has declined to appear.
Panthoos rises, rubs his foam-white beard, and sets his scepter on the table. “Royal captains, gifted seers,” the old Trojan begins, “I believe you will concur when I say that, since this siege was laid, we have not faced a challenge of such magnitude. Make no mistake: Helen means to take our war away from us, and she means to do so immediately.”
Gusts of dismay waft through the tent like a wind from the underworld.
“We can’t quit now,” groans Hector, wincing fiercely.
“We’re just getting up to speed,” wails Hiketaon, grimacing greatly.
Agamemnon steps down from his throne, carrying his scepter like a spear. “I have a question for Prince Paris,” he says. “What does your mistress’s willingness to return to Argos say about the present state of your relationship?”
Paris strokes his jowls and replies, “As you might surmise, noble king, my feelings for Helen are predicated on requitement.”
“So you won’t keep her in Pergamos by force?”
“If she doesn’t want me, then I don’t want her.”
At which point slug-witted Ajax raises his hand. “Er, excuse me. I’m a bit confused. If Helen is ours for the asking, then why must we continue the war?”
A sirocco of astonishment arises among the heroes.
“Why?” gasps Panthoos. “Why? Because this is Troy, that’s why. Because we’re kicking off Western Civilization here, that’s why. The longer we can keep this affair going — the longer we can sustain such an ambiguous enterprise — the more valuable and significant it becomes.”
Slow-synapsed Ajax says, “Huh?”
Nestor has but to clear his throat and every eye is upon him. “What our adversary is saying — may I interpret, wise Panthoos?” He turns to his Trojan counterpart, bows deferentially, and, receiving a nod of assent, speaks to Ajax. “Panthoos means that, if this particular pretext for war — restoring a woman to her rightful owner — can be made to seem reasonable, then any pretext for war can be made to seem reasonable.” The mentor shifts his fevered stare from Ajax to the entire assembly. “By rising to this rare and precious occasion, we shall open the way for wars of religion, wars of manifest destiny — any equivocal cause you care to name.” Once again his gaze alights on Ajax. “Understand, sir? This is the war to inaugurate war itself. This is the war to make the world safe for war!”
Ajax frowns so vigorously his visor falls down. “All I know is, we came for Helen, and we got her. Mission accomplished.” Turning to Agamemnon, the berserker lifts the visor from his eyes. “So if it’s all the same to you, Majesty, I’d like to go home before I get killed.”
“O, Ajax, Ajax, Ajax,” moans Hector, pulling an arrow from his quiver and using it to scratch his back. “Where is your aesthetic sense? Have you no appreciation of war for war’s sake? The plains of Ilium are roiling with glory, sir. You could cut the arete with a knife. Never have there been such valiant eviscerations, such venerable dismemberments, such — ”
“I don’t get it,” says the berserker. “I just don’t get it.”
Whereupon Menelaus slams his wine goblet on the table with a resounding thunk. “We are not gathered in Priam’s tent so that Ajax might learn politics,” he says impatiently. “We are gathered so that we might best dispose of my wife.”
“True, true,” says Hector.
“So what are we going to do, gentlemen?” asks Menelaus. “Lock her up?”
“Good idea,” says Hiketaon.
“Well, yes,” says Agamemnon, slumping back onto his throne. “Except that, when the war finally ends, my troops will demand to see her. Might they not wonder why so much suffering and sacrifice was spent on a goddess gone to seed?” He turns to Paris and says, “Prince, you should not have let this happen.”
“Let what happen?” asks Paris.
“I heard she has wrinkles,” says Agamemnon.
“I heard she got fat,” says Nestor.
“What have you been feeding her?” asks Menelaus. “Bonbons?”
“She’s a person,” protests Paris. “She’s not a marble statue. You can hardly blame me …”
At which juncture King Priam raises his scepter and, as if to wound Gaea herself, rams it into the dirt.
“Noble lords, I hate to say this, but the threat is more immediate than you might suppose. In the early years of the siege, the sight of fair Helen walking the ramparts did wonders for my army’s morale. Now that she’s no longer fit for public display, well …”
“Yes?” says Agamemnon, steeling himself for the worst.
“Well, I simply don’t know how much longer Troy can hold up its end of the war. If things don’t improve, we may have to capitulate by next winter.”
Gasps of horror blow across the table, rattling the tent flaps and ruffling the aristocrats’ capes.
But now, for the first time, clever, canny Odysseus addresses the council, and the winds of discontent grow still. “Our course is obvious,” he says. “Our destiny is clear,” he asserts. “We must put Helen — the old Helen, the pristine Helen — back on the walls.”
“The pristine Helen?” says Hiketaon. “Are you not talking fantasy, resourceful Odysseus? Are you not singing a myth?”
The lord of all Ithaca strolls the length of Priam’s tent, plucking at his beard. “It will require some wisdom from Pallas Athena, some technology from Hephaestus, but I believe the project is possible.”
“Excuse me,” says Paris. “What project is possible?”
“Refurbishing your little harlot,” says Odysseus. “Making the dear, sweet strumpet shine like new.”
Back and forth, to and fro, Helen moves through her boudoir, wearing a ragged path of angst into the carpet. An hour passes. Then two. Why are they taking so long?
What most gnaws at her, the thought that feasts on her entrails, is the possibility that, should the council not accept her surrender, she will have to raise the stakes. And how might she accomplish the deed? By what means might she book passage on Charon’s one-way ferry? Something from her lover’s arsenal, most likely — a sword, spear, dagger, or death-dripping arrow. O, please, my lord Apollo, she prays to the city’s prime protector, don’t let it come to that.
At sunset Paris enters the room, his pace leaden, his jowls dragging his mouth into a grimace. For the first time ever, Helen observes tears in her lover’s eyes.
“It is finished,” he moans, doffing his plumed helmet. “Peace has come. At dawn you must go to the long ships. Menelaus will bear you back to Sparta, where you will once again live as mother to his children, friend to his concubines, and emissary to his bed.”
Relief pours out of Helen in a deep,
