Helen of Troy (24 page)

C
lytemnestra had come for one of her ever more frequent visits, and we were sitting together under Hermione’s tree. Or perhaps “under” is a bit exaggerated; in the five years since it had been planted, it had grown higher than my head, but its lower branches were still too close to the ground for us to sit directly under. We were stretched out on the sweet meadow grass beside it, having our favorite picnic fare, watching our girls play on the hill below us, running and throwing a ball. Iphigenia was eight and my Hermione was five.

“Ah, she’s a runner like you,” said Clytemnestra. “Look how she’s catching up to Iphigenia.” Both girls were running as fast as they could, tearing through the grass. I shivered, remembering my poisoner.

“My racing days are, I fear, over,” I said. It was indeed a pity that women’s contests ended with marriage.

Clytemnestra seemed restless to me, and she declined the rest of the wine. That was how I knew. “Why, you are pregnant!”

She nodded. “Yes. Agamemnon is pleased, of course, for he hopes for a son, a son he wants to name Orestes . . . ‘the mountaineer.’ Zeus only knows why he would choose that name. He does not come from the mountains.”

“Perhaps he believes that the name will somehow bring about the event. That Orestes will scale high mountains.”

She laughed. “He just wants a warrior son. I think . . . he is eager for a war. He is bored, I can tell. Overseeing a peaceful kingdom does not satisfy him.”

The one thing most rulers prayed for was peace, I thought, deeply grateful that in the five years that Menelaus had been king of Sparta, things had been quiet.

“Of course, he does not endure deprivation patiently,” she said, almost under her breath.

I knew what she meant, and that familiar flash of jealousy tore through me. She meant that she and Agamemnon, in the bedchamber . . . But I would not think of it.

Over the years I had tried to disguise my cold bed from Clytemnestra, believing it to be a form of disloyalty to Menelaus to reveal it. What passed—or did not pass—between us in the dark was private. But it grew harder and harder to pretend, especially when I should have been knowledgeable about things I knew not of. I was surprisingly good at pretense, but I hated it.

“Yes!” I attempted a knowing smirk.

“I am afraid that he will satisfy himself with one of the slaves around the palace,” she murmured.

“If so, he will forget her the moment you come to him again.” Oh, let us leave this subject, before—

“You have never had this worry about Menelaus?” Her eyes searched mine.

“I—I—” I could feel blood rushing to my cheeks.

She laughed. “Oh, forgive me! I forgot how modest you are. You should be beyond this . . . this reticence.” She paused. “After all, you’re twenty-one and have been married for six of those years. What else can we married women speak of?”

Oh, anything else! I thought. Please, anything else! “Well, there are our children . . . I see that Iphigenia is a gentle girl, but the poetry she composes to accompany her lyre is worthy of . . . well, Apollo must inspire it!”

She nodded. “Yes, she is a poet. I treasure that; it is rare. Truly, as you said, a gift from Apollo.”

Just then the two girls came running up, breathless, and threw themselves on the blanket.

“She always wins the race!” said Iphigenia, pointing at Hermione.

“Just like her mother,” said Clytemnestra. “But come, you can do things she cannot. Like compose for the lyre.”

Iphigenia smiled and brushed a strand of hair from her sweaty forehead. She was a pretty girl, with the dark curly hair of her father and the clear skin of her mother. “Yes, I like that best.”

Hermione rolled over, holding her skinned knees. She spent most of her time outdoors, and would not go near a lyre. Her uncles, my brothers, delighted in teaching her to ride and shoot. My little doll, given to her by Mother, lay neglected.

Menelaus doted on her, but of course he was assuming she would eventually have a brother. “Oh, my dearest one,” I said, leaning forward and running my hand through her curls. Her hair was bright gold, like mine, and we sometimes played at mixing strands and trying to separate them based on color. We couldn’t, of course, but it made us feel close to see that our hair was identical.

I looked over at Clytemnestra and felt something . . . something dark and oppressive. It was that unasked-for gift from the serpents, illuminating, hinting at things in people’s hearts. I could see something around them, could hear echoes from deep inside them. Now I saw it with Clytemnestra.

I had seen too many things I wished I had not, in the years since the snakes had licked my ears; I had been given insight into private matters that should have been barred from me.

And the priest had said there might be three gifts. Thus far only this one had manifested itself. But perhaps, I consoled myself, there would be no others.

“Clytemnestra, dear sister”—I almost held my breath in saying it—“is anything amiss?”

“Why, no,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

So it was not yet, not yet. And pray Zeus, it might never be. But the color that surrounded her was dark and murky. A chill of fear passed over me, like a wind blowing over a field.

Dead winter. Nothing could move on the waters—ships were lying ashore, their hulls filled with rocks to keep them stable on the pelted seashore, and only the most brave—or foolhardy—would risk actually voyaging on the high seas. Between cities the roads were ice-bound and slippery, and few would venture out. Menelaus and I were among those few. Agamemnon had summoned us to Mycenae—for what we knew not. The message was vague.

The ground between Sparta and Mycenae lay bleak and the forests were leafless. Hermione tugged at my cloak. “I’m cold,” she said. I could feel her shivering next to me. I peeled off the fleece that rested on my shoulders and fastened its thickness around hers.

“There, now,” I assured her. “If this can keep a ram warm in the field, it can help you.”

She smiled back at me. Eight years old now, and still our only, treasured, child.

“What does Uncle Agamemnon want?” she said.

“We don’t know,” I answered. “Perhaps he has a surprise.”

“I don’t want a surprise from Uncle Agamemnon,” she said. “He is scary. But I like seeing Iphigenia and Elektra.”

In spite of Agamemnon’s hopes, the baby had been a girl. They named her Elektra, meaning “amber,” because her eyes were a lovely golden brown. Iphigenia was eleven now, but unlike other girls her age, she seemed content to play with her younger cousin. I wondered when Agamemnon would insist on arranging a marriage for her—and to whom.

Ahead of us, golden in the fading winter sun, I could see the carved stone lions guarding the gateway of Mycenae, rearing over the entrance. I always felt a mixture of awe at their splendor, and dread at what awaited me once I was past them. Mycenae was not a pleasant place to visit, in spite of its grand vistas across the mountains and out to the sea. The palace squeezed me, squeezed me between heavy walls built of enormous boulders and guarded ramparts, and the air was always heavy and damp.

Once past the lions, we made our way up the steep path that led to the main part of the palace, perched on the highest part of the hill.

A flock of retainers surrounded us as we climbed. Someone had run ahead to alert Agamemnon, and now he stood at the top of the pathway, the sun behind him, a great looming figure.

“Welcome! Welcome!” he cried. He swung into view, no longer obliterating the sun. It made him smaller. He stepped forward to embrace Menelaus. “Dear brother!” he cried, clapping his back.

“Brother!” Menelaus echoed back.

Together they mounted the great staircase that led up to the palace courtyard.

We were seated in the megaron in the heart of the palace. A wide hearth held a lively fire, with heaps of pungent cedarwood upon it, and the smoke—not all of it escaped through the round roof-hole—perfumed the air in the hall and softened the faces of the people gathered there.

Agamemnon still had not revealed why he had summoned us, but from the rank of the guests—all kings or chieftains of nearby cities—I knew it was political. He seemed distracted, nervous, in spite of his attempts to be jovial. The serpent-vision I had been granted enabled me almost to overhear his own thoughts. They were angry and confused. Yet he smiled and smiled.

He made sure we all had gold cups to drink from—each of them shallow, decorated with circles and swirls, and smooth and glorious yellow, a bright, happy yellow, as only gold can be. Since there were over thirty of us in the megaron, this advertised his wealth, as he thought, discreetly.

His guests were Palamedes of Nauplia, Diomedes of Argos, Poliporthis of Tiryns, and Thersites of Corinth, as well as a number of others I did not recognize, as they had never visited us in Sparta. Agamemnon strode amongst them bluffly, slapping their shoulders, throwing his head back and roaring like one of his lions at the gateway.

Menelaus stood about, looking lost. He did not relish such gatherings, being a quiet and private person. I kept myself by his side. Taking his hand, I intertwined my fingers in his. I felt a wearisome need to protect him.

There were few other women present; women were not usually admitted to such gatherings. Clytemnestra and I were the exception: Clytemnestra as the host of Mycenae, and I because Menelaus would not be parted from me, and I was sister to Clytemnestra.

“Ah, my friends!” Agamemnon bellowed. “Welcome, welcome! I am touched that you would come all the way here in the dangerous travel time of winter.” He looked about. “Drink, eat! I slew a late-season boar and it has hung and cured to perfection, so I share it with you!”

More boasting about himself, I thought.

“It is roasting even now!” He stood, swaying slightly in his thick boots, his fur-clad shoulders making him look like a formidable bear.

Clytemnestra came over to us, trailing her long robes. “That man has no sense of time,” she muttered. “It will be hours before it is ready. I told him to start it earlier—”

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “No matter, dear sister. We are happy just to see you. We did not come for the boar. Indeed, we are not sure why we have come—aside from an opportunity for Hermione to see her cousins again. Perhaps that is the most important, and lasting, thing that will come of this.”

She rolled her eyes. “Agamemnon wants to assess the support he can count on.”

“For what?” Menelaus asked. “Everything is quiet. We are at peace.”

“Agamemnon does not like peace,” she said.

“But surely he does not mean to provoke war? And with whom?” Menelaus was upset by the sudden news.

“He has entangled himself with the cause of Hesione,” she said. “Which is foolish,” she hastened to add. “Although the Trojan king claims otherwise, Hesione seems perfectly content to live in Salamis with Telamon. It has been almost forty years since she was taken from Troy.”

“Troy,” muttered Menelaus. “A place better left alone. All that happened in another generation, and although some may call me coward for it, I say the happenings of the day should be confined to that day and time, and not spill out and contaminate another.”

Clytemnestra raised her eyebrows. “How radical!” she said. “But sensible,” she allowed.

Agamemnon walked up and down the megaron, his rough features illuminated by torches stuck in wall sockets. In some lights he was handsome; in others he looked like a satyr. Perhaps it was the beard and the deep-set eyes.

“The boar is coming, I say, it is coming!” he said, holding up his arms. “But friends, while we wait, I must exhort you to think upon the wrongs done to us by the insults of the Trojans. That aged princess of theirs, Hesione, sister to their king Priam, was awarded to Telamon of Salamis years ago. But they never cease agitating for her return! They even threaten to send out a party to rescue her. They say she was taken against her will, by Heracles. I say, nonsense! She shows no desire to return to Troy.”

The loud voice of Thersites broke through the crowd. “Has anyone asked her?”

“I assume her husband Telamon has! Or her son, the matchless archer Teucer!” Agamemnon yelled. He threw back a cup of wine.

“Could she speak freely before them?” Thersites persisted.

“Surely after forty years—” Menelaus began.

“Women cannot always say what they wish.” To my surprise, the voice was mine. I had not meant to speak out. But it was true.

“What do you mean?” My brother-in-law rounded on me. All eyes were fastened on me.

“I mean that a married woman, who has regard for her family, for her husband and child, cannot always frame the true feelings in her heart in words—for they may be contradictory.” I took a breath. “The love for one family does not smother the love for the first one.” I had been fortunate—I had both my first family and my chosen, second one about me. But that did not always happen.

“She has forgotten Troy!” Agamemnon pronounced. “She has proved it by her actions.”

“Conflicted loyalties can cause great pain—and lead to silence,” I said. I saw his brows contract. I did not relish his attention, but how could I remain quiet? His misconceptions might lead to bloodshed, for clearly he had convened these warriors in hopes of rousing and using them.

“If the Trojans persist in making these accusations, we’ll answer them with warships and with bronze!” he cried. He looked around to see who would echo his cry. There were a few halfhearted cheers.

“Troy is arrogant,” said Thersites. “It lurks beside the Hellespont and hinders our trade farther in, all the way to the Black Sea. I’d be just as happy if it vanished.”

“It isn’t about to vanish,” said Agamemnon. “It will persist, as a spear in our sides, until we
make
it vanish.”

“Troy has many allies surrounding it,” said Diomedes. “They would come to its aid.”

“Stop!” said Menelaus. “You talk as if a war is a given. There is no reason, no purpose, for a war with Troy. It is cheaper, to be frank, to pay whatever bribes and tolls they require than to muster an army. This is the way of trade—barter, taxes. They were given their position near the Hellespont by the gods, just as we were given ours on the Aegean. We must respect that.”