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
“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
