The Hittite

1

Men have said—Apet told me—that Helen is the most beautiful woman in the world. If that is true it is not her own doing, but the work of the gods, and must be accepted. Yet it has caused her nothing but grief.

Helen is the daughter of Tyndareos, King of Calydon, and Leda, his queen. Some say that mighty Zeus himself begat her, in human guise. Her mother never told her of it, but only smiled knowingly when Helen asked her what the other children meant by that.

Even as a baby—Apet went on—Helen was sweet and happy. Her laughter could make your heart soar. So beautiful. So delightful.

Years before, I had been captured by her father, Tyndareos, in a raid on my village in the Nile delta and taken to Calydon as a slave. I served the barbarians faithfully, and when Helen was born her mother made me her nursemaid.

Before she was twelve years old, word of Helen’s beauty spread so widely that princes from every kingdom in Achaia sought her hand in marriage. She was introduced to each of them as they visited her father’s palace to court her. Most of them were older men, twice Helen’s age, although not as old as her father or his brothers. Still, she held her breath and said not a word to these huge bearded men while they looked her over like butchers inspecting a heifer.

I stayed at her side always, and after a brief few moments with each visiting prince I was bade to take Helen back to the women’s quarters, where she could remove the stiff gold-worked corselet and gown that her father insisted she wear—and breathe again.

Helen tried to tell her mother of her fears, but her mother told her to be grateful that she was sought after by the richest and most powerful families in the land. It was only to me that she could confide her fears.

“Apet, they’re so old! And the way they look at me … it frightens me.”

“Come, come, my nursling,” I would say, soothing her. “The gods have graced you with great beauty, and men are dazzled by such.”

“Their eyes … they stare at me so.”

“Don’t be afraid of the princes, my sweetest. Learn to use your beauty to get them to bring you gifts and do your bidding.”

Gradually, while the royal visits continued, I explained how she must think like a woman and use a woman’s strengths to make the best of her life. She began to understand; she had seen the barnyard animals in rut and once, while her parents were away, had even gone out to the stables and watched a stallion mount a mare before I caught her and whisked her back inside the palace.

Among those barbarians women have no say in their own destinies; daughters are exhibited to prospective suitors, then bargained for and decided upon by their fathers or other male kin.

The suitors besieging her father’s house were many and powerful. Helen’s father favored Menalaos, King of Sparta, because his own ancestry was rooted there. When Menalaos came to the palace Helen was allowed to have dinner with him and his companions. While I watched from the kitchen doorway, she sat next to her father, quaking inside through every moment without me by her side. Menalaos was more than fifteen years older than she, already past thirty; flecks of gray showed in his hair. He jabbed at his food with a dagger and dripped wine into his beard. She was terrified of him.

Her father, Tyndareos, had different worries. He feared that whichever one of the besieging suitors he chose, the choice would antagonize all the others. They were hot-tempered men, powerful and quick to make war, each of those who sought Helen’s hand; they would make deadly enemies. Yet the longer her father hesitated, the more the eager princes pressed him for a decision. Helen waited in an agony of suspense, wishing that she could run far away.

I had told her about the splendor of Egypt since she’d been a baby, of the magnificent cities and great pyramids that had been erected before the beginning of time.

“I wish we could go to Egypt,” Helen said to me, more than once during those nerve-stretching days.

“Ah, there is a land where a beautiful princess is treated properly,” I told her. “There is a land of true civilization.”

She sighed and pined for glorious Egypt while her father struggled over his decision about her fate.

Then ever-shrewd Odysseos, her father’s friend, suggested a solution. Upon a visit to Calydon Odysseos listened to Tyndareos’ fears, then told him to make all the suitors take a solemn oath that they would accept his choice and support her betrothed, should the need ever arise. They all agreed soon enough, each man hoping to be the one favored above all the others, each fearful that winning Helen would also win the jealousy of all the other princes. Thus they swore their pledge.

As he had planned to do all along, Tyndareos wed Helen to the King of Sparta: Menalaos, of the house of Atreos, brother to mighty Agamemnon. It seemed a good match to her father, but Helen was not happy with it. And she feared the anger of Athene, for Helen had dedicated herself to Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, and the omens told of Athene’s displeasure with her.

To doubly assure his safety, her father also wed Helen’s older sister, Clytemnestra, to Menalaos’ brother Agamemnon of Argos, King of liongated Mycenae. His house was thus doubly bound to the house of Atreos and the two most powerful kingdoms in Pelops.

Sparta was a crushing disappointment to Helen. She had dreamed of a well-built citadel, with many servants for the new queen, and a kind and loving husband. Instead, Menalaos’ house was like a cold, dreary stone dungeon; its floor was bare earth and the smoke from its hearth fire made your eyes sting. The serving people were dull, surly. Her husband and his noble kinfolk talked of nothing but hunting and war. She was a queen, yet she was expected to spin and weave and serve her lord without question. She was his possession, his chattel. Helen felt that even Aphrodite had abandoned her.

All that she knew of the arts of love was what I had told her.

“Your duty is to please your husband,” I instructed Helen on the day of her wedding in Sparta. “Your own plea sure is not so important as his.”

I knew Helen had heard tales of married women who had taken lovers. And of what happened to them when their husbands found out.

“Should I expect no plea sure at all from my husband?” she asked me tearfully.

I grasped her chin gently. “Light of my days, women are vessels for men’s passion, and we must be satisfied to please them. A woman’s happiness comes from the children she bears. Think of them when making love with your husband.”

Her wedding night was no surprise, then. While her husband drank and caroused with his male relatives and friends, I helped Helen out of her gold-embroidered wedding dress and into a shimmering nightgown that clung to her young body. When Menalaos lurched through the bedroom door, Helen flinched with terror, yet she dutifully stepped to the well-draped bed and waited with wide, fearful eyes for him to strip while I went to the next room and shut the heavy oaken door with troubled, trembling hands.

And listened.

More than half drunk from the feasting, Menalaos used her, took her virginity, then rolled over and fell asleep. No surprise, but still Helen felt bitterly dissatisfied.

2

Helen’s life in Sparta fell into a wearying, dull routine. Most of the time she was kept inside the citadel, like a royal captive, closely watched and guarded against the eyes of other men. Yet her husband allowed her to attend the feasts when important visitors came to the citadel. Menalaos would sit her at his side and grasp her wrist possessively. Thus she met ambassadors from Athens and Thebes and even far-off Crete. They all remarked wonderingly of her beauty.

“Am I not the most fortunate of men?” her husband would boast to his noble kinfolk and the visiting dignitaries, leering at Helen between cups of honey-sweetened wine. “Gaze upon my wife and see for yourselves how the gods have favored me.”

Yet when they were in bed together he barely spoke a word to her beyond the grunting of his clumsy, pawing passion. In truth, Helen had little to say to him, for whenever she did try to speak to him he either ignored her or commanded her to be silent. Helen fell into long, tearful bouts of desperation, seeing nothing in her life but dreary, meaningless years of misery.

“Be steadfast, my nursling,” I would tell her. “Soon enough you will have children to cheer your days.”

Yet she did not conceive, and I began to wonder if the gods had indeed marked her to be barren. Or was it Menalaos that the gods were punishing?

If I had not been there to comfort Helen, I fear she would have gone mad. She prayed to Aphrodite and to Hera, patroness of motherhood, that bearing Menalaos a child would change his attitude toward her. And her prayers were answered! She became pregnant at last. But when she gave birth, her baby was a daughter and Menalaos was furious.

“I want a son,” he snarled at her as she lay exhausted and sweaty in her labor bed.

He would not even look at their daughter. He ordered her taken from Helen and given to a wet nurse. When she tried to protest he sneered, “You can suckle me, instead.”

For days Helen begged him for her baby. Even when she was strong enough to get up from bed he refused to let her see her daughter. Then I discovered why, listening to the whispers of the serving women by the well in the citadel’s courtyard.

I rushed to Helen’s side, tears streaming from my eyes.

“Apet, what is it?” she asked.

I could not speak. Instead I raked my cheeks with my fingernails and flung myself on the stones of the hearth.

Helen dropped to her knees beside me, her whole body trembling. “Apet, what is wrong?”

I could only utter a strangled groan.

And she knew. “My baby!”

“Dead,” I choked out. “Left on the mountaintop for the wolves and crows.”

Helen screamed and tore her hair. The two of us wept uncontrollably, huddled together at the hearth, until long after the sun went down and the chill of night filled the bedchamber.

Menalaos did not come to her that night. Nor the next. When at last he did Helen stood by their bed fully dressed as I hid behind the halfshut door to her dressing closet with a dagger in my hand, ready to kill her husband if he struck her.

“Where is my daughter?” Helen demanded of Menalaos.

“She was sickly,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “Too weak to live.”

“Where is my daughter?” she repeated.

“I want a son.”

“Then go make a bastard with one of your serving wenches,” she said coldly. She seemed to be a statue of ice, showing no fear, no emotion what ever except hatred as hard as stone. Go ahead and strike me, she challenged him wordlessly. Beat me senseless. It makes no difference.

Menalaos raised his hand and took half a step toward her, then stopped. I gripped my dagger hard and held it at the ready. Then his shoulders slumped. Saying nothing, Menalaos turned about and left the bedchamber. I stepped into the room, the dagger still in my hand.

“Put that away,” Helen commanded me. “It won’t be needed.”

So she lived as a dutiful wife while Menalaos spent most of his days hunting with his companions and most of his evenings drinking with them. He visited Helen’s bedchamber a few times; each time she rebuffed him. Often the dog raised his hand to hit her, but she stood before him without flinching.

“I am not a helpless infant,” she said. “If you strike me I will return to my father and his brothers.”

He glowered at her. “You will remain here in Sparta! You are my wife.”

“Yes,” she said. “And the mother of your daughter.”

He fled from her room.

As the months dragged on the servants gossiped about the slaves he slept with instead of his wife. Helen cared not. Her life was ruined, what did it matter what her husband did or how the servants prattled? There were rumors of bastard babies; always daughters. I told Helen that Hathor and mighty Isis had put a curse on Menalaos for murdering her baby.

“He will never have a son,” I whispered to her, my eyes burning like coals.

“How can you be sure?” she asked me.

“I have invoked the power of the goddess,” I told her. “He will never father a son.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But if he does, he will want to marry the mother and make his son a legitimate prince.”

I shook my head. “To do that he will have to kill you.”

“Yes,” she answered, and I realized the truth of it as she spoke. My eyes went wide. Helen understood the fate that lay in store for her better than I did.

For the first time in my life I felt fear for my sweet one, like a chill wave of sickness rising within me.

“If ever Menalaos has a son,” she said to me numbly, “our days are numbered.”

“Your father …”

“My father will never know,” she said, seeing the reality of it. “Menalaos will tell him that I died of a fever, or some such.”

“I will slay the dog first,” I growled.

Helen put her hand on my shoulder. “No, Apet. No. This life is not so lovely that I would cling to it.”

I felt shocked. “Don’t speak like that, my nursling! Don’t dwell on death!”

“Why not? What have I to live for?”

“The gods will protect you,” I promised. “The old goddess, she who shaped the world even before your Hera and Aphrodite came to be …”

“But what of Athene?” Helen asked in a low, sad voice. “She is the one goddess that Menalaos honors, the warrior goddess who had been jealous of me since my birth. She would be glad to see me dead and in Hades.”

So with ever-mounting dread we lived the cold days and long, empty nights in dismal, gloomy Sparta, waiting for the inevitable day when Menalaos came to Helen with a son and a new wife and a sword thrust for her throat.

Then came a visitor to her husband’s court: Alexandros, known as Paris, a prince of mighty Troy, come to collect the annual tribute that all the Achaian kingdoms paid to Priam, the Trojan king.

3

Helen would never have met Paris, would not even have seen him, had not her husband been called away to Crete to attend the funeral of Catreos, his grandfather. Even so, she was kept well away from the visitor. Her husband’s kinsmen guarded her closely.

But I made it my business to see this Trojan prince with my own eyes. No one paid any attention to another serving woman in the great hall where the men took their meals. I slipped in with the other servants and took a good look at this prince of Troy. He was young, with a dazzling smile and eyes that gleamed like stars in the sky.

I rushed to tell Helen of him. “He looks like a godling, my precious: as handsome as Apollo, by the gods.”

The maidservants chattered of little else except Paris’ splendid appearance, his flashing smile and ready wit. Every serving girl in the palace dreamed of sharing his bed, and several of them claimed that they did.

“You must meet this royal visitor,” I told Helen.

“How can I?” she asked, gazing out the window of her chamber into the dung-dotted courtyard below. “I am a prisoner in this citadel of stone.”

“You are the queen, and your husband is away,” said I. “Your husband’s kinsmen are duty-bound to obey you.”

She turned and stared at me. “Do you think I could?” she wondered aloud. “Would it be possible?”

“You are the queen, are you not? Use your power, my lamb. Use your beauty to dazzle this prince of Troy.”

“What are you saying, Apet?”

I smiled at my lovely one. “Troy is a fine, noble city. And it is far from Sparta.”

It was a fantasy, a dream. We both knew that. Yet the idea of leaving Sparta, leaving this hopeless dismal life, seemed to lift the misery that had engulfed Helen, filled her with eager expectation.

“At the very least, my heart’s love,” I said, “you will know a few hours of civilized conversation and gracious charm. Is that not worth the frowns of your husband’s kinsmen?”

“Yes!” she answered. “Yes, it is!”

Thus Helen became determined to at least cast her eyes on this charming visitor, desperate for some way to break the monotony of life in wretched Sparta. I learned from the servants that Paris went riding every morning. A woman did not ride in Sparta, not even the queen was allowed to. But I arranged to have Helen walking by the stables—well escorted, of course, by myself and a handful of young, chattering Spartan ladies—as noble Paris returned from his morning’s canter.

He and six of his Trojan guards rode into the stable grounds, past the open gate, their horses neighing and stamping up dust from the bare earth. The horses were well-lathered, I saw. Paris must have ridden them hard. I saw Helen shiver despite the warm morning sunlight. She told me later that at that instant Aphrodite sent a vision into her mind of what it would be like to have him riding her, to bear his weight upon her body.

Standing at the far end of the dusty ground that fronted the stables, with me close beside her, Helen forgot the smells of the horses and dung, forgot the stares of the stable hands at the sight of their queen, forgot even the cooing and whispering of her escorting ladies. All at the sight of Paris, prince of Troy.

He was stunning. Young, clean-shaven, with dark eyes that sparkled at Helen as soon as he caught sight of her. His midnight-black hair had been tousled carelessly by the wind. His shoulders and torso seemed slim, yet his legs, bare below the hem of his tunic, were strong and graceful. The tunic itself was a work of art, beautifully embroidered and shaped to his form.

He slid off the sweaty horse and walked straight to Helen, ignoring the grooms and his own men who had ridden with him and were now dismounting.

Dropping to one knee before her, Paris said, “You must be golden-haired Helen, Queen of Sparta. I have heard that you are the most beautiful woman in the world and now I can see that it is true.”

Had he not been a royal visitor and under the protection of not only the rules of hospitality but the power of distant Troy, Menalaos’ kinsmen would have whipped him out of the palace and sent him on his way home. But none of those frowning old men were at the stables that morning, thank the gods.

Helen could barely speak, his words and his beauty had taken her breath away. At last she managed to say graciously, “Rise, prince of Troy.”

He got to his feet and stood before her, smiling a smile so brilliant that the sun itself seemed dimmed.

“I had hoped to meet you, Queen Helen,” he said. “The gods have been kind to me on my last day here in Sparta.”

“Your last day?” she blurted.

He nodded, and his smile turned sad. “Yes. I have waited for your royal husband for many days.”

“He was called away to Crete, his grandfather’s funeral …”

“I know. But I can wait for his return no longer. I must start back to Troy tomorrow.”

Helen’s legs seemed to go weak; she leaned on me for support. I knew the thoughts racing through her mind: she had finally met this prince and now he was going to leave her! I could almost hear her calling to Aphrodite, begging the goddess to help her.

“Must you go?” Helen asked, her voice a breathless whisper.

“I would stay longer if I could,” Paris said to her, “just to gaze into your blue eyes.”

Helen’s cheeks burned red and she had to look away from him. Paris went on, “But my ship is ready and your husband’s tribute has been counted and loaded onto the wagons. Besides,” he glanced back over his shoulder, “his kinsman would not be pleased if I remained here to woo you.”

Speechless, Helen merely stood there quaking like a helpless girl facing a lion—a lion she wanted to embrace, even if he would rend her limb from limb.

Then Paris said, “The nobles feast me to night in the great hall. Afterward I take leave of Sparta and ride to my swift ship at sunrise tomorrow.”

Helen stood tongue-tied until I whispered in her ear. She repeated my words aloud.

“I will join you at the feast, then,” she said, looking surprised to hear her own voice saying it.

His radiant smile returned. “Then at least I will have one last memory of the most beautiful woman in the world to carry back to Troy with me.”

And I could tell the thoughts whirling through Helen’s mind: would that he could have more than a memory to bring back to Troy with him!

As if he could read Helen’s mind, Paris said in a half-whisper, “If I were not a prince, with the responsibilities my father has laid on my shoulders, I would steal you away from Sparta.”

With that, he turned and strode away, back to his men, leaving Helen standing there half-fainting.

4

Despite the warnings of the noble Spartan ladies, Helen summoned the royal chamberlain and told him she would attend the eve ning’s feast in her husband’s place. He looked stunned, and left Helen’s chambers as fast as his legs could carry him. Within minutes Menalaos’ three closest cousins were scratching at her door. When I admitted them, they told Helen flatly that women were not allowed at the men’s feasting unless the king himself permitted it.

“I am not a mere woman,” she said, as haughtily as she could. “I am the queen and you will do as I command. Only my husband can gainsay me.”

Good, my nursling, I cheered silently. But I knew that inwardly Helen was trembling like a leaf in a windstorm. She looked past the bearded, sour-faced men, to me, who stood behind them. I smiled encouragement to her. The noblemen grumbled and argued for a while but Helen stood firm. At last they bowed to her demand, grudgingly. As soon as the door closed behind them, she bade me summon all her servants. She was going to see Paris again! She wanted to look her absolute best for him.

All that day we prepared. It was high summer, yet even though the sun was bright, a cold wind swept down from the mountains like a chilling omen. I paid it no heed as Helen selected her best gown of pure white linen and a gold corselet that cinched her waist, modest yet flattering. Three serving women spent the whole afternoon oiling and curling her hair and then pinning it up demurely.

“You don’t want to look too alluring for the visitor,” one of the maids said, giggling.

Another added, “Especially with your husband away.”

They laughed like carefree girls, thinking forbidden thoughts of romance and seduction. Little did any of us realize what was to befall us.

“I hear the Trojan prince is as handsome as Apollo,” the third maid said.

“And how would you know that?” I demanded, growing irritated at their simpering.

“Oh, the word has spread throughout the palace, Apet. They say that in bed he makes love like Zeus!”

“And he’s as big as Herakles.”

“Be silent!” I commanded, fearful that they would see how Helen’s face was flushed with desire.

Menalaos’ palace was a sorry place to host a prince of Troy. Rough gray stone walls and dirt floors. For decoration there was little more than shields and spears adorning the rooms. Even Helen’s own chamber had only one small mirror, which she herself had brought in her dowry. Troy was a magnificent city, we had both heard: rich and cultured.

“It is not as glorious as the cities of the Nile, such as Memphis or Thebes,” I told her, “but it is as far above Sparta as a palace is to a pigsty.”

I could see Helen picturing in her mind’s eye the graceful columns and fine draperies and silks that graced the palace in Troy where Paris lived.

At last the time arrived. Quaking with fear and a yearning passion, Helen took her husband’s place at the farewell feast for Alexandros. I accompanied her into the dining hall, such as it was, and stood behind her high-backed chair, silently watching and listening.

The old men of the court frowned and muttered in their beards, shaking their heads as Helen sat at the head of Menalaos’ feasting table that evening, next to his empty chair. They were all kin to her husband, and shocked that a woman would present herself alone at the men’s meal. Yet none of them had the strength to contradict the queen.

The dining hall was the largest room in the palace. It was already filled with the high and mighty of her husband’s court. Menalaos’ kinsmen seated themselves along the heavy oaken table, looking like a scowling, grumbling collection of graybeards, whispering among themselves and clucking their tongues like any clutch of gossiping old women. Paris was not yet present.

The old men got to their feet, grudgingly, I thought, as Helen took her place at the head of the long plank table. They were shocked at her effrontery, of course, but Helen cared not. She was burning to see this handsome young man from far-off Troy one final time before returning to the dismal fate that awaited her as Queen of Sparta.

The fire in the circular hearth, off in the farthest corner of the hall, was banked down to proper cooking heat and a boar from the afternoon’s hunt was roasting on the slowly turning spit, the odor from its dripping juices filling the hall with a delicious aroma. For once, the smoke from the fire rose obediently through the roof hole and was borne way by the twilight breeze.

All of Sparta’s nobles were at the table; servants were already pouring wine into their cups. Yet the chair to Helen’s right remained empty.

“Where is our guest?” she asked.

“Washing his dainty feet, I suppose,” said the grizzled old man sitting beside the empty chair.

“The afternoon’s hunt must have fatigued him,” said the noble across the table, with heavy sarcasm. He had lost an eye in battle years ago and wore a stained black patch over the empty socket.

“He’s probably perfuming his curly locks and trying to decide which cloak he should wear,” added a third of the seated nobles.

They all laughed heartily. Their opinion of the Trojan prince was not high.

Just then the court crier stamped his staff on the stone flagging by the great door and called:

“Prince Alexandros of Troy, known as Paris!”

He had dressed magnificently, in a splendid cloak of royal blue and a chiton embroidered with flowers around the neck. His midnight-dark hair had been curled and gleamed with oil. Yet it was his smile, his sparkling eyes, that made even my old heart leap.

Helen scarcely could speak to him once he took his place at her right hand. He was polite to her and chatted amiably with the elders at the table. They addressed him with deference, as befitted a prince of powerful Troy, and kept their disdain well hidden.

“I am very flattered that you have granted me the honor of your company this day,” he said to Helen. “You look even more beautiful now than you did this morning.”

I knew that Helen’s heart was racing like a foolish girl’s. Her breath caught in her throat. His smile was dazzling. His eyes seemed to be searching hers, trying to read her spinning thoughts.

“The prince of Troy is very kind,” she managed to say.

“Not at all. Anyone with even a single eye in his head can see that your beauty rivals Aphrodite’s.” He winked outrageously at the one-eyed nobleman sitting across from him.

A wintry chill fell along the entire length of the dining table. The old men did not approve of a handsome young prince speaking to their lord’s wife, nor did they appreciate jokes made at their expense. And even the dullest among them must have known by now that the two of them had met by the stables earlier in the day.

If Paris was aware of their displea sure, he gave no sign of it. He turned back to Helen, his smile still radiant.

“Truly, I am honored that you chose to take your husband’s place this evening.”

Helen’s voice caught in her throat. She could do nothing but stare at Paris like a moonstruck girl.

“The gods spin out our fates,” said Paris. “Zeus himself has given me this chance to see you, and I should be content.”

“But you are not content?” Helen managed to utter.

“How should I be? I have been granted a vision of paradise and now I must leave and never see you again.”

What could Helen reply to that? She lowered her eyes and felt the warmth of his smile upon her—and the murderously cold angry stares of her husband’s kin.

Paris turned from her and began to describe Troy to the men along the table, the city’s many towers, the splendors of the royal palace with its gardens and beautiful tapestries and floors of polished stone. He seldom glanced at Helen, but I knew he was speaking to her, not the rough-bearded men who cared little for such elegance. Helen longed to see Troy, to see for herself the beauty and delight that he described. Paris was wooing her with words, in front of her husband’s kinsmen. My own heart raced at his audacity.

The meal finished all too soon. Helen rose from her chair and bade Paris farewell, knowing that he would leave on the morrow with the grudgingly given tribute that he was to carry back to Troy.

“Perhaps someday I can visit Troy,” she said, never realizing what thoughts it stirred in his breast.

Paris smiled his brightest. “Perhaps,” he murmured.

Then she left the dining hall and went to her bedchamber, with me beside her. Her face was downcast, her heart empty and sad that she would never see this handsome, exciting man again.

As soon as we stepped into her bedchamber and closed the door behind us, I told Helen, “You have won his heart, my lamb. He is smitten with your beauty.”

“What good is that now?” she asked, forlorn.

“You will see,” I replied, smiling. “You will see.”

I brought out her best nightgown and insisted that she wear it. When Helen realized what I expected she sat on the edge of the bed, so stunned was she with surprise and sudden hope.

“It cannot be!” she protested. “Apet, he would have to be mad to come here.”

“He is mad,” I replied happily. “Your beauty has driven him insane with desire.”

She was about to shake her head, but instead she whispered, “Could it be? Could it truly be?”

“I have prayed to the old goddess that you might be delivered from Sparta,” I told her as I slid the gown over her head. “And I have done more than pray, my nursling.”

“What do you mean?” Helen demanded. “What have you done, Apet?”

I smiled mischievously. “There will be no guard at your door this night, my lovely. No servants will linger in your quarters.”

Helen could do nothing but stare at me, knowing that I was risking my life for her. There were no secrets that could stand against palace gossip.

“Apet, by tomorrow—”

I placed a silencing finger against my lips. “By tomorrow the world will be changed, my pet. You will see.”

Helen went to bed, almost reluctantly, but she could not sleep, could not even close her eyes. I stood in the closet next to her room, waiting. But I fingered the Cretan dagger I always carried beneath my robe, just in case my dear one needed my protection.

Long after all the palace was quiet and dark, I still stood there while Helen lay awake, staring into the shadows. Then the door creaked softly. Someone entered her room. I knew who it was. I knew who I wanted it to be. Helen dared not speak or move or even breathe.

A crescent moon cast dim silver light through the bedchamber’s only window, past the fitfully billowing curtains. He sat on the bed beside her, his form a black shadow against the breeze-stirred drapery. My heart raced madly.

“Helen,” he whispered.

“Prince Alexandros,” she found the courage to whisper back.

“Paris,” he said.

“Paris.”

“I can’t leave without making love to you, Helen. Your beauty has enchanted me.”

“But the servants …”

“No one will bother us. Your maidservant has seen to that.”

“If anyone in the palace—”

“I don’t care.”

“This is madness!”

“Yes, of course it is,” he replied, with a soft laugh. “I am mad about you.”

“No,” she said, so softly I barely heard it.

“How could any man set eyes upon you and not want to love you?” he whispered, bending over her so close she could feel his warm breath against her throat.

“I am married to Menalaos. He will kill us both.”

“Then we will die,” sighed Paris as he lay down on the bed beside her and slowly began to undo her nightgown.

Helen did nothing to resist him. His hands caressed her naked flesh, his lips covered hers.

For the first time in her life Helen felt truly aroused. Paris knew how to stroke her, how to pleasure her with touch and tongue and soft, whispered words. She was drowning in delight, all thoughts, all fears, all cares washed away in throbbing tides of ecstasy. At the last, she jammed her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming aloud with sheer rapture.

There was nothing in Helen’s world except Paris. She had no husband, no daughter, no father or mother or night or day. She surrendered herself to Aphrodite completely and knew at last the meaning of her mother’s smile when she asked if all-powerful Zeus had fathered her.

The moon sank behind the dark hills and the first rose-tinged fingers of dawn began to light the sky.

“Go quickly,” she said to Paris. “Go and forget me and this night. Go and pray that Menalaos never finds out what we have done.”

He leaned close to her, so close that their lips almost touched. “I can’t,” he said.

“You must go!” she insisted. “And quickly, before anyone else arises.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“Menalaos will kill us both!”

He smiled down at me. “Not if you come with me to Troy.”

“To Troy?” The thought seemed to stun her.

“Come with me and be my wife. You will be a princess of the mightiest city of the Aegean.”

A princess of Troy. Wife of Paris in the many-towered city by the Dardanelles. A city of gentility and beauty, fabled throughout the world. It was impossible. It could never be. Yet to be a princess in civilized Troy would be far better than being a queen in Menalaos’ Sparta.

Paris jumped to his feet and reached for his clothes. “Quickly,” he said. “My men are waiting at the palace’s main gate. Get dressed!”

In a daze, hardly believing what was happening to her, Helen did as he commanded. It was as if her true self was far away, watching this bewildered young woman obeying the bidding of the handsome prince of Troy. I came in and helped her to dress, then Paris wrapped her in his own brilliant blue cloak and pulled its hood over her head.

Like children playing a game the two of them stole through the stillsleeping palace and out to the mounted men waiting impatiently for their prince, while I roused a pair of slumbering slaves to quickly stuff as much of Helen’s clothes as they could into a pair of large wooden chests while I packed all her jewelry into a large woolen sack. It was almost too heavy for me to carry, but I would not let the slaves touch it.

They loaded the chests onto a mule cart as Paris lifted Helen up onto his horse and seated her behind him. She clutched his strong body and rested her head against his back. I climbed by myself onto the cart that one of Paris’ men drove. Then we were away, leaving Sparta, leaving her husband and her life, riding into a new dawn. How we got past the gates I do not know; Paris’ Trojan companions either bribed the guards or slew them, I never asked even later, when I wondered about it.

I felt weak with relief. Paris would take care of Helen. He would sweep her across the sea to a new life and make certain that everything was right. Menalaos was already fading into a distant, hateful dream.

With the sky brightening into a new day we galloped down the rutted road to the distant harbor. The cart I rode in jounced and groaned so badly I thought it would fall apart long before we reached the water’s edge. But soon enough we saw the square sail of Paris’ boat, with its sign of a white heron painted upon it.

Thus we left Sparta and headed for Troy, while the gods and goddesses atop Olympos watched and took sides for Helen and against her. Grim Ares, god of war, smiled at the thought of the blood that would be spilled over her. Athene, ever her enemy, began to plot her downfall.

5

Apet fell silent at last. For long moments I stared at her lean, withered face while the ever-constant wind from the sea swept across the Achaian camp along the beach.

In the dying embers of the campfire the aged Egyptian woman looked like a statue carved out of old, dried-out wood. The moon had set, but the skies were spangled with thousands of bright glimmering stars.

“So she came to Troy willingly with Paris, or Alexandros, or what ever he calls himself,” I muttered.

“Willingly, aye,” said Apet, her voice low and heavy with memories. “She feared for her life in Sparta, feared that if Menalaos sired a son he would murder her and install the bastard’s mother as his new queen.”

I nodded with understanding. Helen chose the path that offered her safety. Did she actually love Paris, or did she flee with the young prince of Troy to find safety for herself ? Both, I supposed. Women seldom do anything for one reason alone, I told myself.

“The Spartan nobility welcomed her cautiously,” Apet continued. “Queen Hecuba was very gracious. Paris was her favorite son, and he could do no wrong in her eyes.”

“And Priam, the king?”

Apet let out a sigh. “He was kind to her and ordered a royal wedding for her. Only the Princess Cassandra dared to say openly that Helen would bring disaster to Troy.”

“What of Hector and the other princes?”

“Oh, they expected Menalaos to demand his wife back. They thought that perhaps Menalaos would enlist the aid of his brother, Agamemnon. None of them dreamed that all the Achaian kings and princes would band together to make war on Troy.”

How could they have foreseen that? I asked myself.

“It was the old pact that Tyndareos had made all of Helen’s suitors swear to,” Apet said. “Agamamenon demanded that all of them come to his brother’s aid. It had been Odysseos’ idea to keep the peace among the Achaian lords. But now Agamemnon used it to make war on Troy.”

“So that he could wipe out Troy,” I said, “and end its command of the entry to the Sea of Black Waters.”

Apet shrugged. “What ever their reasons, the Achaians sailed against Troy and devastated the lands of Ilios.”

I looked up at the starry sky. Almost, I felt the eyes of the gods upon us.

“Tomorrow the war begins again,” I said, starting to get to my feet. “I’d better get some sleep.”

“But you have only heard part of Helen’s story,” Apet said to me, holding out a lean, emaciated hand to keep me from standing.

“Part of her story?”

“There is more,” she said. “The real tragedy of her life was yet to unfold.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “Isn’t this war tragedy enough? Thousands of Achaian warriors assailing the walls of the city? Men dying on that worn-bare plain every day? What more tragedy could there be?”

“More, Hittite,” said Apet. “More. For Helen, the ultimate tragedy.”

Despite my awareness of the battle that would begin in a few short hours, I sat down on the sand again and listened as Apet unfolded the rest of Helen’s tale.

6

So the barbarians brought their black boats to these shores—Apet renewed her tale—ravaging coastal villages and even striking deeper inland. At last they camped here on the beach by the plain of Ilios and besieged Troy itself. Prince Hector led the Trojan troops into battle on the plain, day after day. More than once the Achaians drove his men to the city’s gates, but Troy’s high strong walls always held the barbarians at bay.

The fateful morning came only a few days ago.

I accompanied Helen as she climbed up to the battlements of manytowered Troy to take her place with the other royal women atop the Scaean Gate. Outside the gate, on the plain, the Trojan warriors were assembling in their chariots, with their footmen behind them. From their camp along the beach the Achaian chariots were wheeling into formation. Another day of blood and mayhem was beginning.

But this day would be different. This day Helen would feel her heart break within her. This day it would become clear to her at last that her Trojan husband was a coward. And that she loved the one man in all the world she could never obtain.

For many months Helen had thrilled to see the men riding out to do battle on the plain of Ilios in their magnificent war chariots, splendid in their bronze armor and plumed helmets, the morning sun glinting off the points of their tall spears. She endured the stares and whispers of the other women; what of it? She was a princess of Troy, wife of handsome Paris, well loved by his mother, Hecuba, the queen.

Like a giddy child she watched Paris, Hector and all the other princes of Troy as they rode across the bare, dusty battlefield to meet the besieging Achaians. Paris was the handsomest of them all, although his older brother Prince Hector commanded the most respect.

With the foot soldiers and archers trailing behind them, the Trojan chariots advanced across the windswept plain toward the shoreline, where the Achaian invaders had drawn up their black ships.

In the distance, the Achaians came forward in their own chariots and brightly plumed helmets. We could not make out their faces, they were too far from the city walls, but I recognized the red eagle emblem on the heavy shield of Menalaos, Helen’s former husband, and the golden lion of his brother, proud Agamemnon, High King among the Achaians. Beside them was the chariot of Odysseos, wise and faithful friend to Helen’s father, with its blue dolphin painted on his man-tall shield.

The charioteers reined their horses to a halt in the middle of the battlefield, two long lines of armored warriors facing one another while the horses snuffled and stamped nervously. Swirling dust obscured them for several moments, but the never-failing breeze from the sea soon cleared the air.

Heralds advanced from each army, old graybeards in long robes. With their stentorian voices they hurled the usual insults back and forth while the foot soldiers on each side trudged up to the chariot lines and the archers knelt behind them.

Then the chief herald among the Achaians called out, clear and strong enough for the wind to bear his words to us watching on the high wall:

“Menalaos, King of Sparta, whose wife, the fair Helen, has been stolen from him, challenges Paris, prince of Troy, to single combat, spear to spear, the outcome of this combat to decide which man Helen belongs to.”

Helen’s hands flew to her lips. Menalaos was willing to risk everything in single combat against Paris. The long war could be ended this very day. Yes, and at the end of the day she would be handed back to her former husband, she feared. Menalaos was a hardened warrior; he would spit her handsome Paris on his spear. The realization made her tremble.

The Trojan heralds withdrew back to Hector’s chariot, where they conferred for a seeming eternity with Hector, Paris and the other princes. Why were they arguing among themselves? They were too far away for us to hear.

Hecuba and her daughters and serving women stood near; the proud queen seemed alarmed. Paris was her youngest son, her favorite, and she feared for him each time he rode out to battle. Wild-eyed Cassandra looked back and forth from her brother Hector’s distant chariot to Helen, while she absently twirled a lock of her long curled hair, like a child.

Further along the wall, old Priam the king gazed out at the battlefield, his tired ancient eyes squinting painfully beneath shaggy white brows. His bodyservant, a stripling lad too young to be a warrior, spoke into his ear, relating what Priam’s own eyes and ears were too weak to gather for themselves.

At last the Trojan heralds went back to the open space between the lines of facing chariots. I recognized the berobed graybeard who would answer the Achaians: he also served as court announcer when Priam sat on his throne and received guests. Helen could hardly catch her breath; her fate would soon be decided. And Paris’. And the fate of mighty Troy itself.

The herald spoke: “Prince Alexandros, also known as Paris, declines to do battle against Menalaos this day.”

Helen was so shocked her knees almost buckled. The women gasped with surprise. Even I gaped with wide eyes. I knew what feelings were running through Helen: she looked as if she wanted to run away, to hide, to die. She did not want to see Paris killed, but to refuse a challenge, to show cowardice in the face of the barbaric invaders … that was worse than dying.

Queen Hecuba and the other royal women turned to stare at Helen. There were tears in the queen’s eyes; the other women looked at her with pity, or even scorn.

As we watched, unbelieving, Paris had his charioteer wheel his four sleek roan mares out of the Trojan battle line and head back toward the gate.

The Achaian kings and princes, even their common archers and foot soldiers, raised a din of jeering, hooting mockery while Hector and the other Trojans stood silent and mortified.

With a sinking heart Helen watched the man who had taken her from Menalaos’ bed, the man for whom she had abandoned her family and her honor, flee shamefully to the safety of the city’s walls. His chariot’s metal-shod wheels clattered on the stone paving of the gate beneath us, echoing in our ears with the sound of humiliation.

Queen Hecuba drew herself to her full height and said firmly, “And why should my son honor that Achaian barbarian by accepting his challenge? Paris wouldn’t soil his spear on the dog.”

She spoke too loudly, as if she were trying to convince everyone crowded along the crenellated walls watching the battlefield below. As if she were trying to convince herself.

To Helen she commanded, “Daughter, retire to your chamber. My son will be weary from the morning’s exertion. He will need your ministrations.”

Hecuba had always been kind to Helen. When Paris had brought her to Troy she accepted Helen as her newest daughter without a question about her first husband. When Menalaos and his cruel brother Agamemnon led an Achaian war fleet of swift black ships to the shore of Troy and laid siege to the city, the queen did not blame Helen for the war.

The other royal women dared not contradict the queen, so Helen was treated with courtesy and respect. Only Cassandra, Hecuba’s half-mad daughter, pointed her trembling finger at her.

“You will bring destruction to Troy,” Cassandra had said, that first evil morning when the black ships began to arrive. “You will cause the fall of this house.”

Helen feared she was right, I knew. More, she feared being dragged back to uncouth Sparta by a triumphant Menalaos, or worse, slain by him as a faithless wife.

As we turned from the battlements to obey the queen’s order I heard Prince Hector’s strong, vibrant voice shout from the distant battlefield:

“Menalaos, I will accept your challenge! Pit your spear against mine and we will see who is the stronger.”

Helen stopped, her mouth agape. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Menalaos climb back up onto his chariot.

“No, Hector, not you,” Menalaos shouted back. “I challenged your wife-stealing brother.”

Helen could breathe again. Menalaos ordered his charioteer to drive him back to the Achaian camp, along the shore where they had beached their black ships. The armies dispersed. There would be no fighting this morning.

I trailed silently behind Helen, down to the lower platform and across it through the high double doors that led into the palace grounds. The royal courtyard was quiet and empty in the morning sunlight; all the men of fighting age were outside, defending the city. The boys and older men, led by King Priam, were on the walls watching. The women, of course, had their separate place along the battlements.

Swiftly we crossed the courtyard. Helen dared not look at the Palladium, the ancient life-sized statue of ivory and wood that stood weathered and worn in its shrine among the flower beds at the far end of the courtyard. Some believed that the statue was a likeness of Athene, others that it had been carved by the goddess herself. As long as the Palladium remained within Troy’s walls, it was said, the city would never fall.

Helen stayed well clear of it. Athene was her enemy, and she knew that this war was the goddess’s doing as much as her own. She feared that the Trojans’ faith in the goddess was misplaced, that Athene would betray the city to the Achaians one day.

With a nod she bade me to remain in the anteroom. I stayed by the door, silent and still as befitted my duty. Helen knew I would wait for her until my old legs could no longer hold me, if need be. Through all her life I had been her steadfast companion, her childhood nurse, her devoted servant, her loyal friend and guide.

Paris was waiting for Helen in her bedchamber, standing by the open doorway that led onto the balcony, gazing out at the plain of Ilios and, beyond, to the sea. He still wore his bronze breastplate and greaves. His tall shield of seven-layered ox hide stood in the corner. His plumed helmet had been thrown carelessly on the bed.

He was beautiful, her Trojan husband, with flashing dark eyes and a thickly curled mane of midnight-black hair. Standing there by the doorway, framed against the bright blue morning sky, he looked like a young god come down from Olympos.

But for the first time his beauty failed to rouse Helen. Instead of the godlike man who had swept her away from her life as queen of rude, dull Sparta, she saw a spoiled self-centered princeling, a man who had always gotten his way with a smile and the indulgence of his doting mother. She saw a coward who had run away from honorable combat in fear for his life.

It was as if Helen had suddenly awakened from a long, lovely dream. Her eyes were open now, and they did not like what they saw.

“There you are,” said Paris, turning from the doorway to smile at her.

She knew that he expected her to unbuckle his breastplate. That would be the beginning that would end with both of them undressed on the bed.

Instead Helen went to the carved wooden chair in the chamber’s far corner and stood by it, leaning on its back for a strength she did not feel within herself.

His smile turned rueful. “You are displeased with me.”

“Yes,” she admitted, her voice trembling. Within her she did not know if she was angry or hurt or ashamed.

“Because I refused Menalaos’ challenge?” Paris sounded almost amused at the idea.

“Yes,” she repeated, unable to say more without wounding him.

“But I did it for you,” he said.

“For me?”

“Of course! Why else?”

Helen did not know what to say, how to reply.

“Dearest Helen,” Paris said, “Menalaos would never dare to challenge me unless one of the gods inspired him to such bravery. In all the months that he and his brother have besieged us, has he once called me out for single combat?”

“No,” she had to admit.

“You see? This morning a god was in him. Probably Ares, who thrives on men’s blood. Or perhaps mighty Zeus himself.”

“Do you believe that?” she asked, her voice low, her spirits even lower at the excuse her husband was inventing.

He was smiling his brightest at her. “What would have happened if Ares or Zeus or one of the other Olympians, in the guise of Menalaos, had spitted me on his spear?”

“Don’t even speak of that!” Helen blurted. “Please!”

“But suppose it happened,” Paris insisted. “You would be returned to your former husband. You would go back with Menalaos to dingy old Sparta.”

“Or be slain by him.”

“You see? That’s why I refused to face him, or whichever god it was inhabiting his body. I couldn’t allow that to happen to you.”

Almost he convinced her. “It might have been Athene,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Paris nodded, smiling. “Yes, perhaps it was Athene. What better way to hurt you than by slaying me?”

He stepped closer to her and spread out his arms. Numbly, Helen began to unbuckle his bright bronze breastplate. Paris placed his hands on her slim shoulders, and I saw her flinch at his touch. He scowled briefly, but said nothing.

Someone scratched at the door.

“Who would dare?” Paris grumbled.

“Perhaps it is the king,” Helen whispered.

Paris gave her a disappointed frown, then called out, “Enter!”

The stout oak door swung inward and Prince Hector strode into the room. He had removed his armor and was clad only in the knee-length linen chiton beneath it. I could see the creases the straps had made on his broad, strong shoulders.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Hector said to his brother. His voice was low yet strong, edged with iron.

“Where else?” Paris said carelessly.

“You disgraced yourself this morning,” Hector said. “You disgraced all of us.”

Paris was slightly taller than his older brother, although Hector was built more sturdily. Hector’s face was stronger, too; not as beautiful as Paris’ but steadfast, with a broad brow and dauntless brown eyes that never wavered. His hair and neatly cropped beard were reddish chestnut, almost auburn.

Paris stood up to his brother. “Why should I risk my wife’s fate on a lucky spear thrust? You may think me a coward, but I love her much too dearly to give Menalaos a chance to take her away.”

Brave, honest Hector had no response to his brother’s words. His clear brown eyes glanced at Helen, then returned to face Paris. The stern expression on his face eased a little; some of the tension seemed to ebb out of his body.

“I suppose I can’t blame you,” he said at last, his voice so soft I could barely make out his words.

Paris laughed and clapped Hector on the shoulder. “Send out the heralds to tell the barbarians we’ll meet them on the battlefield this afternoon. After a good meal and a bit of rest we’ll chase them back into the sea.”

Hector’s taut lips relaxed into a slight smile. “Very well,” he said. “This afternoon.”

He nodded to Helen and left us, closing the door gently behind him. Paris stretched out his arms again, waiting for Helen to begin unstrapping his armor, knowing that he would soon be undressing her.

Yet even as Helen stepped toward her husband her head turned toward the door. I could see from the troubled look on her face that her thoughts were on Hector. It was he who shouldered the burden of this war, not Paris. As the eldest son of aged Priam, it was Hector who directed the defense of Troy, Hector who led the chariots each day into the dust and blood of battle. Except for the invincible Achilles, Hector was the most feared warrior of them all.

He never complained, never blamed his younger brother for bringing this calamity to Troy. He was strong and faithful and valiant. Nor did he blame Helen. Indeed, he hardly ever glanced at her. But she stared at the door that he had closed behind him.

It was at that moment, even as Helen began to undress her husband, that I realized she had fallen in love with Hector, crown prince of Troy, her husband’s brother. The realization shocked me like the searing agony of a branding iron.

Helen loved Hector! He had no way of knowing that she loved him, and even if he did find out he would spurn her. Even if he were not already married and a father he would never glance at his brother’s wife.

I saw that Helen’s eyes were filling with tears. And I could hear the goddess Aphrodite whispering, Beautiful Helen, whom every man desires, it is your fate to fall in love with the one man on earth who will never love you.

7

As soon as Paris left Helen for the afternoon’s fighting, donned once more in his gleaming armor, she summoned me to her. Since childhood I had been the one person she could confide in.

I knew what was tearing at her heart. I should have realized it sooner; perhaps then I could have done something to help my dearest. Helen gazed at me with all the pain and bewilderment she felt brimming from her eyes. I could do nothing except hold out my arms to her. She burst into tears and ran to me.

Burying her face in the warmth of my embrace, Helen blurted, “Oh, Apet, Apet, I love him but he doesn’t love me. He can’t love me, not now or ever. How can I live? How can I watch him risk his life day after day because of me?”

“Prince Hector,” I murmured.

“What can I do?” she pleaded. “Where can I turn?”

I wrapped my arms around her and rocked her softly as I had done when she was a baby. The only wisdom that I could think of was, “You must go to the goddess and ask her aid.”

“To Aphrodite?”

“She is your protectress and guide. She will give you the strength to find the right path.”

“Yes,” Helen agreed, wiping her tears with the back of her hands. “Aphrodite.”

As we walked hurriedly through the empty corridors of the palace I could hear the city’s populace roaring and cheering from up on the walls, their shouts like the howls of a wild beast. The queen was up there with all the royal women, I knew, including Hector’s wife, Andromache. I could not bear the thought of letting them see Helen so unhappy.

The temple was dark and chill. At Helen’s command the five priestesses who tended the votive fire beneath the goddess’ statue removed themselves to the outer chamber. I alone went with Helen to stand before the altar. The graceful marble likeness of beautiful Aphrodite rose three times taller than my own height, and still it only hinted at the goddess’ power and splendor.

Aphrodite had ever been Helen’s guide, her protectress. Even now she defended Troy against the jealousy of Athene before almighty Zeus atop lofty Mount Olympos, the home of the gods. In the dimly lit temple her face was in shadow, but I felt her painted eyes gazing down upon Helen as she sank to her knees at the goddess’ feet, miserable and confused.

“Beautiful Aphrodite, guardian of my heart, how can I live in such wretchedness?” Helen breathed, so softly that I could barely hear her words. “How can I remain married to Paris when it is Hector whom I truly love?”

I dared not look up at the goddess’ face. The temple felt cold, silent and empty. What Aphrodite imparted to my dear one I know not, but I know what was in my heart, the sad truth of her fate: Helen, your path has ever been difficult. Great beauty such as yours stirs the passions of mortals and even the jealousy of goddesses.

8

All that long afternoon Helen spent in the temple of Aphrodite, remembering the past, waiting and yearning for the goddess to inspire her with wisdom. I grew tired, standing there in the shadows of the silent temple. My eyes grew heavy and I felt empty, exhausted, a desperate sense of dread crowding around me like the shadows of night or the shades of the dead who had already been slain on the battlefield outside the city’s walls. My tired old legs throbbed with pain. Quietly, while Helen prayed to the goddess, I stretched out on the polished stone floor and closed my eyes.

I must have drowsed off, for the next thing I remember is Helen nudging me gently with the toe of her sandal.

I sat up, my face burning with shame. “I … I am sorry, my precious. You were at the altar such a long time. Look, night is falling.”

Through the columned entrance of the temple we could see in the courtyard beyond that the sky was violet with the last dying moments of sunset. A chill breeze was wafting in from the sea.

Helen helped me to my feet. “Oh, Apet, you have been my faithful servant as long as I can remember, since I was a baby suckling at your breast.”

“Aye, my nursling. And I will serve you until death parts us.”

In the deepening shadows of the temple I saw Helen’s face grow pensive. “My own baby daughter must be watching me from the dim shadows of Hades. I will be with her soon. I will join her in death.”

“No, don’t say that! Don’t even think it!”

“Apet, I cannot let Hector die: not for me, not to keep me from the hands of Menalaos.”

“Hector fights to defend Troy against the barbarians,” I told her. “And his death has been foretold; there is nothing you can do to change his destiny.”

“The goddess thinks otherwise.”

Standing on the cold stone floor I gazed up at the statue of Aphrodite, towering above us in the shadows of the silent temple. The golden glow from the oil lamps that were never permitted to go out did not reach as high as her painted face. Yet I sensed the goddess watching over us.

My blood ran cold. “The goddess spoke to you?”

“Not in words that I could hear,” said Helen, her eyes also on Aphrodite. “She spoke in my heart.”

Almost afraid to doubt her, still I heard myself ask, “What … did the goddess tell you?”

Her voice hardly more than a breathless whisper, Helen replied, “She told me that there is neither joy nor love in the path I must follow.”

“No …”

“Responsibility. That is what the goddess spoke of to me, Apet. I must accept my responsibilities just as Hector has, unflinchingly, without complaint. I must cease behaving like a foolish girl and start to act as an adult woman. Only then can I save Hector from the death that awaits him.”

“A hard path to follow,” I said.

Helen nodded cheerlessly.

“And what of Paris?”

Her eyes flared. “He must never know! Hector himself must never know! I will do what I must to end this war.”

Pulling her cloak around her shoulders, Helen started toward the temple’s entrance.

“I will speak with the king,” she said, as I hurried to follow her.

“The king?”

“Yes,” she said. “I must see Priam.”

It was simple enough to arrange. The day’s fighting was over, the men were back inside the city walls. The lad who was stationed as a token guard outside the door to Helen’s chambers served as a messenger. He was very impressed with his own importance when she gave him her message for Priam.

“Tell the king that I seek a private audience with him,” Helen said to the boy. “As quickly as he can find time to see me.”

“I will fly to the king like an eagle,” he said, his eyes shining.

I leveled a finger at him. “Better to fly like a bee, lad. They go straight to their destination instead of circling as the birds of prey do.”

He ran off.

Paris was not in Helen’s bedchamber when we entered. Instantly, Helen looked fearful. Had he been killed? Wounded? No, I thought; someone would have told us. Helen’s fear quickly turned to guilt, because she realized that if Paris were dead it would simplify the decision she had to make.

She hurried across the chamber and quietly opened the door that led into his. Paris was sprawled on his bed, snoring softly. His face was smeared with dirt runneled by rivulets of sweat. His lovely dark hair was tangled and matted. His hands and bare arms bore fresh scratches but no true wounds.

A month ago, even a day ago, she would have gone to his side and wakened him with soft kisses and honeyed words. Now she could not. She could not make herself step to her husband’s side and offer him the love that she should have felt for him. I could see that it made Helen feel sad, as if a part of her life had been lost. Yet we both knew that even worse was to come.

While twilight deepened into dark night Helen remained there in the doorway, watching her sleeping husband, tormented by guilt and hopeless love and the pressing weight of responsibility.

I heard a scratching at the outer door. Opening it, I saw the lad we had sent to the king, accompanied now by a grown man, one of the palace guards decked in a stiff leather jerkin studded with bronze.

I bowed them into the anteroom, then went to Helen.

“My lady,” I whispered to her. “The king’s messenger is here.” Helen pulled herself away from the sight of her sleeping husband and turned to see the messenger.

“The king will see you immediately, my lady,” he said, once she had quietly shut the door to Paris’ chamber. “I am sent to escort you to him.”

9

I followed behind Helen and the tall, dark-bearded guard through the corridors of the palace. Men and women both greeted Helen courteously as we passed. If they blamed her for the war and the harpies of death that plucked their loved ones from them, they made no show of it. Queen Hecuba had made it clear that her son’s wife was not to be reproached. What the queen expected, the king enforced. The people of Troy’s royal palace may not have loved Helen, but they dared not show her disrespect.

The walls of the corridors were decorated with graceful paintings of flowering green meadows and peaceful horses, with birds soaring among the soft clouds scattered across a gentle blue sky. No such scenes had occurred at Troy since Helen had arrived, I realized. She had destroyed the peace and tranquillity of this beautiful city.

“How went the day’s fighting?” Helen asked our escort.

“Well enough,” he said. “The barbarians pressed us almost back to the Scaean Gate at first, but Prince Hector rallied our warriors and drove them back to their own ramparts. By then it was growing dark, so both sides agreed to end the battle and wait for the morrow.”

“Was Prince Hector hurt?” Helen blurted.

“Not he!” the guard replied proudly. “He took men with his spear the way a cook spits chunks of meat.”

The guard led us not to the royal reception hall, but to Priam’s private quarters. He opened the oaken door, then stepped aside to let Helen and me through. He shut the door softly behind us, remaining outside in the corridor.

Priam was standing by the window, gazing out into the darkening night. He wore a simple wool chiton, dyed deep blue, and a heavy shawl over his shoulders to ward off the night chill. His only adornment was the royal signet ring on his gnarled finger. I doubted that he could take it off, even if he wanted to. He was very old, bent with years, his white beard halfway down his chest. This war was killing him, I could tell.

It was too dark outside to see anything. What ever he was staring at was inside his mind, I thought. The little room was lit by two oil lamps ensconced on either side of the door. Their fitful flames threw flickering shadows between us. There was no one else in the room, not even a servant to wait upon the king. Had he guessed what Helen was about to say? Did he realize that she wanted complete privacy?

He turned toward Helen with hardly a glance at me. I was her maidservant, her silent shadow, not a real person as far as the king was concerned.

“It went well this afternoon,” he said at last.

“I am pleased,” she said.

Gesturing to the circular table in the middle of the room, he said, “Please, sit and be comfortable. Would you like some refreshment? Something to eat?”

“No, thank you. Nothing.”

I stood by the door as Helen took one of the carved wooden chairs and the king sank slowly, painfully, into another. “I believe I’ll take some wine,” he said, reaching for the pitcher on the table, beaded with condensation.

“Allow me, please,” Helen said. He smiled and leaned back in his chair as she poured a cup of wine for him.

“You were not on the wall to watch this afternoon,” the king said gently. It was more of a question than a reproach.

“I was in the temple of Aphrodite, seeking guidance,” she replied.

“Ah.” Priam smiled at her, a pleased expression on his wrinkled face. “And did the goddess enlighten you?”

She had to swallow down a catch in her throat before she could choke out her reply. “Yes.”

The door suddenly swung open and Hector stepped in.

“You called for me, Father?” Then he recognized Helen sitting there and said merely, “Helen.”

With his broad shoulders and straight back, Hector seemed to fill the room. Priam pointed to the chair next to him as he said, “Helen’s message was to the effect that she had something important to say. About the war, I presume.”

Suddenly Helen could not speak. She merely nodded, her tongue locked inside her mouth.

Hector poured himself a cup of wine as they both waited for Helen to say something. She had not wanted him here, had not asked for his presence. Yet Priam had summoned him. More and more, the old king was turning the responsibilities of leadership to his eldest son. Even now he chose to have Hector listen to what Helen had to say.

At last she forced myself to speak up. “This is not easy for me.”

Hector nodded understandingly.

“This war is my fault,” she started to say.

Hector smiled easily at her. “My passionate brother had a little to do with it, too.”

“If I had refused to come here to Troy with him there would be no war,” Helen said.

“No, that is not true at all,” Priam objected. “Our lives are determined by the fates and not even the gods themselves can undo what Destiny has chosen for us.”

“Still,” she said, her voice sinking even lower, “Agamemnon and Achaians besiege Troy in order to return me to Menalaos.”

“My dearest daughter,” said Priam, “it may be true that you are the excuse for this war. But you are not the reason for it.”

I could see the confusion on Helen’s face. “What do you mean?”

Hector explained, “Agamemnon and the other Achaian princes have long sought a way to break Troy’s hold on the Dardanelles. He wants to be able to sail into the Sea of Black Waters without paying tribute to us.”

“But Agamemnon could never get the other kings and princes of Achaia to join him in war against us,” Priam added.

“Until my brother gave him the excuse he needed,” Hector said.

“It is not Paris’ fault alone,” Helen said quickly, as if someone else spoke the words for her. “I bear as much responsibility as he. More, even.”

They both shook their heads. I knew what was in their minds. A woman cannot be responsible for such mighty affairs of state. A woman could only be a pawn, an object of desire, a passive onlooker, helpless before the strength of men. An excuse, not a reason. Men make decisions. Men make wars.

“You must not blame yourself for this war,” Priam said gently. “It is not your fault, Helen. It is the gods who have brought this calamity upon us.”

Her eyes were on Hector, though.

He returned her gaze in thoughtful silence. At last he said, “Paris was wrong to take you from Menalaos. If there is any fault here, it is his.”

It was useless to argue with them. Instead, Helen insisted, “Even if I am not the cause of the war, I can stop it.”

Hector’s eyes were locked on hers. “You cannot …”

“I can,” she said firmly. “I can return to Menalaos. Then Agamemnon and all the others will have to leave.”

Priam shook his white-maned head. “I doubt that they will.”

“They will have to,” she said. “What reason can Agamemnon give the other Achaian kings once I have returned to Menalaos?”

Hector snapped out a single word. “Loot.”

Helen was not convinced. “Ask for Odysseos to come into the city to discuss ending the war. He is wise—”

“Crafty,” Hector said.

“He is my father’s firm friend. And he is high in the councils of the Achaians. Tell him that I will willingly return to Menalaos and see what he thinks of it.”

Hector stretched out his hand toward her, then drew it back as if he suddenly realized that he was reaching for a thing forbidden.

“What do you think my brother will say to your proposal?” he asked her.

Helen longed for him to tell her that he did not want her to leave Troy. But she knew he never would, never could.

“Paris will object, of course,” she answered. Then she turned to Priam. “But he cannot overrule the king.”

Priam sank his bearded chin into his hands, as if the weight of this decision was too much for him.

“If only the Hatti would answer my call for help,” he murmured.

“The Hatti?” she asked.

“A mighty empire,” replied Hector, “far to the east. They have been our allies for generations.”

“I sent an emissary to them when the Achaians first drew up their black boats on our shore,” Priam said. “Their army should come to our aid soon.”

Helen glanced at Hector. Gently, Hector said to his father, “If the Hatti have not come in all the time since we sent our emissary to them, Father, they are not coming at all.”

“Not so,” argued the king, his brow wrinkling. “Their capital is far to the east. They will come … any day now … they must come!”

Hector smiled sadly and said nothing more to disillusion his father.

Priam shook his white head. “The Achaians send back to their homeland for fresh warriors. We have only the villagers nearby to help us. The Hatti are our only chance to win this war.”

Both men looked at Helen. The brief surge of hope she had felt sank away like water seeping into sand.

“Call Odysseos,” she said. “Arrange a truce and offer to make peace.”

Priam blinked his watery eyes at her. I could see the conflict in his soul.

Hector said to his father, “Once we try to negotiate they will think we are weakening. It would be better to drive the Achaians away in fair battle than to barter for peace. Otherwise they will take Helen and then continue the war.”

“Yes, I agree,” Priam said, with a sigh. “But we have not been able to drive them away, have we?”

“Achilles was not on the field of battle this afternoon, Father. Perhaps he is hurt, or ill.”

Priam’s red-rimmed eyes flashed with sudden hope. “Their camp has been struck by disease more than once.”

“Let us beat them off and drive them into the sea before Achilles returns to the battle,” Hector urged. “Then there will be no need to send Helen to them.”

Priam seemed lost in thought.

“What guarantees have we that they will leave us in peace once Helen has been returned to them?” Hector asked. “Agamemnon wants to break our power! He’s come too far to sail meekly back home without destroying us.”

Hector did not want Helen to leave Troy! He was adamantly against the idea! I could see her cheeks flush with emotion. She knew it was foolish, but she could not help but think that he cared for her, perhaps without even realizing it in his conscious mind.

Then Hector added, “It would break Paris’ heart to part with Helen. Just as it would break mine to part with Andromache. No man willingly gives up his wife.”

Helen’s face sank. Hector was thinking of his brother, of his city, not of her.

Priam gazed at Helen for long moments. I held my breath.

Finally the king said, “If Achilles does not come out to fight tomorrow morning, we will do our utmost to drive the Achaians into the sea. But if he is in their battle line, we will ask Odysseos for a truce to discuss terms of peace.”

Hector glanced at Helen once more, then turned back to his father. “Agreed,” he said.

Helen fled the room as quickly as she decently could, fighting to hold back her tears as she ran through the corridors of the dark and silent palace.