“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
The 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 l
ike 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.
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 tryi
ng 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.”