“Who is this man?” asked Aeneas.
A meddler, I thought. My dear friend, too. “He serves as an adviser to Menelaus on many things,” I said. “He is very clever.”
“Well, what sort of things?”
“Oh . . . weaponry, supplies.”
“He’s a military man?”
“No, not a soldier.”
“I don’t understand,” said Aeneas. “If he isn’t a soldier, how would he be expert in soldiering? Why would his advice be valuable?”
“He just knows many things,” I said. “I told you he was clever. I cannot explain it any further than that.”
“We could use such a man in Troy.”
“Exactly what I told him. But he refuses to go. He just wants to return to Sparta.”
“You are a stubborn man, Gelanor,” said Paris, raising his cup to salute him. “But as one myself, I must honor that.” He took a long swallow of wine.
“Is your loyalty to Menelaus so absolute, then?” asked Aeneas.
“My loyalty is to Helen,” he said. “The court at Sparta without her has no hold on me. So I shall search elsewhere for a place to employ my talents.”
“Come to Troy, then!” said Aeneas.
“I said my loyalty was to Helen,” said Gelanor. “I did not say I was owned by Helen, going wherever her fancy took her.”
Suddenly I knew how to reach him. “Gelanor,” I said, “the best service you could do for both Menelaus and me would be to accompany us to Troy and then return to Sparta to report that we have arrived safely. That way you would have seen me to the end of my journey and also stayed loyal to Menelaus, able to set his mind at ease. He will know then exactly what has happened and not be at the mercy of rumor and guessing, and can act accordingly.”
Act accordingly. What might he be moved to do? No matter. The walls of Troy were high and strong. And we would be safe inside them by then.
I took a deep breath and looked into his eyes, innocently, I hoped. “Is this not the most reasonable course of action, the one that will satisfy everyone’s honor?” Reason never failed with him; let it prevail now!
Instead of answering me, he shook his head and made a sound of annoyance, sitting down on the sand and joining the men around the fire. He had not said no. He was delaying his answer. Once he gave his word, I had never heard him change it. “What food are you offering a hungry man?” he asked.
Soon everyone was eating and talking. The men had explored the island during the day, and the captain and some of the soldiers had repaired the damage to the ship from the pirate attack, and hasty landing, making ready to set sail.
“It’s ready, men,” said the captain. “Now the true voyage can begin!”
“The dangerous part, you mean,” said Paris.
“What, weren’t the pirates and the bad current dangerous enough for you?” asked Aeneas.
“It’s all dangerous,” the captain admitted. “But if we are in favor with the gods, we should arrive safely enough in Troy.”
“What route will we take?” Aeneas asked.
“We’ll go from here to the island of Melos—from there to Andros. And from there, Scyros, and then to Chios—”
“Chios?” Gelanor asked.
“Yes, Chios. And then we are right upon Troy. Each jump will involve night sailing again. It’s risky, but there is no other choice. The distance between these islands is too great. And I am thankful for the islands, because without them we would face too long a stretch over open water between here and Troy.” He took a deep draught of wine and wiped his mouth. “So drink up tonight, get your fill of lying on the earth.”
Soon all had drifted away to their sleeping places. Overhead the sky was clear and the stars friendly and white. But out on the open sea, with only blackness under us, how much comfort would we find in them?
XXVIII
The winds were brisk when we arose and went down to the beach in the early dawn. “A good sign,” said the captain. “Let us be on our way!” The men were loading the wineskins and sacks of grain on board.
I looked around for Gelanor. But he was not there. I was disappointed but not surprised. More than anything, I was sad I would never see him again. And I worried about his safety in sailing back to Sparta alone. Would he not even speak with me before we parted?
A rustling by my side surprised me, and I turned and saw Evadne, her face almost invisible in the folds of her hood. “The snake and I are coming,” she said. “He would have it no other way.” She patted the bag affectionately. “This morning we were able to catch some mice for him, and that will satisfy him until we reach his new home.”
I was touched that this woman, whom I had barely known all my years in Sparta, was willing to make this journey with me. So she and the snake would be all of my old life that would travel with me. That and the gold and jewels. But the woman and the snake were more precious. “Thank you for coming,” I said.
“Everyone aboard,” ordered the captain, and we filed down to the side of the ship and one by one climbed over the sides and took our places. Just as the last of the soldiers were mounting the ship, someone banged on the side.
“Let me speak to the captain!” Gelanor demanded. I peered out and saw him standing there, cloaked, looking impatient.
“Yes, what is it?” the captain sounded equally impatient. “We must sail straightaway.”
“You said you were going to Chios,” he said.
“Yes, that’s what I said,” he snapped.
“Can you promise that?”
The captain laughed, but it was not a happy laugh. “Ask Poseidon. Only he can promise that.”
“Is it your solemn intention to go to Chios, and put in there?”
“Yes, how many times do you need to hear it?”
“All right, then. I shall come.” He jumped up on the boulder the soldiers were using to climb in and joined us. He did not look at me or Paris, but took a seat a distance from us.
What was so special about Chios? I asked myself. Whatever it was, apparently it meant more to him than all my pleas that he come with us. It meant more to him than me. I glared at his back. Well, then, let him have Chios and whatever was on it!
The sky lightened and turned a clear ringing blue. We sped across the waves toward Troy.
Oh, that journey, that journey. In it I was suspended between my worlds, outside any world at all, for life on a speeding ship has no bearing on a life elsewhere. Each day held its own wonders, each night its own dangers, and so there was never a moment of feeling less than vibrantly alive. Each day seemed five years’ worth of newness, yet it passed in a flash like a dream.
Our first stint, to Melos, was a very long one, and the wind failed us halfway there. The rowers had to put their strength to the oars and keep rowing at night. As it came into sight at last, the captain warned us that Melos was also a haunt of pirates, who hid in the sea caves at the base of the towering cliffs. But we passed unhindered into the curved, protected bay and beached at last in a fine harbor. Eagerly we climbed out of the confines of the ship and frolicked on land, stretching our limbs and waving our arms and whooping with joy. Paris and I danced a little dance on the sands. Evadne took the snake out of his bag and draped him around her neck and sang. Aeneas challenged Paris to a race along the seashore. Gelanor walked off by himself to inspect the seashells along the tide line.
We stayed there for several days, replenishing our water and exploring the island. I had never seen anything like it—the strange rock formations, and black stone from old volcanoes. Gelanor seemed especially interested in that—he collected shiny sharp pieces of it, saying this was obsidian and it made good knives. “Good when there’s no bronze to be had.” It was almost the only thing he had said to me since we had left Cythera. I made a polite, cool response, and moved away. I was still stinging about his strange turnaround in voyaging with us, and his silence about it.
In contrast to Gelanor, Evadne was very talkative, although she tended to mutte
r and mumble the way old women often do. I could not tell how old she really was—she seemed Sibyl-like to me and I wondered, truly, how long she had been at Sparta. Could she have been there all the way back to the reign of Oebalus or even Cynortas? She kept her eyes shaded with an overhanging flap of her head covering, saying that the bright light bothered her.
On the third day we were suddenly confronted with a crowd of islanders. The news of our arrival had spread and they came to see us. I was not fast enough in covering my face and so it caused the usual gasps and gapes. We must go before it got worse. So we left the island, thankful that we had filled up the water skins first.
“Always a problem when you travel with Helen,” Gelanor told the captain. “Next time you can expect it.”
Did he mean to be funny? I did not find it amusing. But Paris laughed. “A problem every other man in the world would love to have!” he said, embracing me possessively.
On we sailed to Andros, another long journey. On the way we saw other islands where we could have put in, but the captain warned us that would slow our journey a great deal. “I know we are all eager to reach Troy,” he said.
The night sailing was difficult—it was impossible to sleep, and so when we reached Andros at twilight the second day I was thankful we would be spared another night at sea. Night was falling rapidly, but in the failing light I could see how majestic the island was, how high the mountains.
So it proved in the daylight—magnificent slopes, covered in green forest, with waterfalls tumbling down the gorges. “There’s even a river or two here,” said the captain, “good water for us. It’s unusual for an island to have rivers.”
We rested there for several days, rejoicing in the simple pleasures of being able to walk freely, something I had never appreciated before this voyage.
On to Scyros. When we reached it we would be at the halfway point of our journey. It was a small island, with two mountains rising up like breasts on either side of a flat area. We had not even brought our ship up to shore when soldiers appeared on the shore to question us.
“This is the island of King Lycomedes,” their commander called. “Who are you? In whose name do you come?”
Paris started to answer, but Aeneas hushed him. “I am Aeneas, prince of Dardania,” he said. “I am returning to my home from an embassy to Salamis.”
“You are welcome, Prince, you and your men,” the commander said. “We shall escort you to the palace.”
Oh, no! Now we would be discovered, and our route known. Or—worst of all!—we would be captured and detained. Paris could lie about his identity, but when they saw me . . .
I went to Aeneas and spoke into his ear. “Beg for a bit of time. Say we must attend to something or other on the ship.”
“Good men, let us recover a bit. It has been a tiring journey,” Aeneas called.
“You can refresh yourselves at the palace. There are hot baths there, dainty food.” They planted themselves stubbornly beside the boat.
“Here.” I felt a tug at my cloak. Evadne was beside me. “Smear your cheeks with this.” She slipped a little clay jar into my hand. “It will age you.”
“Forever?” That seemed a drastic remedy.
“Until you wash it off,” she said. “I call it my Hecate-cream. It is a gift from the old goddess herself.”
I think you are that old goddess, I thought suddenly. How did I even know this woman was a human and not a goddess? I could not be sure she had ever even been in Sparta. And for her to appear so oddly, along with Gelanor, and carrying the sacred snake . . . I was cold with apprehension.
“A wool-carder learns much about skin and how to treat it,” she explained, as if to soothe my fears. “There is a substance in wool that preserves youth. Look at my hands.” She held them out, and indeed they were smooth, the hands of a girl—in contrast to her wrinkly face. “There are other substances that mimic age.” She pressed the jar into my palm. “Hurry, my dear.” The soldiers were peering into the ship. I bent down and smeared my face with the thick gray clay. It spread surprisingly easily, and I could barely feel it on my skin. “Pull your hair back,” she said, taking it roughly in her hands and twisting it up in a knot. Then she took a coarse wool scarf and wound it about my head to hide my hair completely. “Remember to bend as you walk. Forget your usual walk. Now your hips ache and your feet are swollen.”
I was barely finished with this transformation before we were being herded off the ship and marched on a path up the mountain, to the palace perched at its summit. I tried to remember to hunch over and walk painfully. I even requested a stick to lean on. Paris kept abreast with Aeneas and I hobbled along with Evadne.
Suddenly we were on a smooth plateau and the palace appeared before us—polished pillars and a shaded porch fronting a wide two-story building. Courtiers scurried out and ushered us in, under the shaded gallery and into the smaller courtyard. The climb had been a steep one and it was not difficult for me to remember to pant and keep bent.
Soon the king appeared, hobbling out. He was as old as I was pretending to be. “Welcome, strangers. You will dine with us and spend the night,” he said.
Now there must be a long ceremonial dinner, presentation of gifts. I was thankful that protocol forbade his asking us our names or our business until after the dinner—that would give us longer to rehearse our stories to ourselves.
He led us into the great hall, and suddenly we were surrounded by a host of young girls, like a flock of butterflies. “My daughters,” he said. “I have more daughters than any other king, I’ll warrant.”
“No sons?” asked Aeneas.
“The gods did not send me that blessing,” he said. But he held out his arms to embrace several of his daughters, laughing. “What the palace lacks in warriors, it makes up for in beauty.”
The banquet was as all banquets—ordered, predictable, mildly pleasant. Has anything of importance ever happened at a banquet? I was seated with the women and girls, since I was supposed to be a member of Aeneas’s entourage of no special rank. The king’s eldest daughter was on one side—her name was Deïdameia and I guessed her to be fifteen or sixteen. Her gown was a light creamy green. Again I thought of a butterfly. Beside her was a girl who looked older and bigger, but I had been told specifically that Deïdameia was the eldest. This girl said little and kept her eyes down. The arm that emerged from her tunic when she cut her meat seemed oddly muscular.
“Pyrrha, can you not speak to our guests?” Deïdameia coaxed.
Pyrrha lifted her eyes and for a moment they looked familiar to me. Then she blinked and seemed to struggle for words. “Have you had adventures along the way?” she asked in a low voice.
“Once we ran into pirates,” I said.
“Oh, where?”
I started to tell the truth but then realized I must not indicate we had been anywhere in the vicinity of Cythera—too close to Sparta. Instead I said, “Near Melos.”
“What happened?”
“There was a fierce fight, but our men beat them.”
“By Hermes, I’d like to have been there!” she said fiercely.
“Oh, Pyrrha!” Deïdameia gave a tinkling laugh.
Pyrrha wanted to know all about the weapons the pirates had used, and what type of boat they had used to overtake us. But she was interrupted in her string of questions by the launching of the ceremonial part of the dinner. Gifts were presented from Lycomedes to Aeneas, and Aeneas proffered some bronze from the ship. Then, and only then, did Lycomedes ask, “And who are you, friend?”
“I am Aeneas, prince of Dardania.”
“Welcome, Prince Aeneas!” Lycomedes said in a quavering voice. “And who have you with you?”
Paris stepped forward, “His cousin, good king. His cousin Alexandros.”
The king nodded. “And these others—your guards and attendants, yes?”
“Yes,” he said. He did not introduce Evadne, Gelanor, or me, except to say, “These are trusted servers of my counsel and cha
mber.”
“You are all most welcome,” the king repeated.
Afterward there were hours to fill, and the king arranged an exhibition of dancing acrobatics for us, with boys and girls leaping over ropes and flipping themselves across the backs of carved wooden bulls, using the horns to vault themselves over.
“In Crete, they say, they leap over the horns of real bulls,” said Paris.
“Too dangerous,” said the king. “I prefer that all my acrobats return home without blood.”
One of the dancers slipped under a rope when he missed his beat to jump it, and pretended nothing was amiss.
“I saw that!” Pyrrha’s rough voice rang out.
The words were spit out just as ones I had heard once before. I saw that. Three simple words, but spoken with singularly distinctive disdain and venom. I saw that.
“Saw what?” the king asked, but his tone said, That’s enough, Pyrrha.
“I—Oh, never mind!” She hunched her shoulders and turned away, going to lean against a pillar.
How tall she was. Taller even than the king. Had his queen been exceptionally tall? I went over to her.
“Go away,” she muttered.
I was shocked at this rudeness. One never ordered a guest to go away, especially one older than oneself. Before I could utter a word, she turned and glared at me. And I recognized the eyes of Achilles, that angry child I had last seen ten years ago mingling with the suitors in Sparta.
A boy! A boy disguised as a girl, here on the island of Scyros. Why? No wonder he was angry, having to pretend to be a girl.
As he looked at me, I saw that he also recognized me. Helen—his mouth silently formed the word. Helen!
“Shh,” I said. “Say nothing.”
Then we both began to laugh, trying to stifle ourselves. Achilles disguised as a girl looked out at Helen disguised as an old woman servant. And neither of us could ask why.
Just then the courtyard was filled with clattering, and we turned to see the king’s youngest daughters trotting in on tiny horses, clutching their manes. We both looked to the courtyard. Even standing on tiptoe, I had trouble seeing over all the heads crowding around, but Achilles would be able to see easily.