by James Morrow
“Trollop.”
“Perhaps.” Helen adjusts her greaves. “I could claim I was bewitched by laughter-loving Aphrodite, but that would be a lie. The fact is, Paris knocked me silly. I’m crazy about him. Sorry.” She runs her desiccated tongue along her parched lips. “Have you anything to drink?” Dipping a hollow gourd into his private cistern, Menelaus offers her a pint of fresh water. “So what brings you here?”
Helen receives the ladle. Setting her boots wide apart, she steadies herself against the roll of the incoming tide and takes a greedy gulp. At last she says, “I wish to give myself up.”
“What?”
“I want to go home with you.”
“You mean—you think our marriage deserves another chance?”
“No, I think all those infantrymen out there deserve to live. If this war is really being fought to retrieve me, then consider the job done.” Tossing the ladle aside, Helen holds out her hands, palms turned upward as if she’s testing for raindrops. “I’m yours, hubby. Manacle my wrists, chain my feet together, throw me in the brig.”
Against all odds, defying all logos, Menelaus’s face loses more blood. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” he says.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“This siege, Helen—there’s more to it than you suppose.”
“Don’t jerk me around, lord of all Lakedaimon, asshole. It’s time to call it quits.”
The Spartan king stares straight at her chest, a habit she’s always found annoying. “Put on a bit of weight, eh, darling?”
“Don’t change the subject.” She lunges toward Menelaus’s scabbard as if to goose him, but instead draws out his sword. “I’m deadly serious: if Helen of Troy is not permitted to live with herself”—she pantomimes the act of suicide—“then she will die with herself.”
“Tell you what,” says her husband, taking his weapon back. “Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’ll go to my brother and suggest he arrange a truce with your father-in-law.”
“He’s not my father-in-law. There was never a wedding.”
“Whatever. The point is, your offer has merit, but it must be discussed. We shall all meet face-to-face, Trojans and Achaians, and talk it out. As for now, you’d best return to your lover.”
“I’m warning you—I shall abide no more blood on my hands, none but my own.”
“Of course, dear. Now please go back to the citadel.” At least he listened, Helen muses as she crosses the weatherworn deck of the Arkadia. At least he didn’t tell me not to worry my pretty little head about it.
“Here comes the dull part,” says whiny-tongued Damon.
“The scene with all the talking,” adds smart-mouthed Daphne.
“Can you cut it a bit?” my son asks.
“Hush,” I say, smoothing out Damon’s coverlet. “No interruptions,” I insist. I slip Daphne’s papyrus doll under her arm. “When you have your own children, you can edit the tale however you wish. As for now, listen carefully. You might learn something.”
By the burbling, tumbling waters of the River Simois, beneath the glowing orange avatar of the moon goddess Artemis, ten aristocrats are gathered around an oaken table in the purple tent of Ilium’s high command, all of them bursting with opinions on how best to deal with this Helen situation, this peace problem, this Trojan hostage crisis. White as a crane, a truce banner flaps above the heads of the two kings, Priam from the high city, Agamemnon from the long ships. Each side has sent its best and/or brightest. For the Trojans: brainy Panthoös, mighty Paris, invincible Hector, and Hiketaon the scion of Ares. For the Achaian cause: Ajax the berserker, Nestor the mentor, Menelaus the cuckold, and wily, smiling Odysseus. Of all those invited, only quarrelsome Achilles, sulking in his tent, has declined to appear.
Panthoös rises, rubs his foam-white beard, and sets his scepter on the table. “Royal captains, gifted seers,” the old Trojan begins, “I believe you will concur when I say that, since this siege was laid, we have not faced a challenge of such magnitude. Make no mistake: Helen means to take our war away from us, and she means to do so immediately.”
Gusts of dismay waft through the tent like a wind from the underworld.
“We can’t quit now,” groans Hector, wincing fiercely.
“We’re just getting up to speed,” wails Hiketaon, grimacing greatly.
Agamemnon steps down from his throne, carrying his scepter like a spear. “I have a question for Prince Paris,” he says. “What does your mistress’s willingness to return to Argos say about the present state of your relationship?”
Paris strokes his jowls and replies, “As you might surmise, noble King, my feelings for Helen are predicated on requitement.”
“So you won’t keep her in Pergamos by force?”
“If she doesn’t want me, then I don’t want her.”
At which point slug-witted Ajax raises his hand. “Er, excuse me. I’m a bit confused. If Helen is ours for the asking, then why must we continue the war?”
A sirocco of astonishment arises among the heroes.
“Why?” gasps Panthoös. “Why? Because this is Troy, that’s why. Because we’re kicking off Western Civilization here, that’s why. The longer we can keep this affair going—the longer we can sustain such an ambiguous enterprise—the more valuable and significant it becomes.”
Slow-synapsed Ajax says, “Huh?”
Nestor has but to clear his throat and every eye is upon him. “What our adversary is saying—may I interpret, wise Panthoös?” He turns to his Trojan counterpart, bows deferentially, and, receiving a nod of assent, speaks to Ajax. “Panthoös means that, if this particular pretext for war—restoring a woman to her rightful owner—can be made to seem reasonable, then any pretext for war can be made to seem reasonable.” The mentor shifts his fevered stare from Ajax to the entire assembly. “By rising to this rare and precious occasion, we shall open the way for wars of religion, wars of manifest destiny—any equivocal cause you care to name.” Once again his gaze alights on Ajax. “Understand, sir? This is the war to inaugurate war itself. This is the war to make the world safe for war!”
Ajax frowns so vigorously his visor falls down. “All I know is, we came for Helen, and we got her. Mission accomplished.” Turning to Agamemnon, the berserker lifts the visor from his eyes. “So if it’s all the same to you, Majesty, I’d like to go home before I get killed.”
“O, Ajax, Ajax, Ajax,” moans Hector, pulling an arrow from his quiver and using it to scratch his back. “Where is your aesthetic sense? Have you no appreciation of war for war’s sake? The plains of Ilium are roiling with glory, sir. You could cut the arete with a knife. Never have there been such valiant eviscerations, such venerable dismemberments, such—”
“I don’t get it,” says the berserker. “I just don’t get it.”
Whereupon Menelaus slams his wine goblet on the table with a resounding thunk. “We are not gathered in Priam’s tent so that Ajax might learn politics,” he says impatiently. “We are gathered so that we might best dispose of my wife.”
“True, true,” says Hector.
“So what are we going to do, gentlemen?” asks Menelaus. “Lock her up?”
“Good idea,” says Hiketaon.
“Well, yes,” says Agamemnon, slumping back onto his throne. “Except that, when the war finally ends, my troops will demand to see her. Might they not wonder why so much suffering and sacrifice was spent on a goddess gone to seed?” He turns to Paris and says, “Prince, you should not have let this happen.”
“Let what happen?” asks Paris.
“I heard she has wrinkles,” says Agamemnon.
“I heard she got fat,” says Nestor.
“What have you been feeding her?” asks Menelaus. “Bonbons?”
“She’s a person,” protests Paris. “She’s not a marble statue. You can hardly blame me…”
At which juncture King Priam raises his scepter and, as if to wound Gaea herself, rams it into the dirt.
�
�Noble lords, I hate to say this, but the threat is more immediate than you might suppose. In the early years of the siege, the sight of fair Helen walking the ramparts did wonders for my army’s morale. Now that she’s no longer fit for public display, well…”
“Yes?” says Agamemnon, steeling himself for the worst.
“Well, I simply don’t know how much longer Troy can hold up its end of the war. If things don’t improve, we may have to capitulate by next winter.”
Gasps of horror blow across the table, rattling the tent flaps and ruffling the aristocrats’ capes.
But now, for the first time, clever, canny Odysseus addresses the council, and the winds of discontent grow still. “Our course is obvious,” he says. “Our destiny is clear,” he asserts. “We must put Helen—the old Helen, the pristine Helen—back on the walls.”
“The pristine Helen?” says Hiketaon. “Are you not talking fantasy, resourceful Odysseus? Are you not singing a myth?”
The lord of all Ithaca strolls the length of Priam’s tent, plucking at his beard. “It will require some wisdom from Pallas Athena, some technology from Hephaestus, but I believe the project is possible.”
“Excuse me,” says Paris. “What project is possible?”
“Refurbishing your little harlot,” says Odysseus. “Making the dear, sweet strumpet shine like new.”
Back and forth, to and fro, Helen moves through her boudoir, wearing a ragged path of angst into the carpet. An hour passes. Then two. Why are they taking so long?
What most gnaws at her, the thought that feasts on her entrails, is the possibility that, should the council not accept her surrender, she will have to raise the stakes. And how might she accomplish the deed? By what means might she book passage on Charon’s one-way ferry? Something from her lover’s arsenal, most likely—a sword, spear, dagger, or death-dripping arrow. O, please, my lord Apollo, she prays to the city’s prime protector, don’t let it come to that.
At sunset Paris enters the room, his pace leaden, his jowls dragging his mouth into a grimace. For the first time ever, Helen observes tears in her lover’s eyes.
“It is finished,” he moans, doffing his plumed helmet. “Peace has come. At dawn you must go to the long ships. Menelaus will bear you back to Sparta, where you will once again live as mother to his children, friend to his concubines, and emissary to his bed.”
Relief pours out of Helen in a deep, orgasmic rush, but the pleasure is short-lived. She loves this man, flaws and all, flab and the rest. “I shall miss you, dearest Paris,” she tells him. “Your bold abduction of me remains the peak experience of my life.”
“I agreed to the treaty only because Menelaus believes you might otherwise kill yourself. You’re a surprising woman, Helen. Sometimes I think I hardly know you.”
“Hush, my darling,” she says, gently placing her palm across his mouth. “No more words.”
Slowly they unclothe each other, methodically unlocking the doors to bliss, the straps and sashes, the snaps and catches, and thus begins their final, epic night together.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so judgmental,” says Paris.
“I accept your apology.”
“You are so beautiful. So impossibly beautiful…”
As dawn’s rosy fingers stretch across the Trojan sky, Hector’s faithful driver, Eniopeus the son of horse-loving Thebaios, steers his sturdy war chariot along the banks of the Menderes, bearing Helen to the Achaian stronghold. They reach the Arkadia just as the sun is cresting, so their arrival in the harbor becomes a flaming parade, a show of sparks and gold, as if they ride upon the burning wheels of Hyperion himself.
Helen starts along the dock, moving past the platoons of squawking gulls adrift on the early morning breeze. Menelaus comes forward to greet her, accompanied by a man for whom Helen has always harbored a vague dislike—broad-chested, black-bearded Teukros, illegitimate son of Telemon.
“The tide is ripe,” says her husband. “You and Teukros must board forthwith. You will find him a lively traveling companion. He knows a hundred fables and plays the harp.”
“Can’t you take me home?”
Menelaus squeezes his wife’s hand and, raising it to his lips, plants a gentle kiss. “I must see to the loading of my ships,” he explains, “the disposition of my battalions—a full week’s job, I’d guess.”
“Surely you can leave that to Agamemnon.”
“Give me seven days, Helen. In seven days I’ll be home, and we can begin picking up the pieces.”
“We’re losing the tide,” says Teukros, anxiously intertwining his fingers.
Do I trust my husband? wonders Helen as she strides up the Arkadia’s gangplank. Does he really mean to lift the siege?
All during their slow voyage out of the harbor, Helen is haunted. Nebulous fears, nagging doubts, and odd presentiments swarm through her brain like Harpies. She beseeches her beloved Apollo to speak with her, calm her, assure her all is well, but the only sounds reaching her ears are the creaking of the oars and the windy, watery voice of the Hellespont.
By the time the Arkadia finds the open sea, Helen has resolved to jump overboard and swim back to Troy.
“And then Teukros tried to kill you,” says Daphne.
“He came at you with his sword,” adds Damon.
This is the twins’ favorite part, the moment of grue and gore. Eyes flashing, voice climbing to a melodramatic pitch, I tell them how, before I could put my escape plan into action, Teukros began chasing me around the Arkadia, slashing his two-faced blade. I tell them how I got the upper hand, tripping the bastard as he was about to run me through.
“You stabbed him with his own sword, didn’t you, Mommy?” asks Damon.
“I had no choice.”
“And then his guts spilled, huh?” asks Daphne.
“Agamemnon had ordered Teukros to kill me,” I explain. “I was ruining everything.”
“They spilled out all over the deck, right?” asks Damon.
“Yes, dear, they certainly did. I’m quite convinced Paris wasn’t part of the plot, or Menelaus either. Your mother falls for fools, not maniacs.”
“What color were they?” asks Damon.
“Color?”
“His guts.”
“Red, mostly, with daubs of purple and black.”
“Neat.”
I tell the twins of my long, arduous swim through the strait.
I tell them how I crossed Ilium’s war-torn fields, dodging arrows and eluding patrols.
I tell how I waited by the Skaian Gate until a farmer arrived with a cartload of provender for the besieged city…how I sneaked inside the walls, secluded amid stalks of wheat…how I went to Pergamos, hid myself in the temple of Apollo, and breathlessly waited for dawn.
Dawn comes up, binding the eastern clouds in crimson girdles. Helen leaves the citadel, tiptoes to the wall, and mounts the hundred granite steps to the battlements. She is unsure of her next move. She has some vague hope of addressing the infantrymen as they assemble at the gate. Her arguments have failed to impress the generals, but perhaps she can touch the heart of the common foot soldier.
It is at this ambiguous point in her fortunes that Helen runs into herself.
She blinks—once, twice. She swallows a sphere of air. Yes, it is she, herself, marching along the parapets. Herself? No, not exactly: an idealized rendition, the Helen of ten years ago, svelte and smooth.
As the troops march through the portal and head toward the plain, the strange incarnation calls down to them.
“Onward, men!” it shouts, raising a creamy white arm. “Fight for me!” Its movements are deliberate and jerky, as if sunbaked Troy has been magically transplanted to some frigid clime. “I’m worth it!”
The soldiers turn, look up. “We’ll fight for you, Helen!” a bowman calls toward the parapet.
“We love you!” a sword-wielder shouts.
Awkwardly, the incarnation waves. Creakily, it blows an arid kiss. “Onward, men! Fight for me! I’m w
orth it!”
“You’re beautiful, Helen!” a spear-thrower cries.
Helen strides up to her doppelganger and, seizing the left shoulder, pivots the creature toward her.
“Onward, men!” it tells Helen. “Fight for me! I’m worth it!”
“You’re beautiful,” the spear-thrower continues, “and so is your mother!”
The eyes, Helen is not surprised to discover, are glass. The limbs are fashioned from wood, the head from marble, the teeth from ivory, the lips from wax, the tresses from the fleece of a darkling ram. Helen does not know for certain what forces power this creature, what magic moves its tongue, but she surmises that the genius of Athena is at work here, the witchery of ox-orbed Hera. Chop the creature open, she senses, and out will pour a thousand cogs and pistons from Hephaestus’s fiery workshop.
Helen wastes no time. She hugs the creature, lifts it off its feet. Heavy, but not so heavy as to dampen her resolve.
“Onward, men!” it screams as Helen throws it over her shoulder. “Fight for me! I’m worth it!”
And so it comes to pass that, on a hot, sweaty Asia Minor morning, fair Helen turns the tables on history, gleefully abducting herself from the lofty stone city of Troy.
Paris is pulling a poisoned arrow from his quiver, intent on shooting a dollop of hemlock into the breast of an Achaian captain, when his brother’s chariot charges past.
Paris nocks the arrow. He glances at the chariot.
He aims.
Glances again.
Fires. Misses.
Helen.
Helen? Helen, by Apollo’s lyre, his Helen—no, two Helens, the true and the false, side by side, the true guiding the horses into the thick of the fight, her wooden twin staring dreamily into space. Paris can’t decide which woman he is more astonished to see.
“Soldiers of Troy!” cries the fleshy Helen. “Heroes of Argos! Behold how your leaders seek to dupe you! You are fighting for a fraud, a swindle, a thing of gears and glass!”
A stillness envelops the battlefield. The men are stunned, not so much by the ravings of the charioteer as by the face of her companion, so pure and perfect despite the leather thong sealing her jaw shut. It is a face to sheathe a thousand swords—lower a thousand spears—unnock a thousand arrows.
