A Thousand Ships(61)
‘Is that her?’ Neoptolemus asked.
‘Who else?’ Menelaus replied. His dislike of the boy was quite audible to Polyxena, but if Neoptolemus noticed it, he said nothing.
‘I thought she would be more impressive. She is meant to be a gift to my father, who gave his life to fight in your war.’
‘She is a princess of Troy,’ Menelaus said. ‘They’re all covered in soot and salt: we burned their city and left them on the shore.’
‘Wash yourself,’ Neoptolemus said without looking at her. ‘Take her and find her something to wear that isn’t in rags.’ Two mousy women stepped away from their soldiers and approached her slowly. She nodded to them – she would not scream or resist – and followed them into a nearby tent.
Polyxena waited while they heated water in a large open cauldron. She took a cloth from the smaller of the two women and tried to thank her. But wherever she had been captured they did not speak the same dialect as the Trojans. Polyxena could only nod and shake her head to be understood. She soaked the rag in warm water and drew it over her skin. She wiped away the greasy soot with relief. It took her longer than any bath she had ever taken. The women waited patiently, but still they both cast anxious eyes at the opening of the tent, waiting for a sudden explosion of rage from Neoptolemus. As the glances became more frequent, Polyxena hurried herself, rinsing the blackening cloth more quickly.
Eventually she stood clean and one of the women offered her a small bottle of oil. She took it gratefully and worked a thin layer into her skin. Then the taller woman opened a chest and unfolded a white dress, embroidered in red and gold. It was so incongruous that Polyxena almost laughed, like seeing a perfect flower amid a sea of mud. She reached her arms upwards, and the women helped her into the ceremonial gown. The last time she would ever put on a new garment, and she had women to help her, just like in Troy. She gave thanks once again to Artemis for saving her from the indignity of servitude. Better to die than live as these women, frightened by every gust of wind.
She gestured to the women to help her unbind her hair. Neither woman offered her a comb, so she pulled her fingers through it. It would flow across her shoulders and down her back. Her dark hair against the white dress would be striking. She had no jewellery to wear, but the embroidery would serve as decoration enough. She took the narrow leather thong which she had tied into her hair that last morning in Troy, and set it aside. She untied her sandals and placed them beside it. She had no further use for these last things which connected her to her old life. It was fitting that she leave them here.
She nodded to the women that she was ready and they scurried to open the flap of the tent. They stood back, holding the thick patched cloth to one side so it didn’t touch her dress. She stepped into the bright light, but it brought no tears to her eyes. One soldier noticed her and murmured something to his comrade, who turned and spoke to another Myrmidon. As she watched, they formed a line. The one closest to her beckoned her and she took an uncertain step towards him. He nodded, making a reassuring clicking sound with his tongue, as though she were an animal. As she reached him, he stepped away from her, nodding all the while so she would follow him as he went. She could not look away from his dark eyes, and the sounds of the camp, the sight of the other soldiers gazing at her, even the sour smell of them, all seemed to recede from her. She focused on nothing but his ox-eyes.
Gradually, he came to a halt and held up his hand so that she would stop too. The men behind her had broken their ranks and formed a tight semicircle. But she did not notice, any more than she saw the rest of the Myrmidons complete the circle ahead of her. She saw nothing but the man’s eyes and when he gave her one last gentle nod and stepped aside, she saw nothing but red hair and a glinting blade.
32
Themis
The judgement of Paris – as the gods had come to call it, because it placed all the blame so neatly on one mortal man for whom only Aphrodite had the slightest tolerance – had provided a rich vein of enjoyment. Old grudges could now be settled in a spectacular setting: a war at Troy. The gods picked their favourites among the warriors who were massing to fight on the Trojan plains. Some made their choices because of a particular relationship: Thetis supported her boy, Achilles; Aphrodite favoured her half-Trojan son, Aeneas. Athene had a long-held weakness for Odysseus: she always did like a man who was clever. Other gods had a more general animus or favour: Hera would never forgive Troy for spawning Paris; Apollo tended to favour the city, but sometimes changed sides depending on who had irritated him most recently.
They were relishing the prospect of a drawn-out conflict so much that it never occurred to any of them – even Athene – to ask where the golden apple which began everything had come from. It was obvious to all that Eris was responsible for producing it at Thetis’ wedding – the goddess of strife could not help herself, any more than Ares could stop fighting or Apollo could miss his mark. But Eris was no craftswoman, she could not have made such a trinket herself. No one even thought to ask her how she had come by the apple, with its inner radiance and its beautiful inscription. It was certainly not man-made: everyone knew the Greeks could only scratch ugly, linear words onto their artefacts. The writing on the apple was fluid and sinuous, almost demanding to be traced over with reverent fingers.
The only god who could have made such an object was Hephaestus, and he swore he had done no such thing. He disputed it hotly when Aphrodite was gloating over her bauble and demanding to know why her husband (who had no beauty, save in what he could create in his forge) had not simply given it to her when he had finished making it. He was more troubled about the apple’s origin than anyone: was there another god who could craft such wonders? And if there was such a god, what did that mean for Hephaestus, whose skill was his only claim to status among the Olympians? Without his ability to melt and hammer the most finely wrought bronze objects, which of the other gods would value him at all? Certainly not his wife, who had already shown her preference for the superior beauty of the thuggish bully, Ares. And where had the apple been made? It was inconceivable that it could have been produced anywhere but in his divine forge. So someone must have sneaked in when he was absent. His suspicion fell on several gods in turn, but he had no proof. And in fact, the guilty party was one he had never even considered.