She sat on their bed and held his hand, daydreaming as the sky grew brighter and the palace started to wake. In the courtyard far below someone dropped a piece of heavy pottery, which smashed amid loud curses, and within moments Helen could hear her son scrambling out of bed next door. There was silence for a long while, and she wondered what he was up to. Then she heard cries of alarm from a distance, and Alypius came running into the room, dressed only in his nightshirt, his dark hair flying and a look of excitement on his face.
“Papa, Papa, there are ships! Lots of ships!”
“Sshh! Papa’s sleeping.” Helen dropped Paris’ hand and put her arms around the boy.
He squirmed away. “Come, you must see! Lots of ships!”
Then fair-haired Philea came toddling into the room, clutching a ragged doll made of blue cloth. “Shipth!” she lisped.
Paris awoke and sat up groggily. “What is it?”
“It is nothing, husband. They have seen some winter ships. It is nothing.” But in the distance she could hear shouts and the cold clash of metal, and her heart suddenly was clutched by dread.
Paris arose and walked out to the balcony. As he looked to his left, he gasped, and Helen saw him start to tremble. She ran to his side. Far below lay the Bay of Herakles, which normally was a brilliant blue in the dawn light. Now the bay and the wide sea beyond were filled with ships as far as the eye could see. Scores already were drawn up on the sandy beach, and hundreds more were heading east toward them out of the light sea mist. From the height of the palace they could hear nothing, and the ships moved in an eerie silence.
The sandy beach was full of armed men, and a solid line of them was making its way up toward the palace. Dawn light sparkled off their helms and spear tips. Helen could see that they already had overrun the defensive stockade of the beach garrison.
She leaned over the balcony wall. Directly below them was the main palace courtyard. Soldiers and servants were running to defend the gates. Even as she watched, she heard the solid boom of a battering ram against timber.
“There are thousands of them,” she whispered in horror. “The children…”
She looked at Paris and saw despair in his face, a hint of madness in his eyes. “I must go,” he cried. He stumbled into the anteroom and took two swords from the wall.
Helen caught hold of him. “You are not a warrior,” she implored. “They will kill you.”
“They will kill me whether I am a warrior or not,” he said.
“We can escape together,” she begged him, her hands to his face. “If we can get to the north terrace quickly, we can climb down from there and make for the Scamander before they surround the palace.”
“Escape?” he said. “Yes, you must escape!” Pushing her aside, he darted from the room, and she heard him running down the stairs.
Helen paused for a heartbeat, her mind dazed and slow, unable to take in the sudden awful fate that had overcome them. Then she took Philea in her arms, grabbed Alypius by the hand, and started downstairs after her husband. The north terrace was her only hope. It was far from the main gates where the enemy was breaking in. The terrace looked toward Troy, and beyond it the land shelved steeply down, covered with scrub and undergrowth, toward the plain of the Scamander. She could get the children down there to hide them or even reach the safety of the city.
On the next level down she heard the smashing and rending of timbers, and she paused to look out of a window down into the courtyard one floor below. The invaders were pouring through a wide breach in the gates. Palace soldiers who ran to meet them fought desperately, but there were too few of them, and they fell under the weight of numbers.
Then she saw Paris running out across the courtyard, waving his two swords. He was ignored at first; then a huge black-haired warrior turned and saw him. He stepped in front of Paris, who attacked him like a madman. His attack lasted mere heartbeats, and then the black-haired warrior thrust a sword through Paris’ throat. Paris fell, his lifeblood gouting out from his neck. He trembled for a moment, then lay still, his bare feet sticking pathetically out of his brown robe.
An old servant, Pamones, who had served the royal family since the days of Priam’s father, tried to defend the prince’s body with a spear, but he was disarmed casually by the warrior. The man grabbed the old servant by his neck. In a lull in the fighting the warrior’s voice drifted up to Helen’s ears.
“Where is the princess Helen, old man?” he shouted.
“In Troy, lord,” the man cried, pointing in the direction of the city. “The lord Paris sent them there for safety.”
The soldier flung Pamones aside, then gazed up at the palace. Helen ducked back out of sight.
“What’s happening, Mama?” asked Alypius, who could see nothing of the carnage below.
Hearing pounding feet on the floor below, she picked both children up in her arms and fled up the stairs. The highest level of the palace was the square tower Paris had chosen for his scriptorium. There were shelves and drawers and boxes full of papyrus and hide scrolls. He and Helen had spent many happy days there organizing documents in Paris’ arcane method. In despair Helen looked around the tower room. There was nowhere to hide. In a daze she took the children out onto the shallow balcony, high above the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff.
“What’s happening, Mama?” Alypius asked again, his small face creased with anxiety and fear. Philea was standing quietly, her blue doll held to her mouth.
Helen heard loud feet on the stairs, and the door burst open. A Mykene warrior walked in. His head was shaved, his red beard braided. He brought the smell of the slaughterhouse into the room. Other warriors jostled in the doorway.
Helen clutched the children tightly and backed away. Four warriors approached her slowly, sword in hand.
She retreated across the balcony, her gaze fixed to the four men, until she felt her calves strike the low balcony wall. Carefully she climbed up onto it. The children stopped struggling in her arms.
Alypius glanced over her shoulder to the deadly rocks far below. “I am scared, Mama!”
“Hush now,” she whispered.
The powerful dark-haired warrior she had seen in the courtyard stepped out before her. He was helmless, and blood flecked his hair and armor.
“Princess Helen,” he said gravely. “I am Achilles.”
Hope stirred in her laboring heart. Achilles was a man of honor, it was said. He would not kill women and children.
“Lady,” he said gently, sheathing his swords and holding out a hand to her. “Come with me. You are safe. King Menelaus wishes you to return to Sparta. He will make you his wife.”
“And my children?” she asked, knowing the answer. “The children of Paris?”
An expression crossed his face that could have been shame, and he lowered his eyes for a heartbeat. Then he looked up at her. “You are young,” he said. “There will be other children.”
Helen glanced down and behind her. Far below, the sharp rocks looked like bronze spear points in the dawn light.
She relaxed then and felt all tension flowing away. Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt the warmth of the rising sun on her back. Then she opened them again and gazed at the warriors.
No longer afraid, she looked each one in the eye, a calm lingering look, as a mother might look on wayward children. She saw their expressions change. They knew what she was about to do. Each one lost his look of hungry ferocity.
“Do not do this!” Achilles implored her. “Remember who you are. You do not belong among these foreigners. You are Helen of Sparta.”
“No, Achilles, I am Helen of Troy,” she said. Hugging the children to her, she kissed them both. “Close your eyes, dear ones,” she whispered. “Squeeze them shut. And when you open them again, Papa will be here.”