“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!”
