“What is it?” he asked. “Do you see something I do not?”
Perhaps, I thought. But it is in the past. And before us I see only the grandeur of Ida and the splendor of Troy.
XXXIV
We wheeled the chariot this way and that, searching out first one path and then another, rumbling all around Troy. As we circled it, I could see that Troy reared highest on the side facing the sea, where its sheer rock cliff rose from the plain. On the other sides the slope was gentler; on the south it was almost level. That was the way we had first entered Troy, at the huge covered gateway. I remembered how nervous I had been . . . was it only two days ago?
“It must have a name,” I said.
“It’s the Dardanian Gate,” he said. “The southern one that leads to Aeneas’s country, and right to Mount Ida—Zeus’ doorstep.” He laughed. “Sometimes we call it the Market Gate, since it’s the busiest one. But why don’t you ask about the one everyone asks about—the one beside the famous Great Tower of Ilium?”
“Very well, then. Tell me.”
“It’s the Scaean Gate. It’s the one warriors use when they leave the city.”
“Why only that one?”
“Oh, it’s just tradition. Although it is the fastest way for a chariot to reach the plain. That’s why”—he pulled me toward him as a confidant—“we took it just now. We weren’t supposed to, but . . .”
The tower. The Great Tower. Why had it not struck me before? It loomed over the others like a giant.
“ ‘The topless towers of Ilium,’ ” I said.
“What?” Paris looked at me quizzically. “What do you mean, topless towers?”
“I don’t know . . . the phrase came into my mind.” And not for the first time. And burnt the topless towers of Ilium. Now there were more, other words, coming from someplace far away, the way they did sometimes. “Nothing.” I shook my head, clearing it of what was crowding in—bright images of flame, and cries, and smoke. Yet the tower stood calm, solid, in the bright sunshine, birds flying over it.
“You are troubled,” he said. “About the king and queen. Please, do not be.”
Let him think it was that. I did not know, I could not explain, what I had just seen, flashing for an instant, in my mind. “This Calchas—”
“A self-important seer,” said Paris. “I told you, Troy is full of them.” He turned the horses toward the eastern side of the city, where the wall turned in upon itself, creating a protected, almost hidden gate.
“We’re most proud of the walls here,” he said. “These are the newest ones, with the best stonework. The ones over on the west side are the oldest and the weakest, and we keep meaning to strengthen them, but—the council of elders is, well, elderly. You know how stingy elders can be. If it isn’t needed in their time, they won’t bother with it.”
“But can the king not do as he likes?” It seemed curious to me if he could not.
“Certainly. But he listens overmuch to them. He is old himself, you know.” He laughed and flicked the horses on faster. The chariot jounced and swayed.
The sun was almost directly overhead, making the delicate insets in the wall invisible. “These walls change appearance according to the time of day,” cried Paris. “They are prettiest at sunrise, when the shadows lie deepest.”
Another great tower was around the bend, just beyond the eastern gate. “It’s our water tower,” said Paris. “Our main well is deep inside it, down a flight of steps cut in the rock. No one can ever cut us off from our water supply; we do not have to leave the city to get it.”
“But what of those in the lower town?”
“They have the springs, and the Scamander,” he said.
“But could an enemy not seize those?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But those people could flee to the surrounding countryside for safety. We have allies all around us—the Dardanians, the Phrygians ready to provide help.”
“But what if the enemy attacked those allies first?”
“Why must you be so gloomy? No one is that determined. Armies come, they strike quickly, they retreat. Armies do not stay in the field. They cannot. That would require food and discipline beyond anyone’s imagining. And the Trojan winter would send them packing. It is nasty here in winter—damp, cold, howling winds, sometimes even snow.” He slowed the horses and turned to me. “But it is coming up upon summer—must you dwell on winter?”
But it is coming up upon summer—must you dwell on winter? In those few words, Paris described himself. And even now, when I think of him, I think of summer and the warmth he carried with him like an enveloping mantle wherever he went. There are always flowering fields, butterflies, and sweet winds surrounding him in my mind. How long a winter has my life been without him!
Paris brought the chariot to a halt. “Where to, my love? We have been all around the walls now.” The dust settled around us.
All around the walls. A roar arose in my ears and I could hear thundering, the thundering of hooves, hear a chariot, hear cries of woe from the walls . . . but what? Why? And then, replacing the hooves, footsteps, fast runners, but how many? More than one, that was all I knew.
Stop! I took my head in my hands. Stop!
“What is wrong?” said Paris.
“Nothing!” I answered defiantly. “Nothing!” I looked out. The walls stood silently, nothing circling them but us.
“I brought wine, cheese, and figs,” he said. “Let us sit in the shade by the banks of the Scamander and refresh ourselves.”
It was growing dark when we returned to the city through the Dardanian Gate; the great doors were closed and we had to request passage. Ordinarily no one was allowed in after sunset, and already the stars glowed in the dome of the sky.
Waiting for us in Paris’s apartments was a messenger from Priam. “Report at once to the king!” he barked.
We betook ourselves there, not changing our clothes; we did wash the dust from our faces and feet. We entered the king’s council chamber to find Priam and several men pacing about. As soon as they saw us, they whirled around.
“So you come at last!” Priam said, glaring at Paris. “Did I not tell you to wait upon our pleasure? How dare you leave the city and keep us waiting?”
Paris neither apologized nor argued. Instead, he shrugged and smiled. “Dear Father, the day was lovely, and beckoning. I did not reckon on our little journey lasting so long.”
A discreet throat-clearing from a portly man indicated his skepticism. But he awaited the king’s response; he would take his cue from that.
“No, you do not reckon on anything. Dear son.” He smiled. “But come. Enough time has been wasted. Here is Calchas, and I intend to dispatch him to the oracle to probe what the fates have in store for us.”
The plump man stepped forward and bobbed his balding head. He had eyes like a bird—alert and searching. There was something about his face that indicated deliberate blandness, an effort to make itself unreadable.
“I will make every effort to go and return as swiftly as possible,” he said. His manner was itself like olive oil—smooth and unctuous. “And of what must I inquire?”
“Nothing less than the future of Troy,” said Priam. “We have here a queen of Sparta. We have admitted her to our city, acknowledged her marriage to a prince of Troy. But what will come of this? It is a simple question.”
“I fear it may not have a simple answer. What if the oracle—”
“Make her give a clear answer! Keep questioning her! Do not let her hide behind whirling words!”
“My esteemed king, if I may give my opinion?” A small man, his remaining hair dark, stepped forward.
“Yes, what is it, Pandarus?”
“As Calchas’s brother, I understand the difficulty of what you are asking him to do. You want him to cross the seas, go all the way to the oracle, avoid the Greeks, and then return. Do you realize—”
“Yes, I do! He is a seer! If he cannot help us now, what good is he?” said Priam. He
glared at the others. “Only those who have something pertinent to say should speak! It is late enough already; my patience draws thin.”
An elegantly dressed man made his way to Priam’s side. His full head of hair was silver, and his older face still handsome. “It seems to me, great king, that all this is unnecessary. Why send Calchas on a perilous journey? We know the answer now. It is not an answer we want, so we seek another. But the Pythia, the prophetess of Apollo, will say the same: Helen must return to Greece.”
“Antenor,” said Priam. “I cannot argue your wisdom. This is the easy, the obvious, answer. But might more not be at play here—forces we cannot determine? Therefore we must seek the counsel of the gods themselves. This is no ordinary situation, subject to ordinary common sense.”
Antenor drew himself up. “With all respect, great king, I find that when common sense is ignored, tragedy follows. Perhaps we look too hard for hidden meanings and exceptions. The truth is, a Greek queen has stolen away—been stolen away—to Troy. The Greeks are a nasty, warlike people. We know that Agamemnon has been bristling with war talk, and war weapons, for years. They do not need a strong reason to attack us. A flimsy one will do, when a man seeks war. Therefore I say: Send Helen back. Send her back, before it is too late!”
Another man came forward; this one was thick-bodied and broad-faced. His walk was one that bespoke a former warrior. “Are the walls of Troy too weak to withstand the pitiful assaults of a few foreigners?” he cried. “What are we talking about here? A few hundred miserable men, forced by Agamemnon to cross the seas to Troy? Huddling on the seashore, hiding in the shadows of their ships? Why are we cowering before even the thought of this—something that has little chance of coming to pass?”
Priam nodded to him. “You speak true, Antimachus.” He looked around at the others, still silent. “We tremble before shadows. We need the oracle to tell us truly what is to come. Calchas, go. As soon as possible.”
The others stirred and murmured, but had nothing to add. Either they would second Antenor’s advice to send me back, or champion Antimachus’s provocative stand.
Calchas stood before Paris and me, and bowed. “I will listen intently to what the Pythia says,” he told us. His face was still unreadable. Would he truly do his best? “I will convey her exact words back to you, and to your king.” He looked around as if he were searching for something. “With your permission, my king, I will take my son, Hyllus, with me. It would be good if he learned what the life of a seer entails, and to behold the greatest prophet of all—perhaps it will inspire him.”
Annoyance crossed Priam’s lined face. “I do not see the purpose in that,” he said. “Taking a youth with you will slow you.”
“No, no, it is the other way around!” Calchas smiled assuringly. “As we all know, it is age that drags, not youth.”
“Oh, very well!” Priam waved impatiently. “Just go, as soon as you can strap your traveling boots about your ankles.”
“Shall I take a torch and begin now?”
A tolerant laugh rippled through the chamber. Calchas said, “Pandarus, fetch Hyllus here so that he might receive the king’s blessing.”
Before Priam could forbid him, Pandarus had tripped from the room, smirking. In an instant—obviously the boy had been waiting outside—he returned with a tall gangly youth and dragged him up to Calchas. The boy kept his eyes downcast, but they were almost obscured by his long hair flopping across his forehead.
“Hyllus wishes your blessing before he departs for Delphi with me,” said Calchas.
“Am I a priest?” snorted Priam. “Is he a mute? Can he not speak for himself? And let him look me in the eye, instead of out from under a waterfall of hair!”
Calchas grabbed the boy’s hair and yanked it back. A jagged scar, like a staircase, revealed its livid stamp. So that was why he kept his forehead masked.
“Forgive me, son,” said Priam. “May the gods heal the memory of your wound that your skin holds. And may you journey safely.”
Father and son bowed, then Calchas took Hyllus’s hand and they made a dignified retreat from the chamber. After they had gone, Priam turned an angry eye on Pandarus. “Your amusement at this lad’s scar was cruel. But what can you know of scars, you who have never lifted your arm in battle?”
Pandarus raised one eyebrow before submissively nodding his head. “My apologies, great king.”
“May we go now?” Antimachus bellowed. “It grows late.”
“Indeed, yes. All of you may depart.” Priam waved them away. “You as well.” He was looking at Paris and me.
Morning sun spilling into our bedchamber; we had slept late again. I awoke before Paris; I was learning that whatever he did, he wished to prolong, so that he always overlapped the allotment of hours. Liking to stay up late, he outlasted the night’s welcome; now, being tired, he overslept, treading on the hospitality of the day.
He rolled over, rubbing his eyes. “In our new palace, we must have sturdy shutters to keep our sleeping chamber dark.” He sat up. “And today is the day we can begin planning it. I shall call in builders—”
“So soon?”
“Why become fond of these rooms, when you shall only have to leave them? I do not want you to feel that life with me means always leaving something.”
A fleeting picture of the palace in Sparta flashed into my mind, but I quashed it. “But obviously Priam is displeased with the idea,” I said. “Perhaps it seems an affront.”
“Nonetheless we shall proceed,” Paris insisted.
“You mean you will proceed,” I said.
“It is for you,” he said. “A proper housing for a mortal so fair that no housing can do her justice.”
“You make me sound like a god, which I am not, or a lump of stone or gold, which I also am not.”
“Oh, stop quibbling!” cried Paris. “Let me do this! Let me build something, present something of worth to Troy. This fair palace will stand long after we are gone; others will live there, and marvel at it, and invoke our names in gratitude.”
Paris almost skipped about the streets of Troy searching for his site; I, his builder, Gelanor, and Evadne followed more sedately. There was little unbuilt space in Troy; the houses were packed together, one wall against the other, as the streets wound upward toward the summit. Upon the summit, Priam’s palace—with its huge adjoining apartments, storerooms, and workshops—Hector’s palace, and the temple of Athena claimed the choice spots, overlooking the plain and the shining sea.
“I want to be up here!” said Paris. “Up here, where the winds blow fresh and strong.”
“It seems that others have come first,” said Gelanor. It was almost the first thing he had said. In all this time, I had not been able to speak with him at length, privately. Was he still bent on leaving?
“Others came first in my father’s household, but I have taken my true place. So shall I, here, alongside him.” Paris pointed to a surprisingly modest house perched near Priam’s palace at the summit. “Let us pay this man for his land and build here.”
“There is not enough ground to build anything much larger than what is already there,” said the builder. “It might be smaller than your present apartments.”
“But the location is perfect!” Paris looked dashed.
“Perhaps you could build upward,” said Gelanor.
“Upward?” said the builder.
“Two stories are commonplace,” said Gelanor. “Has anyone ever tried three stories?”
“It wouldn’t hold—the weight would be too great—the middle floor would be oppressive—I don’t think—” the builder said.
“But has anyone tried it?” Gelanor asked. “I am not being argumentative, but it would be helpful to know. Men are always reaching to try new things.”
“In days to come, there will be a hundred stories,” Evadne suddenly said. “Or more. Shall it begin here?”
The builder turned to Paris. “Am I to help you, or do you insist on listening to these Gr
eeks, who admit they are ignorant of building?”
Paris turned and looked at me. “My dearest, your companions . . . perhaps they should hold their questions.”
“No,” I said. Gelanor had never failed me with his probing mind. The question he raised was an intriguing one. “There is no land left here for the wide palace you envision. Perhaps it is time for another vision. Or we can seek another location, lower in the city, and build in the traditional fashion.”
Thwarted, Paris turned back to Gelanor. “Do you really think there could be a building with three stories?”
“Perhaps. If there can be two, there can be three. Or even four.”
“But if we were to build this, it would loom over the other buildings here on the summit,” I said. “Would that not cause ill feeling?” Above all, I did not want that with the Trojans.
“That is why I would recommend only three stories,” said Gelanor. “Although four would be a challenge . . .”
“This is absurd! The upper stories would collapse the building and kill all those beneath!” The builder threw up his hands. “I cannot condone this. I cannot be a party to it. If anything happened to you—the king would have me executed. No, I will not!”
Gelanor smiled at Paris. “It seems you must make a choice. Be safe and choose another, less lovely site, or be bold and build here, trying a new type of dwelling. Of course, the price for failure is high.”
“I want a palace here!” Paris’s face was set.
“You’ll find another builder, then!” the builder proclaimed.
Paris looked angry. “Very well.” He turned to Gelanor. “Can you linger here in Troy a bit longer and oversee this? If it is successful, you will become renowned throughout the world!”
“And if it fails?” Gelanor seemed amused, not frightened.
“Then, as a Greek, you can flee Priam’s wrath when Helen and I lie beneath the rubble.”