The Hittite (15 page)

“I suppose I can’t blame you,” he said at last, his voice so soft I could barely make out his words.

Paris laughed and clapped Hector on the shoulder. “Send out the heralds to tell the barbarians we’ll meet them on the battlefield this afternoon. After a good meal and a bit of rest we’ll chase them back into the sea.”

Hector’s taut lips relaxed into a slight smile. “Very well,” he said. “This afternoon.”

He nodded to Helen and left us, closing the door gently behind him. Paris stretched out his arms again, waiting for Helen to begin unstrapping his armor, knowing that he would soon be undressing her.

Yet even as Helen stepped toward her husband her head turned toward the door. I could see from the troubled look on her face that her thoughts were on Hector. It was he who shouldered the burden of this war, not Paris. As the eldest son of aged Priam, it was Hector who directed the defense of Troy, Hector who led the chariots each day into the
dust and blood of battle. Except for the invincible Achilles, Hector was the most feared warrior of them all.

He never complained, never blamed his younger brother for bringing this calamity to Troy. He was strong and faithful and valiant. Nor did he blame Helen. Indeed, he hardly ever glanced at her. But she stared at the door that he had closed behind him.

It was at that moment, even as Helen began to undress her husband, that I realized she had fallen in love with Hector, crown prince of Troy, her husband’s brother. The realization shocked me like the searing agony of a branding iron.

Helen loved Hector! He had no way of knowing that she loved him, and even if he did find out he would spurn her. Even if he were not already married and a father he would never glance at his brother’s wife.

I saw that Helen’s eyes were filling with tears. And I could hear the goddess Aphrodite whispering, Beautiful Helen, whom every man desires, it is your fate to fall in love with the one man on earth who will never love you.

As soon as Paris left Helen for the afternoon’s fighting, donned once more in his gleaming armor, she summoned me to her. Since childhood I had been the one person she could confide in.

I knew what was tearing at her heart. I should have realized it sooner; perhaps then I could have done something to help my dearest. Helen gazed at me with all the pain and bewilderment she felt brimming from her eyes. I could do nothing except hold out my arms to her. She burst into tears and ran to me.

Burying her face in the warmth of my embrace, Helen blurted, “Oh, Apet, Apet, I love him but he doesn’t love me. He
can’t
love me, not now or ever. How can I live? How can I watch him risk his life day after day because of me?”

“Prince Hector,” I murmured.

“What can I do?” she pleaded. “Where can I turn?”

I wrapped my arms around her and rocked her softly as I had done when she was a baby. The only wisdom that I could think of was, “You must go to the goddess and ask her aid.”

“ To Aphrodite?”

“She is your protectress and guide. She will give you the strength to find the right path.”

“Yes,” Helen agreed, wiping her tears with the back of her hands. “Aphrodite.”

As we walked hurriedly through the empty corridors of the palace I could hear the city’s populace roaring and cheering from up on the walls, their shouts like the howls of a wild beast. The queen was up there with all the royal women, I knew, including Hector’s wife, Andromache. I could not bear the thought of letting them see Helen so unhappy.

The temple was dark and chill. At Helen’s command the five priestesses who tended the votive fire beneath the goddess’ statue removed themselves to the outer chamber. I alone went with Helen to stand before the altar. The graceful marble likeness of beautiful Aphrodite rose three times taller than my own height, and still it only hinted at the goddess’ power and splendor.

Aphrodite had ever been Helen’s guide, her protectress. Even now she defended Troy against the jealousy of Athene before almighty Zeus atop lofty Mount Olympos, the home of the gods. In the dimly lit temple her face was in shadow, but I felt her painted eyes gazing down upon Helen as she sank to her knees at the goddess’ feet, miserable and confused.

“Beautiful Aphrodite, guardian of my heart, how can I live in such wretchedness?” Helen breathed, so softly that I could barely hear her words. “How can I remain married to Paris when it is Hector whom I truly love?”

I dared not look up at the goddess’ face. The temple felt cold, silent and empty. What Aphrodite imparted to my dear one I know not, but I know what was in my heart, the sad truth of her fate: Helen, your path has ever been difficult. Great beauty such as yours stirs the passions of mortals and even the jealousy of goddesses.

All that long afternoon Helen spent in the temple of Aphrodite, remembering the past, waiting and yearning for the goddess to inspire her with wisdom. I grew tired, standing there in the shadows of the silent temple. My eyes grew heavy and I felt empty, exhausted, a desperate sense of dread crowding around me like the shadows of night or the shades of the dead who had already been slain on the battlefield outside the city’s walls. My tired old legs throbbed with pain. Quietly, while Helen prayed to the goddess, I stretched out on the polished stone floor and closed my eyes.

I must have drowsed off, for the next thing I remember is Helen nudging me gently with the toe of her sandal.

I sat up, my face burning with shame. “I . . . I am sorry, my precious. You were at the altar such a long time. Look, night is falling.”

Through the columned entrance of the temple we could see in the courtyard beyond that the sky was violet with the last dying moments of sunset. A chill breeze was wafting in from the sea.

Helen helped me to my feet. “Oh, Apet, you have been my faithful servant as long as I can remember, since I was a baby suckling at your breast.”

“Aye, my nursling. And I will serve you until death parts us.”

In the deepening shadows of the temple I saw Helen’s face grow pensive. “My own baby daughter must be watching me from the dim shadows of Hades. I will be with her soon. I will join her in death.”

“No, don’t say that! Don’t even think it!”

“Apet, I cannot let Hector die: not for me, not to keep me from the hands of Menalaos.”

“Hector fights to defend Troy against the barbarians,” I told her. “And his death has been foretold; there is nothing you can do to change his destiny.”

“The goddess thinks otherwise.”

Standing on the cold stone floor I gazed up at the statue of Aphrodite, towering above us in the shadows of the silent temple. The golden glow from the oil lamps that were never permitted to go out did not reach as high as her painted face. Yet I sensed the goddess watching over us.

My blood ran cold. “The goddess spoke to you?”

“Not in words that I could hear,” said Helen, her eyes also on Aphrodite. “She spoke in my heart.”

Almost afraid to doubt her, still I heard myself ask, “What . . . did the goddess tell you?”

Her voice hardly more than a breathless whisper, Helen replied, “She told me that there is neither joy nor love in the path I must follow.”

“No . . .”

“Responsibility. That is what the goddess spoke of to me, Apet. I must accept my responsibilities just as Hector has, unflinchingly, without complaint. I must cease behaving like a foolish girl and start to act as an adult woman. Only then can I save Hector from the death that awaits him.”

“A hard path to follow,” I said.

Helen nodded cheerlessly.

“And what of Paris?”

Her eyes flared. “He must never know! Hector himself must never know! I will do what I must to end this war.”

Pulling her cloak around her shoulders, Helen started toward the temple’s entrance.

“I will speak with the king,” she said, as I hurried to follow her.

“The king?”

“Yes,” she said. “I must see Priam.”

It was simple enough to arrange. The day’s fighting was over, the men
were back inside the city walls. The lad who was stationed as a token guard outside the door to Helen’s chambers served as a messenger. He was very impressed with his own importance when she gave him her message for Priam.

“Tell the king that I seek a private audience with him,” Helen said to the boy. “As quickly as he can find time to see me.”

“I will fly to the king like an eagle,” he said, his eyes shining.

I leveled a finger at him. “Better to fly like a bee, lad. They go straight to their destination instead of circling as the birds of prey do.”

He ran off.

Paris was not in Helen’s bedchamber when we entered. Instantly, Helen looked fearful. Had he been killed? Wounded? No, I thought; someone would have told us. Helen’s fear quickly turned to guilt, because she realized that if Paris were dead it would simplify the decision she had to make.

She hurried across the chamber and quietly opened the door that led into his. Paris was sprawled on his bed, snoring softly. His face was smeared with dirt runneled by rivulets of sweat. His lovely dark hair was tangled and matted. His hands and bare arms bore fresh scratches but no true wounds.

A month ago, even a day ago, she would have gone to his side and wakened him with soft kisses and honeyed words. Now she could not. She could not make herself step to her husband’s side and offer him the love that she should have felt for him. I could see that it made Helen feel sad, as if a part of her life had been lost. Yet we both knew that even worse was to come.

While twilight deepened into dark night Helen remained there in the doorway, watching her sleeping husband, tormented by guilt and hopeless love and the pressing weight of responsibility.

I heard a scratching at the outer door. Opening it, I saw the lad we had sent to the king, accompanied now by a grown man, one of the palace guards decked in a stiff leather jerkin studded with bronze.

I bowed them into the anteroom, then went to Helen.

“My lady,” I whispered to her. “The king’s messenger is here.” Helen pulled herself away from the sight of her sleeping husband and

turned to see the messenger.

“The king will see you immediately, my lady,” he said, once she had

quietly shut the door to Paris’ chamber. “I am sent to escort you to him.”

I followed behind Helen and the tall, dark-bearded guard through the corridors of the palace. Men and women both greeted Helen courteously as we passed. If they blamed her for the war and the harpies of death that plucked their loved ones from them, they made no show of it. Queen Hecuba had made it clear that her son’s wife was not to be reproached. What the queen expected, the king enforced. The people of Troy’s royal palace may not have loved Helen, but they dared not show her disrespect.

The walls of the corridors were decorated with graceful paintings of flowering green meadows and peaceful horses, with birds soaring among the soft clouds scattered across a gentle blue sky. No such scenes had occurred at Troy since Helen had arrived, I realized. She had destroyed the peace and tranquillity of this beautiful city.

“How went the day’s fighting?” Helen asked our escort.

“Well enough,” he said. “The barbarians pressed us almost back to the Scaean Gate at first, but Prince Hector rallied our warriors and drove them back to their own ramparts. By then it was growing dark, so both sides agreed to end the battle and wait for the morrow.”

“Was Prince Hector hurt?” Helen blurted.

“Not he!” the guard replied proudly. “He took men with his spear the way a cook spits chunks of meat.”

The guard led us not to the royal reception hall, but to Priam’s private
quarters. He opened the oaken door, then stepped aside to let Helen and me through. He shut the door softly behind us, remaining outside in the corridor.

Priam was standing by the window, gazing out into the darkening night. He wore a simple wool chiton, dyed deep blue, and a heavy shawl over his shoulders to ward off the night chill. His only adornment was the royal signet ring on his gnarled finger. I doubted that he could take it off, even if he wanted to. He was very old, bent with years, his white beard halfway down his chest. This war was killing him, I could tell.

It was too dark outside to see anything. What ever he was staring at was inside his mind, I thought. The little room was lit by two oil lamps ensconced on either side of the door. Their fitful flames threw flickering shadows between us. There was no one else in the room, not even a servant to wait upon the king. Had he guessed what Helen was about to say? Did he realize that she wanted complete privacy?

He turned toward Helen with hardly a glance at me. I was her maidservant, her silent shadow, not a real person as far as the king was concerned.

“It went well this afternoon,” he said at last.

“I am pleased,” she said.

Gesturing to the circular table in the middle of the room, he said, “Please, sit and be comfortable. Would you like some refreshment? Something to eat?”

“No, thank you. Nothing.”

I stood by the door as Helen took one of the carved wooden chairs and the king sank slowly, painfully, into another. “I believe I’ll take some wine,” he said, reaching for the pitcher on the table, beaded with condensation.

“Allow me, please,” Helen said. He smiled and leaned back in his chair as she poured a cup of wine for him.

“You were not on the wall to watch this afternoon,” the king said gently. It was more of a question than a reproach.

“I was in the temple of Aphrodite, seeking guidance,” she replied.

“Ah.” Priam smiled at her, a pleased expression on his wrinkled face. “And did the goddess enlighten you?”

She had to swallow down a catch in her throat before she could choke out her reply. “Yes.”

The door suddenly swung open and Hector stepped in.

“You called for me, Father?” Then he recognized Helen sitting there and said merely, “Helen.”

With his broad shoulders and straight back, Hector seemed to fill the room. Priam pointed to the chair next to him as he said, “Helen’s message was to the effect that she had something important to say. About the war, I presume.”

Suddenly Helen could not speak. She merely nodded, her tongue locked inside her mouth.

Hector poured himself a cup of wine as they both waited for Helen to say something. She had not wanted him here, had not asked for his presence. Yet Priam had summoned him. More and more, the old king was turning the responsibilities of leadership to his eldest son. Even now he chose to have Hector listen to what Helen had to say.

At last she forced myself to speak up. “This is not easy for me.”

Hector nodded understandingly.

“This war is my fault,” she started to say.

Hector smiled easily at her. “My passionate brother had a little to do with it, too.”

“If I had refused to come here to Troy with him there would be no war,” Helen said.

“No, that is not true at all,” Priam objected. “Our lives are determined by the fates and not even the gods themselves can undo what Destiny has chosen for us.”

“Still,” she said, her voice sinking even lower, “Agamemnon and Achaians besiege Troy in order to return me to Menalaos.”

“My dearest daughter,” said Priam, “it may be true that you are the excuse for this war. But you are not the reason for it.”

I could see the confusion on Helen’s face. “What do you mean?”

Hector explained, “Agamemnon and the other Achaian princes have long sought a way to break Troy’s hold on the Dardanelles. He wants to be able to sail into the Sea of Black Waters without paying tribute to us.”

“But Agamemnon could never get the other kings and princes of Achaia to join him in war against us,” Priam added.

“Until my brother gave him the excuse he needed,” Hector said.

“It is not Paris’ fault alone,” Helen said quickly, as if someone else spoke the words for her. “I bear as much responsibility as he. More, even.”

They both shook their heads. I knew what was in their minds. A woman cannot be responsible for such mighty affairs of state. A woman could only be a pawn, an object of desire, a passive onlooker, helpless before the strength of men. An excuse, not a reason. Men make decisions. Men make wars.

“You must not blame yourself for this war,” Priam said gently. “It is not your fault, Helen. It is the gods who have brought this calamity upon us.”

Her eyes were on Hector, though.

He returned her gaze in thoughtful silence. At last he said, “Paris was wrong to take you from Menalaos. If there is any fault here, it is his.”

It was useless to argue with them. Instead, Helen insisted, “Even if I am not the cause of the war, I can stop it.”

Hector’s eyes were locked on hers. “You cannot . . .”

“I can,” she said firmly. “I can return to Menalaos. Then Agamemnon and all the others will have to leave.”

Priam shook his white-maned head. “I doubt that they will.”

“They will have to,” she said. “What reason can Agamemnon give the other Achaian kings once I have returned to Menalaos?”

Hector snapped out a single word. “Loot.”

Helen was not convinced. “Ask for Odysseos to come into the city to discuss ending the war. He is wise—”

“Crafty,” Hector said.

“He is my father’s firm friend. And he is high in the councils of the Achaians. Tell him that I will willingly return to Menalaos and see what he thinks of it.”

Hector stretched out his hand toward her, then drew it back as if he suddenly realized that he was reaching for a thing forbidden.

“What do you think my brother will say to your proposal?” he asked her.

Helen longed for him to tell her that
he
did not want her to leave Troy. But she knew he never would, never could.

“Paris will object, of course,” she answered. Then she turned to Priam. “But he cannot overrule the king.”

Priam sank his bearded chin into his hands, as if the weight of this decision was too much for him.

“If only the Hatti would answer my call for help,” he murmured.

“The Hatti?” she asked.

“A mighty empire,” replied Hector, “far to the east. They have been our allies for generations.”

“I sent an emissary to them when the Achaians first drew up their black boats on our shore,” Priam said. “Their army should come to our aid soon.”

Helen glanced at Hector. Gently, Hector said to his father, “If the Hatti have not come in all the time since we sent our emissary to them, Father, they are not coming at all.”

“Not so,” argued the king, his brow wrinkling. “Their capital is far to the east. They will come . . . any day now . . . they
must
come!”

Hector smiled sadly and said nothing more to disillusion his father.

Priam shook his white head. “The Achaians send back to their homeland for fresh warriors. We have only the villagers nearby to help us. The Hatti are our only chance to win this war.”

Both men looked at Helen. The brief surge of hope she had felt sank away like water seeping into sand.

“Call Odysseos,” she said. “Arrange a truce and offer to make peace.”

Priam blinked his watery eyes at her. I could see the conflict in his soul.

Hector said to his father, “Once we try to negotiate they will think we are weakening. It would be better to drive the Achaians away in fair battle than to barter for peace. Otherwise they will take Helen and then continue the war.”

“Yes, I agree,” Priam said, with a sigh. “But we have not been able to drive them away, have we?”

“Achilles was not on the field of battle this afternoon, Father. Perhaps he is hurt, or ill.”

Priam’s red-rimmed eyes flashed with sudden hope. “Their camp has been struck by disease more than once.”

“Let us beat them off and drive them into the sea before Achilles returns to the battle,” Hector urged. “Then there will be no need to send Helen to them.”

Priam seemed lost in thought.

“What guarantees have we that they will leave us in peace once Helen has been returned to them?” Hector asked. “Agamemnon wants to break our power! He’s come too far to sail meekly back home without destroying us.”

Hector did not want Helen to leave Troy! He was adamantly against the idea! I could see her cheeks flush with emotion. She knew it was foolish, but she could not help but think that he cared for her, perhaps without even realizing it in his conscious mind.

Then Hector added, “It would break Paris’ heart to part with Helen. Just as it would break mine to part with Andromache. No man willingly gives up his wife.”

Helen’s face sank. Hector was thinking of his brother, of his city, not of her.

Priam gazed at Helen for long moments. I held my breath.

Finally the king said, “If Achilles does not come out to fight tomorrow morning, we will do our utmost to drive the Achaians into the sea. But if he is in their battle line, we will ask Odysseos for a truce to discuss terms of peace.”

Hector glanced at Helen once more, then turned back to his father. “Agreed,” he said.

Helen fled the room as quickly as she decently could, fighting to hold back her tears as she ran through the corridors of the dark and silent palace.