But Helena did not remove her helmet. She had remained silent since arriving in Troy and was clearly insulted to be cast from the sisterhood with so little ceremony. Despite her determination not to be swayed by sympathy, Myrina felt a throb of pity for the girl now that the handover was imminent.
As they approached Agamemnon’s tent, the handsome Menelaos emerged first, carrying a spear. After him came the Lord of Mycenae, leaning on a silver staff. “There he is!” exclaimed Penthesilea, drawing her horse to a halt. “Now take off your damn helmet—”
Riding slowly ahead, Helena reached up … to toss aside the shield and free her bow. Before anyone could intervene, she had an arrow on the string, pointing straight at Agamemnon. “Father!” she yelled, in a voice too feeble to carry far. “I will come with you on one condition—”
But what she had meant to say was cut off abruptly by the unfeeling blade of Fate. For a spear, hurled by Menelaos to protect the king, struck Helena right in the chest and threw her off the horse with a sound too terrible to be called a scream. Landing on her back in the sand, the girl kicked once, then went limp, her head falling to the side without another word.
Too horrified to be prudent, Myrina jumped from her horse and threw herself at Helena, desperate for any sign of life. But the spear sticking out of that slender chest was an unforgiving sign that death had arrived before she.
With a violent outburst of regret, Myrina embraced the limp shoulders she had patted so often during their weapon training and began raining kisses on Helena’s unresponsive face, barely conscious of what she was doing. Only when she finally sat up and closed the girl’s unseeing eyes did Myrina hear Penthesilea’s furious command, “Get back on your horse, you imbecile! Do you want us all speared like fish?”
No sooner had the women pulled away from Helena’s body before the Greeks clustered around it, curious to see who had dared aim an arrow at their king. Even Agamemnon himself came forward, leaning on Menelaos’s arm.
“Back!” yelled Penthesilea, motioning for the women to retreat at once. “It will not be long before she is recognized.”
But even Agamemnon did not know his daughter until the men had kicked her around a bit. Then suddenly, there was a shrill outcry, and the Greek camp erupted in horror and fury. Horses were called, weapons were found…. Within moments, the women were riding for their lives, galloping back across the Scamandrian Plain to escape a shower of spears and roaring curses.
When they reached the river, Myrina and Penthesilea fell naturally behind to ensure that all their companions got over the bridge safely. As they did so, a spear flew right by Myrina’s ear so close she felt its hissing draft. Instinctively turning in the saddle and holding up her shield, she felt the thunderous impact of two more missiles—spears flung with such force they nearly knocked her from her mount. Seeing the spearheads had lodged themselves firmly in the ox hide, making the shield too unwieldy to be of further use, she tossed it aside and reached for the bow on her back.
One … two … three men did not have the wherewithal to avoid her arrows; a fourth managed to duck and ride next to Penthesilea, his bronze sword catching the last few rays of the setting sun as he forced aside her shield with his free hand.
Too busy trying to calm her panicking horse, Myrina did not witness the strike; all she saw was Penthesilea’s body falling into the Scamander River in a gush of blood and being taken, limply, by the current.
And then Myrina was cut off. Two men blocked the bridge, and others were coming, closing in on her from behind. Pulling the Minoan ax from her belt—a weapon that Paris had confiscated early on, but which Lilli had managed to track down with innocuous inquiries—Myrina looked around to see who would come at her first … and narrowly missed a sweeping blow from the man who had killed Penthesilea. It was mere instinct that had her lean aside at the exact moment he struck, and the shock of it upset her balance so much that she slid right off the horse and fell headfirst down the riverbank.
Laughing at her accident, the man followed her on foot down to the water’s edge, clearly expecting to send her right after Penthesilea with a single slash of his sword. But just as he thought he had her, cowering as she was in the mud before his feet, Myrina got him in the backswing, ramming her ax directly into the midsection he had carelessly exposed.
Perhaps because of the angle, the ax did not actually cut into the man’s flesh, but the impact alone was enough to make him double over with a grunt and lose his balance. Without even thinking, Myrina grabbed him by the shoulder strap, pulling with all her might … and then he was gone, too, just like the woman he had killed, tumbling headlong into the rushing river.
Gasping from the exertion and lightheaded with panic, Myrina barely knew whether she should stay where she was, dangerously near the water, or try to make it back up the muddy slope. Either way, she would have to face a dozen men … not a promising situation. She was tempted to simply jump into the river, feetfirst, and let destiny take over….
But then she heard them: the shrill, ululant hunting cries of Otrera’s daughters. And the men heard them, too. Faces raised in disbelief, they started backing away from the slope, looking around for their horses … but it was too late. Twisting around, Myrina saw Penthesilea’s band of sisters returning toward the bridge in full gallop, their bows up. Within a single breath, their arrows had pierced every man through.
But more Greeks were coming—some on horseback, others on foot—every one of them bent on revenge. And among them was Menelaos, armed with several spears and, surely, after discovering his terrible mistake, enough hatred to raze a city.
Gathering the reins of her horse, Myrina made for the bridge while she could, dreading the missiles she knew would soon follow. Over the bridge she went, howling her appreciation at Otrera’s daughters while wondering how far they would get before they were stopped again.
But the men, armed as they were with spears and swords, sat so heavily in their saddles that the women were able to remain out of reach and even increase their lead as they spurred on their horses and raced across the Scamandrian Plain heading for the safety of Troy. “Close the gate!” cried Myrina, when they were all finally inside. “Immediately!”
As the enormous wooden doors fell shut, locked by a colossal, fortified crossbar, she heard the fury of the Greeks locked out on the other side. “Open the gate, you slinking cowards!” bellowed someone, banging on the boards. “Is this the famous Trojan courage? That you let women do your fighting?”
Later that night, when Myrina returned to the palace with her mournful companions, she found Paris waiting by the stable. He did not speak: merely looked at her with an expression she had seen traces of before but never fully understood until that moment. It was more apology than accusation—a dark stare of acknowledgment that told her he had long since seen his own fate in her actions, and had long since ceased to hold her responsible.
MYRINA WOKE FROM TERRIBLE dreams before dawn, to feel around frantically in the dark until she found him. He was still there, asleep right next to her.
They had been in the hillside cabin for three days. Three days to mourn a Greek princess, three days to prepare for the noble trial that would determine who was to blame for her death. Menelaos had been the one to suggest a duel between himself and Paris. Agamemnon, he had explained to King Priam, was too distraught to return to Mycenae without justice, and he was the one who had requested the young men settle the matter in the traditional way.
Before his father could even react, Paris accepted the challenge. And Menelaos went away as quietly as he had come, head bent in mourning for a bride-to-be whose face he had never seen until she lay before him, transfixed by his spear.
That night, Paris took Myrina back to the cabin in the woods, to give them three nights together before the dreaded day. But neither of them could fully embrace the rustic escape they had craved for so long. For although Paris behaved as if nothing was the matter, Myrina was so sick with worry she could not enjoy
his caresses without tears.
On that last morning, waking before sunrise, she truly wished she had never met him—that his life had never been infected by her misfortune. If it meant he would grow old in peace, she would have happily seen him married to someone else, some sweet, obedient girl.
“What is it?” he whispered, sensing her sadness and pulling her into his arms. “Bad dreams again?”
Myrina tried to swallow her tears, but there were too many. “Why must it be this way?” She pressed her face against his chest. “Why can we not stay here, in the forest?”
Paris sighed. “It is the way of the world, my love. Men fight, and women cry. Some things never change.”
“I would happily fight in your place,” muttered Myrina. “He would kill me, but at least you would live—”
“Shh—” Paris ran his fingers through her hair. “You speak as if I am dead already. Have you no confidence in my fighting skills?”
Myrina sat up abruptly. “You know I have nothing but the highest regard for you. No one could be more perfect in any way. But the Greeks are fickle and wily, you have said so yourself. And this Menelaos—” She shuddered. “In his eyes is a coldness, as if life and death are all the same to him.”
“Come here”—Paris drew her back into his arms—”and tell me more about my perfections.”
“Oh please,” whispered Myrina, kissing his bristly cheek and breathing in his scent—the smell that was uniquely his, and which no bath had ever taken away—”cannot we, too, go off and live among the Kaskians? We have our horses and weapons. We can hunt—”
“We could do that,” said Paris, running his hand over her skin. “We could live in a hut in the wilderness, where no one speaks of honor and disgrace. And when we have our first child, I will have to hunt alone, leaving you behind with an infant in your arms.” He sighed. “Do you not see, my love, such a life is no life at all? The city has its laws and traditions because they are necessary for humans to thrive.”
“But—”
“Myrina.” Paris took her by the chin. “I have chosen this. No one is forcing me. I am free to walk away, but cannot. You may think this is proof I love Troy over you, but the truth is the opposite. The man you married is a man of honor. And for your sake, he intends to remain so until the end, whenever it may come. I would rather have you pitied for losing a brave husband than have you ridiculed for living with a coward.”
“They will not pity me,” whispered Myrina, leaning against his hand, “for there will be no one left to pity. Without you, I would not want to live.”
Paris growled. “Is that what marriage has done to you? Proud Myrina … where did she go?” He patted her cheek, as if to wake her from sleep. “How can I be brave if you have already buried us both? What will happen to Paris if there is no one left to remember his perfections? Who will set the paid singers straight when they spew all their rhyming falsehoods?” He smiled and touched his nose to hers. “You, my queen, must live and remember. That is my blessing, and your curse.”
THE DUEL BETWEEN THE prince of Troy and the prince of Sparta was to be fought at noon, when the blinding sun was at its zenith. It was to take place, furthermore, outside the Scaean Gate to the north of the city, in order that the Trojan nobles could watch from their great tower on the citadel.
Perhaps not surprisingly, Paris’s mother had been unable to find the strength to rise from her chair in the inner courtyard and walk up the steps to join her husband that morning. Not just one, but three servants had been on tiptoes to fan their mistress with palm leaves since the day the duel was agreed upon, and it was commonly known that the queen of Troy had already lit candles to the gods of the underworld, to ensure a hearty welcome for her son.
As for Myrina, it did not matter how fiercely she implored Paris to let her remain close to him throughout the ordeal. She had proposed hiding herself among the guards chosen for his escort—an idea he immediately dismissed. The top of the tower was where she must be, squinting to see her husband fighting in the road dust, on behalf of the people cheering from the wall.
None of her sisters had been allowed to come aloft and support her. Ever since Helena’s death and the fighting at the Scamander River, King Priam had been keen to keep his troublemaking Amazons out of sight of the Greeks.
Lady Otrera’s daughters—still mourning the loss of Penthesilea—would have left earlier, had not King Priam pointed out that it might be prudent for them to stay in Troy until the outcome of the duel was known. Menelaos had sworn that if he were to lose, Agamemnon would see the defeat as an act of divine justice and return home without further complaints. In which case Lady Otrera might wish to reconsider her decision to flee like a rabbit, running from foxes to settle among wolves.
But even if they were not with her in the tower, Myrina knew that Lilli, Kyme, and Pitana were praying for Paris in the palace below. Kara, too, had been in tears when Myrina left them all sitting so miserably by the kitchen hearth, and had apologized again and again for the grief she had caused.
Myrina, however, had yet to believe Kara was truly sorry. “Why did you bother to save her and bind her wrists?” she had asked Lilli, after Kara’s attempted suicide. “You have done her no service. She wanted to die.”
Lilli shook her head. “She never wanted to die. She merely wanted a new life. And that is what I am trying to give her.” When Myrina opened her mouth to protest, Lilli put a hand against her lips. “You were not with us on the ship to Mycenae. There is something you don’t know. When the men discovered I was blind, they wanted to throw me overboard. But Kara wouldn’t let them. She managed to convince the prince I had sacred powers. That was how she caught his eye. From that moment on, she became the sole object of his perversity.” Lilli’s face contracted with anguish. “Saving me became her doom.”
THE TWO COMBATANTS ARRIVED at noon as agreed.
Menelaos came roaring up the beach in his horse-drawn chariot, cheered on by a running mob of yelling supporters. Paris, emerging from the Scaean Gate, stepped off his own chariot almost immediately to allow his opponent the satisfaction of having made the most spectacular entrance.
But the heir of Sparta was not so easily spoiled. Walking into the large circle drawn in the gravel, he hardly seemed to notice the cheers from all the foreign sailors who had gathered around to watch the entertainment. Nor did he flinch at the insults that were slung like missiles from the city wall. Had Myrina been able to make out his face, she knew she would have found no emotion in it whatsoever, and that he was regarding his opponent with the eyes of a butcher carving up a carcass.
Both men carried a sword and thrusting spear; neither had bothered to bring a throwing spear, since the circle they would be fighting in was hardly even wide enough for a run-up. Of the two, it seemed Menelaos was by far the better protected, for although he carried no shield, he wore a suit of armor that not only covered his torso, but went up around the neck as well, and hung well below his loins. In addition, he had on a peaked silver helmet with a red plume and guards on his legs and arms; apart from the face, elbows, and knees, almost no body parts were left exposed.
By comparison, Paris wore only light plates of armor, choosing to protect himself by holding a shield rather than wearing one. This left him more vulnerable, but, presumably, also more limber. On his head sat a solid bronze helmet with a half-moon crest of horsehair, but his movements were so free and untroubled it looked as if he barely knew he was wearing it.
Only when the two men planted their spears in the ground to show they were ready did it occur to Myrina she had never before seen Paris use real weapons against anyone. She knew he trained every morning with several different men, and had often seen him sparring with Aeneas and Dares on the ship, but it had never been more than a game….
Myrina’s musings were interrupted by agitated voices.
Agamemnon had arrived.
In a gesture of friendship, King Priam had offered the Lord of Mycenae a comfortable seat on the
Scaean Tower, but Agamemnon had politely declined, citing the plight of a grieving father. The man who had just arrived at the battleground in his two-horse chariot, however, looked more the warlord than the father, for he was dressed in a radiant bronze panoply, as if he himself was entering the duel alongside Menelaos.
With Agamemnon present at last, the fight could begin.
Someone pitched a stone into the middle of the circle, and as soon as it had landed—throwing up a small cloud of dust as it did—the two fighters began circling each other, their spears poised to strike. As if to demonstrate the advantage of carrying no shield, Menelaos tossed his spear from one hand to the other a few times, apparently equally capable with them both.
Watching from the tower, Myrina remembered one of the rules Paris had taught her: Always make sure they underestimate you. Judging from Menelaos’s posturing, the Spartan was already making his first mistake, thinking himself untouchable in his armored suit. But as soon as he charged, she realized Menelaos had good reason to think himself the champion, for he moved with such swiftness and power his initial thrusts had Paris stumbling backward, barely able to block them with his shield.
Strangling a cry with her hands, Myrina watched with growing panic as the Spartan kept coming at Paris, over and over, thrusting from every possible angle. Yet Paris kept moving, as adroitly as ever, ducking and jumping to avoid the stabbing spearhead.
A heavy hand on the shoulder reminded Myrina she was not alone in her woe. “Have faith, woman,” said King Priam, a strange smile around his unsmiling lips. “That is my son. The finest warrior Troy ever saw.”
For all his power and determination, Menelaos was unable to finish the duel as quickly as he had undoubtedly anticipated. It was not long before he had to pause and wipe sweat from his eyes, and there was a collective cheer from the Trojans on the wall when Paris used the opening to turn the fight around. As Menelaos stumbled backward across the sand, Paris dealt him blow after blow with the spear … but the armored suit withstood them all.