“I agreed to the treaty only because Menelaus believes you might otherwise kill yourself. You’re a surprising woman, Helen. Sometimes I think I hardly know you.”
“Hush, my darling,” she says, gently placing her palm across his mouth. “No more words.”
Slowly they unclothe each other, methodically unlocking the doors to bliss — the straps and sashes, the snaps and catches — and thus begins their final, epic night together.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so judgmental,” says Paris.
“I accept your apology.”
“You are so beautiful. So impossibly beautiful …”
As dawn’s rosy fingers stretch across the Trojan sky, Hector’s faithful driver, Eniopeus the son of horse-loving Thebaios, steers his sturdy war chariot along the banks of the Menderes, bearing Helen to the Achaean stronghold. They reach the Arkadia just as the sun is cresting, so their arrival in the harbor becomes a flaming parade, a show of sparks and gold, as if they ride upon the burning wheels of Hyperion himself.
Helen starts along the dock, moving past the platoons of squawking gulls adrift on the early morning breeze. Menelaus comes forward to greet her, accompanied by a man for whom Helen has always harbored a vague dislike — broad-chested, black-bearded Teukros, illegitimate son of Telemon.
“The tide is ripe,” says her husband. “You and Teukros must board forthwith. You will find him a lively traveling companion. He knows a hundred fables and plays the harp.”
“Can’t you take me home?”
Menelaus squeezes his wife’s hand and, raising it to his lips, plants a gentle kiss. “I must see to the loading of my ships,” he explains, “the disposition of my battalions — a full week’s job, I’d guess.”
“Surely you can leave that to Agamemnon.”
“Give me seven days, Helen. In seven days I’ll be home, and we can begin picking up the pieces.”
“We’re losing the tide,” says Teukros, anxiously intertwining his fingers.
Do I trust my husband? Helen wonders as she strides up the Arkadia’s gangplank. Does he really mean to lift the siege?
All during their slow voyage out of the harbor, Helen is haunted. Nebulous fears, nagging doubts, and odd presentiments swarm through her brain like Harpies. She beseeches her beloved Apollo to speak with her, calm her, assure her all is well, but the only sounds reaching her ears are the creaking of the oars and the windy, watery voice of the Hellespont.
By the time the Arkadia finds the open sea, Helen has resolved to jump overboard and swim back to Troy.
“And then Teukros tried to kill you,” says Daphne.
“He came at you with his sword,” adds Damon.
This is the twins’ favorite part, the moment of grue and gore. Eyes flashing, voice climbing to a melodramatic pitch, I tell them how, before I could put my escape plan into action, Teukros began chasing me around the Arkadia, slashing his two-faced blade. I tell them how I got the upper hand, tripping the bastard as he was about to run me through.
“You stabbed him with his own sword, didn’t you, Mommy?” asks Damon.
“I had no choice.”
“And then his guts spilled, huh?” asks Daphne.
“Agamemnon had ordered Teukros to kill me,” I explain. “I was ruining everything.”
“They spilled out all over the deck, right?” asks Damon.
“Yes, dear, they certainly did. I’m quite convinced Paris wasn’t part of the plot, or Menelaus either. Your mother falls for fools, not maniacs.”
“What color were they?” asks Damon.
“Color?”
“His guts.”
“Red, mostly, with daubs of purple and black.”
“Neat.”
I tell the twins of my long, arduous swim through the strait. I tell them how I crossed Ilium’s war-torn fields, dodging arrows and eluding patrols.
I tell how I waited by the Skaian Gate until a farmer arrived with a cartload of provender for the besieged city … how I sneaked inside the walls, secluded amid stalks of wheat … how I went to Pergamos, hid myself in the temple of Apollo, and breathlessly waited for dawn.
Dawn comes up, binding the eastern clouds in crimson girdles. Helen leaves the citadel, tiptoes to the wall, and mounts the hundred granite steps to the battlements. She is unsure of her next move. She has some vague hope of addressing the infantrymen as they assemble at the gate. Her arguments have failed to impress the generals, but perhaps she can touch the heart of the common foot soldier.
It is at this ambiguous point in her fortunes that Helen runs into herself.
She blinks — once, twice. She swallows a sphere of air. Yes, it is she, herself, marching along the parapets. Herself? No, not exactly: an idealized rendition, the Helen of ten years ago, svelte and smooth.
As the troops march through the portal and head toward the plain, the strange incarnation calls down to them.
“Onward, men!” it shouts, raising a creamy white arm. “Fight for me!” Its movements are deliberate and jerky, as if sunbaked Troy has been magically transplanted to some frigid clime. “I’m worth it!”
The soldiers turn, look up. “We’ll fight for you, Helen!” a bowman calls toward the parapet.
“We love you!” a sword-wielder shouts.
Awkwardly, the incarnation waves. Creakily, it blows an arid kiss. “Onward, men! Fight for me! I’m worth it!”
“You’re beautiful, Helen!” a spear-thrower cries.
Helen strides up to her doppelgänger and, seizing the left shoulder, pivots the creature toward her.
“Onward, men!” it tells Helen. “Fight for me! I’m worth it!”
“You’re beautiful,” the spear-thrower continues, “and so is your mother!”
The eyes, Helen is not surprised to discover, are glass. The limbs are fashioned from wood, the head from marble, the teeth from ivory, the lips from wax, the tresses from the fleece of a darkling ram. Helen does not know for certain what forces power this creature, what magic moves its tongue, but she surmises that the genius of Athena is at work here, the witchery of ox-orbed Hera. Chop the creature open, she senses, and out will pour a thousand cogs and pistons from Hephaestus’s fiery workshop.
Helen wastes no time. She hugs the creature, lifts it off its feet. Heavy, but not so heavy as to dampen her resolve.
“Onward, men!” it screams as Helen throws it over her shoulder. “Fight for me! I’m worth it!”
