Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 141, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 858 & 859, March/April 2013

When Mourning Stirs the House by Gary A. Mitchell

Gary Mitchell is a quality engineer who has worked for companies such as GE and Kodak. He tells us that his strong interest in history makes him fantasize he might have been an archaeologist. A West Point graduate, he received several awards for excellence in historical studies while a student there. He’s employed his knowledge and love of history in this tale, a mysterious retelling of the story of Helen and the Trojan War.

Not the great Agamemnon. He bent the fractious Achaeans to his will, and he was cruel and greedy, but I did not fear him. Nor Odysseus, either. For all his stratagems, he was no wiser in war than I. Odysseus I respected. I wish him fair winds on his homeward voyage to distant Ithaca. But that leaves your question unanswered, doesn’t it, boatman? Of all the Achaeans, who was it that brave Hector feared?

You expect me to say Achilles, who plunged his bronze spear deep into my back and dragged my body three times around the city walls, tied behind his chariot. But I never feared the rage of Achilles. In truth, I was slain by the one Achaean who surpassed Agamemnon in cruelty, Odysseus in cunning, and Achilles in anger. That is the Achaean I should have feared.

Helen.

Why have you stopped rowing? We’re nearly halfway across the river, and my shade hungers for the peace promised by the distant shore. You would bargain? My story for the price of passage? Is this a common practice, boatman?

Then I suppose I should be flattered, but honeyed words do not sway me. No, do not turn the boat around. I will tell it to you, for I fear it will never be heard if Helen has her way. Rest upon your oars, then, and listen to the story of Hector’s betrayal.

It begins the way all such tales of war and murder do, with a father’s advice to his son.

“I will beat you this time, Hector.” Paris waved his sword in my face and thrusthis ox-hide shield, bound in bronze, between us. I was eighteen, tall, already broad of shoulder, and marked by my grandfather’s red hair as a warrior. I had commanded the Trojan host in a short, successful campaign against the Dardanians. Paris was sixteen, olive-skinned like his mother, and slight of build. Men called him Hector’s little brother.

Priam, our father, called to us from his couch, where he watched us train on the grassy field set aside for practice beyond the Scaean Gates. “Let us see if all those months training with Sacander have given you more than just the arrogance of a warrior, Paris.”

Pain and anger darkened my brother’s eyes.

“I bested Glauchos, the captain of your guards, didn’t I?”

“Old Glauchos? He is captain for his loyalty, not his swordsmanship.”

“He is a better warrior than you, Father, and younger.” Paris swung his sword back and leapt at me with a cry of rage. Our blades were blunted for practice, but could break a bone if a strong blow landed. Paris meant to hurt me.

He battered at my shield; I shrugged off the attack. He had the advantage of speed, but he let anger guide him. We circled, looking for an opening. Several men gathered to watch. Paris had worked hard with Sacander and had won praise from him, no easy feat.

We closed and traded a flurry of blows. His defense was solid. I could find no gaps. Sacander had done well. We broke apart, and circled again.

“Stop prancing like a temple dancer, Paris. You bragged you had learned how to handle a sword. Your brother is holding back, like Glauchos.” Our father’s words came straight out of the pinch-mouthed jug of wine he’d already emptied.

Some men, like me with my ruddy complexion, turn red when anger rides us. Paris wasn’t like other men. His face turned as white as Egyptian royal linen. He swung at me with all his might and sought to club aside my shield with his own. Did he think to overcome me by brute force? His wrath had betrayed him. I dodged, leaving him unbalanced and vulnerable; I kicked out with my foot and sent him sprawling. His shield flew off his arm and clanged noisily against the low stone wall that surrounded the field. He lay facedown on the ground. I pitied my brother.

“Contemptible!” shouted the king, slamming his ivory cup down on the low table in front of him. “Praise the Gods that they gave me at least one son.” He tossed a gold armband at my feet. “For the victor. As for you, Paris, I am sending you on an embassy to Paionia. They live by the bow, and cower behind somebody else’s spearmen in battle. You will be among brothers, there. I charge you to master their weapon. That, or take up the shuttle and whorl.” He was standing now, shouting at the top of his voice. “And pay court to Menze’s daughter while you are there. You remember Lelwani, don’t you? Try not to dwell on her hog-jowled face. It is the hips that matter. Maybe you can find a son in there and then there will be at least one warrior in your family.” He tried to drink and laugh at the same time, and succeeded only in choking. A pair of slaves guided him back to the palace.

I offered Paris my hand. “He only wants to make you a better man.”

He knocked my hand away. “I hate you both,” he snarled. “Someday you will pay for your arrogance. I swear it, brother.”

He got up and stomped off the field, the walls of our city strong and proud behind him. And that, I think, was the beginning of the Trojan War.

Six years passed. I married Andromache, the daughter of the King of Cilician Thebes. It was a marriage of dynastic convenience. She was plain and short and had blond hair, a rarity among the Trojans. Andromache was a devoted mother and an obedient wife. Plentiful food was always available at my hearth, and good wine at my table. She welcomed my companions and managed our apartments with an eye towards order. I was content and came to feel affection for her. Even Priam grudgingly respected her.

My father sat upon his throne, the open four-pillared hearth in the center of the room swept clean and heaped with flowers and fragrant cedar. The walls were painted in the style of Mycenae with colorful frescoes of horses, animals for which Troy was famous. The bright afternoon sun of summer shone through the opening over the hearth, scattering the shadows. We, the leaders of Troy, stood on each side of the throne, flanking Priam. We had assembled to greet my brother and his bride, Helen, come home from Achaea.

“What was Paris thinking?” my father muttered. “I told him I was arranging a match for him before he left. Now he has ruined everything.” He took a long drink from the cup in his hand and gestured to a slave to have it refilled for the third time.

“He’s done good work as ambassador,” I said. “He has earned the trust of our allies and won you several more.”

“But not this time. I sent him to Achaea to blunt their anger, not kindle it. Agamemnon and his war party had few allies among the other Achaean kings. They may hate us because our city sits astride the straits and we tax their ships, but there was little enthusiasm for a war. If the rumors of Paris’s seduction of Helen are true, all that has changed.”

I decided to keep my own counsel. Arguing with my father was like trying to yoke a charging bull. Wine made him worse. Besides, I knew that the seduction was not a rumor. I had questioned Paris’s advisor last night as soon as he had debarked from Paris’s ship.

The Achaeans had ridiculed Paris, the advisor told me, insulting his skill with horse and bow. Menelaus, Agamemnon’s brother, had been the most vocal. Paris had responded the way he always did. Without thinking. He’d kidnapped the man’s wife, fled Achaea with her like a thief, and married her. Now we waited for this troublesome woman to be formally introduced to the king.

We could hear laughter and footsteps echoing down the long hallway. Two voices: Paris, and the other must be Helen. Men said she was the most beautiful woman in Achaea. We would soon see how much the Achaeans lied.

They entered the throne room. Paris had grown a beard while he was in Achaea. He was still thin, and shorter than me by a head. He wore an elaborate cape with designs of marsh fowl along the border. His short, sleeveless tunic was red. I couldn’t tell you what Helen wore. Something plain that didn’t compete with her looks. Her eyes were piercing blue, and put to shame the snow glories that carpeted the mountains of the Hittites in spring. She wore an outline of kohl around her eyes, in the Egyptian style. Her lips were painted red, and her fine blond hair hung in elaborate curls down to her shoulders. Next to me Andromache fingered her own blond hair. Hers was drab and coarse in comparison to Helen’s. The Achaeans, for once, had not lied.

The newly wed couple stood before the throne hand in hand and bowed. My father took a moment to find his voice. “Um, greetings, Helen. And... son.” He licked his lips, took another sip of wine, and began again. “You are welcome here, Daughter. I extend the hospitality and protection of my house. I have given you the rooms next to Hector and Andromache.”

He said many other things. I didn’t hear them. My heart was beating too loudly to make out his words, and my mouth was as dry as straw. My manhood stiffened and I had to concentrate on the horse frescoes to master my arousal. I was not completely successful. My eyes kept darting back to the woman whom Paris had brought among us.

Andromache shook my arm. I looked up in confusion. Helen was staring at me, a slight smile on her lips. They looked like the ripe, wild berries of summer.

“Hector?” said my father. He sounded annoyed.

“Yes, Father?”

“I asked you if you had any questions for Helen regarding the Achaeans. You have been brooding since last night. Here is a chance to hear what council they keep.”

“I have one question,” I said, glaring at Helen. She had embarrassed me. “Will Agamemnon go to war to get you back?”

She laughed. It made me think of the sound a brook makes in spring, splashing over the smooth stones. “War? The Achaeans have no love for me. I was not happy with my husband.” She flushed. “My previous husband, Menelaus, nor he with me. They will be glad to see me gone. You can dismiss your fears if it is war that frightens you.”

She took Paris’s arm in her embrace and laid her head upon his shoulder. He smiled like a besotted fool. She was seven years his senior yet somehow managed to look younger than he. She was thin by nature, and women like that retain their beauty. She never took her eyes off me.

Did I see a challenge in them?

“You have your answer,” pronounced my father. “No war. The couple must be weary after their voyage. My steward will show you to the rooms I have had prepared.”

Helen stepped forward. “A moment, sire — Father. I have a favor to ask.” She spoke up in the throne room just as a man would. Apparently she was accustomed to being indulged.

My father tolerated her boldness. “Yes, daughter?”

“I beg your permission to establish a sacred grove to Aphrodite, and begin the worship of her here.”

That was the other thing they said about Helen. She never forgot to honor her goddess. It was harmless enough, and my father agreed.

Helen and Paris bowed, then followed the steward through the side door that led to the royal apartments.

I called the captains Kilistes and Paramenes immediately to my side. “Gather the host, Kilistes. Send ships to Imbros, Lemnos, and Lesbos to spy out any Achaean activity. Put watchers along the coast and double the guards on the walls. Send messages to our allies to be prepared to come to Troy in case of war.” I turned to Paramenes. “Start moving stores into the palace granary. Have the shepherds drive their flocks close to the walls. In case of a siege, I want food to last a year. The Achaeans will be gone by then.”

“The Achaeans?” asked Kilistes. “Helen said there’d be no war.”

“Helen is more familiar with matters of the bedroom than she is with matters of war. A woman’s smile will not blind us.” The cruel edge in my voice was meant to disguise the whispers in my heart.

“Did you see the way she looked at me?” Kilistes said, lowering his voice. “I don’t know what those looks mean in Sparta, but I know what they mean in Troy. Do you think the stories they tell about her are true?”

“You fool,” said Paramenes. “Her eyes were on me. Now I have to go home and stare at my wife, but I will be seeing someone else.” We all laughed, and my captains departed.

They were both fools. I knew at whom she had been staring.

I sensed a presence behind me and knew who it was before turning. Andromache. She had pulled her wrap closely about her as if she were chilled, despite the sun’s heat that reached deep into this many-chambered pile of stone.

“I saw the way you looked at that woman,” she said.

My heart thumped in my chest, so loudly that she had to have heard it. My blood still raced from the brief encounter with Helen. I raised my hand to my forehead. I felt warm. Probably I was flushed as well. She’d be able to interpret the signs.

“Andromache, I—”

“Don’t speak, husband. She’s your brother’s wife. For his sake you have to put aside your disapproval. At least pretend to like her. We must make her welcome.”

“Disapproval?”

“You would not look at her, and when you did, you scowled. It must have been very frightening for her. Promise me you will apologize for your bad manners.”

“But Andromache—”

“For me, if you won’t do it for Paris. Welcome this woman into the palace.”

“Why are you so concerned about Helen?” I asked. “She has a reputation for scandal.”

“You don’t know what it is like to leave your family and dwell with strangers. She will be lonely. I want to be her friend. She will need one if everybody thinks as you do.”

I stared at Andromache. My thoughts kept returning to the red lips and the sapphire eyes that had stripped me bare. I could sense the meddling of the gods in this. I ignored their gifts at my peril.

“All right. I give my word.” I swear that my oath was tinged with regret. I knew I had no defenses against Helen. Didn’t Andromache understand the viper she was inviting into her chambers?

“I knew I could depend upon you, husband. I will pray to the gods that Hector and Helen find the happiness that we have found.” She reached up and gave me her kiss.

I returned it dutifully and pushed a false smile to my face. Red lips and the bluest eyes.

That evening we dined at my father’s table. I mixed and poured Helen’s wine and placed the cup in front of her. I watched her bring the kylix to her lips and sip from its broad, shallow bowl. A tiny drop of wine glistened at the corner of her mouth, brighter than the necklace of gold she wore at her slender throat. My wife patted my leg to show her approval. Paris entertained us with stone of the Achaeans and their strange manners. Helen laughed at everything he said. He kissed her frequently, with great passion, to remind us that she was his, and none of ours. For me the food and drink had no taste.

Later I lay in bed with Andromache. She curled against me, a leg draped over mine. We could both hear a loud thumping coming through the wall. On the other side was Helen’s bed chamber. Andromache giggled. “She is enthusiastic, I will give her that.”

Now a loud, long, drawn-out, shuddering moan. “And noisy.”

I made a sound indicating my disgust. “They rut like common farm animals,” I whispered. “Have they no shame?”

“The marriage bed is still new. His passion will cool soon enough.”

Another moan. Paris muttered something unintelligible and the bed knocked against the wall and the thumping began again.

“Gods, will they never stop?” I was in agony.

“Would you like it if I was loud like that?” Andromache ran her fingers down across my stomach.

“What is this?” she cooed, finding my erection. “You still desire me, don’t you?” She rolled on her back and drew me to her. I had no choice now. I made love to Andromache, but all the time I imagined the woman on the other side of the wall.

The first Achaean ship arrived a month later. Soon there were dozens, then two hundred. They came with at least ten thousand men. I welcomed them. It gave me something to occupy my thoughts during the day. Every night, though, I had to listen to Helen pretend to find pleasure with my brother. He acted the fool, fawning over her during the meals Andromache insisted we take together. I could see the misery in Helen’s eyes when she looked at me. I found ways to brush against her, and soon I was engaged in a series of chaste kisses and brotherly embraces, while Andromache urged me on and Paris began to drink the way our father did. It was more than I could stand. My thwarted passion haunted me, a reproving ghost.

We skirmished with the Achaeans daily, but avoided a pitched battle. Every morning I watched them from the roof of the palace. One day Paris joined me.

“It will be hard to drive them out,” he said, pointing to Agamemnon’s camp on the promontory on the far side of the wide bay.

“Too hard. The approach to their camp is narrow, and that ditch and rampart look sturdy enough.”

“What do we do, just let them sit there? Look at the damage they are doing.”

The Achaeans were burning farms and fields. It looked like Troy was surrounded by a landscape of funeral pyres, the columns of smoke climbing tall and straight into the autumn sky.

“That is exactly what we do,” I said. “Father has decided to leave the fighting to me, and that is our strategy. We wait. Eventually they will do something foolish, like attacking our walls. We will make many Achaean widows when they do.” I patted my sceptical brother on his back. “We can always plant new fields and build new farms. I will need your help. I have to be able to depend on you.”

“Expecting me to do something foolish, brother?” he said. “Promise me they will not carry off Helen.”

His weakness disgusted me. It was his responsibility to safeguard his wife, not mine.

“I promise, Paris. No Achaean will lay hands on her while I draw breath.” I made no such promise for my own hands.

In the following months, the Achaeans tried the walls twice. Then it was their turn to weep at the smoke-darkened skies, coming as they did from the pyres of their slain. We took each other’s measure, like wrestlers seeking the hold that would lead to victory.

The long days slowly passed. The fighting flared and diminished like an improperly banked fire. Achilles made his presence felt. He was terrible to behold. He was dangerously fast and fought with great rage. But unlike most men, Achilles focused it, and so it was a source of strength. I did not relish crossing spears with him. Our tactic was to withdraw before him and pin his warriors in place with the threat of cavalry, while archers harried his men. Paris led this force, and soon began to accumulate reputation and not a little fame. He reveled in his success, and it translated into an insatiable appetite in the bedroom. I could hardly take myself to my own bed, knowing what I would have to hear.

Andromache watched me with mounting concern.

“Husband, you are distracted. You are always tense, and snap at me for no reason. Tell me what I can do to put you at ease.”

I shrugged. “My father hides in a wine cup. I have to rule the city as well as lead in battle. What do you expect?”

“The only time you smile is when we take our meal with your brother and Helen. I’m glad that his jests and boasts entertain you.”

“My troubles will pass once the Achaeans leave.”

I knew Andromache found no pleasure in Paris’s bragging and crude humor. How the war had changed him! Her failure to make friends with Helen had left her guilty and confused.

It was clear, however, that she had something more important on her mind than Paris’s table conversation.

“I have bad news, husband. It is my mother. She is dying. My father has asked me to return to help. Will you permit me to go?”

“I am sorry to hear this,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulder. “Of course, you must go.”

“Helen has noticed your unease as well. She watches out for you, as a sister should. I wish I could be a better friend to her. She said she’d look after you if I went. That is a great burden lifted from my shoulders.”

She hesitated. “I can trust you when I am gone, can’t I?” She was blushing and her eyes glinted with distress.

“Trust me? If you mean the Achaeans, I will keep them at bay.”

“Yes, husband. That is what I mean. The Achaeans. Every one of them.”

I sat without moving, my thoughts churning in my head and my breath suddenly trapped inside my chest. “When do you leave?”

“In three or four days. One of my father’s ships is due to land up the coast. I’ll cross the straits on it and then travel by land.” She took my hand. “The Achaeans are too busy to pursue a single ship. Paris says I will be safe.”

“I will make certain of it. The day you sail, I will take the host out and threaten the Achaean camp. That will hold their attention.”

She squeezed my arm in thanks. “I will be gone a month at most. I shall miss you.”

I embraced her but said nothing. I had sworn an oath to myself not to speak falsely to her.

The days leading to Andromache’s departure were wearing. My mind was unsettled, and I was careless in battle. I received a deep cut in my arm and had to stay behind when our host marched out to decoy the Achaeans. Odysseus led the Achaeans in a feigned retreat, and Paris was deceived into launching the attack I had long warned against. The attack covered Andromache’s passage, but at the cost of many of our best warriors. Afterward, at the evening meal, Paris was angry and scornful. He drank himself into a stupor and was carried senseless to his chambers. That left only Helen and me at the table.

“How is your wound?” she asked, nervously wrapping and unwrapping a blond curl around one finger.

“It has hardly healed since I answered that question earlier. I will be fine in another week.”

She turned red. “I am sorry if I seem so witless. The war...”

The war. We used that to excuse everything. My rudeness? The war. Lust for my brother’s wife? The war. It had been almost a year and still the Achaeans had not departed. They hadn’t enough men to encircle the city in a tight siege, so a trickle of supplies and reinforcements slipped through the loose net of Achaean outposts.

“I told your wife I would look after you while she was gone. I try hard to be her friend, but she guards her thoughts. It is hard to know what she thinks.”

“I have the opposite problem. Years of marriage have made her transparent.”

“If there is anything I can do...”

I had had enough of idle talk. I had held my tongue for a year, and here I was alone with this woman and so distracted that I could hardly think straight. Talk was for Achaeans.

“I want to make love to you,” I said.

She blushed and cast down her eyes. “I hardly think that is what Andromache had in mind.”

“No.”

I pulled her out of her chair and embraced her. “Would you deny me? I sense the way your body moves against mine. I smell the way you respond.”

“Deny you? You are the king in all but name. I am only a guest under your roof. How could one powerless woman deny the hero of Troy?”

I kissed her.

“Remember that I did not begin this,” she said, holding me at arm’s length.

I had no patience for her pretended reluctance. “You began it by being born.” My throat was so tight with hunger for her that the words were little more than a snarl. I lifted her and set her on the edge of my father’s table.

Then I had no use for words at all.

The war dragged on for nine long years. Each fall the Achaeans would leave behind a token force to raid and harry us. Each spring the black ships would return, and the war would be renewed. The tenth year started with no hope of an end to the bloodshed. The city looked worn; trash and rubble seemed as much a part of the landscape as the crowded shelters that filled the streets. The lower city, safe behind its wide ditch and palisade, overflowed with refugees.

Sometimes I felt I was the only thing holding us together. When I brought my spear into the battle line, the shield wall stiffened and surged forward. I kept bad counsel from squandering the safety our arms had won us. I outthought the wily Achaeans and foiled every one of their traps and ambushes. I was Troy.

In the last few years Helen and I had managed only a handful of trysts. I was frustrated and angered by the obstacles that always seemed to appear. Finally I cornered her in the storeroom where we once had kept newly harvested figs in rows of fragrant baskets. It was a harvest we had not enjoyed in many years. The baskets were still there, awaiting return of better days.

“Why did you not come to my bed yesterday? I sent word that Andromache was gone for the day and there would be time for us.”

“I could not,” she replied, without looking me in the eye. “I had to wait on Paris and his friends, mixing the wine while they talked and drank.”

“He treats you like a servant.”

She shrugged.

“I must see more of you. There is always some excuse and I have to conduct an elaborate campaign to be with you. I cannot live like this. I am not a man who sneaks into a woman’s bed.”

“I am no happier than you.” She began to pace, picking her way through the stacks of empty baskets. “Paris is your brother and my husband. There are no secrets in a palace; people are whispering. Who knows what would happen if we were discovered. Perhaps it is time to abandon this madness.”

I could hear the earnestness in her voice. She was frightened and she was right. The palace was the problem. But I could fix that.

“I was afraid you were avoiding me, but now I understand your reluctance. I will take steps to ensure our privacy.”

Then I pulled Helen to the floor and made love to her in the faint perfume of long-vanished figs.

I moved into a small house by the Scaean Gates. I said it was to be closer to the danger, to share the hardships of the men. That was true. But it also allowed me to escape the palace. It was simple enough to send Paris on a series of visits to our nearest allies, seeking men and grain. Then I could call Helen to my bed whenever I had the need to be with her. My warriors protected us from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

In late spring, after a long and bloody battle, I sent for Helen and told her to bring wine. We drank, and the wine loosened her tongue. She lay by my side, naked and covered in sweat. I had made love to her once, and was regathering my strength.

“Do you think this is fair to me?” she complained. “I am no longer young.”

“None of us are,” I said, tracing the lines that radiated from the corners of her eyes. She had stretch marks too, from the two children she had borne at Troy. Who was to say they were not Paris’s? Despite the ways she had changed, the only place I could find relief from the cries of the dead was with her.

She sat up and looked at me, rubbing a hand across my chest. “You are covered with scars. You look just like this city. How much longer can you go on?”

“As long as I have to. If there was a way to end it, I would.” That set me to thinking. What would I be willing to sacrifice for peace?

She filled my cup with wine and handed it to me. “Tell me about Achilles,” she said. “Could you defeat him? No boasts, only the truth.”

The question angered me. People who had never been in battle were forever asking me such things. Even Andromache, who visited once a month to spy on me, had plied me with the same nonsense a week ago.

“He is fast and very skilled. I have watched him kill many men. Sometimes, when he is reacting to a sudden opening and makes an unbalanced thrust with his spear, he brings his shield up a little to protect his head and shoulders. It leaves his side open to a counter-thrust. That is the only weakness I see.”

“So you could defeat him.”

“Perhaps. We are closely matched.” I downed the wine she had handed me.

“What about Odysseus...”

I placed my hand over her mouth, silencing her. “Enough about Achaeans. You’re the only Achaean I want to fight.” I rolled over and pulled her on top of me.

“So you’ll ride me until I’m sore and can hardly walk.” She spoke in that petulant voice I had come to dislike. “Then I will have to return to the palace and lie about where I’ve been. You do remember that Paris returns tonight? He’ll tell me he loves me and then carry me to his bed. I thought I had escaped brothers when I fled Menelaus and Agamemnon. You and Paris are worse. At least in Achaea, three days’ journey lay between the beds I was expected to keep warm. I am not as good as Andromache when it comes to lying.”

That caught me unawares. “What do you mean?”

“Andromache? When she comes back to the palace after her little visits to you here, she pretends to everyone that you and she are still happily wed. Everyone tells her what a brave husband you are and what a good wife she is and she smiles and goes into her apartments with all the appearance of a contented wife. Then she cries all night. I can hear her sobbing. There are now more liars in Troy than there ever were in Mycenae.”

I thought of Andromache’s last visit. She had brought so much wine that I had become drunk. She had encouraged me to talk, and it seemed a little like it was in the old days, just the two of us sharing private words. I sent her home after she began to cling and beg me to come back to the palace with her. I almost wished I had gone.

And now the bitterness arose in Helen again. She had shown it more and more often. She rarely smiled. If it were not that I had to have her, I would have sent her away long ago. She was tiresome. Could I do it, though? Could I send her away?

My mind began to pick at it, pulling at the ends of the knot. I hadn’t known she had slept with Agamemnon. I had thought the war was the stepchild of geography and tribute. What if, instead, this war was about Helen and Agamemnon? What if I weighed her down with gold and sent her back to him with offers of peace? Secretly, at night? No; why not during the day? Let all the damn Achaeans see her. They were tired of fighting too. My spies told me they were at each other’s throats. If they had Helen back, most of them would be eager to go home. Those in favor of continuing the war would be shouted down. A few carts of treasure and they would gladly board their black ships and return to Achaea.

Helen had been watching my face. “You are not thinking of me,” she said. She refilled my cup. “You look just like Odysseus when he is hatching one of his little plots. Tell me what you are thinking.”

“Not now. It is only an idea. A way to end the war, perhaps.”

“End the war? That’s all I ever wanted — for men to stop fighting over me. All I ever prayed for was to be left alone.”

She said it as if she believed it. What nonsense.

“Do you know what I would really like to be?”

The question baffled me. People are what they are born to be.

“I would like to become a priestess. Take care of Aphrodite’s grove. Harvest the olives, press the sacred oil. That is the life I wish I lived.”

I laughed and raised the cup to my lips, draining it. “You have the best of lives now. You have me.”

The rumors began soon after: Hector is afraid of Achilles. Hector ran away from Achilles. Hector sends his men to face Achilles when he will not face him himself. I laughed at first. My reputation could withstand a few lies. But I had misjudged the mood of the city. People began to curse me in the streets. A woman threw rotten fruit at me, calling me a whoremonger and saying I had murdered her husband.

Then Paris called a council of war.

I was angry when I arrived. Our strategy had not changed since the day, nine years ago, when I had first taken charge. Don’t risk too much. Wear the Achaeans down. They would leave eventually. It was the right strategy, but it had never been popular.

I was surprised to see Priam seated at the council table. He had not come to one of these since the Achaeans had arrived at our shores. What was important enough to make him set aside his wine cup now?

Paris began. He recited the well-known litany of the city’s sufferings and the hardships of the war.

“What is new in that?” I asked. “People suffer. At least we have a city to call our own.”

“My brother is a great warrior,” said Paris, avoiding my eyes. “But we do not all have his stamina. We cannot all fight one battle in the day, and another at night.”

Several men snickered.

I ignored his remarks. “If you have a solution, Paris, other than another cup of wine and an arrow in some real warrior’s back, tell us.”

He turned on me with a scowl. “I do have a solution, brother. We must break the will of the Achaeans. It hangs by a thread. One tug and it will snap. The war will be over.”

“I agree.” Paris was preparing the ground for me to explain my new plan to the council. There were still loose threads, but the idea was sound. Troy would be willing to pay a high price to be rid of the Achaeans. Paris might object to it, but what choice did he have?

“I am glad that you do, brother,” said Paris. “Because you hold the key. I have heard that you are Troy.”

Where had he heard that? Had I said it to Helen after too much wine? Had she been foolish enough to reveal our lovemaking?

“Who am I to debate such a claim?” he continued. “But I say we cannot hold out any longer. The war must end. The question is how. I will give you the answer, my friends: Achilles. He is the one binding the Achaeans together. Were he to die, they would leave. Only one man among us can accomplish that. Hector. Our own Achilles. Hector the brave. That is my plan. March out in battle array, and when the Achaeans come against us, we thrust Hector into the line opposite Achilles and let the war be decided there.”

I sneered. What a witless plan. I was the one indispensable Trojan. My strategy was the right one. We would win if we did nothing but sit behind our walls. And if we threw Helen onto the scales... I was surprised to hear several men murmur that Paris’s plan might work. These men were my captains of battle, the trusted councilors who administered the city. Paris, I could understand, but the others?

“Could you do it?” At first I didn’t clearly hear the voice, nor comprehend the question.

“Could you do it? Answer me.” It was Priam, my father.

“Perhaps, Father. He is a great warrior. I might win, but I might lose.”

“That is the same chance that every man takes in battle. Do you know if Achilles has a weakness?”

Why was he asking that? The only one whom I remembered saying that to was Helen. What mischief had she been up to?

“I will not lie,” I answered. “Everyone around this table knows I do not lie. I have seen a weakness in his fighting. But I would have to expose myself, and give him the opening to kill me first.” They ignored the last part. Instead, they seized on Achilles’ vulnerability, and how I would certainly defeat him.

Paris smiled. “You have my proposal. I request that the council approve it.”

I stood up. “You forget that I am the leader of the Trojan host. I have not asked for a council meeting. I have not asked for a plan. We will not risk the safety of the city in single combat.”

The almost-forgotten voice spoke again. “You forget yourself, Hector. I am still king here. And I say that you have too long led the host. I am entrusting Paris to command the Trojans in battle. You, of course, will be his most honored captain and advisor.”

I opened my mouth but no words came forth.

“The plan is accepted,” snarled Paris. “Hector will fight Achilles. We will march out tomorrow and end this. And the gods willing, the war will be over.”

“Over? Of that there can be no doubt. Whether our portion is victory or defeat, who can say?” I shouted. “You are fools.”

I stormed out of the council room. My feet brought me to my old apartments. Andromache was sewing in the main chamber, as she always did. What a contrast to Helen, who didn’t know one end of a needle from the other. Andromache never liked to waste a single moment when work could be found to fill it.

She flushed when I entered the room. “Hector,” she said.

“Yes, wife. I have come for some wine. Do you still keep the Chian by the kitchen door?”

“All is in waiting for your return, husband, just like you left it.”

I brushed past her and found a cup and filled it. When I returned, she had set aside her sewing.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Well enough. The war... and now those fools...”

“I know. They want to send you out against Achilles.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“They’ve talked of nothing but that for days. Helen has even been to see the king. She’s very persuasive, they say. If you had stopped here, I would have warned you.” There was gentle reproach in her voice. And then I thought that of all the Trojans, the only one the war had not changed for the worse was Andromache. Kind, caring Andromache. I should ask for her forgiveness. She would grant it. But that was another Hector. I had lost him years ago.

She waited in silence, as if giving me time to order my thoughts.

“You are still a man of truth, are you not? No one has yet called you a liar.”

“There is that, at least,” I said. “I still have my honor.”

“Then I will ask for the truth, husband, on your honor. People have whispered things. Some out of concern, some out of cruelty. I laughed in their faces and called them fools, ignoring my growing doubt. But now I need to hear it from an honorable man. Did you make love to Helen?”

Gods, did she doubt that? If so, she was the only one left in the city. But she had sworn me to tell the truth.

“Yes, wife. I made love to Helen.”

“Many times?”

“Many times.” It sounded shameful when I said the words.

“Do you love her?”

I could not answer that. Did I love Helen? Or was it only some primal force, an earthquake that I had fallen victim to? Was there a difference between need and love?

“Your silence is answer enough,” she said at last. Then she sighed, and it sounded like a hundred years of sorrow captured in a single breath. “I never liked Helen, you know. I didn’t like her from the moment we met. Helen of the golden hair. Helen the beautiful. Helen who launched a thousand ships. How could I like her? Look at me. I’m plain. I have no wit for conversation. I only have love. What man is ever satisfied with that?”

She stood up and brushed the scraps off her lap.

“Once I heard they wanted you to face Achilles, I went to the armorers and had them make new armor. Yours is old and scarred, like you. But now you will stand for Troy in single combat. It would not do for the stories to say you faced great Achilles looking like a beggar.”

“Stories?”

“That is what we make here now. They are already singing some of them. I’ve heard the Achaean prisoners reciting like bards.”

“And what do they say?”

“That the end is near. When you start to pass into story and song, you know there is not much time left.” She put her hands to her eyes and rubbed them. “You have hurt the people who love you most.”

I thought about that. There was blame to be shared all around. I had been hurt far worse in return.

She dropped her head. A tear fell from her downcast eyes. “Wear my armor, husband. It is my gift to you for all that you have done. Stay home tonight. I will leave and sleep elsewhere. I have a few last-minute adjustments to make to the armor’s fittings. It will be here in the morning when you awake. I will send Helen to you. Don’t worry, I will see to it that Paris is occupied.”

“If I see Helen, I will kill her. She has betrayed me.”

“Now I have seen it all. Hector telling a lie.”

“I mean it. I will.”

“So you think. I won’t be watching tomorrow when you fight Achilles. I will be here at my loom. I will tell our son one of the stories they are singing about you.”

“I never should have left you.” It was all the apology I could give her.

“No,” she agreed. “You never should have left me.”

Helen came to me at dark. I was sitting in my chair, clutching the dagger I intended to kill her with. She carried a lamp and I could see her face. She was frowning.

“I have been waiting.”

She raised the lamp and stepped closer until she could see me plainly. Then she smiled.

“Why do you smile at men?” I asked.

“I only smile at men when they smile at me. My mother taught me it was good manners. Sometimes I think it was bad advice. Maybe if I had returned a scowl to all your smiles, none of this would have happened.”

I had to touch my face to be sure. I was smiling. I had been smiling ever since I sat down in the chair, it seemed. Andromache was right. I could never kill Helen.

We made love for the last time. I still found peace in her arms. Tomorrow the gods would judge me. Tonight was not the time for judgments.

When at last I lay exhausted on the bed coverings, questions came to me like crows circling above a battlefield.

“Why did you tell Paris we shared a bed?”

“Do you think I am a fool? I would never tell him that. He would have killed me. When he came to me two weeks ago and asked me, I denied it.”

“Then why did you mention it to my wife?”

“You are full of accusations tonight, Hector. I did not tell your wife. We hardly talk. She doesn’t like me.”

“I will pretend to believe your lies. I know you went to my father. Why did you urge him to send me out against Achilles?”

“I never told him that. I told him to send me to the Achaeans adorned in gold. Was that not your plan?”

“It was. But how did you know that? I never told you.”

“You talk far too much when you drink. When it comes to secrets, you can’t keep your tongue still.”

That is when I finally understood Helen. She had betrayed me to my brother, my wife, and my father because she did not want to return to Agamemnon. She was angry that I would think of casting her aside.

“What did my father say when you told him of your plan?”

“He laughed and asked me why every woman in Troy seemed to have a scheme to end the war. Then he grabbed me and tried to kiss me.”

Exactly the behavior I would expect from a drunken old stoat.

“The gods know why you have plotted to destroy me, Helen. I do not care. I am a fool.”

“That, at least, is not a lie,” she said, and kissed me. I fell asleep beside her. Later, when day was just beginning to creep into the sky, I heard Andromache and Helen talking in another room. Then Andromache left. I lay in silence, listening and waiting. A long time passed before Helen came back to my bed.

“Your armor is here. Shouldn’t you be preparing?”

“I no longer command the host. Let Paris gather the troops and explain his battle plan to the captains. He has been up all night, worrying and fretting. Eventually he will notice I am missing and he will panic and send a herald to fetch me. I can steal a few more minutes of rest until then.”

Helen covered me with a light blanket. “I will send someone to help you with your armor. I never learned to do it. The things that men use to kill each other unsettle me.”

I laid my head back on the pillow but I was no longer able to sleep.

Our men fought with ardor in the morning. They knew the war would end before the sun had passed its zenith. I waited in the rear, where Paris had placed me. At midmorning he dashed up beside me, his chariot drawn by two foam-flecked horses.

“We have found Achilles. He is on the left of the battle line. Face him and defeat him, brother!” I could hear the excitement in his voice.

He paused a moment, thinking. “If you should fall, your shade can rest easy. I will avenge you. Proud Achilles will get careless and expose himself. Then I will put an arrow in his throat. I swear it.”

Paris always told a good tale. I wondered what the stories would say about him.

I rode to the left of the line to face the fiercest of the Achaeans. As if all the warriors had been waiting for just that moment, both sides fell back. Achilles stood alone between the lines of sweating and gasping men. A ring of bloody corpses surrounded him. He didn’t use the heavy plate armor favored by some of the Achaeans. He wore only a leather cuirass and bronze greaves, and one of the strange boar’s-tusk helmets their heroes were so proud of. I stepped down from my chariot and acknowledged the shouts of my warriors. As I sprinted forward to close with Achilles, the sandal twisted on my right foot, tripping me. I fell to the ground. The Achaeans laughed and beat their shields with their spears and shouted insults. My Trojans were silent. It was a bad omen. The thong tying the sandal to my foot had parted, which was odd, since the thongs had never been used before.

I stood up, shrugged my armor back into place, and pushed the helmet down on my head. I kicked the useless sandal off my foot. The wind blew for a moment, and I could feel the helmet’s red horsehair plume streaming in the wind, like a standard flying before battle.

Achilles crouched and began to circle to my left, moving towards me with each step. I thought of his weakness and of how I had to draw him into it. I would need to be rid of my spear. Achilles would think me at a disadvantage, since he favored the spear. I launched it at him with all my strength. He ducked, using his shield to brush aside my throw. The spear caromed off and flew harmlessly over his head. The Achaeans cheered. My men shouted encouragement. My shield shifted a little and I had to shake my forearm to settle it back into its proper position. The new straps must be stretching. Perhaps it would have been better to stay with my old armor, but that was nothing I could worry about now. I drew my new sword for the first time.

Achilles stabbed at my head, then shifted and tried to bring the shaft of his spear around to trip me. I blocked and jumped, spoiling the move. I feinted with my sword. He kept an arm’s distance between us, refusing to let me close where my sword could come into play. He attempted several more sallies, even trying to hook my shield with his spear to pull it off my arm. I frustrated each of his attacks.

The sweat dripped from beneath my helmet. Achilles was laboring too. He had already faced a number of men before me, and so I was fresher. Hope rose in me. I could defeat him. I could match his speed. My plan would work.

Suddenly he rushed forward, crashing into me with his shield, hoping to bull me over. I stumbled back, my feet scrabbling to find purchase. The toes of my unshod foot found a crack in the dry earth and I was able to retain my balance. Had I been wearing two sandals I would have fallen, and Achilles would have killed me. Now I knew the gods were with me. My men cheered as I drove Achilles back. I had to rein in my enthusiasm. I had to trick him into exposing his vulnerable side. I delayed my reactions. Just enough to make him think I was tiring.

As he sensed his advantage, he launched a flurry of jabs and thrusts. I was hard pressed to keep him back. He managed to cut my face, but the cheek piece of my helmet prevented it from being more than a long, bleeding scratch. I hardly felt the pain. The contest had been going on for some time, longer than Achilles was used to. I could sense that he was desperate to end it. Now is when I would take him. I waited until he had drawn his spear back. Then I jumped forward, crowding him, and lunged with my sword. I dropped my shield, just enough to expose my throat. He saw the opening and struck instinctively like a snake, swift and deadly. I was already twisting aside, expecting his spear thrust. He had a surprise for me. I had been feigning slowness, but so had he. He was much faster than I thought. I couldn’t twist aside in time. His spear caught me in the arm, slicing though the muscle that lay across the top of my shoulder. I was badly wounded. He smiled as I screamed. But more fool he, if he thought it was a scream of pain. It was my shout of triumph. His side was exposed! I brought my sword around in a powerful slashing blow. It landed squarely on the waist of his leather armor where it thinned to allow more flexibility. A place where my sword would cut through it and open a great wound in his side. The blow that would kill him.

I saw the surprise in his eyes when the blow landed. He jerked sideways. It was too late. I jumped back to avoid his desperate counter-thrust. Achilles stood there, looking at his side. His armor was unscathed. There was no cut, no blood. He gave a great shout, withdrawing several paces to address the Achaean lines.

“I am immortal,” he cried. “Immortal, as the songs say.” The Achaeans began to chant his name.

I stared at my sword. And that’s when I saw it. The blade’s edge was blunt, like a practice sword, so that it wouldn’t cut even bread. I had struck Achilles, perhaps broken a rib, but I had not slain him. How could this be? Who could have... and then I knew. Helen. Seeking her revenge. I raised my shield to look at the straps. The one my fist held, the strap that gave me control of my shield during battle, was nearly parted. It had been cut, then sewn shut with a single thread. Sewn so I would not notice it, but ready to fail at a critical moment. It had been cunningly done. I doubted it would take even a single new blow. And that meant my sandal hadn’t parted by mistake either. Helen, how could you do this to me? After Andromache had given you my armor, you were alone with it while I waited for you in my bed. That was when you laid your deadly trap.

There was no chance to defeat Achilles now. I threw my shield at him and ran. My only hope was to reach the Trojan lines. I heard Achilles’ laughter a moment before I felt the bite of his spear in my back. Achilles may have thrown it, but Helen had placed it in his hand.

The Trojan War was over.

Yes, boatman, every word is true. Helen killed me. She was a clever liar, claiming to have no knowledge of the tools of war, pretending she couldn’t sew. I saw the shield strap and the fine stitches used to disguise the cut. It was work that even Andromache would have been proud of. Consider the way she blunted my sword. She had only an hour after my armor was delivered, and I didn’t even hear the hammering required to fold over the sharp edges of the blade. A woman will go far for vengeance when she has been put aside.

That is my tale. A dishonorable end for the most honorable of the Trojans, betrayed by the woman he loved. That is the story men should tell when mourning stirs the house.