The Hittite - Ben Bova [63]
Almost afraid to doubt her, still I heard myself ask, “What . . . did the goddess tell you?”
Her voice hardly more than a breathless whisper, Helen replied, “She told me that there is neither joy nor love in the path I must follow.”
“No . . .”
“Responsibility. That is what the goddess spoke of to me, Apet. I must accept my responsibilities just as Hector has, unflinchingly, without complaint. I must cease behaving like a foolish girl and start to act as an adult woman. Only then can I save Hector from the death that awaits him.”
“A hard path to follow,” I said.
Helen nodded cheerlessly.
“And what of Paris?”
Her eyes flared. “He must never know! Hector himself must never know! I will do what I must to end this war.”
Pulling her cloak around her shoulders, Helen started toward the temple’s entrance.
“I will speak with the king,” she said, as I hurried to follow her.
“The king?”
“Yes,” she said. “I must see Priam.”
It was simple enough to arrange. The day’s fighting was over, the men were back inside the city walls. The lad who was stationed as a token guard outside the door to Helen’s chambers served as a messenger. He was very impressed with his own importance when she gave him her message for Priam.
“Tell the king that I seek a private audience with him,” Helen said to the boy. “As quickly as he can find time to see me.”
“I will fly to the king like an eagle,” he said, his eyes shining.
I leveled a finger at him. “Better to fly like a bee, lad. They go straight to their destination instead of circling as the birds of prey do.”
He ran off.
Paris was not in Helen’s bedchamber when we entered. Instantly, Helen looked fearful. Had he been killed? Wounded? No, I thought; someone would have told us. Helen’s fear quickly turned to guilt, because she realized that if Paris were dead it would simplify the decision she had to make.
She hurried across the chamber and quietly opened the door that led into his. Paris was sprawled on his bed, snoring softly. His face was smeared with dirt runneled by rivulets of sweat. His lovely dark hair was tangled and matted. His hands and bare arms bore fresh scratches but no true wounds.
A month ago, even a day ago, she would have gone to his side and wakened him with soft kisses and honeyed words. Now she could not. She could not make herself step to her husband’s side and offer him the love that she should have felt for him. I could see that it made Helen feel sad, as if a part of her life had been lost. Yet we both knew that even worse was to come.
While twilight deepened into dark night Helen remained there in the doorway, watching her sleeping husband, tormented by guilt and hopeless love and the pressing weight of responsibility.
I heard a scratching at the outer door. Opening it, I saw the lad we had sent to the king, accompanied now by a grown man, one of the palace guards decked in a stiff leather jerkin studded with bronze.
I bowed them into the anteroom, then went to Helen.
“My lady,” I whispered to her. “The king’s messenger is here.” Helen pulled herself away from the sight of her sleeping husband and
turned to see the messenger.
“The king will see you immediately, my lady,” he said, once she had
quietly shut the door to Paris’ chamber. “I am sent to escort you to him.”
9
I followed behind Helen and the tall, dark-bearded guard through the corridors of the palace. Men and women both greeted Helen courteously as we passed. If they blamed her for the war and the harpies of death that plucked their loved ones from them, they made no show of it. Queen Hecuba had made it clear that her son’s wife was not to be reproached. What the queen expected, the king enforced. The people of Troy’s royal palace may not have loved Helen, but they dared not show her disrespect.
The walls of the corridors were decorated with graceful paintings of flowering green meadows and peaceful horses, with birds soaring among the soft clouds scattered across a gentle blue sky. No such scenes