Ithaca (12 page)

“This is my courtyard,” Menelaus tells us. “My altar to Hera, my favorite goddess.”

He turns us toward the other end, where the statue of him stands on a fat block of granite.

“Me,” he says, as if we hadn't noticed. “I had marble for the statue brought from Attica. Fifteen shiploads. Any flaw in the stone, we threw it overboard. I said, ‘I only want the best for my statue.' Helen, my wife, agreed. The sculptor? I only wanted the best in Greece. He was working in a town
in Thrace, so I went to the town. I sacked it. I said, ‘You only work for me.' He made the statue, he died. A tragedy. He was my friend. I said to him, ‘At least now you're dying, you can say you've made a masterpiece.' I'll never forget the tears in his eyes. Gratitude. That's the staircase leading to my guest rooms. This is my great hall.”

Like the courtyard, the great hall of Sparta dwarfs the halls at Ithaca or Pylos. Columns support thick wooden beams that are carved and painted in the shapes of wild beasts. The walls are decorated with frescoes. Four soldiers stand on guard around the hearth, whose smoldering logs fill the room with a sickly reek of incense. On each of the columns hang huge bronze shields, and more war trophies decorate the walls above the frescoes: a breastplate molded in the form of writhing snakes, helmets, a war chariot's gilded yoke.

“My trophies,” Menelaus says, pointing. “From Troy. Later, when you've rested, I'll describe them to you. You can't wait? You want to hear about them now?” He gives a low, indulgent laugh. “Then I'll tell you. This is the armor of Hector, greatest of the Trojan fighters. His helmet. Two wheels from his chariot. This is Paris's armor. The shield of Priam . . . Priam, king of Troy—greatest city in the world—his shield on my wall. The breastplate of Deiphobus, solid gold, I cut it from his body myself. He was still alive. I said, ‘You anger the Atreids, you pay the price.' His shoes. The shield of Hippodamus, son of Priam, the spear of Chersidamas . . .”

The recitation seems to go on forever, shield by shield, spear by spear. Just when we're hoping it's over, Menelaus claps his hands for a servant, who brings in trays of jewelry, copper bars, temple offerings, each one in a case lined with red silk. Each has a story that Menelaus tells us in detail. Sometimes he pretends to forget a name and claps his hand for the servant, who steps forward and mutters in his ear.

“Doryclus,” Menelaus says. “Inside the citadel. Third door on the right. His wife is my slave. Do you know, I can see the citadel of Troy today as clearly as if I was still walking through it. And both of your fathers . . .” He comes forward and engulfs us in another hug. “Both of your fathers were right behind me. The loyalest friends I knew. ‘Odysseus,' I said, ‘You take the streets on the right. Nestor, the left.' They obeyed my orders.” He clicks his fingers. “Like that.”

“My father . . .” I say, thinking I'll be able to get in a question, but Menelaus is on to the next shield, the next glittering dagger. It's over at last. A maidservant comes forward at Menelaus's command and shows us the way upstairs—with a strict order to return when the bell rings—to two luxurious guest rooms whose windows overlook a garden of gravel paths and orange trees. We collapse on chairs in Polycaste's room.

“He's a fool,” she says scornfully.

“He can't be that much of a fool.”

“He behaves like one. ‘My dining table. My chair.'” She stabs a finger at her chair, which is upholstered in crocodile skin dyed a vivid purple. “I can't believe it. He's supposed to be the greatest king of all.

“‘My palace . . . My guests . . . I want this to be your home.'” Polycaste shakes her head. We're laughing now.

“I want to meet Helen.”

“We will.”

When the bell rings, drinks—delicately spiced wine in silver cups—are served on a garden terrace lined with orange trees. You can smell their sweet fragrance drifting across beds of well-tended plants. We're so high up we can't even see the town. A servant stands behind each chair to refill our cups. Both of us are washed and dressed. In each of our rooms we found a deep marble tub filled with water that actually spouted from pipes in the shape of dolphins' beaks. Next to each stood cedar
chests filled with soft silken robes, Polycaste's blue and mine white, which we're wearing as we recline on wooden benches, listening to Menelaus talk.

“So you've come to bring respects. I'm glad you've come. Polycaste . . . Telemachus . . . I'm glad you're my friends.”

But I can't wait any longer now. “I came for news of my father,” I say.

There's a moment's silence. Menelaus makes a funny, troubled frown, like I haven't understood the rules. He brushes the frown away as if it were an annoying insect. “Your father,” he says. “Odysseus. Odysseus—my friend.”

Polycaste says, “Nestor, my father, sends his respects. His
deep
respects. He thought you might have news of Odysseus.”

“News. Do you know, I have messengers who can reach the coast in two days . . . the coast anywhere in southern Greece. Horses . . . I have horses that can gallop all day, horses never seen in Greece before, I brought them back from Troy. Tomorrow, I'll show you my stables.”

“Have your messengers ever brought news of my father?”

Menelaus looks away across the terrace, where we can see distant peaks of mountains inland. His face is serious, suddenly, and so, when he speaks, is his voice.

“Yes, I have news of Odysseus,” he says quietly.

Suddenly my hands are shaking. My throat feels so full I can hardly speak. “Tell me.”

“Not now.”

“Please.”

He shakes his silky red hair. “Tomorrow you'll hear for yourself.”

“Is my father still alive?”

Menelaus looks at me then. “Yes. Odysseus is still alive.”

“Where is he?”

Menelaus raises his hand warningly. “No more for now.”

There's a long silence. I don't know what to say, what to ask. “Tell me about him,” I say at last, in a weak voice.

“About Odysseus?” Menelaus juts out his lower lip, brooding. “He was a hero.”

“Some people call him a liar.”

“Ignore them.” He speaks without a moment's hesitation. “People are jealous. They try to tear great men down. Your father was a hero. That's all you need to know.”

“Tell me . . .”

“Enough.” Menelaus lifts his hand imperiously. He's looking across the terrace toward the house. “Here she is at last,” he purrs in a different voice. “My wife.”

I turn. Helen of Troy is walking toward us across the gravel. My mind is still full of what I've just heard, but even so, Helen is overwhelming. She's more beautiful than any woman I've ever seen, more beautiful than any person ought to be. Her cheekbones are high, like a cat's, her eyes green, wide and somehow caressing, as if they bless everything they touch. She has golden hair tied carelessly up in a simple ribbon. There's no point decorating it—any ornament would look drab on that face. Her nose is straight, her lips parted in an expression of slight amusement, like someone's just told her a joke and she wants to please them by smiling. She's wearing a simple gown of green silk, caught in gold clasps that show off her long, shapely arms. A simple bracelet encircles her right wrist. I can see soft shadows under her collarbones.

I stand up.

“Telemachus.” Helen's voice is low and thrilling. “Odysseus's son. Polycaste . . . you've grown so
beautiful
.”

Helen's lips brush my cheek, leaving behind a faint cloud of rose petals and lavender. I stand there gawping as she moves on to embrace Polycaste. It isn't just her beauty. It's what that name means—Helen of Troy. I'm thinking,
This is the woman
they fought the war for
. How many people died because of her? Thousands? And what did it feel like, to have caused all that? Death, destruction, the end of a city. Bloody slaughter on the battlefield, a town in flames.

Helen sits down on one of the wooden couches. “It's cold,” she says, yawning. “Too cold to be sitting out. The sunset is lovely, though.” Her green eyes turn toward me. “So you're Odysseus's son. Odysseus was my friend.” Her voice grows even more thrilling as she leans toward me. “I hope you will be too.” I don't know how she does it. There's something in her voice that seems to plead for protection—and suddenly I realize I'm ready to do just that. I'd do anything she asked.

Helen glances at her husband before going on—a flickering glance with something of a challenge in it. “I remember Odysseus coming to Troy,” she says in the same caressing voice. “He broke in through a side door by himself . . . can you imagine the courage? Disguised as a Trojan, wearing clothes like theirs.
Reconnoitering
.” Her voice mocks the military word. “And he bumps into me, poor man, out walking with my women. Our eyes meet. Well, we knew each other before, of course, before the war. I knew him straightaway. And do you know what I
felt
? Do you know what I felt?” She presses one hand to her chest and leans forward, her wide, beautiful eyes full of tears. “Just seeing him, I wanted to cry. His face said,
Greece
. It said,
Home
. My women thought I was ill. I didn't give him away. I told my women, ‘Just leave me a moment, I'll come back alone.' I wanted to talk to Odysseus. To your dear, dear father. The moment we were alone, I embraced him. I couldn't help myself. Dear Odysseus from dear Greece. Troy, you know, by then . . .” She looks up at the darkening sky, fanning tears from her eyes. “It was a prison.” She looks beseechingly at us. Polycaste's face is set. Menelaus isn't saying anything, but he's glowering at his wife as she talks. There's trouble coming. “It was
hell
, sheer
hell. I used to go up to the walls every night. I'd stare out across the plain, and in the distance . . .” She lifts one hand, pointing. “I'd see the Greek campfires burning, and I'd think,
There are my friends. Odysseus, dear Nestor . . . and there . .
.” Her voice catches. “. . .
there's my darling husband, Menelaus . .
.” She swallows and stops, eyes glistening.

Menelaus clears his throat deliberately.

Helen puts her fingers to her temples. Her voice is almost inaudible. “It takes time, you know, to recover . . . Some things you can't forget, you're too young to understand that. Every night I'd go back to that man . . . that
awful
man Paris, the one who abducted me. I'd lie next to him in the dark and think,
How many more days?
I knew we'd win in the end, you see. I knew Menelaus would come for me . . .” She gives her husband an adoring smile, leans forward, and reaches out a hand to clasp his.

Menelaus doesn't take it. He's scowling now, his big-man, goodwill expression turned into vicious anger. When he ignores her hand, Helen stoops and fiddles with her sandal, like that was why she reached out in the first place.

“Your father,” she goes on with a bright smile, “was the first Greek I'd spoken to in eight years. Eight
wasted
years. I couldn't stop crying. He drew me into a doorway so we could talk. That's when we came up with it. The wooden horse. I said, ‘You'll never break the walls. They're too strong. This is how to get in.' Odysseus was
so
clever. I showed him the temple where the horse would be brought. I said, ‘This is the message to give my husband . . . “Then . . . this was the worst, the
worst
bit . . . I had to go back to the palace and pretend to all the Trojans I was still on their side. Even pretend with that man, that
dreadful
man . . .”

She stops. Menelaus has leaned forward. Slowly, deliberately, he knocks three times on the table in front of him. His eyes are
on his wife, his face full of contempt. He knocks again, three times. Helen is staring at him. Now she looks scared.

“When you get older,” Menelaus says quietly as he sits back, “you'll learn memory plays tricks. Isn't that right,
darling
?” Helen winces at the sudden viciousness in his voice. Menelaus leans forward again, muscles bunching under his soft silk gown. “I was in the horse that night. With your father . . .” He's talking to us but looking at his wife. “Twenty men. Twenty brave men crouched in the darkness, not making a sound. We felt the horse move. We heard them celebrating outside. I was
there
.” He seems a different man from the host who showed off his palace and treasures this afternoon. Smaller, nastier, but more real. “We waited until the celebrations were over. They'd lit fires. We saw them glow through chinks in the wood. We thought they were going to burn the horse and us in it. But the fires burned down. It was dark. Still we waited. Then what did we hear?” He stares at his wife. “Voices. Two voices. One of them I knew.” By now he looks as if he's about to pounce on Helen. She's twisted away from him. Frozen. Contemptuous. “My wife. The woman I hadn't seen for eight years—the one so many good men had died for. The man with her? Paris.” He sits slowly back again. “Drunk. But I heard her . . . we all heard her . . . ‘Don't trust them. Don't trust them. I know Odysseus. It's a trick.' Nothing from Paris. Then what?” He leans forward and raps slowly three times on the table. “She's knocking on the horse. She knows it's hollow. ‘Is there anyone in there? Hello?' My
darling
wife. Who missed Greece
so
much, and couldn't
wait
to be back with her friends . . .” Menelaus picks up his silver cup and throws his head back, draining it in one draft. “Paris was drunk, thank the gods. He didn't listen. Two hours later, I killed him myself.”

Helen laughs suddenly. A low, thrilling laugh. “I wish he wouldn't,” she says. “Joker. He knows it drives me wild.” She
stands up. “We should dine. In honor of our
guests
.” She stresses the word, but Menelaus doesn't stand with her. Watching her, he holds his cup out to a servant, waits for it to fill, then drains it again.