The Hittite - Ben Bova [93]
“Helen!” His mouth twitched, as if he was trying to say words that would not leave his soul.
She did not smile, but her eyes searched his. The other Achaians watched them dumbly.
Every emotion a human being can show flashed across Menalaos’ face. Helen simply stood there, in his grip, waiting for him to speak, to act, to make his decision on whether she lived or died.
Agamemnon broke the silence. “Well, Brother, I promised you we’d get her back! She’s yours once again, to deal with as you see fit.”
Menalaos swallowed hard and finally found his voice. “You are my wife, Helen,” he said, more for the ears of Agamemnon and the others than for hers, I thought. “What’s happened since Paris abducted you was not of your doing. A woman captive is not responsible for what happens to her during her captivity.”
I thought grimly that Menalaos wanted her back so badly that he was willing to forget everything that had happened. For now.
Agamemnon clapped his brother on the back gleefully. “I’m only sorry that Paris didn’t have the courage to face me, man to man. I would have gladly spitted him on my spear.”
“Where is Paris?” Menalaos growled.
“Dead,” I answered. “His body is in the square by the Scaean Gate.”
The women started to cry, all except Helen. They sobbed quietly as they stood by their mother’s bier. But Cassandra’s eyes blazed with unconcealed fury.
“Odysseos is going through the city to find all the princes and noblemen,” said Agamemnon. “Those who still live will make a noble sacrifice for the gods.” He laughed at his own pun.
I left Troy for the final time, marching with the Achaian victors through the burning city as Agamemnon led the seven Trojan princesses back to his camp and slavery. Menalaos walked side by side with Helen, which somehow stirred a simmering anger in me. His wife once more. Thanks to me. I brought them this victory and she goes back to him.
I shook my head, trying to clear such thoughts away. To night I claim my sons and my wife. Tomorrow we leave Troy forever.
And go where?
A guard of honor escorted our little pro cession, spears held stiffly up to the blackened sky. Wailing and sobs rose all around us; the air was filled with the stench of blood and smoke.
I trailed behind and noted that Helen never touched Menalaos, not even to take his hand. I remembered what Apet had told me, that being a wife among the Achaians, even a queen, was little better than being a slave.
She never touched Menalaos, and he hardly glanced at her after that first emotion-charged meeting in the temple of Aphrodite at dead Hecuba’s bier.
But she looked back at me over her shoulder more than once, looked at me, as if to make certain that I was not far from her.
IV
HELEN’S FATE
1
The Achaian camp was one gigantic orgy of feasting and roistering all that long afternoon and into the evening. There was no semblance of order and no attempt to do anything but drink, wench, eat and celebrate the victory. Men staggered about drunkenly, draped in precious robes pillaged from the burning city. Women cowered and trembled— those that were not beaten or savaged into insensibility.
Fights broke out. Men quarreled over a goblet or a ring or, more often, a woman. Blood flowed and many Achaians who thought they were safe now that the war had ended learned that death could find them even in the midst of triumph.
Above it all rose the plume of black smoke that marked Troy’s funeral pyre. The whole city was blazing now, up on its bluff. Even from the beach we could see the flames soaring through the roofs of the citadel and temples.
It was nearly sunset by the time I arrived back where Odysseos’ boats were lying on the sand. My men were nowhere in sight, although Poletes was sitting there glumly by the cook fire, still with my armlet hung ridiculously around his scrawny neck.
“Have you seen Odysseos?” I asked as I took it from him and fitted it back on my bicep.
“He and the other kings have gone to Agamemnon