Chapter 4 - The Palace Above the City
I saw Hector for the first time because I delivered six jars of olive oil to the wrong courtyard.
Again, legends rarely begin properly.
I had sold part of my goods to a palace steward, who gave me directions so simple that I immediately misunderstood them.
I entered through a gate, crossed one courtyard, turned left when I should have turned right, and found myself standing beside men whose clothing cost more than everything I owned.
A guard stepped toward me.
“You.”
I stopped.
“That is generally my name.”
He did not appreciate humor.
“What are you doing here?”
“Delivering oil.”
“Not here.”
“So I have discovered.”
Before he could remove me, movement at the opposite end of the courtyard drew everyone’s attention.
An older man entered surrounded by attendants.
King Priam.
I recognized him because even people who had never seen Priam somehow knew what Priam looked like.
He was old, but not fragile.
His beard was white. His shoulders remained broad beneath a richly woven cloak. People inclined their heads as he passed.
Power did not make him move faster.
It made everyone else move around him.
Beside him walked several younger men.
One caught my attention immediately.
Not because he wore the brightest clothing.
He did not.
Not because he spoke the loudest.
He barely spoke at all.
But people created space for him before he reached them.
“That is Hector,” someone whispered behind me.
Prince Hector.
Son of Priam.
Commander.
The man people in Troy trusted when they spoke about war.
He was taller than I expected, though stories have a way of making warriors the size of trees. His face was serious without being cruel. A faint scar marked one cheek. He wore a sword but rested no hand on it.
He looked like a man who had already been asked to carry too much and knew more weight was coming.
Then another young man appeared.
Paris.
Even before someone named him, I guessed.
He was handsome in the manner songs prefer.
Dark curls.
Fine clothing.
An easy smile.
Where Hector made people straighten, Paris made them look twice.
He spoke to an attendant, laughed, and turned.
That was when I saw Helen.
She stood beneath the shade of a columned walkway.
For a moment, I understood why poets caused so much trouble.
She was beautiful.
But beauty was not what held my attention.
Stillness was.
Everyone around Helen moved with purpose.
Servants crossed behind her.
Officials spoke.
Paris approached.
Helen stood completely still.
Her hair was arranged beneath a light veil. Her dress was finely woven but not excessively decorated. She looked toward the courtyard without appearing to see anyone in it.
Then her eyes moved toward me.
Only for a moment.
I looked away first.
The guard finally remembered I existed.
“Move.”
“Yes.”
He escorted me to the correct storage area.
Later, I found Dymas near the market.
“I saw Priam.”
He continued eating figs.
“Congratulations.”
“And Hector.”
“Still congratulations.”
“And Paris.”
Dymas stopped chewing.
Then he looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was a very meaningful nothing.”
He sighed.
“You foreigners love stories about princes.”
“I love stories about everyone.”
“No. You write more carefully when the person has jewelry.”
“That is slander.”
“Did you see Helen?”
I hesitated.
Dymas laughed.
“I knew it.”
“What do people here think of her?”
“That depends who you ask.”
“So I’m asking you.”
“I think she is a woman living inside everyone else’s argument.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Over the next several days, I began hearing the story in pieces.
Helen had been queen in Sparta.
Menelaus had been her husband.
Paris had gone there.
Helen had come to Troy with him.
Some said Paris stole her.
Some said Helen chose him.
Some blamed Aphrodite.
Some blamed Menelaus.
Some blamed Helen because people often find women easier to blame than princes.
No two versions matched perfectly.
Ione hated the subject.
“Everyone talks as if Helen were a jar of oil someone carried away,” she said.
“You have met her?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I know how men tell stories about women.”
I could not argue with that.
That evening, from the roof, I looked toward the palace.
Lamps glowed in the upper city.
Somewhere behind those walls lived Priam.
Hector.
Paris.
Helen.
People whose names were already traveling beyond Troy.
I had come here for trade.
They lived inside politics large enough to move armies.
Before leaving the upper city that day, I spent some time near a public courtyard where petitioners waited to speak with officials. That interested me almost as much as the royal family. A farmer complained that soldiers had taken two of his oxen for transport. A trader wanted permission to move copper through a restricted gate. A widow argued over land that belonged to her husband before he died.
Kings lived above us, but government was made of complaints.
I watched scribes press marks into tablets and wondered how many decisions made in those rooms would eventually reach the market below. A tax became a smaller loaf. A military order became an empty chair at dinner. A marriage between noble houses became a new alliance. A prince's desire could become a fleet.
When I returned to the lower city, everything felt louder than before. Sira slapped dough against her table. Makon shouted at an apprentice. Children played with stones in a gutter. Ione was arguing with a woman about the price of dried mint.
It struck me that the people above and below the hill shared the same walls but not the same consequences. A prince might make a mistake in a palace. A baker might pay for it with a son.
I did not yet know whether Paris had made a mistake, whether Helen had chosen him, or whether the gods had anything to do with it. But for the first time, I understood why Dymas disliked stories about princes.
Stories make their choices look private.
Cities discover otherwise.
At the time, I still believed those worlds were separate.
Mine below.
May you like
Theirs above.
I would learn otherwise soon enough.
