Beauty's Daughter: The Story of Hermione and Helen of Troy (12 page)

“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’ armor 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

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.”

“The baby?” I asked.

“No, the baby’s fine. I had another dream. It was about Achilles’ mother, Thetis, the sea nymph. When she heard that Hector had stripped Achilles’ armor from Patroclus’s body, Thetis came to comfort Achilles. She promised to get him a new set of armor.”

I fetched Astynome some bread and a bowl of cheese mixed with nuts and honey. She always seemed to be hungry.

“She’s on her way to visit Hephaestus, the god of fire,” Astynome said between mouthfuls, “and he’s creating invincible armor for Achilles. That much was in the dream. The rest I learned from Agamemnon. Achilles has promised to return to fight. He went to the trench where the Trojans were struggling to get Patroclus’s body away from the Greeks, and he gave his fierce war cry. It was so ferocious that the Trojans left the body and fled behind their walls. Achilles leaped into his war chariot and chased the fleeing men, slaying any who failed to reach safety. They’re terrified of him.”

“With Achilles back in the battle, the war is truly almost over.”

Astynome rose clumsily and helped herself to more bread and cheese. “I’d like to think so. But something else in the dream bothers me. I saw Achilles lying dead.”

“But Achilles is invulnerable! He once told Hippodameia that his mother had dipped him in the River Styx when he was a baby, and that would make him immortal.”

“Maybe. But maybe not,” Astynome said. “All I can tell you is what I dreamed.”

PATROCLUS’S BODY, RESCUED FROM
the Trojans, was laid out in Achilles’ tent. The mourning began, Achilles’ wails louder than anyone’s. I went to stay with Hippodameia during this difficult time.

“He sits by the body night and day, sobbing and wailing,” she told me. “His mother came to him. I heard them talking. She warned him that, if he insists on seeking revenge, he’ll certainly be killed. But he won’t listen to her. His mind is made up.”

I remembered Astynome’s dream of Achilles lying dead, but I decided not to tell Hippodameia about it. If that was what Fate had decreed, it was useless to discuss it.

Hippodameia took me to the shelter where the Myrmidons’ weapons were kept. “Thetis brought him this shield and armor made by Hephaestus.” Here was what Astynome had dreamed about: a massive bronze shield, a breastplate that gleamed like fire, a helmet of burnished bronze with a bristling golden crest, and a pair of greaves made of flexible tin. Every piece was magnificently wrought, but Hephaestus’s shield was a masterpiece, elegantly engraved with scenes of war and peace.

Hippodameia pointed out the scene of men with their scythes in a king’s fields, bringing in the harvest, and the scene with a circle of girls carrying baskets of grapes while a young boy plucked his lyre. But my eye was drawn to a wedding party, where the bride walked through the streets by torchlight while choirs sang and young men whirled and young girls joined hands in a graceful dance. I gazed at this scene and felt that I was part of it.

“That’s what I wish we were doing now—singing and dancing,” Hippodameia remarked wistfully. “You and I and the men we love.”

There were scenes of war and killing, too, on the gorgeous shield, but we weren’t interested in them. We already knew too much of it.

We left the armory and found a place to sit beneath soft white clouds adrift in an azure sky. Hippodameia’s caged birds twittered merrily nearby, an odd contrast to the wailing of Achilles and his Myrmidons. We took out our spindles and wool and began to spin.

“I’m not sure I bring Achilles any comfort,” she confessed. “I thought I could heal him, but I was wrong—his grief is so deep and his feelings of guilt are so overwhelming. But he also blames
me!
Achilles insists that if only
I
had died when he was taking me prisoner, Agamemnon would not have demanded me as his prize, his own honor would not have been insulted, and none of this would have happened. And so it really
is
my fault!” Her lip trembled.

“Don’t believe him. It’s not your fault, Hippodameia! It’s what men do!”

Hippodameia tried to smile. “I know. Still, it’s easier for him to blame me, isn’t it? And now Patroclus is dead, and I mourn him as well. He promised that he would take me to Phthia and see me married to Achilles.” The thread twisted through our fingers. “Now that will never happen.”

I TOOK HIPPODAMEIA BACK
to Menelaus’s camp with me, unwilling to leave her alone with the Myrmidons. Astynome joined us. We three women clung to each other, knowing that our lives, too, hung in the balance.

Achilles vowed to avenge the death of his beloved Patroclus. Nothing would satisfy him but taking the life of Hector. We couldn’t be present on the battlefield and didn’t want to be; nevertheless, we craved to know what was happening. We found spindle-legged Calchas, with his wispy beard and hairless skull, and begged him to use his second sight to tell us. We sat on the ground in a circle with the old seer, his hooded eyes focused on a point in the far distance, and we strained to catch every word.

“The Trojans have fled behind their wall. Hector stands alone, shackled by his deadly fate, but holding his ground against Achilles. Hector begins to run. Some will say that he runs from fear. Others will say that he hopes to tire Achilles, who has sat stubbornly in his hut doing nothing for so long. Achilles gives chase.”

Through Calchas’s eyes we watched Achilles pursue Hector around the walls of Troy, once, twice, three times, and each time Hector tried to reach the Trojan gates, Achilles prevented it. Hector had no choice now but to stand and fight.

“Hector knows he is doomed. He pleads with his arch-enemy. ‘Promise me that you will not defile my body but will return it to my people.’ But Achilles, in his rage, denies him. The fight to the death begins.”

So powerful was Calchas’s description that we saw the duel as if we were actually present. We listened with our hearts pounding. We scarcely dared to breathe.

“Achilles hurls his spear. Hector ducks, and the bronze tip flies past. But the goddess Athena, hovering above the pair, snatches up the spear, and sends it back to Achilles! Hector takes his turn, hurling his spear. It strikes Achilles’ shield with full force but drops away harmlessly. The two warriors grab their swords and race toward each other. Achilles, teeth bared, stabs Hector in the neck. Hector falls.”