“Aeneas?” cried Troilus. “I see you have brought my brother safely home, as you promised.”
“I have brought him home,” said Aeneas. “Safely is another matter.”
Again poor Troilus looked perplexed. “He looks well enough.”
“Aye, there’s the pity. Had he looked less well, then . . .” He shrugged. “All will become clear in time.”
We resumed walking, Troilus falling in beside us. Then a woman came flying down the street, arms outstretched. She rushed to embrace Aeneas.
“My wife, Creusa,” he finally mumbled, when he could get his breath.
She was small, fair, and fine-featured. Her eyes missed nothing. Now they looked me over. There was none of the usual squinting or pandering. “Who is with Paris?” she asked.
“He calls her wife,” said Aeneas.
“But where—”
“I shall explain all once I see the king and queen, my father and mother,” Paris said again.
“Oh.” Creusa turned back to him, losing interest in me.
What a novel experience! Did it sting? Or was it a relief? A bit of both.
As we walked toward the top of the city, more and more people came out of their houses, drawn by the large company of soldiers tramping behind us. They were well dressed and only then did I notice how handsome the men were. Just so: the godlike Trojan men, renowned everywhere. So it was true.
Opening up before us was a wide pavement—a level courtyard. We must have reached the top at last. It had been a long walk, much farther than walking from the palace in Sparta down to the banks of the river and to the city. Troy was, then, truly immense.
The view was dazzling. A tree-dotted plain spread out before us on three sides, and on the fourth the sea shone a hard reflective blue. The buildings crowning the courtyard were of two stories, surrounded by brightly painted pillars, and boasting wide welcoming porches with overhanging roofs. One of them was fronted with stately columns; this looked to be the temple.
Just then there was a stirring in the portico of the largest building, and an elderly man stepped out, shading his eyes. I knew immediately it was Priam. He was tall and commanding even in his advanced years; his tunic did not hang limply around the frame of a shrunken man, but rippled as from the shoulders of a warrior.
“Father!” Paris held out his arms and walked swiftly toward him.
“Oh, my dear son!” Priam came forward and embraced him. “Welcome home!”
Aeneas inclined his head with respect. “You bade me bring him home safely,” he said. “That I have done.”
“You shall tell me all!” said Priam. “Tonight. We’ll have such a feast—” He suddenly looked around. “No Hesione? What did she say?”
“We did not see her, but from all accounts she does not care to leave Salamis,” said Paris. “She is old, she is content . . .” He shrugged. “What would be the point in abducting her? Would your joy in beholding her offset her sorrow in leaving her home?”
“This was her home!” Priam thundered, and I thought of Zeus.
“Homes change,” said Paris. “Mine did, from the slopes of Mount Ida and a herdsman’s hut, to Troy.” He took my hand and drew me to his side. “And hers has changed as well. From Sparta to Troy.”
“What do you mean?” His voice was sharp. “Who is this, Paris?”
“Do you not recognize her?”
“I have never seen her before in my life.”
“But nonetheless you should recognize her. Just look upon her face.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked at me. Then he shook his head. No one had ever done that before.
“Oh, Father, come now. There is only one person in the world who could look like that, and you know who it is.”
“Yes,” said Priam. “And that face has told me I am a liar, something I have never been. Never!”
“What do you mean?” Paris dropped my hand.
“They have already come looking for her, threatening me if I did not return her—the queen of Sparta, Helen! I told those envoys from Menelaus in the sternest terms that I knew nothing of this, that Helen was not here, nor had you abducted her. I sent them away with warnings. Now I see . . . you have made a liar of me!”
“But Father, how could you have known? You spoke the truth as you thought.”
“I should have known the character of my son! That should have stood surety for your actions. But no—I see I do not know you at all. They warned me, they said you had not been brought up as a prince, that you did not have a noble mind—but I sent those naysayers packing. To my sorrow!”
All the while I was standing there while they argued over me. I felt I must say something.
“Priam, great king.” I stepped forward. But I knew to come no closer, nor to make any gesture of either supplication or familiarity. “It is true, I am Helen of Sparta, former wife to Menelaus. I came with Paris on my own accord. It was no one’s doing but my own. I do not wish to cause unhappiness to anyone in Troy—bitter enough that I must cause it in Sparta. Often the happiness of one person must cause the unhappiness of another. But I have found happiness, the first true happiness I have ever known, with your son Paris, and I rejoice in it. I only regret any sorrow it may cost anyone else.”
His eyes grew so large the whites showed all around the irises, as if he would burst from within like an overripe fruit. “How dare you blather such nonsense, when you have put us all in danger? And how dare you compromise the honor of Troy in such a fashion?”
“Father!” said Paris. “She is my wife!”
“What do you mean?” Priam shouted.
“We have pledged ourselves, and before witnesses. The gods brought us together, they guided us, and now they must protect us.”
“Bah!” yelled Priam.
“Great king,” I said. “Please have mercy.”
“Oh, I’ll have mercy.” He whirled around and pointed to the guards on each side of the palace, to the people gathering in curiosity in the courtyard. “But the rest—the council of elders, the Trojan people, our allies, and the faraway Spartans—will they?”
“We must hope—” I began.
“Oh, if it were just me,” he said, “I would welcome her.” He put his leathery, lined face very close—too close—to mine. “I would kiss her hand in welcome”—he did so, elaborately—“and praise my newfound son for finding such a bride. Who could not? To have such a one about the palace would be like harnessing the sun, so it would always be bright. But alas, she comes trailing sorrows and dangers.”
He was still looking at me, and I felt him soften. People always did if they looked long enough. I had despised this gift; now I poured out silent thanks for it.
“Hesione did not wish to come, and I did. One princess for another,” I said.
“Do not speak to me of my sister!” he barked, and I realized I had overstepped the delicate bounds.
“You were willing to risk war and sorrow for her,” said Paris, “when she did not even wish to come!”
“That was a matter of blood,” said Priam.
“What is happening?” a high voice sounded from the porch. “Priam?”
A small woman, wearing the finest light wool gown, had appeared. Her voice showed her to be an older woman. This, then, must be Hecuba. Head held high, she descended the steps and came over to us, dripping dignity.
As soon as her eyes fastened on mine, I knew she was the hard one, not Priam. She would never melt, she was an eternal snow capping the highest mountain. Like the snow, her complexion was very pale, and when she was younger, it must have been exquisite.
“Paris? You have returned, then.” She held out her hand for him to take.
“Yes, Mother.” He bent over the hand, then took it in both of his and squeezed it.
“And he’s brought us a pretty prize—oh, our son has been a-plundering!”
“Gold? Slaves? Cattle?”
“Nothing so useful,” said Priam. “He’s stolen the wife of Menelaus. Th
e queen of Sparta.” He gestured toward me.
“Helen!” Her voice was a hiss, a soft slither of sound. “So it is all true, then.”
I longed to know what was true, what she meant, but I knew to keep silent and look respectful before this formidable little woman. I bent my head.
“Are you a statue, girl? Can’t you speak?” she said.
Oh, I can speak, I thought, but if I speak my mind I might anger you. “I would not presume,” I murmured, in what I thought was a conciliatory manner.
“A mealymouth, then!” Hecuba said. “You’ve gone to all the trouble to kidnap a timid little milksop. Her face will soon seem as wheylike as her manner!”
“She’s my wife!” Paris said loudly. “I command you to stop insulting her!”
Everyone in the square overheard him, and pressed forward eagerly to hear more.
“Command, do you?” she said. “Will you flick me with a whip like you did your cattle when you herded them?”
“Cease!” Priam ordered them. “Come inside, out of this public place.”
“Do you invite me to enter your palace, then?” I said, without moving one step. I knew that to be invited inside the palace meant that they accepted me—or the marriage, that is.
Hecuba raised an eyebrow. “She can speak!” She puckered her mouth. “At least there’s that. Yes, of course, get yourselves inside!” She made fluttering movements with her hands.
We stepped over the marble threshold, and in so doing, I thereby became a Trojan.
Inside, it was cool and dark, and for a moment I felt I was back in the cave with Aphrodite, a sensation made stronger by a faint scent of roses. But in a moment I saw smoke rising from an incense burner and knew this was the source of the perfume. I was not in a magic cave but standing in the palace of the richest city in the world, facing all-too-human critics.
“Now, my child,” said Priam, “we may speak freely.”
“Yes.” Hecuba took her place by his side. She barely came up to his shoulders. Her voice did not invite speaking, free or not.
Paris gestured toward the pillows heaped around the walls. “Can you not invite us to sit?”
“In good time,” said Hecuba briskly. She continued standing.
Must it be I who spoke first? I looked about, hoping someone would spare me that obligation. But all faces, and mouths, were closed. I drew up my courage and prayed to Aphrodite to guide my words.
“Blood is a sacred thing,” I began tentatively. I did not know how sacred the Trojans held it. “We share our blood. Closely, through my father Tyndareus, we are cousins. Atlas had two daughters and they are the ancestors of Lacedaemon and Dardanus, our forefathers.”
“Not so close,” said Priam. “And no blood at all, if it is true that your father is not Tyndareus after all.” As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, I could see him more clearly. His face showed no emotion, no recognition. Yet he was appraising me. I knew that look well enough.
“Great king, I cannot speak for that.” I bowed my head—submissively, I hoped.
“I can,” said Hecuba crisply. “There is no Tyndareus there. Look at the light that shines around her. The very chamber has brightened.” She sounded vexed.
“But you and I, most exalted queen, share blood that cannot be denied.” I turned to her. “On my mother’s side, we claim Phoenix as our common ancestor.”
She grunted. “And how is that?”
I was ready. I had teased it out of Paris and Aeneas in preparation. “Agenor is the ancestor of Phoenix. Do you truly want me to relate all the threads in between, leading to my mother Leda and you?” I could do it, but so tedious!
“No,” she replied. “I know it as well as you.”
Silence for a moment. The smoke poured from the incense burner in clouds.
“It seems that Paris has chosen his wife,” Priam finally said. “We had urged him to marry. He has done so. They have lived together publicly as man and wife, taken vows. It is not to be undone. Helen is, distantly, of our blood. We must—” He shook his head. “We must welcome her as a daughter.”
I bowed my head.
“But a daughter who weakens us,” said Hecuba. “I thought marriage alliances were to strengthen dynasties, not threaten them.” She turned a hard face toward me. “The envoys from your husband, lady, were insistent that you be returned. In all truth we replied that we knew nothing of this matter. But this is no longer the case. When you fail to return, what will their response be?”
“Nothing!” cried Paris. “Nothing has ever come of such a thing. In all respect, Father, nothing has come of Hesione being in Salamis, nor of Medea being stolen from Colchis by Jason. Nor the abduction of Adriadne by the Athenians. The Greeks will fulminate, curse, send envoys. In the end they will sit down content before their fires and make sad ballads about Helen, the lost queen.”
“ ‘People yet unborn will make songs of us,’ ” I said.
“What?” demanded Hecuba. “Is that all this means to you? Songs?”
“I—I—” In truth I knew not where those words had come from. They came from somewhere outside me. “I did not mean it to sound light,” I said.
“What else could it be?” she snapped.
“Helen knows of things we do not,” said Paris.
“What can you possibly mean?” asked Hecuba.
“I mean, because of gifts bestowed upon her in a temple, she can see things we cannot. Her attendant has brought the sacred serpent from her household altar. Let us find a suitable home for him here.”
“Troy is filled with seers!” said Priam. “Too many of them. Helen, you are welcome here as the wife of Paris, but as a seer—no!”
Now he had come around, as I knew he would. “I will keep my serpent, then, only as my special companion, a treasured thing I have brought from Sparta.”
He smiled. Men were so easily won.
“I suppose you will retire to your old apartments?” Hecuba asked. Women not so easily won.
“Only for now,” said Paris. “I will build splendid new ones for Helen and me.”
“What, desert all your brothers and sisters who lodge in the royal apartments? Are you to be set apart, then?”
“Dear Mother,” Paris said, stepping forward and taking her face between his hands, “I am already set apart, because fair Helen is my wife.” He held out his hand to me. “Come, my wife. If my mother and father do not invite us to sit, I do.” He gestured toward the brightly colored pillows. We sank to the floor—a floor covered with woven tapestries, but ones unlike any I had ever seen before.
“Here in Troy do you put your fine weavings upon the floor?” I asked. I ran my hands over one, marveling at the design.
“Oh, these come from the East someplace,” said Paris. “We get them from the passing caravans before they proceed any farther. It is one of the privileges of living in Troy—to intercept trade.” He laughed.
“Since you have already done so, I invite you to sit,” said Hecuba. “Would you care for refreshments?” Now she extended all the trappings of hospitality, in a measured way.
“Yes,” said Paris. “Yes, we would.”
Priam nodded to a waiting slave. “Bring him what he desires.”
“It seems the gods have already done that,” said Hecuba tartly. She took her seat nearby. “So you like our floor coverings? They come from farther east. We call them carpets. Novel idea, to cover the floors. But warm. It gets very cold here in winter.” She smiled at me, a distant smile. “You will see.”
XXXI
Aeneas, who had been sitting quietly all the while, stood and made to leave.
“Say nothing to Creusa!” Hecuba ordered him. “Swear it, before you leave this room.”
Aeneas frowned. “But she has already seen us. She met us on our way through the city, and I am eager to be with her again.”
“Be with her all you like,” said Hecuba. “But say nothing. You men excel at that—being with a woman and saying nothing of import.”<
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“She has seen me as well.” I felt I had to speak. “She knows I am here, and who I am.”
“Let that be all she knows!” Hecuba glared. “You should never have allowed your face to be seen in the streets of Troy. Henceforth, you must wear a veil.”
“No, I will not.” I kept my voice low, but I was trembling. I could not go back to that, I could not bear it. “I am not an animal to be trussed up. Covering my face is like being bound. Let people see it, and do as they will. I saw that no woman in Troy wears the veil.”
“You are not a Trojan.” Priam finally spoke. “Do not invoke the customs of Troy for yourself.”
“She is a Trojan now!” Paris leapt to his feet. “Henceforth she will be known as Helen of Troy, not Helen of Sparta. Let her therefore be treated as a Trojan.”
“I fear that cannot be,” said Priam. “One is as one is born. Just as Hesione was, and always will be, Trojan, not Greek.”
Aeneas shook his head. “Great king, I think she is Trojan no longer, and we must turn our eyes from that idea.”
Priam grunted.
“Go to Paris’s quarters,” Hecuba ordered us. “Stay there until I summon you. This must be dealt with swiftly. I must think of what to do. In the meantime, stay out of sight.”
“Like a thief or a murderer?” Paris cried.
“You are a thief!” said Hecuba. “What else can we call a wife-stealer?”
“He did not steal me,” I said. “I came of my own accord.”
“That is not what the Greeks will say,” said Priam. “It would insult their honor; to keep their honor they must maintain that you were stolen.”
“Raped, even!” Hecuba snorted. “I can hear it already.”
That would compromise my own honor. Let it not be said!
“No,” I protested. “It is not so.”
“Can you prove that to your kinsmen, far away? No, they will cling to that belief.” She stood up, straight as a shaft of light. “Go now. Go to your quarters.”
I had not been ordered about like this since I was a child. I would have answered back, but Paris, reading my mind, took my hand.
“Let me show you where I lived before setting sail for Greece,” he said.