Helen of Troy (11 page)

Beside me were fifteen other girls, all selected by their villages or their families as fleet of foot. Some were younger than I, I could tell by looking. Others were older. The day that I ran the race I was fifteen.

I had reached my full growth. I was taller than some, but not all. We were each to wear a short tunic that reached only to our knees, and which bared our right shoulder. We were barefoot.

The sun was slanting through the willows lining the riverbank when we lined up for the race. Our heads bowed, we asked the blessings of Hera and dedicated our strengths to her.

“You will race along the riverbank until you reach the boulder in the field of barley. Then turn left and run along the footpath beside the field. When you come to the end of it, turn left yet again, until you come to the two shields that will be set up as gateposts, with a thread stretched across them. The first one to break that thread is the winner,” a young priestess of Hera announced.

We each put our left foot forward, ready to dash. I felt my knees tremble. But not for fear of losing; it was for eagerness of running. At last I could run as fast and as hard as I wished with no hindrance.

“Fly!” the race-master cried.

I flung myself forward; my right leg acted as a bowstring; the trembling muscles leapt and I sprang out.

How can I describe the lightness and freedom of running free? I felt immensely strong, filled with power, and there was no barrier to it. Whatever was there, I would leap over it. I had that strength.

The river fled past; I was vaguely aware of the shaded waters flowing on my left, but I ran on. I saw only those girls on either side of me.

We reached the stone in the barley field and rounded it. Two others were still level with me. Panting, I rounded the stone and aimed at the straight path ahead. It was mine.

There was more speed in me, and my legs moved faster as I commanded them to.

Atalanta. She is Atalanta.
My brothers had called me that all my life, when they watched me run. Atalanta: the swiftest woman who had ever raced.

But no one threw a golden apple in my path to distract me as Atalanta was distracted. The muddy course, and the race itself, were mine to claim. I told my chest to take in air, to breathe; I pumped my arms; above all, I called up all the strength I might have hidden in corners of myself.

One yet ahead of me. She was short and strong, her powerful legs shooting her along the path, showing muscles in the thighs bared by the short tunic. She was the one. She was the one who thought to win.

Hera, help me!
I cried.

But no surge of strength came into my limbs. We reached the end of the barley field. The other girl and I swung left again; we were so close in the turn that I could see the sweat on her shoulders.

She bolted ahead, and for an agonizing few minutes she left me behind on the path. Ahead I saw the shields marking the finish.

Now, I told myself. Give it all your strength. Give it even the strength that you do not have.

I saw her back; I commanded myself to catch up to it. I told my arms to pump harder.

Was the gap closing? I ran as hard as I could. I no longer told my body to do anything; I
was
my body.

Closer . . . closer. Her back was getting larger. Larger.

I came abreast. I looked over at her. Sheer surprise was written on her face.

I pulled ahead of her, broke the slender thread. Collapsed on the ground. For I had run better and faster than I was able. Something all athletes understand. You have done as well as you are capable, I exulted to myself. Nay, even better. Better than your best, who can explain it?

My maidenhood was over. It ceased with the victory in that race. It was my sacrifice to Hera—my swiftness, my strength. My wind-fed freedom to race.

IX

T
hey were coming, approaching from all sides. Mother laughingly said that the hills were dark with them, like an army of locusts. She said it with a shudder, but a touch of pride as well.

“Truly I have never witnessed a greater number of suitors for any woman’s hand,” she assured me. She was pleased. I, on the contrary, wished that there had been far fewer of them.

Since Clytemnestra’s wooing, Father had decided that this time each suitor must present a token that spoke for his person, and display his prowess in some manner, be it by sword, spear, race, gold, crown, or promise of deeds to come.

“He will address us here, in the megaron,” Father said, pointing to the freshly painted chamber, its thick pillars shining and its hearth scrubbed. “Then you, Helen, may question him further, as much as you like.”

“You are becoming lax in your age,” said Mother. “Letting Helen speak as much as she likes!” But she said it with approval. It was only fair that I be allowed to question the man freely to satisfy myself rather than defer to Father or my brothers.

“Now, as to the men who woo by proxy—they must be able to answer as their master would. We must assume the master has confidence in the friend’s words. Perhaps the friend can even speak better than his master, and that’s why he was chosen.”

“May I ask him that?” I asked.

“Certainly, but be prepared for him to lie. After all, his task is to win you, perhaps by making his master seem more attractive than he really is.”

“I think I shall not choose anyone unless I see him with my own eyes,” I decided. “So the men who are sending proxies are wasting their efforts.”

Father laughed. “But not before they have presented their gifts!”

Now was the time to say it, the thing I had decided. “I refuse to choose anyone who utters the phrase ‘the most beautiful woman in the world,’ ” I said. “He would be doing it only to please you, and in any case, it isn’t true, which also makes him a liar.”

Father looked alarmed, but then said, “You may make that a condition in your own mind, certainly, but we will not announce it.”

Even now, to recall the suitors is to make me smile. All told, there were some forty of them. And what an assortment of men! They ranged in age from six(!) to sixty. The extremes of age were provided by two who came not to woo but to accompany ones who did: old Nestor, king of Pylos, at least sixty, came with his son Antilochus, and Patroclus brought the boy in whose household he lived, six-year-old Achilles.

There was a huge hulk of a man, Ajax of Salamis. There was a courtly man from Crete, Idomeneus, who, even though a king, came in his black-sailed ship to woo in person. There was a barrel-chested red-haired man, Odysseus from Ithaca. Men of every size and shape and character had assembled under our roof. Since each contestant would have a whole day to himself, that promised forty days of Father’s hospitality.

“We’d better pick a rich one,” Father muttered the first afternoon when he lifted the curtain to look out and see how many were gathered in the megaron. “To repay my expenses!”

Now we must emerge and take our places on the thrones to one side of the room. My hair was covered under a veil, and my shoulders were hidden as well, but still I braced myself for the predictable staring and silence when I appeared.

Dear Persephone, I prayed, oh, cannot one of them
laugh?
I swear, I would fall in love with him on the instant.

“Greetings,” Father said, taking his time in looking around the room.

The suitors lined every wall. Some were in shadow and I could not see their faces clearly, but there was a great variation in height. The man I later knew as Ajax stood a head taller than everyone else, and Odysseus almost a head shorter. There was an enormous man shaped like an olive-oil jar, who turned out to be Elephenor from Euboea. I had my first glimpse of Patroclus, a handsome young man, with the glowering boy pressed to his side. At the time all I thought was, what is that surly child doing here?

“You do us honor to come seeking the hand of my daughter Helen,” Father said. “Now let us pour libations before beginning the contest.” He gestured to a servant, who gave him a rhyton of unmixed wine. He solemnly poured it out in the special floor trough near the throne and asked the gods to look with favor on us.

“Who will be first?” he said. This time he made them choose their own order.

All of them stood there dumbly. Some of them were still staring at me.

“Come, come, you warriors, why be bashful?” Father said. “The first to speak is the first to be finished, to enjoy himself the rest of the time.”

Elephenor, the rotund man from Euboea, stepped forward timidly. “Very well, great king.” He bowed and looked moonstruck at me, like the people in Sparta all those years ago. “But I am no warrior.” He shrugged. “I can only say that, if Helen were to choose me, she would have the most ordinary of lives, where each day passes in peace.”

But I already had that, and longed to escape it. The rest of his suit went almost unheard, as the life he offered did not tempt me, and he was not rich enough to interest Father.

By the time his presentation was over, the smell of roasting ox wafted in, telling us it was time to go outside and partake of the feast. We approached the grounds, where many spits were turning, sending clouds of smoke heavenward. Every night Father would have to provide such fare.

“Helen!” Suddenly I was embraced in a tight hug. When I turned, I saw it was Clytemnestra. “We’ve come! Menelaus is a suitor!” Her voice was low and thrilling. “Not in person, of course. Agamemnon will represent him.” Behind her stood her lord, grown heavier and more florid in the four years since they had wed.

“Greetings, great king,” I said dutifully. I had seen as little of my brother-in-law as possible whenever Clytemnestra and I had visited. Mycenae was a gloomy place, a gray palace of heavy stone set in the wrinkle between two steep hillsides in Argos. Outside of providing an excursion—one of the few times I journeyed from Sparta, and even then in a closed cart so that no one could see me—it did not lure me. I much preferred it when Clytemnestra visited me, bringing her fair-haired little daughter, Iphigenia.

I had also seen little of Menelaus, who never seemed to be at Mycenae when I was, but Clytemnestra had always spoken glowingly of him. In a subtle way, she had been his champion all along.

“Why does he not come himself?” I was remembering our little talk in the moonlight long ago as I asked.

“Some border problems with Sikyon,” said Agamemnon. “He rode out with some warriors—we cannot know how long it will take.” His voice, never pleasant, was unnaturally loud. He always called to mind a snorting bull.

“No, he’s just bashful,” whispered Clytemnestra. “He does not like competitions. He does not fare well in them.”

“I’ll speak for him,” boomed Agamemnon. Several heads turned at the sound.

“Welcome!” Father extended his arms in greeting. “Welcome to my favorite son-in-law.”

“Your only one.” Agamemnon liked stating the obvious. “But not for long.”

People were swirling around us in the great open courtyard, some faces seen easily in the yellow torchlight, others in shadow. There were so few women; a handful of contenders had brought sisters or cousins, but the men had mostly come alone. I noted that many of the warriors had brought their gear; presumably they planned to use it in their trials.

“Hail, great king of Sparta!” The red-haired, thick-chested man appeared next to Father and held out a cup in salutation. “And most gracious queen,” he added, bowing to Mother.

“Hail, Odysseus of Ithaca,” said Father. “What surprise do you have hidden under your helmet for us? What display do you have in mind?” He held out his own cup, which was promptly refilled by a slave.

“Why, none, Your Highness,” said Odysseus. “I know I cannot compete with these wealthy men who have come from all over Greece and across the Aegean Sea. Ithaca is a poor island, rocky and barren. No, I can offer nothing.”

“Oh, come, now,” said Father. “You did not come all this way from your island off the western coast to offer nothing.”

He grinned. “Only advice, sir, only advice. And it is to benefit you in making your choice.”

Father groaned. “Advice I have aplenty. Pray spare me advice, if you wish to remain my friend.”

“My advice will enable you to keep the men gathered here your friends. Without it, there will be enmity.”