The Hittite Page 14

  Thus we left Sparta and headed for Troy, while the gods and goddesses atop Olympos watched and took sides for Helen and against her. Grim Ares, god of war, smiled at the thought of the blood that would be spilled over her. Athene, ever her enemy, began to plot her downfall.

  5

  Apet fell silent at last. For long moments I stared at her lean, withered face while the ever-constant wind from the sea swept across the Achaian camp along the beach.

  In the dying embers of the campfire the aged Egyptian woman looked like a statue carved out of old, dried-out wood. The moon had set, but the skies were spangled with thousands of bright glimmering stars.

  “So she came to Troy willingly with Paris, or Alexandros, or what ever he calls himself,” I muttered.

  “Willingly, aye,” said Apet, her voice low and heavy with memories. “She feared for her life in Sparta, feared that if Menalaos sired a son he would murder her and install the bastard’s mother as his new queen.”

  I nodded with understanding. Helen chose the path that offered her safety. Did she actually love Paris, or did she flee with the young prince of Troy to find safety for herself ? Both, I supposed. Women seldom do anything for one reason alone, I told myself.

  “The Spartan nobility welcomed her cautiously,” Apet continued. “Queen Hecuba was very gracious. Paris was her favorite son, and he could do no wrong in her eyes.”

  “And Priam, the king?”

  Apet let out a sigh. “He was kind to her and ordered a royal wedding for her. Only the Princess Cassandra dared to say openly that Helen would bring disaster to Troy.”

  “What of Hector and the other princes?”

  “Oh, they expected Menalaos to demand his wife back. They thought that perhaps Menalaos would enlist the aid of his brother, Agamemnon. None of them dreamed that all the Achaian kings and princes would band together to make war on Troy.”

  How could they have foreseen that? I asked myself.

  “It was the old pact that Tyndareos had made all of Helen’s suitors swear to,” Apet said. “Agamamenon demanded that all of them come to his brother’s aid. It had been Odysseos’ idea to keep the peace among the Achaian lords. But now Agamemnon used it to make war on Troy.”

  “So that he could wipe out Troy,” I said, “and end its command of the entry to the Sea of Black Waters.”

  Apet shrugged. “What ever their reasons, the Achaians sailed against Troy and devastated the lands of Ilios.”

  I looked up at the starry sky. Almost, I felt the eyes of the gods upon us.

  “Tomorrow the war begins again,” I said, starting to get to my feet. “I’d better get some sleep.”

  “But you have only heard part of Helen’s story,” Apet said to me, holding out a lean, emaciated hand to keep me from standing.

  “Part of her story?”

  “There is more,” she said. “The real tragedy of her life was yet to unfold.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded. “Isn’t this war tragedy enough? Thousands of Achaian warriors assailing the walls of the city? Men dying on that worn-bare plain every day? What more tragedy could there be?”

  “More, Hittite,” said Apet. “More. For Helen, the ultimate tragedy.”

  Despite my awareness of the battle that would begin in a few short hours, I sat down on the sand again and listened as Apet unfolded the rest of Helen’s tale.

  6

  So the barbarians brought their black boats to these shores—Apet renewed her tale—ravaging coastal villages and even striking deeper inland. At last they camped here on the beach by the plain of Ilios and besieged Troy itself. Prince Hector led the Trojan troops into battle on the plain, day after day. More than once the Achaians drove his men to the city’s gates, but Troy’s high strong walls always held the barbarians at bay.

  The fateful morning came only a few days ago.

  I accompanied Helen as she climbed up to the battlements of manytowered Troy to take her place with the other royal women atop the Scaean Gate. Outside the gate, on the plain, the Trojan warriors were assembling in their chariots, with their footmen behind them. From their camp along the beach the Achaian chariots were wheeling into formation. Another day of blood and mayhem was beginning.

  But this day would be different. This day Helen would feel her heart break within her. This day it would become clear to her at last that her Trojan husband was a coward. And that she loved the one man in all the world she could never obtain.

  For many months Helen had thrilled to see the men riding out to do battle on the plain of Ilios in their magnificent war chariots, splendid in their bronze armor and plumed helmets, the morning sun glinting off the points of their tall spears. She endured the stares and whispers of the other women; what of it? She was a princess of Troy, wife of handsome Paris, well loved by his mother, Hecuba, the queen.

  Like a giddy child she watched Paris, Hector and all the other princes of Troy as they rode across the bare, dusty battlefield to meet the besieging Achaians. Paris was the handsomest of them all, although his older brother Prince Hector commanded the most respect.

  With the foot soldiers and archers trailing behind them, the Trojan chariots advanced across the windswept plain toward the shoreline, where the Achaian invaders had drawn up their black ships.

  In the distance, the Achaians came forward in their own chariots and brightly plumed helmets. We could not make out their faces, they were too far from the city walls, but I recognized the red eagle emblem on the heavy shield of Menalaos, Helen’s former husband, and the golden lion of his brother, proud Agamemnon, High King among the Achaians. Beside them was the chariot of Odysseos, wise and faithful friend to Helen’s father, with its blue dolphin painted on his man-tall shield.

  The charioteers reined their horses to a halt in the middle of the battlefield, two long lines of armored warriors facing one another while the horses snuffled and stamped nervously. Swirling dust obscured them for several moments, but the never-failing breeze from the sea soon cleared the air.

  Heralds advanced from each army, old graybeards in long robes. With their stentorian voices they hurled the usual insults back and forth while the foot soldiers on each side trudged up to the chariot lines and the archers knelt behind them.

  Then the chief herald among the Achaians called out, clear and strong enough for the wind to bear his words to us watching on the high wall:

  “Menalaos, King of Sparta, whose wife, the fair Helen, has been stolen from him, challenges Paris, prince of Troy, to single combat, spear to spear, the outcome of this combat to decide which man Helen belongs to.”

  Helen’s hands flew to her lips. Menalaos was willing to risk everything in single combat against Paris. The long war could be ended this very day. Yes, and at the end of the day she would be handed back to her former husband, she feared. Menalaos was a hardened warrior; he would spit her handsome Paris on his spear. The realization made her tremble.

  The Trojan heralds withdrew back to Hector’s chariot, where they conferred for a seeming eternity with Hector, Paris and the other princes. Why were they arguing among themselves? They were too far away for us to hear.

  Hecuba and her daughters and serving women stood near; the proud queen seemed alarmed. Paris was her youngest son, her favorite, and she feared for him each time he rode out to battle. Wild-eyed Cassandra looked back and forth from her brother Hector’s distant chariot to Helen, while she absently twirled a lock of her long curled hair, like a child.

  Further along the wall, old Priam the king gazed out at the battlefield, his tired ancient eyes squinting painfully beneath shaggy white brows. His bodyservant, a stripling lad too young to be a warrior, spoke into his ear, relating what Priam’s own eyes and ears were too weak to gather for themselves.

  At last the Trojan heralds went back to the open space between the lines of facing chariots. I recognized the berobed graybeard who would answer the Achaians: he also served as court announcer when Priam sat on his throne and received guests. Hele
n could hardly catch her breath; her fate would soon be decided. And Paris’. And the fate of mighty Troy itself.

  The herald spoke: “Prince Alexandros, also known as Paris, declines to do battle against Menalaos this day.”

  Helen was so shocked her knees almost buckled. The women gasped with surprise. Even I gaped with wide eyes. I knew what feelings were running through Helen: she looked as if she wanted to run away, to hide, to die. She did not want to see Paris killed, but to refuse a challenge, to show cowardice in the face of the barbaric invaders … that was worse than dying.

  Queen Hecuba and the other royal women turned to stare at Helen. There were tears in the queen’s eyes; the other women looked at her with pity, or even scorn.

  As we watched, unbelieving, Paris had his charioteer wheel his four sleek roan mares out of the Trojan battle line and head back toward the gate.

  The Achaian kings and princes, even their common archers and foot soldiers, raised a din of jeering, hooting mockery while Hector and the other Trojans stood silent and mortified.

  With a sinking heart Helen watched the man who had taken her from Menalaos’ bed, the man for whom she had abandoned her family and her honor, flee shamefully to the safety of the city’s walls. His chariot’s metal-shod wheels clattered on the stone paving of the gate beneath us, echoing in our ears with the sound of humiliation.

  Queen Hecuba drew herself to her full height and said firmly, “And why should my son honor that Achaian barbarian by accepting his challenge? Paris wouldn’t soil his spear on the dog.”

  She spoke too loudly, as if she were trying to convince everyone crowded along the crenellated walls watching the battlefield below. As if she were trying to convince herself.

  To Helen she commanded, “Daughter, retire to your chamber. My son will be weary from the morning’s exertion. He will need your ministrations.”

  Hecuba had always been kind to Helen. When Paris had brought her to Troy she accepted Helen as her newest daughter without a question about her first husband. When Menalaos and his cruel brother Agamemnon led an Achaian war fleet of swift black ships to the shore of Troy and laid siege to the city, the queen did not blame Helen for the war.

  The other royal women dared not contradict the queen, so Helen was treated with courtesy and respect. Only Cassandra, Hecuba’s half-mad daughter, pointed her trembling finger at her.

  “You will bring destruction to Troy,” Cassandra had said, that first evil morning when the black ships began to arrive. “You will cause the fall of this house.”

  Helen feared she was right, I knew. More, she feared being dragged back to uncouth Sparta by a triumphant Menalaos, or worse, slain by him as a faithless wife.

  As we turned from the battlements to obey the queen’s order I heard Prince Hector’s strong, vibrant voice shout from the distant battlefield:

  “Menalaos, I will accept your challenge! Pit your spear against mine and we will see who is the stronger.”

  Helen stopped, her mouth agape. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Menalaos climb back up onto his chariot.

  “No, Hector, not you,” Menalaos shouted back. “I challenged your wife-stealing brother.”

  Helen could breathe again. Menalaos ordered his charioteer to drive him back to the Achaian camp, along the shore where they had beached their black ships. The armies dispersed. There would be no fighting this morning.

  I trailed silently behind Helen, down to the lower platform and across it through the high double doors that led into the palace grounds. The royal courtyard was quiet and empty in the morning sunlight; all the men of fighting age were outside, defending the city. The boys and older men, led by King Priam, were on the walls watching. The women, of course, had their separate place along the battlements.

  Swiftly we crossed the courtyard. Helen dared not look at the Palladium, the ancient life-sized statue of ivory and wood that stood weathered and worn in its shrine among the flower beds at the far end of the courtyard. Some believed that the statue was a likeness of Athene, others that it had been carved by the goddess herself. As long as the Palladium remained within Troy’s walls, it was said, the city would never fall.

  Helen stayed well clear of it. Athene was her enemy, and she knew that this war was the goddess’s doing as much as her own. She feared that the Trojans’ faith in the goddess was misplaced, that Athene would betray the city to the Achaians one day.

  With a nod she bade me to remain in the anteroom. I stayed by the door, silent and still as befitted my duty. Helen knew I would wait for her until my old legs could no longer hold me, if need be. Through all her life I had been her steadfast companion, her childhood nurse, her devoted servant, her loyal friend and guide.

  Paris was waiting for Helen in her bedchamber, standing by the open doorway that led onto the balcony, gazing out at the plain of Ilios and, beyond, to the sea. He still wore his bronze breastplate and greaves. His tall shield of seven-layered ox hide stood in the corner. His plumed helmet had been thrown carelessly on the bed.

  He was beautiful, her Trojan husband, with flashing dark eyes and a thickly curled mane of midnight-black hair. Standing there by the doorway, framed against the bright blue morning sky, he looked like a young god come down from Olympos.

  But for the first time his beauty failed to rouse Helen. Instead of the godlike man who had swept her away from her life as queen of rude, dull Sparta, she saw a spoiled self-centered princeling, a man who had always gotten his way with a smile and the indulgence of his doting mother. She saw a coward who had run away from honorable combat in fear for his life.

  It was as if Helen had suddenly awakened from a long, lovely dream. Her eyes were open now, and they did not like what they saw.

  “There you are,” said Paris, turning from the doorway to smile at her.

  She knew that he expected her to unbuckle his breastplate. That would be the beginning that would end with both of them undressed on the bed.

  Instead Helen went to the carved wooden chair in the chamber’s far corner and stood by it, leaning on its back for a strength she did not feel within herself.

  His smile turned rueful. “You are displeased with me.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, her voice trembling. Within her she did not know if she was angry or hurt or ashamed.

  “Because I refused Menalaos’ challenge?” Paris sounded almost amused at the idea.

  “Yes,” she repeated, unable to say more without wounding him.

  “But I did it for you,” he said.

  “For me?”

  “Of course! Why else?”

  Helen did not know what to say, how to reply.

  “Dearest Helen,” Paris said, “Menalaos would never dare to challenge me unless one of the gods inspired him to such bravery. In all the months that he and his brother have besieged us, has he once called me out for single combat?”

  “No,” she had to admit.

  “You see? This morning a god was in him. Probably Ares, who thrives on men’s blood. Or perhaps mighty Zeus himself.”

  “Do you believe that?” she asked, her voice low, her spirits even lower at the excuse her husband was inventing.

  He was smiling his brightest at her. “What would have happened if Ares or Zeus or one of the other Olympians, in the guise of Menalaos, had spitted me on his spear?”

  “Don’t even speak of that!” Helen blurted. “Please!”

  “But suppose it happened,” Paris insisted. “You would be returned to your former husband. You would go back with Menalaos to dingy old Sparta.”

  “Or be slain by him.”

  “You see? That’s why I refused to face him, or whichever god it was inhabiting his body. I couldn’t allow that to happen to you.”

  Almost he convinced her. “It might have been Athene,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

  Paris nodded, smiling. “Yes, perhaps it was Athene. What better way to hurt you than by slaying me?”

  He stepped closer to her and sp
read out his arms. Numbly, Helen began to unbuckle his bright bronze breastplate. Paris placed his hands on her slim shoulders, and I saw her flinch at his touch. He scowled briefly, but said nothing.

  Someone scratched at the door.

  “Who would dare?” Paris grumbled.

  “Perhaps it is the king,” Helen whispered.

  Paris gave her a disappointed frown, then called out, “Enter!”

  The stout oak door swung inward and Prince Hector strode into the room. He had removed his armor and was clad only in the knee-length linen chiton beneath it. I could see the creases the straps had made on his broad, strong shoulders.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Hector said to his brother. His voice was low yet strong, edged with iron.

  “Where else?” Paris said carelessly.

  “You disgraced yourself this morning,” Hector said. “You disgraced all of us.”

  Paris was slightly taller than his older brother, although Hector was built more sturdily. Hector’s face was stronger, too; not as beautiful as Paris’ but steadfast, with a broad brow and dauntless brown eyes that never wavered. His hair and neatly cropped beard were reddish chestnut, almost auburn.

  Paris stood up to his brother. “Why should I risk my wife’s fate on a lucky spear thrust? You may think me a coward, but I love her much too dearly to give Menalaos a chance to take her away.”

  Brave, honest Hector had no response to his brother’s words. His clear brown eyes glanced at Helen, then returned to face Paris. The stern expression on his face eased a little; some of the tension seemed to ebb out of his body.

  “I suppose I can’t blame you,” he said at last, his voice so soft I could barely make out his words.

  Paris laughed and clapped Hector on the shoulder. “Send out the heralds to tell the barbarians we’ll meet them on the battlefield this afternoon. After a good meal and a bit of rest we’ll chase them back into the sea.”

  Hector’s taut lips relaxed into a slight smile. “Very well,” he said. “This afternoon.”