Helen of Troy by Margaret George Page B

there will be enmity.”
    Father looked up sharply. “What do you mean?” he asked.
    “I mean that the losers may not accept your choice. They may turn these weapons from tools of friendly competition to instruments of deadly intent.”
    Mother gave a little intake of breath and brought her hand up to her throat. But she kept her eyes from widening or blinking.
    I knew we—Father, Mother, and I—were hearing again the shrill voice of the Herophile Sibyl crying, Because of her a great war will be fought, and many Greeks will die! But Odysseus had not heard those words; he could not know.
    “And what is your proposal?” Father asked, looking keenly at Odysseus.
    “Ah! Before I reveal it, I must ask your promise for something in exchange.”
    Father grunted. “I knew it. You do in fact want something.”
    “I do. But not the hand of Helen. I am not worthy”—he looked at me and smiled—“but perhaps I could join your family in another manner.”
    “Oh, speak up! Spit it out, whatever it is you want!” I could tell Father was troubled by the ugly prospect Odysseus had raised about the disquiet; it was filling his mind.
    “I would like you to speak on my behalf to your niece Penelope,” he said. “It is she I long to wed.”
    Father looked relieved. “Is that all?”
    “To me it is everything.”
    “Very well. I shall do my utmost for your suit. And may the gods do the rest! Now your part of the bargain!”
    “It is simple. This is the way to avert any trouble. You will announce that all the suitors must swear an oath to uphold Helen’s choice of husband, to be content with it. If anyone should seek to disrupt the marriage or dispute it, then all the others will make war on him .”
    “But why would they agree to that?”
    “Because, men being men, each will imagine himself the winner, and enjoying the benefits of this oath.”
    “You said ‘Helen’s choice,’ ” I said softly.
    “That is right, little beauty,” said Odysseus. “It must be your choice. That way no one can hold it against your father.”
    “But that’s unheard of!” said Mother.
    “I am sure she will listen to the wise advice of her parents,” said Odysseus, all but winking. “But in the end”—he turned to me—“it is you who must speak the words. The words that say, ‘I choose you to be my husband.’ ” I felt a strange excitement at the prospect of it.
    Odysseus slipped between two large men and disappeared.
    A tall, wrinkled man, his head bobbing, was weaving his way toward us, turning adeptly to slide between people. He never stopped talking to a man trailing alongside him.
    “Ah, to behold you again is worth the journey from Pylos,” the wrinkled man said, throwing his hands up in exultation. “Ah, and along the way, there were repairs on the road, we had to take a detour. Although it was not as rough as the time in that battle with the Epeans when my chariot wheel came off—do you remember?—no, you were too young, you were not there. Well, it seems—”
    “Greetings, King Nestor,” said Father, when Nestor had paused to gulp in a breath. “We welcome you. But we thought you had a wife already!”
    One who, preferably, was deaf, I thought.
    “Oh, I do, I do! It is my son who seeks a wife. Antilochus here!” He clapped the young man on the back, and his son winced in response.
    Antilochus was of medium height, with one of those faces that are inherently pleasing—whether by expression or the contours of the nose, cheeks, and eyes, it is hard to say. It was a face I felt I could trust.
    “And what do you plan as your part of the competition?” asked Father abruptly. He was still distracted by what Odysseus had said about the strife.
    “What, and ruin his surprise?” Nestor shook his finger at Father. “Really, Tyndareus, I’m surprised at you! You know better!”
    “You’re not my father, Nestor. Pray don’t scold me!” said Father.
    “I will either demonstrate my swift running or drive my