The Hittite - Ben Bova [52]
“You are the queen, and your husband is away,” said I. “Your husband’s kinsmen are duty-bound to obey you.”
She turned and stared at me. “Do you think I could?” she wondered aloud. “Would it be possible?”
“You are the queen, are you not? Use your power, my lamb. Use your beauty to dazzle this prince of Troy.”
“What are you saying, Apet?”
I smiled at my lovely one. “Troy is a fine, noble city. And it is far from Sparta.”
It was a fantasy, a dream. We both knew that. Yet the idea of leaving Sparta, leaving this hopeless dismal life, seemed to lift the misery that had engulfed Helen, filled her with eager expectation.
“At the very least, my heart’s love,” I said, “you will know a few hours of civilized conversation and gracious charm. Is that not worth the frowns of your husband’s kinsmen?”
“Yes!” she answered. “Yes, it is!”
Thus Helen became determined to at least cast her eyes on this charming visitor, desperate for some way to break the monotony of life in wretched Sparta. I learned from the servants that Paris went riding every morning. A woman did not ride in Sparta, not even the queen was allowed to. But I arranged to have Helen walking by the stables— well escorted, of course, by myself and a handful of young, chattering Spartan ladies— as noble Paris returned from his morning’s canter.
He and six of his Trojan guards rode into the stable grounds, past the open gate, their horses neighing and stamping up dust from the bare earth. The horses were well-lathered, I saw. Paris must have ridden them hard. I saw Helen shiver despite the warm morning sunlight. She told me later that at that instant Aphrodite sent a vision into her mind of what it would be like to have him riding her, to bear his weight upon her body.
Standing at the far end of the dusty ground that fronted the stables, with me close beside her, Helen forgot the smells of the horses and dung, forgot the stares of the stable hands at the sight of their queen, forgot even the cooing and whispering of her escorting ladies. All at the sight of Paris, prince of Troy.
He was stunning. Young, clean-shaven, with dark eyes that sparkled at Helen as soon as he caught sight of her. His midnight-black hair had been tousled carelessly by the wind. His shoulders and torso seemed slim, yet his legs, bare below the hem of his tunic, were strong and graceful. The tunic itself was a work of art, beautifully embroidered and shaped to his form.
He slid off the sweaty horse and walked straight to Helen, ignoring the grooms and his own men who had ridden with him and were now dismounting.
Dropping to one knee before her, Paris said, “You must be golden-haired Helen, Queen of Sparta. I have heard that you are the most beautiful woman in the world and now I can see that it is true.”
Had he not been a royal visitor and under the protection of not only the rules of hospitality but the power of distant Troy, Menalaos’ kinsmen would have whipped him out of the palace and sent him on his way home. But none of those frowning old men were at the stables that morning, thank the gods.
Helen could barely speak, his words and his beauty had taken her breath away. At last she managed to say graciously, “Rise, prince of Troy.”
He got to his feet and stood before her, smiling a smile so brilliant that the sun itself seemed dimmed.
“I had hoped to meet you, Queen Helen,” he said. “The gods have been kind to me on my last day here in Sparta.”
“Your last day?” she blurted.
He nodded, and his smile turned sad. “Yes. I have waited for your royal husband for many days.”
“He was called away to Crete, his grandfather’s funeral . . .”
“I know. But I can wait for his return no longer. I must start back to Troy tomorrow.”
Helen’s legs seemed to go weak; she leaned on me for support. I knew the thoughts racing through her mind: she had finally met this prince and now he was going to leave her! I could almost hear her calling to Aphrodite, begging the goddess to help her.
“Must you go?” Helen