Part 11 (1/2)

She paused for a moment, sensing that the sun had finally disappeared below the horizon. A cool breeze drifted up from the sea, fanning her long feet and bare s.h.i.+ns.

'And what is this choice I've made? Paris and I haven't even become lovers yet; we've sailed from one place to another Egypt, Phoenicia and now Cyprus and though I know I love him and he loves me, we've shared nothing more adulterous than a kiss. I know why. My mind has dwelt too long on what I've left behind: Hermione, Aethiolas and Maraphius; a safe and familiar home; even Menelaus's devotion and tenderness. And all that lies ahead are an unknown future with a strange man in a foreign city. Will his family and the people of Troy love me, or will they despise me if war and suffering follow in my wake? Will even Paris continue to love me, or will he tire of my fine looks and abandon me? Worse still, will he return me to Menelaus, an unfaithful and despised wife? Oh, why did you make me fall in love, turning my mind so that I deserted a loving husband and my beautiful children? I should have been a follower of Artemis or Athena instead!'

'Could anything be as dull as wors.h.i.+pping those old maids?'

Startled, Helen looked up and saw an ancient crone standing on the beach before her. She was dressed in a collection of brown rags that covered her from head to foot, leaving only her wizened, toothless face exposed. Her back was bent almost double and her leathery fingers were twisted about clumps of seaweed that hung down to the sand. Helen's faultless features soured in revulsion at the woman's appearance.

'You shouldn't eavesdrop on a person's private prayers, old hag.'

'Prayers is said to be heard, so they say. I might as well hear yours as anyone else.'

'Why would I pray to you?' Helen frowned. 'You can't answer prayers.'

'It sounds to me like your prayers aren't being answered anyway.'

'How long have you been listening to me?'

To Helen's disgust, the old woman began shambling up the sand towards her.

'Longer than you might think, my young beauty,' she said, sitting on the gra.s.s beside her. 'Much longer than you might think. Now, tell me about this young man this Paris.'

'I'm not going to discuss Paris with an old sea-wife who stinks of brine and . . . and stale p.i.s.s!'

The crone smiled and her eyes almost disappeared beneath a ma.s.s of brown wrinkles. 'Then I'll tell you something about him, my dear. Paris's pa.s.sion has always been for fighting, and his loyalty has always been to Troy. But deep down he boils with a desire to be wanted to be loved! He was rejected as a child, you see, and that has never left him, even if his warrior's self-discipline has helped him to control his emotions. But now you've entered his life and left him confused. You've torn him in half.'

'How do you know these things?' Helen interrupted, her revulsion momentarily forgotten.

'I know men, my dear. Look into his eyes and you'll see his heart belongs to you, but that male brain of his is still possessed by notions of duty and service. For years he has trained and fought and followed orders; every atom of his being has been polarized towards these trivialities. But ever since you opened his eyes to the world within the world of the heart he has struggled between two choices: a leap into the unknown or a return to what is familiar.'

'What do you mean?' Helen demanded, her face now filled with concern.

'I'm sorry, my sweet,' the crone replied. 'Have I upset you? Perhaps I should leave.'

'No! Stay, please. Are you suggesting Paris is regretting what he has done? Will he send me back to Sparta?'

'A few moments ago you were rueing leaving your loving husband and beautiful children.'

'Paris isn't the only one who is confused by all this, you know.'

'I know, I know,' the crone said, patting Helen gently on the shoulder and filling her with a strange sensation of warmth. 'It's such a shame for both of you. There's you on one side, wis.h.i.+ng you were back in Sparta when all you've done since p.u.b.erty is dream about escape I would have thought the sight of the Nile and the Pyramids would have cured you of any desire to return home. And on the other side there's Paris, concerned about what his father and brother will think when he brings you back, and whether he was right to abandon his mission and risk war with Greece. Poor boy; all he has ever wanted is to love and be loved, and now he's discovered it he finds himself terrified and filled with uncertainty. Your own restraint and doubt isn't helping, either. But if you act quickly you can make him yours forever.'

'You mean there's still hope for us?'

'Hope?' The old woman smiled, and though her eyes were again almost consumed in folds of skin, the crescents that remained gleamed with an amused light. 'Who needs hope when you can have certainty? I can give you certainty, if you really want it. But do you, Helen? That's the question you have to answer. Do you want to be with a man you truly love, in a marriage that can fulfil you both, even though the future is uncertain; or do you want to go back to your children and be yoked once more to a man who has always shown you kindness and respect, but for whom your heart does not race?'

Helen looked into the crone's knowing eyes, only vaguely wondering how she knew her name, and for a moment her thoughts and emotions seemed lost in a fog, inscrutable and beyond her capacity to decipher. Then the fog dissipated and the answer came to her clearly. She heard a scream of excitement, and looked over her shoulder to see Pleisthenes emerge over a high, gra.s.sy bank and run down to the beach, chased by Aeneas with whom he had formed a strong friends.h.i.+p since leaving home.

'I don't want to go back. Tell me what I must do to dispel Paris's doubts.'

'That's the simplest thing in the world, but I'll tell you all the same.' The crone leaned over and whispered something in Helen's ear. Despite the overwhelming stench of brine and stale urine, a knowing smile spread across the Spartan queen's full lips and she nodded. Then the old woman produced a vial containing a pearlescent liquid and handed it to Helen. 'A single droplet of this in his cup at tonight's meal, and another in your own if you think it'll help, and your problem will be solved.'

'If it's what I think it is, I doubt I'll need it,' Helen said, taking the small bottle anyway.

'Don't be ashamed, my sweet. The liquid can only work where love already exists, and the stronger the love the more irresistible the effect. No doubt you'll see for yourself. And now for my price.'

Helen, who had been staring at the swirl of strange colours trapped within the vial, looked up at the crone and made no effort to hide her scorn.

'For some foolish reason, I'd allowed myself to believe you were offering me your help out of kindness. But your advice has been sound and there's something of the witch about you I should know, my sister is one so I'll not quibble. We have plenty of gold.'

'I can have as much of that stuff as I desire, Helen. My price is not an earthly treasure I want Paris for myself. And don't look at me like that, young girl. I want him to reject Ares and follow me, just as you already follow me. Do you understand me, Helen? When the morning comes and you have succeeded in your task, make sure Paris builds an altar to me here in honour of what I have done for you both.'

The light was quickly fading and as the first star of the evening appeared, s.h.i.+ning brightly above the horizon, Helen saw that she was no longer sitting next to an old crone dressed in rags, but a tall and beautiful woman whose naked skin shone in the twilight. Her loving eyes captured the light of the evening star and seemed to reflect it from a depth that was timeless. But before Helen could think to throw herself to the ground before Aphrodite, the G.o.ddess had faded into nothing.

As Paris lay alone in his tent, listening to the shus.h.i.+ng of the waves in the bay, he knew he had been rash. In the heat of his pa.s.sion for Helen he had risked the lives of himself and his men many of whom had died as a result and had brought the threat of war to Troy. What would Hector think of that? He had allowed Apheidas to persuade him of the merits of such an action, but in his heart he knew the only reason he had taken Helen was because he had fallen in love with her. Everything else was an excuse.

And yet, despite his longing to be with her, they had still not slept together. They had come close as they sailed from port to port and island to island, their lips meeting urgently in moments of pa.s.sion and the closeness of their bodies filling them with a heart-stopping need for each other, but always she had backed away at the last moment. She excused herself by saying that she was not ready that she was still mourning the children she would never see again but with each new rejection Paris's doubts grew. Had he misjudged her? Despite her a.s.surances to the contrary, was she regretting her decision to leave Sparta? Had she simply confused s.e.xual desire for love? He did not know the answers, and part of him was left longing for a return to his safe, familiar life of duty and discipline.

But after tonight his doubts had weakened, driven back by a renewed intoxication with Helen. They had spent the evening feasting on the beach and drinking wine until their heads swam, after which they had kissed with an intensity that had not yet left him. As he lay naked between layers of soft fleeces, looking up at the roof of the tent, his whole body was taut with the need of her. His mind was far from sleep and all he could think of was crossing the beach to where her tent was pitched, entering and taking her. On the northern borders, he had slept with his share of captured women before they were sent back to Troy as slaves. But he also knew that to take Helen before she was willing to give herself would damage the love she had spoken of as they had fled Sparta. And he wanted that love more than anything. He closed his eyes.

As he lay there, listening to the surf advancing and retreating endlessly over the sand, the flap at the front of his tent opened briefly and shut again. Paris leapt to his feet and reached for the sword that hung from the back of a nearby chair. In an instant he had tugged the blade free of its scabbard and was pointing it at arm's length towards the throat of the intruder.

The metal gleamed threateningly in the moonlight that penetrated the thin walls of the tent. Helen looked at it for a moment, then wrapped her fingers around the blade and gently pushed it aside, feeling the tension of her soft skin against the sharpened edge. Her large eyes were filled with longing, and as she looked at Paris he knew she was ready for him. He felt his own pa.s.sions responding, churning hotly within him like waters gathering against the walls of a dam. But he made the walls hold for a little longer, moving the point of his sword to rest against the thick wool of her cloak.

'I acted foolishly,' he told her, hating each word that he forced from his lips. 'You love your children more than you can ever love me. Tomorrow I will return you to your home.'

'All lovers are fools, Paris, and I am the greatest. But I have finished mourning for my children; my heart and my body are yours now. You are my only home from now on.'

Again she pushed away the blade and this time Paris let it drop from his fingers. Then she unfastened the brooch at her left shoulder and, with a slight shrug, the cloak fell about her ankles. She stepped back from it and planted her feet apart in the mess of skins that covered the tent floor, enjoying the softness of the fur between her toes. Confident of her own nakedness, she leaned her head back and ran her fingers through her hair, revelling in the certainty that Paris's eyes were feeding rapaciously on her heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the smooth, pale skin of her stomach and the vertical slit of her navel. She could almost feel his gaze flowing down her long legs and back up again to the triangle of black hair where his l.u.s.t was concentrated.

Then she felt his arms fold about her, the firm muscles of his chest crus.h.i.+ng her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as he ran his lips over her exposed neck. For a moment the strength of his pa.s.sion stunned her, threatened to overwhelm her as he covered her ears, cheeks and lips with kisses. Then he lifted her easily in his arms and lay her down on the pile of furs, which were soft and yielding beneath the naked skin of her back and b.u.t.tocks.

'I'll never give you up, Helen,' he told her, staring into her irresistible eyes. 'I love you!'

'Do you love me enough to leave your soldier's life behind and be a proper husband to me?' Helen responded, closing her legs against the probing of his hand. 'Will you reject Ares and follow Aphrodite?'

'Ares has never let me down,' Paris said, lowering his head to her breast and kissing her nipple. 'Even if I agree to give up fighting, what can Aphrodite do for me?'

'She can bless our marriage with eternal love. Isn't that better than anything Ares can give you?'

'Then, for your sake, I'll fight no more and wors.h.i.+p Aphrodite. I remember her clearly from my dream on Mount Ida; I'd never seen a more lovely woman in my life, either sleeping or waking. Not until I saw you that night in Sparta.'

'You mustn't say that,' Helen half-protested, allowing Paris to slip his knee between her thighs. 'It was Aphrodite who brought us together, and tomorrow you must build a shrine to her.'

'I'll make one at home in Troy,' he said, kissing her ear lobe and neck. 'A proper one, with dressed stone and . . .'

'No. Make it here. To celebrate our becoming lovers.'