Reality by Other Means. James Morrow

too, sweetheart.”

      He pulls off his plumed helmet, stomps his foot on the forecastle, and says, angrily, “You ran out on me.”

      “Yes. Quite so.”

      “Trollop.”

      “Perhaps.” Helen adjusts her greaves. “I could claim I was bewitched by laughter-loving Aphrodite, but that would be a lie. The fact is, Paris knocked me silly. I’m crazy about him. Sorry.” She runs her desiccated tongue along her parched lips. “Have you anything to drink?”

      Dipping a hollow gourd into his private cistern, Menelaus offers her a pint of fresh water. “So what brings you here?”

      Helen receives the ladle. Setting her boots wide apart, she steadies herself against the roll of the incoming tide and takes a greedy gulp. At last she says, “I wish to give myself up.”

      “What?”

      “I want to go home with you.”

      “You mean — you think our marriage deserves another chance?”

      “No, I think all those infantrymen out there deserve to live. If this war is really being fought to retrieve me, then consider the job done.” Tossing the ladle aside, Helen holds out her hands, palms turned upward as if she’s testing for raindrops. “I’m yours, hubby. Manacle my wrists, chain my feet together, throw me in the brig.”

      Against all odds, defying all logos, Menelaus’s face loses more blood. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” he says.

      “Huh? What do you mean?”

      “This siege, Helen — there’s more to it than you suppose.”

      “Don’t jerk me around, lord of all Lakedaimon, asshole. It’s time to call it quits.”

      The Spartan king stares straight at her chest, a habit she’s always found annoying. “Put on a bit of weight, eh, darling?”

      “Don’t change the subject.” She lunges toward Menelaus’s scabbard as if to goose him, but instead draws out his sword. “I’m deadly serious: if Helen of Troy is not permitted to live with herself” — she pantomimes the act of suicide — “then she will die with herself.”

      “Tell you what,” says her husband, taking his weapon back. “Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’ll go to my brother and suggest he arrange a truce with your father-in-law.”

      “He’s not my father-in-law. There was never a wedding.”

      “Whatever. The point is, your offer has merit, but it must be discussed. We shall all meet face to face, Trojans and Achaeans, and talk it out. As for now, you’d best return to your lover.”

      “I’m warning you — I shall abide no more blood on my hands, none but my own.”

      “Of course, dear. Now please go back to the citadel.”

      At least he listened, Helen muses as she crosses the weatherworn deck of the Arkadia. At least he didn’t tell me not to worry my pretty little head about it.

      “Here comes the dull part,” says whiny-tongued Damon.

      “The scene with all the talking,” adds smart-mouthed Daphne.

      “Can you cut it a bit?” my son asks.

      “Hush,” I say, smoothing out Damon’s coverlet. “No interruptions,” I insist. I slip Daphne’s papyrus doll under her arm. “When you have your own children, you can edit the tale however you wish. As for now, listen carefully. You might learn something.”

      By the burbling, tumbling waters of the River Simois, beneath the glowing orange avatar of the moon goddess Artemis, ten aristocrats are gathered around an oaken table in the purple tent of Ilium’s high command, all of them bursting with opinions on how best to deal with this Helen situation, this peace problem, this Trojan hostage crisis. White as a crane, a truce banner flaps above the heads of the two kings, Priam from the high city, Agamemnon from the long ships. Each side has sent its best and/or brightest. For the Trojans: brainy Panthoos, mighty Paris, invincible Hector, and Hiketaon the scion of Ares. For the Achaean cause: Ajax the berserker, Nestor the mentor, Menelaus the cuckold, and wily, smiling Odysseus. Of all those invited, only quarrelsome Achilles, sulking in his tent, has declined to appear.

      Panthoos rises, rubs his foam-white beard, and sets his scepter on the table. “Royal captains, gifted seers,” the old Trojan begins, “I believe you will concur when I say that, since this siege was laid, we have not faced a challenge of such magnitude. Make no mistake: Helen means to take our war away from us, and she means to do so immediately.”

      Gusts of dismay waft through the tent like a wind from the underworld.

      “We can’t quit now,” groans Hector, wincing fiercely.

      “We’re just getting up to speed,” wails Hiketaon, grimacing greatly.

      Agamemnon steps down from his throne, carrying his scepter like a spear. “I have a question for Prince Paris,” he says. “What does your mistress’s willingness to return to Argos say about the present state of your relationship?”

      Paris strokes his jowls and replies, “As you might surmise, noble king, my feelings for Helen are predicated on requitement.”

      “So you won’t keep her in Pergamos by force?”

      “If she doesn’t want me, then I don’t want her.”

      At which point slug-witted Ajax raises his hand. “Er, excuse me. I’m a bit confused. If Helen is ours for the asking, then why must we continue the war?”

      A sirocco of astonishment arises among the heroes.

      “Why?” gasps Panthoos. “Why? Because this is Troy, that’s why. Because we’re kicking off Western Civilization here, that’s why. The longer we can keep this affair going — the longer we can sustain such an ambiguous enterprise — the more valuable and significant it becomes.”

      Slow-synapsed Ajax says, “Huh?”

      Nestor has but to clear his throat and every eye is upon him. “What our adversary is saying — may I interpret, wise Panthoos?” He turns to his Trojan counterpart, bows deferentially, and, receiving a nod of assent, speaks to Ajax. “Panthoos means that, if this particular pretext for war — restoring a woman to her rightful owner — can be made to seem reasonable, then any pretext for war can be made to seem reasonable.” The mentor shifts his fevered stare from Ajax to the entire assembly. “By rising to this rare and precious occasion, we shall open the way for wars of religion, wars of manifest destiny — any equivocal cause you care to name.” Once again his gaze alights on Ajax. “Understand, sir? This is the war to inaugurate war itself. This is the war to make the world safe for war!”

      Ajax frowns so vigorously his visor falls down. “All I know is, we came for Helen, and we got her. Mission accomplished.” Turning to Agamemnon, the berserker lifts the visor from his eyes. “So if it’s all the same to you, Majesty, I’d like to go home before I get killed.”

      “O, Ajax, Ajax, Ajax,” moans Hector, pulling an arrow from his quiver and using it to scratch his back. “Where is your aesthetic sense? Have you no appreciation of war for war’s sake? The plains of Ilium are roiling with glory, sir. You could cut the arete with a knife. Never have there been such valiant eviscerations, such venerable dismemberments, such — ”

      “I don’t get it,” says the berserker. “I just don’t get it.”

      Whereupon Menelaus slams his wine goblet on the table with a resounding thunk. “We are not gathered in Priam’s tent so that Ajax might learn politics,” he says impatiently. “We are gathered so that we might best dispose of my wife.”

      “True, true,” says Hector.

      “So what are we going to do, gentlemen?”