Trojan Women- The Fall of Troy

by Byrne Fone

  In pomp and with celebration Paris brought Helen home. She came into Troy with him in his chariot, chased with beaten gold. They were wreathed with wedding garlands and incense rose around them, lyres and flutes and cymbals played and choirs of boys and maidens sang the wedding hymn. Slaves followed in the procession weighed down with coffers of gold, oxen pulled carts displaying stolen treasure, grand even by our lights. Up through the city they went to the temple on the citadel, surrounded by crowds cheering, dancing, and singing. Men called out lewd jests and Paris swept her from the chariot to the temple steps and kissed her there and then before the people, spilling some wine from the golden cup he carried upon her dress, staining it poppy red. Kassandra, still free then, ran to and fro upon the parapet wall that looked down on the temple square, repeating over and over again a single word: woe, woe, woe. But no one could hear her, the din of celebration was so great, and if they could no one paid her any mind.

  The king has gone to the battlefield! There is to be a sacrifice and a truce and then Paris and Menelaus will fight, and whoever wins takes Helen and ends the war. The news raced through he palace like a fire across a plain of dry grass from one person to another, from the page who serves the king to his lover in the chancery, from him to a chamberlain in the Household, from him to a minor noble of the court, from him to his mistress and from her to the Chief Lady of my court, and thus to me, for Priam has already gone, not having time to wait nor wishing to disturb me, for he knows that it will only alarm me further. A truce? Is it possible? Is it even likely? Is this good news? I do not know. We all know the Achaeans are perfidious. Beware of their gifts, the old adage says. I think I will order all the windows to be closed so that I cannot see; so that I cannot hear. Yet even from behind the shutters the sound will surely rise up from below the walls, war sounds, the grim music of death, a discordant and terrifying melody that never seems to end.

  Chapter 29

  Helen

  I go back to my rooms, preceded by a torchbearer to lead me through the darkness of the endless corridors. He walks ahead of me, eyes cast down, his torch throwing shadows upon the ancient stone walls. We travel down the long flight of circular steps that leads to the floors where I am housed, through rooms, some never used, in which cabinets filled with rarities and curious things line the walls, and statues of long dead kings watch as we pass. He is a handsome lad. He had looked at me from beneath his long lashes. He thought I did not see. But I did. I look at his broad shoulders as he walks in front of me. I wonder why he is not with the troops. Then I see he has a limp, he drags his foot slightly as he walks. But no matter, he is handsome. Perhaps when we come to my chambers I will offer him wine, perhaps not. No, I will not. I am weary with a tiredness that a boy will not assuage.

  All day we have been transfixed by events, watching from the vantage of the Ilios Tower. From there I saw it all: saw the warriors mass to do carnage, saw Paris make his brave but foolhardy boast, saw Priam make a truce, saw toy soldiers range themselves around a killing ground, saw men I love duel for me. They fight. Paris escapes. Darkness falls. Then, a mystery. Paris cannot be found. Oh Paris, handsome, careless boy. Did fear over take him? Did he run? Did he hide? Handsome boy? He is a boy no longer; middle-age approaches. But to me he will always be the boy who so long ago took me and loved me. Where is Paris? And so, where am I?

  I come to my rooms. I dismiss the boy and my women too. Alone, I light a single lamp; the oil is sweet and the smoke from it perfumes the room and makes me drowsy, the room is deep in shadow. I warm some wine on the brazier and to help me sleep add poppy juice. Sitting in the tiny pool of light, I ponder what is to come. Sometimes I wonder why they put up with me, these royal Trojans. Surely would it not be easier for Priam to ship me back to Menelaus and so end it all.

  There is a movement at the door. Who can be there? I have commanded no one. Perhaps that handsome lad has come back, hoping that I will change my mind. I sip the warm wine and feel the soft and sensuous thrill of the poppy juice begun to assuage my fear and, as it always does, make my head light and my blood desirous. There it is again. A rustling and a soft footfall. “Who is there?” I call, half afraid and half uncaring. The curtain moves and parts, from behind it steps a figure, hidden by the shadows. I begin to rise; a scream forms in my throat. “Do not fear, My Lady Helen. It is just your wandering husband, come home to you.”

  Exhaustion is written on his face, which is grimed with dust and sweat; his cloak is torn, his armor dull with dust and blood. Yet he is so beautiful. I am overwhelmed by the realization: Oh, how I want him. Oh, how long it has been since I have had him. Instead I say, “I do not understand. Why, how, are you here?”

  “Never mind, lady, let us say that a goddess led me.”

  A goddess? Did a goddess lead him from the dueling field in the darkness, passing with him through the Trojan line, concealing him among the shouting men so that he was lost to Menelaus’ sight? Did a goddess lead him up the road to Troy, away from Menelaus searching for his prize, and light his way to some secret gate hidden in the towering wall? Did she show him how to pass unseen, silently and with stealth, through dark passages where as child he used to play, and through unused and empty rooms where as man he fondled some willing servant girl or had his way with others, who being less willing, he took by force? And did this goddess for love of him and to spite the Achaeans lead him then to me? Or was it that he was, simply, afraid. And so he ran from the field rather than fight Menelaus. In the darkness and confusion he slipped away, slinking back home to me? I did not care. He was here.

  I can not help myself. I run to him. I want to take him in my arms and comfort him. But with a dismissive glance he wearily raises his hand to stop me, and, turning his back on me goes to the bed and sinks down upon it with a groan of pain, and sits upon the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. I see that dried blood streaks his bare leg, and his beautiful hair is caked with sweat. He sits motionless; I stand, barely breathing, not knowing what to do. Then with a wordless gesture he motions to me to help undo his armor, the bronze greaves covering his calves, the gilded breastplate. I help him remove these battered and bloodied clothes of war, help remove the sweat-soaked garments beneath the armor, help him to lie back, naked, on the bed. I can see that though he is bloodied his wound is slight. I sit next to him. I cannot help it; I stroke his hair. He does not resist.

  “You serve me well lady,” he says. “Like a dutiful wife should do. Come, bring water and oils, and wash my body. I have had a victory--of sorts. Do I not deserve some laurels?” Bringing water, and oil that I knew would sooth, I wash him, sponging away the dust and blood with a lamb’s wool cloth and begin to massage the oil into his flesh. He is trembling—is it exhaustion or fear? The I realize: he is struggling to hide his tears. Or is it--this is my hope--desire? I smooth the oil unto his silky flesh. He accepts my ministrations, but still lies passive as a statue.

  Then he says: “Wine.”

  The wine is dark as I pour it, bubbles sparkle around the golden rim of the goblet. I do not add water, but instead, from a casket that I keep among my cosmetics, I take a small vial, and un-stopper it. The scent is rich as I pour a few drops into the wine. With a prayer to the goddess, I stir the potion into the wine, and take it to the bed.

  “Wine, my lord,” I say, and sit next to him and help him rise, my arm around his is bare shoulders, supporting him. He takes the cup, takes a sip, and another, then drinks it down and with a sign sinks back down on the bed, dropping the cup. A few drops spill on the sheets. From the purple stains a faint aroma of orchids rises, mixed with smell of orchids and other earthier scents, unnamed plants plucked at night in groves sacred to the goddess and brewed into elixirs that stir men to desire. I know that it will not be long.

  I slip out of my robe and lie beside him. He does not, as I feared that he might—as he had done so often I these last years-- push me away. I let my hair brush his flesh. I kiss him lightly on the forehead, then on his lips. My hand
s glide from his shoulders, down across his chest, and to his thighs. I stretch my body full upon his and his desire rises against me.

  No words were needed. We lay there in that bed, carved with swans at head and foot and soft with downy pillows and swathed with soft covers and silken throws. Slowly as the heat from my body began to penetrate his and our flesh was sealed as one by the aromatic fragrance and silken smoothness of the oils, the past and bitterness dissolved and drained away for both of us. In the darkness I took him to me, sending a prayer up to the Great Goddess who had heard me. Once again and after so very long I felt his hands upon my body, his touch upon my neck, upon my breast, his lips tasting mine as I tasted the dust and blood upon them, and savored it. I reveled in the silken flesh of his body, his downy chest and thighs, and finally I took with greed and ardor his risen manhood as he lay atop me, moaning a little. We moved in tune to that rhythm that can never be forgotten no matter how long the absence. We tossed again, young lovers, rising and falling upon that silver sea. I rose to meet his ecstasy as he met mine and together we sailed into the ecstatic dawn of rekindled desire.

  But even as I received his frenzied kisses, sweet with the aroma of wine and orchids, a small nagging voice spoke: “Helen: you have conquered him once again. But from whence comes your victory, Lady, from your beauty or the wine?”

  Chapter 30

  Hecabe

  The long shadows cast by the lamps moved against the tapestry-hung walls like dancers honoring the goddess in a sacred grove. All day long the sounds of battle were horrific. I could not shut them out even with closed shutters. I called for a women to come and play a lyre, but the horror of what was taking place below the walls made my music meaningless and mute. For I was right, no truce could last. Poor Paris, he fled the field. Do other mothers know what it is like to have a coward for a son? Poor Trojans, we must now fight on, for the truce had barely begun before it was broken. It was not broken because Paris broke his word, but because some Trojan, eager more for gold than peace and thinking to himself—peace will bring me nothing, war could give me all that I can take-- took aim at Menelaus as he passed and let an arrow fly. The Greeks needed no more than that. The war began again.

  Now at last, silence has come with the darkness. I have dismissed my women, I am alone. My lord and husband Priam is alone too, I surmise. If he has come down from the tower where all day he watched, he has not come to me. Poor king, watching in despair as his kingdom is beset by alien hordes. Poor man, who I love but cannot comfort. Poor father, seeing his sons fall on a distant field and he can raise no hand to help. Poor Hecabe, alone.

  I hear a clank of arms in the corridor. Then: “Mother, mother, open. It’s your son, Hector.” I rush to the door. Open it. He comes in, without words he enfolds me in his comforting arms, strong son and I, his sobbing mother. “I have been so frightened,” I say. “Have you come to pray at the temple? Is it the end? Are we defeated? ”

  “I am here,” he said, “but not to pray. I have come from the walls. And yes, the enemy is at the gates, but it is because I have led them there. For a reason. Do not ask me. I do not trust even these walls to keep a secret. Suffice it that I have roused our men, exhorted them and they are ready to ride out to kill in defense of Troy.”

  “My son, take some wine to warm you,” I said, trying to cover my confusion.

  “No mother, no wine. I have no time. There is much to do and you must help me. You must be strong. I need you now. You are Queen and you must leave these rooms and show yourself to your people. The women of Troy live in fear, alone in the city, without their sons and husbands to give them strength. You, their Queen, must provide that strength. It is you who must pray, Mother. At dawn go to the temple with all the women of the city. Make an offering to the goddess, as splendid as you can. I do not know if that will bring us aid, but it will bring your people comfort, strength, purpose and hope, and that is what is need now. I will tell you this. I see our fortune about to change.” He kissed me on the forehead. Oh my brave son. For him I will be strong. For my people I must be strong.

  “Now, he said, “I go to Paris, my brother and your son. He skulks here in Helen’s arms while brave men die. I will not have it. He will come to battle, else I will slay him here. It would have been better if he had not been born. But if dies by some Achaean sword, at least his blood may be sufficient sacrifice to atone for all his sins, sins against you my mother and against all of us, his family, and his city.

  His voice is cold with anger. Hector does not rage; his anger is not red hot and furious like the raging blaze of wood burning in a bonfire out of control. Rather it burns like the chill blue fire that flames when ignited fumes escape from a fissure in the rock. He is right; perhaps Paris should never have been born. That is my burden. I was warned, but I did not heed it. I ignored the prophetic words sent from the gods. It would have been better if I had raised my shawl to cover my head, turned my face to the wall, and commanded that Paris, that beautiful child, be slain. But I could not. He was my son. How could I have done it? For Troy I will pray tomorrow. For me, in expiation, I will sacrifice. Will the goddess hear?

  Chapter 31

  Helen

  I looked at him as he slept. His hair was spread out on the pillow, a golden halo around his head. The stubble of his beard touched his face with a slight shadow and lent to the youthfully chiseled perfection of his features a stern, strong and more manly cast. But unlike his brothers who wore luxuriant beards, well-trimmed and perfumed, every morning he shaved to make his face smooth as a stripling boy, a face that was as handsome in sleep as it was when eager with desire.

  He was eager last night when after so long I once again kissed that handsome face. But now a day has a passed, a day in which the battle has come to Troy. From our window we could see it all. Achaeans advancing in the early morning light, the sun glinting off their armor and flashing off the points of their spears; Trojans marching to meet them, the rising sun at their back. Then it began. Trojans skirmish with Achaeans, warriors lock in combat with one another. The noise from the battle rises to us, the hideous din of armies clashing, snatches of sound-- a trumpet, a horse screaming in the throes of death, a distant shout of triumph, a scream of fear, the crash of armor against armor, the terrible discord of war.

  And what has Paris, Prince of Troy done as men fight and die?

  He lay abed this morning, still exhausted from his ordeal, perhaps still drowsy from the wine I had given him. I had risen to tell my maids who had come at sunrise to leave us. I cut some bread and spooned out some honey, poured a little wine and brought it to him. I sat next to him on the bed and looked at his beautiful body, still naked from the night before, golden now and free from dust and blood, glimmering slightly from the oils I used to cleanse it. I could still smell the lingering scent of the drink that reunited us. My heart was hopeful. Last night had been a journey to heaven itself, a memory revived of distant love and recalled desire. Perhaps this new passion might rekindle old love. He opened his eyes. Looked around, half rose to support himself on his elbow and saw me. He waved me away.

  “Helen, my dear,” he said, but his voice was chill. “What an amusing drama you staged last night. But do not imagine that I did anything but play a part. The actor, you should know my lady, is not the man. Oh, by the way, you must call your maids bring your creams and powders. The night is kinder to you than the morning.” I recoiled as if struck. He laughed and rose, walking naked across the room. He stretched like some well-muscled animal, ran his hand through his hair and down and across his chest to his stomach and below. Was this to taunt me?

  Then from the window I heard the first hint of what was to come. I ran and looked out. “They have come,” I cried, “The Achaeans are marching. You must go. I will help you with your armor.”

  He went to the window. From below anyone watching could see him, beautiful and naked, looking out across the Trojan plain. Without a word he turned. I ran to where his armor was carefully laid out on
a marble table. ‘Don’t touch that,” he snapped. He threw on a light linen robe, and sitting upon the edge of the bed, he began to eat the food I had brought. He did not offer any to me.

  “My lord. Paris.” I said. “The Achaeans….”

  “I know dear Helen. I know. Surely you expected them? And surely you must be glad to see them, your countrymen marching so full of threat and purpose. They have come to take you back, Lady.” He spread more honey on the bread. “And perhaps they should,” he said. Then he drank deeply from the fragile crystal wine cup engraved with the arms of Troy. Finishing the wine, with a dark look at me he tossed the cup away. It shattered upon the cold marble floor.

  “Perhaps they should.” His words were like a blow, as if he had struck me and raised a red welt across my face. All the memories of our night of love dissolved and the memory and the desire fell in fragments, shattered like a crystal goblet thrown violently upon the marble floor. I hated him.