Goddess of Yesterday (12 page)

“I was once a queen,” she said. “My son was the great and famous Theseus, who saved the children from the Minotaur in Crete. A warrior finer than Menelaus or Agamemnon could hope to be. And
still
my fate is slavery. My child, to stay a princess, stay away from Helen.”

“How?” I whispered.

But she was not listening to me. She was speaking as an oracle speaks, the words coming out of her mouth from the gods. “Helen has drawn her breath from many fathers. From Madness, Hate, red Death and every rotting poison of the sky.”

I stumbled back from her. The words were too strong. I could not listen.

Neither her good eye nor her blind eye saw that I had moved. “Your goddess of yesterday touched you with magic, my child, but Helen's magic is as a cup of death. Beware.”

T
HE FIRST, FOURTH AND SEVENTH
days of every month are holy, but fifth days are harsh and angry. On the fifth day of the last month of summer, the Trojans arrived: Prince Paris, killer of that innocent little boy, his cousin Aeneas and a dozen companions apiece.

The three older royal children were permitted to come to the formal welcome, Hermione led in by her nurse, the boys by their squires. I knew I should obey Aethra and stay away. But I could not bear to miss anything. Never before had a Trojan been under the roof of Amyklai.

Trojans are armed to the teeth: sword in hand, spear hanging from the shoulder, dagger clenched in the jaws. But guests disarm in the forecourt, their weapons stored by the host. “It's exciting, isn't it?” Hermione whispered. “I wish we could see Paris and Aeneas with knives in their teeth.”

Paris was as beautiful a man as Helen was a woman. Bare from the waist up, Paris wore a panther skin over his shoulders. His muscles glistened and slid over strong bones. His body was perfect, without a single scar; his hair the same honey and spice as Helen's, every curl tight, as if just wound around some woman's fingers. His lips were as rosy as a child's, full of movement, as if every time he saw a man he thought of speaking, and every time he saw a woman he thought of love.

The court furniture that had been brought out in honor of Agamemnon was brought out for Paris of Troy. Paris and Aeneas were seated on ebony chairs inlaid with gold palm trees, which Menelaus had found in Egypt. Menelaus sat on his throne, and Helen beside him on her chair.

The companions gazed openmouthed at Helen, like young boys. Menelaus might sit on the throne, but when Helen chose to glitter, he was in shadow. Her tiara that evening was wisps of gold, flying gold wasps among goldhammered flowers. I thought it perfect for Helen. Spun with a sting.

King and prince exchanged greetings, ingots of bronze and tin, bales of brocaded cloth and boxes of gems and ivory. Each side praised the other, and honor was paid to the gods. Then Paris stepped back from Menelaus and turned toward the queen.

I never saw a person who did not want to touch Helen. Strangers yearned to drape her cloak. Servants ached for the privilege of combing her hair or washing her feet. All who lived in this kingdom wanted Helen's praise.

And now a Trojan.

Yet the prince of Troy did not speak.

The room seemed oddly still and very hot, as the sky heats before thunder. When Paris knelt, he sank so slowly I did not see how he could keep his balance, and when he clasped her knees, as men do when pleading for mercy, she looked at his hands as if they were the hands of Zeus.

“I heard you were a white swan, my queen,” said Paris. “A crown of glory. A star fallen from heaven. I was told that in your presence I would stumble. Those who have had the privilege of resting their eyes upon you discover that never
again are they able to rest, for their trembling hearts forever think of none but you. O Helen. Aphrodite, blessed goddess of love, has led me to your feet.”

Breathes a woman who would not like to hear such things?

Breathes a woman who would not enjoy having the goddess of love invoked at the sight of her?

But breathes there a husband who would permit it?

Menelaus, however, had heard this kind of thing from dozens of princes when they were all begging Helen to marry one of them. He seemed bored by Paris' speech.

Aeneas, the cousin, broke the spell. He was not handsome like Paris, but he was more important, for Aeneas, like Helen, was half god. His mother had been that same Aphrodite, goddess of love. We did not worship Aphrodite on Siphnos, so I did not know her. I had heard that she was as cruel as Apollo, and that frightened me, for how could love be cruel?

“Actually, my lord Menelaus,” said Aeneas, “Aphrodite did escort us. She is the figurehead on Paris' ship. The goddess went first through the waves, bringing us a speedy and blessed arrival.”

I did not think that was respectful. A goddess forced to break the waves day after day? Splashed in salt spray and plastered with seaweed? A figurehead should be a fish, not an immortal.

Hermione whispered to me, “Aeneas doesn't talk as if Aphrodite really is his mother, does he?”

Many claim to be the children of gods. In this room, both Aeneas and Helen. Is it true? Is any man or woman actually son or daughter of a god?

Paris stood reluctantly, as one who would have liked to
spend his life looking up at Helen. “O queen, you are not simply a swan and you are far greater than a dove. I see in you also the eagle.”

Helen's eyes were very bright. “I do not have wings, Paris of Troy.”

“Yet you fly into the heart of every man who sees you.”

She had to smile then. I had not previously seen her true smile. It lit the room. It warmed every heart. It stayed so short a time on her lovely face that every one of us in the megaron yearned to do or say something to make that smile return.

Paris snapped his fingers. Forward came servants struggling under the weight of two extraordinary gifts for Helen: larger than life hounds of polished red marble, with collars of gold and obsidian eyes that glittered black in the smoke.

“May they guard your doors, O queen,” said Paris.

The husband responsible for guarding Helen's doors sat right there. But Menelaus seemed not to be insulted. He just laughed. “It's more appropriate than you know, Paris. Helen doesn't care for real dogs. They shed fur and nip ankles. Our sons' puppies have to be kept at some distance from my wife's room.”

Paris had brows like shelves above his deep dark eyes and he raised them high and regarded Menelaus with amusement. The king of Amyklai had just admitted publicly that he and his lovely queen did not share a room. “How wise of you, Helen,” said Paris. “A queen must have perfection. Thus, I bring you perfect pets of stone.”

“And what form of perfection must you have, my prince?” asked Helen. “A good fertile farm? A gentle life at home? A host of fair children?”

Paris shouted with laughter. “Those are not to my taste,
my queen. I revel in long ships with oars. I love the heft of a polished lance and the slice of arrows in the skirmish.”

His body, however, was notably free of blemishes. A warrior's flesh tells a tale, for it is scarred and pitted from attack and defense. Even a youth learning to use his father's weapons ends up scabbed for life. But Paris was as smooth and beautiful as a newborn babe.

“What a king you will be one day, Paris,” said Helen, although the whole room knew that forty-nine brothers stood between Paris and the throne of Troy. “A king should stain the world with blood. A king should live for his spear. Some warriors,” she said, “go soft the moment they return home.”

I and all the court knew that Helen was accusing Menelaus of such softness. I prayed Paris would not understand. I prayed Menelaus would not.

“Such a man,” said the prince of Troy, his eyes as fastened to Helen's as the suction cups of an octopus had once been fastened to my arm, “cannot be called a warrior.”

Squires entered, bearing cups for wine, while Paris and Helen stared at each other. When everyone had a cup, the squires poured each man a few drops, and Paris and Helen still stared at each other. Menelaus stood to lead the guests as they tipped out wine for the deathless gods. Then was each cup filled and then did each man drink.

Paris lifted his cup to Helen.

Helen lifted her cup to him.

“Men have all the adventures,” whispered Hermione. “But now at least we will hear about them. And from the lips of a Trojan warrior.”

The first story Paris told was how he himself had caught the panther whose skin now covered his back. It had been a
huge beast and the room shuddered to think of combat with such a creature.

But his cousin Aeneas studied the fire on the hearth during the story, pushing ashes around with the tip of his boot, drawing circles of soot.

Aeneas does not believe it, I thought. Possibly Aeneas is the one who really slew the panther.

When the story had ended, and Helen was stroking the fine soft panther hide, her long white arm brushing the bare gleaming chest of Paris, Aeneas turned to the royal children. “You must be Hermione, for you look like a child goddess, dusted in gold. And these two fine young men must be Aethiolas and Maraphius. Lord Menelaus, how envious I am of such sons. And who is this little princess?”

Paris turned his back on Helen to see what princess Aeneas meant.

Me.

Helen turned to ice. The princess who was no princess had drawn Paris' gaze away from
her
? I felt the obsidian eyes of her two hounds. They would rise up and bite me if Helen had such a command in her power.

“I am Callisto, sir, from Siphnos,” I said to Aeneas.

Paris laughed. “So you are the daughter of that king with the gold mine, who broke his word to the gods. Your background is lead, not gold.” He turned again to Helen.

I burned to defend Nicander. But he had no defense.

“In more than one way she is lead and not gold,” Helen told Paris. “I believe the girl is an imposter. I believe she comes from some other isle altogether.”

“Fascinating,” said the prince, and a second time he turned his back on Helen to examine me.

“Now, Helen,” said Menelaus. “Nicander, along with all
his people, was slain by pirates,” he told the Trojans. “Only this brave and sturdy daughter survived. I have taken her into my household, of course. When an island or a prince or a princess is born, Zeus shakes his two jars and pours out the future. Both a person and an island will have some good fortune and some dread.”

The court prepared to be bored by lengthy stories they had all heard too many times. “Poor Nicander,” said Menelaus, “drank deeply from the cup of sorrow.”

“I, however,” said Paris, “drink only from the cup of joy. For I look upon this face. This queen. This Helen.” Taking Helen's gold cup from her hands, stroking her long slim fingers, very slowly he brought the queen's cup to his own face and ran his lips around the rim where hers had touched.

Something came over Helen and shook her, like wind falling on mountain oaks. Her ivory cheeks pinked and her hand trembled.

Aeneas joined his prince. Nervously, I thought. Certainly the rest of the court was a bit nervous. “What evidence have you, Helen,” asked Aeneas, “that the little princess is not in fact from Siphnos?”

“Who cares what island some urchin comes from?” said Paris. “One rock in the sea looks like another. Let us discuss something worthy of you, O queen. You will visit Troy one day, I promise you, Helen of the sun and the moon and the stars. We are glory and gold. We are wide skies and a great plain. Brilliant warriors and splendid horses.”

“Strong princes,” said Helen, “and swift ships.”

I drifted out of the megaron, keeping the wide shoulders of Trojans and Spartans between me and Helen. I need not have troubled. Helen never took her eyes from Paris.

Tiptoeing down the wide dark hall, I climbed up the long stair that clung to the whitewashed walls, around the landing, up the next stair, and from there to the fretwork of the balcony. It was packed with women who made room for me.

Menelaus was eager to learn of every city and shore, every adventure and storm at sea. The companions of Paris obliged. The wine was passed continually, for nothing pleases men more than another sip. Paris laughed steadily. There was something discomfiting about a man so easily amused. Especially one whose reason for coming was that he had murdered a little boy.

Maraphius fell asleep, sagging in his father's arms. Aethiolas drooped. Bia had long since escorted Hermione out of the room.

“I have a request,” said Paris languidly, “from my father, Priam, the great king of Troy.”

Aeneas studied his cup. He had drunk very little and Paris had drunk a great deal. Aeneas did not seem happy with this new subject.

“Perhaps, my dear king Menelaus,” said Paris, “you recall that my father, Priam, had a sister, Hesione by name. Many years ago, Hesione was kidnapped by one of your kings, Telamon by name. He made our beloved Trojan princess his slave.”

Menelaus was very angry. I was not prepared for his anger and I do not think Paris was either. When Menelaus stiffened, you could see the great breadth of his barrel chest, the width of his shoulders, the fury in the huge hands that now gripped his own knees, as if he were preventing himself from knocking the visitor down. “When you refer to
Hesione, young man, do not make up your own version. The great Hercules, the hero and warrior of Greece, went to Troy. Hercules found your gates open and your people slack. He attacked Troy and won handily. Am I correct?”