crack, and the spear broke and fell to the ground. Then Menelaus in turn raised his spear and hurled it at Paris with enormous power. It hit in the middle of the shield and the deadly point tore through and pierced the breastplate, grazing Paris in the side. Menelaus drew his sword and rushed at him. He struck him hard on the helmet, but the sword broke. He cursed the gods and then with a leap grabbed Paris by the head, hands clutching the shining plumed helmet. And he began to drag him towards the Achaeans, Paris lying in the dust and he, holding the helmet in a murderous grip, dragging him, until the leather strap that held the helmet in place under his chin broke and Menelaus found himself with the helmet empty in his hands. He raised it to the sky, turned to the Achaeans, and, swinging it in the air, tossed it among them. When he turned again towards Paris, he saw that he had escaped, disappearing among the ranks of the Trojans.
It was at that moment that the woman touched my veil and spoke to me. She was an old seamstress who had come with me from Sparta, and had sewed splendid garments for me there. She loved me, and I was afraid of her. That day, up on the tower above the Scaean gates, she came to me and in a low voice said, ‘Come, Paris awaits you in his bed. He has put on his finest garments – as if he had returned from a feast rather than a fight.’
I was astonished. ‘Miserable creature,’ I said to her, ‘why do you want to tempt me? You would be capable of bringing me to the ends of the earth if a man there was dear to you. Now, because Menelaus has defeated Paris and wants to take me home, you come to me plotting deception … You go to Paris. Why don’t you marry him, or become his slave? I will not go, it would be dishonourable. All the women of Troy would feel shame for me. Let me stay here, with my grief.’
Then the old woman looked at me in fury. ‘Be careful,’ she said, ‘and don’t make me angry. I could abandon you here and sow hatred everywhere, until you would find yourself dying a miserable death.’ She frightened me, I told you. Old people, often, inspire fear. I held the shining white veil tight around my head and followed her. They were all looking down towards the plain. No one saw me. I went to Paris’s rooms and found him there. A woman who loved him had enabled him to enter Troy through a secret gate and had saved him.
The old woman took a chair and placed it facing him. Then she told me to sit. I did. I couldn’t look him in the eyes, but I said to him, ‘So you escaped the battle. I wish you were dead, killed by that magnificent warrior who was my first husband. You who boasted you were the stronger … You should go back and challenge him again. But you know very well that it would be the end of you.’
I remember that then Paris asked me not to hurt him with my cruel insults. He said to me that Menelaus had won that day, because the gods were on his side, but maybe the next time he would win, because he, too, had friends among the gods. And then he said to me: Come, let’s make love. He asked if I remembered the first time, on the island of Cranae, the day after he abducted me. And he said to me: Not even that day did I desire you as much as I desire you now. Then he rose and went to the bed. And I followed him.
He was the man who in that moment everyone down on the plain was searching for. He was the man whom no one, neither Achaean nor Trojan, would have helped or hidden that day. He was the man they all hated, as the black goddess of death is hated.
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