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
