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Authors: Lisa Mangum
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her?” I spread a thin coating of butter on my English muffin. “No, there is no Helen. It’s just a name.”
“Ah, but names are powerful. Telling,” Dante observed. “ Abby, for example, means one who gives joy. ”
I smiled at the compliment. “What does your name mean?”
“ Lasting, ” he said, a shadow crossing his features before he quickly segued with, “and Helen was the name of the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“Helen of Troy.”
“Helen of Troy.” Dante nodded, taking a drink of water.
“Helen and Paris,” I said, sighing a little. “It’s kind of romantic, don’t you think? Running away with the man of your dreams?”
Dante snorted. “What are you talking about? Helen’s broken marriage vow was the downfall of the Trojans.”
I shrugged. “Maybe, but the Greeks were going to win that war. I mean, have you read the Iliad? The Trojans were destined to fall—”
“Have you read the Aeneid? ” Dante asked with a raised eyebrow. “There’s always another side to the story. There’s always more going on than you might imagine.”
A slow smile crossed my face. How long had it been since I’d had a spirited discussion about something literary? About something other than Jason’s shop class or his truck?
“The Aeneid? Never read it. I doubt it’s as good as Homer, though.” I set down my fork and leaned my elbows on the table, resting my chin on my laced fingers. “Convince me otherwise,” I invited.
Dante glanced around at the empty café before regarding me with a bright light in his eyes.
“C’mon, Dante,” I teased a little. “Convince me that Helen was the true villain of the story.” Watching the smooth lines of his throat moving as he swallowed a mouthful of water, I felt my own mouth grow dry.
Dante wadded up his napkin and tossed it on the table. He bowed his head for a moment, the stillness I’d noticed about him more pronounced. He seemed to gather up the nearby space, drawing it around him like a hurricane around an eye. “Helen brought war to Troy and left nothing but devastation in her wake. Aeneas has had to watch his friends and family die, his homeland be ravaged by war, his home burn to the ground. And as he stumbles into the smoking ruin of the temple, who does he find?”
Dante’s countenance subtly shifted, his eyes growing distant and hard, his voice lowering in timbre and gaining in strength as the words poured out of him like smoky honey, like liquid fire.
That woman, terrified of the Trojans’ hate
For the city overthrown, terrified too
Of Danaan vengeance, her abandoned husband’s
Anger after years—Helen, that Fury
Both to her own homeland and Troy, had gone
To earth, a hated thing, before the altars.
He closed his eyes, sweeping his hands through his hair before continuing. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his chest rose and fell as he gulped in air.
Now fires blazed up in my own spirit—
A passion to avenge my fallen town
And punish Helen’s whorishness.
He leaned across the table. Heat seemed to radiate off him in waves.
“Shall this one,” he hissed,
“Look untouched on Sparta and Mycenae
After her triumph, going like a queen,
And see her home and husband, kin and children,
With Trojan girls for escort, Phrygian slaves?
Must Priam perish by the sword for this?
Troy burn, for this? Dardania’s littoral
Be soaked in blood, so many times, for this?”
He looked at me from underneath lowered lids and his voice was deadly quiet.
“Not by my leave. I know
No glory comes of punishing a woman,
The feat can bring no honor. Still, I’ll be
Approved for snuffing out a monstrous life,
For a just sentence carried out. My heart
Will teem with joy in this avenging fire,
And the ashes of my kin will be appeased.”
He slumped back against the booth and drained his water glass in one swallow. When he placed the glass back on the table, it was like a switch had been flipped: he was back from being Aeneas to being
“Ah, but names are powerful. Telling,” Dante observed. “ Abby, for example, means one who gives joy. ”
I smiled at the compliment. “What does your name mean?”
“ Lasting, ” he said, a shadow crossing his features before he quickly segued with, “and Helen was the name of the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“Helen of Troy.”
“Helen of Troy.” Dante nodded, taking a drink of water.
“Helen and Paris,” I said, sighing a little. “It’s kind of romantic, don’t you think? Running away with the man of your dreams?”
Dante snorted. “What are you talking about? Helen’s broken marriage vow was the downfall of the Trojans.”
I shrugged. “Maybe, but the Greeks were going to win that war. I mean, have you read the Iliad? The Trojans were destined to fall—”
“Have you read the Aeneid? ” Dante asked with a raised eyebrow. “There’s always another side to the story. There’s always more going on than you might imagine.”
A slow smile crossed my face. How long had it been since I’d had a spirited discussion about something literary? About something other than Jason’s shop class or his truck?
“The Aeneid? Never read it. I doubt it’s as good as Homer, though.” I set down my fork and leaned my elbows on the table, resting my chin on my laced fingers. “Convince me otherwise,” I invited.
Dante glanced around at the empty café before regarding me with a bright light in his eyes.
“C’mon, Dante,” I teased a little. “Convince me that Helen was the true villain of the story.” Watching the smooth lines of his throat moving as he swallowed a mouthful of water, I felt my own mouth grow dry.
Dante wadded up his napkin and tossed it on the table. He bowed his head for a moment, the stillness I’d noticed about him more pronounced. He seemed to gather up the nearby space, drawing it around him like a hurricane around an eye. “Helen brought war to Troy and left nothing but devastation in her wake. Aeneas has had to watch his friends and family die, his homeland be ravaged by war, his home burn to the ground. And as he stumbles into the smoking ruin of the temple, who does he find?”
Dante’s countenance subtly shifted, his eyes growing distant and hard, his voice lowering in timbre and gaining in strength as the words poured out of him like smoky honey, like liquid fire.
That woman, terrified of the Trojans’ hate
For the city overthrown, terrified too
Of Danaan vengeance, her abandoned husband’s
Anger after years—Helen, that Fury
Both to her own homeland and Troy, had gone
To earth, a hated thing, before the altars.
He closed his eyes, sweeping his hands through his hair before continuing. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his chest rose and fell as he gulped in air.
Now fires blazed up in my own spirit—
A passion to avenge my fallen town
And punish Helen’s whorishness.
He leaned across the table. Heat seemed to radiate off him in waves.
“Shall this one,” he hissed,
“Look untouched on Sparta and Mycenae
After her triumph, going like a queen,
And see her home and husband, kin and children,
With Trojan girls for escort, Phrygian slaves?
Must Priam perish by the sword for this?
Troy burn, for this? Dardania’s littoral
Be soaked in blood, so many times, for this?”
He looked at me from underneath lowered lids and his voice was deadly quiet.
“Not by my leave. I know
No glory comes of punishing a woman,
The feat can bring no honor. Still, I’ll be
Approved for snuffing out a monstrous life,
For a just sentence carried out. My heart
Will teem with joy in this avenging fire,
And the ashes of my kin will be appeased.”
He slumped back against the booth and drained his water glass in one swallow. When he placed the glass back on the table, it was like a switch had been flipped: he was back from being Aeneas to being
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