The Hittite - Ben Bova [54]
I could see Helen picturing in her mind’s eye the graceful columns and fine draperies and silks that graced the palace in Troy where Paris lived.
At last the time arrived. Quaking with fear and a yearning passion, Helen took her husband’s place at the farewell feast for Alexandros. I accompanied her into the dining hall, such as it was, and stood behind her high-backed chair, silently watching and listening.
The old men of the court frowned and muttered in their beards, shaking their heads as Helen sat at the head of Menalaos’ feasting table that evening, next to his empty chair. They were all kin to her husband, and shocked that a woman would present herself alone at the men’s meal. Yet none of them had the strength to contradict the queen.
The dining hall was the largest room in the palace. It was already filled with the high and mighty of her husband’s court. Menalaos’ kinsmen seated themselves along the heavy oaken table, looking like a scowling, grumbling collection of graybeards, whispering among themselves and clucking their tongues like any clutch of gossiping old women. Paris was not yet present.
The old men got to their feet, grudgingly, I thought, as Helen took her place at the head of the long plank table. They were shocked at her effrontery, of course, but Helen cared not. She was burning to see this handsome young man from far-off Troy one final time before returning to the dismal fate that awaited her as Queen of Sparta.
The fire in the circular hearth, off in the farthest corner of the hall, was banked down to proper cooking heat and a boar from the afternoon’s hunt was roasting on the slowly turning spit, the odor from its dripping juices filling the hall with a delicious aroma. For once, the smoke from the fire rose obediently through the roof hole and was borne way by the twilight breeze.
All of Sparta’s nobles were at the table; servants were already pouring wine into their cups. Yet the chair to Helen’s right remained empty.
“Where is our guest?” she asked.
“Washing his dainty feet, I suppose,” said the grizzled old man sitting beside the empty chair.
“The afternoon’s hunt must have fatigued him,” said the noble across the table, with heavy sarcasm. He had lost an eye in battle years ago and wore a stained black patch over the empty socket.
“He’s probably perfuming his curly locks and trying to decide which cloak he should wear,” added a third of the seated nobles.
They all laughed heartily. Their opinion of the Trojan prince was not high.
Just then the court crier stamped his staff on the stone flagging by the great door and called:
“Prince Alexandros of Troy, known as Paris!”
He had dressed magnificently, in a splendid cloak of royal blue and a chiton embroidered with flowers around the neck. His midnight-dark hair had been curled and gleamed with oil. Yet it was his smile, his sparkling eyes, that made even my old heart leap.
Helen scarcely could speak to him once he took his place at her right hand. He was polite to her and chatted amiably with the elders at the table. They addressed him with deference, as befitted a prince of powerful Troy, and kept their disdain well hidden.
“I am very flattered that you have granted me the honor of your company this day,” he said to Helen. “You look even more beautiful now than you did this morning.”
I knew that Helen’s heart was racing like a foolish girl’s. Her breath caught in her throat. His smile was dazzling. His eyes seemed to be searching hers, trying to read her spinning thoughts.
“The prince of Troy is very kind,” she managed to say.
“Not at all. Anyone with even a single eye in his head can see that your beauty rivals Aphrodite’s.” He winked outrageously at the one-eyed nobleman sitting across from him.
A wintry chill fell along the entire length of the dining table. The old men did not approve of a handsome young prince speaking to their lord’s wife, nor did they appreciate jokes made at their expense. And even the dullest among them must have known by now that the two of them had met by the stables earlier