Helen of Troy (28 page)

Oh, Aphrodite! I cried in my thoughts. You are indeed the most powerful goddess, you have subjugated my sense and my thoughts and reason.

Yet I did not wish to be freed. I felt more alive than ever before, even as I was an abject prisoner.

I walked, as lightly as a nymph, back to my chamber. Had I felt weary? No longer. Now I felt as fleet as I had the day I raced beside the banks of the Eurotas, but I wanted to run toward Paris, not away from a starting line.

Dreamily I let the attendants remove my clothes, attire me for sleep. I raised my arms, reaching for the ceiling; I felt them untying my hair, letting it fall down my back. Light robes swirled as they dropped them over my head down to my ankles.

“Dear Queen,” one said, gesturing toward the bed, bowing. Then, impulsively, she reached for an alabaster vial of rose oil, unstoppered it, and stroked some of the oil across my throat. “Until the true roses bloom,” she said.

Oh, but they had. They had! I took her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you,” I said.

I lay down, pulling the linen over me, aching to be alone, to think. I shut my eyes, and went back to the cave and the roses and the foam and the anointing. And then, the dream and the herdsman in it. The herdsman who was here. But he was no herdsman, he was a prince of Troy. None of it made sense. My head spun.

Paris. His name was Paris. Had I not heard earlier . . . somewhere . . . of him? Paris. Yes . . . that child who had been exposed, set out to die, and who had later returned to his father, Priam.

But why would they want to leave him to die? He had no blemishes, he was not impaired. Why would a mother and father expose such a son? Sometimes a daughter might be exposed, her only fault being that she was a daughter. But a royal son . . . Of course, Priam had so many, he need not miss one. Had not an omen been mentioned?

To think that Paris might not have lived. I could not bear even to contemplate it, to think it was only chance that he lived, and breathed, and was here in Sparta.

Paris. Why was I drawn to him and not to Aeneas, who was also handsome? I could not say; only that the sight of Paris had . . . inflamed me, that was the only word for it.

A loud noise made me open my eyes; a thump as something was thrown down; Menelaus was tossing his mantle with its heavy brooch onto a chest. So he had come to me tonight. The attendants had left a lamp burning, and in the dim light I saw him standing, stretching, his skimpy tunic leaving his broad, muscular shoulders to gleam faintly. I saw them move as he lowered his arms.

Had Aphrodite touched me in regard to him? At last, could I see him with eyes of desire? That would be far better than anything else, far, far better. Give me that Aphrodite vision, bathe my vision of my husband in it! Let me be one of those fortunate wives! Let the net of desire fall over my faithful husband, Menelaus!

He came closer. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, how would I see him?

“You have had a long journey,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed; it gave under his weight. “I hope you have enjoyed it?” His voice was warm and soft.

“Indeed, I have. And we brought you”—I opened my eyes—“a sample of the shellfish, as you requested.”

“Thank you.” His voice was gentle. He reached over to touch my cheek.

I recoiled. It was all I could do not to shudder.

The net did not fall over him. It was exclusive to Paris.

“Oh!” I cried, close to a sob. I did not want this to be the answer, Aphrodite’s cruel answer. I turned away.

We lay side by side, quietly, as we did so many nights. I drifted away into dreams—but slight, fractured things—and kept emerging out into consciousness, like the moon sliding out between clouds. At length I felt so wide awake that I stole from the bed and put on my mantle.

I did not know where to go, what to do. I could not stay in this chamber for fear of making noise and waking Menelaus. The rest of the palace slept in darkness; the guards kept watch outside, but everything else was quiet.

My fingers trembling, I pulled open the door and slipped out. Immediately I felt calmer. I merely needed to be alone, truly alone, for a time. I needed to think, not to have to speak to anyone. Gelanor was very dear, but he examined everything and asked questions. Menelaus—no, I could never tell Menelaus.

Perhaps I should go to the shrine of—no, it was the gods who had caused this. But . . . the household altar, the shrine where the sacred snake lived, the snake I had brought back from Asclepius’s temple . . . yes, that might be what I sought. There was no particular god there, just the spirits of our house and dynasty.

I walked out across the portico; the rising moon made long shadows of the pillars. I walked through them, a forest of shadow-trees with bright clearings.

The small, circular marble room nearby, with its altar in the center, glowed with reflected moonlight. Two votive lamps flickered on the floor. I sank down on a bench along the wall and clasped my hands in my lap.

Yesterday’s honey cake offering for the snake lay to one side of a lamp. I had been diligent in taking care of him, as I had promised. He had grown a great deal in the eight winters since he had come here. And he was fond of me; at least, I liked to think so. It is hard to know what a serpent thinks. But he always glided out to see me. Where was he tonight? Perhaps he slept, as all the world did.

This was the first private breath I had taken since the cave had beckoned me. I wanted to transcend myself, the palace, Menelaus, even Aphrodite herself. You, my pet snake, you are the only one I want to touch and speak to, I thought. And as if in response to a command, he glided out from behind the altar.

I got up and came over to him, being careful to move smoothly, with no jerky movements—snakes do not like them. I bent down and stroked his slick head.

“My friend,” I whispered, “I rejoice to see you.”

He raised his head up and flicked his tongue.

“You protect our household.”

No answer from him; but he did move over toward me and approach my feet.

“Oh, I cannot even tell you what has happened,” I murmured to him, “but I know you guard our household and you will warn us if there is any danger.”

He reared himself up and, surprisingly, coiled around my ankle. Then he tightened his grip.

“Dear friend, can you not speak more clearly?” Was he trying to warn me? I reached down and tried to uncoil him, but he clenched even more tightly. It became painful. “I cannot translate what you are saying,” I told him. “But you must release my foot. You are causing me distress.” I tried again to uncoil him. His strength was surprising. I could not unwind him without injuring him.

A soft voice came from the shadows. “He is trying to tell you something.”

No. Even here, even here I could not be alone. I whirled around.

“Who is there?” I demanded. The snake still clung to my ankle.

There was no answer. Only the shuffling of footsteps. Then, out into the dim, white-tinged light, stepped Paris.

“Oh!” My hands flew to my mouth.

He came closer. I could not breathe. “Oh,” I repeated mindlessly.

“Shall I help you with the snake?” He knelt down and touched it, gently, but the snake had already loosened himself and was moving away. Paris leaned forward and kissed my ankle, at the place where the snake had been entwined. His lips were warm and set me to boil. I snatched my foot away.

“He—he is gone,” I said. It was all I could say.

Slowly Paris straightened himself and stood to his full height, a goodly height. He looked down at me.

“I came here because I could not sleep,” he said. Ordinary words.

“Nor could I.” More ordinary words.

We could not sleep. We could not sleep for thinking of one another, but who could say it?

“Yes,” I finally managed. “Yes.”

“Helen—” He paused and took a very deep breath, a breath meant to stop the next words. But it was an inadequate dam; the words spilled over it. “You are all they say you are. Oh, you know that all too well! How many foolish fumbling mouths have spat it out? Yes, your beauty is . . . godesslike. But it is not your beauty that draws me, it is something else, something I cannot even frame in words.” He looked up at the dark ceiling and laughed. “You see how it robs me of speech, how it cannot be expressed? But not being able to express it makes it no less real. I feel you, Helen, in my deepest part, and yet I have no words to describe it.”

“I saw you in a waking dream,” I told him. “I saw you on a mountain, in a meadow, with goddesses.”

“Oh, that was a foolish dream,” he said quickly. “But if it made you think of me, then I must be grateful for it.”

“I am married.”

“I know that.”

“And a mother.”

“I know that. That is what makes it so unthinkable.”

“The gods delight to sport with us.”

“Yes.”

He was standing there, all desire gathered into one being. I reached out, embraced him. He was no dream; he did not vanish. He clasped me to him, and he was so real his arms around me hurt in their strength. I kissed him. His lips unlocked a rush of desire in me, the first I had ever felt.

I had longed for this, hungered for it, imagined it, but never tasted it. Now it exploded with all the gush of sweet fruit fresh from the tree, of honey new-smoked from the hive, too rich for use.

“Helen,” he murmured.

A moment longer and I would have lain down beside the marble altar and taken him to me. But no, it was all too soon, and I tore myself out of his arms.

“Paris,” I said. “I do not know—I cannot—”

“Do you love me?” he asked. Only four words. Four simple words. He stood there in all his beauty and asked them. They were, after all, all that mattered.

“Yes.” I choked. “But—” I turned and ran away.

How could I love a man I did not know?

But I did know him. I had known him since the beginning of the world, from its very formation. Or so it felt. I knew him better than I knew Menelaus, better than I knew Clytemnestra, better, in the deepest sense, than even I knew myself.

Yet I did not know him, truly, at all! Only through Aphrodite did I know him. And what sort of knowing—true or false—was that?

XXII

W
hat are they really here for?” I asked Menelaus sleepily as I opened my eyes and saw him fastening his cloak. My head ached; I felt as if I had been struck on the back of my neck. I could not believe that what I remembered about the night had really happened. Surely it was a dream. I reached down and touched my ankle, and it was a bit sore from my encounter with the snake. But even if I had gone to the shrine, perhaps I had been walking in my sleep. Now Menelaus would turn to me and say,
What is who here for? I don’t know what you mean,
and I would sigh in relief.

“King Priam sent them,” he said. “That’s what they claim. Word of Agamemnon’s mutterings have reached Troy, evidently. So they came on Priam’s behalf to request that Hesione be returned to her native home, or at least that they be allowed to speak to her.”

I sat up. So it was true. Trojans were here. “And were they?”

Menelaus snorted. “No, of course not. Agamemnon could not allow that. Hesione would say she was content, then Priam would have to stop lamenting about it, and Agamemnon would have nothing to complain against Priam about.” He sighed. “The young men, to their credit, do not seem exactly on fire to free Hesione. I suspect they came to humor the king, and to see Greece. Young men like to roam.”

I stood up and clapped my hands for my attendant to come. “I am sorry about your grandfather,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “As soon as this entertaining is over, I go to Crete. Protocol . . .” He shook his head. “Of course, guests are sacred, and obligations must be honored.”

Yes. Even when someone was dying, or had died. We all knew the story about how King Admetus entertained Heracles in the palace even though the queen was dying, because hospitality demanded it. Heracles only found out there was anything amiss when he heard the slaves wailing.

“Yes,” I said. “Such is custom.”

Nine days for Paris to be our guest. Nine days . . . I was afraid to come out of my chambers and see him again. I was equally afraid not to see him again.