“And there are other things we can employ. Rocks to drop on the ladder climber, you say? What of heated sand, that penetrates between all the layers of a warrior’s armor? Do you have an alarm system here in Troy, to signal breach of your lines? Why not? I know of many.” He shrugged. “You are not prepared.”
“Sir—show us how!” I was startled at Priam’s naked appeal. But his only concern was for Troy, not his pride.
“The things I mentioned are but child’s play,” said Gelanor. “Obvious things. But there are others—do you know of poisonous garments?”
“Do you mean, smeared with poison?” asked Priam.
Gelanor laughed. “No, not that. I mean, garments that have rubbed up against victims of the plague or other diseases. They have the power to impart the disease to healthy people.”
“No!” I cried. I could not permit such to be used against my own countrymen.
“You prefer the arrows of Apollo, then?” For the first time, I beheld Gelanor’s hardness. “They strike here, there, to no purpose for either side? The cruel god of plague? If a man must die of plague, why should it not be for a purpose?” He looked hard at me. “Shall we not harness Apollo as well?”
Priam looked horrified. “You speak blasphemy.”
“Even thinking of harnessing a god for your purpose is a challenge to the god.” Now Hector joined his father. “Please, take it back.”
Gelanor laughed. “Very well. Dread archer, god of the silver bow, I meant no disrespect.” He squinted toward the sun. “Look down on us here. And guide us to your temple.”
“We don’t need to be guided to it, there is one right here in Troy,” said Deiphobus.
“Not that one,” said Gelanor. “I hear there is another one some distance from Troy, one called Apollo Smintheum. That is the one I wish to inspect.”
“The temple with the sacred white mice?” Priam asked.
“Indeed,” said Gelanor. “I believe that temple may hold answers for us.”
Later in the day, having ascertained that no Greeks were anywhere south of us, our group set out from the Dardanian Gate, trundling along in a cart, guarded by soldiers. But it was glorious to escape the confines of the city and venture out into the countryside. As Troy dwindled behind us, I looked back to see the shining walls and proud towers, and at its summit the palace Paris and I had built, the highest thing in Troy. It flaunted itself there, proclaiming our love and our presence.
“Let Agamemnon see that,” I whispered into Paris’s ear. “It will drive him mad.” If he noticed I did not say Menelaus, he gave no sign of it. Menelaus was a word we avoided, out of mutual embarrassment.
After much jouncing and bumping, we reached the temple in midafternoon, when the strong sun turned the stone pillars pure white. A sacred grove surrounded the building, and the trees stood silent in the heavy, windless air. At first the building seemed deserted; midafternoon was no time for visitors. But as we mounted the high steps to the building, we saw a dark-robed priest waiting for us, hands clasped.
Immediately Priam spoke, as leader of the Trojans. “Good priest, we come here to do honor to the aspect of Apollo who reigns here.” He inclined his head slightly.
“We welcome your presence,” the priest said. “We have heard of the arrival of the Greek army besieging Troy.” He approached me, fixing his eyes on me. “Is this the cause of it all? The illustrious Helen?”
Rather than let Hector speak for me, I said, “Yes. I am Helen. I bring my friend from Sparta, as well as my husband and his brothers and their father.”
“Ah, then,” he said. He continued staring at me. “Perhaps you should cover your face here, lest Apollo . . .” His voice trailed off. He did not need to enumerate all the women and men Apollo had taken a fancy to and pursued mercilessly, to their doom. Yes, Daphne had escaped, but only by turning herself into a tree—hardly a satisfactory solution. I had no desire to become a tree. “Very well,” I said, drawing out a thin veil.
“I understand that you keep sacred white mice here,” said Gelanor. He was looking about. “And other things?”
The priest demurred. “The mice, yes, they are here behind the holy statue. Do you know the story? A swarm of mice once ate the leather bindings of the shields and swords of an enemy army, so we honor them to this day.”
“And other things, yes?” Gelanor persisted.
“Other things. We keep them safe, protected, in the underground chamber.”
He led us behind the statue of Apollo to a dark enclosure. The odor immediately announced that vermin were there. Even sacred vermin stink. I coughed, discreetly, I hoped.
The cages were swarming with mice, tumbling over one another, fighting for space.
“What if you let them loose?” asked Gelanor.
“They are only symbolic,” the priest said. “True, mice have chewed through essential armor on the eve of a battle. But we have no power to direct them. So, in answer to your question—if we opened the cages now, the mice would swarm away and likely destroy the fields around us. They attack whatever is at hand.”
“Then, I beg you, contain them,” said Priam.
“Show us the other things in the arsenal,” said Hector. “We need to know.”
Making rumbling noises of discontent, the priest called for a torch. A resinous pine branch was thrust into his hand from one of the lesser priests. “Very well, then, let us descend.” He turned and led us down a set of damp steps. “They are ancient,” he said. “I do not know what they can teach you.”
Once below ground, we discovered it was dank and fetid, so different from the sunny aspects of the upper temple. Rough unhewn walls resolved themselves out of our wavering vision. I could hear the drip of some cavernous stream far below. Green mold covered the stones, and silence enveloped us.
“Here is one thing,” the priest finally said, approaching a locked wooden chest. “They say that in a time of plague the garments of a king and queen were removed for safekeeping, after they died of the disease.” He started to force the lid open.
“No, do not,” said Gelanor. “Leave it locked. I do not need to see them, as long as you swear they are there, preserved.”
“I so swear!” the priest said.
“Very well, then,” said Gelanor. “What else do you have here? It may be of great importance someday in the defense of Troy.”
The priest looked startled. “I—there are more clothes, dedicated after their owners died of a dread disease. They are locked up, untouched. Some of the diseases struck quickly, in the noonday of a man’s life. Others preferred to wait until twilight, until the person was weakened and the attack was not so obvious. But all sudden plagues are attributed to Apollo, and thus the leavings were brought here.”
“What would you say if I told you that taking out the garments, shaking them, holding them up to you, would cause you to fall victim to the same disease?” asked Gelanor.
“I would say, then, that they must be kept securely locked. As they now are.”
“Just so.” Gelanor nodded. “But if ever we send you word to dispatch them to Troy, you will know things are desperate.”
“Yes.” The priest nodded.
“Let us seek the daylight again,” said Hector. “This is too oppressive.” He turned and left us standing in the dank dark. After a moment we followed him up to the temple. The clear air, the blue sky, sang to us.
That is, until we saw the huddled figure before the statue of Apollo. He seemed but a heap of rags, a heap that heaved and sighed and cried.
“What is this?” cried the priest, hastening over to him. He extended his hand, placing it softly on the pulsing heap. At length a head emerged; the shoulders straightened and then the man stood forth.
It was no man, but a boy. He shook his head and stammered, “F-forgive me, but I sought sanctuary here. Troy was besieged. I only knew to come here!”
“Who are you? What is your name, son?” Priam shuffled toward him.
“I am Hyllus, s
on of Calchas. I do not share his treason. I abjure my father. Only let me return to Troy, my home!”
Priam walked toward him, but before he acknowledged him, he pulled the boy’s hair off his forehead. A bright red jagged scar stared out at Priam.
“I see that you are indeed Calchas’s son,” breathed Priam. “But how came you here?”
The boy cringed, then drew himself up. “When my father went to Delphi, the oracle ordered him to side with the Greeks. He did so. But I could not. Have you ever met these Greeks? They quarrel constantly, and were not even pleased to welcome my father. What is it they said? I love treachery, but I hate traitors! As if there could be one without the other. And my father was not a traitor, but was ordered to join the Greeks by the Pythia. Who could disobey? One must bow before the oracle. But I could not follow my father. The oracle spoke not to me. And I knew right from wrong. It was wrong, unless one received special instructions from the gods, to desert one’s city. And so, I beg you, bring me back. Let me return to Troy.”
Priam’s eyes were filled with tears; Hector’s as well.
“How do we know that you are truly Calchas’s son?” It was Gelanor who spoke those words. “Are we content to rely on this lad’s words?”
“We do not need words, we can see for ourselves.” Priam pointed to the scar.
XLIV
We made our way back to Troy, the boy riding with us. He said very little, and kept his eyes down. Soon the temple was just a bright white spot in a green dale. I smiled when I thought of the priest and his smelly mice; my snake would doubtless enjoy an opportunity to sport amongst such delicious creatures. Gelanor seemed preoccupied; I knew he was thinking about the potent garments contained in the coffers and wondering how, and in what dire circumstances, he might use them. It would be a grim choice, if ever it came to that.
Hector and Deiphobus were clasping the rails of the wagon, standing shoulder to wide shoulder. I could hear their murmuring words above the groan and rumble of the cart wheels. Hector was worried about the weakness of a stretch of western wall; Deiphobus was more concerned about the Greek leaders, particularly Achilles. He had not been seen since the landing. What was he doing? Could he have been injured in the landing? Deiphobus’s voice rose in hope.
I felt should tell them of my strange encounter with Achilles. I had thought much on it since that time in Scyros. I stood up and touched Hector’s shoulder. “When Paris and I were on our way here, we stopped at the island of Scyros,” I told him. “I recognized Achilles there, disguised as a girl at the king’s court.”
Hector frowned. “Are you sure?” The hesitation in his deep voice showed that he thought it my imagination.
“Yes, absolutely. I had seen him as a child a few years before, and I would know him anywhere. But I could not question him then, and now I do not understand how he comes to be here with the army.”
“A girl? He was wearing the clothes of a girl ?” Deiphobus snorted.
“Yes, I swear it!” Neither of them believed me.
Paris now joined in. “I don’t remember your telling me about that. Surely you would have.”
“I fail to see what difference it makes,” said Priam, looking up from under his thick eyebrows. “He’s here now, that’s all that matters.”
“But don’t you see—perhaps he is deranged!” I said.
“I know what happened.” A quiet voice rose from the back of the wagon. “I can tell you.” The boy spoke. “Helen speaks true. Achilles was sent to Scyros by his mother to protect him. She did not want him to go to Troy—he was her only son and still very young. But the Greeks were determined to have him, and so they tracked him down there on the island. Then, rather than fighting with him—for if truth be told even those seasoned warriors were afraid to—they tricked him into revealing himself.” Hyllus’s eyes, soft and brown, looked up at the men for approval.
“Come here, son,” said Deiphobus, hauling him over. The boy was smashed against his shoulder. “Tell us of this trick.”
Hector turned around and riveted his attention on Hyllus as he cleared his throat.
“It was very clever,” the boy said. “Odysseus is still bragging about it. He and Diomedes landed on the island to pay a visit to the king, spying to find Achilles. But after several days of feasting and games and all the rest, there was no sign of Achilles. So they returned to their ship and brought gifts for the king’s daughters—and he has many, many of them—mirrors, and veils, and bracelets and earrings. And half hidden under them was a fine shield and a spear. While the girls were cooing over the gifts and Odysseus was arranging them, Diomedes from outside the palace clanged bronze and screamed war cries as if they were being attacked. The girls shrieked and fled; Achilles swooped down on the shield and spear and rushed to defend them.”
“Clever indeed,” muttered Priam.
“Oh, in camp they imitate Achilles throwing off his veil and mantle and ripping the brooch from his shoulder, and it never fails to win a laugh.”
“Yes, so I imagine,” said Hector. “Alas, Helen, he is not deranged. So we face a well-trained adversary, one eager to be here. And as for Odysseus, I hope he does not turn his cleverness on us.”
“This Achilles . . .” Deiphobus now turned back to gripping the sides of the wagon. “Why is everyone in such a state about him? He’s only one man. Hardly a man at all, more a boy.”
Hyllus shrugged. “I don’t know, I only know he was the focus of much talk. Perhaps they needed to create a Heracles for this venture, and it is always easiest to create a wonder out of someone unknown.”
Gelanor laughed. “Very astute, lad,” he said, observing him closely. “You seem to know a great deal.” His laughter died away.
“We are already familiar with the abilities of the rest,” said Hector. “Agamemnon is a fierce fighter but lacks the courage that inspires loyalty in followers. Diomedes is a good junior soldier but cannot lead. The large Ajax of Salamis fights well hand to hand but cannot think; furthermore, his great bulk makes him immobile. The small Ajax of Locria is small in every way—a mean-spirited and brutal man who likes to torment his victims. His only virtue as a warrior is his swift running, so he can pursue a foe. Idomeneus is a famous spear man and fights well enough, but his age means he cannot run fast; he has to take a stand wherever he is. And Menelaus is not a fighter of the first rank. He is too softhearted.” He turned and looked at me. “Begging your pardon, Helen,” he said.
“Why do you apologize? I do not make claims for his skills on the battle-field.” Nor for anything else, I thought.
“You are trembling.” Paris sat down beside me, pried one of my hands loose, and took it in his. “Please, do not fear what is coming. We will be safe.”
“I am not afraid,” I said. But I was.
The great Dardanian Gate, already shut for the night, groaned open for us and we arrived safe behind the walls. Nothing had happened that day; no sign of any enemy movement or attack. The besieging tents were still fixed in their half circle, but their ineffective positions did not threaten Troy. Hecuba welcomed Priam back and I saw a near-smile on her face, for the first time in a great while. We would, perhaps, be safe. This would pass; the Greeks would fold their tents after the summer, hoist their sails, declare some sort of victory to please their vanity, and be gone. Paris would never get to wear his new armor, and the rations horded in Troy would furnish many a fine banquet. We would drain the amphoras and sing rounds of song to celebrate our freedom, so easily won. Only the young warriors, so eager to try themselves on the field, would be disappointed.
Many days passed in this fashion, with Priam holding council with his old fellow warriors, sitting out in the sunshine of the portico and chattering like birds, spending more time reliving the battles of their youth than planning the pending one. In their midst, Priam seemed to shed his wrinkles, and even his hair was less gray; he nuzzled his pack of pet dogs who crowded around in hopes of scraps, wagging their tails wildly.
So far pe
ople could come and go freely to the springs and to Mount Ida, and Troilus was able to water his horses at the springhouse near the Temple of Thymbraean Apollo. Everything to the north was cut off, of course, making the lower branches of the Scamander out of bounds. This ended the tidy profits the Trojans customarily made from stranded ships in need of water, but it could not be helped. Hector decided to send a party east toward Dardanos and Abydos to see if there were any Greek incursions there. He selected a small band of men and they plotted a way through the foothills and forests, using pathways known only to hunters. In the meantime, the prostitute spies were providing us with amusing, if not strategic, information about the Greeks in camp.
It seemed that Agamemnon had already built himself a wooden hut and packed it with women. He spent most of his time inside with them, only emerging with shaking knees and dazed face to review his troops or eat. A foulmouthed common soldier, Thersites, led the ranks in reviling him behind his back. Everyone laughed at this, but it made my heart burn to think of him indulging himself while Clytemnestra waited back in Mycenae, grieving for their daughter. The dog-faced swine!
Menelaus stalked around the camp scowling and muttering; none of the ladies had ever seen him smile. Odysseus, on the other hand, was full of cheer and compliments for everyone, and eager to give the ladies a good turn in the bed. But somehow he was always missing his goods when it came time to pay. And Idomeneus kept an elaborate table with entertainment and wine aplenty, as gracious as if he had been holding court back in Crete. His lovemaking was equally refined, if a trifle slow due to his age. He always paid extravagantly. The Ajaxes—great and little—were not recommended. One was too large, the other too small, and both were stingy. Diomedes was probably the best of the lot in terms of skill and gusto, they all agreed.