Beauty's Daughter: The Story of Hermione and Helen of Troy (11 page)

“Menelaus?” I broke in. “My father intends to fight Paris?” I was shocked. Somehow I hadn’t expected the rivals to fight—I’d thought the armies would do it for them. Blood pounded in my ears.

“He’s eager for revenge. But what’s this?” Calchas leaned forward intently. “Paris cringes at the sight of Menelaus advancing fearlessly straight for him! The prince’s knees are trembling, his face is pale with dread, and he retreats back into the Trojan lines, hiding among his men. He will not fight Menelaus! Can you hear our own Greeks howling with laughter?” Calchas, too, was laughing shrilly.

A wave of relief swept over me. “I hadn’t known Paris was so cowardly,” I said. “Tell me, what’s happening now?”

“His older brother, Hector, is calling him a curse to his father, King Priam, a disgrace to Troy and to himself. Paris is covered in shame! And he agrees now to meet Menelaus and to fight it out. Hector strides between the two great armies and makes the proposal: Paris and Menelaus will meet one on one in mortal combat, the winner to take Helen home. The two sides will then declare peace.”

“Surely Father will win!” I cried. My earlier relief vanished. “He’s a much better fighter, don’t you think?”

“That’s not for me to say.” Calchas raised his bushy eyebrows. “Now old Priam is talking with Helen, who has been watching from a tower on the great wall of the citadel. Ah, Hermione, if only you could hear what I hear! Your mother speaks of how she regrets leaving her husband and her favorite child now full grown. You, Hermione! She’s speaking of
you!
”

I was too caught up in thinking of Helen, my mother, and the tears she shed for me to listen to the seer’s description of the men’s preparations for their fight. The old seer grunted and struggled stiffly to his feet, his staring eyes focused on the faraway scene. I jumped up, too fearful for my father’s safety to remain still.

“The duel has begun,” he announced. “Menelaus hurls his spear—it strikes Paris’s shield and goes straight through it, but Paris leaps aside and avoids death’s black cloud. Now Menelaus draws his sword and smashes it on his rival’s helmet, but the sword shatters in his hand! Menelaus lunges, seizes the horsehair crest of the Trojan’s helmet, swings Paris around, and starts to drag him off. But Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, sweeps in and breaks the helmet strap, setting Paris free!”

I cried out, begging Zeus to intervene and help my father, but the great god ignored me. Calchas rubbed his eyes and sank down again beneath the fig tree. “The goddess has wrapped Paris in mist, snatched her favorite away from murderous Menelaus, and spirited him back to his bedroom in the palace.”

“Aphrodite saved Paris?” I asked in disbelief.

“It seems so. But Helen is waiting for him. She’s been watching from the tower, a witness to his cowardice. Aphrodite is there with her. The goddess of love, known for her ethereal beauty, appears now as an aged crone, commanding Helen to go to Paris’s bed. Helen resists, and Aphrodite berates her, calling her a wretched, headstrong woman, and threatens to turn her over to the warriors to be stoned to death. Helen relents, and there she is, radiant, dressed in silvery white robes. Oh, Hermione, if only you could hear! She tells Paris that she wishes he had died in battle, brought down by Menelaus, ‘that great warrior, my husband of long ago,’ as she calls him.”

“How does he answer her?”

The seer hesitated. “It’s hard to believe what he tells her! Paris promises her that even though Menelaus won today, he’s sure that
he
will win tomorrow—he will prove to her that he is the better fighter. In the meantime, Paris wants to make love!”

“But my mother turns him away—doesn’t she?”

No answer from Calchas. I repeated, “Doesn’t she?”

“No,” he replied. “No, she does not refuse him. They lie in the great carved bed, lost in love.” Calchas shook his head sadly. “Menelaus has fairly won the fight, but Helen will not come back, nor will Paris send her. It is Zeus’s doing.”

Would the gods never listen to me? I put my head down on my knees and wept.

THE GODS WERE ARGUING,
Calchas said. “Zeus claims that your father won, but his wife, Hera, wants the fight to go on. To placate her, Zeus has sent Athena to provoke it.” The fighting resumed when one of the Trojan archers, urged on by Athena, wounded Menelaus. “It’s not serious,” Calchas assured me. “Athena just wanted to break the truce between the two sides.”

But I had to see for myself. I rushed back to our tents, and I was there when the king was carried in. I pushed through the crowd of men surrounding him and knelt by his side. With blood spurting from his wound, Menelaus lay pale and still. “Father!” I whispered, taking his hand.

He looked at me with feverish eyes. “Don’t worry, daughter,” he murmured. “Agamemnon has already sent for a healer.”

Menelaus would recover, but the truce had been broken. The next day the Greeks donned their armor, and the Trojans readied for an assault. Agamemnon leaped into his chariot to take command of his armies. Orestes led a contingent of archers and their charioteers toward the battle. I watched him go without a chance to say goodbye. So much was still left unsaid between us.

Before the shining sun had set, the bodies of hundreds of Trojans and hundreds of Greeks lay sprawled across the dusty plain, their swords and spears and shields scattered uselessly among them. Neither side claimed victory. But for that day at least, Orestes was unhurt.

13

THE KILLING WENT ON
, day after day. At the end of each day’s battle the Trojans silently gathered their dead and carried them back inside the city walls. Our dead were piled on wooden pyres and set alight. The funeral fires blazed through the night, and the next day the ashes were placed in a common grave under a mound of earth that stretched as far as I could see.

One evening, soon after sunset, an exhausted Orestes staggered into my tent, almost too weary to speak.

I led him to my couch. He wiped his sweat-streaked face with a muddy arm. I sent a servant for a basin of warm, scented water and a sponge to wipe his brow. Despite his dirty face, I had never seen him look so handsome. I offered him watered wine, which he refused, and a plate of cheese and nuts that I’d planned to eat for my own meal. He waved that away too.

“Not hungry,” he said. “Not after all I’ve seen today.” He sat slumped, his head down, his hands dangling between his knees.

I sat close beside him. “What brings you here, Orestes?” I asked, puzzled. “What can I do for you?”

He raised his head and gazed at me searchingly. “Love me,” he said. “Just love me, Hermione.”

“Love you? But I do love you! You must know that, Orestes! I’ve loved you for a very long time—it’s just that we’ve never spoken of it.”

“I want to speak of it now, Hermione. I don’t want to die without speaking of it. My charioteer was killed today, the deadly arrow shot by an archer on Troy’s high wall. It missed me by a hair, due to my man’s quick action. He gave his life for me. Tomorrow I’ll have a new charioteer who may not be so loyal, or so quick.”

“You’re not going to die,” I insisted.

It was a stupid thing to say, and we both knew it. Archers wore no armor and carried no shield, depending on their charioteer to carry them wherever they needed to go, maneuver them deftly, and get them away quickly. Death was everywhere. The odds were great for every man who rose at dawn that he would be dead by nightfall.

“But I wouldn’t mind speaking of love anyway,” I added.

We kissed and kissed again and lay in each other’s arms until Orestes drifted off to sleep and I followed him there. I was still sleeping when my lover awakened with a start and leaped from my bed.

“The moon still shines brightly,” I mumbled drowsily. “Must you go so soon, Orestes?”

“The day’s fighting begins at dawn.” He bent down and kissed me, and I flung my arms around his neck and held him close until he finally pulled away.

I shouldn’t have been happy, with death’s black cloud all around us—but I was.

WHILE THE MEN MADE
terrible war, I spent my days in the tranquil company of Hippodameia, who now lived in a simple hut in Agamemnon’s encampment. We often walked along the beach, the roar of battle in the distance, and spoke of the desires we shared with all young women for a home, a husband, children, those things that only peace could bring. When we sat and spun our wool, I felt free to confide in Hippodameia of my love for Orestes.

“He’s always at his father’s side and so caught up in the war that I rarely see him,” I explained. “But those times that we’re together, we’re so close that we breathe each other’s breath and dream each other’s dreams.”

Hippodameia talked about her husband, cut down by Achilles on her wedding day. “He was many years older than I,” she said. “Even older than Agamemnon. His beard was almost white. I have no idea what sort of husband he would have made. Speaking the truth, I’d rather be with Achilles. He’s young and strong. But I wonder if I’ll ever be with him again.”

“It’s all in the hands of the gods,” I reminded her, thinking of my own sweet lover, and she agreed that it was true.

One day we stood on the beach, gazing out at the dark, frothing sea, and watched a ship cutting swiftly through the tossing waves toward the shore. Ships often arrived, bringing supplies for the Greek armies. But this was no cargo ship letting down its anchor stone. A small boat was lowered with two occupants, and a pair of oarsmen rowed it toward the beach.

“It’s Astynome! And that must be her father!” I exclaimed, and we hurried to greet them.

“Hail and welcome, priest of Apollo!” I called out as the father and daughter stepped onto the beach, lifting the hems of their robes above the ripples. Chryses acknowledged my greeting solemnly, but he did not look pleased.

Astynome, however, was beaming. “I wanted to come back, and here I am!” she crowed as we embraced. “Where’s King Agamemnon?”

“On the battlefield. He’ll return when the sun has set.” Then I noticed her rounded belly. “I’ll send a herald now to tell him you’ve come.”

Her father clamped his arms sternly across his chest. “She’s expecting a child, as you can see,” he grumbled. “She tells me that Agamemnon is the father, and she wants to be with him.”

“It’s true,” the girl said gaily. “I love him! I’m sure he’ll want me back.” Her attention shifted uneasily to Hippodameia. “Unless . . .”

“Agamemnon is kind to me, but he doesn’t lust for me,” Hippodameia assured her. “The king will welcome you, and I’ll gladly go back to Achilles, if he’ll have me.”

I glanced from one girl to the other. It seemed that this might work out well after all. “Let’s go to Menelaus’s tent and wait for the men to come in from battle,” I suggested, and after I’d called for warm water for them to wash their hands and had ordered food and drink, I sent a herald to find Agamemnon and tell him of their arrival. But I was not sure what to do about Achilles.

Since the day Agamemnon had demanded that he surrender Hippodameia, Achilles had refused to join the battle. Even when Hector challenged him to fight man to man, Achilles refused to leave his tents. Great Ajax went out in his stead. The two warriors fought hard from sunrise to sunset. At nightfall, when there was still no winner, they declared a truce. Ajax awarded Hector his priceless purple war belt, Hector presented Ajax with his silver-studded sword, and the two embraced. Agamemnon ordered seven oxen to be sacrificed to Zeus. The oxen were roasted, and both men shared in the feast. The talk that night was of nothing but the glorious fight.

“How can it be glorious?” I’d asked Orestes during one of our precious times together. “I just want the war to be over.”

“It’s the way of men,” he’d said.

AGAMEMNON WELCOMED ASTYNOME
delightedly. And now, he hoped, Achilles would welcome Hippodameia just as delightedly and agree to return to the battlefield.

Agamemnon sent for Odysseus and Ajax. “Take the lovely girl to Achilles, and give him my solemn oath that I have not once touched her in lust, have never made love to her,” he instructed them. “Is that not true, my dear Hippodameia?”

“It’s true.”

To further entice Achilles to fight again, Agamemnon also promised to send him a trove of gifts: iron pots, bronze cauldrons, bars of gold, a dozen massive stallions, and seven weavers taken as prisoners on Lesbos. “And tell Achilles that once we’re home in Mycenae, he will be my son-in-law, as true a son as my own Orestes, and he can have his pick of my daughters, Chrysothemis and Electra, as a wife.”

Hippodameia’s face crumpled. She wanted to believe that she would one day marry Achilles. Agamemnon, oblivious, kept adding even more treasure to persuade Achilles. “Seven beautiful cities surrounded by wonderful green vineyards and flocks of fat sheep! Just let him lose his anger and come and fight beside us once more.”

“Achilles would never marry either of those girls, Chrysothemis or Electra,” I assured Hippodameia when we were alone. “Agamemnon is just trying to persuade him to fight again. You mustn’t worry about it. And, if it will make you feel better, I’ll go with you to Achilles’ camp.”

When Hippodameia complained that she had nothing to wear, Astynome generously offered her one of the embroidered tunics she’d brought with her from Sminthos. Agamemnon sent a carrying chair so that she would arrive in style. I walked beside the chair, trying to distract her with idle conversation and keep her calm. For my part, I remembered how Orestes and I had escorted her from Achilles’ camp to Agamemnon’s months earlier, and how enraged Achilles had been then. I wished Orestes were with us now—he would be better than Odysseus, I thought, at dealing with Achilles’ volatile temper.

“Wait here,” Odysseus said when we reached the Myrmidons’ tents. “When Achilles has accepted Agamemnon’s promise of gifts, I’ll send you a signal, and Hippodameia can come forward in all her beauty.”

The wait went on much too long. Hippodameia and I grew restive. It was my idea to creep closer to Achilles’ tent to find out what was happening. When we did, we found a feast in progress, the men lounging on carpets while Patroclus plucked a lyre and sang songs of bravery. Hippodameia and I crouched behind a rock to listen. The snatches of conversation I was able to make out sounded amiable. Achilles was being a good host. Wine goblets were emptied and refilled.