Helen of Troy

by Margaret George

  From a distance Troy looked as she always had: gleaming and invincible. Her citadel, crowning the heights, was just barely visible. I could see our palace, and Hector’s, and Priam’s, and the temple of Athena. What I could not see was what was happening inside them. From the outside they were lovely as ever; their vulnerability would not be apparent, not until they shimmered in flames and fell.

  The southern gate was open. Another lull in fighting was allowing Trojans to leave the city, fanning out into the woods to gather herbs and fire-wood, pasture horses, and replenish supplies.

  I rushed inside the gates, eager to be with my love, and learned his state from the guards soon enough: he was just clinging to life.

  I clutched Andromache’s shoulder. “I cannot bear it, I cannot withstand it,” I cried.

  “Yes, you can,” she said. “If the gods will it so—Oh, the hatred of them!—then you must.”

  “As you have?”

  “Yes. As I have.”

  I began to run up the steep road to the citadel, beyond the fallen houses in the lower city, one part of me seeing that they were deserted, that their owners had fled, but all I saw, truly, was Paris. Paris. Paris. With my own will, I would make him live. It was impossible that he would die. That he could die. It could not be.

  Andromache and I had held hands all the way up to the citadel, but then we drew apart as we stood between her palace and mine. I faced her, she who had lost everything in her life, I who still stood on the brink. “Come inside with me,” I urged her.

  She brought her hand up to her mouth. “Forgive me, Helen, I cannot.” She bit down on her fist. “I cannot witness it again.”

  “I understand.” And I did.

  “Go now,” she said. “It may yet all be right.”

  Slowly I mounted the steps. As I approached the chamber, the musky smell of sick-masking incense enveloped me. Then the unmistakable sounds of helpless people scurrying.

  I stood in the doorway and saw the shutters were drawn; I marched across the room to fling them open. Yes, I would open the shutters, Paris would sit up and thank me, turning his face to the sun. So I bestowed restorative power upon the shutters; it was a token of my desperation. The sickroom attendants winced at the stab of light. It showed the incense smoke curling grayish blue in the air. Still I had not dared to look at Paris. Now I could wait no longer. From where I stood, behind him at the window, I could see his rigid arms extended on either side of the bed, like poles. They were so stiff they could not bend at the elbow, and they were horribly swollen, to the size of gourds. His hands were black and so distended I could not see the separate fingers.

  With a cry, I dropped to my knees beside him and looked upon his face at last. What I saw was no longer Paris, but a purplish bruised visage that had once been a face. Even his hair was no longer his: the bright gold was muddy, hanging in clumps like rotted weeds. His eyes were swallowed up in the puff of their sockets, his skin was purple deepening to black. Even his lips, cracked and open, were black, with red fissures running through them.

  “Helen . . .” His voice, so faint I had to lean over to hear it, was still his. “She said no?”

  “She did, may her body dissolve into slime,” I said. “But we do not need her. I am here now; I was foolish to seek help from another. I can—”

  What could I do? Call on my father Zeus? Was he my father?

  “—call for help far above what she could do. Oh, my dearest, I should have done that straightaway!”

  He tried to move his arm, to touch my hand. But it would not obey him; it remained as stiff and unresponsive as a stick.

  “Wait,” I said. I bent over to kiss his forehead. Instead of being hot, it was as cold as Oenone’s pool. It sent waves of fear through me. I rushed from the chamber. I could not supplicate Zeus here.

  I sought the privacy of an inner room—difficult to find, with all the soldiers and refugees crammed into our palace. No large space remained. At length I found an empty chamber, but it was one used to store provisions, not a lovely and airy room such as Zeus in his majesty deserved.

  I had snatched up two of the censers with their incense, and now I set them with shaking hands on the floor. I stretched myself out before them, feeling the cold stone under my cheek, under my chest, my legs.

  Zeus, son of Chronos, if you are indeed my father, take pity on me. I lie here before you utterly abject, begging for the life of my husband, Paris. You can save him. You can restore him to health. You, mightiest of the gods, can make or undo anything you desire. Oh, grant me this wish!

  I felt nothing, no response. Did that mean . . . there was no Zeus? That he was not my father? That I had not addressed him properly?

  I know not the proper words to use, but see into my heart! See my true submission. If it is possible . . . let me die instead of him. Yes, transfer this affliction onto me! You allowed Alcestis to take the place of her husband. Allow me!

  Still silence. Did he not hear, or was it just that he willed himself to reject my plea, as if he had not heard?

  Let me die instead of Paris! I rose to my knees, addressed him out loud. “Let me take Paris’s place in the chamber of death,” I said. “Let me exchange my life for his.”

  Silence. I fell back to my knees and blew on the censers, frantic to coax more smoke out of them, as if that would command the attention of Zeus.

  “Please, Father,” I said. “Hear my supplication.”

  Then I heard—did I hear it as a sound, or only words whispered in the secret inner recess of myself?—his voice. My child, I hear you, but it cannot be. I cannot reverse fate, a man’s destiny. We gods cannot interfere with that. We could, but at the same time we cannot, as it would destroy the order of things. Your Paris is slated to die, and die he must. I am grieved, my child, but I cannot stop it, no more than I could stop the death of my son Sarpedon on the field before Troy. I wept for him, as you shall weep for Paris.

  “You called me child,” I said.

  You are my child. The only mortal woman I acknowledge as my daughter. And you shall not die.

  “Without Paris, I do not wish to live,” I told him.

  You have no choice. You will live, because your blood decrees it. We will welcome you amongst us when the time comes.

  “I shall make a poor goddess,” I said, “grieving always for my lost Paris.”

  Many of us grieve, but I shall share a truth with you: still it is good to be a god.

  The voice ceased. I had failed. Zeus had rejected my plea, as had Oenone. That was all I cared about. I rushed from the chamber—more wasted time!—and ran to Paris.

  I clasped his head in my hands. I could feel the sweat on his brow, but I touched him gently, lest I cause him pain. His swollen eyelids opened and he looked at me.

  “What did—what happened?” he murmured.

  “I was promised that you shall recover. Yes, from this moment on, new strength will flood into your limbs and the poison will recede.” I hated lying, but I could not speak the hideous truth. I stroked his arm, with its skin stretched so tight that if I scratched it with my nails it might burst. “All this shall recede,” I said. “Your arm will be yours again.”

  He smiled—or rather, his lips attempted to move. “He listened to you.”

  “Yes. He will spare us. For I would not live without you, and so the Hydra’s poison would fell me as well.” As it felt like it was already doing.

  “Helen.” He gave a great sigh. I saw how his whole body had darkened in the short time I had been away from his side. No, not so soon! “You were ever faithful. I did not deserve you.”

  “None of that, now!” I told him. “No such foolishness. I was yours from the beginning. I am only thankful your ship came when it did. I do not think I could have waited a moment longer.”

  “Hold my hand,” he said.

  I took it—the swollen remnant of what had been Paris. O the gods! Aphrodite, could you not bend yourself to attend on us now? “Yes, my dearest. I shall neve
r release it, until you stand strong again and leave your bed.”

  “It is so dark in here,” he said, agitated. “Dark, dark! And a tunnel is sucking my feet away, making me slide down it.”

  “No, my love, you are lying here wrapped in finest linens.” Linens that were sweat-soaked. “You are safe.”

  Then he was gone. No last words, no farewells, nothing left for me. He was whisked away down that tunnel he had spoken of—not in fear, but in wonder.

  Paris was dead, and I a widow. But that meant nothing—although it was soon to—beside the enormity that Paris had ceased to be.

  I closed his eyes, gently touching his eyelids. How many times had I stroked them, kissed them? Oh, I could not bear to think upon it.

  I turned to the chamber attendants and managed to say, “Prince Paris is dead. His spirit has departed. Prepare him.”

  I could remain no longer in our chamber. I stumbled out.

  I sought the privacy of the little chamber where my attendants slept. There was no one there. I fell down on the pallet. Tears would not come. Nothing came but a great desolation. Paris was gone. The world had ended for me.

  I had spoken true to Zeus. I had no wish to live. Life ceased for me with the last breath of Paris. And he had had no words for me, only nonsense about dark tunnels. It was meaningful to him, but not to me.

  He had not known those would be his last words. Perhaps we never know. While we are robust and in the prime of life, we imagine our deathbeds, the wisdom we mean to impart, and the precious words, like jewels on a necklace, that we intend to bequeath to those around us. But it is rarely to be. We perish quickly on the battlefield, or in an accident, or in a lingering illness that will not announce its schedule for our destruction. And so our words perish with us, and those left behind are condemned to clutch at memories, at what they imagine we wished to say.

  I could feel sorrow, but not the finality of it. It was too great to be comprehended. I forced myself up from the pallet and ran blindly to Andromache, my one other companion who had faced this.

  She was waiting for me in her chamber. She had made a forced attempt to weave, but her shuttle lay idle beside her on a stool. As I stumbled in, she rose and extended her arms. I fell into them, feeling her embrace.

  “Paris has joined Hector,” I said.

  “They are embracing, even as we, those left behind, are also embracing. If we had eyes to see, we might behold them,” she said. She stroked my hair. “With sorrow I welcome you as my sister.”

  The funeral of Paris: a high mountain of wood, Paris lying respectfully draped on his bier to cover the horror of what the poison had wrought upon him, official mourners weeping and keening through the streets of Troy. By the side of the funeral pyre his mother and father stood, as wooden as the fagots under their son. The remaining brothers formed a flank around them. All of Troy, so it seemed, had deserted the city and now stood on the southern plain where the funeral was to take place.

  But there had been so many funerals, and tears were dried up. Troilus, Hector, innumerable private losses, made Paris a latecomer. Always there was the feeling that Paris had brought all this about, and without him the other deaths need not have taken place.

  They were right. Without that fateful glance in Sparta, none of this would have happened. For that reason I had been willing to take his place. But adamantine Zeus would not permit it.

  The oldest brother left to speak words was Deiphobus. His speech was brief, commending Paris to the gods. Priam spoke, touching on the sorrow of having found his son only to lose him. Hecuba wept.

  The wood was torched. There were no sacrifices scattered amongst the fagots—no slain horses, dogs, or hostages. Paris would not have wanted that, and I had insisted on his wishes. The flames leapt upward, licking toward Paris. I shuddered, trying not to think of the pain when the fire reached him. He knows no pain any longer, I told myself. But I did not believe it. We feel pain forever, even after we are dead. I watched the fire reach him. I turned away; I could not look. But I could smell it. The smell changed when fire encountered something new.

  “No, no! Stop!” someone cried. Still I cringed and did not turn back to the fire.

  “Stop her!”

  Now I did turn back, and I saw Oenone rushing toward the fire, her garments streaming. “Forgive me! Forgive me!” she was crying. Before anyone could take hold of her, she flung herself into the flames. With a shriek she was immolated. The flames leapt up as they fed on her. Nymphs cannot die. But it seems they can, if they so wish.

  “A woman has thrown herself in,” the guards were crying.

  “Not a woman, but a nymph,” I said. “Of her own free will. You cannot save her, she will have vanished into her elements.” I was stunned by her wild act of love and in some deep part of me wondered why I had not thought to do the same.

  I looked at Priam and Hecuba, expecting them to solace me. But they turned away. I was alone.

  LXVI

  When I returned to our—my—chamber, it had been cleared of all the sickbed detritus, swept clean. No incense or perfume lingered in the air, and bright sunshine played in the empty room. Paris’s armor, still dusty from his last battle, was piled in a corner.

  Tomorrow when the pyre cooled they would collect his bones, put them in a golden urn. Then the bones would be placed in his family tomb, and afterward there would be dispirited funeral games. And then it would be back to war, back to dreary war for the Trojans.

  And for me? I could think of no life for me at all. There was nothing waiting but sublime emptiness, as empty as this room.

  The rest of the day I stumbled about in my quarters, barely able to see for the tears that would suddenly well up, blurring everything. Attendants brought trays of food, but I waved them away. I admitted no one to the rooms. Sometimes I fell on the bed, dizzy while the room rotated around me. Other times I got up and addressed myself to absurd tasks like sorting through different balls of wool, dividing them into big piles, rearranging them, finding containers to store them in. Everywhere I looked I seemed to see something of Paris, except when I bent my head over the wool balls or, for some reason, removed my jewelry from its box and laid out the necklaces, bracelets, and earrings each in their separate rows. Then I put them all back in the same place. As long as I was bent over this task, I could not see the face of Paris.

  And how could I ever restore the face I had loved for so long, and erase the one that had usurped it in his last hours? The hideous swollen one had blotted out the gentle one. The poisoned arrows of Heracles had stolen not only the life of Paris from me, but his face as well.

  In my numbness and bewilderment I found myself dragging his clothes and possessions out of their chests, putting them on the floor. With trembling hands I arranged and smoothed the clothes, preparing them for a visitation that would not come. I could not even feel foolish; I wanted him to appear so badly, I believed I could will it. With all my power I called out to him, raising my arms and falling down upon the clothes, the clothes that still smelled like him.

  “Helen, get up!”

  I swam up through what I thought were the fogs of Hades; it was dark and I could not see where I went. I clutched at cloth beneath my fingers. I was lying flat.

  Wavering light came toward me. Someone set an oil lamp down. A face bent over me. “Helen, get up! Oh, for shame!” Evadne cradled my head. “For shame, that they left you here alone.” She smoothed my hair. “You are deserted!”

  I looked into her deep eyes. “Yes,” I said. Paris had deserted me. She spoke true, there was no other truth for me.

  “I mean your attendants!” she said. “How dare they?”

  “I sent them away,” I assured her. “I wanted no one here. No one, not even you.”

  “It is dangerous for you to be alone now,” she said, rubbing my forehead.

  As if I cared if anyone killed me. I gave a feeble laugh. They would be doing me a favor.

  “I meant it is dangerous for your spirits to
suffer alone,” she said.

  “There is no other way,” I said. “I suffer alone even in your presence; no one can share it with me.”

  “Someone can be present.” She was stubborn.

  “Why waste their time? There is nothing they can do.” Slowly I picked myself up. “Go, Evadne. I want no company.” I was eager for darkness.

  The funeral games. I shall not even describe them, for does it matter whose horses won the chariot race, whose javelin went farthest, whose legs propelled him fastest? One thing was certain: the Trojans were weary, even when they were rested, and their performances were slow and clumsy. War had worn them down, as the steady tunneling of rodents will collapse a foundation. I awarded prizes from Paris’s armor and weapons. In my chambers, they would be only another thing to grieve me. I could not pass his helmet without imagining him still wearing it. Some eager Trojan boy won it; let him revere and keep it.

  The first, most elaborate funeral banquet proceeded according to protocol. Paris presided, as Troilus had presided at his. Now at Paris’s I heard the echoes of his words at Troilus’s. All the losses melded together, one great cry of grief for Troy, a private one for me. Paris’s favorite foods were served—roasted kid and honey cakes, and equally honeyed, unctuous words were uttered over them. No one bleated out the insults that were bubbling inside.

  Of all the people gathered, only Priam, Hecuba, and I felt true grief. The others just painted themselves with grieving colors. Priam’s voice trembled as he spoke of finding his lost son only to lose him again, and Hecuba bemoaned the years that had separated them, when they were both still walking in the sunlight.

  “What I would give to have those years restored,” she whispered. I had to strain to hear her. “We were both here, but could not reach one another. In my folly of sending him away, I robbed myself. Now I have all the time in the world to lament.”

  I could say nothing. My throat was clutched by an invisible hand that made it ache. I merely stood and bowed my head.