Helen of Troy (5 page)

On one of the tables flush against a wall she kept her favorite precious items: I always saw several cups and round boxes of purest gold, and her ivory-handled mirror lay face down. Several long bronze pins, their ends tipped with crystal, were arranged side by side between them. I had a desire to grab the mirror and look long and hard at my face.

She saw my eyes go in that direction and she shook her head. “I know what you are thinking,” she said. “You long to see for yourself what is the object of curiosity for so many. Well, on the day you are betrothed, and we know you are safe, then you may look. Until then . . . I have something for you.” She opened an oblong box and drew out a shimmering piece of what looked like a cloud. But it was attached to a circlet of gold. She waved it to and fro, so that the cloth danced and the sunlight played through it. Little rainbows chased across it, disappearing in a wink. She settled it on my head, pressing the circlet down. “It is time you had a proper veil,” she said, as the fuzziness blurred my vision.

I yanked it off. “I won’t wear it! There’s no need, here in the palace, everyone knows me, I can’t bear it!” I squeezed the material in my hands, trying to ruin it. But no matter how hard I crumpled it, it refused to wrinkle. Such was the hateful fineness of the cloth.

“How dare you?” she said, wrestling it from me. “This cost a fortune. I had it woven specially, and the gold circlet could have made a fine cup!”

“I won’t do it anymore, I won’t hide behind a veil. There must be something wrong with me. You pretend I’m beautiful, but I must be a monster, to be hidden from sight.
That’s
why you won’t let me look in the mirror. Well, now I will!” Before she could stop me, I leapt across the room and seized the mirror. I rushed between the columns and beyond the curtains and for an instant, before she clutched my arm, I saw my face in the brightly polished surface of the bronze, saw it in the sunlight. Or rather, saw part of it—the eyes, which were fringed with thick black lashes, and the mouth and cheeks. In that fleeting instant I saw my flushed face, the bright green-brown of my eyes. That was all, for the mirror was wrenched from my hand, and my mother stood before me. I expected her to strike me or shake me, but she did not. For an instant it crossed my mind that she was afraid of me, rather than what I later learned—she was afraid of damaging me if she did that, and she took good care of her possessions. “You are not a monster,” she said, “although sometimes you behave as one!” Then she laughed, and all at once the ugly moment had passed. “Then you need not wear it here, but you must promise me you will never leave the palace grounds, not without a guard or your instructor, and in that case, you will cover yourself. Oh, Helen . . . there are many people who wish us all harm, who would kidnap a princess easily enough. We do not want that, do we?”

I shook my head. But I knew it was more than that. There seemed to be more worry that I would be kidnapped than that any of her other children would.

IV

T
he days grew long, twilights lingered, and the hot blast of summer poured down on us. I could almost feel Helios in his chariot directly overhead, the heat radiating out from his pathway, drying up the earth beneath him. Under his hand the leaves, dulled with dust, hung limply from their branches, and we in the palace fanned ourselves to create our own breezes. In the stillness of noon even the white butterflies hid themselves, and it seemed that nothing stirred.

All the while I was learning the rites and secrets of the mysteries of Demeter, and it took all summer. There were so many of them—there was the story of her wandering in search of her daughter, who was snatched away by Hades as she gathered the spring flowers, which must be reenacted. The priestesses even knew which flower she had been gathering—a rare yellow narcissus. Her mother, in seeking her, had briefly dwelt with mortals and assumed the guise of an old woman caring for a baby prince. Did she wish to take him for her own son? She tried to make him immortal by passing him through a flame, but his mother discovered it and brought a hysterical end to the attempt.

“She did not understand that this would kill him, rather than make him immortal,” old Agave said.

These gods seemed to have little regard for us, I thought, and little understanding for how fragile we are. Truly they were frightening. I was thankful that Demeter was our patron, but I hoped she would not ask anything of us. It might be something deadly.

I learned to mix and partake of the special drink that was used in the rites, a barley gruel flavored with mint that Demeter drank on her sorrowful journey. We also had a sacred basket, the
cista mystica,
that contained ritual objects. We were given long torches that were to be carried in procession to the site, and used in a sacred dance to imitate Demeter searching in the dark for her lost daughter. I was to practice walking with it, holding it high, and then learn to dance with it in only one hand.

But there was one final thing, perhaps the most important thing. Without it I could not proceed to the initiation. “You must be of an unblemished moral character,” said Agave solemnly. “Your hands must be absolutely clean and your heart immaculately pure.”

I trembled before this order, imagining myself to be smudged and spotted by all my childish shortcomings. I know now that the only thing that bars an initiate is being a murderer, but I suppose it is good for children to start out vigilant against all failings. Even being a murderer does not keep you from the Mysteries forever, for if you atone and are purified, you may approach them once again.

If being a murderer kept one permanently from the rites, then Father could hardly be going, and he was enthusiastically readying himself for them.

I had learned, by listening and asking questions, that Father had stopped at little—I started to say
nothing
but that would be untrue—to regain his throne and to keep it. With enemies such as he had, he needed to be as hard as they. And the land was filled with warriors, with murderers and rivals and bad people. I smile as I say “bad people” because it became a joke with my brothers.

“There are bad people there,” they would say, when speaking of just about anywhere I mentioned. Crete. Egypt. Athens. Thessaly. Thrace. Syria. Cyprus.

“Do you mean everyone in Egypt? Everyone in Thrace?” I would say. “Surely not!”

“Oh, that’s what Polydeuces always says,” Castor would say, laughing. “But I—I would only say that there are a great number of bad people about, mixed in with the good ones. We trade with all those peoples, and without them our palace would be bare indeed. Bare, anyway, of all the luxuries Mother likes.”

“So be on guard, little sister, for all those baaaaaad people!” Polydeuces’ deep voice rumbled. Then he laughed. “Many foreigners pour in for the Mysteries, although they tend to favor Eleusis. But it is strictly required that they speak Greek, so that eliminates the uncivilized, if not the truly bad.”

The days began to shorten. At first barely noticeable, only in that we could see the stars a little sooner. Then the morning light began slanting differently into my chamber, and the winds that blew into the palace shifted. They whispered through the west side, bringing cool nights for sleeping. Now, at last, it was time to go to the shrine of the Mysteries and meet our goddesses.

We would set out at dawn, and rose even before that to partake, in silence, of the new harvest grains, and to taste the new wines. Then we attired ourselves in the gold and green tunics and mantles we wore in their honor—the color of growing things—and took up our torches. A cart, groaning with our offerings from the fields and trees, was ready to trundle away with us. By the time the sun broke over the horizon we were already in the gentle hills leading up to the shrine.

I wore the hated veil as I had promised, intoning the hymns to the goddesses I had been taught. We were not supposed to talk, but I could hear Mother and Father speaking in low voices to one another. Clytemnestra walked behind them, her head meekly downcast, but she was most likely straining to overhear them. The air was fresh and filled with the scent of reaped fields. I suddenly felt overcome with the beauty and fullness of autumn. As we made our way, the paths grew steeper, and soon the cart could not climb with us. Servants took the offerings off and bore them on slings, the fat jars of grain and the baskets of fruit swaying. The sacred basket with the ritual objects was borne separately on its own platform. As we ascended, streams of other people joined us, coming from the huts and houses in the foothills. Mother turned to make sure I was wearing my veil.

All were equal in the rites, so the people could jostle and jockey for a place near us, freely walking as our companions. Our guards—who were also initiates—kept them from crowding right up against us, and my brothers, although their lips were forming the words of the hymns, were looking around sharply to protect us. No weapons would be allowed into the sacred precinct, but for now they could have their swords at the ready.

The path began to rise sharply, growing narrow at the same time. It squeezed us pilgrims into a narrow file, and suddenly made a sharp turn around a grim gray boulder that blocked our way. I felt a shudder ripple down my body before I knew why, and then I saw it all again in my mind: the rock with the Sibyl on it, shrieking her dreadful prophecy. There was something on this boulder now, too, and I flinched, bracing myself for whatever lurked there.

Huddled around the rock, rag-clad people jeered and reviled us. “Tyndareus! Haven’t seen you at the market! Why not? You are always trying to sell your daughters, aren’t you?” yelled one.

“Only the cygnet!” cried another.

How dare they call my secret name? How did they know it?

“Look to your wife! Look to your wife!” they chorused. “Blow the feathers from her thighs!”

“What next?” Now they attacked Mother. “A bull, like the queen of Crete? Try a porcupine!”

One perched on the rock and flapped his arms, his mantle flying out. “Fly away! Fly away! The great bird has flown!”

Father and Mother kept their heads down, which was very unlike them, and made no retort.

Clytemnestra passed by them with only insults to her stockiness and big hands, and then it was my turn. They started moaning and trilling, and one tried to grab off my veil, cooing, “Does she have a beak? Does she have a beak?”

Now that someone wanted to take it, I fought to keep the veil. I clutched at the gold circlet and held it on my head, grimacing.

“She’s a fighter!” cried one. “Her face must need protecting.”

“Where’s the eggshell? How big was it?”

There was more, but I do not remember it. I hurried past them as fast as I could go without running, for I did not want to show fear, but I was trembling. As we emerged on the other side, and the taunts were directed at those behind us, I rushed to Mother.

“It is over,” she said. “We could not tell you, for it is part of the initiation to pass through a wall of insults. But you did well.” There was pride in her voice.

“Why is it necessary?” It seemed cruel and pointless to me.

“To make us all equal,” said Father. “Kings and queens must bear the insults along with everyone else, and no matter what they say we cannot ever punish them for it. That is the rule.” He laughed as if it were no matter, but I knew he would brood over it.

“It teaches us humility,” said Mother. “All people need to know the worst that is said of them, the more so if surrounded by flatterers.”

We were stopped, waiting for Polydeuces and Castor to emerge from their drubbing.

“They say we learn lessons from it,” said Father, his mouth working in that odd way it did when he was thinking. “I have just learned one: what we must call Helen from now on. We will put it about that she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Yes. That is what we shall claim for her. She must keep wearing the veil, it will increase curiosity and drive her bride-price up.”

“I am far way from being married . . .” Oh, I hoped so! I was only ten years old, too soon to speak of it. “The veil . . .”

“What people cannot readily see, they imagine. They long for. They become consumed with. And things longed for are very dear, and people will pay highly for them. If there were rainbows every morning, they would be ignored. If we have a rainbow here, in you, then let us proclaim it but allow few to see it.”