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me.”
    â€œThat can never be too soon,” I answered, but so quietly he didn’t hear. He put me down on the ground. Then at a signal from Diomedes his escort set off at a gallop. He raised his arm in farewell. His horse reared up and back down, and without stopping passed through the courtyard gate. Soon the group were just clouds of dust on the road among the hills. When I turned back, the king and queen of Sparta had already gone. I went back into the house alone.
    So began a time of perfect happiness for me. Merchants were called in to help with my trousseau; Egyptian and Cretan goldsmiths for the jewelry. I was sure Diomedes would raise no objections. Chests full of costly brilliance, with my father seeming calmer now as he realized that Sparta would have a young king. A warrior king. Leda had stopped entertaining officers in her rooms. She was already beginning to say farewell. It was then and only then, with vagabonds and merchants carrying the length and breadth of Greece the news that Diomedes the Brave, Diomedes son of Tydeus and King of Argos, had asked for and been granted the hand of the mad Helen; it was only then that others began to take an interest. The dustof Sparta whitened the boots of one after another as they came to ask for my hand in marriage from my father. I never met these suitors who came and went. No banquet was ever given in their honor; they were sent on their way with cold courtesy. Tyndareus had no feeling for any of them except Peleus. Peleus and his son Achilles.
    I did not know they had come, and never had any reason to expect them to come, that they would travel the long road all the way from Phthia. But one day I was in my garden when a man I did not know walked through the trees: Achilles, who was as young as myself, perhaps too young. They said of him as they said of me, that he was mad.
    He walked calmly through the olive trees and sat down at my side. “They want us to get married,” he said, as though it was obvious, as though we had already been discussing the subject a few moments before.
    I shrugged. “I’m marrying someone else.”
    He didn’t stop smiling. “I know. But my father’s an obstinate man.”
    I did not look up at once, but when I did I saw he had been looking at me.
    â€œYou’re beautiful, Helen.”
    I could not lower my eyes again. Achilles’s skin washoney-gold and his hair just a little darker; his eyes between green and blue. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking together, and did not notice the sun going down. Late that evening, after everyone else had gone to sleep, he came to my window; making sure the lights were out, I opened the shutters and let him in. We made love slowly and silently on my bed, then he lay awake in my arms. It was only with the coming of the rosy morning light of Eos that he slipped away from my side. I watched him dress beside my bed.
    â€œGoodbye, Helen,” he said, smiling with no sadness in his voice, closure achieved. They left at midday and I did not go out to watch them leave.

10
    Now even more men were coming from all over Greece in hopes of the throne of Sparta. Horse after horse came into the courtyard. I no longer even bothered to look. But one day Leda came to my rooms, the anguish of catastrophe in her eyes.
    â€œWho is it this time?” I asked in alarm.
    â€œA messenger.”
    I put down my distaff and thread, and looked askance at her.
    â€œFrom Mycenae,” added my mother.
    A command from the great king. A command that allowed no refusal. My sister sent greetings and all her love, which stung me like a whiplash. They informed us they would come to Sparta in time for the wedding, butnot before. That would give us plenty of time to dispose of Diomedes, King of Argos. Another messenger would already have reached him by now, reported Agamemnon’s messenger in a neutral voice between one cup of wine and the next. I expected Diomedes to take