The Hittite - Ben Bova [58]
But this day would be different. This day Helen would feel her heart break within her. This day it would become clear to her at last that her Trojan husband was a coward. And that she loved the one man in all the world she could never obtain.
For many months Helen had thrilled to see the men riding out to do battle on the plain of Ilios in their magnificent war chariots, splendid in their bronze armor and plumed helmets, the morning sun glinting off the points of their tall spears. She endured the stares and whispers of the other women; what of it? She was a princess of Troy, wife of handsome Paris, well loved by his mother, Hecuba, the queen.
Like a giddy child she watched Paris, Hector and all the other princes of Troy as they rode across the bare, dusty battlefield to meet the besieging Achaians. Paris was the handsomest of them all, although his older brother Prince Hector commanded the most respect.
With the foot soldiers and archers trailing behind them, the Trojan chariots advanced across the windswept plain toward the shoreline, where the Achaian invaders had drawn up their black ships.
In the distance, the Achaians came forward in their own chariots and brightly plumed helmets. We could not make out their faces, they were too far from the city walls, but I recognized the red eagle emblem on the heavy shield of Menalaos, Helen’s former husband, and the golden lion of his brother, proud Agamemnon, High King among the Achaians. Beside them was the chariot of Odysseos, wise and faithful friend to Helen’s father, with its blue dolphin painted on his man-tall shield.
The charioteers reined their horses to a halt in the middle of the battlefield, two long lines of armored warriors facing one another while the horses snuffled and stamped nervously. Swirling dust obscured them for several moments, but the never-failing breeze from the sea soon cleared the air.
Heralds advanced from each army, old graybeards in long robes. With their stentorian voices they hurled the usual insults back and forth while the foot soldiers on each side trudged up to the chariot lines and the archers knelt behind them.
Then the chief herald among the Achaians called out, clear and strong enough for the wind to bear his words to us watching on the high wall:
“Menalaos, King of Sparta, whose wife, the fair Helen, has been stolen from him, challenges Paris, prince of Troy, to single combat, spear to spear, the outcome of this combat to decide which man Helen belongs to.”
Helen’s hands flew to her lips. Menalaos was willing to risk everything in single combat against Paris. The long war could be ended this very day. Yes, and at the end of the day she would be handed back to her former husband, she feared. Menalaos was a hardened warrior; he would spit her handsome Paris on his spear. The realization made her tremble.
The Trojan heralds withdrew back to Hector’s chariot, where they conferred for a seeming eternity with Hector, Paris and the other princes. Why were they arguing among themselves? They were too far away for us to hear.
Hecuba and her daughters and serving women stood near; the proud queen seemed alarmed. Paris was her youngest son, her favorite, and she feared for him each time he rode out to battle. Wild-eyed Cassandra looked back and forth from her brother Hector’s distant chariot to Helen, while she absently twirled a lock of her long curled hair, like a child.
Further along the wall, old Priam the king gazed out at the battlefield, his tired ancient eyes squinting painfully beneath shaggy white brows. His bodyservant, a stripling lad too young to be a warrior, spoke into his ear, relating what Priam’s own eyes and ears were too weak to gather for themselves.
At last the Trojan heralds went back to the open space between the lines of facing chariots. I recognized the berobed graybeard who would answer the Achaians: he also served as court announcer when Priam sat on his throne and received guests. Helen could hardly catch her