Chapter Thirteen

 

 

 

“Dearest Hermione, I received your father’s letter some days ago. It has taken me this long to recover from my shock at losing you. Strophius warned me years ago that it might come to this, so the blow was not unexpected, yet it stings the heart.”

I hated the way my parents had dashed my betrothed’s hopes just as he faced the most difficult trial of his life, and I read his letter in a sympathetic spirit. “Give Menelaus my very best wishes,” Orestes said. “I would tell him myself, but every time I sit down to try to compose a letter, my mind goes blank. I know what I should tell him, but cannot make the words come. And with this blood oath hanging over my head, he may not even wish to hear from me.” That was not true. Unlike Tyndareus, Menelaus always had a kind word for Orestes. I was certain he would have wanted to hear from him.

“This may be my last letter to you for a long time. The situation back home has become untenable. I cannot wait much longer.”

I reached the bottom of the first page, and turned to the second. Orestes not only wrote with a large hand, but had the bad habit of folding each page separately, creating more work for me. “Pylades and I traveled to Delphi late last summer to consult the oracle. I had to know for certain what the gods wished me to do. I would prefer to have Mother take her own life rather than kill her myself. It would be a lesser sin. The Pythia returned a troubling answer. I am doomed to murder the womb that bore me, and to be tormented afterward with madness and wandering. I should never have consulted the god! Mortal men were never meant to know the future.”

Murder. Torment. Madness. Each dire word struck me as if with a knife. Must the gods be so cruel? Orestes had not done anything to deserve the burden the Fates had spun for him.

I came to the end of the second page, and started to unfold the third and last. “There is no going back. I swore an oath. I must go through with the deed. Aegisthus deserves to die. Mother deserves to die along with him, but I have no illusions that killing her will do anything but placate Father’s restless shade.” Orestes! Please, don’t talk like this.

“Gods, I want this to be over! I want the ghosts to leave, and the blood to wash away, but it will only get worse from here.” Orestes’ handwriting became erratic, betraying his emotions. “Duty is such a cold, unyielding thing. It sits like a stone in my belly. All I truly want is five minutes alone with you, to see your lovely face again. Maybe it isn’t the correct thing to say now that we’re no longer betrothed, but I don’t care. It’s what I feel. If you were here with me, you would put a finger to my lips to shush me, the way you used to do, only this time I would kiss that finger and then your sweet lips to tell you that yes, yes it is the right thing to say!”

His stricken words had me blushing right down to my scalp. He was speaking to me as a man, a lover, rather than a kinsman. I was touched, inappropriate though it was. “Orestes, you dear fool.” I unfolded the bottom third of the papyrus to continue reading. A pressed yellow daisy rested in the crease.

“What is this?”

Focused on the letter, I had not noticed my mother’s entrance. Now Helen stood over my shoulder. My handmaidens laid aside their needlework and started to their feet to acknowledge her, but she ignored them.

Helen picked up the daisy. “I heard you received a letter from Phocis. Now it seems someone has sent you a love token.” She stretched out her hand. “Let us see who this mysterious admirer is.”

I surrendered the letter because she gave me no choice, and sat burning with embarrassment as she perused it. Clytaemnestra had said she could not even read; that obviously was not true. She had to know the sender was Orestes, but of all the letters she had to inspect, why did it have to be this one?

“Is Orestes always so passionate?” she finally asked.

“No, he...” I struggled to find the right words.

“Do you write back to him with the same passion?”

I shook my head. “Of course not. It would not be appropriate.”

Helen folded up the letter, but did not return it to me. “Are there any other letters?”

“In the clothes chest, in a little wooden box under my skirts,” I answered thickly. She was going to take them all away. “It is not as you think. He’s my cousin. He tells me what he does in Phocis, about the places he’s been, the people he’s met, about Elektra and Pylades and their children. The daisy is nothing. He’s always given me wildflowers, even when he was little.”

“I will let your father decide what is appropriate,” she said. I followed her into the bedchamber, where she rummaged through my chest to retrieve the letters. “Has he sent you any gifts?”

From another box, I produced the glass beads, copper bangles, and other trinkets Orestes had sent over the years. She poked through the collection before dropping the packet of letters inside, shutting the lid, and taking the box with her.

Once she left, once I could sit down and gather my thoughts, it occurred to me that the letter mentioning the bloody sheet was among those she had taken. I had not destroyed it because I enjoyed rereading the paragraphs about Parnassus and the sacred caves. A knot choked my throat. What would she and my father think when they read what Aegisthus had said?

That evening, I forced myself to go down to supper and eat. My half-brothers dominated the conversation, hounding our father with questions about Hittite chariots. Aethiolas was away at his estate. Tyndareus slurped his lentil broth and pointedly ignored my mother.

After the dessert course of honey cakes, I excused myself and retired upstairs to sit by the brazier and await my mother’s return. Or would it be my father this time, to interrogate me about Aegisthus’s slanderous claims while forbidding me to continue an inappropriate correspondence with Orestes?

I let my handmaidens retire early and stayed up late waiting, trying to remain calm while wondering whether anyone would come.

Near midnight, Helen returned. “You will not write to him again,” she said in a hushed voice. “I’m sure you behaved with discretion, but you are no longer betrothed, and he is too old and too filled with passion for this to continue.” She handed me the packet, now reduced by a third. “You may keep these.”

She left without ever mentioning Aegisthus. I untied the packet and leafed through the remaining letters. Parnassus, the sacred caves—it had to be here somewhere. Nothing. I searched again, but the letter was gone. My parents had confiscated it, they had read the passage about Aegisthus, and yet my mother had not said a word.

 

*~*~*~*

Aethiolas grinned at me. “I hear you’ve been sending love letters to Orestes.”

Where a moment earlier we had been talking about his recent excursion to Amyklai, the mood in the sitting room abruptly darkened. “I don’t know where you heard that.” I lanced my needle through the linen to secure it and set the embroidery frame aside. “There were never any love letters.”

“You liked him, though.” Aethiolas stretched out his long legs and gave my maids a fond glance.

“Leave me alone!”

Aethiolas perked up at my raised voice. “I was just teasing.”

“It’s not a joking matter!” Why did he have to spoil an amicable visit with his playing? I could no longer comfort Orestes, and it wore on my nerves. Trust my mother to meddle where she was not wanted! “You know why the engagement was called off.”

Abashed, he shifted over to sit beside me and drape a consoling arm around me. “You’re right. I shouldn’t tease you.”

I held out a moment longer, then leaned my head against his shoulder. “Orestes shouldn’t have to bear this alone.”

Aethiolas gave me an affectionate squeeze. “I know what you’re thinking. Father should help him avenge Agamemnon, but it isn’t so simple. Father has just come home from a long war. Do you expect him to raise his host again and attack Mycenae? He’s tired, Hermione. His men are tired,” he said. “And Orestes is the one everyone’s looking to. He’s the one they want.”

“But it’s matricide,” I protested.

“Clytaemnestra gave him no choice” Aethiolas stated firmly. “Aegisthus stole another man’s wife and murdered that man in his own home. Orestes should kill them both and take back what’s his.”

His vehemence surprised me, for he had never before expressed an opinion regarding the subject. I stared at the floor, studying the way the sunlight streaming through the window knifed across the painted stucco. Thousands might applaud Orestes as he went after the usurpers, but how many would succor him later? “Would you do it, if it were you instead of him?”

Aethiolas did not give it a moment’s thought. “Yes. If I didn’t, I could never again hold up my head and call myself a man. That’s why Father won’t get involved. Orestes has to be his own man.”

 

*~*~*~*

Distant thunderheads rolled in over the Taygetus Mountains. Lowering gray skies and the sharp tang of ozone in the air presaged a fierce storm before nightfall. A high wind rattled the leaves from the trees. Autumn was losing its mildness as it faced the onset of winter.

I supervised the slaves dyeing threads in the shed attached to the weaving house. Wool colored in shades of rust and brown hung from the wooden drying racks. Madder dripped from the damp skeins onto the packed earth floor.

A palace servant hobbled into the shed and made his obeisance. “Princess, the king says you must come to the megaron at once.”

“At once” gave me no time to change into more appropriate attire. Scarlet dye smeared my skirt and streaked my fingers where I had sorted through the skeins to ensure the color had spread evenly. I smelled of the vinegar the women used to make the colors fast.

I did my best to rinse my hands and straighten my clothes before going up to the palace. At this time of day, the megaron should have been a bustling center of activity, with petitioners crowding the great court and vestibule, yet it stood desolate, a precursor to the ominous solitude within.

My father, wearing a dour look, occupied the throne. An open letter sat upon his lap. My mother and grandfather sat close by. A servant shut the vestibule curtain, then withdrew, leaving us alone.

Father’s manservant Asphalion conducted me to the empty chair beside my mother’s. I sat down, folded my stained hands in my lap, and waited.

“Daughter, I have some very grim news to share with you.” Menelaus held the letter up to the firelight emanating from the hearth. “This just arrived from Mycenae. Prince Pylades—”

I gave a start. “Orestes?”

Helen hissed under her breath at my impropriety.

“Yes,” he said. “Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus are dead. Pylades has written to me to describe what happened.” My father rattled the papyrus sheet, cleared his throat, and squinted. “Here, let me read:

“‘Orestes and I entered the citadel disguised as pilgrims. We found Aegisthus loitering near the workshops. Orestes ascended the ramp first, to take the high ground, and waited for Aegisthus to make his way back toward the palace.’” I felt faint. Why had Orestes not written his own letter?

“‘Aegisthus called out, but no one came to his aid, as we had sent our men to secure the walls and terraces beforehand.’” It was getting hard to breathe; there was no air in the megaron. “‘Orestes fought Aegisthus at the top of the ramp, first with bronze, then with his bare hands. Aegisthus went down, and Orestes struck his head off with a single blow. It rolled down the ramp...’” I gasped for air. “Hermione, are you ill?”

Trembling, I let my head droop, only to notice the scarlet dye staining my skirt and fingers. Blood. A low cry left my lips.

Menelaus called for Asphalion. “Bring the princess strong wine and a cool compress. Helen, do something to comfort your daughter.”

My mother placed a hand on the arm of my chair, nothing more. Was I a child who required coddling? “Father, I don’t need wine or a cloth. Please, go on. You’re keeping me in suspense.”

Tyndareus rumbled from his chair, “Are you sure, girl? Menelaus, you should have given her the wine to strengthen her nerves before you started.”

They were going to dither like this till Asphalion came back, and meanwhile all I knew for certain was that Orestes had gotten into Mycenae and slain Aegisthus, and that Pylades for some reason had written the letter. “No,” I croaked. “I want to hear the rest right now. Please, Father.”

Menelaus hesitantly continued, “‘Once Aegisthus was dead, I went on ahead to the palace and caught the queen coming downstairs to see what the commotion was. I herded her maids and daughter into a side room and shut them in. Orestes entered. I never intended to leave him alone with his mother, we had sworn to let her take her own life and avoid the sin of matricide, but circumstances drew me away from his side at the crucial moment. Aegisthus’s son Aletes and a few of his father’s followers engaged our men in the great court. I went outside to take command, and cut down the usurper’s son. Forgive me. The mistake was mine.’” What have you done, Pylades? My mind raced. What horrible thing did Orestes do while you were gone?

“‘I found Orestes on his knees beside his mother’s body, weeping into his hands like a child.” Oh, no! No! “‘I swear to you, he never intended to kill her with his own hands, but Ares possessed him when he slew Aegisthus on the great ramp, and the god was still raging in his blood when he sought out his mother.’” I heard the words, cold and precise, yet the horror had become so great that they rolled over me without quite registering. “‘Her death was as swift and painless as Aegisthus’s was brutal, I assure you. The blade went straight through her heart, and killed her instantly.

“‘I released the women from the closet and instructed them to attend the dead. Orestes was in no state to speak with his sister. He was inconsolable and immovable.’”

I sat frozen. Weeping into his hands like a child. Inconsolable and immovable. Curse you, Pylades! You swore to look after him.

“‘Orestes and I arranged for loyal and competent men to take charge of the citadel and safeguard the royal ladies while he sought purification for the killings. We are now heading north toward the Gulf of Corinth, where my retainers have a ship waiting for us. Orestes has been insensible since we left. He begs me to kill him and end the curse on his house. I cannot bring myself to do it. Elektra would never forgive me.

“‘We are not returning to my father’s house, as he has made it clear he would not succor us if Orestes committed the ultimate sin. However, he will grant us safe passage to the sanctuary of Delphi. Orestes has entrusted me with Agamemnon’s seal, and letters authorizing me to act as his regent until this matter is resolved. I will return to Mycenae once he is safe within the god’s sanctuary, and will send for Elektra and the children once she recovers from childbirth. I am your servant, Pylades Strophides.’”

Asphalion appeared at my elbow to press a cup into my hand. I thrust it back and took the wet cloth instead, burying my face in it. All I could do was weep, softly at first, then louder, letting it all out, wailing into the damp linen till my throat ached.

Papyrus leaves rustled. I heard my father’s joints creak as he stood up, then his footfalls as he crossed over to me. I glanced up to find him standing over me, arms held wide. Rising, I fell sobbing into his embrace.

I hated how my tears left great wet patches on his embroidered tunic. “Orestes had no choice. His father made him swear.”

“Look at me, Hermione.” Menelaus grasped my shoulders to hold me at arm’s length. “How could that possibly be? Orestes wasn’t there when Agamemnon was killed.”

I hung my head, sniffling. Tears slid down my cheeks. “Yes, he was. He saw it all.” I had to force each word out.

“He told you this?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I nodded. “I saw it, too. I was hiding up in the gallery. I heard the shouts. I saw them murder the companions in the megaron, and the Trojan woman. Cassandra. They murdered her, too.”

“Helen!” Menelaus barked at my mother like a guard captain reprimanding an errant sentry. “Come here and comfort your daughter. Take her to her chambers and attend to her.”

Numb, I let my mother and her maids escort me back to my apartment, but resisted when she instructed my women to undress me and tuck me into bed. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“Don’t be difficult.” Helen opened a packet of herbs while her maids set up a tripod and small bronze cauldron in a corner. Sotera shuttered the window against the drizzle spattering the sill.

“It’s not even noon.”

She pinched herbs into a cup. “You’re in no condition to go back to the dyeing shed. Let Iphinous manage the servants. When this tea is ready, you will drink it. An Egyptian priestess gave me the recipe. It will give you a deep, restful sleep.”

A narcotic fragrance wafted past my nostrils when she showed me the herbs powdering the bottom of the cup. Was she brewing the substance I suspected she was? Did she think I would let her drug me that easily? “I don’t want your foreign potion.” I waved it away. “Just let me be.”

“You want to lie awake all night weeping bitter tears? This is much better, believe me.” Helen placed the cup on my dressing table, then stooped over the cauldron to stir the simmering water with a bronze ladle. “Stop being stubborn and listen to someone who knows what it’s like to be tormented by—”

“Stop treating me like a child!” I raised my voice. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be afraid, to see blood shed, to be abused by a man?” I never meant to confide in her like this, never meant to divulge my secret to her at all, but she had provoked me. “I saw the companions and that poor woman murdered! I thought I would be next. And then, when Aegisthus raped me the night before—”

“Be silent!” Helen’s reprimand cut like a dagger through my hysteria. Dark eyes blazing, she came over to me. “Who else have you told?”

At least Aegialia and Polycaste had let me talk, while my mother, who above all people should have heard me out, did not even want to hear it. My handmaidens stood white-faced in the doorway until Helen ordered them to get out. “Sotera and Polycaste,” I growled. “Queen Aegialia, because she saw the bruises. No one else.” I held onto my anger as a shield against more tears. “I took the medicine and tried to forget about it.”

Helen’s nostrils flared as she sucked in a long breath. “You never told Orestes, when Aegisthus wrote to him about the sheet?”

So she had noticed the passage. “I let him think it was malicious slander.”

“And you never thought to tell me?”

She made it sound like a personal affront. “You saw the letter, you know what it said. Why didn’t you ask about it?” Let her reproach me all she wanted, but she was not going to burden me with guilt for that.

“I had no idea it was anything more than Aegisthus’s feeble attempt to provoke Orestes to violence,” Helen answered stiffly. “You should have told your father and me straightaway.”

“I didn’t tell you because you care nothing about me, and because you would have gone straight to Father with it. You think I wanted him to go to war again, to broadcast my shame to the world?” The simmering water had begun to boil; my mother ignored it. “Do you think it makes any difference that Aegisthus is dead? It doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t take away the hurt.”

Helen acknowledged that statement with an almost imperceptible nod. “No, it doesn’t.” She went to the cauldron to ladle steaming water into the cup. As the herbs steeped, a soporific vapor suffused the room. “I will have to tell your father that the charge was true. It won’t affect your marriageability. Most men are willing to overlook a bride’s missing hymen when there’s a rich kingdom to be had.”

Dumbstruck, I watched her stirring the hot tea. She had just learned her only daughter had actually been raped, and this was her reaction?

She blew into the cup as she brought it over to me. “No one has to know. It isn’t always easy to tell, anyway,” she added. Steam curled and wisped about her face. “As for this ridiculous business about my not caring, when do you ever come to me with your troubles? Did you think I would blame you for what happened? Foolish child! You don’t know shame until your parents blame you for leading a man on. Theseus was fifty, I was ten, and the only thing I did wrong was be polite and ask to hear more of his stories.” Helen extended the cup to me. “Drink this.”

I recoiled from the bitter-smelling brew. “It’s what you give Father’s guests to make them forget the war.”

“Yes, it’s called nepenthe. Drink it and the Minotaur himself could come crashing through the wall to devour you and you wouldn’t care.” A secretive smile curved her lips. “You will come to appreciate this gift. I wish I had known about it at Troy.”

Heat radiated through the ceramic cup into my hands. After I drank, Helen smothered the flame burning below the tripod and added lavender sprigs to the brazier. Sotera waited to take the empty cup from me, while my mother slipped into the sitting room to chastise my maids. I overheard every stinging word: “I am sure you are sensible, well-bred girls who know better than to spread gossip, but I will tell you anyway, for your own good. You will not breathe a word of anything you heard here this afternoon. If you do, I will send you straight home to your families dowerless and disgraced. Do you understand?”

A peculiar deadness crept over me along with the requisite drowsiness. I felt no sympathy for Monime or Thebe, or any resentment toward my mother for usurping my authority. There was nothing. Nothing. I was not certain I cared for that taste of oblivion.

Closing my eyes, I hovered in the hazy realm between dreams and wakefulness, listening to my mother’s skirts rustle when she came back into the room, and to my maids weeping on the other side of the wall. I should have said something, raised an objection, asked Sotera to bring the girls in, and apologized to them, but with each passing heartbeat went the energy to do any of those things, until exhaustion muffled me in deep sleep.

When I woke, Sotera brought me warm mashed apples and black barley bread. “It was a bad storm, Mistress. You slept right through it.”

I regarded the food with disinterest. “It didn’t last very long.”

“You’ve been asleep more than a day,” she said.

Yet I still felt lethargic. Yesterday’s peculiar apathy lingered. I stared into space. My thoughts dribbled past me in a sluggish current, yet I could not focus on a single one. Sotera ordered a hot bath. “It will make you feel better, Mistress.”

Monime and Thebe were still moping as they washed my hair. I summoned enough energy to address them. “Ignore my mother. She has no business...” And there went the thread. My eyelids started fluttering in the warm, foggy air. “I feel...”

Somehow, they got me out of the bath, dried me with towels, and put me back into bed. I must have dozed a little, because the next thing I knew a hot brick lay snug and toasty against my feet, and my father was sitting in the chair beside me.

Menelaus pressed a shushing finger to his lips. “Don’t stir. I wanted to make sure you were resting.”

“What time is it?” Had a second day slipped without my knowing it?

“Almost midnight.” Leaning forward, he stroked my cheek; his calluses grazed my skin. “Your mother told me about Aegisthus.” He spoke slowly, as though gauging my alertness. “I wish you had come to me and told me first.”

Although I still felt sleepy and strangely disconnected from my emotions, I found myself clearheaded enough to follow him. “I wanted to, but...”

“Did you think I would get angry and blame you?” He screwed up his mouth to contain his hurt. “Hermione, you’re my daughter, my precious little girl. Had you only told me, I would have mustered the Spartan host and shown Aegisthus the true meaning of pain.”

And tongues throughout the Aegean would have wagged. King Menelaus can’t keep other men’s hands off his wife or daughter. “I didn’t want to do that to you. Another war...” My limbs felt leaden. “Father, what’s wrong with me? I can’t feel anything.”

Menelaus nodded his understanding. “Your mother’s drugs are very powerful. It’s unnatural, that stuff. Mortals should feel what the gods send them to feel.” He harrumphed for emphasis. “She told me you were angry with her. I know it seems that she doesn’t care, but you can’t expect her to coddle you like your old nurse. She’s become so used to hiding behind veils and spinning her webs that she’s forgotten how to love.” Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. “That’s how she is, Hermione. But I don’t ever want you to be afraid to come to me.”

I wished I could feel enough to give him the answer he deserved. “Orestes. What’s going to happen to him?”

Menelaus acknowledged my question with a warm smile. “You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?” He grew thoughtful. “Perhaps the priests can purify him, so he can walk free again and claim his inheritance.”

I let my idle fingers explore my pillowcase’s scalloped needlework edge. Chrysothemis could do fine work like that. “May I send a letter? Just through the priests, to ask how he is?”

“Of course you may,” my father answered. “You can even write to him, as his concerned and loving kinswoman, but keep in mind what Pylades said: he isn’t well. You may not get an answer.” Grimly, he shook his head. “I wanted to take you away from Mycenae—you should know that, Daughter—but it’s not so easy to think about your children back home when you’re lying exhausted in a dusty tent after a hard day’s fighting, or when you’re busy trying to feed and shelter your men. War is a dreadful business.” Then he slapped his hand against his outer thigh. “Well, then. Tomorrow your mother wants you to spend the morning with her. Try to be patient with her.”

Visiting my mother could be an excruciating experience, depending on her mood. She was like a fussy old woman when it came to her treasures, and would not let the scrub maids dust her costly imported furniture. That left her handmaidens, who fared no better under her remorseless scrutiny.

“Adreste, that Isis was a gift from Queen Merytamun. It’s priceless. Phylo, you’ll ruin that mother-of-pearl inlay if you get oil on it.” I pitied the poor girls. Monime and Thebe no longer wanted to go anywhere near my mother.

Helen’s needle flashed in the sunlight streaming through the window. She was always sewing, spinning, weaving; her hands never stopped working. Scarlet horses pranced across the band she was embroidering for my father. I replaced my spindle in my wool basket and leaned in to watch her work.

“You seem pensive, Hermione.” Helen poked the needle through the taut linen. “Alcippe, be careful with that box. It’s heavy.”

I kept my father’s advice in mind. “You’re hard on them.”

“Girls should have a strict education in what to expect as wives.” She remained focused on her work. “A husband wants his wife to fetch his slippers, prepare his broth just so, have his clothes laid out the way he likes—and he expects her to do it all with a cheerful countenance.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe, but your women must be wondering which is worse: waiting hand and foot on a decrepit old husband, or being nagged to death by the queen of Sparta.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw young Adreste smothering her laughter behind her hand. My mother regarded her with a tolerant look, then her gaze returned to me. “You would not make such acerbic remarks if you knew anything about the realities of marriage.”

A little sarcasm did wonders for helping me keep my patience with her, though. “Marriage is probably the last thing I will ever have to worry about.”

“That’s nonsense.” Helen secured and snipped off her thread. “Your father will find the very best eligible men and invite them here.”

Scowling, I turned to the window. A call from the south watchtower interrupted the morning birdsong. “How delightful. I can hardly wait to meet the whole arthritic, drooling lot of them.”

Helen made a little noise at my caustic observation. “I have no idea where you inherited your sharp tongue. It certainly wasn’t from me.” She selected a skein of darkest umber to outline the horses with, while shaking her head disapprovingly. “Why are you not working? Idle hands breed trouble.”

“I get bored spinning and weaving all day.” I watched her moisten her thread between her lips. “Where did you learn to embroider like that?”

“Troy.” Helen held the needle up to the light to thread it. “Anatolian women are very skilled weavers and embroiderers.” She fastened the threaded needle through the linen border to secure it before getting up. “Alaksandu appointed a woman to teach me, so the other royal women wouldn’t mock me as a Hellene rube.”

Then she took me into her bedchamber, where she showed me cushions blooming with vivid scarlet poppies, white lilies, and wild roses. Her window was framed with sheer linen draperies bordered with curling vines dripping rich purple grapes. Linen veils spangled with honeybees and gold bullion sunbursts emerged from a cedar chest. Although I had seen these treasures before, I had assumed they were among the many curiosities she had collected; it never occurred to me until now that they were her own handiwork.

“In Troy, I spent my days weaving a tapestry depicting the deeds of the heroes.” Helen folded the veils and laid them in a glittering pile. “I imagine it burned with the city. Ah, look here.” She spread out another veil, pale green glittering with cobwebs. I jumped at the large black spider crawling across the fabric; my heart continued to race even after I realized it was a cunning facsimile. Helen draped the gossamer stuff over her head. Black widows framed her face, clung to her arms, and hung down her back. “You see? Arachne is always weaving her webs.”

All those spiders unnerved me; she had even rendered the scarlet hourglasses on their backs. “Black widows kill their mates.”

Her faint smile vanished, and she dragged the veil away from her head with a sigh. “That’s exactly what your father said.”

 

*~*~*~*

Tyndareus died a month later. During his last days, he requested my company. I spent long hours spinning and listening to his youthful reminiscences. Often, he forgot where and when he was, and he carried on long conversations with Herakles and others long-dead. “Castor’s going to break his neck racing like that.” Sometimes, he looked strangely at me. “Leda, my dear. When did you dye your hair?” I simply held his hand while waiting for the episode to pass; he was so far gone into his twilight world that very little reached him now.

Once, near the end, he became lucid again. “Hermione.”

I bent closer, and placed my hand into his clammy one when he groped for it. “Yes, Grandfather?”

He squeezed my fingers ever so slightly. “You should have told me.” His wispy voice labored to be heard; it was getting harder for him to breathe. “I would have gone to Mycenae to avenge you. I fought with Herakles, you know.”

That afternoon, he slipped into an unwaking slumber and died two nights later. Menelaus kept vigil with me, while my mother waited with her maids in the sitting room. That was as close as she ever came to visiting his deathbed. Yet afterward she washed and anointed the corpse, and arranged for the professional mourners.

On a blustery winter morning, we accompanied the bier down the sloping dromos passageway into the royal tomb. The smoky lamplight threw shadows against walls covered in green Laconian marble and illuminated the tomb’s other occupants in their painted larnakes, with their grave goods piled around them.

Menelaus’s retainers eased the funeral bier onto the floor. Ululating wails echoed through the chamber as we arranged the grave goods. Megapenthes placed the yellowing boar tusk helmet with its flowing blue crest at the bier’s head, and Nikostratos the worn wasp-waisted shield at its foot. Menelaus set the traditional death mask of beaten gold upon the king’s face. Then he drew Tyndareus’s silver-studded sword from its sheath, stepped on the blade, and bent it after the ancient custom.

Aethiolas was not with us. As Menelaus’s ambassador, he had gone to Mycenae to consult with Pylades and the Argive assembly, and would not return until spring.

I lifted the shroud to tuck a hot brick wrapped in leather against my grandfather’s feet, a small, intimate gesture amid the many ceremonial gifts. Menelaus poured the final libation, we toasted the dead and broke our cups, and then withdrew from the tomb, leaving the oil lamps burning in their niches and the clay incense burners wafting their sweet smoke. The retainers sealed the tall, bronze-bound doors.

That night, we feasted my grandfather’s memory. Antimachus the bard strummed a doleful melody on his seven-stringed lyre. Old councilors shared anecdotes about the dead king. Wine flowed minus the usual cheer. It was an excruciatingly grim evening.

Midwinter brought the frost, covering the mountains with a pristine blanket of snow. Icy winds rattled against the shutters. I spent most evenings weaving or practicing the new embroidery stitches my mother taught me.

Menelaus invited me to dine in his apartment, to console my grief and discuss my marriage prospects. “We won’t hold a contest,” he said. “Too much trouble these days.” An indirect allusion to the war. “It’s best done quietly.”

A marriage contest would have been absurd given the short list of candidates. “It’s too bad about your cousin Telemachus,” he told me. “He would have been a good match, but with his father gone his position is too tenable. He has no battle experience, no men under his command, and all his wealth is being squandered by his mother’s suitors. A man has to be able to defend his lands and his women, or he’s no good. Now look here.” Menelaus tapped his finger against three names inscribed in the clay tablet before him. “These are Nestor’s younger boys. He’s raised some fine lads. Perhaps we ought to invite them to visit in the spring.”

Spring felt very distant. Winter’s gloomy weather always made me sad. Recent sorrows further weighed on my spirits, and I found it difficult to feign enthusiasm for the princes of Pylos.