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
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:
