have loved Helen, but they dared not show her disrespect.
The walls of the corridors were decorated with graceful paintings of flowering green meadows and peaceful horses, with birds soaring among the soft clouds scattered across a gentle blue sky. No such scenes had occurred at Troy since Helen had arrived, I realized. She had destroyed the peace and tranquillity of this beautiful city.
“How went the day’s fighting?” Helen asked our escort.
“Well enough,” he said. “The barbarians pressed us almost back to the Scaean Gate at first, but Prince Hector rallied our warriors and drove them back to their own ramparts. By then it was growing dark, so both sides agreed to end the battle and wait for the morrow.”
“Was Prince Hector hurt?” Helen blurted.
“Not he!” the guard replied proudly. “He took men with his spear the way a cook spits chunks of meat.”
The guard led us not to the royal reception hall, but to Priam’s private quarters. He opened the oaken door, then stepped aside to let Helen and me through. He shut the door softly behind us, remaining outside in the corridor.
Priam was standing by the window, gazing out into the darkening night. He wore a simple wool chiton, dyed deep blue, and a heavy shawl over his shoulders to ward off the night chill. His only adornment was the royal signet ring on his gnarled finger. I doubted that he could take it off, even if he wanted to. He was very old, bent with years, his white beard halfway down his chest. This war was killing him, I could tell.
It was too dark outside to see anything. What ever he was staring at was inside his mind, I thought. The little room was lit by two oil lamps ensconced on either side of the door. Their fitful flames threw flickering shadows between us. There was no one else in the room, not even a servant to wait upon the king. Had he guessed what Helen was about to say? Did he realize that she wanted complete privacy?
He turned toward Helen with hardly a glance at me. I was her maidservant, her silent shadow, not a real person as far as the king was concerned.
“It went well this afternoon,” he said at last.
“I am pleased,” she said.
Gesturing to the circular table in the middle of the room, he said, “Please, sit and be comfortable. Would you like some refreshment? Something to eat?”
“No, thank you. Nothing.”
I stood by the door as Helen took one of the carved wooden chairs and the king sank slowly, painfully, into another. “I believe I’ll take some wine,” he said, reaching for the pitcher on the table, beaded with condensation.
“Allow me, please,” Helen said. He smiled and leaned back in his chair as she poured a cup of wine for him.
“You were not on the wall to watch this afternoon,” the king said gently. It was more of a question than a reproach.
“I was in the temple of Aphrodite, seeking guidance,” she replied.
“Ah.” Priam smiled at her, a pleased expression on his wrinkled face. “And did the goddess enlighten you?”
She had to swallow down a catch in her throat before she could choke out her reply. “Yes.”
The door suddenly swung open and Hector stepped in.
“You called for me, Father?” Then he recognized Helen sitting there and said merely, “Helen.”
With his broad shoulders and straight back, Hector seemed to fill the room. Priam pointed to the chair next to him as he said, “Helen’s message was to the effect that she had something important to say. About the war, I presume.”
Suddenly Helen could not speak. She merely nodded, her tongue locked inside her mouth.
Hector poured himself a cup of wine as they both waited for Helen to say something. She had not wanted him here, had not asked for his presence. Yet Priam had summoned him. More and more, the old king was turning the responsibilities of leadership to his eldest son. Even now he chose to have Hector listen to what Helen had to say.
At last she forced myself to speak up. “This is not easy for me.”
Hector nodded understandingly.
“This war is my fault,” she started to say.
Hector smiled easily at her. “My passionate brother had a little to do with it, too.”
“If I had refused to come here to Troy with him there would be no war,” Helen said.
“No, that is not true at all,” Priam objected. “Our lives are determined by the fates and not even the gods themselves can undo what Destiny has chosen for us.”
“Still,” she said, her voice sinking even lower, “Agamemnon and Achaians besiege Troy in order to return me to Menalaos.”
“My dearest daughter,” said Priam, “it may be true that you are the excuse for this war. But you are not the reason for it.”
I could see the confusion on Helen’s face. “What do you mean?”
Hector explained, “Agamemnon and the other Achaian princes have long sought a way to break Troy’s hold on the Dardanelles. He wants to be able to sail into the Sea of Black Waters without paying tribute to us.”
“But Agamemnon could never get the other kings and princes of Achaia to join him in war against us,” Priam added.
“Until my brother gave him the excuse he needed,” Hector said.
“It is not Paris’ fault alone,” Helen said quickly, as if someone else spoke the words for her. “I bear as much responsibility as he. More, even.”
They both shook their heads. I knew what was in their minds. A woman cannot be responsible for such mighty affairs of state. A woman could only be a pawn, an object of desire, a passive onlooker, helpless before the strength of men. An excuse, not a reason. Men make decisions. Men make wars.
“You must not blame yourself for this war,” Priam said gently. “It is not your fault, Helen. It is the gods who have brought this calamity upon us.”
Her eyes were on Hector, though.
He returned her gaze in thoughtful silence. At last he said, “Paris was wrong to take you from Menalaos. If there is any fault here, it is his.”
It was useless to argue with them. Instead, Helen insisted, “Even if I am not the cause of the war, I can stop it.”
Hector’s eyes were locked on hers. “You cannot …”
“I can,” she said firmly. “I can return to Menalaos. Then Agamemnon and all the others will have to leave.”
Priam shook his white-maned head. “I doubt that they will.”
“They will have to,” she said. “What reason can Agamemnon give the other Achaian kings once I have returned to Menalaos?”
Hector snapped out a single word. “Loot.”
Helen was not convinced. “Ask for Odysseos to come into the city to discuss ending the war. He is wise —”
“Crafty,” Hector said.
“He is my father’s firm friend. And he is high in the councils of the Achaians. Tell him that I will willingly return to Menalaos and see what he thinks of it.”
Hector stretched out his hand toward her, then drew it back as if he suddenly realized that he was reaching for a thing forbidden.
“What do you think my brother will say to your proposal?” he asked her.
Helen longed for him to tell her that
“Paris will object, of course,” she answered. Then she turned to Priam. “But he cannot overrule the king.”
Priam sank his bearded chin into his hands, as if the weight of this decision was too much for him.
“If only the Hatti would answer my call for help,” he murmured.
