Beauty's Daughter

by Carolyn Meyer

  “I wonder who they’ll find for you,” Iphigenia mused, coolly appraising me. She was nearly thirteen, closest to my age, and I knew what she was thinking: You’re not a beauty like your mother, Hermione.

  “I’m only eleven,” I reminded her. “I don’t care a fig about a husband.” I was thinking: You’re nothing to brag about either, Iphigenia. But that wasn’t entirely true. She had beautiful hair, ebony black and thick, and she spent a great deal of time fussing with it, asking me which way she should wear it. She also had breasts, and I envied them.

  Orestes brought down another unfortunate bird. Then he glanced at me and smiled, and I smiled back. He seemed a nice boy, Orestes, with merry brown eyes flecked with gold, like tiny pinpoints of light. His smile charmed me. It wasn’t perfect—his two front teeth overlapped—and I liked that.

  AT THE BEGINNING OF the grape harvest, Agamemnon and his family prepared to go home to Mycenae. A farewell banquet was laid out—platters of roasted lamb and venison, baskets of bread, bowls of olives and pomegranate seeds—and noble families from nearby towns were invited to join the feast. Our guests lounged on couches, enjoying the food and drink and passing around a myrtle branch. It was the custom for the one holding the branch to sing a song, recite a poem, or tell a story. The shadows were growing long, and many of the banquet guests had already left for their homes when heralds announced the arrival of a courier from Troy, a city that lay across the Chief Sea, far from Sparta. The courier, having no small boat to bring him from the port, was dusty and weary from his journey by foot over the mountains when he stumbled into the hall to deliver his message: King Menelaus would soon receive a visitor, Paris, son of Priam, king of Troy.

  “When may we expect this prince?” asked my father.

  “His fleet is being prepared. With the blessing of the gods, Prince Paris will arrive at the end of the harvest, before the new moon.”

  This news created plenty of excitement. A royal traveler from such a great distance was a rare thing, and a Trojan prince was assured an elaborate reception. The food and drink at our table nearly forgotten, my father and my uncle Agamemnon immediately got into an intense discussion of King Priam and the enormous wealth of Troy, its importance in trade for silks and spices from the Orient, and its military capability and political situation. This was the kind of discussion that made the women at the table yawn in boredom.

  When the last guests had gone, my mother proposed a walk in the orchard. Clytemnestra and her daughters were already strapping on their sandals. I wanted to stay behind to listen to the men, as Orestes was doing, but I wouldn’t have been welcome. Little Pleisthenes tugged on our mother’s peplos, but I was the one who scooped him up and set him on my hip.

  “Aren’t you the lucky one!” Clytemnestra said, linking her arm with Helen’s. “Prince Paris coming to visit! I hear he’s divinely handsome and captivating as well.”

  “Really?” my mother said, seeming only mildly interested. “I know nothing about him.”

  But Clytemnestra appeared to know a lot about Paris, the youngest of King Priam’s nineteen legitimate sons by his second wife, Queen Hecabe; there were another thirty sons by various concubines and an uncountable number by lowly servants. Paris was gifted with good looks and a winning personality, she said, but he lacked ambition. “The eldest brother, Hector, is the ambitious one.”

  “So Paris is indolent, then?” my mother asked, idly plucking flowers from bushes and then dropping them, leaving a fragrant trail.

  “Not exactly indolent,” Clytemnestra explained, “just the badly spoiled favorite. It’s an interesting story—I’m surprised you haven’t heard it. A seer warned Priam that a baby soon to be born would be responsible for bringing about the fall of Troy. Soon after, Queen Hecabe gave birth to a boy, and the seer tried to persuade Priam to have the infant killed. King Priam couldn’t bring himself to do it. He called in his chief herdsman, Agelaus, and ordered him to kill the baby. Agelaus carried the baby away, but he couldn’t kill him either. Instead, he took the newborn up into the mountains and left him there to die. Five days later, the story goes, the herdsman went back, expecting to bury the body. Instead, he found the baby alive and healthy, suckled by a she bear.”

  A she bear nursed the baby! I tried to imagine that.

  We reached the riverbank, our servants spread blankets, and we sat down. “And then what happened?” I asked. Iphigenia and I waited eagerly to hear Clytemnestra’s story. The servants, too, edged nearer. The myrtle branch was never passed to a woman at our banquets; it was only among ourselves that we told stories.

  “Agelaus took the baby home with him to raise as his own son. He killed a newborn goat and presented its tongue to King Priam as proof that his orders had been carried out and the baby was dead. But little Paris—the name given him by Agelaus—was no ordinary child. He was so beautiful, so intelligent, and so strong! He was just six when he chased down a band of cattle thieves and retrieved the cows they had stolen. Still, no one knew that Paris was of royal blood. He was only a common slave, in charge of Agelaus’s cattle. When he got older, Paris arranged to have the best bulls of the herd fight one another. Eventually his prize bull was defeated, but not by any ordinary bull. As a joke, Ares, the god of war and manly courage, had turned himself into a bull. The other gods, watching the contest from their home on Mount Olympus, were much amused. They all loved Paris. It seems that Paris has always lived a charmed life.”

  “Is that the end of the story?” Helen asked. “Surely not! He’s no longer a slave but a prince!”

  Clytemnestra was enjoying her role as storyteller. “There is more. King Priam sent servants to Agelaus, ordering him to bring his best bull to be awarded as a prize at the funeral games held each year in honor of King Priam’s son who had been lost at birth. Paris heard about it and made up his mind to compete in the games. He still had no idea that he was the king’s son. No one knew. First he won the boxing match, and next the foot race. That so angered Priam’s other sons that they challenged Paris to a second race. He won that as well! The princes were so furious that they swore to kill this interloper.”

  Clytemnestra paused and called for a cup of watered wine. “And then?” Helen cried when a servant had filled their goblets. “What happened then?”

  Clytemnestra sipped a little and continued, “As they drew their swords and prepared to attack Paris, Agelaus rushed up shouting, ‘King Priam, you must not kill him! This is your long-lost son!’ To prove it, the old herdsman produced the tiny bracelet that was on the baby’s ankle when he was abandoned and left to die. Paris’s mother, Hecabe, saw the bracelet and burst into tears. The king was overjoyed. The jealous brothers were unhappy, and the priests and seers tore their garments and warned King Priam that the young man must be killed at once, or Troy would be brought to utter ruin. But Priam could not be persuaded. He had lost his son once, and he was not going to lose him again. ‘Better that Troy be destroyed than my beloved son be taken from me.’”

  For a moment we were silent, spellbound by the story.

  My mother scrambled to her feet, her face flushed, a few damp curls clinging to her forehead. “This glorious Paris whom you have described so winningly—has he chosen a wife? And if he has, who is she?”

  Clytemnestra rose, gesturing to her maids to adjust the folds of her peplos. “He hasn’t married yet,” she replied. “Though many women are drawn to such a man—how could they not be? A girl named Oenone, the daughter of a fountain nymph, was always seen with him. They say that the two used to hunt and tend their flocks together.”

  “More of a sister than a lover, then?” Helen asked, sounding relieved.

  “I can’t say for sure,” Clytemnestra replied, giving my mother a sharp look.

  We started back to the palace as darkness gathered around us like a soft blanket. Pleisthenes sagged in my arms, and I set him down, whispering that he must walk a little. He pouted, just like his mother. When a slave girl tried to pick him up, he began to wai
l, and I ended up carrying him anyway, while he clung to my neck.

  Torches had been lighted, and in the megaron a troupe of traveling musicians was entertaining the men with songs of ancient heroes. We sat down to listen, though nothing sounded as enthralling as the story Clytemnestra had just told us. Pleisthenes crawled into my lap and fell asleep. Our mother seemed not to notice, and after a time his nurse lifted the drowsy boy from my arms and carried him away. Not long afterward my eyes, too, felt heavy. I wandered off to the sleeping quarters, curled up on the thick fleeces piled on my low bed, and was soon sleeping soundly.

  As Dawn stretched her rosy fingers into the vault of the sky the next day, our two families boarded several flat-bottomed royal barges and small papyrus boats tied up along the muddy banks of the River Eurotas. We floated downriver to Gythion, where the river meets the sea and Agamemnon’s great ship lay at anchor. The weather was fine. A steady breeze promised smooth sailing to Mycenae.

  Clytemnestra embraced my mother. “You must tell me all about the visit from the Trojan prince,” she said. “Promise you’ll leave nothing out!”

  My mother laughed and gave her word. Orestes flashed his winning smile at me, and Iphigenia said she hoped I’d come to visit her soon, though I didn’t feel she really meant it. Her older sisters ignored me, as usual. After making sacrifices at a local shrine to Aeolus, god of the four winds, Agamemnon’s family boarded their ship. We watched from the beach as the anchor stones were hauled up and oarsmen rowed the ship away from the shore. The square sail billowed with a steady breeze, carrying the ship toward the horizon. When it had shrunk to a speck in the distance, we returned to our boats, and our slaves rowed us up the river to Sparta.

  “The harvest will soon be over,” my mother observed that evening. She was sitting beside my father and twisting a lock of her shining golden hair around her finger. I thought she looked almost happy. “And then we’ll have another visitor! How splendid, Menelaus! We must show our guest a good time.”

  My father smiled indulgently. He’d give Helen anything she wanted. After all, he was the fortunate husband of the most beautiful woman in the world.

  3

  The Arrival of Paris

  HELEN, WHO HAD BEEN drifting through the long, dull summer days as though half-asleep, now suddenly awoke from her trance and threw herself into planning for the visit of the Trojan prince. We must have new furniture, she told my father: a larger table for banquets, and more couches. The fleeces for the beds should be replaced. She needed a new peplos, maybe several. My mother thought my clothes were shabby—Clytemnestra had said so, reminding her that even a young princess should not be dressing in a short chiton. It wasn’t something that Helen would notice otherwise. Animals must be slaughtered, my mother continued, feasts prepared, entertainments arranged. So much still to be done, and the harvest was almost over!

  As the moon neared the end of its fourth quarter, Menelaus sent a number of servants downriver to the small island of Kranai, near Gythion. They were instructed to set up a camp on the lovely stretch of beach, ready to greet Prince Paris when his fleet reached the shallows. A messenger would bring word to Sparta of the Trojan prince’s arrival at Kranai.

  Everything went as planned. The harvest had been completed; grain and olive oil and wine filled row upon row of clay amphoras standing in the royal storehouse. The fattest sheep and cattle were slaughtered, loaves of bread baked, figs soaked in honey and spices. Extra musicians were hired. My mother arranged the new furniture and tried on her new gowns. A luxurious bedroom was prepared for the prince, and female servants were assigned to bathe him and rub his skin with scented oil. I noticed that my mother gave this task only to older, homelier women. Now we waited eagerly for the prince we’d heard so much about.

  “Did you see Paris’s ship with your own eyes?” Menelaus asked the messenger who came at last, and the messenger described a carving of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, holding her son, the little winged Eros, on the prow of the prince’s ship. Menelaus listened to the report and nodded, satisfied. The royal barge was dispatched to fetch Paris.

  I was nearly as excited as my mother. We were both by the river’s edge when the barge arrived and Paris stepped off. I was not disappointed. I thought I had never seen such a handsome man. I could not help but admire the prince’s dazzling smile, his thick dark hair curling over his neck, his long legs and strong shoulders, and, most striking of all, his golden eyes, gleaming like a cat’s.

  The moment my mother saw him, their eyes locked. Neither seemed able to look away. I wondered, What does Father think?

  But Menelaus was oblivious. He didn’t seem to notice a thing. While Paris stared at Helen with open admiration—I would even say adoration—my father launched into his usual speech about the honor of receiving such a distinguished guest. Helen and Paris continued to devour each other with hungry looks.

  I held my breath to see what would happen next. But nothing did—at least, not then.

  My brother and I were introduced to Paris, who flicked a glance and a brief smile in our direction before turning his attention back to Helen. Musicians with wooden flutes, lyres, and drums made of animal skins escorted us up the broad stone path to the palace. Little boys scattered herbs to be crushed under our feet. When we reached the gates, Menelaus ordered them flung open, crying out, “Enter here, great friend! My house is your house!”

  Paris took Menelaus at his word.

  For nine days my father and his honored guest hunted together, often with my mother joining them, for Helen was a keen shot. Each evening there was a banquet with the finest roasted meats and delicious wines, rich cheeses and delicate cakes dripping with honey. Paris described to us the palace in Troy, where he and his brothers lived in quarters hung with colorful silks from the Orient, ate and drank from plates and goblets of hammered gold, lounged on benches inlaid with ebony and ivory brought from distant places. I was entranced by what he told us.

  But I was also distracted. You would have had to be blind not to see that Paris had fallen madly in love with my mother. He gazed at her, sighing, as she plucked the strings of her golden lyre. If she set down her wine goblet, Paris reached for it and deliberately drank from the very spot where her lips had touched the rim, his eyes on her to make sure she saw what he was doing. He could scarcely bear to leave her side. Once, when we had gone walking along the riverbank, I saw him pick up a stick and scratch a message in the sand. I stepped close enough to read it and gasped.

  Helen, I love you.

  My mother hurriedly scuffed the letters with her sandal. “You will cause me no end of trouble!” she hissed at Paris, who merely flashed his most seductive smile and reached for her hand, right under my father’s nose. Helen jerked her hand away.

  How could my father not see what was happening right in front of him? In fact, his mind was somewhere else. Menelaus was busy preparing to leave for Crete, to take part in funeral rites for his grandfather. The obligation had come up suddenly, and he couldn’t refuse.

  “My deepest apologies, dear friend,” he said to Paris. “But it’s my responsibility to attend the obsequies. I’m sure you understand.”

  Paris assured Menelaus that he understood completely: one’s duty to one’s family, and so on.

  “Until I’m able to return, my esteemed wife will see that you receive the greatest hospitality our kingdom has to offer.” He turned to my mother. “Won’t you, dearest Helen?”

  “With pleasure, my lord,” replied my mother, her gaze modestly lowered. Or maybe she just didn’t want my father to look into her eyes and read the truth.

  With the sun high overhead, Menelaus boarded a small, fast boat for his journey downriver to the gulf, where his ship lay provisioned and ready to sail. I begged to go with him as far as the mouth of the river, thinking that I might be able to say something, to whisper a word or two of caution about what I saw plainly and he plainly did not.

  “Stay with your mother and our guest, Hermione,” he said
, fondly running his hand over my shock of red curls that so closely matched his own. “I’ll be back before the next full moon, and you can tell me all about it.”

  Menelaus kissed Helen and my little brother and me, promising to order a signal fire to be lighted on Mount Koumaros when he entered the gulf. And then he was gone.

  THE BANQUET THAT NIGHT was smaller and quieter without the presence of the king. No reciting, no singing, though my mother did play a little on her golden lyre. Everyone wanted to retire early. Maybe after nine nights of feasting and drinking and music and storytelling, they were all tired. My eyes were also heavy, but I was determined not to go to bed before the others. My mother began to yawn. She wished us all a good night. “Don’t stay up too late, Hermione,” she said, and I promised I would not. She scarcely glanced at her honored guest, which I thought was odd.

  Not long after Helen had gone off to the bedroom she always shared with my father, Paris, too, made a show of yawning and stretching. When he left the megaron, on impulse I followed him, silently slipping along the corridors leading to the guest quarters. I hid myself behind a stout pillar until his door was closed and the bolt shot into place. Crouching on the cold stone floor, I waited. The servants, left to clean up after the banquet, finished their work and went off to their quarters. The palace fell silent. Not a sound. I pinched myself to stay awake and as the night grew cool wished I had brought a woolen shawl with me.

  I’m being stupid, I told myself. Nothing is going to happen. But still I didn’t move.

  My head had drooped down on my knees by the time I heard the bolt on Paris’s door slide back. The hinges squeaked as the door opened and closed again, followed by the sound of soft footsteps. I breathed lightly and wished my heart did not pound so loudly. Paris hurried past my hiding place without seeing me. Suspecting that he was making his way to my mother’s bedroom, I decided to go there by another way, making it less likely that he would sense my presence.