“Hecuba told me it snowed in Troy, but I didn’t believe her.”
“You should always believe Hecuba!” He laughed. “This is going to bury us!” Bundling himself up, he hurried away, down toward his house. “I hope I have enough wood at hand,” he muttered.
I stayed out in the courtyard for a few moments, relishing the sting of the cold and the roar of the wind. We had seen storms like this attacking the Taygetus Mountains back in Sparta, when they disappeared behind a mist of cloud and the next day sparkled an intense white from the new snow. And Mycenae turned into a palace of ice, so Clytemnestra had told me. Clytemnestra . . . the next time it happened, would she fold herself up into the arms of her lover and delight in thinking of Agamemnon shivering in his tent?
Now the Plain of Troy would turn white, the top of our walls would turn white, and all the streets of Troy would be muffled beneath a thick white blanket.
Paris came stamping in later, dusting snow off his mantle. I kissed the flakes from his nose and chin, lifting them delicately away with my tongue. They were an icy treat.
“Everything is closing down,” he said. “The gates are shut tight and you can be sure no one will be going in or out of the city for a while. No more battles.”
“If only that were final, not just a respite,” I said.
“Someday it will be,” he said. “There will come a day when the battles will cease and the plain will be empty . . . empty except for our fine Trojan horses—who can graze there once again—and for the trade fair, which will be bigger than ever.”
He sank down on a stool and reached across a table for a dried date, which he popped into his mouth. “I should not be profligate with these, I know our stores are running low . . .” He sighed. “All the way from Egypt you came,” he addressed a second fig waiting its turn in his hand. “From that placid place where the Nile runs through a flat desert and the only mountains are manmade ones, pointed things built of stone.” He ate it. “A strange place. A very strange place, so I am told.” Suddenly his eyes changed, and he got a faraway look. “Helen . . .” He took my hands, grasped them tightly. “When this war is over, when it’s all done, let’s leave Troy. Let’s go to Egypt. I could set up a trading center there for Troy, act as Father’s agent. If Troy could have some of the profits from a direct trade with Egypt, and we managed it ourselves instead of using Egyptian middlemen—”
“But . . . you are a prince of Troy! Does a prince become a merchant?”
“True, I am a prince, but I shall never reign here. Hector will inherit, and after him there’s Deiphobus.”
“That lecherous ape!”
Paris laughed. “Father seems to think highly of him. As concerns fighting, that is, and with Father that is all that counts.”
Then Priam is a fool, I wanted to snap, but I knew that Paris was touchy on this subject. “When the war is over, he may value other traits,” was all I said.
“I cannot wait for that day. Oh, Helen, let us go make our lives elsewhere. I was wrong to bring us back to Troy. I know it now. We can never be anything here but curiosities . . . curiosities rejected by our families. And every Trojan death will be laid at our feet—rightly, I fear. Oh, I never should have come back!” His eyes pled with mine. “Listen to me. Let us just go and be free people in another land.”
It was a mad dream, I knew that. But a tempting one for us, locked in tonight by the falling snow and the cessation of everyday life. Let us play our little game, for just a little while. “Very well, then. Where shall we go?”
His face had a dreamy look. “We’ll sail from here, along the coast by Rhodes and Cyprus, but we won’t stop there. Oh, unless you want to?”
“No, let us make our way quickly to our final destination.”
“Egypt,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to go there. There are so many places I want to see, and so far I’ve seen nothing but Troy and Mount Ida and a bit of Greece. My life of exploration was interrupted when I found you—but now we can do all the things I would have done alone. We will sail up the Nile—it has seven mouths, I’m told. We’ll choose one and follow it as it goes deep into Egypt. It will get hotter and hotter . . . there will be no winter . . . and we’ll visit their huge stone mountains.”
“But wouldn’t you want your trading colony to be nearer the sea?”
“Oh, yes, of course, but I want to explore Egypt first. And I want to do it secretly. We already have other names—Alexandros and Cycna, remember? So we’ll call ourselves that. No one will know.”
I laughed at the happy realization that to him, now, I was just Helen, and my face was just the face he saw every day. But the world might recognize Helen, unless I went back to the hateful veiling. But perhaps not. Perhaps my face had changed in the years since I left Sparta. I hoped so.
“Their king has an odd name, or title.”
“Yes, pharaoh,” Paris said. “And they marry their sisters. And worship gods with animal heads. But”—he bent forward and whispered—“they do unspeakable things to dead bodies. They gut them and salt them and wrap them up in linen. They think they will come back to life someday.”
“I shall take care not to die there,” I said. “Where do they put these bodies?” I imagined they must keep them in their homes, to have them always at hand.
“They construct elaborate tombs,” said Paris. “But we can’t get inside them. They are all sealed up.” He poured himself some wine and tilted it thoughtfully in his cup. “Farther up the Nile there is a vast city where the priests have a temple that is bigger than Troy. It has statues five times the size of a man. We must go there. As soon as this war is over.”
Outside, the snow fell, smothering Troy, holding the war at bay, but not ending it.
As I moved through the room in the hush, Paris whispered, “I know as well as you it cannot be.”
LV
The snow must have been under the command of Ares, for it did not stay long, and soon the streets of Troy resounded with the thump of warriors’ feet as they marched out toward the Scaean Gate to attack the Greeks. Reinforcements were on their way to Troy—the Paphlagonians and Thracians and the Lycians, under the command of the renowned Sarpedon, as well as the Amazons. Paris was welcomed at Hector’s side, and together the brothers swept down the main street and mounted their chariots. Other brothers—Deiphobus, Aesacus, and Helenus—were right behind them. I saw Antimachus striding quickly, leaping into his chariot just beyond the gate.
I dreaded to see Paris go. His hasty and guilt-ridden training with the sword and shield—were they adequate? I had urged him to take his bow, the weapon he excelled at, but he scoffed at me. He was determined to prove himself in the arena that other Trojans honored. But he was many years behind them in practice. On the slopes of Mount Ida where he grew up, herdsmen did not fight with spears and swords against wild beasts—only a fool would, and that fool would soon perish.
On across the plain. The Greeks were advancing to meet them. So orderly and measured. Then they all vanished into a dark mass as they clashed. We could see nothing.
Night. Darkness fell and only stragglers had staggered in, beating on the gates for admittance. They told of a melee, of Aeneas being wounded, but no other warrior of note.
Oh, thank all the gods! Paris was safe.
Later they all came back, wearily carrying their injured. More men to lie on blankets in the lower city, to be tended as best we could. Aeneas was hobbling, leaning on two men, his shoulder a red stain. Diomedes had done it.
Paris stumbled in, beside Deiphobus. He was panting and mud-covered, but Deiphobus was laughing, fresh as a newly unfurled flower. “Here’s your husband, lady,” he said, pushing him toward me. “Restore him, as you know best.” He gave a smirk, then peeled off to continue trooping up to Priam’s palace, where they would all be welcomed with wine and food and, better than that, would be honored.
“What happened?” I clutched Paris, feeling the sweat-soaked corselet under my hand.
“Th
ey were waiting for us,” he said. But his voice rang with pride. “We gave them a good thrashing.”
“Did you drive them back to the ships?”
He looked at me oddly. “No, that we did not.” He was still breathing heavily, his chest heaving. “But perhaps we would have had the light not failed.”
Hector exhorted all the Trojan women to supplicate the Pallas Athena with gifts and prayers. Hecuba, holding the finest-woven bolt of cloth from her treasure chamber as offering, led the princesses in solemn procession at dawn. Behind them came the wives and daughters of the commanders and councilors. I was not invited. My presence would upset the ladies and disrupt the mood. I watched them from my high window as they shuffled into the temple beneath us.
Later that morning Paris and I went to see the wounded in the lower city, lying in painful rows waiting for aid. Many women were tending them, and I saw the pots of unguents Gelanor had prepared standing at the head of each row. Aeneas, a highborn warrior, would not be among them, but these were the men who bore the true brunt of the fighting.
“Today’s fighting went well, as far as it was allowed to. They must stop these pauses!” Gelanor said.
“You only say that because you want to try out your insect bombs,” I said.
“I do confess, I think I have perfected them. And the plague-ridden garments in the temple can serve as a last defense.”
Paris looked at the row of tossing, groaning men. “Tomorrow at this time—” He squared his shoulders. “I must go arm. We are to fight again. Hector will lead us out shortly.”
I had betaken myself to the guard tower, so that I might watch them depart. I found it empty—curious, but perhaps the archers only manned it when a battle was in progress and there was a chance the enemy would approach. Or perhaps the guards were changing their watch.
Down below I could hear the gathering troops. They were waiting for Hector. Just then someone entered the guard tower. I could not see who—I could only discern that he wore the crested helmet of a soldier. I shrank back into a corner to watch. Then I saw that the soldier was not alone—a woman was with him, a woman carrying a baby. But the poor light obscured their features. The woman held out the child to him. The child cried and shrank away, and the man took off his helmet and laid it aside.
“There, there,” he said, and I recognized the voice. It was Hector.
“He is frightened of the horsehair crest.” The familiar voice of Andromache. “To have a soldier for a father is always to be fearful.” She clutched his arm. “Hector, do not leave us!”
I saw his backlit profile move in a startled jolt. “Woman, what can you be thinking?” His voice, always deep and measured, was sorrowfully puzzled.
“You are all I have now,” she said. “My father, my brothers, all dead, killed by the vile Achilles. You are my only family. I beg you, do not go out there! Lest he kill you as well! And I have nothing! And your dear son, Astyanax, be left fatherless!”
“If I desert my men, then all will lose heart, and Troy fall,” he said. He stepped away from her, as if to protect himself.
“How can one man be the sole protection of an entire city?” she cried. “There are hundreds, thousands of others here. But they are not the heir of Troy, the son of Priam, the father of my son.”
“If the heir of Priam shirks, then why should anyone fight?” Hector spoke slowly. His very deliberate framing of his words betrayed how deeply he had thought about it. “Oh, Andromache!” Now he clasped her to himself. “You have barely touched upon it.” He bowed his head. “If Troy falls . . .”
Andromache made an inchoate sound of distress and buried herself deeper against Hector’s breast.
“What I cannot bear is the thought that you will be led away captive, or that our son will perish. The only consolation is that I will be dead by then, buried, and cannot see or hear the cries as Troy dies.”
“But then . . . why must you go forth? If there is no hope, why go?”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Because I can think both things at once. Troy needs me—Troy is doomed. May my son grow up to be a greater warrior than I—my son will die. I have no god or goddess mother or father. I am entirely mortal and the gods do not strive to protect me. So I must fight as a man alone and uncovered. But that is what I was born to do.” He slowly pulled away from Andromache and held up little Astyanax. Now the child laughed and gurgled, touching his father’s face.
“Here. Take him.” He thrust him back at Andromache and slid his helmet on. “Farewell.”
Brutal in his abruptness, he turned on his heel and left. Perhaps that was the only way he could force himself to do it.
Andromache stood weeping, holding Astyanax, who joined in, wailing.
I did not want her to see I was there and had witnessed all that passed between her and Hector. Such private moments should remain private. Slowly, holding my breath, I crept toward the door. She was not looking; her head was bent over her son’s, her eyes squeezed shut. I did not know how long I could keep so silent; my lungs were bursting, but I dared not breathe. Gradually I edged outside and tiptoed down the ladder. At the bottom, I gasped for air.
“Helen!”
Too late I saw the helmet and recognized it; a muscular arm hooked around me and pulled me behind the ladder.
“How long were you listening?” Hector was angry.
“I was there first,” I said, realizing I sounded like a child justifying myself. “I thought I was alone. I meant to be alone—my presence disturbs people now. But I need to watch, to know what is happening, as much—no, more than they!”
His arm relaxed and he released me. “It is best that of all people, it was you who overheard me.” He spoke in a low voice. “Things are not as simple to you as they are to others, who have never seen the other side.”
“Alas, that I have seen what I have seen.”
“We have both seen many things from the beginning that others are blind to. That is why I can entreat you: take care of Andromache and my son when the time comes.” Before I could protest, he said, “As I said—and you heard—the unbearable part is knowing what will happen to her when—if—Troy falls. But you will survive, you can protect her.”
“I will be the first to reap the fury of the Greeks when they storm us. If they do.” I was careful to add the if.
“No. They will spare you. You are one of them, and they will want to take you back as their prize of war.”
“No!” I cried. “I’d rather die!”
“But you won’t,” he said flatly. “You are strong. You are a survivor. And if she clings to you, Andromache will be spared, and my son as well.”
“Please, Hector!” I laid my fingers across his mouth. “Do not speak these words. They carry their own power. Do not make it happen.”
“I need to know I have your promise,” he said, removing my hand. “Then I can fight content.”
“Very well, then, I promise. But I promise a future that may never come about.”
“That is enough for me,” he said. “Take Andromache with you wherever you go.” He stepped out from the shadow of the ladder and fastened the strap of his helmet. “I must wait no longer,” he said, and fell in with his marching men on their way out of the city.
LVI
Hector survived that day’s battle, and reentered the city to great acclaim. Then he vanished into his house, where I knew Andromache embraced him, ignorant that he had consigned her to me for safekeeping.
I was greatly disturbed over his charge: both to look after her, and that I would, regardless of what happened, survive. You are a survivor, he had said, making it sound an ugly thing. A survivor was a rodent—was there not the adage about abandoning sinking ships?—who scavenged for himself, utterly without pride or morals, who lived only for himself. Was it the opposite of being noble? What was it Gelanor had said about Hector, that he was too noble and that was no way to win wars?
Were Gelanor and I two of a kind, he with his insect bombs
and heated sand, and I with my instinct for self-preservation? But surely Hector was wrong. Had self-preservation been utmost in my mind, I never would have run away from Sparta.
Yes, he was wrong. He had to be.
Several days passed—an informal truce. Then word reached me that Antenor had suggested that tired old idea that Helen be returned to the Greeks. Before he could air this publicly, I knew I should call upon him.
On official business, no one could refuse to see the notorious Helen. I knew Antenor would not turn me away, no matter his private feelings. When I was announced at the door, I was told the councilor would see me straight-away. He came in, trailing his long robe. His face wore a smile, as assumed as his emblems of office.
“My dear princess,” he said, inclining his head.
“Esteemed councilor,” I said.
“Come, let us speak privately.” He swept out his arm expansively, a signal to his servants that this meeting must not be disturbed. I followed him back into shadowy quarters.
The room was not large, but each object in it was chosen with an eye to pleasure. There was a shapely clay vase with a dark octopus design resting on the floor, and several cups of pure gold were displayed on shallow shelves jutting from the walls. The chairs were draped with deep-dyed fabrics from Sidon and even the stools had carved feet, inlaid with ivory. Two bronze incense burners were smoking.
Antenor nodded toward them. “One holds dried cypress, the other hyssop,” he said. “I find either by itself to be too strong, but when they are blended”—he stepped forward and fanned the smoke—“what a marriage!” He inhaled deeply. Only then did he turn to me. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“You know well enough,” I said, settling myself on one of the chairs—oddly uncomfortable despite their drapings. “Your suggestion that once again I be returned to the Greeks. Surely you are aware that my return is no longer enough to avert the war.” Should I tell him of my own attempt? No.
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