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The other Helen’s dress was torn, covered in dirt, and smeared with stains from the rotten food that had been thrown at her. Blood leaked from a huge gash on her head, from her mouth, and from the heels of her hands where she had scuffed them on the ground as she fell repeatedly. The mob gathered around her, picking up stones from the side of the road as they closed in.
A blond man, twice her age and more than twice her size, ran forward to beat her with his fists—as if his anger needed a more immediate outlet than just hurling a stone. It seemed he had to use his own body to hurt her in order to feel satisfied.
“I loved you more than anyone! Your foster father gave you to me!” he screamed, half out of his mind as he hit her. His eyes bulged and spittle flew from his mouth in a white spray. “I will beat the child out of you and love you still!”
Helen could hear the mob murmuring, “Kill her, Menelaus!” and “She may carry the Tyrant! You must not try to spare her!”
The other Helen did not fight back or use her lightning to defend herself against Menelaus. Helen watched her other self get knocked down so many times she lost count, but each time the other Helen got back to her feet again. Helen could hear the thumping of his fists against her back and hear the man grunting with exertion, but the other Helen did not cry out or plead for him to stop. She made no sound at all, except for the huffing of her breath as it was knocked out of her lungs by the blows he dealt.
Helen knew what those fists felt like, she even knew what Menelaus smelled like as he beat her. She remembered it.
Finally, Menelaus fell to his knees, unable to beat her any longer. The other Helen was simply too strong to die by his hand, though it was clear to Helen that dying was what the other Helen had intended to do all along.
When the first stone struck her, she did not cower or try to cover herself. More stones followed, battering her from all sides, until the mob ran out of stones to throw. But still the other Helen did not die. Frightened now, the mob began to back away.
A sickened hush fell over the crowd as they watched the gruesome spectacle they had created. Still alive, the other Helen twitched and flailed amid the piled-up stones, her skin pulpy and ragged over her broken bones. She started humming softly to herself—a groaning tune sung in desperation to keep her mind off the unbearable pain she was in. She rocked back and forth, unsteady as a drunk. She was unable to find relief in any position, but she swayed as she hummed to comfort herself as best she could. Helen remembered the pain. She wished she didn’t.
The crowd began to whisper, “Behead her. It’s the only way. She won’t die unless we behead her.”
“Yes, get a sword,” the other Helen called out weakly, the words garbled in her ruined mouth. “I beg you.”
“Someone have mercy and kill her!” a woman shouted desperately, and the mob took up the cry. “A sword! We need a sword!”
A young man, hardly more than a boy, strode out of the crowd, tears streaming down his pale face at the sight of the other Helen. He unsheathed his sword, swung it high over his head, and brought it down on the gory mess at his feet.
A slender arm knocked the blade out of the way before it could strike.
A woman appeared, bathed in golden light, her shape changing repeatedly. She was young and old, fat and thin, dark skinned and fair. In an instant, she was every woman in the world, and all of them were beautiful. By choice, it seemed, her shape settled on one that looked very similar to Helen’s.
“My sister!” she screamed pathetically, scooping the injured girl up out of the rubble. Sobbing, Aphrodite cradled the other Helen in her arms, wiping blood from her face with her shimmering veil.
The crowd shrank back as the goddess wept, their emotions captured by her magic. Helen could see their faces turning into masks of sorrow as their hearts broke along with Aphrodite’s.
“Let me go,” the other Helen begged the goddess.
“Never,” Aphrodite vowed. “I would rather see a city burn to the ground than lose you.” The other Helen tried to argue, but Aphrodite quieted her and stood up, cradling her close, as she would a baby.
The goddess of love faced the mob, glaring at them. Her eyes and mouth glowed as she cursed them all in a thunderous voice:
“I abandon this place. No man shall feel desire, and no woman shall bear fruit. You will all die unloved and childless.”
Helen heard the pleas of the crowd beneath her as she felt herself soaring up into the air along with the goddess. They were tentative, confused at first. Soon the pleas turned into wailing, as the crowd understood how dark their futures had become with a few words from an angry goddess. Aphrodite flew out over the water with her beloved sister in her arms, leaving the cursed place behind.
Far out on the horizon was the mast of a great ship—a Trojan ship, Helen remembered. The goddess flew straight to it, carrying both of the Helens with her.
Matt looked out at the dark horizon. The wind off the water was cold, and the sky was so full of stars that it looked like a city dangling upside down in midair. He’d just survived the longest two days of his life, but Matt wasn’t tired. Not physically, anyway. His muscles didn’t ache, and his legs didn’t drag. In fact, he’d never felt better in his life.
Matt looked down at the ancient dagger in his hand. It was made of bronze, and even though it was mind-bogglingly old, it was still razor sharp and balanced perfectly from tang to hilt. Matt held the pretty thing across his palm and watched it settle into the muscles of his hand like one was made for the other. But which for which, he thought bitterly.
Zach’s blood had been washed off the edges, but Matt still imagined he could see it. Someone Matt had known his whole life had died with this dagger in his heart before bequeathing it to Matt. But long ago it had belonged to another, much more famous master.
The Greeks believed that a hero’s soul was in his armor. The Iliad and The Odyssey told of warriors who had fought to the death over armor. Some had even dishonored themselves to get their hands on the swords and breastplates of the greatest heroes in order to absorb that hero’s soul and skill. Ajax the Greater, one of the most revered fighters on the Greek side of the Trojan War, had gone on a rampage to possess Hector’s armor. When Ajax woke from his madness, he was so horrified with how he’d tarnished his good name that he fell on his own sword and killed himself. Matt had always puzzled over that part in The Iliad. He would never have fought over armor, not even if it meant he could become the greatest warrior the world had ever known. He wasn’t interested in glory.
Matt tossed the dagger as far out into the churning water as he could. It flew, end over end, for a very long time. He watched it moving away from him impossibly far and fast. Many seconds later, Matt could hear the faint splashing noise the dagger made when it hit the water, despite the roar of the surf.
It was
humanly impossible to throw anything that far, and doubly so to hear it splash down. Matt had always relied on logic to solve his problems, and logic was telling him something so unbelievable that logic no longer applied.
