Beauty's Daughter

by Carolyn Meyer

  I walked toward her, my hands outstretched and trembling. A sob caught in my throat. “Mother.”

  “Hermione?” she asked with a little smile. I expected her to weep, to show some feeling—joy, sorrow, some kind of emotion—but she didn’t. I could tell that she wasn’t sure she recognized me. Her smile was pleasant but distant. She touched my cheek lightly with her fingertips. “I’m so happy to see you,” she said. Then she turned all of her attention back to my father.

  I swallowed my disappointment. I had hoped for so much more.

  Book III

  After the War

  17

  Promises

  AFTER TEN LONG YEARS of endless fighting, Troy had been destroyed, all the treasure seized and divided, the walls of the city torn down. The city itself was now a smoking ruin.

  A huge feast was being prepared near the harbor to celebrate our victory. The scene was chaotic. I hurried toward Agamemnon’s ship, searching for Orestes. I caught a far-off glimpse of him and tried to make my way through the crowds to reach him, eager to be in his arms once more. I called his name, but my voice was drowned out by the shouting and laughter and singing.

  One of Father’s heralds intercepted me as I fought my way through the surging crowds. “King Menelaus and Queen Helen desire your presence, Princess Hermione.”

  “Tell them I’ll come in a little while,” I said, still trying to keep Orestes in sight.

  “I’m ordered to bring you now, Princess.”

  Reluctantly, I went with him.

  I found my mother and father deep in conversation with Pyrrhus. What could they possibly have to discuss with him? I’d already heard too many reports of his cruel murder of Andromache’s child and his brutal seizure of her as his concubine. I’d never liked Pyrrhus, and the more I saw of him, the less I could bear to be anywhere near him. He was grinning at me now in a way that unsettled me. It was more a leer than a smile.

  I acknowledged my father and my mother with a bow. They were holding hands.

  “We have excellent news for you, dear Hermione,” Father said. That same little smile played on my mother’s lips. Her eyes were fastened on my father, as though she couldn’t get enough of him. “We have arranged for your marriage to Pyrrhus, son of Achilles.”

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. I felt as though I were suffocating. My legs were weak as water. Pyrrhus reached out to steady me, keeping me from toppling over. I slapped his hand away. He sickened me! I loathed him! How could my parents possibly think to have me marry him? I hadn’t yet had a chance to tell them that it was Orestes I loved, Orestes who loved me, Orestes I wanted to marry. Surely Helen hadn’t forgotten that her own father had pledged us when we were infants!

  I fought down the impulse to flee or to cry out or even to protest. Better to say nothing now, I thought; to wait until later and then slip away during the night while everyone was sleeping and search until I found my love. I knew he was searching for me, too!

  Pyrrhus stared at me with glittering eyes, his lip curled in a sneer. I stared back at him, expressionless. But he was much stronger than I, even in a staring contest, and I was the first to look away.

  THE GOLDEN DISC OF the sun slid into the dark sea. Agamemnon, in a triumphant mood, came to our ship to talk with Menelaus. Orestes hadn’t come with his father. I was told that he was busy preparing the ships for the journey back to Greece. Agamemnon was in a hurry. A brisk wind had risen, and he wanted to cut short the celebration and set sail at once.

  “It will move us speedily away from here and back to our homeland,” Agamemnon told my father. “We can celebrate when we arrive in Greece.”

  Menelaus had other plans. “First, sacrifices must be made to Athena. Then we’ll sail.”

  “Athena was more helpful to the Trojans than she was to us,” Agamemnon argued. “She deserves no sacrifices.”

  Soon the two brothers were shouting at each other, their faces red with anger, their words full of spite. Agamemnon stormed off.

  The night was cloudless, and the shore was bathed in moonlight. I was determined to leave my father’s ship and find Orestes. I had to tell him about Pyrrhus. I needed his help in making my parents understand that I could not marry Achilles’ son. I was about to slip away when a lookout climbed down from the mast and reported sighting the white sails of Agamemnon’s ships in the distance.

  Orestes was certainly with them, bound for Mycenae. We’d had no time to speak, to kiss, to renew our promises. Sick at heart, I rushed to find Menelaus and Helen, but they’d withdrawn into Father’s private quarters. I was shut out.

  The white sails had disappeared. Orestes was gone.

  I spent the night pacing, agonizing. Maybe my mother could help—she knew what love was! She more than anyone! Helen didn’t emerge from Father’s quarters until midmorning, stretching luxuriously. She seemed surprised to find me waiting for her.

  “You look awful, Hermione,” she said. “Didn’t you sleep well? It’s important to get a good night’s sleep if you want to preserve your looks.” She peered at me closely. “Aren’t you happy to be marrying Pyrrhus? Having the son of our great Achilles as your husband should please you very much. He’s as handsome as Achilles ever was! Your father and I have decided that you should marry him as soon as possible. We’ll have the ceremony right here on the shore, and then you can sail with him, back to Phthia, or wherever those Myrmidons of his live. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Hermione?”

  I could hardly believe my mother was speaking to me this way. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly ten years, and I’d gotten along without her all that time. I was now a grown woman, and she was treating me as though I were still a child. And why would my father think a cruel, arrogant man like Pyrrhus would make me a suitable husband?

  “No, I wouldn’t like it at all, Mother!” I said, too loudly. “And neither would you! You left your husband to run away with a handsome man who possessed neither heart nor soul, and from what I hear, not much courage, either! Thousands of people have died because of what you did, and now you think you can come back into my life and tell me what to do? You believe you know what’s good for me!” I was shouting, but I couldn’t stop. “You don’t even know me, Queen Helen. You and I are complete strangers. The man I love sailed away from here last night. We plan to marry, as Tyndareus intended! Tyndareus, your father! And now I don’t know if I’ll ever see Orestes again, and you’re forcing me to marry a man I hate!”

  I was sobbing, tears spilling down my cheeks, my nose dripping. It was true that I hadn’t slept the night before, my clothes smelled sour, and my hair was a mass of tangles. My mother looked at me with pity. Had she heard a word I’d said?

  “Poor Hermione,” she said, shaking her head in distaste. “Too bad you were destined to look like your father, instead of like me.” She turned away, leaving me distraught.

  18

  An Unwilling Bride

  KING MENELAUS SENT OUT heralds to the ships that had not yet sailed, announcing that my wedding to Pyrrhus would take place that evening. More animals were slaughtered and prepared for the spit, amphoras of wine were unloaded from the remaining ships, and baskets of ripe fruit were carried in from the fields that hadn’t been reduced to ruin. Others may celebrate, I thought; I will not.

  I was numb. I could not think what to do. Stumbling along the beach in a daze, I encountered Astynome carrying her baby. She also appeared dazed.

  “Astynome, I thought you’d gone with Agamemnon,” I said.

  “He left us behind. He told everyone that he’s now in love with Cassandra. He took her as his concubine, but his servants say he plans to rid himself of Clytemnestra when he gets home to Mycenae, and then marry Cassandra. Not long ago he promised to marry me.”

  “Don’t envy Cassandra. Clytemnestra can be very unpleasant when she’s angered.”

  Astynome knew that Orestes had sailed with Agamemnon’s fleet, but she hadn’t yet heard that I was being forced to marry Pyrrhus. We fel
l weeping into each other’s arms, cursing our fates. Together we decided to leave the baby in the care of a serving girl and to search for Hippodameia. With both Patroclus and Achilles dead and no place to go, Hippodameia had stayed on with the Myrmidons, who were using her shamefully.

  “Oh, my dear friends!” Hippodameia cried when we found her, and the weeping began again. “How could things have turned out so badly for all of us?”

  My two friends were horrified that I was to marry Pyrrhus that evening. “He’s a brute,” Hippodameia said. “He ignores me, thanks be to the gods, and spends most of his time abusing Andromache. Pyrrhus believes he’s entitled to mistreat her, because she’s Hector’s widow. Poor thing—she looks half-dead, and I believe she wishes she were dead. She can’t bear even to look at the beast who murdered her little boy.”

  “Yes, he is a beast,” I said. “And soon that beast will be my husband. My only hope is that he will exhaust himself with Andromache and leave me alone as well.”

  Never had there been three more miserable women, and we decided to find Andromache and make it four. We found her crouched by Pyrrhus’s ship, her clothes torn, her face smeared with ashes. She stared at us with vacant eyes. She was like a wounded animal. I reached out, but she drew away from me with a sharp little cry.

  “Andromache,” I whispered, “I’m Hermione, daughter of Menelaus, soon to be the unwilling wife of Pyrrhus. I mean you no harm. Maybe we can help each other.”

  Tentatively she accepted my hand, and her gaze met mine briefly before it darted away again. I’d never seen such pain in a woman’s eyes. I noticed that her lip was swollen and one of her eyes blackened. Had Pyrrhus done that to her?

  Astynome spoke up. “Let’s go bathe in the pools!” she said.

  It was the custom for a bride and her friends to bathe together before a wedding. I dreaded the ordeal ahead of me, but I welcomed a chance to be with these sympathetic women.

  We discovered that Andromache’s feet were shackled. “I know how to free her,” Hippodameia said. She called a guard and smiled at him beguilingly. He unfastened Andromache’s fetters, and we helped her to her feet. “We’ll bribe him when we come back. I know this guard. He’s not a bad human being. I trust him not to tell Pyrrhus we were here.”

  We had little to say as we walked to the pools, past the burial mounds covering the ashes of the dead Greeks. Smoke curled up from the ruins behind the walls of the defeated city. The watchtowers had been toppled. The main gate was like a gaping wound. There were no sounds of human voices, but screeching vultures swooped low over the bodies that lay rotting within the walls. Andromache shuffled along unsteadily between us, staring at the bloodstained ground.

  The pools fed by the River Scamander were deserted. Andromache stood stiffly, her arms at her sides. She hadn’t spoken a word. Three of us removed our chitons and slid naked into the hot water.

  “Andromache?” Hippodameia called out. “Come join us!”

  Andromache didn’t move, and Hippodameia climbed out and whispered to her. Hippodameia, whose husband had been murdered by Achilles on her wedding day, could surely see into Andromache’s heart better than anyone. Reluctantly the wretched woman removed her torn robe and lowered herself into the pool. Her body was covered with bruises.

  We hadn’t brought our serving women. We washed our own garments and spread them on the rocks to dry. We sponged our bodies and washed each other’s hair. I closed my eyes and sank up to my neck in the soothing water, but whenever I thought of Orestes, despair crept over me. I’d lost him, and, unless the gods intervened, before the day ended I’d be wed to a man I despised.

  “I confess that I’m glad Pyrrhus is marrying you,” Andromache murmured close to my ear, speaking to me for the first time. “Maybe he’ll leave me alone for at least one night. Because I hate him even more than you do. He killed my beloved husband and murdered my adored child. If ever I have a chance to kill Pyrrhus, I swear I will do it.”

  My eyes flew open, but Andromache turned away again and wouldn’t look at me. The pleasure of the hot bath was finished for me. I climbed out of the pool, ran naked to plunge into the second pool, and endured the shock of the cold spring water. I grabbed my chiton from the rocks, still damp, and dressed hurriedly. The sun was already past the midpoint. “I have to leave,” I told the others.

  “We’re coming with you,” Astynome said.

  “We will not let you face this alone,” added Hippodameia.

  Andromache grimaced. “I can’t go with you, Hermione. I must return to my fetters or endure another beating.” She kissed my cheek.

  HELEN WAS WAITING FOR me at Father’s ship, and she was displeased.

  “You stupid girl!” she said sharply. “This is your wedding day, and you disappear! We have to find a decent peplos for you to wear, and a proper veil. Why is your hair looking so bedraggled?” She glanced at Astynome and Hippodameia and frowned. “Who are these girls you’ve brought with you, Hermione?”

  “I’m her friend,” Astynome said.

  “As am I,” said Hippodameia.

  “They’ll be with me at the wedding,” I explained to my mother. “If you insist upon forcing me to marry Pyrrhus.”

  Helen sighed. Her delicately arched eyebrows rose. “Hermione, do you understand nothing? Women do as men command—that’s the way of the world. We really have very little choice of whom we marry. Isn’t that true?” She looked from one to the other of my friends.

  “It’s true,” admitted Hippodameia, and Astynome nodded.

  “My father chose Menelaus from among all my suitors and married me to him. The choice wasn’t mine—I scarcely knew him!” Helen said.

  “You chose to leave him and to run away with Paris,” I could not resist reminding her.

  “It was the work of Aphrodite,” she said. “I’m not sure it was my choice. And it was certainly not my choice to marry Deiphobus after Paris was killed—Priam insisted, and Deiphobus forced himself upon me.”

  “Now he is dead too—and by your own hand!”

  “Did I kill him?” Helen frowned. “First he was there, threatening me, and then he lay dead on the floor and I was holding a bloody knife. But did I choose to kill him? I’m not certain I did,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t remember. Perhaps the gods intervened.”

  “But it was your choice to return to Father?”

  “Oh, yes.” My mother smiled. “This time it is. I’m happy that he still wants me as his wife after all that has happened.”

  I wondered if she was telling the truth.

  “Then why are you forcing me to marry Pyrrhus? I was promised to Orestes by your father. I love him, Mother, and Orestes loves me! Surely you can understand that.”

  “I understand it, but I can do nothing about it, and neither can you. It doesn’t matter what your grandfather promised—he’s long dead. Your father pledged you to the son of Achilles even before the ships sailed from Greece for Troy.”

  Had he really done that? Was this true? And if it was, as my mother claimed, why had he not said anything to me in all this time?

  “Menelaus owes it to the memory of the great warrior to honor that pledge,” Helen was saying, though I scarcely listened. “Breaking that promise would only lead to more violence, and there’s surely been enough of that. Now bring your friends, Hermione, and we’ll prepare for your wedding. Who knows—you may even come to care for Pyrrhus. Stranger things have happened.”

  I gazed into her eyes of hyacinth blue and gave up. “I will obey, Mother, and do as you and Father command. But I will never care for that brute.”

  Glumly, I went with my mother, my two friends trailing along silently behind us. It seemed odd to be with Helen. She had not expressed a single word of regret at leaving me behind, or one word of pleasure at seeing me after such a long separation. Was she happy to be with me? What did she think of me, of the woman I’d become?

  I walked beside Helen, feeling tongue-tied. There was so much in my heart that I wan
ted to say to her but I could not. It had been ten years since we’d lived together. We were different people now. I didn’t know her. I wasn’t sure I ever had. I had no idea what she was thinking. She was so cool, so remote.

  All the fleets except Agamemnon’s lay anchored near the teeming beach. The smell of roasting meat drifted through the air. Musicians were tuning their instruments. Only days earlier this had been a desolate place, the shelters of a temporary city built for war pulled down and burned, leaving only smoking ash. Now the ashes had been buried and tents erected again, fitted out with carpets and fine furnishings looted from the conquered Troy. It had all happened so swiftly, carried out by Trojans now enslaved by the Greeks.

  My mother led me into her quarters, where she’d laid out several gowns and veils from the trunks she’d brought from Troy. “I wove them myself,” she said, holding up one elegantly decorated peplos after another. “There should be something suitable here for you. And for your friends, too,” she added, glancing at Hippodameia and Astynome.

  My mother sent several of her serving women to dress me and to fix my hair. She also left necklaces and bracelets set with lapis lazuli, earrings of amethyst, and other jewelry. I chose a peplos of finely spun wool dyed a delicate yellow and treated with oil that gave it a rich luster, and a gossamer veil stitched with spangles of hammered silver and small discs of gold. There were also well-made sandals of soft and supple leather. The loom Zethus had made for me and the veil I’d been weaving for my dreamed-of wedding to Orestes were already on Pyrrhus’s ship. I prayed that my half of the wedding goblet was safely hidden there too.

  Astynome dismissed Helen’s serving women, telling them that she would arrange my hair herself. It had grown long, and when Astynome finished combing it smooth and fixing little curls across my forehead, it shone like burnished copper.

  “Hermione,” Hippodameia said, watching us, “you have no idea how beautiful you look. I think Helen is jealous of you.”