Authors: Colleen McCullough
After the conference was over I strolled outside the harbour master’s cottage to breathe in the sea-tanged, sharply cold air and watch the activities of that busy beach, the ships drawn up on the shingle during winter now swarming with teams of men whose duty was to inspect their pitched sides and ensure that they were seaworthy. A huge scarlet vessel was manoeuvring close to shore, the eyes upon its prow trying to stare me down, the figurehead tipping the curving cowl of its stern obviously my own special Goddess, Aphrodite. What shipwright had seen her in which dream, to have delineated her so marvellously?
Finally the master of the vessel found enough space to beach its heavy sides in the pebbles; down went the rope ladders. At which moment I noticed that the ship bore a royal standard in its bow, scarlet-encrusted and fringed with solid gold – it carried a foreign king! I walked forward slowly, twitching my cloak into elegant folds.
The royal person descended carefully. A Greek. That was evident in the way he dressed, the unconscious superiority which even the least Greek possessed when he encountered the rest of the world. But as the royal person drew closer I lost my initial awe. Such an ordinary-looking man! Not particularly tall, not particularly handsome, and
red-haired.
Yes, he was definitely a Greek. Half of them seemed to have red hair. His leather kilt was dyed purple and embossed with gold, the fringe hemming it was gold, his wide belt was gold studded with gems, his purple blouse was cut away to reveal a meagre chest, and around his neck he wore a great collar of gold and jewels. A very rich man.
When he saw me he altered his course.
‘Welcome to the shores of Troy, royal sir,’ I said formally. ‘I am Paris, son of King Priam.’
He took my proffered arm and wrapped his fingers about it. ‘Thank you, Highness. I am Menelaos, King of Lakedaimon and brother to Agamemnon, High King of Mykenai.’
My eyes widened. ‘Would you ride to the city in my car, King Menelaos?’ I asked.
My father was conducting his daily audiences and business. I whispered to the herald, who sprang to attention and flung the double doors open.
‘King Menelaos of Lakedaimon!’ he roared.
We went in together to face a crowd stilled to immobility. Hektor was standing at the back with his hand extended and his mouth open on an unuttered word, Antenor was half turned towards us, and my father was sitting bolt upright on his throne, his hand wrapped so tightly about his staff that the whole of it shook. If my companion got the idea that a Greek was not welcome here, he betrayed no sign of it; after I grew to know him better, I decided that he probably had not noticed. His glance around the room and its furnishings was unimpressed, which set me to wondering what Greek palaces were like.
My father came down from the dais, hand extended. ‘We are honoured, King Menelaos,’ he said. Pointing to a big couch strewn with cushions, Father took the visitor’s arm. ‘Would you care to sit down? Paris, join us, but first ask Hektor to join us too. And see refreshments are brought.’
The Court was very quiet, eyes speculative, but the talk at the couch was inaudible two paces away.
The politenesses completed, my father spoke. ‘What brings you to Troy, King Menelaos?’
‘A matter of vital importance to my people of Lakedaimon, King Priam. I know that what I seek is not in Trojan lands, but Troy seemed the best place to start my enquiries.’
‘Ask.’
Menelaos leaned forward, turned side on so that he could look at my father’s expressionless face. ‘Sire, my kingdom is lashed by plague. When my own priests could not divine the cause of it, I sent to the Pythoness at Delphi. She told me that I must go in person to seek the bones of the sons of Prometheus and fetch them to Amyklai – my capital. They must be reinterred in Amyklai. Then the plague will cease.’
Ah! His mission had nothing to do with Aunt Hesione, or the scarcity of tin and copper, or trade embargoes in the Hellespont. His was a more mundane mission by far. Very common. Contending with plague called for extraordinary measures; there was always some King or other wandering the seas and shores looking for some object the Oracles said he must bring home. Sometimes I wondered if the whole purpose behind such an oracle was to ship the King off elsewhere until natural attrition brought disease to its inevitable end. A way of protecting the King from retribution; if he stayed at home he was likely to die of the same plague or find himself ritually lynched.
Of course King Menelaos had to be accommodated. Who knew whether next year it might be King Priam sent by the Oracle to ask help of King Menelaos? The Royal Kindred, no matter what their differences or nationalities, stuck together in certain situations. So while King Menelaos was made free of the city, my father’s scouts went out to locate the bones of the sons of Prometheus, and learned that they resided in Dardania. King Anchises of Dardania protested bitterly, but that came to nothing. Whether he liked it or not, the designated relics would leave him.
I got the job of looking after Menelaos until he could journey in state to Lyrnessos and claim the bones. Which led to my offering him a customary courtesy: his choice of any woman he fancied provided she was not royal.
He laughed, shook his head emphatically. ‘I need no other woman than my wife, Helen,’ he said.
My ears pricked. ‘Really?’
Face glowing, he looked besotted. ‘I am married to the most beautiful woman in the world,’ he said solemnly.
Though I looked polite, I managed to let my incredulity show. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really, Paris. Helen has no peer.’
‘Is she more beautiful than my brother Hektor’s wife?’
‘The Princess Andromache is dim Selene compared to the splendour of Helios,’ he said.
‘Tell me more.’
He sighed, flapped his arms. ‘How can one describe Aphrodite? How can one paint visual perfection in mere words? Go down to my ship, Paris, and look at the figurehead. That is Helen.’
My eyes closed, remembering. But all I could envision was a pair of eyes as green as an Egyptian cat’s.
I
had
to meet this paragon! Not that I believed him. The figurehead was bound to be superior to the model for it. No statue of Aphrodite I had ever seen could rival the figurehead’s face (though, truth to tell, sculptors were a poor lot who would persist in endowing statues with fatuous smiles, stiff features and even stiffer bodies).
‘Sire,’ I said impulsively. ‘Shortly I have to lead an embassage to Salamis, to see King Telamon and ask after the welfare of my Aunt Hesione. But while I am in Greece I also have to seek purification from an accidental killing. Is it far from Salamis to Lakedaimon?’
‘Well, one is an island off the Attic shore and the other within the Isle of Pelops, but – no, it’s a feasible journey.’
‘Would you undertake to purify me, Menelaos?’
He beamed. ‘Of course, of course! It is the least I can do to repay your kindness, Paris. Come to Lakedaimon in the summer and I will perform the rites.’ He looked smug. ‘You doubted me when I spoke of Helen’s beauty – yes, you did! Your eyes gave you away. So come to Amyklai and see her for yourself. After which I expect an apology.’
We sealed the pact with a draught of wine, then became absorbed in planning the journey to Lyrnessos, there to dig up the bones of the sons of Prometheus under the indignant gaze of King Anchises and his son, Aineas. So Helen was as beautiful as Aphrodite, eh? I wondered how Anchises and Aineas would stomach
that
comparison when Menelaos came out with it, as he surely would. For everyone knew that in his youth Anchises himself had been so beautiful that Aphrodite stooped to make love to him. Then she went away and bore him Aineas. Well, well! How the follies of one’s youth do return to haunt one.
NARRATED BY
Helen
When the bones of the sons of Prometheus went into the ground of Amyklai surrounded by precious artefacts, each skull’s grin shielded by a mask of gold, the plague began to diminish. How wonderful it was to be able to drive once more through the town, join the hunts in the mountains, watch the sports in the arena behind the palace! Wonderful too to see the people’s faces wreathed in smiles, to hear them bless us as we moved among them. The King had cured the plague and all was well again.
Except with Helen. Menelaos lived with a shade. As the years passed I grew ever quieter, even graver – worthy and dutiful, always. I bore Menelaos two daughters and a son. He slept in my bed every night. I never refused him access to my apartments when he knocked. And he loved me. In his eyes I could do no wrong. Which was the reason why I remained a worthy and dutiful wife; I could not resist being treated like a goddess. There was another reason too; I liked my head joined to my shoulders.
If only I had been able to keep my body remote and cold when he came to me after our wedding! But I could not. Helen was a creature of the flesh, not proof against the touch of any man, even one as dreary and fumbling as my husband. Any man better than none.
Summer came, the hottest in living memory. The rains ceased and the streams dried up, the priests muttered ominously from the altars. We had survived plague; was famine to be next on the list of our human agonies? Twice I felt Poseidon Earth Shaker groan and move the bowels of the land, as if he too were restless. The people began to whisper of omens and the priests lifted their voices higher when the emmer wheat fell earless on the parched ground and the hardier barley threatened to follow.
But then as summer reached a peak of unrelenting heat, the sable-browed Thunderer spoke. On a breathless, suffocating day he sent his messengers the storm clouds, piling them up and up in the white metal sky. In the afternoon the sun went out, the gloom thickened; Zeus erupted at last. Roaring his might in our deafened ears, he flung his lightning bolts down to earth with a ferocity that made the Mother shiver and shrink, each shaft falling in a column of pure fire from his terrible hand.
Shaking with terror, sweating, praying in a babble, I huddled on a couch in the little room I used near the public areas and stoppered my ears while the thunder cracked and wild white light came and went. Menelaos, Menelaos, where are you?
Then in the distance I heard his voice, speaking with unusual animation to someone whose Greek was warped and lisping – someone foreign. I made a dash for the door and ran for my apartments, not wanting to incur displeasure; like all the ladies of the palace, I had taken in the heat to wearing a shift of transparent Egyptian linen.
Just before the dinner time Menelaos came to my rooms to watch me step into my bath. He never tried to touch me; this was his opportunity to do no more than look.
‘My dear,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘we have a visitor. Would you wear your state robes this evening?’
I stared, surprised. ‘Is he so important?’
‘Very. My friend Prince Paris from Troy.’
‘Oh yes, I remember.’
‘You must look your best, Helen, because I boasted of your beauty to him while I was in Troy. He was sceptical.’
Smiling, I rolled over, water slopping. ‘I will look my best, husband, I promise.’
Which I was sure I did when I came into the dining hall a little before the Court assembled to take the last meal of daylight with the King and Queen. Menelaos was already there, standing near the high table talking to a man who had his back to me. A very interesting back. Much taller than Menelaos, he had a mane of thick, curly black hair falling halfway down his back, and he was bare from the waist up in Cretan style. A big collar of gems set in gold encircled his shoulders, both his powerful arms were clasped by cuffs of gold and crystal. I eyed his purple kilt, his well-shaped legs, and felt a stirring in me I had not experienced for many years. From the back he looked good; but probably, I thought wryly, he would be horse faced.
When I brushed my flounces to make them chime both men turned around. I looked at the visitor and fell in love. It was that simple, that easy. I fell in love. If I was the perfect woman, he was surely the perfect man. I gazed at him quite stupidly. No fault. Absolute perfection. And I was in love.
‘My dear,’ said Menelaos, coming to me, ‘this is Prince Paris. We must extend him every courtesy and attention – he was an excellent host to me in Troy.’ He looked at Paris, brows up. ‘And, my friend, do you still doubt me?’
‘No,’ said Paris. And again, ‘No.’
His evening made, Menelaos beamed.
A nightmare, that dinner! The wine flowed freely, though (being a woman) I could not partake of it. But what mischievous God put it into Menelaos’s head to guzzle it when he was usually so abstemious? Paris was seated between us, which meant I could not get close enough to my husband to gentle him away from his goblet. Nor did this Trojan prince behave with circumspection. Of course I had seen the attraction flare in his black eyes the moment they settled upon me; but many men reacted similarly, then afterward became timid. Not Paris. Throughout the meal he paid me outrageous compliments, his glances unashamedly intimate, apparently oblivious to the fact that we sat at the high table being watched by a hundred men and women of the Court.
In a tumult of fear and distraction, I tried to make it seem to those observers (more than half of whom were Agamemnon’s spies) that nothing untoward was going on. Trying to be civil and offhand, I asked Paris what life was like in Troy – did all the nations of Asia Minor speak a kind of Greek? – how far away from Troy were places like Assyria and Babylon? – did those countries know Greek too?
No fool with women, he answered easily and with authority while his wicked eyes roamed and roved from my lips to my hair, from my fingertips to my breasts.
As the interminable meal wore on Menelaos grew slurred in speech, seemed to see nothing beyond the brimming contents of his cup. And Paris grew bolder. He leaned so close to me that I could feel his breath on my shoulder, smell its sweetness. I moved until I encountered the end of the bench.
‘The Gods are cruel,’ he whispered, ‘to give so much beauty into the keeping of one man.’