The Memoirs of Helen of Troy

by Amanda Elyot

  The great pirate excused Pirithous from the tiller, resuming the stewardship of the Minotaur, and I was left on my own. Pirithous wasn’t much of a companion or a conversationalist. The most I could learn from this taciturn Athenian was that he had agreed to accompany Theseus on his venture to Sparta if, in exchange, Theseus would agree to help Pirithous obtain Demeter’s daughter Persephone from the dark recesses of Hades’ underworld where she was his seasonal bride. I covered my mouth so as not to laugh at his folly. “You Athenian men seem to take extravagant fancies to the daughters of Zeus,” I remarked, and poor Pirithous, his eyes fixed upon my bosom, became too tongue-tied to respond.

  The seas began to roil and turn gray, and though the Minotaur was light and fast, each time the craft hit a downswell, I was assaulted with sea spume until my cheeks began to sting. I regarded the yellow-white froth and tried to recall every detail of my mother’s story about the conception of Aphrodite in order to distract my mind from the state of my stomach. I began to feel a bit like I was on a very long and arduous ride, unable to stop my horse or dismount from his back. We undulated through the wild waters through the night with no coastline yet to appear on the horizon. Finally, I sank to my feet and fell asleep by the bulwark. Soon, I came to enjoy the sensual rise and fall upon the waves, the salty tang of the air, and the indescribable sense of freedom that comes from looking in all directions and seeing nothing but sea and sky, dressed in variegated shades of blue and gray. The sailors did not share my exuberance, although it amused them. Their life was hard, their task both arduous and monotonous, but I was a child with a sparkling new plaything, the enjoyment of which made me all but forget, for the duration of the voyage, the circumstances under which I had come to be standing on the Minotaur’s deck.

  Shortly after dawn, we spied land, although the waters were very harsh, buffeting the ship from side to side. The oarsmen groaned and strained to keep the craft on course.

  “Where are we?” I asked Theseus.

  “The tip of Attica. Cape Sounion,” he replied, pointing toward the nearing promontory.

  “Why does the water here look so dark?”

  “My own foolishness.”

  I gazed at the firm set of his jaw silhouetted against the clear sky, his eyes blinking back what I guessed were tears. The wind rearranged his thick dark hair, which was threaded with the occasional strand of silver. Theseus looked down at me and before his gaze returned to the indigo sea, I could see him deciding whether or not he wanted to tell me the story just behind his lips.

  “When I set out for Crete under my usual black sail, my old father Aegeus, then the king of Athens, feared that I would be defeated by their monstrous Minotaur and never come home. I promised to send Aegeus a signal that all was well as I rounded Cape Sounion, accepting his gift of a white sail to hoist on my return voyage as a sign of my success; but if I had perished on my errand, my ship would return under the black sail. In the excitement of victory and in my haste to leave Crete, I forgot to change the sail. Upon sighting the black sail, my father, who stood on that promontory anxiously awaiting news of me, thus believed the worst. In despair, he threw himself from the cliff into the churning sea. That is why the waters are so uncommonly dark here.” Theseus was silent for several moments. “He plummeted like a great white bird, his robes borne by the wind.”

  “You saw him die then?” I placed my hand gently on his forearm.

  He nodded. “These waters are now called the Aegean Sea, in his memory. In mourning for him, I have sailed ever since under a black sail.”

  “My mother took her own life,” I said. “We are kindred spirits.”

  SIX

  After rounding the rugged cape, the seas became calmer. The oarsmen’s task grew easier, aided by a steady wind at their broad backs. We were headed for the mouth of a wide harbor toward a town so congested with structures that there was not a patch of green in view. “Is this Athens?” I asked Theseus.

  “That is.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and pointed off into the distance where a large citadel sat majestically atop a hill overlooking numerous other structures built into the terraced rise, like a king with so many supplicants at his feet. “This,” Theseus said, indicating our immediate destination, “is Piraeus. The port.” He issued a number of commands to the sailors as we neared the shoreline, while I made my way to the bow to gain a closer look. Gulls circling overhead, diving and swooping into the cerulean waves for their morning meal, issued throaty caws while the high-pitched calls of fishmongers on the docks threatened to drown out nature’s song. Our Spartan port of Gythium was an unprepossessing outpost compared to Piraeus. Never before had I seen so many people: sturdy Dorians like the people of Laconia, dark and stocky like Polyxo; Ionians from farther north, taller and more elegant of form and feature; many slaves, some of whom had skin the color of newly turned earth, and others who were the color of wheat, calling to one another in tongues I had never heard. Traders and merchants in colorful garments hawked everything from figs to ivory.

  “You are laughing at me,” I said to Theseus. The scents of sea and salt permeated his sunkissed skin.

  “I had wondered what might stop the motion of your Laconian tongue.”

  When I was about to unleash it on him again—although I hoped, from the prominence of his smile lines, that he was teasing me the way my brothers often did—the Athenian king changed his tune.

  “I have seen so much of the world,” he sighed, “that I have forgotten what it is like to be capable of wonder. You have reminded me, Helen. And for that I thank you.”

  I remember thinking in that instant that he had rarely addressed me by name during our voyage. Perhaps there was a tinge of hubris within me that made me not want him to think of me as stolen booty, just another in a long line of pirated female captives. I wanted him to remember that I was Helen.

  At the shore, Theseus and Pirithous bid each other farewell, and I was taken by chariot through the crowded streets of Piraeus. Now that I was on dry land, the throngs of people were even more overwhelming than they had appeared from the harbor. It astonished me to see them so clustered together that they were compelled to wait for others to move first before they could continue on their way. Our charioteer had to threaten to employ his whip before foot traffic would begrudge him a path for his horses. People scattered like insects into darkened doorways cut into the sides of the brick and mud buildings. I wanted to stop my ears from all the noise, to hold my nose from all the odors—variously pleasant and repulsive, depending on which street we traversed. I remember not wishing to embarrass either myself or my abductor-host, so I think I held my breath instead—or tried to—until we passed through Piraeus, emerging in more docile and verdant surroundings. The roads between Piraeus and Athens were more familiar terrain to me for their sparser development. We passed olive groves and simple dwellings similar to those I had known close to home. The inhabitants must have enjoyed the best of two worlds, I mused, deriving benefit from the comparative quietude of the countryside as well as the excitement of two bustling cities.

  The hubbub of Piraeus had not fully prepared me to appreciate the glory that was Athens. Stately cypresses, like giants’ green spears, shaded grand avenues that snaked up the hillside to the magnificently fortified acropolis. Dwellings with freshly whitewashed facades had multiple levels with residents living above one another like birds in a dovecote. Children played games in the streets instead of in the fields, chasing barking dogs that chased their own tails. It was impossible not to gape at my new surroundings; I had never seen the like of it in Sparta. Theseus took great pride in showing me an incline where many stone benches were nestled into the hill in concentric semicircles that faced an altar, so that the entire city could attend festivals. The Athenian temples and shrines were significantly grander than their Spartan counterparts, too; but by far the most impressive was the Temple of Athena, the city’s patron goddess, that looked out over the sparkling Aegean with a vista unparalleled and u
nrivaled by any other.

  We reached the acropolis at the summit of the hill and entered the palace grounds through a massive stone gate, guarded by armored sentries who raised their spears to us in greeting. Such fortification was alien to my Spartan sensibilities as well. The largest wooden door I had ever seen opened onto a sunlit courtyard rimmed with a portico of columns painted red as oxblood. At the far end of the pergamos, a shallow staircase of polished stone led to another defended entry. As soon as we descended from the chariot, I realized how dwarfed I felt by my new surroundings.

  The second portal was parted for us and Theseus escorted me through it, leading the way to the palace itself. Slack-jawed, I marveled at the walls; every available surface was painted with repeating floral geometric patterns that bordered vast murals depicting hunting scenes or sea voyages. One series of frescoes showed a handsome, muscled young man, stripped to the waist, first grasping a giant snorting bull by the horns, then using the horns to cantilever himself onto its madly undulating back. I had heard of such athletic contests being held at the palace of Knossos in Crete, the kingdom of the bull, prior to the ritual slaughtering of the animal in a fertility rite.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Theseus said proudly, if somewhat wistfully. “In my youth. Jumping the bull, that’s called. I was the greatest champion they had ever seen.”

  “It looks like you could have very easily been ripped to pieces,” I remarked with a shudder.

  Theseus’s smile creases deepened. “But that’s half the fun! All my life I have courted adventure—and her sister, danger.”

  We passed another mural that clearly depicted the happy courtship of Theseus and the Amazon Antiope, besporting themselves with bows and arrows.

  “Will you take me hunting?” I asked the king.

  He shook his head. “It’s not appropriate for young women to comport themselves like men.”

  “But . . . ?” I tugged at his arm and spun him around to face the mural. “Besides, I’ve hunted with my brothers from time to time.”

  “Your value will be even greater to Tyndareus if you are returned to him fit to become a queen,” Theseus said. “True, I have often been unconventional.” He turned an almost-wistful gaze upon the figure of Antiope poised to unleash a lethal dart from her bow. “I married a woman who was my equal in every way, including strength, and she was my greatest love. But there are few men like myself, and you will more than likely not be wed to any of them. I kidnapped a girl; I intend to ransom a woman—in every way but one.”

  I looked down to avoid blushing; not because his words shocked my virgin sensibilities but because I did not want him to see how quick my blood was to rise at his implication. I pretended to study the elaborately tiled floor, swirling with red and purple anemones, bordered by sea monsters, fearsome dragons of the deep, undulating their scaly opalescent forms through the cresting waves.

  An elderly woman, elegantly attired, though short and slightly stooped, approached us with an ambling gait. She reached up to inspect Theseus’s face by taking it between her gnarled hands and looking deeply into his eyes as though she would divine everything behind them. “Welcome home, son,” she said, breaking into a smile. The woman then kissed me on either cheek. She smelled of oil of clove. “Welcome, Helen, to Athens.” There was no need for me to wonder at her evident knowledge of my identity.

  “My mother, Aethra,” Theseus said. “She will see to it that you are well provided for while you remain in Attica.” He excused himself, explaining that he had business to attend to and would see me at dinner. After embracing his mother once more, he disappeared into the recesses of the palace.

  “Come,” Aethra said. Her slow perambulation permitted me a closer inspection of my temporary home. No expense had been spared in the furnishings. Slaves busily polished chests and couches ornamented with gold and silver and inlaid with ivory from the East. I removed my sandals and followed Aethra up another staircase, enjoying the sensation of the cool, smooth stone against my feet. There were many rooms on the upper level, most of which were made private by the drawing of a curtain across the portal, but we halted in front of a sturdy wooden door. Aethra took a key from her girdle and opened it. “You will stay here,” she told me, shooing me into the room as though she were a mother bird tending her young. “I hope it is to your liking.” She issued a throaty command and two sturdily built serving women appeared. A second command sent them running for water to fill my bath.

  I confess that it was difficult to remember that I was a captive. This room was more than twice the size of my quarters in the gynaeceum back in Sparta. It was airy, too, being windowed on two sides, with one vista looking out toward the azure waters of the Aegean and the other at a dense olive grove. The bed was so wondrous I couldn’t wait to lie upon it, so I hurled myself onto the coverlet, a fleece as white as swansdown. It was the grandest bed I had ever seen; carved olivewood, with serpents that wound their bodies around each of the four posts, and dressed with the finest spun linens in aqueous shades, from turquoise to teal.

  Aethra stood at the center of the room, enjoying my evident delight, waiting patiently for me to discover for myself the room’s opulent appointments. A curved table shaped like a bean displayed pots of unguents and cosmetics. I ran over for a closer inspection and discovered a hand mirror—not of bronze as I was accustomed to in Sparta, but of silver. What a difference! Where one’s image was blurred in the baser metal surface, the silver backing presented a reflection as clear as that found in an icy mountain stream. I could not help gazing at myself. So this is what I truly looked like! Aethra chuckled. “Yes, Helen, you are indeed as beauteous as they say.” Gently, she removed the mirror from my hand, replacing it facedown on the table. “But we shall have to rename you Narcissus if you fall in love with yourself!”

  The servants knocked to gain entry and set to work in one corner of the room, filling the tile bathing tub with warm water. Aethra lifted the cover from a large linen chest inlaid with ivy leaves fashioned in gold and removed several folded linen towels bordered with detailed handwork. Even the softest Spartan linens were coarse to the touch by comparison.

  She dismissed the slaves after they had accomplished their task; I was surprised. I did not anticipate that the aged mother of the king of Athens would own the hands that bathed me. “I am sure you will be glad to remove your traveling clothes,” she said to me, and unfastened the brooches that pinned my tunic at the shoulders. I suddenly became very embarrassed by my mean appearance; garments of the most finely woven linen in Sparta encrusted with salt from the continuous sea spray, my sandals in dusty disrepair, and my hair, clumped in masses of sticky tendrils that more closely resembled the serpentine locks of Medusa than silken tresses.

  I stepped out of the tunic and stood before Aethra in all my nakedness. “Sweet Goddess,” she breathed hoarsely, “my son is either the cleverest man in all Achaea or the most foolish that ever walked upon her fertile earth.”

  She held out her hand to help me into the tub. The servants had scented the water with oil of mint; sprigs of the herb floated on the surface. I immersed myself to the neck and inhaled their crisp, clean aroma. How good it felt to be able to cleanse myself! At that moment, if Aethra were to say that Theseus had ordered me not to leave the bath until I was ransomed by Tyndareus, I would have been perfectly content to obey his will. “This will refresh and invigorate you,” she said, scooping some of the warm water into a pitcher. She gently doused my head and shoulders and scrubbed my back and limbs with a sea sponge soaked in grape-seed oil.

  Aethra cupped my head in her strong hands and massaged water mixed with oil of lemon into my scalp. “You invoked the Goddess,” I whispered, drowning in sensation. “Did you practice the old ways? Did you know my mother, Leda?”

  “I was a priestess of the Goddess,” Aethra replied. “But even my son believes in the Olympians. Men who feel compelled to jealously guard their own power fear the more powerful mysteries of woman. Even here in Athens, the
Mother of All, she who used to protect our city, has been supplanted by the motherless daughter of Zeus.”

  And how preposterous, I remarked to Aethra, that the most powerful female of the new sky gods was not born of another female’s body, for it was commonly believed that Athena, goddess of wisdom, sprang fully formed from the head of Zeus.

  “It reflects man’s ambivalence toward us,” Aethra added, “that the wisest deity is a woman, but that no woman was needed to create her.” She leaned over me, enveloping me in her clove scent, and rested her lips gently on my forehead. “I did not know your mother, though I knew of her. She was a much respected priestess of the old ways and fought bravely to see them continue.”

  It surprised me that Aethra had not heard that my mother had taken her own life. “If I had not been conceived through the festival rites, Tyndareus would not have found reason to continue to shame her for infidelity and she would not have hanged herself,” I said miserably.

  “It was your mother’s destiny to follow in her mother’s footsteps, and in hers before her as a priestess of the Goddess,” Aethra soothed, “just as it was her destiny to give up her body to the ritual in order to please the Goddess and save her people from the devastation wrought by the drought.”

  I dared to disagree with her. “My mother chose to sacrifice her loins to the lust of the bird-consort. Just as she chose to respect the wishes of her husband by substituting another woman in her stead all those other years, she chose to defy Tyndareus the season I was conceived. Our actions have consequences, and it is difficult sometimes for us to accept responsibility for them.” Even then, although I could articulate my beliefs, I did not feel at ease coming to terms with them. Perhaps it was easier, as most people did, to place one’s entire life within the dexterous hands of the three Fates.