The Hittite - Ben Bova [60]
Helen stayed well clear of it. Athene was her enemy, and she knew that this war was the goddess’s doing as much as her own. She feared that the Trojans’ faith in the goddess was misplaced, that Athene would betray the city to the Achaians one day.
With a nod she bade me to remain in the anteroom. I stayed by the door, silent and still as befitted my duty. Helen knew I would wait for her until my old legs could no longer hold me, if need be. Through all her life I had been her steadfast companion, her childhood nurse, her devoted servant, her loyal friend and guide.
Paris was waiting for Helen in her bedchamber, standing by the open doorway that led onto the balcony, gazing out at the plain of Ilios and, beyond, to the sea. He still wore his bronze breastplate and greaves. His tall shield of seven-layered ox hide stood in the corner. His plumed helmet had been thrown carelessly on the bed.
He was beautiful, her Trojan husband, with flashing dark eyes and a thickly curled mane of midnight-black hair. Standing there by the doorway, framed against the bright blue morning sky, he looked like a young god come down from Olympos.
But for the first time his beauty failed to rouse Helen. Instead of the godlike man who had swept her away from her life as queen of rude, dull Sparta, she saw a spoiled self-centered princeling, a man who had always gotten his way with a smile and the indulgence of his doting mother. She saw a coward who had run away from honorable combat in fear for his life.
It was as if Helen had suddenly awakened from a long, lovely dream. Her eyes were open now, and they did not like what they saw.
“There you are,” said Paris, turning from the doorway to smile at her.
She knew that he expected her to unbuckle his breastplate. That would be the beginning that would end with both of them undressed on the bed.
Instead Helen went to the carved wooden chair in the chamber’s far corner and stood by it, leaning on its back for a strength she did not feel within herself.
His smile turned rueful. “You are displeased with me.”
“Yes,” she admitted, her voice trembling. Within her she did not know if she was angry or hurt or ashamed.
“Because I refused Menalaos’ challenge?” Paris sounded almost amused at the idea.
“Yes,” she repeated, unable to say more without wounding him.
“But I did it for you,” he said.
“For me?”
“Of course! Why else?”
Helen did not know what to say, how to reply.
“Dearest Helen,” Paris said, “Menalaos would never dare to challenge me unless one of the gods inspired him to such bravery. In all the months that he and his brother have besieged us, has he once called me out for single combat?”
“No,” she had to admit.
“You see? This morning a god was in him. Probably Ares, who thrives on men’s blood. Or perhaps mighty Zeus himself.”
“Do you believe that?” she asked, her voice low, her spirits even lower at the excuse her husband was inventing.
He was smiling his brightest at her. “What would have happened if Ares or Zeus or one of the other Olympians, in the guise of Menalaos, had spitted me on his spear?”
“Don’t even speak of that!” Helen blurted. “Please!”
“But suppose it happened,” Paris insisted. “You would be returned to your former husband. You would go back with Menalaos to dingy old Sparta.”
“Or be slain by him.”
“You see? That’s why I refused to face him, or whichever god it was inhabiting his body. I couldn’t allow that to happen to you.”
Almost he convinced her. “It might have been Athene,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Paris nodded, smiling. “Yes, perhaps it was Athene. What better way to hurt you than by slaying me?”
He stepped closer to her and spread out his arms. Numbly, Helen began to unbuckle his bright bronze breastplate. Paris placed his hands on her slim shoulders, and I saw her flinch at his touch. He scowled briefly, but said nothing.
Someone scratched at the door.
“Who would dare?” Paris