He knocked my hand away. “I hate you both,” he snarled. “Someday you will pay for your arrogance. I swear it, brother.”
He got up and stomped off the field, the walls of our city strong and proud behind him. And that, I think, was the beginning of the Trojan War.
Six years passed. I married Andromache, the daughter of the King of Cilician Thebes. It was a marriage of dynastic convenience. She was plain and short and had blond hair, a rarity among the Trojans. Andromache was a devoted mother and an obedient wife. Plentiful food was always available at my hearth, and good wine at my table. She welcomed my companions and managed our apartments with an eye towards order. I was content and came to feel affection for her. Even Priam grudgingly respected her.
My father sat upon his throne, the open four-pillared hearth in the center of the room swept clean and heaped with flowers and fragrant cedar. The walls were painted in the style of Mycenae with colorful frescoes of horses, animals for which Troy was famous. The bright afternoon sun of summer shone through the opening over the hearth, scattering the shadows. We, the leaders of Troy, stood on each side of the throne, flanking Priam. We had assembled to greet my brother and his bride, Helen, come home from Achaea.
“What was Paris thinking?” my father muttered. “I told him I was arranging a match for him before he left. Now he has ruined everything.” He took a long drink from the cup in his hand and gestured to a slave to have it refilled for the third time.
“He’s done good work as ambassador,” I said. “He has earned the trust of our allies and won you several more.”
“But not this time. I sent him to Achaea to blunt their anger, not kindle it. Agamemnon and his war party had few allies among the other Achaean kings. They may hate us because our city sits astride the straits and we tax their ships, but there was little enthusiasm for a war. If the rumors of Paris’s seduction of Helen are true, all that has changed.”
I decided to keep my own counsel. Arguing with my father was like trying to yoke a charging bull. Wine made him worse. Besides, I knew that the seduction was not a rumor. I had questioned Paris’s advisor last night as soon as he had debarked from Paris’s ship.
The Achaeans had ridiculed Paris, the advisor told me, insulting his skill with horse and bow. Menelaus, Agamemnon’s brother, had been the most vocal. Paris had responded the way he always did. Without thinking. He’d kidnapped the man’s wife, fled Achaea with her like a thief, and married her. Now we waited for this troublesome woman to be formally introduced to the king.
We could hear laughter and footsteps echoing down the long hallway. Two voices: Paris, and the other must be Helen. Men said she was the most beautiful woman in Achaea. We would soon see how much the Achaeans lied.
They entered the throne room. Paris had grown a beard while he was in Achaea. He was still thin, and shorter than me by a head. He wore an elaborate cape with designs of marsh fowl along the border. His short, sleeveless tunic was red. I couldn’t tell you what Helen wore. Something plain that didn’t compete with her looks. Her eyes were piercing blue, and put to shame the snow glories that carpeted the mountains of the Hittites in spring. She wore an outline of kohl around her eyes, in the Egyptian style. Her lips were painted red, and her fine blond hair hung in elaborate curls down to her shoulders. Next to me Andromache fingered her own blond hair. Hers was drab and coarse in comparison to Helen’s. The Achaeans, for once, had not lied.
The newly wed couple stood before the throne hand in hand and bowed. My father took a moment to find his voice. “Um, greetings, Helen. And... son.” He licked his lips, took another sip of wine, and began again. “You are welcome here, Daughter. I extend the hospitality and protection of my house. I have given you the rooms next to Hector and Andromache.”
He said many other things. I didn’t hear them. My heart was beating too loudly to make out his words, and my mouth was as dry as straw. My manhood stiffened and I had to concentrate on the horse frescoes to master my arousal. I was not completely successful. My eyes kept darting back to the woman whom Paris had brought among us.
Andromache shook my arm. I looked up in confusion. Helen was staring at me, a slight smile on her lips. They looked like the ripe, wild berries of summer.
“Hector?” said my father. He sounded annoyed.
“Yes, Father?”
“I asked you if you had any questions for Helen regarding the Achaeans. You have been brooding since last night. Here is a chance to hear what council they keep.”
“I have one question,” I said, glaring at Helen. She had embarrassed me. “Will Agamemnon go to war to get you back?”
She laughed. It made me think of the sound a brook makes in spring, splashing over the smooth stones. “War? The Achaeans have no love for me. I was not happy with my husband.” She flushed. “My previous husband, Menelaus, nor he with me. They will be glad to see me gone. You can dismiss your fears if it is war that frightens you.”
She took Paris’s arm in her embrace and laid her head upon his shoulder. He smiled like a besotted fool. She was seven years his senior yet somehow managed to look younger than he. She was thin by nature, and women like that retain their beauty. She never took her eyes off me.
Did I see a challenge in them?
“You have your answer,” pronounced my father. “No war. The couple must be weary after their voyage. My steward will show you to the rooms I have had prepared.”
Helen stepped forward. “A moment, sire — Father. I have a favor to ask.” She spoke up in the throne room just as a man would. Apparently she was accustomed to being indulged.
My father tolerated her boldness. “Yes, daughter?”
“I beg your permission to establish a sacred grove to Aphrodite, and begin the worship of her here.”
That was the other thing they said about Helen. She never forgot to honor her goddess. It was harmless enough, and my father agreed.
Helen and Paris bowed, then followed the steward through the side door that led to the royal apartments.
I called the captains Kilistes and Paramenes immediately to my side. “Gather the host, Kilistes. Send ships to Imbros, Lemnos, and Lesbos to spy out any Achaean activity. Put watchers along the coast and double the guards on the walls. Send messages to our allies to be prepared to come to Troy in case of war.” I turned to Paramenes. “Start moving stores into the palace granary. Have the shepherds drive their flocks close to the walls. In case of a siege, I want food to last a year. The Achaeans will be gone by then.”
“The Achaeans?” asked Kilistes. “Helen said there’d be no war.”
“Helen is more familiar with matters of the bedroom than she is with matters of war. A woman’s smile will not blind us.” The cruel edge in my voice was meant to disguise the whispers in my heart.
“Did you see the way she looked at me?” Kilistes said, lowering his voice. “I don’t know what those looks mean in Sparta, but I know what they mean in Troy. Do you think the stories they tell about her are true?”
“You fool,” said Paramenes. “Her eyes were on me. Now I have to go home and stare at my wife, but I will be seeing someone else.” We all laughed, and my captains departed.
They were both fools. I knew at whom she had been staring.
I sensed a presence behind me and knew who it was before turning. Andromache. She had pulled her wrap closely about her as if she were chilled, despite the sun’s heat that reached deep into this many-chambered pile of stone.
“I saw the way you looked at that woman,” she said.
My heart thumped in my chest, so loudly that she had to have heard it. My blood still raced from the brief encounter with Helen. I raised my hand to my forehead. I felt warm. Probably I was flushed as well. She’d be able to interpret the signs.