Helen of Troy

by Margaret George

  The darkest time of the year came and went. The sun began to rise farther east and set farther west, and climb a bit higher in the sky, although it was still cold and damp. I knew my time was nearly here, and I had readied myself as much as I could for something I only knew would be nothing like what I expected—an impossible thing to prepare for.

  The old midwife was right: it was unmistakable.

  I had been at my loom, weaving what I thought was a complicated pattern (that was before I saw what they did at Troy), when I felt a slight twinge. Still I kept on weaving, kept bending down and feeding the shuttle and telling myself, No, not yet. This might be only a flutter or a false start.

  But the twinges persisted and grew stronger. Excited, I put down the shuttle and sought out Mother.

  “Oh, Cygnet!” she cried. “Come quickly into the birth room. I’ll send for the midwife!”

  She led me into the room, kept deliberately bare and unfurnished. There was nothing in there but a hard wooden bench, blankets, and some jugs and buckets. I clutched at her hand and climbed up onto the bench. Looking about me, all I saw was bare whitewashed walls.

  “There is no purpose in having beautiful wall paintings,” she said. “They will give you no pleasure and afterward whenever you looked upon them you would shudder.”

  The waves of pain came crowding in on one another, coming now so fast they overpowered me, and soon I was gasping.

  I looked up and saw Piele’s face. “Get hold of yourself!” she barked. “You cannot fall behind now. It will be a long time until you can rest again!”

  “How long?” I cried.

  “A long time!” she said. “A great long time!”

  It seemed an eternity, but those who were there said it was only one night and part of a morning. I saw it grow dark—lamps and torches had been lit, so it was hard to tell—and I thought I saw it grow light, but I was seeing little by then. There was a window in the room and I believe it changed color, but I cannot remember. What I do remember is the acute pain and how I cried out, “Father! Can you not spare me this?” and when the pain continued unabated, I knew that my mortal side was by far the stronger one within me. A goddess would not feel the agony I did.

  At last, after a great crest and surge of pain, it abruptly stopped.

  “It’s here!” the midwife cried. “It’s here!” Dimly I heard something—a scurrying, a murmuring. But no cry. Then it came. A loud wail.

  “Helen has a daughter!” Piele cried, holding up a loud red bundle.

  A daughter. “Hermione!” I whispered. My pillar-queen.

  Piele placed her in my arms and I looked at her little wrinkled face. Just at that moment she opened her mouth and showed her tiny pink tongue. Her cries grew louder.

  “Dear one,” I said. I welcomed her with all my heart, and felt at that instant nothing would ever sunder us. We were one.

  Later that morning, after we had been moved out of the stark birth room and to our regular quarters, Menelaus hurried in to see us. He held out his arms, and smothered us in them.

  “Here is Hermione,” I said, pulling away the encircling cover from her face.

  He gazed at her face in rapture. Finally he spoke. “She takes after her mother,” he said slowly, his voice a mere whisper.

  “Almost as beautiful as Helen was when first I beheld her,” said Mother. “Almost.”

  Later Mother sat by my side and handed me a hard little object of brown clay. I held it up and saw that it was a doll, with red paint outlining its head and eyes and the pattern of its dress. From the bottom of the clay skirt, sturdy legs, which were secured with a peg, dangled.

  “It was yours, Cygnet,” she said. “Now it can be Hermione’s.”

  The sun shone on our shoulders as we stood in a small circle around a fresh-dug hole in the earth. There were two priestesses of Demeter, one holding Hermione, and the rest of us spread out on either side. Beside the prepared hole a little plane tree was waiting to be planted, its leaves already drooping a bit.

  Father stepped forward. “We have a new member of our family, the first of the new generation to be born here in the royal palace of Sparta. In her honor, we will plant a tree, which will grow along with her. When she is small, she can play at its base. When she is older, she can measure herself against it. When she is a grown woman, she will see it attain its growth as well. She can sit in its shade and enjoy its gifts. And when she is old, she can be comforted that the tree is still in its vigor and youth.”

  He took a spadeful of earth and threw it, ceremoniously, into the hole. Then one priestess came over and poured a libation. Mother leaned over and buried something in the earth. Castor and Polydeuces did likewise. What had they bequeathed to the tree? Menelaus laid a dagger in the hole, saying that the man who wished to claim his daughter would have to recover it. Last of all, I stepped to the rim of the hole and scattered flower petals. Little Hermione just looked on solemnly.

  The gardeners set to work, moving the little tree and setting it aright, then mounding the earth around it. They emptied great jugs of water around its roots, pronouncing it to be thirsty. “But it should thrive!” they predicted.

  Father then took his place before the tree. “Now that Helen and Menelaus have brought forth a child,” he said, “I see the line will continue. And being a bit weary of my duties, I wish to appoint Menelaus to take the helm as king of Sparta, by marriage to Helen, queen of Sparta by rights of descent.”

  Father! I had not wished him to abdicate, only share some of his duties with Menelaus. I was shocked.

  “I do not wish to grow old on the throne and dodder,” Father said, before anyone could object. “The throne’s scepter belongs in a young man’s grasp. It is he who can most savor it and guard it. No, I am not old . . . but how will I know when I am? They say—the wisest men say—that in old age you feel no different than when you were young. So what—or who—will tell me when it is time to step down? No one. Now I feel in my heart it is time, and I will obey myself. Better that than to bow reluctantly before another’s decision.”

  I looked over at Menelaus. He was as stunned as I was; nay, much more so.

  “Your Majesty—” he began.

  “I have spoken,” said Father. “And the king’s dictate is binding.” His eyes caught mine and he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  The ceremony continued, but I heard little of its conclusion. I was lightheaded from the force with which the heavy mantle of responsibility had been dropped on me as well as Menelaus.

  “Menelaus,” I said quietly when we were alone. “Father’s generosity has left me dazed. You are ready to be king, but I am not prepared to be queen.”

  “You will be a magnificent queen,” he said. “I must strive to be worthy to stand by your side.”

  “Stop such talk,” I said. “You will be a king worthy of Sparta.” He would be fair and generous; he did not have any of Agamemnon’s ferocious self-absorption and ambition. His thoughts would always be of what was good for Sparta.

  “So we go forth to claim our scepters?” My voice was shaky.

  “We do what we are called to do,” he replied, as he put his arm around me. He had not recovered from the surprise; it was too early yet to tell if he was pleased.

  The scepters were ones that had been fashioned in the palace workshop—a shaft of ash with each end sheathed in finely worked gold. The conferment ceremony was equally simple. Father and Mother, each clutching the scepters, gave them to us with only a few words. Father acknowledged that Menelaus was his chosen successor and that all men must obey him. Mother handed me her scepter and said, “I have longed to give you this since the day you were born. I knew it was your fingers that should grasp it. And now the gods have answered my request, and it is yours.” She thrust it out to me, and I took its slender shaft in my hand.

  “Rule well and wisely,” said Father.

  The witnesses—my brothers, the commander of Father’s palace guard, the treasurer of the kingdom, the h
ead scribe, the priestesses of Demeter—all nodded to indicate their acceptance. Then I saw a face among them that puzzled me. It was Gelanor of Gytheum—the spymaster Father had recruited at the great festival of the kingdom when first I married. The man who knew about poisons. How had he attained such a high position that he was present at this solemn ceremony?

  I had the feeling that he knew exactly what I was thinking. Especially when he shrugged. I found myself staring at him, longing to ask him what he was doing here.

  But when I looked for him after the ceremony, he had vanished, as mysteriously as he had appeared.

  XVII

  I had arisen that morning as a princess and I retired to my bed as a queen. I prayed that I would be able to carry out the duties faithfully. Immediately my life now demanded daily audiences in the megaron, and my attendants were increased so that I had six of them—three young and three older.

  I had a wet nurse for Hermione, but still I nursed her as long as I was able. Holding her close was something I was loath to relinquish, even after it was clear I was not providing enough nourishment and she would not grow properly. I consulted with Piele about my nursing and she responded by bringing more of the cheese she had recommended in my pregnancy.

  “For cheese is but curdled milk, my lady,” she said. “So to bring forth more milk, cheese is the best way. You could drink flagons of goat milk, but I know you do not care for it.” I did as she urged.

  Menelaus found me cutting up a platter of the cheese, putting it on slices of cucumbers. He teased me about it, saying that I would turn into a great wheel of cheese.

  “But it is for Hermione!” I said.

  “Helen,” he said, “why don’t you just give her over to the wet nurse?” He took one of the slices of cucumber with the cheese atop it. He tasted it and then shook his head.

  Was he happier now? Certainly he was busier, and had less time to brood. But he had no more time for me, and sometimes we seemed as formal with one another as we were with the foreign envoys that we received in the megaron. He did not come often to my chamber and when he invited me to his, our coupling was tepid and forgettable: pleasant enough, like that light wine from Rhodes, but like that wine, it did not make you lose your head. You could memorize a list afterward or drive a chariot without swerving.

  I stopped petitioning Aphrodite and ceased thinking about it. It was not to be part of my life. Well, I could exist without it. No one ever died for lack of Aphrodite, but many had died from the surfeit of foolishness she invoked. I should be thankful I was spared that.

  I did not feel well. I had not felt well for some time, but it had happened gradually . . . a headache, a lassitude, a weakening of the limbs, a loss of appetite. Then my hair began to fall out, and when my chamber-woman combed it she held big chunks of it in her hand.

  “Often women lose hair after childbirth,” she said, seeking to reassure me.

  I knew that. But it was now six months later, and the hair loss was increasing. And then there were the other symptoms.

  I looked long and hard into my polished bronze mirror. My face looked strained, and I thought I saw blotches, but the mirror did not offer a good reflection. Polished bronze is not even as good as water in giving you back your face.

  I peered into water basins, but the light was too bad—for always my head was blocking it—to show me a true portrait of myself.

  But day by day it was growing more difficult for me to do the things I must do. I did not sleep well, and all day I had the sensation of dragging myself from one thing to another.

  I first spoke to Menelaus about it, but all he could say was, “Consult a physician.” I did, and he suggested I spend the night in a temple of Asclepius. But the nearest temple was several days’ journey away at Epidaurus.

  One day, after drooping my way through my public duties and then seeking a seat in the shaded portico, a man came over to me.

  I had not spoken directly to him since the festival. I shaded my eyes and looked up at him. “Gelanor of Gytheum, is it not?” I said.

  “The same, Your Highness,” he said, bowing slightly. Then he looked straight at me with those eyes that missed nothing. “You are not well?” he asked.

  “Just tired,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Again his eyes held mine. And there was no deference in them, no groveling. “I fear you may have been feeling this way for some time.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have been present at many ceremonies.”

  “Yes, and how has that happened? When Father first met you and indicated an interest in you—”

  “What you mean is, ‘How did a humble man from Gytheum rise so quickly’—don’t you?”

  “Well—yes.” I was a bit taken aback by his bluntness.

  “I had skills the king needed, and valued,” he said. “The former king, that is. The new king has yet to discover my . . . talents. And so I may be departing for Gytheum before long.” He paused. “But I am concerned about your health.”

  “Oh, you needn’t be—” I began, turning my head in what I hoped was a lighthearted gesture. A clump of hair fell out.

  Palace protocol demanded that it be ignored. Gelanor bent down and picked it up. “This is alarming,” he said.

  “It is?” My voice rose. Everyone else had sought to soothe me about it.

  “Yes. This sort of hair loss usually means . . . poison.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right, I remember, you are the expert in poison!” I attempted to laugh.

  “Fortunately, yes,” he said. “There is nothing mysterious about poison. It is quite obvious when it is employed.”

  “If you have eyes to see,” I said.

  He gave what I was later to know as his characteristic sad smile. “It should not take trained eyes to spot this,” he said. “Now tell me your other symptoms.”

  I had recounted them to the court physician, only to be told to go to a temple. But Gelanor listened attentively. He wrote nothing down, but I knew it was all being entered into the records of his mind.

  There was only one thing left for him to ask: When had it begun?

  It was hard to tell, since I had been weakened by childbirth and the recovery took some time, thus disguising the true onset of the illness.

  “Hmmm . . . yes, very clever. Disguise it, mix it in with a normal recovery.” He sat back and frowned. “Who has been closest to you during this time?”

  There was Mother, of course. And the three new attendants. And the midwife, who had taken such good care of me. I could not think any one of them would wish to harm me. No, that could not be. It was impossible . . .

  “Do not think of the personality of the suspects, but only of their possible motive and their access to you,” Gelanor said.

  “Must you call them ‘the suspects’?” I asked.

  “That is the first step in seeing them as they are. Forget their names, forget their kind words, and transform them in your mind to ‘the suspects.’ ”

  “That is horrible!” How could I do that?

  “That will uncover the truth. What is horrible is not labeling someone ‘the suspect’ but what they, under the guise of trust, are seeking to do to you.” He leaned over and whispered, “They are not interested in whether your hair falls out or not. That is just a side effect of the poison. They mean much greater harm than that. And look to your daughter.” He stood up abruptly. “I will examine some things in your chamber, with your permission. And also, with your cooperation, I will test the foods brought to you. Please, without attracting attention, save samples for me. And watch. Remember there may be more than one—several may be working together. Make sure no one suspects that you suspect.”

  So I surreptitiously and cleverly—so I thought—secreted bits of whatever I ate and turned them over to Gelanor, sometimes meeting him at the palace portico, other times leaving them wrapped and hidden beneath a certain rock in the garden. I looked carefully at all those who served me, and I could not begin
to discern who was the culprit.

  My three young attendants: Nomia, who was the daughter of the chief of Agamemnon’s guard; Cissia, the daughter of one of Mother’s lifelong maid-servants; Anippe, about my age, whom I had known from my cradle. It was possible the latter two might have had some grudge against me, but I could not fathom what it might be. As for the first, she surely would not jeopardize her father’s position—Agamemnon was not noted for his mercy.

  The older ones: Philyra, wife of Father’s head archer; Dirce, a priestess of Demeter, who maintained the goddess’s shrine in the palace woods; and Eurybia, wife of the leading citizen of the town of Sparta below us. Why would any of these women wish to harm me?

  There were the palace cooks—one must not overlook them. And there were other ways to be poisoned besides food. There could be tainted ointment, lethal smoke from fires or incense, poisoned wine or water. My clothes could have been imbued with some sort of poison. There was, after all, the shirt of Nessus that had killed Heracles.

  A thousand things to think of. A thousand things to prevent!

  Gelanor laughed. But “those are only means of last resort,” he admitted.

  Well, that was a relief. Because once I started trying to analyze every single thing I came in contact with, the task loomed as Olympian.

  “You want to know why,” he said. Yes, I had, but I had not asked that. “The reason is simple. These other methods dilute the poison. Think about it. Poison wafting about in smoke—ineffective. You would have to be enveloped in it for hours at a time. What happens when incense fills the room overmuch? We flap cloths and force it out. And putting drops of poison in bathwater—not enough. You would have to bathe for hours in pure poison. As for the clothes—unless you have poison from the Hydra, as Nessus did in his blood, it is a very ineffectual way of trying to kill someone. Someday evil people will perfect poison so that only a tiny drop is needed to kill,” he said. “But that time is a long way in coming.”