“Let me spare you the trouble,” I said. I could not bear to listen to his rehearsed self-glorification. “Let me recite them, for I know well what you are going to say. This way I can answer them at the same time, and have the whole business over more quickly. For we know how it will end, with all this but a ceremony.”
Had Menelaus ever truly known me, he would have expected just those words from me. But the poor man was rendered speechless, as I had intended. I stepped forward and stood before the whole company. A hundred eyes stared hungrily at me. “First, as Menelaus started to say, I stole away from my home in Sparta with the prince of Troy, Paris. I went willingly, I was not abducted—as some tried to claim. I did not take treasure with me—as others tried to claim—but a few goods of my rightful ownership, and only in my haste and confusion. I did not use them to enrich myself but dedicated them to Athena in Troy and gave the rest to Priam.” I stopped to draw a breath. It was so quiet that that breath sounded very loud.
“The only crime I committed,” I continued, “and which no one here has the power either to punish or to forgive, was leaving my daughter. For that crime I have grieved and only she can pronounce judgment upon me for it. When I face her, I will beg her forgiveness.”
Now Menelaus came to life. “She will never forgive you! She hates you! She has told me many times how she despises you, and hopes that I kill you when finally I lay hands on you.”
He probably spoke true. Menelaus had never been a liar, unless all these years with Odysseus had tainted him. “I will submit to whatever she decides,” I said.
“You’ll have no choice, you adulterous bitch!”
I looked past him to the audience. “I must ask why any man who calls himself a man would want an adulterous bitch for his wife.” That made them laugh, as I knew it would. Menelaus could stand anything but being laughed at.
“I never said I wanted you for a wife, but for a prisoner. And that’s how you shall return to Sparta.”
I preferred being his prisoner to being his wife. But that did not make me safe from his attentions. “Does my father still live?” I had to know to what I was returning. There must be something there, something.
“Yes. Who do you think has been ruling all these years?”
“And what of Mycenae? And Pylos, and Ithaca?” All those kings away—who ruled in their places? Orestes and Telemachus had been only children at the time, and all the sons of Nestor had gone with him to Troy. What had happened in Greece while they were gone?
“We don’t know!” cried Odysseus, sounding suddenly threatened. “Messages are few—the distance—we will not know, truly, until we land.”
“So you’ll sail with us and be surprised along with all of us at what awaits,” said Menelaus. “Happy homecoming, you shameless whore.”
I stepped to one side to address the men. “Again, I must ask you, what man of honor would want—”
Menelaus grabbed my shoulders and shook me so hard one of my hair bindings came off. “A whore in a bloodstained dress, stained with the blood of the men you have killed, a murderess as well as everything else. I shall tell you, lady, I shall tell you: a man bent on revenge!” Now he turned to face his men. “And I’ll have it, I’ll have it back in Greece, where she’ll stand before the people who suffered because we all had to come here—”
“So you have become a liar after all!” I cried. “I have murdered no one. If thousands have lost their lives, they died for your pitiful hurt pride. And as for the blood on my gown, it is symbolic blood—a part of one drop for each ten lives. But see, it washes clean—I have tried it, and that is when I knew it was not true blood but magical blood—clean as your hands will never be! The true blood does not wash away!”
I watched his face stiffen with his struggle to control his anger. Finally, jerking his head down, he said, “Take her into the house with the others.”
I was dragged into the dark interior of that structure, where I could just make out the huddled forms of the captive women. The house smelled musty, dank, and was poorly lit. As my eyes adjusted, I could see a bedstand and several sagging benches, along with chests. The only kept-up thing in the room was a pedestal with a tunic draped over it, a gold ring and knife laid carefully on top of it.
I heard gentle sobbing from the women; not desperate, not keening, just a tired sadness. Not enough life-force remained for them to grieve loudly. The fall of Troy had sucked it all away—or so I thought.
“This vile, stinking house! Kept as a shrine to Achilles!” Hecuba spat. “He lived here, therefore it is holy. And to think my Priam came here, sat here, to beg for the body of Hector. Oh, Priam! You looked upon these ugly walls, too!”
“What is this stupid thing?” the usually mild Laodice said, kicking at the pedestal.
“It is their way of worshiping him,” said Cassandra. “This is his tunic. This must be his ring and knife.”
“Ladies.” A discreet male voice interrupted us. “Queens and princesses.” How polite, to announce his presence and warn us, although whatever we said could hardly alter our fates.
He stepped forward. He was not young, although his voice was. “I am Philoctetes,” he said. “I am sent here to . . .”
I heard nothing more. Philoctetes. The man who had killed Paris. He was of medium height, with a sturdy body, well-muscled arms, and a dignified stance.
I felt myself gasping for breath, trying to steady myself. Where were his arrows, his deadly arrows? His poison? His quiver? His bow? The arrow that he had aimed at Paris had only scratched him, but it was immeasurably deadly.
“Where are your weapons?” I asked. My voice was so low I thought I would have to repeat my words.
“Lady Helen,” he said. “I can say nothing beyond war is war. At least I was an enemy. To meet death at the hands of an ally or companion is even worse. I know; they left me alone to perish. Only when they needed me did they come for me.”
“The vile Greeks!” I cried. “Truth and honor are not among them!”
“But I was bound to them. I could not join the Trojans. And so—”
A wild idea entered my head. I would take one of his arrows, scratch myself with it, die as Paris had. “But your deadly gear,” I said. “Where have you put it?”
“Safely away,” he said. “The arrows of Heracles must be kept from harming innocent people.”
If only I could lay my hands on them. And as for who was innocent—how could he determine that?
“Put such thoughts far from you, lady,” he said. “Many seek those arrows to do much mischief. I regret the day I lit that pyre and inherited them from Heracles. What an intolerable burden he gave me.”
LXXIII
I now realized that I would have to enchant one of my captors if I had any hope of escape. Could I do it with Philoctetes? But my being rebelled. I could not cajole my husband’s murderer.
The door flew open, and Andromache stumbled in. Right behind her was Neoptolemus, shoving and laughing.
For the first time I could behold his face unobscured by a helmet. His eyes were a muddy color—in this dim light I could not discern whether they were brown or blue, but whatever they were, they were not vibrant. Like his body, his face was presentable, passable but forgettable. He had not inherited his father’s fierce grandeur.
“My new slave!” he cried. “The widow of Hector!”
Andromache turned on him. “I am too old for you,” she said. Her voice was low.
“Yes!” I said, coming to her side. I encircled her shoulders in an embrace. “I am here,” I whispered. Then I turned to Neoptolemus. “You do not want a woman old enough to be your mother.”
“What care I for that? I care more for who was upon her before I.” Neoptolemus sneered. “I will wipe him from her memory. In that obliteration I have my glory.”
“You have no glory, little boy,” said Andromache. “You have killed my son and I despise you forever.”
Astyanax! What had he done?
“He kil
led my son, Helen.” There was no expression at all in her voice. She turned to me, ignoring Neoptolemus. “He took him from my arms and flung him from the walls of Troy—no! there were no walls of Troy left, he flung him from the smoldering heaps into a tumbled mass of stones, but death came just as surely.” The words, dull and low, marched in orderly fashion from her lips.
“Astyanax!” I wept. Her beloved only son, so eagerly sought. The night on Mount Ida . . .
“The baby snake must die,” said Neoptolemus. “It cannot live to slither into the ruins of Troy and start the Trojan menace all over again. The seed of Hector must be destroyed.”
All heirs of Troy obliterated! But Aphrodite said Aeneas had escaped. No matter, we could not know. “Oh, sister.” I embraced her and we sobbed together. For the first time I was glad Paris and I had no child. It would have perished as all else in Troy.
“You shall return to Greece with me,” said Neoptolemus to Andromache. “Perhaps not as my main wife, for it is true, you are a bit old for me. Occasional relief or diversion in bed you shall grant me. But I think I deserve a princess of Greece. I think your daughter Hermione is more to my taste, lady Helen. I have already spoken to your husband about it and he has granted permission. I shall be your son-in-law.” He chortled and leaned forward, kissing my cheek. “Mother!” he giggled.
I slapped his face; I could not help myself. “If my daughter is anything of mine, she will reject you.”
He laughed. “But she may not be of you; she may be her father’s child, or entirely of her own thinking.” He drew himself up. “She may want the son of the mighty Achilles. Many women will.”
“Then go find them, and spare my daughter.”
“Your daughter may be amongst them,” he said. “It is most likely.” He laughed softly. “But I must speak not of what is likely, but required.” He turned from Andromache and me as things of no import, and addressed the women who were gathered at the back of the house.
“My father has sought me out of late,” he said. “He has spoken to me in dreams and portents.”
“How odd!” I cried. “He did not know you as a baby, as a boy, and now he speaks to you!”
He whirled around to me. “The gods do not necessarily speak to their children until they please,” he said.
“So Achilles is now a god?” I said. “Strange, when I first saw him he was but a nasty, meddlesome child.”
“Shut your mouth, whore of Troy!” he cried.
“The surest answer from someone who has no answer.” I spoke to the women. “Insults. But that is no true response, it is the desperation of those who have nothing else to call upon. What does your illustrious father—if indeed he is your father—command you?”
“He demands blood. He needs a sacrifice in order to let us sail from Troy.”
“Whose?” Hecuba stepped forward. “It must, in all justice, be mine.”
“No,” said Neoptolemus. “It is your next youngest daughter’s, Polyxena’s.”
“What?” Hecuba choked, clutching her throat. Suddenly she was not the withered old woman, shuffling toward death, she had affected to be. She seemed to grow even as I watched her, until she stood eye to eye with Neoptolemus. It was an illusion, of course, but even Neoptolemus felt it. He stepped back. “Why?”
“My father fancied her,” he said.
“How could he? He had never seen her!”
“Yes, he had,” said Neoptolemus. “He saw her at the springhouse.”
Now Polyxena stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “The day he slew my brother Troilus? He remembers seeing me then? He should curse that day, and anything his eyes looked upon. I have, and I despise your father. Tell him that when he appears in your dreams!”
“Your feelings are of no matter. He will have your blood, lady, and have it spilled on his tomb. Then and only then will the war be over.”
“Troy is a heap of ashes, its dead smothered under fallen stones and burning timbers, and he needs another killing to complete the war?” Her voice had faded, as if she had used all her strength in remembering Troilus.
“Who can fathom the desires and needs of the dead?” he said. I remembered the cold shade of Paris. “I resent it, too, my lady. Why should not having his son come to Troy be enough for him? Why does he need you?”
“Because he is a cruel and violent man,” said Polyxena. “It is as simple as that. He murdered as long as he was able, now he recruits others to carry on murder in his name.”
“Kill me!” I cried. “It is I Achilles should want as a blood-price. My husband killed him.”
Neoptolemus gave a horrid little smile. “I’ve no doubt he lusts for you, that much is true. He sighed to have you walk by his side on the White Isle, where I am told he paces. But, Mother, I need you here.”
With a choking cry of revulsion, I bent my head. I could barely stand to look upon him. So I did not see Polyxena shake off her mother’s hands and stand before him.
“This will end the war? This will be the last killing?” she asked him.
“Yes,” said Neoptolemus. That much I heard. “Then we will sail for home, abandon Trojan shores forever.”
“And I shall have a tomb? A proper tomb?”
“Child, what are you thinking of?” Hecuba shrieked.
“I want a white marble tomb,” she said. “Nowhere near Achilles.” She paused. “And I want it to say that, as the innocent blood of a Greek princess sent the ships here, the innocent blood of a Trojan princess sent them home!”
“No, no!” cried Hecuba.
“Oh, Mother, cease!” Polyxena commanded her. “Do you think I wish to leave the land of my home? Go to be a slave, endure the sweaty fumblings of some vile Greek? Do you think it will be better for Andromache there than for me inside a white tomb?” She turned back to Neoptolemus. “I am sure you sweat and fumble, and I do not envy Andromache. Truly, I prefer the tomb.”
Neoptolemus bit his lip at the insult, but did not strike her. “You shall have it.” He looked to the door. “The preparations should take time, but we shall hurry them. By sundown, we will both have our wishes: you will be in a tomb and we will be readying our ships for home.”
He left the house, and the women encircled Polyxena, weeping and lamenting. It was a grotesque reenactment of a wedding. They would attire her, dress her in her finest robes (if any remained from Troy), adorn her with the royal fillet, anoint her with scented oils, and whisper secrets in her ear. In marriage, those who had ventured into marriage long ago imparted their wisdom. But there was no one present who could help her, arm her, for the dark place where she was going.
Near sundown, two soldiers came for Polyxena. She had been dressed in white robes, a makeshift royal diadem, made of a linen strip torn from Hecuba’s gown, tied around her head. There were no jewels, no gold. They were being counted in Agamemnon’s tent, heaped up and inventoried. Even sacrificial cattle had their horns gilded, but she went unadorned to her slaying. Someone had brought a handful of meadow flowers and these were fashioned into a necklace and bracelet of sorts, yellow and red against her flesh.
“But we will accompany her on her journey,” I insisted to the soldiers.
Hecuba, calm now, embraced Polyxena. “It is only for a short time,” she said. “You spoke true. You are privileged to leave all this behind. Greet your father, greet Hector, greet Troilus, and tell them I will hurry to their sides.”
Polyxena turned her head and kissed Hecuba’s cheek. “I will, Mother. Now I take my leave of you all, whom I love.” Tears traced themselves down her cheeks.
“Come!” The two soldiers grabbed both of her arms and steered her outside.
Hecuba and I followed, as did Andromache and Polyxena’s sisters. No one stayed behind.
The tumulus of Achilles was only a short distance from the Greek ships. It reared toward the sky, its soil already covered with grass and flowers. Achilles had died long enough ago for the meadow to begin reclaiming it.
Someday this will be fl
at, I thought. Storms will beat upon it, wear it away, and shepherds will let their sheep feed on the grass. The tumulus of Achilles will shrink and shrivel and melt away. And Troy will be likewise. The mound where it was—I glanced toward the place, where now the smoke was barely rising—will disappear.
An altar had been set up before the tumulus—a heap of stones with a flat stone atop it. A fire was burning before it, as if that would cleanse the foul murder shortly to take place.
Lined up on one side were Agamemnon, Menelaus, and all of the Greek leaders. Of course they would be here to witness it. There was no bloodshed they did not wish to participate in, to relish.
Agamemnon spoke of appeasing the gods and needing a safe passage home. He spoke of the similar sacrifice he had offered to enable the ships to cross.
“And you’ve not yet paid for that sacrifice!” screamed Cassandra. “But you will!”
Agamemnon gave a discreet cough and soldiers apprehended her and hustled her away. Now I saw her twin, Helenus, bowing his head and looking ashamed, standing with his captors. I also saw Antenor, misery written on his face, and his wife Theano, standing before him.
They led Polyxena to the altar. “My tomb,” she said. “It is all arranged?”
Antenor made a gesture. “Yes, my child. It is as near to Troy as possible. I have seen to that.”
I expected her to castigate him as a traitor, cooperating with the Greeks. But she was past that. “I thank you,” she said. “And you will tend it?”
“Someone will,” he said. “I may not be allowed to remain here. But I promise it shall be tended.”
“And not by the same person tending Achilles’s mound here? I want no part of him. Hands that touch his tomb may not touch mine.”
“Princess, I promise,” he said. Sobs cut off his voice.
“Proceed!” ordered Neoptolemus. Several strapping soldiers stepped up.
“Need we so many?” asked Polyxena.
“To convey you,” said Neoptolemus. He addressed the silent mound. “Father! As you have commanded, we have brought you the princess Polyxena. She will shed her blood here on your tomb. And you will then free us of your wrath!”