“Maybe I should just roll into the sea and breathe salt water.”
“Helen would want to watch,” said Rhodea.
On the third day, the weather changed so quickly that the men could not get the sail down in time. The bow plunged in great gusts and without warning the sail split. A great strip of it lashed out like a flag. The men fought to get the rest of the sail down. The mast was lowered with difficulty as the ship thrashed in a wild sea.
Ophion rose high and fell hard. Time and again our bodies were smacked against the deck and twice I bit my tongue. Pleis found it a joyful game to be hurled skyward and fall with a thud.
Rhodea became seasick.
I used the rope to bind Pleis to my chest and that was not enough, so the cook lashed us to the rail.
The sea climbed into the ship with us. Every resting rower bailed, leather bucket after leather bucket. Water gathered in the hold and the ship became unstable. The loot from Apollo's temple and Menelaus' palace shifted. Ophion would be swamped.
Again and again, Rhodea threw up. The sailors would give her nothing to drink. They were low on water.
Zanthus offered his best wine to the sea, but the weather did not change.
A wave as high as the walls of Amyklai came upon us like the hand of a god shoveling sand. It singled us out. The impact of that wave was like a great wet stone.
A steering oar snapped.
The helmsman needed two to control the boat. One steering oar merely makes a ship go in circles.
Men sprang toward our tiny deck. The cook yanked on the slipknot of my rope, dropping Pleis and me onto a bench whose rower had climbed out to bail. Rhodea he flung into protruding handles of oars. The rowers cursed her and shoved her away so violently that she was thrown into the oars on the other side.
From the now empty afterdeck, the men ripped up a plank for a splint, attaching the old steering handle to a spare oar to replace their rudder.
We were riding so low in the water that every wave felt like a mountain. Then I saw real mountains: Sheer cliffs loomed in front of us like the legs of Zeus. In a moment we would smash on those rock and be driftwood.
Rhodea screamed in terror.
The wet fingers of the sea held Ophion up in the air and then dropped her beneath a wave. We came back up, ship and men sputtering.
Rhodea vomited into the lap of a rower. The man tossed her overboard, as if she had been the pit of an olive, and continued rowing.
As swiftly as the gale had come, it ended.
The wind settled and the sea lay down. The men stitched a quick repair to the sail and stepped the mast, and we were spinning east.
“The woman was our problem,” said Zanthus confidently. He thanked the rower. “The seals will eat her now. It is good.”
NOT ONE SHIP HAD BEEN lost in the gale. In a few hours, Zanthus caught up with the fleet. Thirty-three ships sped beneath the blazing sky.
Yet the crew was uneasy. The wind was pushing us southeast when we wanted to go northeast. We were not in danger, but neither were we in control. There was much calling back and forth between ships. “If this keeps up,” said Zanthus glumly, “we shall be visiting Egypt.”
“It wasn't enough to give that slave woman to the sea god,” said a rower. “We are never going to get home.” He jutted his chin toward Pleis and me, which is how they point in the East, with their sharp beards instead of their fingers. “Give the god of the sea a prince and princess, my captain, and we'll have a chance.”
I yelled loud enough for three ships to hear. “You touch my prince, you dog of a Trojan, and the gods will rip your Ophion apart board by board and pierce your heart with its splinters.”
Zanthus laughed and saluted me.
I had spoken like a servant or a guest, referring to Pleis as “my prince.” Hermione would have said “my brother.” I did not think any of them had noticed. After all, a boy and a prince is far more important than a girl and a princess. It was not actually wrong for me to call my brother “my prince.” Still, I must not slip again.
Once or twice we were close to the flagship Paphus. I stared at the tiny cabin in which Paris and Helen sheltered. I hoped Helen had been as sick as Rhodea. I hoped she had gotten sick all over Paris. I hoped the Trojan prince despised Helen now and regretted his stupidity in taking her.
But I knew better.
The half-god part of Helen would not be humiliated. That beautiful body would not vomit, not cling in terror. In fact, I found it amazing that such a woman had had four childbirths. Had Helen suffered the usual pain? The fear? The after difficulties?
Pleis played next to me, accustomed now to the fact that he could move only a few inches in any direction. He climbed over and around me, marching his only toy, my Medusa, up and down my spine. “Calli,” he said to me contentedly. “Ssssto.”
The crew had not noticed that Pleis did not call me “Hermione” or “sister.” They thought him backward, because he spoke nonsense.
Isle after isle tilted in the shining sea. Had I been captain of the fleet, I would have put in at some safe harbor and waited for the wind to change in my favor. But Paris did not.
Ophion was always the straggler. Continually we arrived on a shore as the others were departing. And yet Zanthus to me seemed a fine captain. I did not understand why we failed to keep up.
The wind flung us where it chose until on the sixth day we arrived at the end of the sea. We were hundreds and hundreds of miles south of Troy. The Main Land here in the Far East had no cliffs and no mountains. It hardly rose above the water at all and its beaches were without end. The city whose harbor we entered was called Sidon.
Ophion was the last Trojan ship to reach port.
Not content with the shape of the land, Sidon had increased her bay with immense stone bulwarks, reaching hundreds of feet out into the water. What labor it had taken to load so many huge stones on rafts and lower them into place! Yet the walls were as smooth as if the masons had been standing in a field, not in dories tossed by waves.
Children and dogs raced along these great stone piers. Women sat dangling their feet toward the water, making fishnets. Slaves were washing salt and seaweed out of old nets and patching the tears. The Trojan fleet had largely beached, their bright sails already spread on the shore to dry. Excited vendors were trotting around, shouting for customers.
The flagship Paphus had been moored at the outermost end of the longest wharf, facing out toward the sea. Zanthus tied up closer to shore, Ophion bumping against the hulls of other Trojan ships. Fat reed mats were hung over the edges of each boat to keep them from scraping each other.
We too moored facing out. I felt oddly frightened by those thirty-three bows. The ships were not moored for easy loading but for swift departure.
But we were not here to loot. Sidon was treating Paris as a friend. I could see where flowers had been strewn, that Helen might walk on rose petals. Inside the walls, the flag of Paris was already flying next to the flag of Sidon. The king of Sidon was doubtless even now calling Helen a star in the sky, thanking the immortal gods that he had the privilege of sheltering her.
Paris could rest here only a few days, to restore the supply of food and water, and then we would have to set off. We were in danger from the changing season. Summer was nearly past. The autumn sea was too wild for ships. Ophion, at least, had already experienced some heavy sea.
I tidied Pleis as much as possible, given that our clothing was stained and ruined by salt water. I arranged the yellow shawl over my red hair, letting the hem dip down to shade my eyes.
Zanthus stepped off Ophion and onto the stone dock, where he took a long deep breath and then another one. He was braced for something. The crew stayed on board, the only crew to do so, Zanthus standing as if to protect them. He was worried.
He could not have been as worried as I was. With Pleis in my arms, I too stepped onto the wharf. Pleis wiggled to get down and I let him. He hopped up and down on the solid rocks, his chubby fingers e
xploring the rough edges of stone. Joyfully he tugged at the loose end of a great coil of hemp rope.
Zanthus grunted, and Pleis, who knew enough to be afraid, stood very still.
But Zanthus was watching the approach of Paris.
Paris! I would have expected him to be with the king of Sidon or with Helen. Why was he not inside the city, enjoying the admiration of his host, and good rich food and warm bathwater? Surely when Pleisthenes and Hermione were sent for, a slave would run such an errand.
Paris was wearing his parade armor, but carried no weapons and wore no helmet. His chest plates glittered in the sun. I stared at my feet, my features hidden by the scarf. My heart could not decide whether to beat faster or give up altogether. Pleis waved the frizzy end of the rope.
Twenty paces away from us, Paris came to a halt. He put his hands on his waist and stood with his legs spread. Zanthus saluted. The crew saluted. Nobody spoke.
“Rope,” said Pleis, holding it out to Paris.
“They survived,” said Paris.
Zanthus said nothing.
O my captain, O Zanthus! You were told to see that the children of Menelaus died. You sailed at the rear of the fleet, using your great skill to be slow instead of swift, that we would not cross paths with your prince. That you would not have to do such a shivery thing as take the lives of two royal children. You did protect us, Zanthus. You had orders from your commander and you did not obey them.
O goddess of yesterday. Thank you for your unexpected messenger. Thank you for your protection.
Paris turned on his heel and walked away.
The wind tugged like fingers and my scarf came loose and blew into the water, where it curled wetly as if over a drowned face.
A little parade of servants scurried toward us. “Your mother awaits you in the palace of the king of Sidon, princess,” said a fussy little man. He was beaming and excited.
“If you mean Queen Helen,” I said, “she is not my mother.”
“We heard that you are very angry, princess,” said the man. He bowed twice and gestured toward a carry chair. “But you must no longer speak in such a manner. The queen your mother is a goddess. No one in Sidon has ever seen her like.”
That I could believe.
I pried Pleis' fingers off the rope coil, stuck the Medusa in them instead, and got into the carry chair with him in my lap. Four men lifted the chair. The slaves had been branded like cattle, which I had never seen before.
“Princess, how you have suffered!” cried the little man, trotting beside us. “Soon you will be bathed and comfortable, and your hair braided and perfumed. Jewels befitting your station will be pinned to a fresh and flattering gown. Then you shall be reunited with your lovely mother, who even now graces the finest suite we have. Tonight you and your brother sleep safe in a king's palace.”
Yes. Tonight Pleis would be safe. In that fine suite of guest rooms, Helen would cuddle her little son for a moment or two. But from the look of the ships, Troy would sail in the morning. Helen would have handed me over for execution, and for Pleis, Paris would choose a different captain, to whom a prince's life was nothing.
Sun hit pavement with a ferocity that even my homeland could not equal. It blazed through my eyes and under my skin and into my thoughts. I was broiled like a fish on coals.
Sidon was lumpy and low, buildings spread like seed scattered by a careless hand. The palace walls were not painted, but left the color of sand, and its floors were plain stone, buffed smooth. Wherever sun could get in, heat came also, a seething blast, so there were few windows and the dark ceilings were high to let the heat rise. There were few statues or embroidered cushions or even flowers. The palace was decorated only by coolness and dark, and it was enough.
My bath was joy.
Six servants, all for me.
Soft oils and lotions. A comb gently taking out snarls, fingers cajoling curls back into place, a file to shape my broken nails. Perfume and ribbons. A gown of soft warm blue like a bird's egg. A shining sash, tied high and wide.
The servants found Hermione's amber necklace in my little bag of possessions, but I could not wear that noose of dead wasps. “Is there other jewelry I might borrow for the evening?” I asked.
“Of course, princess,” said the women, delighted. They opened an ivory box, and from its piles of gems chose ornaments for my throat and ears and hair, for my wrists and fingers and even ankles. It was far more than a girl from Siphnos or Amyklai would wear, but in the shadowy rooms, it gleamed like treasure in a cave.
I tucked my Medusa into my gown, where she rested in the safety of the sash, and at the last moment, I wore the amber necklace after all. Perhaps the sight of her daughter's necklace would soften Helen toward me.
Pleis had won the hearts of all six servants. They fed him sweets and cooed over his smile, while he ran back and forth, exploring every corner and showing me everything. He was out of breath with excitement. He had not been able to run around like this in days.
Who would calm him tonight, when he was cranky and afraid? Would Helen rock him and sing him a lullaby?
I spoke firmly to my goddess, instructing her to stay with Pleis as long as he should live. It would not be easy to speak so firmly to Helen, goddess of another sort.
“Your daughter wanted to murder you, O queen, so be grateful. I have saved you and her from such a fate.”
What mother could believe that?
“Bia, slave of your daughter, forced me to do this.”
A slave could not force a princess to do anything.
“I took Hermione's place for Menelaus' sake, because he was kind to me and what you have done will destroy him.”
I would merely hasten my death by mentioning Menelaus.
“I was afraid for your son Pleisthenes. And how right I was, for Paris gave orders that your son should die at sea. You do not owe me death. Helen, you owe Zanthus the life of your son.”
But Helen would simply have Zanthus killed as well, for telling such lies about his commander.
I walked slowly to Helen's room. The servants chatted excitedly about the great feast to come. It would not come for me.
Who was ever prepared for the pale gold phantom of Helen?
I had forgotten how people drew back, stunned by her, and slightly afraid. The six servants lined the wall like paintings.
I had forgotten that Pleis loved her. “Mama!” he cried, running forward joyfully. “Mama!”
Helen swung him into the air, kissing his little throat and cheeks, hugging him and laughing into his eyes.
She does love Pleis, I thought. Thank you, all gods, that I was wrong about her. Thank you that Pleis is safe now.
I had forgotten that even I yearned for Helen's smile. She was so beautiful it hurt the eyes, as looking into the noonday sun hurts the eyes.
“Calli,” Pleis told his mother happily, “sto.”
Helen glanced my way, surprised but not yet angry. “Girl, tell my daughter I am here.”
I swallowed. “Your daughter the princess Hermione remained at Amyklai, my queen.”
Helen stared at me.
I felt very thin, as if the queen could see through me, as I had seen through the magic jar.
“Impossible,” hissed Helen. She set down Pleisthenes, who immediately began whimpering and pulling on her dress. “Up,” said Pleis, tugging. “Up, up.”
Helen hated her gown to be in disarray. She looked at the toddler with dislike and the six slave women, like a flock of hens, flapped forward to get Pleis. He opened his mouth to complain, but they popped a cake onto his tongue, whisked him into a corner and kept him busy eating.
“I have just received a report from Zanthus,” said Helen. Her voice was very cold, as if sleet were falling. “The captain of the Ophion told me my daughter behaved well. Did he mean you, girl? Am I to understand that you dared pretend to be my daughter?”
“I had to, my queen. The servant Bia kept Hermione by force and ordered me to take her place.”
“Why did you not run after me and tell me? The soldiers of Paris would have dealt with such a slave woman.”
I had nothing to say.
Her voice hung like snakes in a tree. “A little nobody from some rock in the sea. You deny me my own daughter in a foreign land!”
“I have cared for your son, my queen. He had no one else. His nurse was thrown overboard when she provoked the rowers. I—”
“Liar!” Her voice was a thin whip against my skin. “Zanthus told me how gladly Rhodea sacrificed herself to the sea god.”
The door filled with men. Soldiers and sailors and Paris. Paris would not mind that Hermione was still at Amyklai. One less child of Menelaus to get rid of.
Helen was trembling with fury. “Dispose of the girl,” she told Paris, who smiled.
But Pleis broke free from the flock of slave women. He ran to me, arms out to be held. “Calli,” he demanded, tugging on my borrowed blue gown. “Sto. Up, up.”
I obeyed, and he hugged me in the strangling way of babies, and from the safe and well-known seat on my hip, surveyed the room.
Zanthus' voice came from the doorway. He had told an untruth about Rhodea, but he did not tell one about me. “The girl did care for the little boy. She tied him to her during storms. She fed him and rocked him and kept him safe. She did at all times behave like a princess.”
“She is not one,” snapped Helen.
“I regret that I have not pleased you, O queen,” I said. “I beg for the privilege of continuing to serve the prince.”
Paris turned Helen toward him, kissing her diadem and hair and forehead. He stroked her cheeks and shocked everyone in the room by reaching into her gown to take out and stroke what should be kept hidden. The slaves blushed and dropped their eyes. The sailors gaped.
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