The Memoirs of Helen of Troy

by Amanda Elyot

  “I am glad Achilles does not fight today,” Priam said quietly. It was clear that the long war had taken its toll on him, even though he had never girded for battle. Of the fifty sons Priam had sired, few remained. Several had already been killed by the Achaeans. During the years when he was fighting alongside the other Greeks, Achilles had taken some of them prisoner and sold them into slavery across the sea. It was the warrior’s way of showing respect to a prince. Yet a few had escaped their bondage and returned to Ilios. The second time Achilles encountered them, he was not so lenient. With each son’s death, King Priam lost a piece of himself, like a dying plant that loses leaf after leaf until it is completely barren, bereft of the greenery that lent it life.

  “When will it end?” he groaned, grasping my arm as though I were a staff. His voice was barely audible.

  That afternoon, Hector visited our home. “The Achaeans want to end this as soon as possible,” he told my husband. “And the Troyans cannot continue to sustain such losses either.”

  “What would you have me do about it?” replied Paris Alexandros.

  “That question should not even be dignified with a response.”

  Paris Alexandros sat silent for several minutes, his face an anguished mask of pain. “Tell Menelaus I will meet him on the plain tomorrow. The quarrel rests between us alone. When the sun is highest in the sky, he and I will fight, and the outcome shall determine everything.”

  Trembling and robbed of breath, I waited to see if he would say more.

  “If I should kill Menelaus, Helen remains in Wilusa. But if he should . . . if he should . . . defeat . . . me, Helen must return with him to Sparta.”

  “No!” I gasped, and flung my arms about him.

  “My precious love, there is no other way. I should have made this challenge long ago, but I despaired of—”

  “You will not lose!” I insisted. I couldn’t bear the thought of his being willing to forfeit me, or the thought of losing him to the icy grip of death.

  “You must endeavor to be brave, Helen,” Hector said gently; then turning to his brother, he added, “I will go myself to the Achaean camp to tell them of your challenge. And may the gods grant you victory tomorrow.” He embraced his younger brother, clasping him tightly to his chest. They held each other for several moments, and then Hector, with an awkward nod to me, departed our chamber.

  “I won’t let you go!” I said, flinging myself upon Paris Alexandros. I pulled him to our bed as though it were a charm that could bind him to my side. “What if . . . ? What if you . . . ? Menelaus is the fiercer warrior. He lives for it. You know that. No!” I drew him even closer to me. “I cannot live without you. If I must return with Menelaus, I will kill myself.”

  Paris Alexandros claimed my lips. “You are forgetting something.”

  “I can’t die. Oh gods!” I cursed my fate, cursed Zeus my father.

  My husband caressed my tearstained cheeks. “These men, all of them, Troyan and Achaean alike, believe that they are fighting for Helen. Thousands have died in the name of an argument that should properly be settled only by the parties affected by it. Helen, it’s the only way to end the bloodshed. Nine years—more than nine—have passed with no end in sight to the conflict.”

  “Do you truly believe that all of these warriors are fighting for Helen?” I sobbed.

  “Do I? No. But they do.”

  “Do you love me?” I asked Paris Alexandros.

  “You know how much I do. That’s what nearly a decade of death has been about—so they believe.”

  “If you love me so much, then you would never forfeit me. Never enter into an arrangement where that might be the outcome.” I kissed his forehead, eyelids, mouth, and cheeks, in the hollow of his throat, his collarbones, and the broad plains of his chest. “Don’t go tomorrow. Don’t leave me alone. Please. Don’t. Leave. Me. Alone.”

  Paris Alexandros caressed me gently. “How little faith you have in my soldiering!” he teased. “I will come back to you, I promise. And there will be an end to everything. The Achaeans will go home and we Troyans will rebuild our lives.”

  I wept into his chest. “I have never loved anyone, not even any of my children, as much as I love you.”

  “The feeling, my sweet love, is mutual,” he murmured, holding me so tightly that our bodies nearly became one.

  That evening, two lambs, one black, one white, representing the earth and the sun god, were slaughtered, and the pledge that Paris Alexandros had made was sealed before the chieftains. Old Priam himself, taken down to the Achaean camp in a chariot, vouched for his son’s honor in the bargain, because the Achaeans refused to trust the promise of the Troyan princes.

  After dinner, I could not wait to return to our home so that my love and I could once more—perhaps for the final time—be alone.

  Paris Alexandros unclasped my girdle and removed the brooches that fastened my gown.

  We made love as though it might be our last night of passion, savoring the scent and taste of each other, our kisses and caresses lingering longer. I wanted to make sure that the feel of him between my fingers and lips, the way he filled me, the sensations produced when his lips and tongue worshipped my sex, when he suckled at my breasts, would be seared forever into my memory. The years had never diminished our desire nor slaked our mutual passion. Again and again that night we gave, and took, our pleasure in each other.

  I watched my beloved slumber, believing that the longer I remained awake, the more time we had together; when I finally was overcome by sleep, the first of my nightmares came. The new homes within the citadel had become repositories of squalor and filth; our citizens wandered the streets in rags, begging for a scrap of edible food. Ilios crumbled and burned, and amid the stench of destruction, the cries of the helpless echoed in my ears.

  When the gentle glow of Eos heralded the morn, Paris Alexandros, stirring, held me to his chest, his hand cupping my bare breast, his hardness swelling against the hollow of my back. I nestled against him and stifled a cry into my fist. My tears spilled down my cheeks, bathing his strong arm.

  “I’ll be back soon. I promise,” whispered Paris into my hair.

  I helped him dress, dreading every moment, especially when he insisted on wearing his leopard skin instead of a proper corselet. It brought him luck, he insisted. It was the skin of a beast he had killed on Mount Ida when he was merely a youth. I despaired and wrung my hands and tried not to harangue him. The only warrior I ever knew of who had emerged victorious wearing an animal skin instead of armor was the great Heracles. But Paris Alexandros would not hear reason. By the time I laced his leather boots, I admit that I believed my own days in Ilios were numbered.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I walked out onto the battlements. Priam and Hecuba and a number of their daughters and their sons’ wives were already there; Hecuba clasped her veil to keep it from blowing away in the high winds. Hector, too, had climbed the walls in order to gain a better view of the plain below, before his brother met the Fates and Menelaus. I watched him survey the terrain, his chin resting against the rim of his enormous shield. It was an action he often repeated in repose, so it bore a gentle, chin-deep dent, and the ox hide that formed the outer layer of the shield was stained with sweat. Andromache had brought their second son, the infant Astyanax, up to the ramparts and was cooing to the little boy as she held him, pointing to his brave papa in his glorious battle gear. When Hector leaned toward them to reach for the child, the usually sweet-natured Astyanax shrieked in fear. I have never ceased to marvel at how so small a child can make so huge a sound. The babe could have frighted the shades in Hades with his bawling. I realized that it must have been the plume on Hector’s shining helm, the nodding, windblown movement of the giant horsehair crest, that somehow terrified him. I pointed to my head and Hector removed his helmet, handing it to me. Astyanax instantly ceased his sobs and willingly went to his father’s waiting arms. “One day,” Hector crooned to the baby, “you will overmatch your papa
in valor and become an even greater warrior than he. Do you know what your name means? Astyanax: lord of the city. And, one day, you will rule mighty Wilusa and survey all you command from where we stand at this very moment.”

  I was immeasurably moved by the tenderness of this great hero for his tiny son, and for the depth of affection and respect that Hector and Andromache felt for each other. How many families, I wondered, had been shattered by the carnage of this decade-long conflict? How many sons and daughters would nevermore nestle in their father’s strong embrace?

  Hector kissed every inch of his little son’s face, then drew Androm-ache into his arms as well, before bidding her good day. I blinked away a tear and handed back the brazen helm to Hector. He descended the steps toward the plain.

  Andromache pointed toward the west. “The Achaeans tried to scale that part of the citadel wall three times,” she said, her voice betraying no emotion to me. “The two Ajaxes, Idomeneus of Crete, the Atridae, and Diomedes. They must have known something.”

  Was she hinting that I might have betrayed to the Greeks the weakness of the western section of the battlements? I told Andromache everything I knew about the wall, adding for good measure that I had had no contact with the Achaeans in almost thirteen years. “The father of Ajax the Greater was Telamon, who fought against Ilios with mighty Heracles,” I said. “It was Telamon who discovered, quite by accident during the fighting, that the wall was weak at the spot you indicated. I agree that the Achaeans must be in possession of some special intelligence, but I can assure you it did not come from me. I would look to great Ajax instead.”

  Below us, the sand swirled about in angry eddies. The armies were beginning to gather as though a sporting competition was about to take place. Hector and Odysseus, representing each combatant, met and measured out the distance of the battleground. Two lots were placed in Hector’s helm, and the first to be shaken from it was Alexander’s; Hector stooped to fetch it from the earth and waved it toward the battlements. My heart was in my mouth. It meant that Paris Alexandros would be the one to strike first.

  My love walked out onto the field and greeted his elder brother, who looked upon him in horror. An argument ensued between them. Clearly, Hector disapproved of Alexander’s battle garb. From the disheartening look of things, it appeared that Paris Alexandros was not taking the impending contest seriously; he could not have made a graver error. He had re-attired himself since I’d wished him good fortune, and he now wore a kiltlike garment and a wide belt, in which his brazen-hilted dagger was sheathed. Instead of a helmet, he had draped his precious leopard skin over his head like a cowl; rather than wear an armored corselet, over his woven tunic he had clad himself in his heavy leather hunting jerkin. His silver-studded sword was slung over his shoulder. At least his heavy, many-layered shield met with Hector’s approval. I was certain I could hear the snickering of the Achaean warriors from where I stood overlooking the field. I saw Hector approach one of the Troyans, who nodded his head and relinquished his breastplate and silver-buckled greaves, along with his crested helmet and his spear, which Hector handed to his brother, insisting that he remove the jerkin and cowl and don the armor.

  With a sinking heart I noticed that the borrowed helm was too large for Alexander’s head, and the chin strap could not be sufficiently adjusted to tighten it. Was there no other warrior who was willing to help my love with the loan of his helmet? Then, with a spasm of panic, I remembered the time when Menelaus and I had hosted him in Sparta and how Paris Alexandros had admitted that the spear was not his best weapon. I recalled too well that Menelaus excelled with it: the “spear-famed Menelaus,” he was called. I crossed my arms and dug my nails into my flesh to keep from weeping. O, how I wished Paris Alexandros could have brought his bow, but it was not an acceptable weapon in the formal rules of one-on-one combat. Had it been allowed, the contest would have been over in an instant and my future in Ilios would have been secure.

  Menelaus was armed with a short sword as well as a long blade. Impatiently, he paced the field in his bronze cuirass and polished greaves. The horsehair crest of his helmet undulated majestically in the light breeze. I could tell that he was anxious to begin—and to put a swift end to—the combat. I wondered if the men remembered their wrestling match during the Spartan celebration of Kronia so many years before. What innocents we all were then!

  The opposing armies had now gathered on opposite sides of the measured area and were menacingly shaking their spears at each other, assailing their adversaries with barbed taunts. The two combatants strode into the space between them. My heart was in my mouth. I couldn’t watch—and yet I had to. Did Paris Alexandros look anxious, or confident? I could not see his face beneath the huge bronze helm. Beside me the royal family clutched their garments or one another’s hands. Queen Hecuba’s face was implacable. What was she thinking, that mistress of inscrutability? Surely any mother would pray for her son to survive . . . and yet, I could not be certain of her will.

  Paris Alexandros loosed his spear and his aim was true. The shaft headed straight for the stalwart Menelaus, but lodged in the layers of his sturdy shield, the spearhead bending back from the blow. I bit my lip.

  Up on the ramparts we held our breath.

  Menelaus removed the damaged javelin and tossed it behind him. It was his turn now. Releasing his earth-splitting war cry, he let fly his spear. As though borne by the will of Poseidon, the shaft headed straight for Paris Alexandros, who deflected the blow with his shield—but it was not enough. The shaft smashed through its eight layers of tanned ox hide, piercing the borrowed corselet where it joined, slicing straight through Alexander’s hunting jerkin and tunic. I screamed. My love grimaced and staggered back. Hector rushed over and examined the puncture. He waved at us and collectively we exhaled. The tip had only grazed his flesh; he did not bleed. Tears of joy spilled down my cheeks, staining my silken robes. The Fates had been kind to us.

  The spears having been used, Menelaus drew his long sword and charged at Paris Alexandros. Once, twice, thrice, four times, he struck at the horn of Alexander’s helm as the Troyan prince sought to parry the blows. And then, to our amazement, the great sword of Menelaus, the silver-studded weapon of which he was so proud, broke apart in his hand and clattered in two pieces to the earth, of no more use to him than an elm twig.

  Paris Alexandros raised his sword and lunged at Menelaus. The men were so close, body-to-body and nose-to-nose, that in another time and place they might have been engaged in a wrestling competition.

  Pressing his shield against his opponent’s right hand, Paris forced Menelaus to drop his short sword.

  Then Paris Alexandros thrust home.

  Menelaus let out a roar and Paris Alexandros withdrew his short sword, drawing blood from a chink in Menelaus’s cuirass. My beloved turned toward us on the battlements, raising his gore-smirched blade as if to prove his victory.

  He turned to leave the field. First blood. Game over.

  But it was no game. This was not the sham wrestling match of thirteen summers ago. First blood was not the agreement.

  The agreement was death.

  The winds churned up the sands, and some of the warriors raised a hand to shield their eyes.

  Then a great cry rose up from the Troyan ranks as Menelaus, like a rampaging bull, charged at Paris Alexandros from behind, grabbing hold of the majestic horsehair plume and whirling the Troyan prince around to face him. Now Menelaus the wrestler proved himself the wilier combatant. He managed to lay hold of the sagging chin strap on Alexander’s borrowed helm and spun my beloved around and around amid the swirling sands.

  Unable to strike, Paris Alexandros was losing his balance and Menelaus was choking him. All formal rules of engagement had been thrown to the winds, but the fight raged on in earnest.

  Then the chin strap snapped and the shining helmet came off in Menelaus’s hands. Both men staggered backward. It was difficult to follow the action as the sandstorm buffeted the men down on the open
plain. I saw the broken helmet sail toward the knot of Achaean troops as Menelaus attempted once more to charge his enemy, fighting the temporary blindness caused by the roiling silt.

  But where was Paris Alexandros? I had lost sight of him. Below, the armies ducked for cover, raising their great shields against the pelting sands.

  Clutching my skirts, I descended the wall, frantically searching for him, stopping everyone I encountered to ask if they had news of him, but they could tell me nothing. I raced home, fighting for breath, my heart pounding inside my chest as though it would burst its confines.

  On reaching our bedchamber, I gasped at the sight. There was Paris Alexandros angrily releasing the silver buckles of his borrowed greaves, tossing the shin guards across the room.

  “My love!” I flung my arms around his neck and clasped him to me. “Closer. Closer. I don’t want to ever let you go again.” A million kisses I bestowed on his perspiring brow, cheeks, and lips. I called for servants to fill the enormous silver bathing tub, which I scented with fragrant, healing elixirs, then fashioned a poultice soaked in fig juice and milk with which to bind his wound once he had bathed.

  He grumbled as I lovingly undressed him. “They will brand me craven because I left the battlefield. But only a fool would remain there in the middle of a sandstorm, blindly thrusting at an unseen enemy. The gods were kind to both of us today. Myself and Menelaus.”