A Thousand Ships(45)

And for what reason? Too many men telling the stories of men to each other. Do they see themselves reflected in the glory of Achilles? Do their ageing bodies feel strong when they describe his youth? Is the fat belly of a feasted poet reminiscent of the hard muscles of Hector? The idea is absurd. And yet, there must be some reason why they tell and retell tales of men.

If he complains to me again, I will ask him this: is Oenone less of a hero than Menelaus? He loses his wife so he stirs up an army to bring her back to him, costing countless lives and creating countless widows, orphans and slaves. Oenone loses her husband and she raises their son. Which of those is the more heroic act?





22


The Trojan Women


Helen was first to see the men approaching from the Greek camp. Hecabe had spent the night grieving for her son. Polyxena, Andromache and all the Trojan women had joined her in her lamentations, although it was hard to say whether Cassandra had accompanied them or whether she had just been weeping of her own accord. Helen approached the women who despised her and told them the news.

‘The Greeks are coming.’

Hecabe raised her ravaged face, thick purple lines showing the place where she had raked her fingernails across her skin. ‘What do they want?’ she wept. ‘Are they planning to stop me from burying my son? Is that what comes next? Will they add one more impiety to so many others?’

‘Perhaps,’ Helen replied.

‘Don’t antagonize her,’ Polyxena said. ‘Please. Haven’t you done enough?’

‘I’m not trying to antagonize her,’ Helen said. ‘I’m doing her the courtesy of telling her the truth. Perhaps they have come to take Polydorus away. Perhaps they have come to take me away. Or you. Or any of us.’

‘How can you be so guiltless when all of this is your fault?’ Polyxena asked. ‘How?’

‘It isn’t her fault,’ said her mother, her voice ragged from the long night. ‘It is mine.’

‘Yours?’ said Polyxena, and Andromache saw that she and Helen shared a brief expression of perplexity. ‘How can it be your fault?’

‘We were told when he was born that he would be Troy’s downfall,’ cried Hecabe. ‘The prophecy was clear: we were to kill Paris or he would live to kill us all.’

There was silence. ‘Why didn’t you . . .?’ Polyxena could not finish. Even as they were inhaling the smoke from their ruined city, she could not say it. Why hadn’t they killed the brother she did not even know she had until he walked into the city as a grown man and demanded his birthright?

‘Why didn’t we heed the advice of the gods?’ Hecabe said. ‘You are not yet married.’

At this Cassandra let out a low howl, but no one paid her any heed. Hecabe continued: ‘You cannot know what it is like to look at your own newborn child and be told that he will be the downfall of your city. He was so . . .’ She hesitated, unable to find a word which was not painfully bathetic. ‘Small. He was so small, and his eyes were immense, and he was perfect. And we could not – I could not – suffocate him, as we had been told to do. He was too small. When you have your own child you will understand.’

‘So what did you do with him?’ Helen asked. She never spoke of Hermione, the girl she had left behind in Sparta. Helen could not even say for sure that her daughter was still alive. She did not mention it, because she knew she would be harangued by Hecabe or Polyxena for having the audacity to claim she missed a daughter she had willingly abandoned. But you could abandon someone and still miss them.

‘We gave him to Agelaus, my husband’s herdsman,’ Hecabe said. ‘We told him to expose the child outside the walls of Troy. On the mountain somewhere.’

‘You sent Paris to die?’ Polyxena asked.

‘To save you all,’ Hecabe replied. ‘To save all our other children, even the ones not yet born. The terrible destiny belonged to Paris and Paris alone. If he died, the rest of you would live. The city would stand. Priam and I both agreed it was a price worth paying. We just couldn’t bear to watch him die.’ Polyxena stared at her. She had always known her mother could be ruthless, but this was something different, a strange combination of sentiment and brutality. As Hecabe spoke, Polyxena found herself struggling to see her mother’s usual expression or hear her reassuring, irritable voice.

‘But the herdsman ignored your husband’s command,’ Helen said. ‘That is not your fault.’

Hecabe usually refused to look at Helen, depriving herself of the sight. But now she stared up into Helen’s perfect eyes.

‘It is,’ she murmured. ‘I knew the herdsman would betray us. I knew he was weak, I knew he would take the boy and keep him as his own. He was always soft-hearted. He couldn’t even kill a wolf-cub if he found one away from its mother. Imagine that! A herdsman who can’t kill a wolf. I knew he would be too feeble to kill a child. But I said nothing.’

‘Did Priam also know the herdsman had this weakness?’ Helen asked. Hecabe nodded. ‘So, again, it is not your fault. Or at least not your fault alone,’ Helen said. ‘Priam made the same decision, and Paris was his son, Troy his kingdom. You were his partner in all things, but you were not his ruler. The larger share of the blame lies in Priam’s hands.’

‘In Priam’s grave,’ Hecabe said. ‘But among the living, I carry the guilt. And now Paris has cost me my youngest, blameless son. One last grief to reproach me for my selfishness and my folly.’