The Hittite - Ben Bova [59]
The herald spoke: “Prince Alexandros, also known as Paris, declines to do battle against Menalaos this day.”
Helen was so shocked her knees almost buckled. The women gasped with surprise. Even I gaped with wide eyes. I knew what feelings were running through Helen: she looked as if she wanted to run away, to hide, to die. She did not want to see Paris killed, but to refuse a challenge, to show cowardice in the face of the barbaric invaders . . . that was worse than dying.
Queen Hecuba and the other royal women turned to stare at Helen. There were tears in the queen’s eyes; the other women looked at her with pity, or even scorn.
As we watched, unbelieving, Paris had his charioteer wheel his four sleek roan mares out of the Trojan battle line and head back toward the gate.
The Achaian kings and princes, even their common archers and foot soldiers, raised a din of jeering, hooting mockery while Hector and the other Trojans stood silent and mortified.
With a sinking heart Helen watched the man who had taken her from Menalaos’ bed, the man for whom she had abandoned her family and her honor, flee shamefully to the safety of the city’s walls. His chariot’s metal-shod wheels clattered on the stone paving of the gate beneath us, echoing in our ears with the sound of humiliation.
Queen Hecuba drew herself to her full height and said firmly, “And why should my son honor that Achaian barbarian by accepting his challenge? Paris wouldn’t soil his spear on the dog.”
She spoke too loudly, as if she were trying to convince everyone crowded along the crenellated walls watching the battlefield below. As if she were trying to convince herself.
To Helen she commanded, “Daughter, retire to your chamber. My son will be weary from the morning’s exertion. He will need your ministrations.”
Hecuba had always been kind to Helen. When Paris had brought her to Troy she accepted Helen as her newest daughter without a question about her first husband. When Menalaos and his cruel brother Agamemnon led an Achaian war fleet of swift black ships to the shore of Troy and laid siege to the city, the queen did not blame Helen for the war.
The other royal women dared not contradict the queen, so Helen was treated with courtesy and respect. Only Cassandra, Hecuba’s half-mad daughter, pointed her trembling finger at her.
“You will bring destruction to Troy,” Cassandra had said, that first evil morning when the black ships began to arrive. “You will cause the fall of this house.”
Helen feared she was right, I knew. More, she feared being dragged back to uncouth Sparta by a triumphant Menalaos, or worse, slain by him as a faithless wife.
As we turned from the battlements to obey the queen’s order I heard Prince Hector’s strong, vibrant voice shout from the distant battlefield:
“Menalaos, I will accept your challenge! Pit your spear against mine and we will see who is the stronger.”
Helen stopped, her mouth agape. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Menalaos climb back up onto his chariot.
“No, Hector, not you,” Menalaos shouted back. “I challenged your wife-stealing brother.”
Helen could breathe again. Menalaos ordered his charioteer to drive him back to the Achaian camp, along the shore where they had beached their black ships. The armies dispersed. There would be no fighting this morning.
I trailed silently behind Helen, down to the lower platform and across it through the high double doors that led into the palace grounds. The royal courtyard was quiet and empty in the morning sunlight; all the men of fighting age were outside, defending the city. The boys and older men, led by King Priam, were on the walls watching. The women, of course, had their separate place along the battlements.
Swiftly we crossed the courtyard. Helen dared not look at the Palladium, the ancient life-sized statue of ivory and wood that stood weathered and worn in its shrine among the flower beds at the far end of the courtyard. Some believed that the statue was a likeness of