It was as if Menelaus had never existed; as if Helen were not married; as if this were the normal betrothal of a normal prince and princess. The royal couple rode through Gythion, never dismounting, the surefooted horse and mule managing the wide stone steps down to the harbor.
The people of Gythion wisely stayed indoors, but the army of Troy cheered in the streets and the sun went down into the sea and the world turned lavender and silver.
The two children of Menelaus were put up in the house of Axon, where not long ago a princess named Callisto had been sheltered. Axon himself had been thrown out. The princess Hermione was placed in the very same bedroom in which Callisto had slept.
From the balcony of that room, I looked down into the harbor. Helen and Paris were crossing a slender isthmus to an islet so small it made my birth island look substantial. Nothing stood there but a small summer house and a delicate airy temple. Paris held Helen's hand and they gamboled like lambs in spring. His men—Trojans! armed to the teeth!—flung bright flowers over the happy couple.
The soldier who had carried Pleis the whole twenty miles entered the bedroom and set him down gently enough and walked away.
Rhodea was in terrible shape. Her feet were torn and bleeding, her cheek bruised from slaps every time she tried to rest. I nearly gathered her in my arms, but I dared not let her see who I was. If I were discovered now, Paris would have time to send men back for Hermione. Bia might be killed. And since the slaves of Axon might recognize me as Callisto, I could not explain the situation to Rhodea while they bustled around us.
There were two beds, one for a prince and one for a princess. I wrapped myself from head to toe in the cloak of Hermione and lay down with my back to the others. If Pleis came over to cuddle, he would crow happily, “Calli! Sto!”
The little prince was exhausted from a long day under a hot, hot sun. He was cranky and anxious. He was not willing to lie down on a strange bed under a strange blanket without his usual toys and songs and kisses. “Princess, help me with your brother,” begged Rhodea.
“No.”
“May we bathe you before you sleep, Princess?” the slaves asked politely.
“No.”
“May we tempt you with a hot barley casserole? Yellow cheese and honey. Easy to swallow.”
I said nothing.
They had done their duty. Taking him from Rhodea, they comforted and fed and rocked Pleis. I loved them for that.
Pleis would not sleep without Rhodea, so at least she had a soft mattress, and she and Pleis were asleep in moments. The slave women slept like a litter of puppies, using each other's stomachs and backs for pillows.
Sleep was a waste of being alive. I tiptoed onto the balcony. Gythion was like a hive of bees when the keeper thrusts in his hand to take the honey. All through the night, the Trojans loaded loot into their ships and pillaged the town for supplies. Crews counted off amphorae of water and oil; checked for bread and bedding; argued whether the bronze weapons on this side of the hold would properly balance the ingots on that side.
Clever escape plans came to mind. Happy futures.
But it was my destiny to guard the future of Hermione. For in the end, she was a princess, and I had to take up my duty toward her. I prayed to my goddess. Do not let me weaken.
I wondered if my sacrifice for Hermione would soften some angry god against me for pretending to be Callisto. But I did not need to worry how much was left in the jar of unhappiness. I would not be alive long enough to taste it.
When dawn came, I was still leaning on the railing of the balcony. In the first light, I counted ships. No wonder Kinados had feared Paris. Nobody ever needed thirty-three ships for a friendly visit. I wondered what Kinados had thought, sailing past all those ships as he took Menelaus to Crete.
But no—Paris would have used the strategy I had once thought of. Most of these ships would have been moored elsewhere. Even thirty ships could have been easily hidden among the jutting peninsulas and curling inlets. As soon as Kinados and Menelaus were out to sea, Aeneas would have sent some signal, by fire or by foot, and summoned the ships here.
Paris led Helen off the tiny isle. She clasped his neck. He carried her in his arms aboard his flagship. Paphus was the only ship with a true cabin. The rest were hollow. The stone anchor of Paphus was raised and the oars taken up.
And Helen, a queen abandoning her country, sailed away on a ship of Troy.
I let the cloak slip down my shoulders and puddle on the floor.
If only I had known it would play out like this! I had not wasted time on sleep, but I had certainly wasted time. At any time during the long night I could have slipped out of Axon's house with Pleis asleep on my shoulder. This town had not one wall and not one gate to stop me. In the to-ing and fro-ing of thieving Trojans, who would have noticed? The little prince and I could have been halfway back to Amyklai by now!
Helen, the only person who cared whether Pleis and Hermione sailed for Troy, did not in fact care. Had not even looked.
O, Helen, if you do not care whether your little son is safe, no one will care. And therefore he is not safe. I must not let the Trojans take him. I must—
The slave women were stirring. I would need Rhodea's cooperation. Could I count on Axon himself, if I could find him? I would promise to marry him after all. I would give him Siphnos. I would give him sons.
It was time to stop worrying about little things like bloodlines and falsehoods in marriage vows.
But the movement in the bedroom had not been the slave women's. Zanthus stood there with two of his men. The bundle of Hermione's things was scooped up and my fallen cloak added to the pack. For good measure, the sailors took the bedding and some artwork and then snapped the bronze finial off the railing and took that, too.
Zanthus thought I was the daughter of Helen.
Helen thought I was the daughter of Helen.
In fact, everybody except the slave women and Pleis would think I was the daughter of Helen. I prayed Pleis would stay asleep for hours to come. I lifted him gently, singing as I shifted him, and he dozed on, as babies do, his little body melting into my thin shoulder and unrewarding bosom.
Zanthus kicked Rhodea to get her moving.
“Captain, you will treat my woman with respect,” I said sharply.
It would have taken an oar to prop up the jaw of Rhodea. “Princess? But—you are—you are—”
“You have my permission to call me Hermione, Rhodea, for you and I are in this together. You need not stand on ceremony during our long voyage. In return I shall help you with the care of my little brother, the prince Pleisthenes.”
“I'll treat your woman any way I feel like, girl,” said Zanthus. “It's an insult to have the whelps of Menelaus on my ship.” He frowned. “Where's your slave? I'm not nursing you. She has to carry this load. My men aren't your servants.”
“The princess's nurse ran away,” Rhodea said. “And I wouldn't let you touch the children of Menelaus if the other choice were drowning. I will care for the prince and princess. You stay away from them, you dog tick.”
I could not have said it better.
Zanthus' eyes lit up. There is nothing a pirate likes more than spirit in a woman, because it gives him the opportunity to crush it.
Ophion was long and slim. Her eyes were painted exceptionally large and looked very far ahead. The bow had a deep inward curve, making a tiny platform where men could piss, catch fish or wash clothing. Denting the platform were tiny boarding steps so that when given a hand, a passenger could embark gracefully. I was not given a hand.
“This is a warship,” said the helmsman to Zanthus. He was furious. “Do you expect me to steer with children crawling around?”
“I expect you to throw them overboard if they get in your way. Go down the gangway,” Zanthus told me, pointing toward the stern.
Rhodea made it on board. Her right foot had split from toe to heel and the sailors swore at her for bloodying their just-scrubbed ship. Pleis woke up. �
��Calli,” he said happily. “Sto.”
“Baby talk,” Rhodea said to Zanthus, but the captain was paying no attention. He had a ship to sail and the helmsman was calling out the check. “Water?” bellowed the man.
“Sixteen amphorae!” came the response.
The gangway was only two planks wide. It was difficult to balance with Pleis on my hip. The mast, half as long as the ship, lay right where I had to walk. I inched sixty careful steps, a foot-length at a time, and counted twenty-four benches. There would be forty-eight rowers.
“Wine!”
“Eighteen two-handled jugs.”
“Barley meal!”
“Twenty bushels in leather bags.”
The afterdeck was a triangle, seven feet across, as was the Ophion, but quickly tapering to a narrow point. Rhodea, Pleis and I perched on the gunwales. Pleis snuggled in my lap and said his two words over and over. “Calli,” he comforted himself. “Sto.” He was getting better at it; the “s” lasted longer and the baby talk sounded more like a girl's name: Calliss-sssto.
I could not guess how long we would be at sea.
Men who went to trade for grain beyond Troy left in early summer and were home by fall. I was not sure what they were doing all that time, because in a good wind, Troy is only a week away. Three days to Cyprus; five or six to Egypt. But no captain could count on the wind, even one who has lately roofed a temple or sacrificed a white calf. For all I knew, Paris might plan to ravage the kingdom of Salamis as well, and get his aunt Hesione. He might stop off at every city of every ally of Troy, and display Helen in Lydia and Phrygia, in Caria and Mysia.
Even one night would be a long time at the mercy of Zanthus. I had to establish myself as a royal personage due royal respect or I could not protect Pleis. “The little prince my brother will need milk and yogurt, Captain,” I called out. “Bring a ewe on board.”
Zanthus grinned. “Sheep!” he shouted.
“None!” yelled the men, and they slapped their knees and howled with laughter.
I glanced back at the shore. Not one citizen of Gythion was visible. There would be no rescue. No potter dared approach his workshop and no fisherman came near his dory. A single brown pelican swooped past.
I looked out to sea. It was utterly still, the ships just toys on a pond, the distant islands like paintings on a vase. The colors were stiff and bright.
The flagship Paphus had nearly reached the horizon and yet half of Paris' ships had not raised anchor. The most important rule in commanding a fleet is that ships not separate. It would be difficult to keep together thirty-three ships buffeted by wind and current. But a single ship is an easy target for pirates, and every sea captain is a pirate, should the opportunity arise.
The men fastened leather strips around their palms, to help with the grip, and the pipes skirled, and the rhythm began, and Ophion headed after Paphus.
The Main Land grew smaller and smaller. Rhodea wept. I had no words to comfort her. Twice I had been lucky with kings: Nicander and Menelaus. I would not be lucky with Prince Paris of Troy.
All day the crew rowed.
No man can row without rest. In turn, a half dozen men would climb off the benches to rest on the two center planks, while those finished with rest would take over their oars.
Our yellow sails would not fill with wind. The sun shone through the patches, some gold, some lemon or flax, depending on their dye lots. The glassy sea and silent sky gave us no help.
Nicander's ships had every one been black hulled and red sailed, but the scattered ships of Paris came in many colors—blue and sea green and bloodred. Some sails were white, others black or yellow or red, and one was striped.
As a courtyard is spattered with mud after a child has jumped into a puddle, so the Aegean is spattered with islands. Rhodea and I had to occupy Pleis only for the day. When dusk came, I thought, the ships would pull up on some shore, the cook would produce a hot meal and we would set our fleeces on the sand. Perhaps I would know the shore. I would slip away with Pleis. I would have to abandon Rhodea, who could not walk.
But after leaving the bay, the fleet of Paris did not take the northern course along the edge of the Main Land, which was the safe and usual direction. The ships headed due east into the open sea and the water began to churn. I had felt safe on a smooth sea. But now we sailed at a god-sent speed and the waves churned around us, and the ship was nothing but a tiny cup in a frothing ocean.
Dolphins swam alongside. Now and then they would leap out of the water and spin themselves like yarn. Pleis waved and called and they seemed to wave back with their powerful tails.
The wooden cross beams of the ship groaned and sang as they lifted and sank with the waves. The song of a ship's beams is called threnody, sorrow for all that has been and all that is to be. A ship is constructed of the strongest wood; I did not know how well I was constructed. I feared that I might collapse. I had to think of something to do.
I opened the bundle of Hermione's things.
Cloth is more valuable than gold, for it takes so much time and effort to go from shearing fleece, through spinning and dying and weaving and seaming, until at last there is a gown. Hundreds of hours might exist in the fine cloth of a princess's gown. I sorted through the choices Bia had made. I who had lately owned an island now owned one yellow shawl, a Medusa and four gowns. All were too beautiful to rip up, but I chose one and tore it into bandages for Rhodea's feet.
Zanthus watched.
The cook had prepared rations for the crew before sailing. Two benches at a time, the men got cold oatmeal with a bit of honey, cold flat bread and cold clear water. Rhodea, Pleis and I were fed last. The cook squatted beside us, sitting on his heels, and held out a bowl for Pleis. Good white bread was soaking in goat's milk and honey. It was the little prince's favorite meal and he put his face into the bowl and drank and chewed.
“Thank you,” I said.
By nightfall we were far from any shore. We could see other ships in a soft foggy way but we certainly could not see thirty-three of them. Zanthus cut back on the number of rowers, letting as many as possible rest, but kept his ship going through the night.
The cook, to my horror, started a fire on the ship. He insisted that it was perfectly safe to have a fire on top of the ballast stones. He broiled the fish he had been catching, flipping them one by one to rowers.
A warship is not built for sleeping. The crew curled up on benches and on top of one another. Our tiny deck pitched back and forth. The gunwales were not three handspans out of the water. Rhodea was terrified. “When I fall asleep,” she cried, “I'll fall into the sea.”
“You fall on me when I'm asleep, woman,” said a rower, “and I'll see that you fall overboard.”
I lashed Rhodea to the rail, using a coil of papyrus rope and the knots taught me by the shepherds. Then I tied Pleis to my waist. He molded himself to me and slept. Zanthus examined the knots. I met his eyes and he was the first to look away.
The dark descended utterly.
The word for sea along the coast is kolpos, a smooth and motherly word. The word for sea far from the coast is pelagos, open and uncertain. But the word for deep sea is laitma, grim and terrible. A word to drown in.
We floated on laitma.
And then the men who were awake but not rowing began to sing. Every ship sang: drinking songs and long sweet ballads, rowing chants and tunes of war. Their voices were deep and rich. The threnody of the creaking ships had made me weep but the song of the sailors gave me rest. I slept, waking now and then when the sea tossed enough that the rope choked my breathing.
Dawn brought a white sky, as if the sun had gone mad. The heat was brutal. The men drank far more than their rations. The leather water bags shrank and folded. The hardened paws of the men blistered where they gripped the oars and then their blisters broke and bled.
Rhodea and I could no longer distract Pleis. Trapped in his tiny space, unable to play or run or even get out of the sun, he cried on and on. The men
glared and Zanthus stooped over us. “I'll tell you a story,” he said.
“No, thank you, Captain.”
“When the sun hangs high in the heaven, the sea god slips into his dark and slimy caverns. There he plays with his brine children.”
Seals. Pretty things until you watch them eat.
“Later in the day, his brine children rise up from the waves, shiny with foam, exhaling the stench of their last meal. Do not let the boy whine. Or the stench you will breathe from the guts of seals will be the son of Menelaus.”
“Captain,” I said, “you need not tell more stories.”
“As long as you understand this one.”
Hanging Hermione's cloak over my stretched rope, I made a tent for Pleis to sit beneath so his skin would not burn. To protect my own skin, I put the yellow linen shawl over my hair, draping it over my forehead and my cheeks. We did not know what had become of the bundle of clothing and toys for Pleis. Pleis played with my Medusa and Zanthus stayed away from us.
That second night we stopped on an unknown island with a bare and bony aspect. The men were so stiff they had to lift one another out of the benches. The cook made a fire and broiled fish, which he laced with onions and cheese. The seamen slept the moment they had finished eating.
The watchmen stumbled back and forth, never varying their pattern. Their yawns were as loud as their footsteps. They let the fire go out. The moon also went out, covered by clouds. On such an island, there would be neither wolf nor bear.
“Are you going to slip away?” breathed Rhodea.
“Of course not,” I said, although my heart was already running in the hills.
“Only you can protect the little prince. I worship such as you, Lady Callisto. Do not leave us to face the Trojans alone.”
“I am not worthy of worship, Rhodea.” I told her how Bia had told me to take Hermione's place; how I expected Helen to kill me when at last we landed on the same shore.
Rhodea dismissed that. “Your death would not amuse Helen. She will treat you as she does Aethra. She loves a queen laid low. Do you know what Aethra did for years, until she could no longer lift anything heavier than a fleece? She drew every bucket of water for Helen's bath herself, hand over hand from the well, the rope tearing her palm. And when it had been heated, she alone carried the hot water up the stairs, two buckets at a time. Ten for a bath. Helen enjoyed saying the water wasn't warm enough. Aethra would have to bail it out, carry it down, heat it again and carry it back. That's why her shoulders are knotted and her spine twisted.”
Goddess of Yesterday: A Tale of Troy Page 12