Beauty's Daughter: The Story of Hermione and Helen of Troy (20 page)

I could only imagine my husband’s rage.

“We can’t stay in this cave,” Ardeste agreed. “But where do we go now?”

“Why can’t we stay here, for at least a day?” Zethus asked. “The mouth of the cave is well hidden. I had a hard time finding it. So did you. And you made sure that everyone in the megaron drank well?”

“Oh yes,” I assured them, until I remembered the blind minstrel. “Except the bard,” I said. “He’s the only one I don’t remember seeing actually put the cup to his lips.”

Ardeste groaned. “The bard sees everything! Not with his eyes, but with his ears. He misses nothing. I will guess that he heard us both leave, knows we left together, and senses exactly which way we went. And Pyrrhus will demand that he report it all.”

“But that may not give Pyrrhus enough information to find you,” Zethus argued. “The question is, are we safer if we stay here quietly for a day and leave tomorrow night, or is it better to go now, before they wake up, and put as much distance between them and us as we can?”

I listened to the two of them discussing what we should do, my head sunk in my hands. “We haven’t even decided where we’re going,” I said wearily. “Maybe we should talk about that first.”

It was pitch-black in the cave, and I couldn’t see the expressions on their faces, but I could guess from the sudden silence that they were staring worriedly in the direction of my voice.

“You’re right, Mistress Hermione,” Zethus said gently. “It’s not enough simply to run away from Pyrrhus and Pharsalos. You must run toward someone and someplace.”

“Orestes,” I sobbed, for the tears had come in a rush, and I could scarcely speak.

“Yes,” Zethus said, “Orestes. I propose that we begin with the oracle at Delphi. But first we’ll rest a while, then leave before the stars begin to fade.”

23

I HADN’T REALIZED HOW
hungry I was. Zethus had brought a jar of water from a spring and a loaf of bread. We squatted on the floor of the cave and tore at the bread with our hands while we talked.

The Delphic oracle was the most famous in all of Greece. I remembered that Menelaus and Agamemnon had consulted the oracle before going to war against Troy. They must have been certain that they were meant to proceed with their intentions, or they would not have done so.

Zethus believed this oracle would help us to find Orestes. “Delphi lies to the south. If the gods favor us, eventually we will find our way there.”

I had to trust him.

“One foot in front of the other,” Zethus said, “from the time Dawn reaches her rosy fingers into the great vault of the sky until Helios completes his journey, for as many days as it takes.”

It wasn’t safe to delay any longer. We crept away from the shelter of the cave and began our journey. We stopped first at a humble thatch-roofed hut on the edge of the town, the home of Ardeste’s cousin, the wife of a sandal maker. Ardeste would introduce us as servants in the royal household who had been wrongly accused by Pyrrhus of theft and were now forced to flee.

Zethus and I waited near a goat pen while Ardeste awakened her cousin. There was no love for Pyrrhus among the villagers, and the cousin was glad to offer us fruit and cheese. She gave me an extra shawl and tunic, warning of the coming cold weather. She quickly saw through my disguise—my hair gave me away—but she and the sandal maker promised to say nothing to the soldiers who were sure to rush down from the citadel searching for us when the drug wore off and Pyrrhus realized what had happened.

The cousin also insisted that we take her old donkey, called Onos. “He’ll make your journey easier. In two days’ time, you’ll reach Thaumakia. When you do, slap him on his rump and he’ll find his way home.”

Ardeste and I took turns riding Onos. We made good progress through the rough and hilly countryside, crossing several streams on foot and one fast-rushing river by means of a stone bridge. We followed one of the streams to a lake with several small villages on its banks. The lake teemed with fish, and though we hadn’t the means to net them ourselves, the villagers who were bringing in their catch offered us some. Zethus made a fire and roasted the fish on a green branch. No royal feast ever tasted better.

That night we found an empty fisherman’s hut and fell into an exhausted sleep. The next day we reached Thaumakia, a bustling center of commerce where we felt free to wander the streets without continually looking over our shoulders to make sure we weren’t being followed. Now we had to make a decision. Ardeste had promised to send the little donkey back to her cousin in Pharsalos, but we’d found Onos so useful that we wanted to keep him.

“I’ll make sure he gets back to my cousin when our journey is over,” Ardeste said, though we all knew that she would not be returning there.

As we walked, Zethus picked up small pieces of wood and began carving, transforming the bits into exquisite little figures. When we met a tradesman carrying a load of wine jars, we asked him to deliver the carving of a donkey to a certain sandal maker in Pharsalos.

I wanted to cut one of the silver spangles from my wedding veil and send it to the cousin in payment for Onos, but Zethus opposed this. “It would be like giving Pyrrhus an arrow, pointing in the direction of our travel,” he explained. “Everyone will ask how this silver piece got into the hands of an ordinary sandal maker,” Zethus argued, “and it will not take long for Pyrrhus and his spies to think of an answer.”

I disliked cheating Ardeste’s kind cousin, but there seemed no way around it. Someday, I told myself, I’d make it up to her.

Toward evening we followed a stream into a village of thatched huts set in a grove of oak and plane trees. Flowering shrubs and fruit and nut trees heavy with apples, figs, pomegranates, and almonds surrounded the huts. Zethus traded a carving of a tree for a basket, which we filled with fruit. It was such a pleasant place that Ardeste and I wanted to stay, but Zethus convinced us it was too early to stop for the night. “We need to get as far from Pharsalos as possible in the shortest time possible,” he said, and Ardeste and I consented, though we were so tired we could scarcely manage to put one foot in front of the other as Zethus had told us we must.

We passed through mountainous terrain so rough that even Onos balked. There was an easier route, but Zethus persuaded us that the mountain path made following us much harder.

Sheep and goats grazed in the high pastures. A lonely shepherd was glad to share his cheese and soured milk in exchange for some of the nuts and fruit in our basket. After we’d eaten our fill, the shepherd played his syrinx, hollow reeds cut to different lengths that produced a series of tones when he blew across the open ends. His mournful music floated in the frosty air.

“The sheep like my songs,” the shepherd told us. “It calms them.”

The music may have calmed the sheep, but it reminded me of Orestes and of my longing for him and made me sad.

The next day we helped the shepherd move his sheep to a lower pasture, and that night, Zethus offered to stay awake to watch over the flock while the shepherd slept. Once or twice I was awakened by the howling of wolves. In the morning we discovered that Zethus had fallen asleep and the wolves had made off with two of the lambs. The shepherd was angry, and though Zethus apologized and offered to pay for the lambs, the shepherd cursed him, shouting that we had brought him misfortune. Words didn’t pacify him. He began to pelt us with pebbles. We snatched up our few belongings and fled, stones flying past our heads.

After more days of hard travel through craggy mountains, we came upon a
herma,
a pile of stones marking a boundary. Each of us added a stone to the pile, honoring the messenger god Hermes, who was also the protector of travelers, and left a small honey cake as a sacrifice. We were footsore and tired, but Zethus urged us on, promising we’d reach the town of Trakhis, a port on the sea of Malis, before nightfall.

As he promised, as the sun was sinking behind the western mountains we stood on the shore of a small sea that led eventually to the Chief Sea.

Ardeste had never before seen the sea and was amazed at the sight of the large body of water crowded with fishing boats. But she was most interested in the reeds that grew abundantly near the shore. She gathered some of the thickest reeds and persuaded Zethus to make her a syrinx like the one the shepherd had played.

A group of good-humored fishermen had unloaded their overflowing nets, built fires on the beach, spitted the biggest and best of their fish, and invited us to share their meal. Zethus carved several small wooden fish and gave them to the fishermen who’d fed us. Bands of minstrels roamed the shore, singing old songs that brought tears to the eyes of the fishermen when the wine jar had been passed around again and again. The poets entertained their rapt audience with stories about the war with Troy, the glorious battles fought and won, or fought and lost. They described in rich detail the exploits of the great warrior Achilles, and of his triumphs and his death. They told of the wooden horse, the death of Hector, and the killing of King Priam at the hands of Pyrrhus.

We listened, eager to hear more, but not daring to look at one another. The wine jar made another round, and the poets enthralled their listeners with the story of Menelaus and his beautiful but wanton wife, Helen, now at home with him again in Sparta. There was no mention of their daughter, Hermione. I stared at my hands as the oldest poet, white-haired and stooped, got to his feet and began to relate the story of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, of the return of Agamemnon from the war, and of his murder. Tears coursed down my cheeks as his voice rose to tell his spellbound audience of the revenge that Orestes took on his mother, Clytemnestra, his father’s murderess.

The fishermen, too, were stirred. The hour was late, they had spent long days at sea, and their heads were fogged by weariness and wine. There was a sharp chill in the air and a biting wind had risen, early signs of the coming winter. The poets and minstrels wrapped themselves in their robes and went off to find shelter. The fishermen talked of making their way home, but only a few of them left. Those who stayed began to argue among themselves about the fate they believed Orestes deserved.

“Orestes is young,” some of them reasoned. “The prince was avenging the murder of his father. Clytemnestra was not only an adulteress but a murderess. What son would not seek vengeance?”

But the older fishermen, those with grizzled beards and flesh that showed the toll of years at sea, weren’t so willing to forgive Orestes. “He should have allowed the courts to try Queen Clytemnestra. It’s a son’s duty to defend his mother, no matter what she’s been accused of.”

Back and forth went the argument, growing more heated. They were shouting at each other when a bearded man carrying a curiously made staff stepped forward and called for quiet. I hadn’t noticed him before; he seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He removed the wide-brimmed hat that marked him as a man of humble birth, but his speech was as eloquent as any learned man’s. The fishermen stopped quarreling and waited respectfully to hear what he had to say.

“Orestes is receiving his just punishment from the Furies,” the traveler told them. “The Angry Ones give him no peace, no rest. I have heard that Orestes has lost his mind. He covers his head and raves. They say that he goes without washing himself or eating, and tries to injure himself. His sister Electra stays with him and cares for him. But the other sister, Chrysothemis, has no pity. She calls for him—and Electra, too—to be stoned until they’re dead.”

I couldn’t bear it. Before Zethus could stop me, I jumped up and cried, “But what hope is there for Orestes?”

The men turned to stare at me. I heard the murmurs, “Who is she?”

I shook off Zethus’s hand and rushed over to the speaker, pulling at his sleeve. “What will become of him?”

The traveler’s eyebrows arched. “I only report to you what has already happened,” he said. “To learn Orestes’ fate, you must ask the oracle at Delphi. She may tell you where he is and what will happen in the future.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, and stepped back, embarrassed. I had called attention to myself, and that was a mistake.

Zethus had a firm grip on my arm. “My sister is somewhat excitable,” he explained to the crowd. “Her illness makes her so. I’ll see that she gets some rest.”

The traveler nodded but had nothing more to say. The fishermen were still staring. Zethus was practically dragging me away from the beach. “Hermione,” he whispered fiercely, “you must not do such things! The last thing we want is for someone to recognize you! We’re no longer in Phthia, but that doesn’t mean Pyrrhus isn’t going to try to find you. Now let’s try to arrange for shelter for the night. We’ll be on our way at first light. We can’t stay here any longer.”

The night had grown much colder. I was shivering. The traveler stepped out of the shadows and motioned for us to follow him. With a few quiet words to Zethus he directed us to an empty hut, where we spread our fleeces. I lay down, wrapped myself in my woolen robe, and listened to the murmur of their voices as the two men talked softly. Ardeste was already asleep. I tried, but I wasn’t able to make out their words. Then I sensed that the traveler was bending over me, and immediately I received the gift of sleep.

Long before the stars had faded, Zethus was up and urging us to leave our snug beds. Frost covered the ground in a white mantle. “What were you talking about last night with that man?” I asked. “And who is he?”

“We were in the presence of Zeus’s messenger god, Hermes, and didn’t realize it. He called himself Hodios and claimed he was only a traveler, but later I realized that’s one of Hermes’ names. He advised me on how to reach Delphi and the best way to approach the oracle. But he warned that in winter the oracle goes silent. Apollo’s brother Dionysus takes up residence at Delphi throughout the winter. But Dionysus is the god of wine and ecstasy, and he doesn’t have mighty Apollo’s power to predict the future—he’s interested only in drinking and dancing, and he’ll be no help at all. Hermes urges us to hurry if we want to reach Delphi in time to speak to the oracle. He said that he’ll visit us often during our journey.”