HELEN: The Wine Dark Sea

lone.

Helen could take no more of her self-imposed isolation and tied her hair back with a golden cord. She donned her cloak and pulled the hood forward to shield her face. She'd learned her way around the palace and took care not to be seen as she made her way to the citadel wall where she'd have a clear view of the city below. She kept away from the others following the progress of the war. Noting tents on one of the first terraces behind the massive outer walls near the Scaean Gate, she thought it must be where the wounded had been taken.

The path was crowded with women and children, and with her head down, she slipped by unnoticed. She was nearly overcome by the smell of death before she reached the shelters. The men inside were dying, and she knew there had to be something she could do to alleviate their pain. A gray haired man in a bloodstained tunic appeared to be in charge, and she gathered her courage to approach him.

"What can I do to help?"

He cast her only a quick glance and failed to recognize her. "Bring water from the well if you wish. Many of these men will die of thirst before their wounds kill them. They will all bless you for your kindness, lady."

She'd never fetched water and swiftly found she couldn't lift a full amphora and had to bring water a half-jar at a time. Other women could carry an amphora on their heads with an ease that amazed her. They looked like slaves used to hard labor, but she had been raised to possess an entirely different set of skills, all useless here.

An older woman pushed her aside. "Take cups of water to men and stay out of our way."

Her hands shook as she filled the first cup, and the man at the end of the row closest to the opening of the shelter was so eager to drink he spilled more than he swallowed. "I'll bring more," she offered, and the next man and the next, begged for their share. Their wounds were bound with bloody bandages, and their faces were still smeared with the dirt where they'd fallen.

Once the men had slaked their thirst, she found a clean cloth to bathe their hands and faces. "Let me see your face," one painfully thin young man asked, his voice a husky whisper.

"I'd rather see yours," she countered and held his chin while she scrubbed away the last traces of bloody mud. "You must sleep to grow well."

He caught her hand. "Will you come back, fair lady?"

The scene was far worse than she'd imagined. She nodded, and he smiled as he closed his eyes. She went on to the next man, who proved to be little more than an overgrown boy. If these were Troy's finest warriors, then the city was sure to fall, and she'd be the first one thrown from the tower. With things so terrible here, the dire thought brought only a small spark of terror.

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In the evening, Paris found Helen rinsing the hem of a skirt and scolded her for not calling a servant. "You needn't be doing a slave's work when there are so many eager to serve you, my love."

"I need something to do, and caring for my own clothing isn't a burden."

"Do you join the other royal wives during the day?" he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder. "I thought it best to avoid them."

"I didn't bring you here to live as a hermit. Now leave that and come out to the balcony with me. The stars are especially glorious tonight. It has to be a fine omen."

She dried her hands and went with him. He pointed out the constellation Orion, and three stars in the hunter's belt were unusually bright, but she'd seen too much misery that day to believe it might bode well. Sooner or later Paris would discover how she spent her days, but until he did, she'd not admit to tending the wounded. He would forbid it, of course, but she'd ignore him. She owed the wounded Trojan warriors all she could give and so much more. Her heart ached for them and for her young husband who saw only the glory of war rather than its tragic cost in lives.

Chapter 23

Achilles camp near Troy

Briseis was a princess of Lyrnessus, an ally of Troy, and when Achilles' warriors cut a deadly swath through the region, she became his prize of war. She was the only member of her family to survive the brutal attack, and after watching her husband die, she no longer cared where she was taken. She sat in Achilles' tent, head rested on her bent knees and wept until she could produce no more tears.

Achilles knelt beside her and stroked her tangled hair. It had once been styled in multiple braids, but now stuck out like handfuls of straw. "Look at me," he said in a soft invitation.

She turned her head, but her blue eyes were so swollen she could barely see. "Why did you let me live?" she asked.

"No warrior worthy of the name slays a beautiful woman," he answered with a sly smile. "Now drink this and rest until tomorrow." He held the kylix to her lips, but she took only a small sip of the watered wine. "Will you promise to remain here, or must I tie your hands?" he asked.

Too weary to run even if the tent burst into flame, she responded with a distracted nod.

He touched her tousled hair once more. "I'll leave the wine here where you can reach it easily. Rest, go to sleep if you can."

She heard him speaking outside the tent with a warrior who cast an enormous shadow, and hoped someone would soon kill them both. She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. Although exhausted, the bloody visions of the day's horrors careened through her mind, and the screams of the dying echoed all around her.

Death had come upon them at a fierce gallop and ridden away drenched in blood. Her husband had fought bravely, but he and his warriors were no match for Achilles and his Myrmidons. Their beautiful palace had been overrun by the Greek savages, who had burned whatever they couldn't steal and carry away. She'd not even tried to hide, but she'd expected to die with the others, not survive as Achilles' whore.

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