Helen of Troy (13 page)

Silently, as if in a ceremony for one of the Mysteries, the men made a circle around the clearing. Father took the reins of the horse and led him into the center. With a trembling exhalation of breath, the horse shivered and his hide twitched, little ripples passing across it.

“Proceed.” Father nodded to the priests. They stepped forward with bronze swords and knives. One twisted the horse’s halter, forcing his head back to better expose the throat, while the second stroked his withers and murmured calming words. Then the third moved swiftly, taking one long sword and slicing the horse’s neck open in one motion. The horse reared but could make no sound; he fell to his knees and his head pitched forward, hitting the ground with a crack. Spouts of blood erupted from the neck, so much that the head disappeared beneath its red torrent. A cloud of steam surrounded the flood as its warmth met the cold air, and a horrid thick metallic smell filled the air.

A pool of blood surrounded the horse; he lay sprawled as if on a red sail. When several moments had passed without the horse moving, Father nodded again to the priests. They walked across the circle of blood and began dismembering the horse, using short knives to sever limbs and joints and lay open the insides. The only sound in the clearing was that of their hacking and sawing, of sinews snapping and joints ripping, of soft tissues gurgling as they spilled their contents.

Methodically, the priests arranged the pieces in a circle, then withdrew, their legs bloody up to their knees, their cloaks soaked with gore.

Father raised his arms. “Take your places,” he commanded the men. “There are enough pieces for all of you. You must each stand on one of the pieces and make your solemn vow.”

Even though many were warriors, the men looked uneasy at this ghoulish request. Glancing at one another and then back at Father, slowly they came forward and put at least one foot on part of the bloody carcass.

“I do swear before this company and all the gods on high Olympus that I will defend Helen of Sparta and her chosen lord against anyone who seeks to wrong them,” they intoned together in their deep voices.

“Thus shall it be,” said Father. He turned to the priests. “Bury the horse,” he said. “Raise a mound to it, so that it remains a memorial to this day and this oath.” Then, with a smile, he said, “Come now, let us return to the palace.” The smile was almost the worst thing of all, as if he had played god and succeeded in altering our fate.

XI

A
fresh day, cleanly created for us by the gods, the remains of the horse moldering under a heap of earth.

We gathered again for the contest to continue in our tidy and warm megaron. It was the turn of Ajax of Salamis to speak.

Agamemnon was sitting with the men, but Clytemnestra was beside me and Mother on Father’s right hand.

“He probably cannot even speak,” Clytemnestra whispered into my ear. “There is something so . . . bestial about him.”

I agreed. He was a huge man; most men would not even reach his shoulders. His outsized head with its oddly small features did resemble the head of a bull. Under his thick unruly hair there might be tiny horns. I shivered and thought of the Minotaur, that ghastly offspring of a woman and a bull.

Ajax took his place; in adjusting his cloak he managed to sweep it into three men’s faces. They fell back, pushing others behind them.

“My pardon!” Ajax made a stiff bow, his body like a creaky hinged door. “Great king, queen, princess . . .” He went on and made his formal declaration. He was Ajax, son of Telamon, king of Salamis. “I am very strong!” he said, stating the obvious. “And why am I so strong? Because of Heracles! Yes, Heracles visited my father once, and spread out his famous lion skin and stood on it and decreed to my father that his newborn son should be as strong as the skin!” Ajax looked around proudly. “Yes, in Nemea they still have a patch of the skin, but I was formed by its strength!” He nodded, pleased with himself. “And I have a special shield. It’s called . . . the Shield of Ajax.” I could not help myself; a small laugh escaped from my lips.

He looked puzzled at the amusement. “But, Princess, that
is
what it is called. It’s made of seven layers of bull hide, and—here, let me show you!” With surprising nimbleness, he darted off to get his shield.

Now everyone openly laughed. But they hushed when Ajax returned, hoisting his gigantic shield over his shoulder. He planted it in front of him, where it stood like a tower. “Tychios, the best worker in hides, made this from the skins of seven bulls. And over it, there is a layer of bronze. Nothing can penetrate this!” He thumped it up and down on the floor.

“Why would a woman care about his bull-hide shield?” Clytemnestra said with a giggle. “Truly, do men ever understand what appeals to a woman?”

“Thank you, Ajax,” said Father, shouting over the banging of the shield. “Now, what do you bring as your prize for Helen? Unless it is to be the shield?”

“I—Great deeds! I offer great deeds! My prowess in cattle-rustling. Cattle equal wealth. I can deliver many heads of cattle, all stolen from the people of Troezen, and Epidaurus, and from Megara and Corinth and Euboea.”

At that Elephenor cried, “You offer to plunder my lands! How dare you!” and rushed over to Ajax, who brushed him off like a bothersome insect. The rotund man, seemingly so difficult to budge, went flying.

“Ajax . . .” Father chose his words carefully. “It is not appropriate to offer stolen goods as a bride-price.”

Ajax looked confounded. Behind him Elephenor was getting to his feet, ready to assault again. “But prizes won in battle are the most precious of all!”

“Salamis is not at war with Euboea, nor Corinth, nor Epidaurus,” said Father. “Have we not just taken a vow to avoid strife and war?”

I rose and looked at Ajax. I gave him what I hoped was a compensating smile. “I wish no violence ever to be laid at my feet,” I said.

“Oh!” Ajax’s face grew almost as dark as his beard. “Well, then, if you spurn the great Ajax . . .” He swirled around and dragged his shield after him, then pushed his way through the crowd and stalked out.

“You’re well rid of him,” said Mother. “Imagine the tempers he could get into. Imagine being on the receiving end of them.”

That was not something I cared to imagine. I was content to let the bullman retreat and leave Sparta.

The third day of the contest: the suitor was Teucer, the half-brother of Ajax, also the son of Telamon, but evidently born after the telling visit of Heracles. He was of average size and strength; no lion-skin promises had been made on his behalf. I liked him better for it.

I studied him carefully. His looks were pleasing, and he was of a goodly age—perhaps some five or six years older than I, making him twenty or so. There was gold in his hair, and his eyes were green-flecked.

“Oh, those Trojans!” Clytemnestra purred. “No one can compare to them in looks.”

“He isn’t a Trojan,” I whispered back.

“He’s half Trojan,” she replied. “And if this is what one looks like when he is only half Trojan, I’d like to see a full-blooded one!” She sounded hungry.

“Who is his mother, then? He shares a father with Ajax.” I should have studied all this, but there were so many suitors, and all their lineages were so complicated.

“Hesione,” she said. “The sister of Priam, the king of Troy. She was kidnapped by Heracles and taken off to Salamis and given to Telamon. A long time ago.”

“Has she been kept a prisoner all this time?”

Clytemnestra shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps she grew to like Salamis and didn’t want to return. Perhaps she is fond of Telamon.” She rolled her eyes.

As it turned out, Teucer’s skill was archery, and his demonstration was most impressive.

The fourth day. Already this was becoming wearisome. Had it not been for Clytemnestra’s presence at my side and her evaluations and comments about each man, it would have been unendurable. This fourth day, Idomeneus, king of Crete, took his place facing Father and us.

He was a bit older than the others had been; from the story of his life on the island kingdom and the battles he had fought, I assumed he was in his early thirties—at least twice my own age. After declaring his lineage—as a grandson of the mighty Minos—and recounting his wealth and the title as queen that he could offer me, he was confronted by Father’s asking, “Most kings do not come in person; they send an envoy to represent them. This is all the more true when the distance is great, and Crete is four days’ sail from Gytheum, our nearest harbor. Yet you have come all this way.”

Idomeneus just smiled, not defensive at all. “I do not trust to rumors or to other men’s eyes. I wished to come in person to see for myself this Helen of Sparta, who is reputed to be the most beautiful woman in the world.”

I stood up, trembling. “Sir! That is not true!”

“That I wished to see you in person, that is true.”

“I am not the most beautiful woman in the world! You must stop this!” I looked around, pleading with all of them in the room.

Idomeneus looked saddened. “Princess, you
are.”
He said it as if he were pronouncing an incurable illness.

And by this time it felt like one. Silently I sank back down in my seat.

“What do you bring to offer Helen as your wife?” Father asked.

“I bring her the title of queen of Crete. I lay Crete at her feet, Crete to share with me, a goodly kingdom that is rich in pastures, in olives and vines and sheep, surrounded by the deepest seas, protected by our ships. “We are a proud people, Princess,” he said to me. “Come and live amongst us.”

“And what is your skill?” Father went directly to the point.

“Words, mighty king. I tell epic tales, fit them to verse. My lyre is best played by a more talented bard, but I taught him the words.” He indicated a young man who until then had remained quietly in the shadows of a column, clutching his tortoiseshell lyre.

The bard took his place beside Idomeneus, and although it was full daylight and no wine had been drunk, the beauty of the poem and the music moved us first to silence and then to tears. He sang of the love of Adriadne for Theseus, and the bravery of that hero.

But I could not choose him. Had I not promised myself that anyone who spoke the “most beautiful woman in the world” words would be disqualified? And, appealing as he was, he lived far away and the thought of being separated from the rest of my family by a wide stretch of ocean frightened me.

* * *

The moon, a crescent to begin with, grew full and waned and became a crescent again, and yet the contest dragged on. By that time we were so weary of speeches, of roasted ox, of wine, of lyres and archery and chariots and footraces, we vowed never to indulge in them again once this was over.

Agamemnon, who had gone home to Mycenae after the first few days, returned to be the final contestant, speaking for his brother.

Stocky, thick legs spread wide in challenging stance, he stood beside the megaron hearth, his manner impatient.

“My brother Menelaus has trusted me to speak for him. A humble man cannot sing his own praises, even when they are deserved. And my brother is a humble man.” He made it sound like a fault. Or perhaps he just meant that his brother’s humility was now inconvenient for him, Agamemnon. “But of all men, he has least reason to be! His lineage is of the noble House of Atreus!”

There. He had flung out his greatest liability as if it were his greatest asset. The House of Atreus—its founder Tantalus, and his son and grandson Pelops and Thyestes.

“Yes, we carry a great burden, but so does Atlas! Atlas bears the world on his shoulders, but we bear the burden of the curse of a brother to a brother: that of Thyestes to Atreus. So be it. He cursed all of Atreus’ sons, forever and in all generations. But no mortal has the power to do that, only the gods. And Menelaus and I are living proof of that. We hold no enmity for one another—quite the contrary. We are close as brothers can be, and would go to one another’s defense on the instant. I am pledged to protect him, and he, me. The curse is dead!”

I saw Father tighten his lips and frown. Beside me Clytemnestra was silent. Did she believe this?