Helen of Troy

  ALSO BY MARGARET GEORGE

  THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF HENRY VIII

  MARY QUEEN OF SCOTLAND AND THE ISLES

  THE MEMOIRS OF CLEOPATRA

  MARY, CALLED MAGDALENE

  LUCILLE LOST (Children’s Book)

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published in 2006 by Viking Penguin,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Margaret George, 2006

  All rights reserved

  Map by Jeffrey L. Ward

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 0-670-03778-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Set in Adobe Garamond

  Designed by Francesca Belanger

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Part II

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  Chapter XLVII

  Chapter XLVIII

  Chapter XLIX

  Chapter L

  Chapter LI

  Chapter LII

  Chapter LIII

  Chapter LIV

  Chapter LV

  Chapter LVI

  Chapter LVII

  Chapter LVIII

  Chapter LIX

  Chapter LX

  Chapter LXI

  Chapter LXII

  Chapter LXIII

  Chapter LXIV

  Chapter LXV

  Chapter LXVI

  Chapter LXVII

  Chapter LXVIII

  Chapter LXIX

  Chapter LXX

  Chapter LXXI

  Chapter LXXII

  Chapter LXXIII

  Part III

  Chapter LXXIV

  Chapter LXXV

  Chapter LXXVI

  Chapter LXXVII

  Chapter LXXVIII

  Chapter LXXIX

  Chapter LXXX

  Afterword

  To my daughter,

  Alison Rachel,

  dear friend and companion

  And to her grandmother, my mother,

  Margaret Dean,

  a last great Southern belle

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to:

  My thoughtful Greek friends—Artemios and Evie Kandarakis and Xenia Vletsa—who helped me at their country’s archaeological sites, and in many other ways; Katie Broberg Foehl and Nikos and March Schweitzer, enthusiastic Graecophiles who were comrades in my quest; Brian and Mary Holmes, who helped me shape the story; and Jane and Bob Feibel, at home in the ancient world.

  Birgitta Van der Veer and the curators of Istanbul Archaeological Museums, for arranging personal access to the Troy collection; Dr. Dan Gibson of WPI, for clarifying the chemistry of Tyrian purple dye production from Murex snails; Eric Shanower, who generously shared information; Beena Kamlani, gifted editor and friend of Homer’s; Professor Stephen G. Miller, University of California, Berkeley, for reviving and organizing the Ancient Nemean Games and letting me participate; Professors Barry B. Powell and William Aylward at the University of Wisconsin, who were always willing to share their expertise, and whose classics department symposium “The Trojan War: The Sources Behind the Scenes” taught me many things.

  . . . Troy, with walls still far from old

  Had been destroyed, that noble, royal town

  And many a man full worthy of renown

  Had lost his life—that no man can gainsay—

  And all for Helen, the wife of Menelay,

  When a thing’s done, it may then be no other.

  John Lydgate, Troy Book, circa 1412–1420

  PROLOGUE

  I flew back to Troy. No, it was more like floating, for it was a steady flight, no dipping or soaring. I had no wings, although my arms were extended, but they served to steer me, not propel me.

  I could feel the wind sliding between my fingers. I was lost in the wonder of being able to go to Troy, and so effortlessly. I could see the brilliant singing blue of the sea, passing over its sparkles and its white-foamed waves, over the islands that reared themselves like barren backs of beasts, shorn of their fur. They were brown, and their bones showed in the hills that were their spines.

  Where were the ones Paris and I had visited on our way to Troy, our stepping-stones? From so high above it was impossible to tell.

  A gull swooped near me, the wind from his flapping wings disturb
ing my flight. For an instant I felt myself falling, then I righted myself and floated serenely on. My gown ruffled out, wafting like smoke around me.

  Far below I could see ships. Whither were they bound? Whom did they carry? Impossible to know, or, really, to care. This was how the gods viewed us—as trifling amusements. Now I understood. At long last, I understood.

  The shore of Troy came up—so soon! I had only one concern, one burning drive: to behold Troy again. To enter its gates, to walk its streets, to touch the buildings, yes, even the buildings I had never cared for. Now they were all precious. I righted myself and set myself down gently just outside the south gate, the grandest one. When I had beheld it on my first entrance to Troy, its top seemed to reach the sky, but now that I had seen it from above, I knew it stopped far short of the clouds.

  Oddly, when my feet touched down upon the soil, they raised no dust. But I was dazed with the heady joy of knowing I was back at Troy. I could hear the birds in the meadow around me, could smell the drowsy scent of fields at noonday. To my right I saw herds of dun-colored horses grazing, the famous horses of the Trojan plain. All was peaceful and ordered. In the distance I could see a small stone farmhouse, with a tiled roof, in a grove of trees. I wanted to go there, knock on its door. But it was far away, and I turned back to Troy.

  Troy! The magic of Troy rose before my eyes, dancing against the blue of the sky. Its towers were the highest possible for man to build, its walls the strongest and the most beautiful, and inside it . . . ah, inside it lay all the glories of the world! Troy shimmered like a mirage, hovered teasingly, whispered its secrets, lured me toward it.

  I walked toward the gate. To my surprise, it was open. The thick, bronze-sheathed doors were gaping wide, and beyond them the path up to the citadel lay broad and beckoning. I passed through the usually guarded gate and did not ask myself why there were no guards, no soldiers. Once inside, I found it was quiet—no sound of groaning wagons, no laughter, no voices at all.

  I kept walking up toward the citadel, that cluster of palaces and temples crowning the top of Troy. I could see its glimmer in the distance, its white stone beckoning like a goddess.

  It was utterly deserted, and now I began to listen for the echoes in the empty houses as I passed. Where had the people gone?

  I was seeking the citadel, where all my people would be. Priam and Hecuba would be in their palace, Hector and Andromache in theirs, the many sons and daughters of Priam and Hecuba in their own quarters behind the royal palace—fifty sons and twelve daughters, each with his or her own home. And between the temple of Athena and the palace of Hector would be mine and Paris’s, standing high and proud.

  It was there. It was perfect, as perfect as Paris and I had first imagined it, long before a single stone had been laid. When we had lain together on our fragrant bed and amused ourselves imagining our perfect palace. Here it was.

  As it never was. The stones had not been exactly like this, no, we could not get the red ones from Phrygia and had had to substitute darker ones from Lesbos. Yet here were the red ones, mortared and in place. For an instant I was puzzled by this, and stood staring at it. No, it was not like this, except in our minds, I murmured, as if the stones would shimmer and rearrange themselves at my words. Yet they stubbornly remained as they were.

  I shrugged. No matter. I entered the palace and made my way across the wide megaron and then up the stairs into the most private of our quarters, the rooms where Paris and I withdrew when the business of the day at last closed and we could be alone.

  My footfalls echoed. Why was it so empty? It was as if a spell had seized it. Nothing stirred, no voice made itself heard.

  I stood at the threshold of the chamber. Paris must be in there. He was waiting for me. He had returned from the fields, from exercising the wilder horses as he loved to do, and would now be taking a cup of wine and rubbing a bruise or two from today’s work. He would look up and say, Helen, the white horse I told you about . . .

  Resolutely I pushed the doors open. The chamber was dreadfully quiet. It also looked dark.

  I walked in, the whispering of my gown around my feet the loudest noise. “Paris?” I said—the first word I had spoken.

  In stories, people are turned to stone. But here they had vanished. I turned and turned, seeking someone in the rooms, but there was nothing. The shell of Troy remained, her palaces and walls and streets, but she had been stripped of what truly made her great—her people.

  And Paris . . . where are you, Paris? If you are not here, in our home, where are you?

  I saw sunlight and was thankful that someone had thrown the shutters open. Now Troy could begin to live again; now sunshine would flood her. The streets would fill with people again and spring back into life. It was not gone, merely sleeping. Now it could awaken.

  “My lady, it is time.” Someone was touching my shoulder. “You have slept overlong.”

  Still I clung to Troy, standing in the bedroom of my palace. Paris would be there now. Surely so! He would come!

  “I know it is difficult, but you must rouse yourself.” It was the voice of the lady of the chamber. “Menelaus can be interred but once. And today is that day. My condolences, my lady. Be strong.”

  Menelaus! I opened my eyes and gazed about me wildly. This room—it was not my room in Troy. O the gods! I was in Sparta, and Menelaus was dead.

  My Spartan husband Menelaus was dead. Trojan Paris was not there. He had not been there for thirty-odd years. Troy was gone. I could not even call it a smoking ruin, for its smoke had long disappeared into the sky. Troy was so dead even its ashes had been scattered.

  It had all been a dream, my visit to Troy. Even what had remained in the kindly dream—the walls, the towers, the streets, and the buildings—was gone. There was nothing left. I wept.

  A gentle hand on my shoulder. “I know you sorrow for him,” she said. “But still, you must—”

  I swung my feet over the side of the bed. “I know. I must attend the funeral. Nay, more than that, I must preside over it.” I stood up, slightly dizzy. “I know my duty.”

  “My lady, I did not mean—”

  “Of course not. Please select my garments.” There, that would get rid of her.

  I pressed my fingers to my temples. Menelaus dead. Yes. That was as it was. His confession to me, his plea—it was all one. I forgave him. It was so long ago. And Paris: People yet unborn will make songs of us, I had told him. What a young fool I had been. He had vanished. He was nowhere in my dream—and I knew it, now, for a dream. Paris and I were no more.

  No matter. The dream had shown me the way. I would return to Troy after the funeral, after things were set right in Sparta. I must see it again, empty and ruined though it might be. It was where I had lived, most fully lived, where Helen truly took form as Helen, became Helen of Troy.

  In life I had soared, if only for a brief time: in that the dream spoke true. Once there was a Helen and she had lived most fully in Troy. Make of that what you will. In my time I called forth hatred, war, and death. I was said to be the woman with a wreath of bronze swords framing her face rather than flowers.

  Yet that was never my doing, never my intention. I lay that guilt at the feet of the men who pursued me.

  I speak of Helen as if you knew. But who is Helen?

  Listen, and I shall tell you. Hold your breath, and you will hear her speak.

  I

  Helen. Before I could speak, I heard my name and learned that I was Helen. My mother whispered it, but not sweetly; she whispered it as if it were an ugly secret. Sometimes she hissed it, close to my ear, and I could feel her hot breath tickling my skin. She never murmured it, and she never shouted it. Murmuring was for endearments, and shouting was for warning others. She did not want to call attention to me that way.

  She had another pet name for me, Cygnet, and when she used it, she smiled, as if it pleased her. It was private, our little secret, for she never used it in front of anyone else.

  Just as the m
ists that cling to hills gradually thin and disappear, and the solid form of the rocks and forests appear, just so a life takes form out of early memories, which burn away later. Out of the swirl of jumbled memories and feelings of my childhood, I remember being at a palace where my mother’s family lived, and where she had grown up. My grandmother and grandfather were still alive, but when I try to recall their faces, I cannot. We had all gone there—fled there—because of trouble with my father’s throne in Sparta. He had been driven from it, and now was a king in exile, living with his wife’s family.

  I know now that this was in Aetolia, although of course then I knew nothing of locations, places, names. I only knew that our palace in Sparta, high on its hill, was more open to the sun and the wind than this one, which was dark and boxlike. I did not like being there and wished I could return to my old room. I asked my mother when that might be, when we could go back home.

  “Home?” she said. “This is home!”

  I did not understand, and shook my head.

  “This was my home, where I grew up. Sparta was never my home.”

  “But it is mine,” I said. I tried not to cry at the thought I might never be able to return there. I thought I had stopped the tears at the corners of my eyes, but my trembling lip gave me away.

  “Don’t cry, you baby!” she said, gripping my arm. “Princesses do not cry, not even before their mothers!” I hated the way her face looked as she bent down and put it up to mine. It was long and narrow and when she frowned it seemed to grow even longer, stretching out to look like an animal’s with a muzzle. “We will soon know how long we will be here, and where we are to go. Delphi will tell us. The oracle will reveal it.”

  We were jouncing in a cart across land that was wild and forested. It did not look like the land around Sparta, cupped in its gentle green valley. Here rough hills, covered with scrub and scrawny trees, made our journey difficult. As we approached the mountain where the sacred site of Delphi hid itself, we had to abandon the carts and trudge along a rutted path that clung to the ascent. On each side of us, tall thin trees with trunks like needles sought the sky but gave no shade, and we had to skirt around boulders and clamber over obstacles.