Warrior’s Prize

“…He told me

to go through the black night, now swiftly passing,

and to approach our enemies—”

Iliad, Homer, Book X

(Fitzgerald’s translation)

As I waited by the hearth, I tried to rest, but I could not stop thinking of the perils that lay ahead. First, I’d have to slip past Menelaus’s guards. But they could not watch his entire compound, and as the night wore on, they’d be less alert. Once I left the compound, I’d have to avoid Agamemnon’s men, who would be desperate to find me. But surely, if I waited long enough, they’d have given up the search until morning.

The best time to break out was an hour or two before dawn.

The gate sentry posed the greatest danger. The story I told him had best be convincing. To lessen the chance of being recognized, I could alter my looks. But for now I must wait. I lay down, quieted my thoughts, and dozed, coming awake now and again to check the progress of the stars. At last, when the night was deep and silent, I awoke to the rumbling snores of Menelaus coming from the inner room. Good. He was making enough noise in his sleep that he likely wouldn’t hear me. I reached into the hearth with a twig to find a live ember and lit a lamp. I rubbed handfuls of ashes into my hair to dull it and lighten it. With a stick of charcoal I smudged shadows under my eyes, drew furrows between my brows and lines running from the sides of my nose down to my chin. I had no way to see myself, but with any luck I looked like an older woman. Wrapping myself in the gray shawl I had stolen from Klymene, I inched toward the door and opened it. The wood squeaked against the floorboards. I held my breath to listen. Menelaus was still snoring. Lifting the door to ease it open, I slipped out into the courtyard.

Just outside, I stopped. If Menelaus roused, if a guard came, I could still say I was on my way to the privy. But once I took the next fateful steps, there would be no turning back. This was the most daring thing I had ever tried. If caught, I would be put to death. A primitive fear closed my throat. In my former life I might never have found the courage, but I had nothing left to lose, and if I stayed here, the Achaeans were bound to kill me anyway.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. A bright moon broke free of wispy clouds. Keeping to shadows, I stole toward the courtyard gate. When I was halfway there, the murmur of voices stopped me. Menelaus’s guards were just on the other side.

I flattened myself against the fence to listen. A mutter. A yawn. A shifting of positions. An unintelligible curse. They were silent for a moment, the silence charged with some kind of tension. Then I heard a clicking noise and the thud of something landing in the dirt.

“Zeus!” The sharp hiss made me jump. “The luck you have! Very well. I’ll wager a bronze cup on the next toss.”

A low laugh. “And you, my friend, will finish the night without so much as a cooking pot or a stitch of clothing to call your own.”

I let out my breath. They were gambling over knucklebones. I followed the fence to a point around the corner from the gate. Looping my shawl over one of the palisades, I pulled myself up, found a foothold, and dropped to the other side, landing in the dirt with a soft thump. I crouched motionless, holding my breath.

Silence. Suddenly, a harsh curse. Then a voice: “Your toss!”

I breathed. Got to my feet. I looked around. No one stirring. I hoped Agamemnon’s men had given up for the night. Ducking around the building, I started across a large open space toward the main gate of the camp—the last obstacle. The hardest. If I found more than one guard on duty, that would make it far more dangerous.

A cold wind blew as I approached the gate. I rehearsed my story: I was Menelaus’s unwilling servant, sent on a mission I dreaded, but I feared Menelaus even more.

I would not have to feign fear. My mouth was so dry I could hardly swallow. Near the gate I stopped, unable to take another step. This was madness! I was inviting death. Was it not enough that I had escaped Menelaus and Agamemnon? If I went to the farthest end of the camp, I could surely find some slave women who might shelter me.

I stood still for so long the night wind penetrated my bones. Then I took a few slow steps.

“Who goes there?” The shout froze my blood. A man had stepped out of the enclosure of the gate and was looking at me in the moonlight. He came across the open space toward me.

“Sir—” I was shaking, but there was no turning back. He pulled me to the gate, where a lamp burned on a ledge. He was alone, thank the gods!

“Let me see you,” he growled. I held my breath, but no flicker of recognition showed in his hard face. “Who are you? Whom do you serve?”

“I belong to Menelaus,” I whispered.

“Your name?”

I gave my sister-in-law’s name. “Pherusa.”

“What are you doing here?”

I heaved a shuddering sigh. “Menelaus wishes me to cross the plain to Troy and steal into the city in secret to get a message to his wife.” Nothing showed in his face. “Helen,” I added.

Heavy skepticism filled his silence. At last he said, “What message?”

“That her child is ill. That she should come back to him so they can sail home.”

The guard’s dark brows lowered over beady eyes. “Her child? In Sparta? Ill? How could Menelaus know that?”

I shrugged. “For all I know, it’s just a ruse.”

He looked at me for a long time, then asked, “How can I be sure Menelaus sent you?”

I pulled the brooch from my sash. “By this token, sir. He said you’d recognize it.”

The man snatched it up, held it to the light. His breath snorted out. “This is his, all right! I’ve seen him wear it many times.” He handed the brooch back to me but looked unconvinced. Before he could think too long, I produced the gold armband. “He also bade me give you this, sir. For your silence. He doesn’t wish his brother, King Agamemnon, to know of his plan.”

This would sound plausible to anyone who knew the brothers. The guard took the armband and studied it by the light of his lamp, but still hesitated

I decided to bluff. “If you doubt me, sir, you must ask him yourself.” I paused, drew a deep breath. “Or better still, send me back. I don’t want to go. It’s too dangerous! I’ll tell him you wouldn’t let me through the gate.”

He grunted. “Why send a captive woman?” he asked. “What assurance would he have that you’d complete your mission and return?”

I had a ready answer, and my voice shook, making the lie all the more convincing. “My lord Menelaus will kill my babe if I don’t.”

The guard was silent again. I dared not breathe. At last he said, “Then you must do his bidding. You’re just a slave, after all.” But his big body stood too still.

I realized my fear and seeming reluctance were my strongest weapons. “What if it’s suicide?” I asked. “I heard that the last spy was caught and beheaded.”

“If you’re killed, it’s nothing to me.” He sounded annoyed. He turned and lifted the large timber that barred the gate. I dared not breathe. A creak, a groan of wood. He started to open the gate—then stopped. “Wait!” He stared at me narrowly. “How does Menelaus expect you to get into Troy—and out again?”

I had not thought of this. Yet from the gods, perhaps, came words of inspiration. “I’ve been to Troy many times, sir,” I lied. “I know of a—a drainage sluice in the wall. On the far side. Big enough for a small person to crawl through in the dry season.”

“And just how do you expect to find Helen?”

“The women,” I breathed. “I know many of them from when I was free.”

He said nothing. In the east, behind Troy, the sky was changing from black to murky gray. I looked toward it—clasped my hands together—trembled.

“Sir!” I said desperately. “It grows late! I must get into the city before dawn—or abandon the mission.”

His gaze followed mine. Then he turned to me. “Go then! But if you have lied,” he said, his voice colder than the night wind, “I will personally see to your death.”

He shoved the gate open, and I sped through. With a thud, he lowered the beam back into place. I was on the outside. Free!