The cold was foreign to her. Foreign and unpleasant. It penetrated deep, into the marrow her bones. The weather of barbarian lands, she had heard, could be cruel, unbearable for the likes of the noble Greeks, particularly so, of Greeks whose blood consisted, in equal measure, of a mortal and of a god.
“Why all this snow, father?” she asked, looking at the white shroud that had covered everything outside her window. “Why so much snow? Why such bitter cold?”
She shivered. Not only because of the cold outside but because of the cold in her heart, a cold that came with the thought that the white shroud she saw outside would one day be also her own shroud, covering her own grave.

Her husband, her new husband, rolled languidly on their bed behind her. He grunted a sigh of replete satisfaction, of contentment, happy with the night that had preceded and happier still with the day that he knew would proceed.
The fire was blazing in the hearth, radiating warmth and comfort throughout the enormous royal bedroom. It radiated certainty, safety, protection.

“Paris,” Helen called as soon as she heard his sigh.
“Yes, my sweet golden gift?”
Helen had to accept this label. Gift. After all, she was exactly that. A gift that the goddess Aphrodite had handed to Paris in exchange for him declaring her the one worthy of the title “most beautiful of all” and handing her the golden apple. Helen would have preferred the label ‘bribe.’
“Paris, how many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“Brothers and sisters? Why do you want to know that, Helen, my sweet golden gift? There are many of us.”
“Yes but how many exactly?”
Paris thought for a few seconds. “At the last setting of the dinner table, the chief of slaves shouted that there should be one hundred chairs set up for the king’s children. Yes, I do believe, that there are fifty men and fifty women of us. One hundred in total. Not all out of Hekabe’s womb, mind, but we are all of Priam’s seed.”
He jumped out of bed like a leopard at the scent of game and rushed over to her. He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her slender waist and brought his smooth, shaven face close to hers. So smooth, it made Helen’s body tingle with desire.
“Why do you want to know?”
“It is Dmas today and I want to send gifts to all of them. What sort would they like, do you think? What would your parents like?”
Paris laughed
“Gifts? What more gifts would they want than the one they already have? Troy had never had a gift so precious as the one she has now! You, my darling are the gift that has satisfied them all. There is no other gift in the universe that they could wish now.”
“That’s not what your sister Cassandra thinks! She thinks of me as a curse!”
“Forget Cassandra. She is delusional. Thinks she’s a prophet! Now what is this Dmas you are talking about?”
“You don’t hold the mysteries of Dmas in Troy? But which of the gods is your protector then? Or don’t you have one?” In her heart of hearts she wished the answer was no. That no god protected this city.

“Apollo,” he answered.
“Apollo? Why him?”
Paris brought his face even closer to her and with his he turned hers towards the huge battlements. Enormous walls built of huge stones which no man could lift. Then he raised his hand and pointed at one of the towers.
“See those tall towers, those huge walls, darling?”
She nodded.
“They were built by Apollo. Apollo and Poseidon. They had angered Zeus for some reason or other and he, Zeus, sent them, shamed, here to served grandpa, Laomedon. They had to do whatever grandpa wanted. So he told them to build these walls. Huge, aren’t they? Impenetrable. Troy is unconquerable, my little gift! It is the safest land on land!”

The word, “unconquerable” tugged bitterly at Helen’s heart. Nine months in this land and with this man and she still could not erase the guilt of treachery, nor the love for her first and true husband, Menelaos, King of Sparta. Her love for her baby daughter would torment her for ever. She had still not managed to understand what had actually happened to her mind, to her heart, that day when Paris had snatched her hand and pulled her running to his ship. She remembered well, though, the feeling of exhilaration, of joy that had coursed madly through her veins. The feeling of anticipation for a new, more exciting life, somewhere else, with someone so young, so handsome, with one so much in love with her. Nothing else had mattered at that moment. She had allowed herself to be the captive.
Still, there’s no escaping the will of the gods, she kept telling herself. She must endure it. The words were like a nursery rhyme sung to send a child to the sweet world of oblivion.

“One hundred of you,” she said. “Goodness. This will need a great deal of thought!”
“And what do you Hellenes, do during this Dmas,” Paris asked, as he dragged her back into the warm bed. “Tell me!”
But it was a good hour before the Prince’s arms and legs, his every muscle, stopped their frenzied work so that Helen could begin talking again.
“Dmas is the day when we celebrate the birth of Dionysos.”
“You mean, Bacchus?”
“He is known by many names. Bromios, Lyaeus, Oeneus… lots of names. He is even called Enorches!”
They both burst into loud laughter at that.
“God with balls! What a name for a god, ey? So what happens on that day? Do you all give gifts to one another, balls and cocks?”
“His mother is –was- a mortal, Semele,” Helen continued, trying to keep some semblance of modesty in the conversation. “His father is also my own father, Zeus.”
“You are related?”
“In a way, yes. Semele was an unmarried virgin when Zeus went to her; my mother was not. I also have a mortal father-”
“Yes, I know, Tyndareus.”
“Anyhow, Zeus’ wife–”
“Hera-”
“Yes, Hera-”
“Your mother is Leda, right?”
How like a child this man was! Always interrupting, his mind constantly wandering, butterflying from one thought to another.

“Yes, Leda. Now Hera became very jealous–”
“Women! Mortals or gods, they’re all the same! Jealous harpies!”
She smiled.
“And men, mortals or gods, they too are all the same. Rapists!” But she didn’t allow Paris to continue with the contest. “Hera came down to Semele when Semele was pregnant with Dionysos and pretended to be a nurse. They talked and then Semele told Hera that the baby in her belly was fathered by a splendid god. By Zeus himself. ‘Zeus, a god?’ asked Hera spitting out a devious chuckle. ‘No, dearie, Zeus is no god, dearie. Why, ask him, right now, if you like, ask him to show you what he’s really like! Shout at the heavens! Call on him to come down now and show himself in all his godly splendour, if you like. Let’s see what he’s really like!”

It was just like telling stories to a baby, Helen, thought. Like the times when she was telling stories to her own daughter, Hermione. Her heart shed a tear.
“Go on,” said Paris, snuggling up to her, like a wide-eyed baby. She was certain he was about to put her nipple into his mouth and start suckling.
“Well,” she continued, “Semele did call out to Zeus. She asked him to prove to her that he was, indeed the glorious god that he said he was. And Zeus obeyed. Unfortunately, there was a problem and that was that when Zeus wants to show himself in all his splendour, he dresses himself up with all his thunderbolts and lightning rods and fire dashing everywhere–”
“Oh, no!” said Paris. “I know what will happen next!”
“Yes, Zeus came crashing down in all his flaming glory and Semele–”
“Was turned into a pile of smoking ashes. What about the baby?”
“Yes, poor Semele perished in the fire. Zeus quickly extinguished all the fires, got rid of his bolts and rods, ripped out the baby from Semele’s belly and flew off into the sky. Then, secretly, he sewed the baby, baby Dionysos, into his thigh and let him grow in there until he was ready to be born. That’s why Dionysos is known also by the name of ‘dimetor’ which means, ‘born of two mothers.’ Zeus was his second mother.”
“Hmmm! So what do you do during his festival?”
“Well, Dionysus in the god of wine, of the free spirit, of the deep desire, so…”
“You all get drunk and free?”
“We are always free but on that day we also get drunk and… even more free!”
“Huh?”
“So free that nine months later all the women give birth! Children of Dionysus, we call them. They are born in honour of a god.”
He rolled his soft body over hers.
“Merry Dmas,” he said.