Memoirs of a Bitch by Francesca Petrizzo, Silvester Mazzarella Page A

enough, it was to be hoped, to reach the open sea. And in any case, with the king away there was not much Menippus could do.
    As soon as the door was shut a hurried precision took over my movements; cloak and boots and a line of kohl so that even in this crisis Paris would find me beautiful. The boxes had already gone, collected by Trojan guards toward the end of the night; they had crossed the garden in dark cloaks at an hour when no one was awake, and under Callira’s orders had hidden our boxes among the rest of their luggage together with the bags of the slaves. All we kept back was a leather knapsack holding the few things we still needed before departure. Etra fastened my thick woolen cloak under my chin for me and looked at me expectantly. I nodded. Callira pulled up her hood and opened the garden door letting the older woman go first, then turned to look at me. I signed to her to go ahead and, her knapsack on her shoulders, she obeyed.
    Left alone, I turned to look once more at the room that had been mine all my life. The sad, empty bed with its white, impersonal cover pulled up for the last time, and the line of empty chests against the walls. In the smaller room were my bathtub and loom, and a fewshelves for linen. Every ornament had been carefully packed and passed to the Trojans for departure; there was nothing I cared for there anymore; it looked like a guestroom I had used for a few days and was leaving without emotion. The mirror had reflected me all my life. In the bed I had dreamed and cried out about Theseus, closed my eyes on my ghosts, embraced Achilles and lain loveless with Menelaus. But all this was behind me, and I felt nothing but ice in my heart.
    So without looking back I pulled up my hood and went out into the dew-drenched garden. The air was like cold water and the rose-tinted light beyond the mountains gave promise of a cold dawn and small hope of a good wind for Troy. Shreds of mist festooned the olive branches. I strode firmly down the slope while Etra closed the door, perhaps the first time I had walked without slipping or looking to right or left, because every single tree deserved a farewell and because I knew my ghost was walking nearby, and would remain here, separated from me by my own choice and my crazy joy on that chilly morning.
    We left the olive grove behind us and made our way along the bank of the Eurotas for the length of a stadium before we reached the ford. The green light under the trees that I had known at other times was not there, the sun was still too low, but when I raised my eyes to lookacross to the other bank I could see a girl sitting on the ground. She was wearing a white shift and had my eyes and soft hair down to her shoulders. She looked at me with neither hatred nor love, just a kind of calm greeting, and behind her among the trees was a dark form I no longer recognized. I would have liked to raise my arm to bid them farewell, or to call Callira to chase such madness from my eyes. But already they had vanished, visions banished by the gradually lightening dawn.
    â€œHelen?” Callira’s voice was calling me, soft and low.
    If I’d wanted to go back, she would have come with me. But I had to drag myself away from that chill and from the sharp shadow of the palace that I could still see beyond the treetops. Callira squeezed my hand and smiled, and together, guiding Etra, we headed for the road through the trees. The river quickly disappeared behind us, its voice mixed with the light rustling of leaves and the singing of waking birds. Now the trees were thinning out, and beyond them we could glimpse the countryside. When a noise made Etra jump like a frightened animal, Callira surprised me by drawing a dagger hidden in her belt. She rapidly scanned the trees with cold eyes, her ears alert under her fine fair hair. “Horses,” she decided tersely and went ahead of us, sheathing her dagger again once we had passed completely out of the