Helen of Troy

by Margaret George

  Her outburst shocked me. Even Father and Mother had not said as much, seemingly resigned to losing me. I was deeply touched.

  “Dear sister,” I said, embracing her. Castor came and put his arms around us both. I looked at them, flooded with emotion. “It would be impossible for me ever to love anyone as much as I love you, my family.”

  Even as I said the words, I could hear Aphrodite, the one I had scorned, laughing at me—her laughter cruel and mocking.

  “They’ve sighted him.” Mother came into my chamber before the dawn. I opened my eyes in the semidarkness to see her bending over me. She touched me lightly.

  “So soon?” I murmured, pushing up on one elbow. I wanted to delay the inevitable; my future was beginning to claim me already.

  “Child, little Cygnet,” she whispered, sitting down beside me on the bed. She drew me up and held me close to her.

  “Oh, will no one rescue me?” I cried. Oh, I did not wish to be married! I did not want to go with a man. But at the same time, I wanted to be free to see the world without a veil, to be released from this cage where I was being held. Only marriage could open this trap, lift the bars, and let me out. Yet, in truth, I would choose neither a cage nor a man, but run away from both.

  “That is what the suitors wish to do,” Mother said. Her face betrayed her sorrow. She wished to be rescued, too, from this onrush of time that, in taking away her youngest, made her old. A woman whose daughters have married is no longer a woman to catch Zeus’s fancy. That, too, would end for Mother, even the daydream of it. The feathers would turn yellow—if not yet, then soon.

  “But they will change everything!” I cried.

  “Only one of them will, child. The rest will go home and change some other woman’s life.” She brushed her tears away and smiled. “Thus has it been always.”

  “I’ll stay close to you!” I promised. “I won’t go away!”

  She smoothed my hair. “You must not choose a man for that reason. You must choose the one who appeals the most to you, not just one who will consent to live here in Sparta.”

  “We must be up to receive Menelaus,” I said, rising.

  The goddesses would, must, guide me. I had to believe that.

  Mother looked knowingly at me. “Wear your most flattering gown, Cygnet. But I have a feeling you would have without my telling you.”

  I selected a gown and robe of the sheerest wool, a blush of dawn-pink. I had been told since childhood that it was my most flattering color. It wrapped around me like a mist. I put on gold and amethyst earrings and a heavy gold bracelet. No necklace; that would spoil the effect.

  When I left the chamber and walked out onto the raised porch, my gown and robe swirled around my ankles like mist and made me feel like part of the dawn.

  “He’s reached the outskirts of Sparta,” said Polydeuces, returning from the palace gates. “He will be here before the messenger can come and go again. Shall we throw open the gates and welcome him?” The rising sun struck his golden hair, and for a fleeting moment I thought how handsome my brother was.

  “Yes!” said Father, coming up behind us. “That young man deserves our salute.” He clapped his hands and motioned for servants to open the bolted gates that stood, poised, overlooking the steep road up from the river. “He’s put me to shame. I don’t remember what I did for your mother, but it wasn’t running for days and nights.”

  It was not what you did in the beginning, I thought, but what you did later—overlooking the whispers about Zeus.

  Castor joined us, then Mother. Clytemnestra, always a late sleeper, was unlikely to be up before the sun.

  We stood at the gates, looking down the slope. Far below we could see the misty green of willows overhanging the riverbank. The meadow path was lined with curious people; I could see them milling down below, perhaps not even knowing why they were there. Then the sound of cheers and clapping, and a figure was moving, slowly, along the path, lifting his legs painfully, his arms swinging.

  “He isn’t very fast, is he?” asked Polydeuces. “He wouldn’t win any crowns from our contests.”

  Always so critical, my golden brother. “We have no races that go on for days,” I said. “I doubt that anyone else—even you—could run continually so long.”

  He shrugged.

  “We’ll know his tale when he arrives,” I said. And, as a runner, I was eager to hear it. I wanted to know what it was like to run over rough ground, boulders and hills and soggy meadows, and not stop. It was a different sort of running, not about speed but endurance.

  “I can beat him!” Beside me that strange child, Achilles, had suddenly appeared. He dashed out through the palace gates and bolted down the hill. I saw him meet up with Menelaus at the bottom of the hill. The dark boy turned on his heel and began to race Menelaus up the slope. He had all the speed of someone who had rested all night and only had a short distance to go. Pumping his arms, he passed Menelaus, throwing gravel up in his wake.

  Legs flying, Achilles flung himself back through the gates, panting, then turned triumphantly, hands on hips. “I’m faster!” he crowed.

  Father paid him little mind, merely nodding and ushering him aside. Achilles started jumping up and down to attract attention. But all eyes were on the laboring Menelaus, doggedly climbing the hill. He was barely running at all, and seemed so weary, his feet barely left the ground.

  From the corner of my eye I saw Patroclus come out and make a fuss over Achilles, doubtless praising him. In any case he calmed down; Patroclus knew what to say to the excitable boy.

  Closer now: Menelaus was just coming up over the last crest before the palace gates. For a moment he disappeared from view, then suddenly his reddish hair appeared, catching the sunlight, making an aureole. He gasped and stumbled toward his goal, his legs still lifted, still running, his chest heaving.

  He burst through the gates, then spun and almost lost his feet. Great tearing sobs of gasps came from his mouth. He staggered and would have fallen, but Castor grabbed him and held him up. His eyes rolled upward and he was about to faint. Without thinking, I rushed over to him and helped Castor to hold him up. He was limp and so covered with sweat he was slippery like a new-caught fish.

  Just before he fainted, he looked directly at me and murmured something I could not make out.

  Now the contest was over. Now I must make my choice, with no delay—if Father hoped to have any resources left from his extensive hospitality for all the suitors. I would not be so thoughtless a daughter as to drag this out one day longer.

  But yet again I had the dreadful, throat-closing feeling of being hurried along, forced to walk a path I was not ready for. I discarded my dawn robes and had myself prepared for the evening ceremonies. My women removed the airy gown of day and brought out the robes of night—blue and dark as the sky just before full night comes.

  “My lady, you are lovely,” one said.

  “My hair ornaments,” I said.

  “Yes, my lady.” She brought out the twisted wires of silver, with their tiny ornaments, and patiently fastened them into my hair, which I let fall free over my shoulders and my back. “The silver shows well,” she said. “Gold gets lost in your hair, since the colors are so similar.” She unstoppered a bottle of narcissus flower oil and rubbed a bit across the bend of my elbows and along the sides of my neck. “I don’t want it to stain the necklace,” she said. “Which one shall you wear tonight?”

  Silver and deep blue—what would go with those colors? “Perhaps the clear one, the crystal?” Let everything be icy and clear tonight. If only my thoughts could be as well!

  After I was bedecked, I dismissed both attendants. I stood for a few moments alone in my chamber. I still did not know what I would do, who I would choose. But I would make a choice. I must end this uncertainty, for myself and everyone else. I took several deep breaths and then walked slowly out the door, entering the private courtyard that the inner rooms gave out onto. I looked up at the sky, feathered now by the fresh tr
ee leaves.

  I searched for the constellation of the lion, my dear constellation that told the tale of Heracles at Nemea that I loved so, as if somehow the answer hid itself in the bright twinkling of the stars, as if I could decipher something there.

  Oh, what must I do? I had to choose. Over and over I begged Hera and Persephone for their guidance. But nothing came. Then a dull resignation mixed with determination, like that of a soldier facing a stronger enemy, stole over me. Very well. I must choose. I would choose. I would shut my eyes and whomever I saw first in my mind, that was the one.

  I heard a crunching of gravel in the courtyard, and the image of Menelaus running up the hill filled my vision. Some person, all unaware, walking nearby, had thereby decided the matter. Yes. It would be Menelaus. It was meant to be Menelaus. Now my reasons tumbled over one another like unruly children. Had I not been granted that special private meeting with him long ago? Obviously the gods had arranged it. Had I not felt something for him even then? And now had he not proved himself superior in the task I had set before him? And was our hair color not similar? Even that now seemed imbued with secret meaning.

  Menelaus. I felt relief. I even felt warmth and contentment. I took a deep breath and turned to carry out my duty.

  The megaron was barely large enough to hold everyone, and they all were jammed in. A small fire was lit against the chill of the night, but the heat of the crowd made it unnecessary. As I walked in, everyone looked at me and a hush settled over the company. Father held out his hand and drew me over to him beside the throne.

  Everyone had eaten earlier, devouring oxen and sheep and downing seas of wine, and they looked quite content. They now stared back with dull eyes, the eyes of men satiated. Good. They would accept my decision placidly.

  Father stood and made the customary libation—poured out to honor Zeus, the liquid made a harsh sound against the dust as it struck.

  “My daughter, it is you who must make the choice,” said Father. “Have you reached a decision?”

  “I have,” I said. The unknown walker had made it for me, conjuring the image of Menelaus in my mind. I moved forward, ready to speak to the company.

  “Then, my dear?” Father stood and put his arm around me.

  I looked out at all the men. The upturned faces stared back at me. Patroclus. Idomeneus. Ajax. Teucer. Antilochus. Agamemnon and Menelaus, so many, many more who I have not described here.

  This was the moment. Whatever I said, whatever steps I took, would bind me forever. Father placed a wild olive wreath in my hands.

  “Crown him,” he said.

  Only at that moment did I realize that he had not asked me my choice; he did not know, either; he trusted me to select the man who would succeed him on the throne. “Thank you,” I said.

  I walked toward the group. I felt the hem of the robe stirring around my feet, felt the faint pulses of heat coming from the fire, but I walked on, like someone in a dream.

  “You are my husband,” I said to Menelaus, placing the wreath on his head. I did not dare to look at his face. I did not need to see him now. Having made my decision, I did not want any last-minute feelings to intervene.

  “Princess!” He knelt, and his lovely head bent forward, almost losing the wreath.

  I drew him up. “Rise,” I said. “Stand here beside me.” He did so, and still I did not dare to look at him.

  “My daughter has spoken,” said Father. “Let us all rejoice!”

  A resounding cheer tore through the megaron—relief, release. It was over.

  Menelaus squeezed my hand, turned to me.

  “Princess, I am not worthy,” he said. Still I feared to look at him. I could not gaze on his face. He noticed.

  “Princess,” he said, “it is not my face you should be afraid to look upon. I am just an ordinary man. If I can gaze at your face, which takes more courage, then you should have no fear of looking at mine.”

  Before we could speak further, Father came over and embraced Menelaus. “Son!” he said.

  Castor and Polydeuces also made their way over. If they resented losing the throne to Menelaus, they did not show it. Had both Clytemnestra and I left Sparta to marry, they would have inherited Father’s title.

  “Welcome, new brother,” said Castor.

  Polydeuces clapped him on the back. “We’ll race sometime, you and I,” he promised. “But you’ve won the race that counts.”

  Mother took both his hands, and Clytemnestra embraced me. “Now we will be double sisters,” she whispered. “Oh, I’m so happy.”

  “When will it be?” asked Agamemnon. “You can take a newlywed journey to Mycenae and stay with us—in privacy, of course.”

  “Soon,” I said. “As soon as all arrangements can be made. And there will be few of them, as all the family is already here.”

  Suddenly I felt ready to embrace my future, and rushed to meet it.

  XIII

  The gods themselves chose the day—the warm height of spring, when the countryside was erupting with life. We would pledge ourselves in the private forest stretching behind the palace. Father and Mother had wanted it in the little enclosed courtyard, but as I had gazed on that every day of my life, I wanted another place for this sacred moment.

  For this day I would wear my finest golden robes, and the evening before, I fasted and dedicated myself to the marriage. I did everything—O you gods, I did!—to ensure that this marriage would be blessed.

  The grove was hushed; the sweet murmur of wind in the uppermost branches of the trees was soothing. Mother and Father escorted me into the clearing. My face was veiled with the sheerest linen, as I was guided toward the place where the rite would be held. I felt as though I were walking in a dream, for it could not possibly be true, what I was doing. But when they lifted the veil, there was Menelaus beside me. He smiled hesitantly, his face pale.

  A priestess of Persephone, to whom our family was loyal, would conduct the ritual. She was young and her mossy green gown seemed the same shade as the ground beneath her feet. She looked first at my face, then Menelaus’s.

  “Menelaus, son of Atreus, you stand here in sight of all the gods of Olympus to pledge yourself,” she said. “You seek to take Helen of Sparta to wife.”

  “Yes,” said Menelaus.

  “You do this knowing all the decrees of the gods through their prophecies—upon your house, and upon the house of Tyndareus?”

  No, he didn’t know the prophecy of the Sibyl, how could he?

  “Yes,” said Menelaus. “We are right with the gods.”

  She held out a garland of flowers and bade him bind our wrists together. “As these flowers of the field are twined together, so must your houses be.”

  She nodded to one of her acolytes and a gold pitcher was brought and placed in her hands. “The sacred waters of the Kastalian Spring at Delphi,” she said. “Bow your heads.” She poured some over us. “May this impart wisdom.” She unwound a bright red thread from around her waist and told us to touch it. “Whosoever touches this has touched the belt of faithfulness and will remain true.” She motioned to another acolyte and she circled around us, carrying a bowl of smoking incense. “Let the prayers ascend.”

  We stood in silence. I had not so far been asked to say a word.

  “Close your eyes and circle one another,” she ordered us. Slowly we shuffled past one another. “Forever after, you will be within one circle, one house.”

  Still no words, no promises, were asked of me.

  “She is yours,” said the seer abruptly. “Take her hand.”

  Menelaus reached out and grasped my wrist, in the ceremonial gesture indicating someone taking a wife. It harked back to the days when a man abducted a woman for marriage; now, of course, it was symbolic.

  But Menelaus had another, private gesture. He motioned to his servant, who brought forward a carved wooden box. Opening it, Menelaus drew out the big gold-linked necklace that Agamemnon had flourished. Reverently, he lifted it up and put it over my
head. It sank down around my neck, so heavy it felt like a yoke. Its lower links fell below my breasts, tangled in my hair—the great weight of marriage, and of what I had entered into, tugged earthward.

  The gleam of the gold and its thickness dazzled the onlookers. I might say it blinded them—all they could see was the yellow and the glitter.

  Back in the palace, the marriage feast began. The entire central portion of the palace, with the megaron giving out onto the private enclosure, had been transformed. Cut branches of flowering myrtle and roses twined around the columns, clouds of sweet incense rode the wind, and great stacks of braided flower garlands awaited the guests. Everyone must feast, everyone must rejoice before setting out for home, back to their gray-walled fortresses and sea-dashed houses.

  Now I must walk with Menelaus, not Father. Forever after, it must be Menelaus, and not Father. Hesitantly I held out my hand and he took it. He must have felt the cold in it.

  Pulling gently, he drew me to him. He pressed me against his cloak, whispered, “I cannot believe that you are mine, that we will see each other every morning as long as we live.”

  Nor could I. “We must think only of tonight, and of tomorrow, the first morning to come,” I said. It was all I could manage. And I did not know what to think of them. I was not prepared, I could not imagine how to live through them.

  “Now, my brother!” Castor interrupted us, but it was not unwelcome. Menelaus turned to him. We still belonged to others, at least for now.

  I embraced my mother. Was she trembling, or was that my fancy?

  “Dear child,” she said. “I am happy for you, and happy for me, that I shall not lose you.”

  “You will always have me near,” I said. And that was a comfort.

  Father came to us. “It is done,” he said briskly. “And well done.” He gestured around to the company. “They will go home content. And I will be content that they have gone home!”

  The sweet sound of flutes rose through the human voices.

  “This is your wedding day,” said Mother.