Helen of Troy (27 page)

“But I am not a goddess!”

“But nearly so,” she sighed. “And many will treat you as such. You have certain privileges reserved for us.”

“What are those?”

“Oh, when others would be killed or traded—” She stopped and laughed. That disarming laugh! “But I forget—you mortals like surprises. That is why the oracles speak in riddles. To tell you too much is to spoil the suspense.” She paused. “I would not rob you of it.”

And then, suddenly, she was gone. The cave was dark and dripping. No roses. No warm air.

Why do the gods depart so abruptly? To tease us, to punish us, to laugh at us? I was forced to stumble out, feeling my way. I wanted to grab her shoulders, shake her, say,
How dare you treat me this way?
But there was no recourse. The gods were as they were; we mortals were as we were. Sometimes we could speak and understand one another; usually not.

Time had not existed, had not passed, in the cave, but when I emerged it was midday. The sun was high in the sky, turning the ocean into a mirror. I returned to the spot I had left. I could see the collecting sack was still safe; I was thankful for that.

Gelanor was standing near it, hands on hips, looking everywhere for me. I waved at him, although, truthfully, I did not wish to speak to him or anyone else. I wanted to sink down alone on the sand and think of what had happened to me.

“Helen! Helen!” Gelanor was waving his arms, signaling to me.

I walked toward him, feeling the soft give of the sand beneath my feet, smelling more acutely than ever before the sand—sea—salt.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“It was cold and so I left the sack—in a safe place—and walked to warm myself.”

“I told you it would be cold!” he scolded.

Oh, what matter? I wanted to tell him. All those things of ordinary life have passed away.

I came abreast of him. “What have you gathered?” I knew it was a question I should ask.

“I got many.” He patted the bulging sack. Then he wheeled on me. “What’s wrong with you?”

I stared at him. “Nothing. Nothing.”

“You act like a sleepwalker.”

The sun striking the rocks was glorious. They seemed more than rocks, they seemed some special offering of the gods. Why had I not seen it before?

“Nothing,” I repeated. “Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.” He grasped my arm. “You are ill.”

Just then a huge wave surged offshore—rearing itself up, it crested and raced toward us. I tore away from him, ran down into the tide, stood braced and waiting for the wave to wash over me, arms upraised, as Aphrodite had commanded me.

“No!” Gelanor cried, running after me.

But he was too late. The huge wave engulfed me, swallowed me up in a great green swallow. I gave myself to it, and it was warm, as warm as the breath of someone’s mouth against my neck, as warm as water that sat out in high summer in a clay jar in sunlight. And half of it was foam, light frothy foam, foam that enveloped me, bathed me. The wave receded and I stood coated with foam, white as a spirit.

“You are mad,” said Gelanor, encircling my shoulders with his strong arms. “This water is lethally cold . . .” He stuck his hand in it. “It’s dangerous.”

Couldn’t he feel its warmth? Or was it warm only for me?

He insisted on enveloping me in a blanket and hurrying me up above the water line. “Whatever has come over you?” he asked, shaking his head, dabbing the foam off me.

I said nothing. The foam had anointed me. I was now Aphrodite’s. But it was our secret, our private pledge.

Far off on the horizon, the outlines of an island showed itself. I realized I must think of something to say to Gelanor, something innocent. “What island is that?” I asked.

“Cythera,” he said shortly. “It is two days’ sail from here with a fair wind.”

“It beckons me.”

“It is where Aphrodite was born, where she was washed ashore on a seashell, emerging from the foam. Better to have your sights on nearby Cranae.” He pointed to the island just offshore that had intrigued me. “It is far easier to attain.”

XXI

T
he way back seemed short; perhaps I also had fresh strength in my legs. Gelanor had put the shellfish into a stone tank near the shore filled with seawater for his parents to sell to the Phoenicians when they arrived. He had gathered heaps of them; they almost filled the tank.

“Better than farming,” he said. “The dye itself will fetch ten to twenty times its weight in gold.”

I had selected two fat ones to show to Menelaus, and we were carrying them carefully in a sealed jar of water.

Now I eagerly looked at the landscape as we walked through it, the guards trudging a respectful distance behind. We were climbing the hills that screened Gytheum; when we passed beyond it, the sea would vanish from sight. Oaks and yews clung to the slopes, stubbornly pointing skyward. I heard the goat bells of herds that grazed on the hills; I saw their keepers sleeping under the trees, dozing in the shade.

“Let us stop,” I asked Gelanor. I had an overwhelming urge to sit down on this hill near the goatherds; why, I did not know.

He looked at me quizzically. “We have barely started,” he said. “Tired already?”

“No, not tired.”

“What, then?”

“I wish to linger a few moments,” I said, and sat down. I leaned against the trunk of an old myrtle—sacred to Aphrodite—and closed my eyes. The high tinkling sound of the goatherds’ bells played like lyres in the air. A pungent, sweet smell of wild thyme rode the breeze.

Suddenly time and place vanished, as it had in the cave. I kept my eyes shut—had not Aphrodite told me they interfere with the other senses?—and stilled the racing of my heart. I let my mind drift free; I smelled the scents around me, heard the sounds, felt the hard, pebbly ground under my feet. I saw another mountain, a higher one, with green meadows and wildflowers and butterflies playing in and out; I heard the splashing of a stream, falling down into a pool; I felt the shady coolness. Somehow, too, I smelled cattle, their hot, thick scent, and heard them low—so different from the bleats of sheep and goats. And then I saw—somewhere in my head, in this waking dream—a herdsman sleeping, dreaming, his head pillowed with green grass and meadow flowers. He had a smile on his face. And I could see inside his dream, and that there were goddesses parading before him, three of them.

In the man’s dream, he rose and conferred with Aphrodite. I could not hear what passed between them, but there was smiling and agreement. Then the goddesses all vanished and the man awoke, rolling over and sitting up. He clasped his knees with his hands and sighed.

“We must get up,” Gelanor said. “We have a long day’s walk.”

Yes. We must go. I stood, the images still swirling in my mind. These goddesses—that herdsman—the steep mountainside with its cascading streams—what had they to do with me? As we descended from the hills—not really mountains—the fields and forests around us were very different.

It was past sunset when we reached Sparta. The last trudge up the hill to the palace seemed very long, coming at the end of the journey. As we passed through the gates, I saw Agamemnon’s horses and chariot in the outer courtyard, and smelled roasting ox. We had visitors, official ones.

Exhaustion gripped me. My feet were dusty and aching from the journey; all I wished was to send for a quiet supper in my quarters and retire. I turned to Gelanor. “Oh, no,” I said.

He shook his head. “My lady, this is where being an ordinary man is more desirable than being queen. For I may rest and you may not.”

“It is not fair!” I said.

He laughed, and leaned over to kiss my cheek. “Courage!” he said, saluting me.

Should I go to my chambers and wait to be summoned? Or should I go directly to the megaron and have it over with? I decided it was best to go to the gathering. Once I reached my chambers it would be hard to leave.

I walked through the open porch and the portico of the vestibule and entered the great megaron. To my relief, there were not many people there.

Menelaus hurried up. “Dear wife, we have had some tragic news.”

Agamemnon followed him. “Our grandfather Catreus on Crete has died. We must go and make obsequies for him.” He held up his hands to check condolences. “It was not unexpected. And he has lived a long time, longer than our father.” He drew in a heavy breath. “But we must delay for nine days.”

“Why is that?” I did not understand.

“At the very same time that I received the news of Grandfather, these . . . visitors . . . appeared. We have two conflicting protocols. One is that a family funeral must be attended; the other that a foreign guest or envoy must be entertained for nine days.”

Menelaus nodded. “So I will hold them here, feast them, and so on. Agamemnon will return to Mycenae and ready the ships for our journey to Crete.”

Crete! “May I accompany you?” I asked. I had so longed to see Crete.

“No,” said Menelaus. “You are not of his direct blood. Besides, I must leave you here in charge of Sparta while I am gone.”

“But Father or Mother—”

“No. You stay here.” Did he say this to satisfy Agamemnon?

“Who are these envoys?” I was not to go to Crete. Would I ever see anything? Even the journey to nearby Gytheum had required special permission.

“They are from Troy! Troy!” muttered Agamemnon. “One is Priam’s son, the other his cousin. Paris and Aeneas.”

“Troy?” I found it hard to believe.

“Indeed. They came on an embassy about their aunt Hesione. Priam sent them. I see he fears war!” Agamemnon chuckled.

“Or perhaps he thinks it would be foolish, and hopes to lay all this strife to rest,” said Menelaus.

Such a possibility did not please Agamemnon, yearning for war, even one based on an old woman content with her lot. “Bah!” He laughed and turned a smiling face to me. “Come. Come and meet them.”

Menelaus held out his hand and I took it. Together we entered the hall.

He had not asked me about the shellfish; I hoped Gelanor could keep them alive until morning.

The two visitors were standing by the open hearth in the middle of the megaron. They turned, almost in unison, as we approached. One wore a deerskin and the other a purple-dyed mantle held over the shoulder with a brooch.

They were both handsome—one was dark-haired, with almost perfect features. (No wonder; later I was to learn he was Aphrodite’s own son.) But it was the other one, the light-haired one, broad-shouldered and tall, that I stared at.

It was the herdsman in my dream. And he was staring hard at me.

“Paris,” he said, inclining his head.

“Aeneas,” said the dark one.

They were like gods. They were gods. That was what they said of the Trojans—that they were so beautiful even the gods themselves carried them off.
Trojans are most like to gods of all mortal men in beauty and stature,
Aphrodite whispered to me, as she brushed by me in the evening like a moth, delicate and white.

I struggled for speech. Then I berated myself. This was absurd.

“Helen,” I said.

“The immortal Helen,” Paris said. His face seemed lit with a glow of gold.

“No, not immortal,” I said. “I shall perish as everyone else.”

“Never.”

All this passed in an instant, but our words did not matter. We kept looking at one another. For the first few minutes I wanted to tell him my dream of him on the mountain, ask him what it meant. But even that passed away, as a great stillness fell upon me and I was content just to look at him.

“We are come in the name of peace,” he said. “We are distressed that Priam’s inquiries about his sister have been so rudely rebuffed.”

Even his voice resonated, lovely as the pipes of Pan in glens. “But she is content where she is,” I said.

“Helen is not to speak of political matters.” Agamemnon’s harsh voice cut across the night. “My brother and I are the ones empowered to negotiate, not his wife!” Obedient, subservient laughter rose from around the room.

“I am a woman,” I persisted. “And I think I can speak of what women feel.”

“Her feelings are immaterial!” bellowed Agamemnon.

Paris and Aeneas kept silent; I thought the more highly of them. But I could not keep my eyes from Paris. For the first time perhaps in my entire life, I felt desire course through me. I wanted to possess him, devour him, take him away in a chain and have him always at my command. At the same time I wanted to give him anything he desired; anything. And I wanted to be with him every instant. And so far we had not spoken a single private word.