Beauty's Daughter: The Story of Hermione and Helen of Troy (8 page)

“I beg you not to put me ashore!” I implored. “I must go to Troy!”

The old woman’s expression softened. “All right,” she said. “But don’t be a bother, do you hear? You’ll have to look after yourself. I don’t have time to put up with whining children.”

“I won’t whine,” I promised.

“You’ll be expected to help however you’re needed.”

“I will,” I said, though I had no idea what sort of help would be expected of me. I had no knowledge of any kind of duties. I’d always had my own servants to help me dress, fasten my sandals, empty my slop jar, wash my chitons in the river, carry my sleeping fleeces out to air in the sunshine. Now I could be required to perform these chores for others.

While we talked, there was shouting out on deck, and I felt the movement of the ship beneath my feet. We were on our way to Troy.

EVERYONE WAS IN A
fine mood. Aeolus, the god of wind, puffed his cheeks and blew steadily, filling the great square sails of ships on all sides of us. The rowers kept a steady rhythm and the ship moved rapidly over the dark waters, navigating the narrow strait between the mainland and the island of Euboea. At the close of the first day our old ship pulled into a cove near the town of Styra, and the townspeople paddled out to greet the ships, bringing us food and drink. As darkness fell, the crone—her name was Marpessa—led me into a cramped, rank-smelling space behind racks of amphoras, two-handled clay jars holding supplies of oil, wine, and grain and bound together with rope.

“We’ll sleep here,” Marpessa told me. “The men don’t bother me—it’s been many years since they have—and they won’t bother you as long as you’re here with me.”

I understood, and I was grateful. I slept curled in a rough woolen robe with no soft fleece beneath me, my head on my lumpy leather sack. It was not at all comfortable, and the old crone snored loudly, but I was too tired, too drained from the excitement of the day, to care.

We sailed around the southern tip of Euboea the next day and started up the eastern coast of Greece. Soon, we were told, we would turn away from the safety of the shoreline and begin the long voyage across the Chief Sea. Many had lost their way here, wandering aimlessly from one small island to the next, until they reached their destination or were lost forever. I thought of Zethus and wondered if he’d found his way home.

While we were camped on a beach at sunset, a strange ship was sighted, heading directly toward our fleet. No one recognized it. The anchor stone was let down, and a small boat brought a single passenger to shore. It didn’t take long for the rumors to reach us: the beautiful young man who leaped gracefully from the boat and walked confidently toward Father’s ship had been identified. He was Corythus, son of Oenone and Paris, born before Paris abandoned Oenone for my mother. Insanely jealous of Queen Helen, Oenone had decided to betray the Trojans and had sent her son to guide the Greek ships to Troy. Menelaus accepted the offer. Oenone would have her revenge.

The long journey began, with Corythus’s ship leading the way. When the winds dropped, the rowers took up their oars, and the swift black ships flew on. There were stops on the islands of Skyros and Lemnos and Imbros to replenish supplies of fresh water. We were now very close to Troy, but we would make one more island stop, this one on Tenedos. A lookout at the top of the mast shouted that he could see the great city of Troy in the distance.

The ships were beached, the women’s ship at a discreet distance from Father’s and those belonging to the leaders of the mission. When darkness fell, the old crone marked the location of our battered vessel with a torch, and the men found their way to the concubines who had come on this voyage to serve their pleasure. At night I heard their thumps and cries, but Marpessa threw her cloak over me, and they didn’t know I was there.

From these men we learned what to expect. Our destination was close, they said, but we would lay by on Tenedos for a time and wait. Meanwhile, King Menelaus, accompanied by Odysseus, would enter through the gates of Troy, meet with King Priam, and make one last demand for the peaceful return of Queen Helen.

“May it go well with them,” the women said, gossiping about it among themselves.

“May it go well with them,” I murmured, always at the edge of their conversations.

The women passed the days with singing and arranging one another’s hair and sleeping, for the nights were busy with their duties of pleasing the men.

Toward sunset at the end of five anxious days we sighted my father’s royal boat returning from Troy. We strained to see if Queen Helen was aboard and guessed that she was not, for there were no sounds of celebration. That night our women heard from the men who’d accompanied Menelaus what had happened.

“At first we were treated respectfully,” the men reported. “We were given food and lodging at the house of one of King Priam’s chief councilors. But the meeting with King Priam came to nothing. He refused to return our queen. Not just Paris but Priam and all of the Trojans have fallen in love with Helen, and they’re determined to keep her. They adore the beautiful Greek queen! A great crowd gathered outside the councilor’s house, threatening to murder us all. But our host is a good man, and he refused to turn us over to them. Most of the Trojans drew back, grumbling, but the angriest refused to leave and threatened us. We didn’t feel safe until we’d put a distance between ourselves and Troy.”

I wondered what fate would come to Corythus, the son of Paris, who had guided us there. His ship had disappeared. Certainly he would not be able to show his face in Troy again.

Our women were kept busy that night, for the men had taken too much wine, and they sang and shouted and boasted loudly of their valor. Marpessa feared that they would find me.

“What will happen now?” I asked Marpessa from my hiding place among the clay jars.

“War,” she said. “The men want war. Listen to them! They haven’t come all this distance to turn around and sail back to Greece without Queen Helen.”

9

IN THE EARLY MORNING
darkness our ships moved silently away from the island of Tenedos and were rowed the short distance to Troy. From the deck of the women’s ship I gazed up at the great citadel silhouetted against the brightening sky. The enormous fortress stood surrounded by stone and earthen walls and guarded by watchtowers and massive wooden gates. Below it sprawled the rest of the city, so much larger than Sparta, larger even than Mycenae. Somewhere up there, in a magnificent palace with walls hung with silk and tables laid with golden plates, slept my mother and my little brother.

Soon they’ll be back with us,
I told myself.
Soon we’ll all go home to Sparta.

The ships drew up within sight of the city walls. I planned to slip away and run along the beach until I found Father’s ship. I was grateful to Marpessa for protecting me from the drunken, lecherous men who visited the concubines on our ship, but now I wanted Menelaus to know that I was there.

But things didn’t go as I planned. The war had begun.

When the conch shells were blown, the first of our courageous warriors jumped from his ship onto the beach and rushed toward the city walls. Trojan guards in the watchtowers saw this. A rock struck the warrior squarely on the temple. Blood gushing, he fell, but even before his body hit the ground, a second figure made a tremendous leap—it could only have been brave Achilles—seized the rock, and flung it back with such deadly aim and force that the Trojan it struck was lifted from his feet and thrown against the wall. Hundreds of Trojans swarmed down from the walls, throwing rocks at the invaders. Achilles hurled rock after rock, and one Trojan after another fell dead.

The fierce Myrmidons followed close behind Achilles. All day the battle raged. At sunset the fighting stopped, and men from both sides came out to carry their dead from the beach. That evening our men ate and drank, then came to visit our women for the comfort they needed.

The next day was the same, and the day after. So this was war. I was thrilled by the bravery of our men, sickened by the suffering and death.

Then I heard that a prediction had been made by Calchas, the seer. He prophesied that the war would continue for nine years. In the tenth year, he said, Troy would fall.

Ten years!

I was still only a child. If Calchas was right, I would be a grown woman when the fighting ended. What would this mean? Ten years spent here on this beach, my mother with Paris on the other side of the great stone wall, the men of Troy sworn to keep her there, the Greeks just as determined to get her back, both sides fighting and dying, day after day, year after year?

It was Fate, Calchas said. One could not argue with Fate. Nothing would change it.

When the rope ladder was lowered for the men to climb up that evening, I slipped away from Marpessa, crept down the ladder, and felt my way along the beach. Slaves had hauled up the pitch-blackened ships and wedged timbers along the sides to steady them. The ships loomed fierce in the pale moonlight. I paused near each one and listened for the sound of my father’s voice.

But it was Achilles’ voice I heard. “Hector’s is the death I desire most,” Achilles was saying. “He’s a brave man, they say, and a good fighter. But I will have him, Pyrrhus. You watch!”

“Hector is brave, but you’re braver, Father,” I heard a young boy reply. “He’s strong, but you’re stronger!”

Quite a pair of braggarts, I thought, and decided this Pyrrhus must be the boy I’d seen with Achilles at Aulis.

Farther on up the beach Odysseus could be heard telling someone about his wife, Penelope, and his little son, Telemachus. “I miss them so much!” he said. “But I worry. If one is to believe the prophecy of Calchas, by the time I reach home again, my boy will not even recognize me.”

At another ship an officer was playing at dice with his friends. “I invented them, you know,” he boasted. “Entertainment for a game of chance, but also useful for predicting the future.” The men laughed, and I was so close I could hear the rattle of the bones as the men shook them and threw them on a flat stone.

I was stumbling with weariness when at last I recognized the voice I most wanted to hear: my father’s. Menelaus and Agamemnon were discussing how they would mount their attack on the citadel, which was defended by so many fighters and fortified with such thick walls, while our own ships lay exposed on the beach.

“We must build our own defenses at once,” Menelaus said.

I huddled in the darkness, careful not to attract the attention of the watchman on deck, while I listened to the two kings outlining their plan. Our men would build a wall of timber, stones, and mud, with gates just wide enough to let our chariots pass through. Others would dig a wide, deep trench beyond the palisade and sink sharp stakes in it.

“No Trojan can pass those defenses,” they agreed, and clapped each other on the shoulder.

I waited until Agamemnon strode off toward his own ship. Father yawned and turned to climb up to the deck. “Father,” I said.

He stopped, grasping the rope ladder, squinting into the darkness. “Who speaks?”

I stepped out of the shadows. “It is I, Hermione.” I expected him to rush toward me, to fold me into his arms. But he didn’t. He merely stared at me.

“What god has taken the form of my daughter?” he asked.

“Neither god nor goddess, Father,” I said, laughing, and stepped close enough to touch. “See? It’s truly your own Hermione.”

He pulled me close to his chest, and I felt his bushy beard against my cheek. His tears dropped on my face as he held me at arm’s length to study me before pulling me close again. “But how . . . ?” he stammered. “Who . . . ?”

“I couldn’t bear to go back to Mycenae. And I wanted to be with you, and to help you get my mother back.” I explained then how I had boarded the women’s ship at Aulis.

“And you’ve been on the women’s ship all this time?” he asked incredulously.

“I stay with the old crone, Marpessa. She’s been very kind to me. She makes sure the men who visit the women don’t bother me.”

“And you have not been defiled?” he asked.

“I’m not yet a woman,” I said, embarrassed to have to confess it to my father.

“I thought not. But they didn’t find out who you are?”

“I told them I was the daughter of Queen Helen, but they only laughed at me. They think I’m your bastard.”

Father grunted but made no comment.

“You will not return to that ship,” he said firmly. “You will stay with me. I have servants who will see that you’re properly cared for.”

“Will I have a sleeping fleece?” I asked. That was the one hardship I’d found difficult to endure. At home I’d always had clean fleeces for my bed, but on the women’s ship I’d had to share Marpessa’s ragged and smelly pile of empty grain sacks.

“You will have as many fleeces as you wish, my dear Hermione,” Father assured me. “Now come with me.”

He climbed the rope ladder to the deck of his ship, and I followed wearily. The watchman glanced at me curiously as Father led me through the narrow passage between the rowers’ benches to his barren quarters. “You will stay here for the present,” he told me. “I’ll sleep among the men. You have nothing to fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” I told my father, smiling up at him. I had forgiven him for sacrificing Iphigenia, and I was happy to be there with him and gave no thought to the danger.

The next morning the men gathered on the beach and made offerings to the gods. Then they strapped the metal greaves to their legs, donned their bronze helmets, picked up their leather shields made of layers of bulls’ hides, gathered their sharpened spears, and prepared to fight.

10

CALCHAS WAS CORRECT. THE
war dragged on and on, year after year, with heavy losses on both sides, no clear winners, and countless souls hurled down to the House of Death. During these long years I witnessed the behavior of the gods—some favoring the Greeks, others the Trojans, sometimes switching sides unexpectedly. Every winter the fighting was suspended, as is customary, and our men spent their time improving our fortifications. Each commander lived in a well-made tent or a hut built of hewn fir with a thatched roof, surrounded by a cluster of the soldiers’ rude shelters. The Greek encampment on the beach had taken on an air of permanence.