Beauty's Daughter

by Carolyn Meyer

  “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.

  Book II

  The War

  10

  The Tenth Year

  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.

  With the arrival of spring in the tenth year of the war, the fighting was about to begin again. I was so weary of it! Surely the men must have been weary of it too. Didn’t they long for their homeland, yearn for their wives and children? Yet it had been going on for so long that war had become the only life they knew.

  I was twenty now, no longer a child, and I lived comfortably in my own tent with several women servants, but sometimes I missed the company of the concubines. Without them, it was much harder to find out what was going on in other parts of the camp. From time to time I sent one or two of my servants to Marpessa, now old and bent and nearly toothless, and in exchange Marpessa sent a couple of her women to stay with me for a few nights and to pass on whatever rumors they’d heard from the men. Father, consumed by the war, had no knowledge of this.

  Achilles, I was told, had grown increasingly restless. He regularly led his Myrmidons on raiding parties, attacking cities allied with Troy, taking prisoners and seizing whatever loot was at hand. The list of his conquests was long: Lesbos, Phocaea, Colophon, Smyrna, and many more. It was the custom to enslave the women who were taken captive. One of his captives was a beautiful girl named Astynome, the daughter of Chryses, a priest of Apollo on the island of Sminthos. Astynome’s father had sent her to the city of Lyrnessus to attend the feast of Artemis, assuming she would be safe there. But Lyrnessus was one of the cities attacked by Achilles, and Astynome was anything but safe. Another of his captives was Hippodameia, bride of King Mynes. On the very day of the wedding, Achilles killed the bridegroom and the bride’s father, mother, and three brothers, and seized Hippodameia. Achilles returned to the Greek encampment with the two captives. Astynome was awarded to Agamemnon. Achilles took Hippodameia for himself.

  Both girls were about my age. Astynome was dark haired with sparkling eyes and skin the color of honey. Hippodameia was blond and blue eyed, nearly as tall as Achilles, and willowy. Both were intelligent and good tempered, but their eyes were filled with terror, and my heart went out to them. I understood well that if the Greeks were defeated, the Trojans would take me captive, and my fate would surely be as dire as theirs.

  While the men were caught up in their ugly business of war, I became friends with the captives. Sometimes we went to bathe in the springs near the River Scamander. The river flowed down from Mount Ida, across the Trojan plain, and into the Hellespont, the narrow passage between two seas. One spring bubbled with hot water, the other with cold, no matter the season. In pools scooped out in the hollow rocks the Trojan women also came to bathe. Our washerwomen brought our clothes here; theirs did too. Each side secretly watched the other.

  Every few days I walked to Achilles’ tents at the southern end of the beach to visit Hippodameia. I was struck by the complete lack of real comfort there. Achilles’ were the tents of warriors. His son, Pyrrhus, was now a man; his mother was the daughter of the king of Skyros, in whose court Achilles had been sent to live as a child. Now Pyrrhus was one of Achilles’ lieutenants. He was nearly as handsome as his father, but spoiled and arrogant, his lip curled in a permanent sneer. Hippodameia and I avoided him.

  Agamemnon’s luxurious shelters on the north end were entirely different. One day I went there to visit Astynome and found her in tears. I assumed that Agamemnon was the cause of her unhappiness, but I was wrong.

  “My father wants to take me home,” Astynome said, weeping. “He came for me and offered to pay a huge ransom. But Agamemnon refused and drove him away with cruel words! He told Chryses not to be seen anywhere near the Greek ships.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “It’s the way of war.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” Astynome sobbed. “I want to stay here. Agamemnon treats me very well. He tells me that I’m much finer than his wife.”

  That did not surprise me. I never thought he cared much for Clytemnestra, or she for him.

  “My father is praying to Apollo for help,” she said. “There will be trouble, I’m sure of it. I’m afraid I’ll be sent back, no matter what I say.”

  As Astynome predicted, magnificent Apollo came storming down from Mount Olympus, shooting his deadly arrows among the Greeks. Apollo’s aim was unerring, and hundreds of our soldiers fell dead. The corpses were gathered and burned in fires that blazed night and day. It had become too dangerous to leave the shelters. I no longer visited the springs to bathe in the pools with the captives. We lived in fear of the lethal arrows whipping through the vast encampment.

  I was taking refuge with my father when Calchas made his way cautiously to Menelaus’s shelter. The seer had been a sturdy white-haired man when we’d left Greece ten years earlier, but now he was an ancient with a straggly white beard and knobby legs as thin as sticks.

  Father was deeply agitated. “Nine days of this! It has got to stop,” he complained to Calchas. “Apollo is relentless, and he’s on the side of that priest, Chryses.”

  “There is only one solution,” Calchas said in a raspy voice. “Agamemnon must send the girl back to her father.”

  “He won’t do it. He says he’s entitled to Astynome as the spoils of victory. Besides that, he’s grown quite fond of her. She is a lovely girl—better looking than Clytemnestra,” Menelaus added. “Nicer disposition, too.”<
br />
  “Then you must find him another, someone just as lovely,” Calchas advised. “I promise you, Apollo’s deadly aim will continue to cost Greek lives until Chryses gets his daughter back.”

  Father groaned. “All right, then. Let’s go talk to Agamemnon. But I’m not confident he can be convinced.”

  I stepped forward. “I’ll come with you,” I said. “I know Astynome. We’ve become friends. Maybe I can help make it easier for both of them.”

  “Much too dangerous, daughter,” said my father, shaking his head. “Stay here.”

  But Calchas said we could reach Agamemnon’s shelters safely if we left at once, and I went with them.

  We found Agamemnon and Astynome cozily sharing a goblet of wine. It was plain that Agamemnon did not want guests to intrude on their intimate moment, but he managed a polite welcome, offering us wine. Father brushed aside Agamemnon’s hospitable gesture and went straight to the point. “You must return Astynome to her father and stop the killing.”

  Astynome burst into tears, and I went to comfort her. She pushed me away—rudely, I thought, but I couldn’t blame her. None of this was her doing. Agamemnon flatly refused, as we expected.

  But then Calchas began to speak in his high, old man’s voice. “There’s no hope of a Greek victory against Troy if Apollo continues to cut down our soldiers with his lethal arrows.”

  Slowly, Agamemnon’s stubbornness ebbed away, until he was forced to admit that there really was no other choice.

  “Send her to her father without delay,” Calchas piped, “with the most generous gifts you can find for Chryses, and animals to sacrifice to win Apollo’s favor.”

  Agamemnon threw up his hands. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “I value this girl more than I do my wife, but I’ll give her back if that’s the best thing for my people.” He turned to Astynome, who clung to his arm, weeping. “Go, then, dear love,” he said, more tenderly than I’d ever heard him speak, and patted her hand. He glanced at me pleadingly, and I took her elbow and coaxed her away.

  Astynome was sobbing hysterically while I did what I could to calm her. Unfortunately, Agamemnon failed to wait until we were out of earshot before exclaiming loudly, “This is a disgrace to me! An insult! I must have compensation for the loss of Astynome. Bring me another prize, Menelaus. I want Hippodameia.”

  Astynome heard and howled even louder.

  “He’s saying that because he’s angry,” I whispered, trying to console her. “He just wants to put proud Achilles in his place.”

  I led Astynome to my hut. She was to stay with me while arrangements were made for a ship to return her to the island of Sminthos. For three days she never stopped weeping. Apollo, seeing that efforts were being made in good faith to send her home, ceased shooting arrows at our men. But that was not the end of our troubles. It was only the beginning.

  11

  The Warrior’s Prize

  ON THE FOURTH MORNING after Agamemnon agreed to send Astynome home, he dispatched two heralds to inform Achilles that he must now surrender Hippodameia to him. With the heralds went Agamemnon’s son, my cousin Orestes. And Orestes, having observed the close friendship I’d developed with the two captive girls, asked me to accompany him to Achilles’ tents. I leaped at the chance.

  Once a shy boy with a sweet smile and a love of poetry, Orestes had grown into a handsome young man with broad shoulders, strong arms, and well-muscled calves. He served as a lieutenant under his father’s command and was known among the men as a skillful archer. His smile was as winning as ever, and when he recited poetry or sang the songs of our faraway country, my heart sang too. Though often in each other’s company, we were seldom alone. Nevertheless, I knew that I loved him.

  I probably fell in love with Orestes when we were children. While we were mere infants, our grandfather, Tyndareus, king of Sparta, had promised me to Orestes. After Tyndareus died, my mother told me about the promise he’d made. She said she’d speak of it again when I was older and ready for marriage, but she left with Paris before we had that conversation. It was something I had always known and taken for granted but hadn’t thought about much. Until now.

  Many nights I dreamed of becoming Orestes’ wife. But we were at war. Death lay all around us. This was not the time to speak of marriage, or even to think of a life together. Yet I did think of it, imagining Orestes’ lips on mine, my fingers tracing his smooth brow. I wanted to believe that he loved me, too, though we had never said the words. Our grandfather’s pledge had not been mentioned. I wasn’t sure he even knew of it.

  Instead of the future, we talked about the past, things we remembered from our childhood. Pleisthenes was always on my mind, and I confided to Orestes how deeply I yearned to see my little brother again. Orestes spoke often about his best friend, Pylades, son of his father’s friend, King Strophius, and fondly recalled the months they’d spent together as children in Krisa at the foot of Mount Parnassus. He’d give anything, he’d told me, to have Pylades fighting by his side at Troy.

  “Pylades was ready to come,” Orestes said now, as we walked along the beach toward Achilles’ tents. The dark sea was like a wild beast that day, the surf hammering the shore. “His father was willing. But his mother made offerings to Artemis, and the goddess of the hunt saw to it that Pylades was gored in the thigh while hunting wild boar. Now he must walk with a stick.”

  We’d reached the camp of the Myrmidons and paused to consider our next step. “I’ll talk to Achilles,” Orestes said. “You see to Hippodameia. I have no idea how she’ll feel about making this change.”

  “I’ll do as you ask,” I said, “but I do have an idea of how she’ll feel. I’ve spent enough time with her to know that she’s fallen in love with Achilles. She won’t want to leave him.”

  “Astynome fell in love with Agamemnon too. I would not have expected the captives to fall in love with their captors,” Orestes said. “Would you?”

  “Who can predict such things?” I had first met Achilles when I went with Iphigenia to what she thought was to be her wedding and nearly turned out to be her death. He was rugged, powerful, fearless—and beautiful. Nine years later, he hadn’t changed. He was still all the things that Iphigenia had loved and now Hippodameia loved too. “What I can predict, though, is that Achilles is going to be angry.”

  “‘Furious’ is probably more accurate.” Orestes sighed. “All right, let’s do what we were sent to do.” He signaled for the heralds to announce our presence.

  Achilles burst from his tent. “Why have you come here?” he demanded, his face close to Orestes’. “What do you want?”

  Orestes held his ground and didn’t allow Achilles to force him to step back. “I’ve been sent by my father, King Agamemnon, to speak to you on a personal matter.”

  Achilles turned his burning glare on me. “And you, Hermione? Why are you here?”

  I managed a weak smile. “To visit with Hippodameia.”

  He gestured with his thumb. “Go in, then,” he ordered.

  Hippodameia seemed glad to see me. I suggested that we go out walking. I wanted to get her away from the rage that was sure to erupt at any moment. She was agreeable, and we were preparing to leave—but first she wanted to show me the veil she’d almost finished weaving. I had acted too slowly, and now it was too late.

  “I refuse!” we heard Achilles roar. “She is mine, and I will not give her up!” Every word was clear.

  Hippodameia’s eyes widened, and she looked at me for an explanation. Orestes’ words were muffled, but his tone sounded calm and reasonable. “What are they talking about?” she whispered.

  Before I could answer, there was another roar from outside the warrior’s tent. “I will keep her, and I will take that message to Agamemnon myself!”

  “It’s me they’re talking about, isn’t it?” Hippodameia said, her voice unsteady.

  I nodded. “Agamemnon has agreed to send Astynome back to her father, Chryses, to stop Apollo from killing our men. Now Agamemnon
wants you in Astynome’s place.”

  “I won’t go,” Hippodameia said, suddenly stubborn.

  “King Agamemnon demands it.”

  “He can demand whatever he wishes.” She spoke calmly, her voice strong with resolve. “I won’t go. I’ll kill myself.”

  I gaped at her, stunned. There were no tears in her lovely blue eyes, no hysterics in her voice. I believed she would do as she threatened. Afraid that she might do something terrible right then—were there any knives around, a sword that she might plunge into her own breast?—I seized Hippodameia’s soft white hands.

  “No! No!” I cried. “Please listen to me, dear friend, and come with me now. Agamemnon will be kind to you, I’m certain of that. Astynome doesn’t want to leave either, and I’m sure something can be arranged. If you want to stay with Achilles, you’ll be returned to him, just as soon as Chryses agrees to allow his daughter to come back. Then everything will be right again.”

  I continued coaxing and pleading, having no idea if the peaceful solution I promised her was possible.

  Achilles stormed into Hippodameia’s quarters, followed by Orestes. “Go! Take her, then!” Achilles growled, his face dark with murderous fury. “But pay the price for it as you lose your greatest warrior!” He rushed out again without even a word to poor Hippodameia.

  Orestes and I exchanged worried glances. His lips were pressed in a tight line. “We must go, then,” he said. “I’m sorry, Hippodameia.”

  “I told her that a solution could be found,” I put in.

  Orestes hesitated. “Maybe so.”

  We began the long walk up the beach to Agamemnon’s tent, Hippodameia between us, her head down and her footsteps lagging. “This must be very painful for you,” I ventured, wondering if she was still thinking of killing herself and what could be done to keep her from it.