The Hittite - Ben Bova [64]
“How went the day’s fighting?” Helen asked our escort.
“Well enough,” he said. “The barbarians pressed us almost back to the Scaean Gate at first, but Prince Hector rallied our warriors and drove them back to their own ramparts. By then it was growing dark, so both sides agreed to end the battle and wait for the morrow.”
“Was Prince Hector hurt?” Helen blurted.
“Not he!” the guard replied proudly. “He took men with his spear the way a cook spits chunks of meat.”
The guard led us not to the royal reception hall, but to Priam’s private quarters. He opened the oaken door, then stepped aside to let Helen and me through. He shut the door softly behind us, remaining outside in the corridor.
Priam was standing by the window, gazing out into the darkening night. He wore a simple wool chiton, dyed deep blue, and a heavy shawl over his shoulders to ward off the night chill. His only adornment was the royal signet ring on his gnarled finger. I doubted that he could take it off, even if he wanted to. He was very old, bent with years, his white beard halfway down his chest. This war was killing him, I could tell.
It was too dark outside to see anything. What ever he was staring at was inside his mind, I thought. The little room was lit by two oil lamps ensconced on either side of the door. Their fitful flames threw flickering shadows between us. There was no one else in the room, not even a servant to wait upon the king. Had he guessed what Helen was about to say? Did he realize that she wanted complete privacy?
He turned toward Helen with hardly a glance at me. I was her maidservant, her silent shadow, not a real person as far as the king was concerned.
“It went well this afternoon,” he said at last.
“I am pleased,” she said.
Gesturing to the circular table in the middle of the room, he said, “Please, sit and be comfortable. Would you like some refreshment? Something to eat?”
“No, thank you. Nothing.”
I stood by the door as Helen took one of the carved wooden chairs and the king sank slowly, painfully, into another. “I believe I’ll take some wine,” he said, reaching for the pitcher on the table, beaded with condensation.
“Allow me, please,” Helen said. He smiled and leaned back in his chair as she poured a cup of wine for him.
“You were not on the wall to watch this afternoon,” the king said gently. It was more of a question than a reproach.
“I was in the temple of Aphrodite, seeking guidance,” she replied.
“Ah.” Priam smiled at her, a pleased expression on his wrinkled face. “And did the goddess enlighten you?”
She had to swallow down a catch in her throat before she could choke out her reply. “Yes.”
The door suddenly swung open and Hector stepped in.
“You called for me, Father?” Then he recognized Helen sitting there and said merely, “Helen.”
With his broad shoulders and straight back, Hector seemed to fill the room. Priam pointed to the chair next to him as he said, “Helen’s message was to the effect that she had something important to say. About the war, I presume.”
Suddenly Helen could not speak. She merely nodded, her tongue locked inside her mouth.
Hector poured himself a cup of wine as they both waited for Helen to say something. She had not wanted him here, had not asked for his presence. Yet Priam had summoned him. More and more, the old king was turning the responsibilities of leadership to his eldest son. Even now he chose to have Hector listen to what Helen had to say.
At last she forced myself to speak up. “This is not easy for me.”
Hector nodded understandingly.
“This war is my fault,” she started to say.
Hector smiled easily at her. “My passionate brother had a little to do with it, too.”
“If I had refused to come here to Troy with him there would be no war,” Helen said.
“No, that is not true at all,” Priam objected. “Our lives are determined by the fates and not even the gods themselves can undo what Destiny has chosen for us.”
“Still,” she said, her voice sinking