Beauty's Daughter

by Carolyn Meyer

  But I had to see for myself. I rushed back to our tents, and I was there when the king was carried in. I pushed through the crowd of men surrounding him and knelt by his side. With blood spurting from his wound, Menelaus lay pale and still. “Father!” I whispered, taking his hand.

  He looked at me with feverish eyes. “Don’t worry, daughter,” he murmured. “Agamemnon has already sent for a healer.”

  Menelaus would recover, but the truce had been broken. The next day the Greeks donned their armor, and the Trojans readied for an assault. Agamemnon leaped into his chariot to take command of his armies. Orestes led a contingent of archers and their charioteers toward the battle. I watched him go without a chance to say goodbye. So much was still left unsaid between us.

  Before the shining sun had set, the bodies of hundreds of Trojans and hundreds of Greeks lay sprawled across the dusty plain, their swords and spears and shields scattered uselessly among them. Neither side claimed victory. But for that day at least, Orestes was unhurt.

  13

  The Way of Men

  THE KILLING WENT ON, day after day. At the end of each day’s battle the Trojans silently gathered their dead and carried them back inside the city walls. Our dead were piled on wooden pyres and set alight. The funeral fires blazed through the night, and the next day the ashes were placed in a common grave under a mound of earth that stretched as far as I could see.

  One evening, soon after sunset, an exhausted Orestes staggered into my tent, almost too weary to speak.

  I led him to my couch. He wiped his sweat-streaked face with a muddy arm. I sent a servant for a basin of warm, scented water and a sponge to wipe his brow. Despite his dirty face, I had never seen him look so handsome. I offered him watered wine, which he refused, and a plate of cheese and nuts that I’d planned to eat for my own meal. He waved that away too.

  “Not hungry,” he said. “Not after all I’ve seen today.” He sat slumped, his head down, his hands dangling between his knees.

  I sat close beside him. “What brings you here, Orestes?” I asked, puzzled. “What can I do for you?”

  He raised his head and gazed at me searchingly. “Love me,” he said. “Just love me, Hermione.”

  “Love you? But I do love you! You must know that, Orestes! I’ve loved you for a very long time—it’s just that we’ve never spoken of it.”

  “I want to speak of it now, Hermione. I don’t want to die without speaking of it. My charioteer was killed today, the deadly arrow shot by an archer on Troy’s high wall. It missed me by a hair, due to my man’s quick action. He gave his life for me. Tomorrow I’ll have a new charioteer who may not be so loyal, or so quick.”

  “You’re not going to die,” I insisted.

  It was a stupid thing to say, and we both knew it. Archers wore no armor and carried no shield, depending on their charioteer to carry them wherever they needed to go, maneuver them deftly, and get them away quickly. Death was everywhere. The odds were great for every man who rose at dawn that he would be dead by nightfall.

  “But I wouldn’t mind speaking of love anyway,” I added.

  We kissed and kissed again and lay in each other’s arms until Orestes drifted off to sleep and I followed him there. I was still sleeping when my lover awakened with a start and leaped from my bed.

  “The moon still shines brightly,” I mumbled drowsily. “Must you go so soon, Orestes?”

  “The day’s fighting begins at dawn.” He bent down and kissed me, and I flung my arms around his neck and held him close until he finally pulled away.

  I shouldn’t have been happy, with death’s black cloud all around us—but I was.

  WHILE THE MEN MADE terrible war, I spent my days in the tranquil company of Hippodameia, who now lived in a simple hut in Agamemnon’s encampment. We often walked along the beach, the roar of battle in the distance, and spoke of the desires we shared with all young women for a home, a husband, children, those things that only peace could bring. When we sat and spun our wool, I felt free to confide in Hippodameia of my love for Orestes.

  “He’s always at his father’s side and so caught up in the war that I rarely see him,” I explained. “But those times that we’re together, we’re so close that we breathe each other’s breath and dream each other’s dreams.”

  Hippodameia talked about her husband, cut down by Achilles on her wedding day. “He was many years older than I,” she said. “Even older than Agamemnon. His beard was almost white. I have no idea what sort of husband he would have made. Speaking the truth, I’d rather be with Achilles. He’s young and strong. But I wonder if I’ll ever be with him again.”

  “It’s all in the hands of the gods,” I reminded her, thinking of my own sweet lover, and she agreed that it was true.

  One day we stood on the beach, gazing out at the dark, frothing sea, and watched a ship cutting swiftly through the tossing waves toward the shore. Ships often arrived, bringing supplies for the Greek armies. But this was no cargo ship letting down its anchor stone. A small boat was lowered with two occupants, and a pair of oarsmen rowed it toward the beach.

  “It’s Astynome! And that must be her father!” I exclaimed, and we hurried to greet them.

  “Hail and welcome, priest of Apollo!” I called out as the father and daughter stepped onto the beach, lifting the hems of their robes above the ripples. Chryses acknowledged my greeting solemnly, but he did not look pleased.

  Astynome, however, was beaming. “I wanted to come back, and here I am!” she crowed as we embraced. “Where’s King Agamemnon?”

  “On the battlefield. He’ll return when the sun has set.” Then I noticed her rounded belly. “I’ll send a herald now to tell him you’ve come.”

  Her father clamped his arms sternly across his chest. “She’s expecting a child, as you can see,” he grumbled. “She tells me that Agamemnon is the father, and she wants to be with him.”

  “It’s true,” the girl said gaily. “I love him! I’m sure he’ll want me back.” Her attention shifted uneasily to Hippodameia. “Unless . . .”

  “Agamemnon is kind to me, but he doesn’t lust for me,” Hippodameia assured her. “The king will welcome you, and I’ll gladly go back to Achilles, if he’ll have me.”

  I glanced from one girl to the other. It seemed that this might work out well after all. “Let’s go to Menelaus’s tent and wait for the men to come in from battle,” I suggested, and after I’d called for warm water for them to wash their hands and had ordered food and drink, I sent a herald to find Agamemnon and tell him of their arrival. But I was not sure what to do about Achilles.

  Since the day Agamemnon had demanded that he surrender Hippodameia, Achilles had refused to join the battle. Even when Hector challenged him to fight man to man, Achilles refused to leave his tents. Great Ajax went out in his stead. The two warriors fought hard from sunrise to sunset. At nightfall, when there was still no winner, they declared a truce. Ajax awarded Hector his priceless purple war belt, Hector presented Ajax with his silver-studded sword, and the two embraced. Agamemnon ordered seven oxen to be sacrificed to Zeus. The oxen were roasted, and both men shared in the feast. The talk that night was of nothing but the glorious fight.

  “How can it be glorious?” I’d asked Orestes during one of our precious times together. “I just want the war to be over.”

  “It’s the way of men,” he’d said.

  AGAMEMNON WELCOMED ASTYNOME delightedly. And now, he hoped, Achilles would welcome Hippodameia just as delightedly and agree to return to the battlefield.

  Agamemnon sent for Odysseus and Ajax. “Take the lovely girl to Achilles, and give him my solemn oath that I have not once touched her in lust, have never made love to her,” he instructed them. “Is that not true, my dear Hippodameia?”

  “It’s true.”

  To further entice Achilles to fight again, Agamemnon also promised to send him a trove of gifts: iron pots, bronze cauldrons, bars of gold, a dozen massive stallions, and seven weavers taken as pri
soners on Lesbos. “And tell Achilles that once we’re home in Mycenae, he will be my son-in-law, as true a son as my own Orestes, and he can have his pick of my daughters, Chrysothemis and Electra, as a wife.”

  Hippodameia’s face crumpled. She wanted to believe that she would one day marry Achilles. Agamemnon, oblivious, kept adding even more treasure to persuade Achilles. “Seven beautiful cities surrounded by wonderful green vineyards and flocks of fat sheep! Just let him lose his anger and come and fight beside us once more.”

  “Achilles would never marry either of those girls, Chrysothemis or Electra,” I assured Hippodameia when we were alone. “Agamemnon is just trying to persuade him to fight again. You mustn’t worry about it. And, if it will make you feel better, I’ll go with you to Achilles’ camp.”

  When Hippodameia complained that she had nothing to wear, Astynome generously offered her one of the embroidered tunics she’d brought with her from Sminthos. Agamemnon sent a carrying chair so that she would arrive in style. I walked beside the chair, trying to distract her with idle conversation and keep her calm. For my part, I remembered how Orestes and I had escorted her from Achilles’ camp to Agamemnon’s months earlier, and how enraged Achilles had been then. I wished Orestes were with us now—he would be better than Odysseus, I thought, at dealing with Achilles’ volatile temper.

  “Wait here,” Odysseus said when we reached the Myrmidons’ tents. “When Achilles has accepted Agamemnon’s promise of gifts, I’ll send you a signal, and Hippodameia can come forward in all her beauty.”

  The wait went on much too long. Hippodameia and I grew restive. It was my idea to creep closer to Achilles’ tent to find out what was happening. When we did, we found a feast in progress, the men lounging on carpets while Patroclus plucked a lyre and sang songs of bravery. Hippodameia and I crouched behind a rock to listen. The snatches of conversation I was able to make out sounded amiable. Achilles was being a good host. Wine goblets were emptied and refilled.

  “What are they talking about?” Hippodameia whispered. “Can you hear?”

  I put my finger to my lips. “Odysseus is describing the gifts Agamemnon is offering.”

  “All this is for you, Achilles,” Odysseus was saying, “and your lithe and lovely Hippodameia will immediately be returned to you, untouched. But the Trojans have gained the upper hand. We need you to help us.”

  Abruptly the mood turned dark and ugly. “I refuse!” Achilles declared loudly. “Agamemnon has insulted my honor! I loathe him, I accept none of his gifts, and I will not fight for him, nor will my men. Tomorrow I sail to Phthia, and my loyal Myrmidons sail with me. Pyrrhus!” he shouted for his son. “Pyrrhus, escort these shameless dogs back to the tents of Agamemnon!”

  Hippodameia and I stared at each other. What had happened? Everything had fallen apart. All the men were shouting. I grabbed her hand, and we rushed back to her carrying chair to wait for Ajax and Odysseus.

  They burst out of Achilles’ tent. “Let’s go,” Ajax growled. “There’s no reasoning with him.”

  We stumbled back to Agamemnon’s camp by torchlight, Hippodameia weeping and Pyrrhus snarling and snapping at our heels.

  THE FIGHTING RESUMED THE next morning, still without Achilles and his men, and continued, day after blood-soaked day. Achilles did not sail for Phthia, as he had threatened, but neither did he leave his tents. Patroclus stayed with him, while Pyrrhus no doubt skulked nearby.

  Astynome, her belly swelling, lounged contentedly in the little hut near Agamemnon’s tent, happy to be back with the man she adored and who, for his part, did seem fond of her. Hippodameia waited gloomily for Achilles to realize that he loved her, though he was behaving so badly. “I think he has no need for me,” Hippodameia sighed plaintively.

  I suspected she was right, but I kept silent and didn’t share my thoughts with her. I, for one, would not have wanted to live anywhere near Achilles’ son, Pyrrhus.

  I’d heard Calchas say many times that the gods had decreed that Troy must come to defeat. Yet the battles were clearly going against our men. Whenever the Greeks gained the advantage, the goddesses intervened on the side of the Trojans. My father had recovered from his injury, though now he walked with a limp, but many soldiers lay wounded and suffering. Many more had been killed.

  Astynome understood what was happening. “The gods will dictate the outcome of this great war. They determine everything that happens—not just the war. It’s out of the hands of mere mortals. Hera obviously favors the Greeks. When she thought Zeus was helping the Trojans too much, she seduced him, and while he slept, she called on his brother, Poseidon, to come to the aid of the Greeks. And Poseidon actually came to the battlefield and led the charge until Zeus woke up, saw what was happening, and put a stop to it.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  “It was revealed to me in a dream.”

  I envied Astynome her dreams. I learned nothing from mine—they reminded me only of my desire for the end of the war and the beginning of a life with Orestes. Sometimes I dreamed of my mother. I wondered if the years had changed her heart, if not her beauty. I wondered if she dreamed of me.

  Astynome hadn’t been back long when Hippodameia decided to send a message to Patroclus, begging him to persuade Achilles to claim her. “Patroclus has always been a good friend to me,” she said while she waited for an answer. “But I confess, I’m jealous of the bond between him and Achilles. Achilles cares more for Patroclus than he does for me.”

  She had almost given up hope when Patroclus himself brought her the answer she’d prayed for. “Achilles wishes you to come,” he said, “but not until the three-quarter moon reaches full.”

  We joyfully gathered the things she’d need to take with her—she had only the gown she’d been wearing when she was taken prisoner, the embroidered tunic Astynome had given her, and a few plain chitons. On the day Hippodameia was to leave for Achilles’ encampment, we ordered our servants to fill a large tub with scented water. Astynome joined us, and we took turns bathing. Our servants rubbed us with oil and dressed us in new gowns of finely woven brocade, sashed with tasseled silk, brought as gifts from Astynome’s homeland.

  Astynome was braiding Hippodameia’s hair when Orestes appeared unexpectedly in my tent, his face drawn in sorrow. One look told us he’d brought bad news.

  “Orestes, what is it?”

  “Patroclus is dead.”

  Hippodameia shrieked, and I led Orestes to a bench and knelt beside him. Patroclus, he told us, had convinced Achilles that the Greeks were losing their battles: too many lay dead, too many more were badly wounded. Zeus himself had stepped in to help Hector, who broke through the Greek defenses and flung flaming torches at the Greek ships, setting them alight. The entire fleet was in danger. Patroclus persuaded Achilles to lend him his armor and let him lead the Myrmidons into battle.

  “Patroclus argued that the armor would deceive the Trojans into believing that mighty Achilles was back in the battle again and send them fleeing,” Orestes continued. “Achilles gave in and finally agreed to lend the armor, but he ordered Patroclus only to defend the Greek ships, nothing more! And then he was to come back to the Myrmidons’ encampment.”

  Patroclus had put on Achilles’ breastplate, helmet, and greaves and picked up his weapons—all but the spear, which was too heavy for any man to handle except Achilles himself, and Patroclus carried his own. He borrowed Achilles’ horses, and Achilles filled his wine cup and poured out a libation to Zeus, praying for his friend’s victory and safe return.

  “Only part of the prayer was answered. Our ships were saved. Zeus gave Patroclus victory,” Orestes told us, “but he didn’t let him return safely. Hector killed Patroclus, but he couldn’t have done it without Apollo’s help. The god struck Patroclus from behind and knocked the helmet from his head, broke his spear, and caused his shield to fall.” Orestes shuddered. “He was defenseless against Hector. I witnessed the brutal carnage. With my own eyes I saw Hector strip Achilles’ a
rmor from Patroclus’s dead body and put it on himself. Now the Greeks and the Trojans are fighting for possession of the body. Patroclus’s soul cannot enter the House of Death until his body is given a proper burial.”

  Hippodameia’s face was a mask of sorrow as Orestes described what happened. “Achilles knows?” she asked.

  “He knew when his horses returned without Patroclus. Achilles has surrendered to the madness of grief, rolling in the dust, rubbing soot and ashes onto his face, and shouting out Patroclus’s name.”

  “I’m going to find him,” Hippodameia said.

  “Don’t.” Orestes grabbed her wrist. “He’s lost his sanity.”

  “Then I’ll help him find it.” She wrenched free and ran from the tent. Orestes started after her.

  “Let her go, Orestes,” I called out. “Maybe her love will help to heal him.”

  “There is no healing him, Hermione. He thinks of nothing but revenge.”

  That night, Orestes and I lay in each other’s arms, whispering in the darkness. “What do you think will happen now?” I asked.

  “More fighting. More death.”

  “I wonder if it will ever end.”

  “It will, my love, and soon. It’s fated to end in the tenth year. The gods have decreed it.”

  “And then what?”

  “You and I will go home to Greece.”

  “Together, Orestes?”

  “Together, Hermione. I promise you! And we will marry, as our grandfather Tyndareus wished.”

  And I slept, believing it would happen just as Orestes promised.

  14

  Achilles’ Rage

  ASTYNOME CAME TO MY tent the next morning, after Orestes had gone to join Agamemnon. She sat down wearily, her eyes heavy with sleep, and yawned. “I didn’t rest well.”