair black, as all the other gods. But the face, the slight curl of the lip, the eyes — they stared down at me, slightly amused, slightly bored. I trembled. I fully expected the statue to move, to speak.
“Apollo,” said the courtier. “The protector of our city.” If he noticed how the statue affected me, he was too polite to mention it. Or perhaps it was reverence for the god.
I pulled my gaze away from the Golden One’s painted eyes. My insides fluttered with anger and the frustration that comes with hopelessness. How could I even think of working against his wishes, of defying him, of killing him? Yet I will do it, I told myself. With an effort of will that seemed to wrench at the soul within me, I promised myself afresh that I would bring the Golden One to dust.
We started across the sunny courtyard. It was decked with blossoms and flowering shrubs. Potted trees were arranged artfully around a square central pool. I saw fish swimming there lazily.
“We also have our statue of Athene,” the courtier said, pointing across the pool to a small wooden piece, scarcely three feet tall. “It is very ancient and very sacred.”
The statue was facing away from us as we crossed the courtyard and entered the other wing of the palace. Instantly, as we stepped into the shade of the wide entrance hall, the temperature dropped precipitously.
More soldiers stood guard in this hallway, although I got the feeling that their presence was a matter of pomp and formality, not security. The courtier led me to a small chamber comfortably furnished with chairs of stretched hide and gleaming polished tables inlaid with beautiful ivory and silver. There was one window, which looked out on another, smaller, courtyard, and a massive wooden door decorated with bronze strapping. Closed.
“The king will see you shortly,” he said, looking nervously toward the closed door.
I took a chair and willed my body to relax. I did not want to appear tense or apprehensive in front of the Trojan king. The courtier, whom I had assumed spent much of his life in this palace, seemed to be wound up tight. He paced the small chamber worriedly. I pictured him with a cigarette, puffing like an expectant father.
Finally he blurted, “Do you truly bring an offer of peace, or is this merely another Achaian bluff?”
So that was it. Beneath his confidence in the walls built by gods and the food and firewood gathered by their army and the eternal spring that Apollo himself protects — he was anxious to have the war ended and his city safe and at peace once more.
Before I could reply, though, that heavy door creaked open. Two men-at-arms pushed at it, and an old man in a green cloak similar to my courtier’s motioned me to come to him. He leaned heavily on a long wooden staff topped with a gold sunburst symbol. His beard was the color of ashes, his head almost totally bald. As I ducked through the doorway and approached him, he squinted at me nearsightedly.
“Your proper name, herald?”
“Orion.”
“Of?”
I blinked, wondering what he meant. Then I replied, “Of the House of Ithaca.”
He frowned at that, but turned and took a few steps into the audience chamber, then banged his staff on the floor three times. I saw that the stone floor was deeply worn at that spot.
He called out, in a voice that may have once been rich and deep but now sounded like a cat yowling, “Oh Great King — Son of Laomedon, Scion of Scamander, Servant of Apollo, Beloved of the Gods, Guardian of the Hellespont, Protector of the Troad, Western Bulwark of the Hatti, Defender of Ilios — an emissary from the Achaians, one Orion by name, of the House of Ithaca.”
The chamber was spacious, wide and high-ceilinged. Its middle was open to the sky, above a circular hearth that smoldered a dull red and sent up a faint spiral of gray smoke. Dozens of men and women stood among the painted columns on the far side of the hearth: the nobility of Troy, I supposed, or at least the noblemen who were too old to be with the army. And their ladies. Their robes were rich with vibrant colors and flashing jewels.
I stepped forward and beheld Priam, the King of Troy, sitting on a splendid throne of carved ebony inlaid with gold set upon a three-step-high dais. To my surprise, he was flanked on his right by Hector, who must have come up from the camp by the beach. On his left sat a younger man, and standing behind him -
She was truly beautiful enough to launch a thousand ships. Helen was blonde, golden curls falling past her shoulders. A small, almost delicate figure except for magnificent breasts covered only by the sheerest blouse. A girdle of gold cinched her waist, adding emphasis to the bosom. Even from across the wide audience chamber I could see that her face was incredible, sensuous yet wide-eyed with an appearance of innocence that no man could resist.
She leaned against the intricately carved back of Aleksandros’s chair, the young prince on Priam’s left had to be Aleksandros, I realized. Darker of hair and beard than Hector, almost prettily handsome. Helen rested one hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her and she smiled dazzlingly at him. Then they both turned their gaze toward me as I approached. Helen’s smile disappeared the instant Aleksandros looked away from her. She regarded me with cool, calculating eyes.
Priam was older than Nestor, and obviously failing. His white beard was thin and ragged, his long hair also, as if some wasting disease had hold of him. He seemed sunk into his robes of royal purple as he sat slumped on his gold-inlaid throne, too tired even this early in the morning to sit upright or lift his arms out of his lap.
The wall behind his throne was painted in a seascape of blues and aquamarines. Graceful boats glided among sporting dolphins. Fishermen spread their nets into waters teeming with every kind of fish.
“My lord king,” said Hector, dressed in a simple tunic, “this emissary from Agamemnon brings another offer of peace.”
“Let us hear it,” breathed Priam, as faintly as a sigh.
They all looked to me.
I glanced at the assembled nobility and saw an eagerness, a yearning, a clear hope that I carried an offer that would end the war. Especially among the women I could sense the desire for peace, although I realized that the old men were hardly firebrands.
I bowed deeply to the king, then nodded in turn to Hector and Aleksandros. I caught Helen’s eye as I did so, and she seemed to smile slightly at me.
“O Great King,” I began, “I bring you greeting from High King Agamemnon, leader of the Achaian host.”
Priam nodded and waggled the fingers of one hand, as if urging me to get through the preliminaries and down to business.
I did. I told them not of Odysseus’s offer to leave with Helen and nothing else, but of my elaboration: Helen, her fortune, and an indemnity for Agamemnon to di
stribute to his army.
I could feel the air in the chamber change. The eager expectation died. A somber reaction of gloom settled on them all.
“But this is nothing more than Agamemnon has offered in the past,” wheezed Priam.
“And which we have steadfastly refused,” Hector added.
Aleksandros laughed. “If we refused such insulting terms when the Achaians were pounding at our gates, why should we even consider them now, when we have the barbarians penned up at the beach? In a day or two we’ll be burning their ships and slaughtering them like the cattle they are.”
“I am a newcomer to this war,” I said. “I know nothing of your grievances and rights. I have been instructed to offer the terms for peace, which I have done. It is for you to consider them and make an answer.”
“I will never surrender my wife,” Aleksandros snapped. “Never!”
Helen smiled at him and he reached up to take her hand in his.
“A newcomer, you say?” Priam asked, his curiosity pricked enough to light his eyes. “Yet you claim to be of the House of Ithaca. When you first ducked your head past the lintel of our doorway I thought you might be the one they call Great Ajax.”
I replied, “Odysseus has taken me into his household, my lord king. I arrived on these shores only a few days ago…”
“And single-handedly stopped me from storming the Achaian camp,” Hector said, somewhat ruefully. “Too bad that Odysseus has adopted you. I wouldn’t mind having such a fearless man at my side.”
Surprised by his offer, and wondering what it might imply, I answered merely, “I fear that would be impossible, my lord.”
“Yes,” Hector agreed. “Too bad, though.”
Priam stirred on his throne, coughed painfully, then said, “We thank you for the message you bring, Orion of the House of Ithaca. Now we must consider before making answer.”
He gestured a feeble dismissal. I bowed again and went back to the anteroom. The guards closed the heavy door behind me.
I was alone in the small chamber; the courtier who had guided me earlier had disappeared. I went to the window and looked out at the lovely garden, so peaceful, so bright with flowers and humming bees intent on their morning’s work. No hint of war there: merely the endless cycle of birth, growth, death, and rebirth.
I thought about the words the Golden One had spoken to me. How many times had I died and been reborn? To what purpose? He wanted Troy to win this war, or at least survive the Achaian siege. Therefore my desire was the same as Agamemnon’s: to crush Troy, to burn it to the ground, to slaughter its people and destroy it forever.
Destroy that garden? Burn this palace? Slaughter Hector and aged Priam and all the rest?
I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes tight. Yes! I told myself. Just as the Golden One would slaughter Odysseus and old Poletes. Just as he burned my love to death.
“Orion of Ithaca.”
I wheeled from the window. A single soldier stood at the doorway, bareheaded, wearing a well-oiled leather harness rather than armor, a short sword at his hip.
“Follow me, please.”
I followed him down a long hallway and up a flight of stairs, then through several rooms that were empty of people, although richly furnished and decorated with gorgeous tapestries. They will burn nicely, I found myself thinking. Up another flight we went, and finally he ushered me into a comfortable sitting room, with undraped windows and an open doorway that looked out on a terrace and the distant sea. Lovely murals decorated the walls, scenes of peaceful men and women in a pastel world of flowers and gentle beasts.
The soldier closed the door and left me alone. But not for long. Through the door on the opposite side of the room, a scant few moments later, stepped the beautiful Helen.
Chapter 10
SHE was breathtaking, there is no denying it. She wore a flounced skirt of shimmering rainbow colors with golden tassels that tinkled as she walked toward me. Her corselet was now as blue as the Aegean sky, her white blouse so gauzy that I could see the dark circles of the areolae around her nipples. She wore a triple gold necklace and more gold at both wrists and earlobes. Jeweled rings glittered on her fingers.
She was tiny, almost delicate, despite her hour-glass figure. Her skin was like cream, unblemished and much lighter than the women I had seen in the Achaian camp. Her eyes were as deeply blue as the Aegean, her lips lush and full, her hair the color of golden honey, with ringlets falling well past her lovely shoulders. One stubborn curl hung down over her forehead. She wore a scent of flowers: light, clean, yet beguiling.
Helen smiled at me and gestured toward a chair. She took a cushioned couch, her back to the open windows. I sat and waited for her to speak. In truth, just looking at her against the background of the blue sky and bluer sea was a feast that seemed too good for mere words.
“You say you are a stranger to this land.” Her voice was low, melodious. I could understand how Aleksandros, or any other man, would dare anything to have her. And keep her.
I nodded and found that I had to swallow once before I could speak. “My lady, I arrived on a boat only a few days ago. Before then, all I knew of Troy was… stories told by wayfarers.”
“You are a sailor, then?”
“Not really,” I said. “I am a… traveler, a wanderer.”
She looked at me with a hint of suspicion in those clear blue eyes. “Not a warrior?”
“I have been a warrior, from time to time, but that is not my profession.”
“Yet it may be your destiny.”
I had no answer for that.
Helen said, “You serve the goddess Athene.” It was not a question. She had excellent intelligence sources, apparently.
Nodding, I replied, “That is true.”
She bit her lower lip. “Athene despises me. She is the enemy of Troy.”
“Yet her statue is honored…”
“You cannot fail to honor so powerful a goddess, Orion. No matter how Athene hates me, the people of this city must continue to placate her as best they can. Certain disaster will overtake them if they do not.”
“Apollo protects the city,” I said.
She nodded. “Yet I fear Athene.” Helen looked beyond me, looking into the past, perhaps. Or trying to see the future.
“My lady, is there some service you wish me to do for you?”
Her gaze focused on me once again. A faint smile dimpled her cheeks. “You wonder why I summoned you?”
“Yes.”
The smile turned impish. “Don’t you think that I might want a closer look at such a handsome stranger? A man so tall, with such broad shoulders? Who stood alone against Hector and his chariot team and turned them away?”
I bowed my head slightly. “May I ask you a question, my lady?”
“You may — although I don’t promise to answer.”
“All the world wonders: Did Aleksandros actually abduct you, or did you leave Sparta with him willingly?”
Her smile remained. It even grew wider, until she threw her head back and laughed a hearty, genuinely amused laugh.
“Orion,” she said at last, “you certainly don’t understand the ways of women.”
I may have blushed. “That’s true enough,” I admitted.
“Let me tell you this much,” Helen said. “No matter how or why I accompanied Aleksandros to this great city, I will not willingly return to Sparta.” Before I could reply she quickly added, “Not that I harbor ill feelings for Menalaos, my first husband. He was kind to me.”
“But Aleksandros is kinder?”
She spread her arms. “Look about you, Orion! You have eyes, use them. What woman would willingly live as the wife of an Achaian lord when she could be a princess of Troy?”
“But Menalaos is a king…”
“And an Achaian queen is still regarded less than her husband’s dogs and horses. A woman in Sparta is a slave, be she wife or concubine, there is no real difference. Do you think there would be women present in the gr
eat hall at Sparta when an emissary arrives with a message for the king? Or at Agamemnon’s Mycenae or Nestor’s Pylos or even in Odysseus’s Ithaca? No, Orion. Here in Troy women are regarded as human beings. Here there is civilization.”
“Then your preference for Aleksandros is really a preference for Troy,” I said.
She put a finger to her lips, as if thinking over the words she wished to use. Then, “When I was wed to Menalaos I had no say in the choice. The young lords of Achaia all wanted me — and my dowry. My father made the decision. If, the gods forbid, the Achaians should win this war and force me to return to Sparta with Menalaos, I will again be chattel.”
“Would you agree to return to Menalaos if it meant that Troy would be saved from destruction?”
“Don’t ask such a question! Do you think Agamemnon fights for his brother’s honor? The Achaians are intent on destroying this city. I am merely their excuse for attacking.”
“So I have heard from others, in the Achaian camp.”
“Priam is near death,” Helen said. “Hector will die in battle; that is foretold. But Troy itself need not fall, even if Hector does.”
And, I thought, if Hector dies Aleksandros will become king. Making Helen the queen of Troy.
She fixed me with her eyes and said, “Orion, you may say this to Menalaos: If he wants me to return to him, he will have to win me by feats of battle. I will not go willingly to a man as the consolation prize for losing this war.”
I took in a deep breath. She was far wiser than I had assumed. She unquestionably wants Troy to win this war, wants to remain in this city so that one day she can be its queen. Yet she wants to tell her former husband that she will come back to him — if he wins! She’s telling him, through me, that she will return to Sparta and be the docile Achaian wife — if and when Troy is burned to the ground.
Clever woman! No matter who wins, she will protect her own lovely skin.