“Are you sure, my lady?” asked Etra calmly, looking expectantly at me.
“Sure as never before, Etra. I had to experience death before I could decide to take my life into my own hands.”
She nodded. An old and wise woman, she had lived many lives before this one. She went off in silence to do my packing. Callira stayed to help me choose the statuettes, combs, veils and other precious and fragile things I wanted to take with me. Sitting side by side on a mat, we wrapped images of the gods and Egyptian mirrors in thick cloths. A chest lay open beside us. We did not speak as the empty wooden box gradually filled and day passed outside the windows. When the last red rays left the wall, Callira’s slender hands stopped on the bundles as if at random. She raised her head.
“Everything all right?” I asked her feverishly. This moment on the verge of a new life was neither hers nor mine; just something we had to live through together.
“Our last evening in Sparta,” she said calmly, lowering her eyes again.
“Will you miss it?”
“Why should I?” She spoke in a proud voice. Sparta had been her home as a slave. I took her hand: “When we are safe, far from Sparta, I’ll set you free.”
She shook her head. “Not now. I shall die free, Helen, but my freedom is still far off. I must come with you, that is what my heart tells me. And I’m in no hurry.” Her smile was beautiful in the twilight as she fastened the chest with leather straps. Etra came to say she had finished too, and we hid the luggage under the bed together with their own simple leather bags. Our cloaks were ready, so were leather boots. All we had to do now was leave. A knock on the door, and two slave girls from the kitchen brought in our supper. I ate very little, then wrapped myself in my shawl and went into the garden. The last light of day had gone; all that was left, still ahead of us, was the glimmer from the noisy windows of the banqueting hall. No doubt the steward would have prepared everything well. The farewell party for the Trojans, even in the absence of the king and queen, would be sumptuous. Paris’s plan was to fall asleep drunk in the middle of the hall. The guards would then carry him to his own rooms so that Menippus, who now in the absence of Menelaus had more reason than ever to keep an eye on me, would not suspect anything. Paris! I could imagine him laughing, his strong fingers lifting the cup to his lips. My longing for him was burning my veins, and I was certain in my heart that all the love I had given him so far was nothing compared to this. Diomedes, Achilles and my nameless ghost had walked among the twisted branches of the olive trees. I had refused Achilles when he asked me to run away with him, but I was weak then, carrying deep inside me the knowledge and relentless fear of boredom. Ten years of living death had persuaded me that I would rather burn now than be extinguished.
From below, beyond the trees, I could hear the murmur of the Eurotas, a gurgle that grew in my attentive ears to an echoing roar, a memory and a song without music telling of what had been: of Leda’s death two years before in Cephalonia giving birth late in life to the child of an unknown man, of the steps of my vanished ghost, of the slow exhaustion of passing time, and of the spirit of Sparta … I heard all this and much more in the unsanctified song bereft of nymphs or gods of the Eurotas, in the thunderous silence of water on stone. One day, many years from now, Sparta would fall and the river would be jammed with dead bodies, leaving nothing of that song but a murmur of mourning; but not yet. This evening that had so silently turned to night was mine, and the river was singing only for me, who had made up my mind to leave forever. It was a sad song, because I would never again feel the water of the Eurotas cool my skin or know it as a backdrop for sad evenings. The river was my boundary and tomorrow it would be my escape route. Its angry current dragged pebbles through the valley to a piteous death in the sea. Water, earth and stone. Yes, that was my spirit. A spirit of stone. Like the Eurotas.
23
Hermione’s eyes were shining with fever when I went to her. She stammered something I could not hear, and I held a cup of water to her mouth. She spread her tender lips to drink, then leaned her head against my supporting hand. I looked into her face: the soft, round face of a little girl with fine fair hair; but under her light brows the implacable eyes of Achilles, and the line of her nose hinted at his power. She had nothing of Menelaus in her; I was astonished no one had ever guessed her origin, but these days no one ever looks at little girls. Men only ever believe what they want to believe, and they only want to believe what they can accept. So Hermione had to be the daughter of Menelaus and Helen, born under the evil star of our misbegotten union. Niece of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, marked with the blood of an ill-omened line; niece of Castor and Pollux and their incestuous and forgotten love. The destiny of Achilles was still suspended in the future, but no destiny would ever be able to change the divine eyes above those rounded cheeks and that tender chubby body.
That evening as I watched Hermione I realized it would probably be the last time I would see her. Paris didn’t want her; he only wanted children of his own with his own gentle nose. And I told myself that with her fish-like memory Hermione would soon forget the woman she had never called mother. They would tell her I was dead and that I had been a bad woman.
But goodbye in any case, and patience, little girl with your eyes bright with fever, eyes I had thought could be the key to a new happiness.
I left you when it was still too soon for me to decide to defy Paris and carry you away wrapped in my cloak.
I touched her cheeks and kissed her sweaty brow, letting my lips linger a long time on her damp skin. It would be my last memory of my daughter. She murmured something more as I was leaving the room, but nothing I could understand. I did not turn before closing the door.
Then I slept a long dreamless sleep, and in the faint light of dawn Callira woke me ready dressed, her eyes fresh, her hair piled artlessly up and her cloak already around her shoulders. A cold morning; autumn was not far off. I wasted no time on make-up, wrapped my shawl again today around my head and held it to my throat, and with Etra following like a shadow passed down silent corridors to the courtyard. From the top of the steps I briefly greeted the Trojans with a few tired ritual formalities, leaving to the head of the council and Menippus the task of the major part of the farewell ceremonies. Benedictions were exchanged, and unwatered wine was poured on the stones to ensure a calm voyage to Troy. A heavy mist had swallowed the Peloponnese beyond the edge of the courtyard, and when the Trojans disappeared into it without looking back, I put on a hoarse voice and told Menippus I was feeling no better and that again today I would not leave my rooms, so that he and the others must see to everything. In the tired light of early morning he must have mistaken my swollen eyes and pale drawn skin for signs of illness, because he answered respectfully, “Yes, my lady.”
I should have taken thought then, understanding at that moment the significance of what I was doing, I should have read it in the gray eyes of Menippus, but I kept my eyes to the ground and with long silent steps and my shadow behind me I returned without hurrying down the corridors to my room, where Callira closed the shutters and told the guard the queen was tired and wanted to sleep, and was not well enough to want lunch or dinner. Thus we bought ourselves at least a day; long enough, it was to be hoped, to reach the open sea. And in any case, with the king away there was not much Menippus could do.
As soon as the door was shut a hurried precision took over my movements; cloak and boots and a line of kohl so that even in this crisis Paris would find me beautiful. The boxes had already gone, collected by Trojan guards toward the end of the night; they had crossed the garden in dark cloaks at an hour when no one was awake, and under Callira’s orders had hidden our boxes among the rest of their luggage together with the bags of the slaves. All we kept back was a leather knapsack holding the few things we still needed before departure. Etra fastened my thick woolen cloak under my chin for me and looked at me expectantly. I nodded. Callira pulled up her hood and opened the garden door letting the older woman go
first, then turned to look at me. I signed to her to go ahead and, her knapsack on her shoulders, she obeyed.
Left alone, I turned to look once more at the room that had been mine all my life. The sad, empty bed with its white, impersonal cover pulled up for the last time, and the line of empty chests against the walls. In the smaller room were my bathtub and loom, and a few shelves for linen. Every ornament had been carefully packed and passed to the Trojans for departure; there was nothing I cared for there anymore; it looked like a guestroom I had used for a few days and was leaving without emotion. The mirror had reflected me all my life. In the bed I had dreamed and cried out about Theseus, closed my eyes on my ghosts, embraced Achilles and lain loveless with Menelaus. But all this was behind me, and I felt nothing but ice in my heart.
So without looking back I pulled up my hood and went out into the dew-drenched garden. The air was like cold water and the rose-tinted light beyond the mountains gave promise of a cold dawn and small hope of a good wind for Troy. Shreds of mist festooned the olive branches. I strode firmly down the slope while Etra closed the door, perhaps the first time I had walked without slipping or looking to right or left, because every single tree deserved a farewell and because I knew my ghost was walking nearby, and would remain here, separated from me by my own choice and my crazy joy on that chilly morning.
We left the olive grove behind us and made our way along the bank of the Eurotas for the length of a stadium before we reached the ford. The green light under the trees that I had known at other times was not there, the sun was still too low, but when I raised my eyes to look across to the other bank I could see a girl sitting on the ground. She was wearing a white shift and had my eyes and soft hair down to her shoulders. She looked at me with neither hatred nor love, just a kind of calm greeting, and behind her among the trees was a dark form I no longer recognized. I would have liked to raise my arm to bid them farewell, or to call Callira to chase such madness from my eyes. But already they had vanished, visions banished by the gradually lightening dawn.
“Helen?” Callira’s voice was calling me, soft and low.
If I’d wanted to go back, she would have come with me. But I had to drag myself away from that chill and from the sharp shadow of the palace that I could still see beyond the treetops. Callira squeezed my hand and smiled, and together, guiding Etra, we headed for the road through the trees. The river quickly disappeared behind us, its voice mixed with the light rustling of leaves and the singing of waking birds. Now the trees were thinning out, and beyond them we could glimpse the countryside. When a noise made Etra jump like a frightened animal, Callira surprised me by drawing a dagger hidden in her belt. She rapidly scanned the trees with cold eyes, her ears alert under her fine fair hair. “Horses,” she decided tersely and went ahead of us, sheathing her dagger again once we had passed completely out of the wood.
“Trojans,” she announced, her voice still on edge. I moved forward and put my hand on her shoulder. Four horses and two men, one of them Amphitryon. He had not even removed his helm.
“Prince Paris is traveling with the rest of the retinue. The baggage went off this morning; we’ll catch up with the others on the road. They tell me you know how to ride; I have orders to proceed at full gallop.”
I nodded. Amphitryon stood still while the soldier gave us our horses, but as soon as I was ready to mount he was at my side to help me.
“You think I’m a whore,” I whispered, but I know he heard, his clear thoughtful eyes full of astonishment. To be really happy I needed his approval. His clear-cut features reminded me of Tyndareus. But he was not Tyndareus; he was a soldier, and barely inclining his head to acknowledge my words, he leaped into the saddle before I could say any more.
24
It took us two days, from Sparta to the sea; we had left at dawn and arrived after sunset, with only a single brief halt. The Peloponnese ran quickly past us; in front of me I had the shining mane of the black horse with between his ears the soldier who was leading us, and behind me Etra and Callira, with Amphitryon bringing up the rear. I was a princess and he looked after me as such. It was not for me to ask whether he still privately thought of me as a whore.
The cold morning became a heavy midday, then evening once more brought chill to the bones as we rode at full speed, even when the horses began to pant, until, when dark fell, Amphitryon let out a shout, the first sound from him since morning, and the soldier in the lead slowed down. So we closed up to ride in strict formation while the sun went down, girdling the earth with a dense belt of fire as the last seagulls screamed over our heads.
“The sea’s not far off,” announced Callira, and in fact we soon saw it beyond the final hill, a long path of fire fading with the light; we only just managed to reach Amyclae before the night watch shut the town’s double gates. I watched the closing gates cut off the land of Messenia from my sight.
“Keep together,” commanded Amphitryon, dismounting. My slaves and I dismounted too. He looked at us in surprise.
“The horses are tired,” I said, leading mine by the bridle. The Trojan nodded and looked away. I wouldn’t have won his respect even if I’d run all the way from Sparta, but at that time I didn’t think it mattered. The horse was breathing heavily, its muzzle, neck and sides white with foam, its eyes dilated with exhaustion. But it followed me as I took the road down to the port. At my side an unexpected light pierced the night, and I turned to see Callira with her lantern raised high. She smiled, and I smiled with her, resting my head on her shoulder.
There, at the bottom of the road, was the port and the ship with Paris on board, and we were about to sail off to a new world. I could only smile despite my tiredness and the inevitable smudging of the kohl under my eyes. The noise in the taverns was a signal to us that Paris and his party were arriving. Amyclae was a small port; four jetties with the Trojan ship anchored a little way out in the shelter of the gulf. At the end of the last jetty a rowing boat was waiting for us, with water lapping against wood and stone. Limpets and mussels were clinging tenaciously to the rocks. The man in the boat had no hood, and my heart missed a beat as I recognized his golden hair in the moonlight.
“Paris!” I covered the distance to the jetty and boat in a surge of joy and threw my arms around his neck. My mouth was on his before I could say another word and we fell with a thud on to the wet bottom of the boat, the water making my cloak heavy but I did not care. Paris! Paris! He responded just as passionately, and when we came up for air we saw that the force of our fall had pushed the boat from the jetty, and an oar was floating uselessly not far off. My prince laughed his soft laugh and maneuvered us closer with the surviving oar. When I leaned over the side and reached out to recapture the lost one, silver fish touched my fingers in the pale light. It was food they wanted, but I felt their cold lips kissing me before they fled back terrified into the silky darkness of the depths. On the jetty stood the soldier and Callira, Etra and Amphitryon, waiting for us to come back. Behind them the exhausted horses, tied to a bollard, were waiting for a barge to come take them to the ship. The soldier standing beside Callira on the jetty was quick to grasp her waist and lower her into the boat beside me. I met her eyes; she was my friend and accomplice and we giggled. Amphitryon looked after Etra and once he had come on board too we were ready to go. Paris insisted on rowing and while he rowed he watched me, his deep eyes glistening with confidence of my future at his side. Far off, the light of the rising full moon was soon swallowed up in the dark shadows of the ship’s hull. Suddenly I was afraid, and sought comfort like a child in Paris’s arms while a rope ladder was lowered to us from above.
“Everything’s fine, we’re safe now,” he murmured into my hair as I buried my face in the folds of his collar, breathing deeply his sweet rosemary scent, now mingled with the smell of the sea.
“Come, my queen, I’m behind you.” He lifted me and helped me to find a foothold on the ladder. My hands hurt; the rough rope crusted with salt chafed my skin, but I tensed my m
uscles and struggled rung by rung to the top. A kindly hand reached out to me; I grasped it and found myself on deck. The young man who had helped me looked very much like Paris, though his face was softer and rounder and younger, with adolescent muscles barely visible under his moonlit skin.
“Cebriones.” He introduced himself. “Paris’s brother.”
“I don’t remember seeing you at court,” I said in surprise.
He smiled. “I’m not interested in Sparta; I wanted to discover Greece. I had plenty of time for that.”
Paris was behind me. “I see you’ve met one of my brothers.” He slipped his arm around my waist. I relaxed against him, feeling I had come home. “Bed, my queen; it’s anchors aweigh tomorrow at dawn.”
“Tomorrow? I thought …”
Paris laughed. “You can’t navigate at night. Anyway, they won’t have noticed you’ve gone yet. At first light, my queen, we sail for home.”
I nodded to Cebriones and let Paris lead me below decks by a little stairway. The slow rolling of the ship took me by surprise; I had never been at sea before. Paris took my hand and guided me through what to him was familiar darkness to our cabin in the stern; it was little more than a hole, but soft linen covers and cushions had been laid on the hard planks. He shut the door behind us and I let myself fall on the bed.
Memoirs of a Bitch Page 8
