The Hittite - Ben Bova [65]
“My dearest daughter,” said Priam, “it may be true that you are the excuse for this war. But you are not the reason for it.”
I could see the confusion on Helen’s face. “What do you mean?”
Hector explained, “Agamemnon and the other Achaian princes have long sought a way to break Troy’s hold on the Dardanelles. He wants to be able to sail into the Sea of Black Waters without paying tribute to us.”
“But Agamemnon could never get the other kings and princes of Achaia to join him in war against us,” Priam added.
“Until my brother gave him the excuse he needed,” Hector said.
“It is not Paris’ fault alone,” Helen said quickly, as if someone else spoke the words for her. “I bear as much responsibility as he. More, even.”
They both shook their heads. I knew what was in their minds. A woman cannot be responsible for such mighty affairs of state. A woman could only be a pawn, an object of desire, a passive onlooker, helpless before the strength of men. An excuse, not a reason. Men make decisions. Men make wars.
“You must not blame yourself for this war,” Priam said gently. “It is not your fault, Helen. It is the gods who have brought this calamity upon us.”
Her eyes were on Hector, though.
He returned her gaze in thoughtful silence. At last he said, “Paris was wrong to take you from Menalaos. If there is any fault here, it is his.”
It was useless to argue with them. Instead, Helen insisted, “Even if I am not the cause of the war, I can stop it.”
Hector’s eyes were locked on hers. “You cannot . . .”
“I can,” she said firmly. “I can return to Menalaos. Then Agamemnon and all the others will have to leave.”
Priam shook his white-maned head. “I doubt that they will.”
“They will have to,” she said. “What reason can Agamemnon give the other Achaian kings once I have returned to Menalaos?”
Hector snapped out a single word. “Loot.”
Helen was not convinced. “Ask for Odysseos to come into the city to discuss ending the war. He is wise—”
“Crafty,” Hector said.
“He is my father’s firm friend. And he is high in the councils of the Achaians. Tell him that I will willingly return to Menalaos and see what he thinks of it.”
Hector stretched out his hand toward her, then drew it back as if he suddenly realized that he was reaching for a thing forbidden.
“What do you think my brother will say to your proposal?” he asked her.
Helen longed for him to tell her that he did not want her to leave Troy. But she knew he never would, never could.
“Paris will object, of course,” she answered. Then she turned to Priam. “But he cannot overrule the king.”
Priam sank his bearded chin into his hands, as if the weight of this decision was too much for him.
“If only the Hatti would answer my call for help,” he murmured.
“The Hatti?” she asked.
“A mighty empire,” replied Hector, “far to the east. They have been our allies for generations.”
“I sent an emissary to them when the Achaians first drew up their black boats on our shore,” Priam said. “Their army should come to our aid soon.”
Helen glanced at Hector. Gently, Hector said to his father, “If the Hatti have not come in all the time since we sent our emissary to them, Father, they are not coming at all.”
“Not so,” argued the king, his brow wrinkling. “Their capital is far to the east. They will come . . . any day now . . . they must come!”
Hector smiled sadly and said nothing more to disillusion his father.
Priam shook his white head. “The Achaians send back to their homeland for fresh warriors. We have only the villagers nearby to help us. The Hatti are our only chance to win this war.”
Both men looked at Helen. The brief surge of hope she had felt sank away like water seeping into sand.
“Call Odysseos,” she said. “Arrange a truce and offer to make peace.”
Priam blinked his watery eyes at her. I could see the conflict in his soul.
Hector said to his father, “Once we try to negotiate they will think we are weakening. It would be better to drive the Achaians away in fair battle than to barter for