Beauty's Daughter: The Story of Hermione and Helen of Troy (18 page)

“Clytemnestra killed Agamemnon?” I interrupted. “I cannot believe what you’re saying, Zethus!”

Zethus nodded. “The bards told us that it happened this way. When Agamemnon’s fleet sailed for Mycenae, a servant who’d spent every night on the palace roof, watching for the signal fire, rushed to tell Clytemnestra that Agamemnon had left Troy victorious and was on his way home. The queen had good reason for wanting advance warning of the king’s return. She’d taken a lover, Aegisthus. It was well known that she resented Agamemnon for murdering her first husband, Tantalus. And she was furious that he’d been willing to sacrifice Iphigenia. She would not forgive him for that.”

“I was there when Iphigenia lay on the altar,” I whispered. “I heard Clytemnestra curse Agamemnon. But who is Aegisthus?”

“A former king of Mycenae who believed he’d been cheated of his throne. Aegisthus nursed a deep hatred of Agamemnon and Menelaus and their father, too. He’d refused to join the expedition to Troy. And Clytemnestra had another reason to be enraged. She’d found out that Agamemnon planned to bring Cassandra home to marry her. So, with Clytemnestra angry and alone at Mycenae, Aegisthus easily seduced her. Together they plotted to kill Agamemnon when he returned from the war.

“But Agamemnon had ordered his court minstrel to send him a message if Clytemnestra took a lover. Unfortunately for the minstrel, Aegisthus caught him spying and had him taken to a deserted island and left to starve.”

The court minstrel! I remembered him—my round-faced, big-bellied music tutor when I’d stayed in Mycenae with Clytemnestra before the war began. Now the birds had picked his bones clean. “So Agamemnon never learned about Aegisthus?”

“Exactly. When the servant on the rooftop reported to Clytemnestra that her husband was coming home, she arranged a royal welcome. She rolled out a purple carpet to greet him. Her slaves prepared a warm bath for him while servants laid out a splendid feast in the great hall.

“While she waited for Agamemnon’s arrival, Clytemnestra had woven a large net. Now, as he stepped out of his silver bathing tub, she threw the net over him and ensnared him. Aegisthus stepped up and struck him with a sword, Agamemnon stumbled backward and fell into the tub, and Clytemnestra seized an ax and beheaded him. Cassandra cowered in fear outside the palace, trying to convince anyone who would listen that death lay within. Of course, no one believed her. Clytemnestra found Cassandra and murdered her as well.

“We heard that Agamemnon’s body was buried in a rude grave outside the palace walls and that Aegisthus had made himself king—riding in Agamemnon’s bronze chariot, sitting on his golden throne, wearing his purple robes and his jeweled diadem, and sleeping with Agamemnon’s wife in his splendid bed.”

Zethus paused uncertainly, and I begged him to go on. “I must know everything that’s happened. You said that Clytemnestra has also been killed.”

“This is not an easy story to tell,” he said, “and I beg your indulgence if I sometimes find it difficult.” I nodded, and Zethus collected his thoughts. “Orestes was in a mad rage, determined to seek revenge,” he continued. “I understood his anger, and I urged him to make a pilgrimage to the oracle at Delphi, to ask what he should do. I proposed to go with him, but he refused. That was when he made me promise to look for you and to give you a message: ‘Tell Hermione that I will die with her name on my lips.’ The next day he disappeared. That was many months ago. I searched for him in Mycenae, without success. Eventually, as I’ve said, the hand of Fate guided me to Phthia and Iolkos. I have no idea if Orestes went to Delphi, but I do know this: he has killed Aegisthus, for which no one blames him. But he has also killed Clytemnestra.”

“Great Zeus!” I cried. “Orestes has murdered his mother? It cannot be!”

“It’s true—he has. And the penalty for matricide is very grave indeed, no matter what treachery she committed. It’s forbidden by every god and by every court of law. Even if Orestes has escaped punishment by the court, he will not escape the torment of the Furies.”

I fell silent then, too shocked for speech and filled with black foreboding. I shuddered at Zethus’s mention of the Furies, the three terrible serpent-haired, bat-winged, dog-headed Angry Ones who punish the most serious crimes. They were said to hound the perpetrator and drive him mad—sometimes to suicide.

“Where is he now?” I managed to ask, nearly choking on the words. “What will happen to him?”

Zethus shook his head, avoiding my eyes. “I don’t know.”

I walked to the window and stared out at the countryside beyond the town walls, my thoughts disordered, my body trembling as though with a fever. A cloud of dust rose in the distance. From the cloud a column of men and horses emerged, moving toward the citadel. I was sure that Pyrrhus and his Myrmidons were coming home from their journey. They’d been gone for three months or more; I’d hoped it would be even longer.

Hippodameia, who had given birth to a daughter while Pyrrhus was away, would no doubt be pleased to see him. Andromache would be pleased as well. The rivalry between the two for his attentions would start again. The intensity of it surprised me. For my part, I was much happier when Pyrrhus ignored me; it was always a great relief to have my husband away from Pharsalos on one of his expeditions and a burden to have him return. He could not have returned at a worse time, when I was struggling to digest the terrible news of Orestes. But whether I was pleased or not made no difference. It was likely that Pyrrhus would not welcome Zethus as a friend, that he’d be suspicious of him, and of me. I hesitated, unsure what to do.

I wondered if Pyrrhus knew about the murders: Agamemnon and Cassandra by Clytemnestra, Aegisthus and Clytemnestra by Orestes. It was the kind of story that spread quickly, yet Pharsalos was so far from everything that news was slow to reach us. Dodona was even more remote.

So many deaths, so much blood! But bloodshed had never bothered Pyrrhus. He had proved he was capable of any sort of murder. I gazed out the window at the cloud of dust moving steadily toward the town. My head began to clear a little. I loved Orestes, no matter what he had done.
Oh, my poor Orestes! Whatever torments you are enduring, I wish I were there to share them with you!

I would go to him.

Years ago my mother left her husband to be with another man, an act that caused a war lasting ten years and leaving thousands dead and a city in ruins. But Helen blamed it on Aphrodite. The goddess had promised her to Paris. She had no choice in the matter! But I would have no such excuse. I would leave Pyrrhus of my own free will.

What will happen now,
I wondered,
if I follow my heart and go in search of Orestes?

Of course, I knew: Pyrrhus would come after both of us, and he would kill us—not because he loved me, but because I was
his.

It didn’t matter. I had made my decision.

I turned away from the window. “Zethus, you’ve been my friend since I was a child.”

“It’s true, mistress. I was your friend then, and I’m your friend now.”

“Not long ago you pledged your devotion to me.”

“My devotion and my life.”

“Then help me to get away from here. Take me to find Orestes.”

Zethus hesitated, studying a spot on the wall. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me. But what you’re asking is very dangerous. Dangerous for
you
—it doesn’t matter about me. Pyrrhus won’t willingly let you go. If we leave without his permission or his knowledge, he’ll come for you, or he’ll send his Myrmidons to capture you and drag you back. I won’t be able to save either one of us. Even if we can elude them for a while, the terrain is difficult. Most people will be afraid to risk helping us. There are wild beasts to be avoided—I saw them as I came here. And even if the gods are on our side and we make suitable sacrifices and do everything just right, there will be perils at every step—”

“I know all that, Zethus!” I interrupted impatiently. “Please don’t give me a list of everything that could possibly go wrong. I must find Orestes. You’re my only hope of finding him.”

Zethus nodded. “Mistress Hermione, I’m here because Orestes asked me to search for you. I told him that I thought it would be nearly impossible to find you—nevertheless, I did. It will be nearly impossible to take you away from here, but I’ll do whatever I can. When do you want to leave?”

The distant rattle of drums and blare of horns announced Pyrrhus’s arrival at the gates of Pharsalos.

“My husband is already at the gates, back from his visit to the oracle of Dodona. We’ll make our plans and seize the first opportunity.”

“And hope that Pyrrhus doesn’t decide to murder me in the meantime,” Zethus said grimly.

21

I URGED ZETHUS TO
leave the citadel immediately and find quarters in the lower town. “Pyrrhus has spies everywhere, so no matter what you do, he’ll know about your visit before the day is over. I’ll tell him about our plans to decorate the palace, and you’ll have a chance to look for artisans. Everything will look quite normal. We’ll meet again soon. Now go—quickly.”

By the time the heralds reached the citadel to announce Pyrrhus’s return, everything was ready for him: a sheep had been slaughtered and spitted and was roasting over a fire, water was heated for his bath, the robe I’d woven for him had been laid out in his dressing room—very much like the way my aunt, Clytemnestra, had prepared for the return of my uncle, Agamemnon, though I had no intention of murdering my husband. I was leaving him, but without the help of Aphrodite. There would be no goddess to put everyone into a trance until I got away. I would have only Zethus to rely on.

The royal household gathered in the courtyard to welcome Pyrrhus: Andromache with her little son on her hip, Hippodameia with her newborn daughter in her arms, a number of cooks, guards, and servants.

With a false smile and modestly lowered eyes, I greeted my husband. He barely acknowledged me, responding in his arrogant manner. After he’d bathed and his servants had dressed him in his new robe, I led him into the gloomy megaron, the walls blackened years ago with smoke from the hearth.

Pyrrhus was in an ebullient mood, unusual for him. He ate heartily, enjoying the roast meat and the bread, staining his fingers red with the seeds of a pomegranate. Wine elevated his mood even more. He admired his bastard son, setting him on his knee, and paid scant attention to his bastard daughter. After the children had been carried away by their nurses, Andromache and Hippodameia quietly took their places on stools nearby.

The time seemed right to tell him about the arrival of Zethus and my plans to improve the palace: hiring plasterers and painters and tile makers, all to work under Zethus’s guidance.

“You recall how cleverly Zethus designed and built the wooden horse! Imagine how pleasant this megaron will be, the walls painted with scenes of our glorious victory at Troy!” I said brightly. Before he could begin to grumble about the cost, I leaned closer. “What an excellent way to impress your people,” I suggested. “It will give them pride, to see their king and queen living as splendidly as any in Greece.”

“No need to make any changes here,” Pyrrhus said, tearing into a meat-laden bone. “We’re moving. I’m building a new city with a citadel and a palace.”

“Moving?” This took me by surprise. “Where? What do you have in mind, Pyrrhus?”

He scowled. “If you will just let me enjoy my meal in peace, I’ll tell you all you need to know.” He continued to rip meat from the bone, reached for a chunk of bread, and then drained his wine goblet and pounded it on the table to be refilled.

I waited silently, exchanging glances with Andromache and Hippodameia, who appeared as startled as I was. Finally, his appetite sated, his wine goblet full again, Pyrrhus talked loudly about his journey westward.

“We set up our tents in the mountains of Epirus, near the oracle of Dodona. There I met some of my father’s people, who led us to the shrine with the sacred oak tree and the priests with unwashed feet who interpret the rustling of its leaves. Months ago Helenus prophesied, ‘When you find a house built upon a foundation of metal, with walls of wood and a roof of wool, there you will build a city.’ The oracle said that our tents made of blankets draped over our swords stuck in the ground and supported by branches exactly matched Helenus’s description! The meaning is absolutely clear. I will send Helenus to begin to build our new city on that precise spot. It’s to be called Bouthroton.”

“But that’s so far away!” I exclaimed.

“Far away from what?” Pyrrhus asked irritably.

Better to have said nothing, I realized. “Just . . . Sparta,” I stammered. “My parents. I’d like to visit Menelaus and Helen.”

“Really? You want to visit the whore and the man who can’t keep his own wife in his bed?” Then he added with a malevolent smile, “Or is it your murderous cousin Orestes you’re so eager to see again?”

He knows.
Stunned, I opened my mouth and closed it again, unable to utter a word.

“Helenus foresaw the murders, which included his sister Cassandra,” he said. “It’s hard to say what’s more appalling: the queen’s murder of her husband, or the son’s murder of his mother.”

Pyrrhus drained his wine goblet for the third time—or was it the fourth? A servant refilled it without waiting for him to pound the table. “Your family, Hermione!” he said sarcastically. “Your mother’s sister and your dear cousin of whom you are so deeply fond—both murderers! I wonder what Menelaus has to say about this. And your mother, too, if your father hasn’t yet punished her for what
she’s
done. As he should! If it hadn’t been for Queen Helen, none of this would have happened. She’s the one who deserves to die, as does any woman who betrays her husband.”

My face burned with hurt and anger, but his remark sent a chill through me. “Surely you can’t blame my mother for this!” I replied sharply. “Helen had nothing to do with Clytemnestra’s betrayal and murder of Agamemnon, or with Orestes’ vengeance!”

“But it does show a certain pattern among the women in your family to cuckold their husbands, doesn’t it?” I didn’t like the way his mouth twisted or the way he leaned toward me, his face too close to mine. I hated his sour breath on me.