Helen of Troy (12 page)

Father looked up sharply. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean that the losers may not accept your choice. They may turn these weapons from tools of friendly competition to instruments of deadly intent.”

Mother gave a little intake of breath and brought her hand up to her throat. But she kept her eyes from widening or blinking.

I knew we—Father, Mother, and I—were hearing again the shrill voice of the Herophile Sibyl crying,
Because of her a great war will be fought, and
many Greeks will die!
But Odysseus had not heard those words; he could not know.

“And what is your proposal?” Father asked, looking keenly at Odysseus.

“Ah! Before I reveal it, I must ask your promise for something in exchange.”

Father grunted. “I knew it. You do in fact want something.”

“I do. But not the hand of Helen. I am not worthy”—he looked at me and smiled—“but perhaps I could join your family in another manner.”

“Oh, speak up! Spit it out, whatever it is you want!” I could tell Father was troubled by the ugly prospect Odysseus had raised about the disquiet; it was filling his mind.

“I would like you to speak on my behalf to your niece Penelope,” he said. “It is she I long to wed.”

Father looked relieved. “Is that all?”

“To me it is everything.”

“Very well. I shall do my utmost for your suit. And may the gods do the rest! Now your part of the bargain!”

“It is simple. This is the way to avert any trouble. You will announce that all the suitors must swear an oath to uphold Helen’s choice of husband, to be content with it. If anyone should seek to disrupt the marriage or dispute it, then all the others will make war on
him
.”

“But why would they agree to that?”

“Because, men being men, each will imagine himself the winner, and enjoying the benefits of this oath.”

“You said ‘Helen’s choice,’ ” I said softly.

“That is right, little beauty,” said Odysseus. “It must be your choice. That way no one can hold it against your father.”

“But that’s unheard of!” said Mother.

“I am sure she will listen to the wise advice of her parents,” said Odysseus, all but winking. “But in the end”—he turned to me—“it is you who must speak the words. The words that say, ‘I choose you to be my husband.’ ” I felt a strange excitement at the prospect of it.

Odysseus slipped between two large men and disappeared.

A tall, wrinkled man, his head bobbing, was weaving his way toward us, turning adeptly to slide between people. He never stopped talking to a man trailing alongside him.

“Ah, to behold you again is worth the journey from Pylos,” the wrinkled man said, throwing his hands up in exultation. “Ah, and along the way, there were repairs on the road, we had to take a detour. Although it was not as rough as the time in that battle with the Epeans when my chariot wheel came off—do you remember?—no, you were too young, you were not there. Well, it seems—”

“Greetings, King Nestor,” said Father, when Nestor had paused to gulp in a breath. “We welcome you. But we thought you had a wife already!”

One who, preferably, was deaf, I thought.

“Oh, I do, I do! It is my son who seeks a wife. Antilochus here!” He clapped the young man on the back, and his son winced in response.

Antilochus was of medium height, with one of those faces that are inherently pleasing—whether by expression or the contours of the nose, cheeks, and eyes, it is hard to say. It was a face I felt I could trust.

“And what do you plan as your part of the competition?” asked Father abruptly. He was still distracted by what Odysseus had said about the strife.

“What, and ruin his surprise?” Nestor shook his finger at Father. “Really, Tyndareus, I’m surprised at you! You know better!”

“You’re not
my
father, Nestor. Pray don’t scold me!” said Father.

“I will either demonstrate my swift running or drive my chariot,” said Antilochus. “But I will not say which yet.”

“Oh, he’s the swiftest—wins races all the time . . .”

Father moved away, leaving Nestor talking. I could barely keep myself from laughing out loud.

The night air was cool and soothing, and overhead the stars were coming out, looking like specks of silver dust. Some of them were blotted out by the clouds of smoke rising from the fires for roasting the meats. The breeze stirred; soon I would need a light cloak.

“I’ve never lost a race; no, nor a wrestling match, either . . .”

“What? You haven’t been to the oracle at Dodona? Pity! Where do you go, then?”

“I’ve found a shrine that doesn’t require any blood sacrifices; the goddess accepts grains and milk instead. Saves me a fortune! Do you want the location?”

How amusing it was to stand absolutely still and listen to these snatches of conversation, the revealing little snippets of people’s concerns.

“When’s it to be ready? By Hermes, I’m about to faint!” The jug-shaped Elephenor came by, rubbing his stomach. He let out a rumbling hunger-burp that he did not trouble to hide. He sidled up to one of the fires and eyed a platter of meat that the servants had begun carving from the roast and snatched a piece dripping with fat. He tore it with his hands and then dropped pieces of it down his gullet.

“No!” Suddenly at his side was a boy who barely came up to his waist. “Stop it! That’s rude!”

Elephenor lowered his head and peered over his waist to see who was speaking. “What?” he muttered, his words choked by the meat in his mouth.

“I said it’s rude, to help yourself like that! Are you a thief? You act like one!” The boy was glaring at him.

“Who speaks to Elephenor of Euboea thus?” Elephenor swallowed his food quickly.

“Achilles of Phthia,” the boy said.

“Who in Hades is Achilles of—Phthia?” He made
phthia
sound like a loud spit.

“Son of Peleus and the goddess Thetis!”

“He needs a lashing, whoever he is.” Elephenor turned away, wiping his greasy hand surreptitiously on his garment.

“I saw that!” the boy yelled.

Elephenor whirled around, like a big melon, and bent down. “Enough from you!” he said. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll lash you myself. Where’s your mother?”

“I told you, she’s a goddess, and—”

“Hush, Achilles!” A tall youth appeared. “Leave this man alone.” He turned to Elephenor. “Excuse him, please.”

“No, I won’t. He’s a loudmouthed brat.” Elephenor drew himself up. The grease stains were smeared darkly on the side of his tunic.

“
He’s
a loutish thief!” Achilles cried. “I hope you don’t think the princess would ever hold
your
greasy hand!”

“Enough,” said the boy’s companion. He had a calming effect on him.

“All right, Patroclus.” I was surprised to hear the boy give in so easily. Suddenly he saw me. “It’s Helen!” he cried, pointing at me.

“Oh. Yes.” Patroclus nodded to me. “Princess, I fear to speak to you privately ahead of my time. I would not be presumptuous.”

I liked him. “It would seem pretentious not to. Or—what the word you are so fond of, Achilles?—rude to pretend we don’t see each other. Besides”—I felt emboldened by Odysseus’s plan that I should make my own choice—“I am free to speak to anyone, at any time everyone is gathered here.”

“I must be one of the youngest of the suitors,” said Patroclus. “I would not wish to be seen as speaking out of turn.”

“Well, how old are you?” Now that he had mentioned it, I had to ask.

“Fourteen,” he admitted.

He looked older than that. I said so.

“No wonder!” said Achilles. “He killed a playmate when he was even younger, and his father brought him to live with me and my father, and made him my squire. So he’s been treated like a man for years!”

“It was an accident,” said Patroclus softly. “I didn’t mean to harm him.”

“But blood once spilled must be avenged,” I said. “I am glad you found safety.” I knew all about the blood feuds, the relatives that had to even out a death, even an accidental one. Only fleeing to another land, and seeking purification from a god, would avert more killing. Hoping to lighten the mood, I said, “You are not the youngest, then. I’ve been told there is a genuine suitor here who is ten.” Somehow I suspected that around Achilles, the mood was never light.

“You would have to put him in a storeroom and let him mature, then,” said Patroclus. “Like wine.”

We laughed, and the evening seemed gentler.

X

L
ibations poured, places taken, faces fresh from rest, and Father standing beside his throne in the megaron, forty men waiting to hear what he would say.

“One of our guests spoke yesterday—the noble Elephenor.” He nodded toward the man, who was now wearing a clean robe. “Many more will speak in the days to come. But before any other man takes his place before us, I must announce that I have decided to add another condition to the contest.”

Now an uneasy silence fell over the group, so lighthearted an instant before. I watched Father, thinking how sure he always seemed, wondering what it would feel like to be so certain of all my actions. He did not seem to mind changing the rules after the contest was under way.

“There are some forty of you; thirty-nine will be disappointed. Disappointed men sometimes do not accept results they dislike. With such strong and trained warriors, this might lead to ugly strife. I want everyone here to return to his home as able-bodied as when he left it.”

In the pause that followed, some men began muttering, but as Father started speaking again, a hush fell over the crowd. “Therefore,” he continued, “I want it to be clear who has chosen: Not me. It will be Helen herself. And surely you can accept the choice of the woman you claim to love.”

Everyone stared at him. This was unheard of. Was he a coward, afraid to make a choice and stand by it? Hiding behind his daughter?

“This is Helen’s wish.” Father looked at me. “Helen?” He motioned to me.

I stood. “I will choose my husband.” I spoke slowly. “As I must pay the price for a wrong choice, I will be doubly thoughtful, doubly careful to safeguard my own happiness.”

Father looked satisfied. I sat back down, gripping the arms of the throne, my hands cold.

“But I demand something further,” Father said. “All of you must pledge to respect Helen’s choice, and should anyone—
anyone,
no matter who he be—dispute it or attempt to disrupt it, all of you must defend the chosen man, with arms, if necessary.”

“What?” cried Ajax of Salamis, a gigantic slab of a man. “You insult us!”

Instead of arguing, Father just cocked his head. “Perhaps, although that is not my intention. I have my own prophecies to consider, none that you need know, but this will assure peace. Believe me, it is for your own good, whether you know it or not.”

Ajax grunted.

“You must go and take the oath now,” said Father, “before we proceed any further. Any man who does not wish to follow me to the solemn site may withdraw his suit.”

The whole company followed Father out of the megaron and from there out of the palace. Three priests led a horse to be sacrificed. He was a sturdy little horse from Thessaly, but now his strength and his blood would be poured out in order to bind these men and to prevent a war—the dreadful war that only Father knew about.

Some hold that fates are fixed, and that even Zeus cannot alter them, while others feel that they are more fluid than that, and ever-changing. But when a gruesome fate awaits us, it is in our nature to try to change it, or, at least, not to walk willingly toward it.

It was a long distance from Sparta; I had not expected to walk so far. We went in silent procession down the long hill, past the city. A crowd came out to watch us pass. It seemed unseasonably chilly, and I shivered inside my light wool gown. I walked between Father and Mother, with Castor and Polydeuces behind us. Clytemnestra and Agamemnon were just behind them.

Father looked grim as he trudged along, and Mother no less so. It was clear that with each step they took, they felt as if they were challenging the oracle, trespassing the will of the gods. Yet they had to do it.

A shady clearing against the side of a rocky hill with a thin cold waterfall on one side: just the sort of place a tree or water nymph would call home. Dark cypresses ringed the edge of the glen; the ground was spongy with moss.