Priam climbed slowly down from his wagon. Even from where I stood I could see the anguish on his face. “Release my son! Release him!” he cried. “You agreed to release him. Last night, you swore you would. Keep your word!”
“Only with enough gold, old man. You brought too little. Do you not know how much your son weighs? Did you not even figure on the armor? I shall count it, add Trojan gold for every bit of my armor.”
“He is not wearing armor now!” yelled Deiphobus.
“No, he wouldn’t, would he? The dead do not wear armor!” He pointed at the empty pan of the huge scale. “Gold in here! Let us see if you can afford this corpse!”
“Oh, Trojans! Help redeem your prince!” cried Priam. There was a long, agonizing pause, while Priam stood with bare, bowed head, until attendants came through the gate with armloads of gold. They heaped it up in the pan, but the body of Hector on the opposite pan did not budge.
“More gold!” cried Priam. “Oh, I beg you!”
In a sad procession, people came out onto the field, offering plates and cups and what jewelry they had left—small things. They heaped it all onto the pan. Hector moved a little, but not enough.
“My son, my son!” Priam wept. “Oh, redeem him!”
But the rest of the Trojan gold had been spent, and replenishments from the sale of our treasures to the Phrygians had not yet been realized.
“Yes, Father.” A small clear voice sounded from the wall. “I will give what I have.” Polyxena leaned over the wall and threw bracelets and earrings to her father waiting below. He clasped them in his shaking hands and placed them on the pan, and it began to move. Slowly the body of Hector rose and the pan with the gold dropped.
Achilles was staring at her, dumbstruck. “A noble princess,” he said. The pan continued to rise until Hector was higher than the heap of gold. “Very well.” He sounded angry. “Take him!” With a jerk of the reins, he drove off, back to the Greeks.
With a cry, the Trojans rushed out of the city and surrounded Priam and the body of Hector on the wagon, and, with exultation, escorted them back in to safety.
The funeral of Hector. Now we could have it. Not only the funeral of Hector, but the brutal Achilles had agreed to a twelve-day truce in which each side could gather their dead and hold funeral rites.
Hector’s funeral pyre was built on the southern side of Troy, beyond the lower city, on the side that faced Mount Ida. We did not want the Greeks to see the flames. All around it were scattered the pyres of other fallen warriors. The entire city would do homage to Hector and then the private funerals would follow.
As was the custom, the pyre was lit late in the day. From early morning the rites had been under way—the solemn procession with the washed and anointed Hector borne on a funeral cart surrounded by mourners singing dirges and weeping. All night long he had lain in ceremonial repose until the whispers about how untouched and perfect he appeared reached a humming buzz. So many days dead and yet he looked as if he merely slept. Eight days of being dragged behind a chariot and not a scratch or a bruise upon him. But the gods do what they will—had not Paris and I spoken of just this?
I looked down the row of royal mourners and felt the huge gap that Hector left. Priam, his eyes dim with grief, was old and broken, Hecuba devastated. She had lost her dearest child. Deiphobus was not the warrior Hector was, no, nor the man, either. Helenus, the next eldest, was a slinking and elusive man. Polites was still a child. Paris was clearly the most gifted and should take his place alongside Priam as his new heir, but Priam showed little interest in him. There was Aeneas and his family, but they were not in direct line for the throne. As for the others dutifully standing with us—Antimachus, Antenor and his son Helicaon, Aesacus, and Glaucus—were they any match for our adversary? Our enemy had lost no valuable man except Patroclus. After all this fighting, no one lost but him! Whereas we had lost Sarpedon, and Rhesus, and now Hector.
Three women were to speak laments over the body of Hector: his widow, his mother, and I. I knew not why I was chosen, but Antenor had whispered to me that I was last. Andromache stepped forward and clasped Hector’s hands where he still lay on the wagon, and spoke of all she was bereft of—her life with her husband, their days to come, and the loss to Troy. But her loss was bitterest of all, for she was cheated of his last words, something he might have murmured in their bed that she could cherish all her life.
Her face looking whiter and deader than Hector’s, she stepped back and wrapped herself in a dark hooded mantle. Hecuba crept forward. Hunched over, trembling, she reached out and stroked Hector’s forehead. “I loved you best of all my sons!” she cried. “And you were not the first that Achilles took from me. But all the days of your life, the gods loved you, and I can see they have not deserted you now. They have returned you to me as fresh as the first time I held you in my arms.” I waited for her to say more—how can a mother ever say all she feels at such a time? But perhaps because it was impossible, she clamped her mouth shut and stepped aside.
A long pause. Now I must speak. But what could I say, and what right did I have to speak, compared to Andromache and Hecuba?
No one else moved. I took a step, then another, approaching Hector. How stern and immutable his face was, his mouth set in a straight line, his eyes closed. It seemed impossible that he, with all his strength, was gone from us, yet he had foreseen it. He had used that strength in gentleness amongst us.
I raised my head and spoke, but only to Hector. “You, my dear Hector, I loved the best of all my Trojan brothers, nearest to my own brothers far away. You alone were kind to me at all times, making a shelter for me from the stones and stares of others. Hector, it was your born nobility that made you courteous and kind, and allowed you to welcome such a stranger as I. Now, without you, the winds blow cold in Troy.”
Too late, I thought I should have sung innocuous praises to Hector and said nothing of myself and him. But I was Helen, notorious Helen, and the war that had brought him to lie on this bier was ignited by me. It would have been cowardly to let that pass in silence, disrespectful to Hector.
I stepped back and the ritual continued—the hair cutting, the offerings and blood libations poured on the great pyre, the chanting, the call of, “Hector! Hector!” by Antenor before he touched the torch to the wood.
As the fire consuming Hector blazed, other fires were lit, and the whole plain became a field of bonfires, lighting the night skies and sending sparks swirling heavenward.
The next morning, gray-cloaked Trojans gathered the bones of their men from the smoking ashes of many fires. Priam insisted on doing it himself, clambering over the remains of the fire, stepping carefully to avoid the glowing coals. Paris, Deiphobus, and Helenus stood by to receive them. As the most prominent, they could stand side by side and look at one another out of the corners of their eyes, knowing themselves as rivals. Lesser children of Hecuba—Polites, the boy who kept signal watch outside the walls, Pammon, and Antiphus—stood behind them, flanked by the seer Aesacus, child of Priam’s first wife. He still had sons, but as he gathered the white bones of Hector it was clear he had lost his only true child, the child of his deepest heart. All around the giant pyre of Hector other families were gathering their sad relics. The sky was gray as the ashes, as if to be clear and bright would have slain them all with cruelty.
Though our stores were low, Priam gave orders for a funeral feast. Nothing would be spared to send Hector in style and splendor to the gods.
Hector’s feast was held in his expansive hall, directly after the bones had been gathered. Even with the large crowd, without Hector it seemed empty. As if to confirm the words I had spoken over him, the rest of the family did not address me, but talked only to one another. Andromache was seated, like a queen—and here she was indeed queen of the dead—and others knelt before her, kissing one hand. With the other she held Astyanax. Hector’s helmet lay at her feet. Priam announced that they would build a shrine to it.
“In ages to come,
men will honor Hector,” he promised her. “They will stand in awe of this helmet that once graced his head.” He stooped and picked it up. “How strong a neck, to have carried this weight,” he sighed.
I clasped Paris’s hand. Priam had living sons and he must now open his eyes to them. He must!
The old king was still mumbling and setting the helmet back in its place with trembling hands when with a rustle someone pushed forward to stand before him. He stopped caressing the helmet and let his eyes move slowly to the sandaled feet and then up the muscled legs. His head tilted back and he rose to see a comely woman of immense strength. Laughing, she picked up the helmet as easily as if it were made of fine cloth, and put it on.
“Take it off!” Priam ordered her. “Sacrilege!”
She just laughed again and plucked it off, handing it back to him; he sagged with the weight. “Mine is heavier,” she said, shrugging. “How fortunate you do not have to lift it.” She spun hers, which she had been holding easily in her other hand.
Priam stared at her, as did we all. He was forming the words Who are you? when he suddenly realized. “Penthesileia!”
“None other,” she replied. “And my warriors.” She gestured to the entrance, where a company of women were standing—we could just glimpse them. “Come, my companions!” At that, they marched in, sandals tromping. “There are more, of course. These are my officers.”
“You had such a distance to come,” said Paris, stepping over to Penthesileia. “I sent for you, never hoping you could be here so soon.”
“Not soon enough, I am sorrowed to see,” she said. “I am grieved that you have lost Hector.” She sighed. “I had looked forward to fighting alongside him.”
Priam took a deep breath, most likely to prevent himself from saying, No one is fit to fight alongside Hector. Hector is always in front. The others follow—even the Amazon queen and commander, daughter of Ares himself. Instead he just said, “He would have welcomed it.” On hearing his words, Andromache rose and left the chamber.
Her warriors crowded in, surrounding Penthesileia. All were as tall as men; all had youthful skin sheathing muscles that did not bulge as men’s did but swelled with smooth power beneath. They were carrying shields and armor that were as heavy as Hector’s, but they did not droop under them, standing proudly erect.
“I pray you, put your burdensome armor down.” It was Paris who spoke, taking Hector’s place. “We welcome you as allies, and you will be fighting no one in this hall.”
“Women, do so,” Penthesileia ordered them. They obeyed. Now, much lighter, they turned to meet us.
“You have traveled from a land to the east,” stated Priam flatly. “I remember your warriors, when the battle beyond Phrygia was joined in my youth.”
“We are even better fighters now,” said Penthesileia. “We train with superior weapons, and we begin our training earlier. All girls at the age of seven must report for testing on the field. We select only the most promising from the start. The strength and ability to be a warrior is present from the beginning. It is given, not bestowed by the will. Then the joyful part begins! Riding, swordsmanship—or, in our case, swordswomanship—spearing. Oh, it makes the heart sing!”
Her warriors all nodded. My eyes traveled down their tunics and I saw nothing that would indicate they had cut off their right breasts to enable their fighting arms better to slash, as hearsay had it.
“Achilles,” hissed Penthesileia. “It is time to end his scourge.”
LX
They lodged with us. I would not have the Amazons stay elsewhere. Paris had summoned them, and we would find room for them, despite the refugees crowded into our open spaces, sleeping on the floor. Our new guests seemed relieved to escape the sorrow and darkness of Hector’s chambers, and once they were with us, they smiled and laughed and celebrated their long journey, recounting its perils and tediousness.
“Such a journey—one is either fighting for one’s life or bored to death. It is either furious and fast or so slow one feels buried by the sands,” Penthesileia said, putting down her goblet still half filled with good wine. She looked hard at Paris. “We were pleased to answer your plea and come.” Now her voice grew from its quiet timbre to a militant tone. “Achilles must be stopped.” She held up her hands to ward off any interruptions. “It is disgraceful that he could rout an entire army. No man has that power. You Trojans gave it to him.”
“He is the son of a goddess,” said Paris, almost timidly.
“Oh?” Penthesileia glared at him. “And I am the daughter of Ares, the war god himself. What goddess does he come from?” she snapped her fingers. “Thetis! An almost-unknown sea nymph. We must put all this aside. He has ridden a wave of fear and unearned reputation to your shores. Prophecies, legends—all foolishness. What was the word of your Hector about omens? ‘Fight for your country—that is the best and only omen.’ You have been unnerved by that man. He is just a man. I shall kill him,” she said matter-of-factly. “The great Hector was cut down. But one such victory does not make an invincible warrior. Do not give him that power over you. Someone here will kill him. If not I, then one of you.” She looked around at the company. “Achilles will lie in the dust, choking and fighting for breath, and you will see—and believe—that he is mortal. Then you will cease to fear him, but you should fling that fear away before he lies sprawled and dead. Do it now!”
Paris retired to our bedchamber, and we found sleeping accommodations for the company of Penthesileia’s warriors. I could not help thinking there were not many of them, but she assured me these were the commanders, and the regular soldiers were fending for themselves in the regular quarters with other soldiers. “We need no special treatment!” she all but bellowed.
I waited for Paris to retire to sleep. I wanted so badly to talk privately to Penthesileia. There is a time when we need to shed ourselves of our men and speak from the heart to other women.
I admired her so much I worried that I would not be able to find words to speak to her. I myself hated grovelers. (Oh, my Helen, you rob me of vision! I cannot speak, I am struck dumb! ) Such people are tiresome, and I did not wish to join their company. But she and the other Amazons had made themselves feared as warriors throughout the world, and hearsay had it that they tolerated no men in their villages. I remembered speaking to the Amazon ambassador, and we had exchanged lighthearted jests about the value of men, but now I burned with curiosity about Penthesileia and her life.
I was in luck. She was still up, staring moodily into the brazier fire, her strong arms hanging loosely over her knees. She looked up sharply at the (I thought) silence of my approach.
“Who’s there?” she called, reaching for her sword. She had not divested herself of it, keeping it strapped by her side even at darkest night.
“Only Helen,” I assured her, stepping out into the dim firelight.
“ ‘Only Helen!’ ” she exclaimed, relaxing her grip on her sword. “The immortal Helen! Let us finally study the faces of one another.”
I seated myself on a stool beside her. In the dim light I leaned forward to truly see her. “I have so long admired you,” I said.
“And I have for so long wished to glimpse you. They have a saying in my land, Her face caused a fleet of ships to sail the Aegean. So let me look at it.” She grasped my chin and stared at me, turning my face this way and that. “Well,” she said. “Perhaps it could be true. If I were a man, I could pronounce it true or not. As it is, I cannot say. I do see a crease here and there.” She released my face.
“As have I.” Lately in the polished bronze mirror in my chamber I had thought I had seen tiny lines, creases, but in the poor wavering reflection I could not be sure.
“You need not worry, I shall not tell anyone!” She laughed. “Although perhaps if they knew, down at the Greek lines, they would sail home. Helen has little lines around her eyes! they might shout, and hoist their sails. Then my job would be done by time itself.”
What she spoke of had w
orried me. Not because I feared to age as mortals did, but did it disprove the claim that Zeus was my father? And if he was not, what mortal was? I thought of the refined Antenor and his visit to Sparta and just as quickly shut that door.
“Forget me. How do you live in your land, without men? Are there no men at all?”
“We do have some men,” she said. “They arrive with the hunting seasons. We bed down with them—you know of what I speak—and it is pleasurable, but nothing to bind us, any more than the buzzing of wine in our heads would make us servants to wine.” She looked hard at me. “For to subjugate ourselves for a pleasure would be slavery,” she said. “Or to subjugate ourselves for anything else. We need children. Men are useful for that. But once they have done that duty, what use do we have for them?” She looked genuinely puzzled.
“Do not children need fathers?” My question seemed pitifully weak.
“What for?”
“To teach them—”
“To teach them what?”
“How to be men, how to behave as men.” I had had a daughter, but I knew sons needed fathers. I thought of poor Astyanax.
“But we have no boys, so no need for fathers,” she said briskly.
“What do you do with the boys?” I had to ask, although I suspected the answer.
“We expose them on the mountainside to perish, of course,” she said. “Who needs boys?”
Early the next morning I watched her arm. She let me stand with her attendants and even hand her her greaves, which she quickly fastened with silver ankle clips on her shapely calves. Unlike Hector, she seemed to relish all tasks on the battlefield. “You are brave,” I said. I thought of all the things I had wished to ask her, about who her mother was, how Ares had intertwined himself with her, how she had risen to be queen. Even about the breasts.
She saw me watching closely as she put on her breastplate. “We keep our breasts,” she said quickly. “As you know from your own life, many stories arise when someone is different. I know you did not truly hatch from an egg, my lady!”
Helen of Troy Page 61
