Helen of Troy (69 page)

But the gods had not permitted it, I cried to myself. They never do.

The final dish was brought out, figs and pomegranate—precious offerings from our limited stores.

Priam rose again, raised his helping. “Pomegranates are sacred to you, O dread lords of the realms of death. We offer you this sacrifice from our very substance, which cannot easily be replenished.”

We all partook of the dish, the sweetness of the figs muting the astringent sting of the pomegranates.

Priam took a smoking brazier and walked slowly around the great table. “Troilus, tears blind me, and I am loath to let you leave us. I would keep you here forever. But that would be cruel. We must release you to your new home, the home where we will join you. We will come to you, but you will not return to us. And so we must relinquish you to the gods below. Farewell, my dear son.” He wiped his hooded eyes with his bended arm and set the brazier down.

Still silent, we followed Priam and Hecuba out of the palace into the street as they bore offerings to Troilus. Torches lit our way, and I was unable to see Priam placing the tributes on the tomb, so many people were crowding around it.

The ceremony over, Hector suddenly addressed the company. “I bid you welcome to my home,” he said. “All is in readiness. I wish us to gather to further honor my lost brother.”

Now, the shade of Troilus no longer actually amongst us, we hurried to Hector’s palace. Torches were blazing, servants were waiting to provide more substantial food, and wine was to flow unchecked. We removed our funeral garlands and laid them in the basket provided.

Life thronged Hector’s chambers, replacing the death pacing Priam’s. We are still here, the company promised themselves. We are here to defend Troy, to rout our enemies. We must do whatever is required of us, but we must prevail. We cannot fail. We fight to protect our very lives, our survival, indeed, our very existence. The unspoken chorus was this: We have never had to defend ourselves thus, not in this fashion. Can we truly do this? Are we able?

XLVIII

H
ector had prepared for the company; as the heir and Troilus’s oldest brother, it was his obligation. His palace was as he himself: traditional and strong. Before we had built ours, his was the finest on the citadel. It still would be considered in the best taste.

“Tastes change,” Hector had said diplomatically when he first beheld ours. Andromache told me privately she liked it, and wished they might have a chamber or two without the dreary decorative warriors marching across the walls. Now she beckoned us into the megaron—one like every other megaron I had ever stood in.

Show me a man’s wife, a man’s chariot, and a man’s house, and I can tell you
everything about him,
Gelanor had once claimed. Now I looked at Andromache and the megaron and thought, Yes, they reflect Hector: conventional but always tasteful. Hector would never be embarrassed by a wife’s behavior—he would not choose a wife capable of it.

“We gather here in remembrance of our dear Troilus,” said Hector, holding his hands aloft. “A funeral feast requires special foods and time-honored rituals, and we have duly performed those. Now we gather together to comfort one another on our loss, in whatever manner deeply calls to us.” He indicated the slaves bearing cups, wine, and food. “These will be at the table for us to partake of as we wish.”

Everyone moved toward the table, although none of us were likely to be hungry.

Paris saw Polyxena standing momentarily alone and, tugging on my hand, drew near to her. She was standing very quietly, clutching a goblet—but more as something to hold than because she wished to drink the wine—and staring blankly at the company.

“Polyxena,” said Paris, attempting to embrace her. “You saw what no one, least of all you, should have seen. It should have fallen on broader and older shoulders.”

“In a dreadful way I am thankful I was there, although it will scar my memories forever.” Her voice was so soft I could barely hear it, but it drew me closer to her.

“I should have been with him,” Paris said. “I should have been in your place.”

She smiled, a very slight curve of her lips. “But why in the world would you have been? Troilus and I were companions and spent much time together. It was natural that I was the one there.”

“As you say,” said Paris. “But I grieve for it.”

“Do you think that, had you been there, you could have prevented it?” Her sweet voice twined itself around the words. “I tell you, he was waiting for Troilus. He meant to cut him down. It was a mission, not a chance happening. Somehow he knew we would be there . . .” Her voice trailed off. “And to what purpose?” she suddenly cried. “As if Troilus were any threat to anyone!”

A shadowy presence appeared by our sides, as if drawn by our voices. It was Helenus, the peculiar twin of Cassandra. He had the same red hair, the same pale white skin, the same flat pitiless eyes. “I hear you speaking of Troilus,” he said. Even his voice, no doubt meant to be soothing and beguiling, sounded more like the soft sound a snake makes as it slides over rocks and pebbles—dry, rustling, menacing. Did he cultivate it as part of his stance as a seer?

“It is natural we speak of him,” Paris said. “This gathering is in his honor, and we have just interred his bones.”

“But I heard you ask something—or do my ears fail me?—about why Achilles would have determined to kill Troilus. There is—there was—this prophecy—”

“Do not speak it!” Paris clamped down on Helenus’s shoulder. “It is over.”

“Fulfilled,” said Helenus sadly. He breathed out heavily. “Luckily there are others. All must be fulfilled before Troy falls. Troy cannot fall unless the son of Achilles joins the expedition. After that—”

“So one is fulfilled, then,” interrupted Polyxena.

Helenus pursed his lips. “Yes, one. But still more stand between us and defeat. The arrows of Heracles, kept by Philoctetes, must be used against us, but Philoctetes has been left behind on the island of Lemnos because of an infected snakebite—thanks to the gods.
He
is not any immediate danger.”

“What are the others?” asked Paris.

Suddenly the garrulous Helenus glanced around, alarmed. “Perhaps I should not say. I trust you, but how did Achilles know about Troilus and the prophecy? It was a very private matter. I fear we have an informer in our very midst.”

“Whisper in my ear, then,” said Paris.

Helenus leaned over, brushing back his limp red hair, and murmured into Paris’s ear. I saw Paris frown. “I think these things will never come to pass,” he said. I knew I could ask him later in private what they were.

The chamber was now humming with voices; they sounded like the swarming of bees on a warm summer’s day. Somewhere outside our walls people could still lie under a tree and listen to real bees. I wondered if Aeneas and his family could. He had been wise to leave Troy and return home to Dardania; they were still free in his land.

A group of the older councilors and warriors were knotted together at the end of the table, and Paris made his way over to them, pulling me along. It was the old war mastiffs, Antimachus, Pandarus, Aesacus, and Panthous. I saw that Antenor, as one who advised peace and negotiations, was at the far corner of the chamber, excluded—or had he excluded himself?

“And I tell you, we need to smash them where they sit, smash them in place. Set fire to their ships!” Antimachus was loud; no worry about spies on his part. “The moon will be full soon and we will have ample light. I say, strike!”

Two sets eager for the full moon: lovers and soldiers. The flooding light could serve many purposes.

Pandarus demurred. “How many could we take on a raiding mission? It is true, we might be able to score some surprise strikes, set fire to a few ships, but then we would be trapped in their camp.”

Antimachus snorted. “Send a group, then, that does not expect to return, but can wreak havoc before they are cut down.” His feet were already spread wide in a defiant stance. “A well-timed raid can reverse everything,” he said. “Let us recruit a band of brave men willing to undertake this. They may save us from further war.”

“You will never be able to persuade Priam,” said Aesacus.

“Hector, then,” said Antimachus. “Let us approach him.”

“Priam is still king. It is he who must direct the strategy.”

“Strategy is not the province of old men.” Antimachus glared at the faces surrounding him as he tiptoed close to treason.

“Old men have sight we may not have,” said Pandarus, pulling back from the rim. “We must honor that.”

Antimachus shrugged. “Then I want you to remember this, in the days to come: Antimachus advised a quick and preemptive attack, to break their will and spirit.” He held up his wide hands. “Anything else is letting the enemy dictate the terms of fighting. It gives them the advantage. You know that siege warfare is ruinously expensive. Our neighbors to the east are experts in it. They use engineers, sappers, battering rams. That is an active siege. The Greeks have not those means. They will resort to a passive siege—encircling us and starving us out. Already their presence has chased away the trade vessels that plied the Hellespont, and ended our trade fair. Do you wish to perish by such lackluster means? Fade away, defeated by a dull army that did nothing but camp in our fields? I say, smash them! And smash them
now.
They will turn tail and run home.”

There was murmuring amongst them. His words made sense. Indeed, they were the essence of clever strategic planning. But he was not supreme commander. Hector was, and Hector in turn was subject to Priam. Paris reminded him of this.

“Hector relies altogether too much on individual prowess and bravery,” said Antimachus. “I tell you, that is not the way to win wars. It is by outthinking the enemy, anticipating, and then attacking him—fairly or not—in his weakness, with your strength. There are those who say there is no glory in that. I say: Where is the glory in fighting bravely for a lost cause? Use your heads, men, as well as your sword arms!”

Panthous shuffled forward. “I have been working on some new triggering mechanisms for our gates,” he told Antimachus. “When the enemy trips them, then the hot sand will pour down.”

Antimachus actually laughed. “If the enemy gets inside the gates, it is a bit late. We need to go to
their
gates first. But I thank you, Panthous, for your efforts.”

Panthous, in his bumbling fashion, looked perplexed. “But this is an innovative and clever plan,” he protested.

“A plan for the timid, cowering behind their walls!” said Antimachus. “You are like a cart with a pair of dull, trained oxen, trained to stay within their old trodden path.” He looked around. “Such may be forgivable in a dull beast, with no thought or reason, but for a king, and a people—” He turned abruptly away. His rough words did not disguise his acute distress, his fear.

Hector strode over, just as Antimachus was leaving. “What is it, my good soldiers? I hear dissent.”

His very presence, his noble face, seemed to belie the concerns that Antimachus had raised. “What is it?” he pressed.

“Nothing, my lord,” said Panthous, spreading his hands wide. “We were but speaking of the dreary fact that the Greeks have chased away the merchants that usually throng our shores this time of year.” He laughed. “A minor annoyance, and next year they will be back in force.”

Hector smiled and rocked back on his heels, crossing his muscled arms. “Let us hope so, Panthous. Let us hope so.”

Exhausted, Paris and I almost crawled onto our bed at home. The entire day had been so filled with pain that I felt buffeted. Had my body absorbed the blows rather than my heart, I would have been covered in bruises. As it was, I could hardly move. Paris lay flat on his back beside me, staring up at the ceiling.

“It is over,” I finally said. He did not reply. “This day has finally closed.”

“It will never close,” he said. “Troilus will always be missing from our lives.” His voice was dull and flat.

“I meant . . . that the worst of it has passed. The funeral, and the feast, where he had to act as host. I
felt
him there in the room, did you?”

“Yes. He was there. And I wanted to pluck him from the air and force him to take fleshly form again. Helen—I killed him. I cannot endure that knowledge.”