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
