Chapter Fifteen

 

 

 

A warm spring breeze snapped the colorful banners on their poles and stirred the horsetail crests of the sentries standing at attention along the ramparts. Garlands draped the terraces, the scent of the fresh flowers competing with the fragrances the court ladies wore, and sunlight sparkled against gold and jewels, and gleaming bronze armor.

Only a king’s visit could warrant such pageantry, or persuade my mother to don a queen’s regalia and leave her apartment. Her bodice and flounces were edged with gold work, and the queen’s glittering gold diadem covered her coiffed ringlets. I stood beside her, also richly dressed but flustered after days of overseeing the preparations for Nestor’s arrival. What would the king of Pylos and his sons think when they compared me to my perfect mother?

Stop that! I thought crossly. They’re not coming to see her.

Cheers from the town below alerted us that the royal procession was on its way. I counted my breaths. Then Menelaus’s snow-white team trotted through the gate, a dozen more painted chariots and matched teams following in succession. Up on the walls, the sentries saluted my father’s distinguished guests by drumming their spears against the stones. Grooms wove among the vehicles to secure the horses, while porters descended upon the baggage carts bringing up the rear.

Menelaus stepped down from his chariot’s platform and crossed over to his chief guest. I glimpsed my brothers among the retainers, each one having been assigned as a companion to one of Nestor’s sons. From what I could see, the Pylian princes were all tall and dark-haired, graceful and good-looking, but it was going to take much more than physical attractiveness to impress me.

At length, my father climbed the stairs leading to the portico with an elegant old gentleman who expressed his delight at everything he saw. “What a marvelous situation you have here in Sparta! Rich fields and vines, groves and high mountains all around for your protection. You couldn’t ask the gods for better.” King Nestor was well on his way to proving those rumors about his garrulousness true. “And look, here’s the foremost ornament in your palace! I swear she still looks as fresh as she did when Tyndareus gave her to you.”

Helen inclined her head in polite welcome.

Nestor gave her rouged cheek an old man’s smacking kiss. “With each passing day, you remind us ever more of your sweet mother. Have I ever told you about the first time I ever set eyes on Leda?” He did not wait upon an answer before plunging into his narrative. “I was just a young man then, hadn’t even gone to sea with Jason. And there she was, the queen of Sparta, shining like the morning dew with her long black hair, walking into the megaron on your father’s arm. Tyndareus was a fortunate man, wasn’t he?”

I caught my father’s tolerant smile.

Menelaus cleared his throat meaningfully. “King Nestor, this is our daughter, Hermione.”

Nestor descended on me to bestow a grandfatherly peck upon my cheek. “It’s true what they say about Spartan girls. How do you sleep at night, Menelaus, with such beautiful women under your roof?”

Then Nestor called his sons forward in order to introduce them. “Echephron is a swift runner and archer, and all man under those dandified Cretan lovelocks. Stratichus is an excellent wrestler and sailor. Peisistratus is our youngest boy, just twenty-two, but he commands his own chariot corps.”

Each man was handsome and courteous, but none attracted my particular interest. It would depend on how they behaved and what they said once they opened their mouths; even men who knew they were being scrutinized, who rehearsed every speech and action, often let slip clues revealing their true quality.

I had arranged for my grandfather’s vacant apartment to be freshly plastered and painted for the occasion, and furnished with cots heaped with linens and snowy fleeces.

An elegant bathroom adjoined the apartment. Water birds and leaping fish graced walls painted soft blue. Bath slaves awaited us in the dressing room; the princes grinned their appreciation as the comeliest girls descended upon them to remove their clothes. Nestor affectionately rumbled at them to behave. “You’re not at home, boys.”

I withdrew to allow the men to undress, and consulted with the Pylian servants unpacking a large chest in the bedchamber. One man gave me clean garments for the king and his sons, and took the discarded clothes, while another oiled the men’s leather sandals.

Feminine giggles and husky masculine laughter issuing from next door lured me back to the bathroom. Some male guests could not keep their hands off the bath slaves; the girls later complained about the men’s lewd demands, yet these handsome young princes seemed to be restricting their flirting to good-natured ogling and jests, and the women were not complaining.

I could see why. All three men were delectable, with broad shoulders tapering down to narrow waists and hard buttocks. Seeing the oil gleaming on their naked skin brought a burning flush to my cheeks.

A subtle change in the atmosphere drew the youngest prince’s attention to the doorway. Peisistratus. Was that his name? He gave a start when he saw me standing there, and nudged his brothers. An awkward silence descended upon the bathroom.

Nestor, who was enjoying a soak in the terracotta tub, regarded the scene with good humor. “Where are your manners, boys? Or has Helen’s daughter got your tongues?”

Inclining my head, I withdrew again, my embarrassment now tempered with annoyance. Helen’s daughter. Did he not remember my name? It was not that difficult to remember. If Nestor and his sons had come seeking a younger version of my mother, then they were going to be very disappointed.

 

*~*~*~*

Iphinous had obtained recipes for Nestor’s favorite dishes. Carts had brought mussels and fresh fish swimming in jars of salt water all the way from Helas. Succulent beef and lamb turned on the spit. We would feast every night during the Pylian king’s visit.

Echephron and Stratichus made little effort to court me; their eyes kept wandering to my mother or lingering on my half-brothers. But Peisistratus took immediate interest, and addressed me without hesitation. “I hope we weren’t too forward with your women this afternoon.”

“Why would you say that?” I asked.

Peisistratus tucked into the almond cake on his plate. “You seemed upset when you left.”

So someone had noticed. “Not at all,” I lied. “It seemed the women were quite enjoying themselves.”

“As long as Father is there, we’ll be keeping our hands to ourselves,” he replied, chewing. “He’s very strict about respecting the laws of hospitality.”

Nestor was a wise man, though in this instance his strictness would confound my efforts to observe Peisistratus and his brothers in their natural element. I wanted to know how they behaved every day, not just when they were on their best behavior. Perhaps, as the days wore on, they could be lulled into complacency.

On my left, Chrysothemis caught my arm and pulled me toward her to whisper, “Peisistratus likes you. I think it’s those little freckles on your arms. He’s wondering whether you have them all over.” I could smell the retsina on her breath. “Oh, look! He’s turning his head this way. He’s probably wondering whether you’re a redhead down there, too.”

Exasperated, I reached for her cup to whisk it away. “I think you’ve had quite enough to drink.”

“Oh, don’t be so serious!” Chrysothemis snatched the cup back. “No one ever lets me have any fun. I heard you watched them take a bath this afternoon. I bet they look good all oiled and naked.”

Antimachus performed on his lyre. It was late. Menelaus rose to pour the fourth libation to Zeus Xenios, then invited his guest of honor to regale us with stories, boast about his exploits, or make a toast as he pleased. Nestor had spent all evening reminiscing about the war and dispensing long-winded advice to all the young men, while my father drank and my mother perfected her look of polite boredom.

Nestor turned out to be an excellent storyteller, weaving a tale about his youthful adventures with Jason and the Argonauts. “Argo was a black pentekonter with a scarlet griffin on her sail. Nowadays, you can’t go anywhere without meeting some old man who claims to have sailed with Jason. I have two doddering fools on my council who boast about being on that first voyage, and then pretend to be senile whenever I remind them that I was there and don’t remember them!”

Menelaus laughed heartily. Nestor winked at me and my brothers. “Argo made more than one trip to the Euxine Sea,” he explained. “Jason took men on for a season or however long they chose to stay, and made his living raiding.

“The locals used to spike fleeces into the riverbeds to catch gold dust. I forget who invented that tale about the dragon, but whenever we went ashore to plunder the fleeces, the local women came at us alongside their men. You should have seen them! They were so unkempt they looked more like animals than women, and they fell on us howling like maenads, brandishing clubs and spears, and then their bare fists and teeth and fingernails. A six-headed serpent would have been a gift from the gods after that!”

“Is that how Jason met the beautiful Medea?” Menelaus asked gamely.

Nestor grimaced. “That horrid woman! She was cursed with a pitted horse face and flaming red hair to match her savage temper, and she was always muttering in her barbarian’s tongue. Never learned a single civilized word. Whenever she looked at you, it was enough to make your blood freeze, because you knew you had done something to offend her. Gods only knew what. Perhaps you ate too much garlic or pissed where she could see you, or scratched your balls once too often. It didn’t matter. She would shriek like a harpy and hurl herself at you to try to claw your eyes out, or she would twist the head off a pigeon and spray you with the blood.” He shuddered for emphasis. “Jason took it the worst. She was fixated on him. Never let him from her sight. He tried to abandon her, but he could never get her drunk enough to move her, and the one time he did leave her behind she found her way back! It’s no wonder Jason took to wine and left her for that Theban girl. Herakles liked to boast about encountering Amazons in the Euxine Sea. Hah! Medea would have made him piss his loincloth.”

“You met Herakles?” Megapenthes gazed admiringly at him.

Nestor moistened his throat with a draught of mead. “That arrogant old bugger joined us for the first voyage. Couldn’t pull an oar worth shit, or avoid trouble for more than a few hours. I suppose your grandfather told you otherwise.” He flashed my half-brothers a mischievous grin. “He must have told you about the lion skin Herakles always wore. I’ve been to Nemea, and the real Nemean Lion was a sad old beast the priests kept in the temple. That stinking, flea-ridden pelt Herakles wore came off some half-starved creature he cornered in Arcadia.”

Tyndareus would have been scandalized to hear his hero denigrated like this, but Nestor had a grudge to repay. When Herakles had sacked Pylos sixty years ago, he had slain Nestor’s brothers and cousins, and seized several royal women. Nestor could not clash spears with the dead hero, but he could wage war on the man’s reputation.

“Those twelve Labors the bards sing about are complete rubbish fabricated by the Herakleidai and their Dorian allies,” he continued. “I once rode up to Elis before the war to settle some border dispute and asked King Agasthenes to show me his father’s famous Augean Stables. Imagine my surprise to find a rickety shack leaning over a trickling stream! The only horse stabled there was an old nag that looked like she’d been there since Prometheus stole fire from Olympus. I swear, her ears pricked up and she snorted when she heard me mention Herakles. Turns out the fool used to idle about in the hills, rustling cattle and harassing the local women and boys to avoid finishing the real task Augeas gave him, breaking up stones in the quarry to refortify the citadel wall.”

Laughter rippled through the megaron. Menelaus absorbed the tale with a wink and nod; he knew exactly what his guest was doing. There was no love lost between the Herakleidai and Atreidai, either. Since my grandfather’s death, my father had forbidden Antimachus to sing about Herakles’s deeds.

Then Nestor turned to me. “Young lady, should a hero ever come to claim your hand, gather up your skirts and run away from him quick as you can. Heroes are either madmen or liars, and oftentimes both. It’s better to marry a brave, sensible man who’s content to stay at home.”

After the feast, my mother accompanied me upstairs, where she dismissed my handmaidens to attend me herself. “Nestor is dispensing advice again,” she observed.

“Yes, I noticed.” Helen was not sentimental enough to linger over me like this unless she had some specific purpose in mind. What did she want?”

She came around behind me to unfasten my necklace. “Do Nestor’s sons appeal to you?”

So she sought my opinion, so she could whisper it in my father’s ear. “It’s been but a single day, Mother,” I said.

“I saw you talking earlier to Peisistratus.” Helen deposited the necklace on my dressing table. “Did he have anything interesting to say?”

Was she really going to make me recite the entire conversation by rote? “A few courtesies, nothing more.” I drew the golden hoops from my ears.

“I also noticed that Echephron and Stratichus weren’t looking at you as much as they should have.”

It was very late, and her observations jarred my nerves. “Why would they, when they can stare at the world’s most beautiful woman instead?” I caught the bitterness in my voice, but it was too late to take back the scathing remark.

“Foolish child. They only stare because they want to gawk at the woman who ‘started’ the war.” Helen moved around to unlace my girdle. “If I were anyone else, they would see only an aging woman and not give her a second glance. Look here.” She laid a finger against the corner of her right eye, tracing a fine network of crow’s feet visible even through her paint. “You see? I’m not perfect. It’s just that no one ever looks closely enough.” Then she sighed. “Sometimes I think only your father sees me as I truly am.”

 

*~*~*~*

Athletic contests, hunting, and feasting marked the royal visit. More noblemen arrived, straining the palace’s ability to accommodate them. Iphinous helped me divert them to temporary pavilions erected near the parade ground below the citadel. Harried stewards strove to maintain order while scrub maids and stable hands kept the premises as spotless as possible.

Iphinous took on as much of the work as possible, but managing lodging, food, and diversion for several hundred visitors wore me out, leaving me unable to enjoy the spectacle as much as our guests did.

Aethiolas staged games for the noblemen and visiting princes, while my father doled out prizes for footraces, archery contests, wrestling and boxing matches, javelin and discus throws, and chariot races. I awarded the victory crowns.

As Aethiolas claimed his myrtle chaplet for the discus, he affectionately chided my lack of enthusiasm. “Put a smile on your face and try not to look like you’ve eaten bad figs. Echephron’s limbering up for the sixty meter race. He’ll win with those long legs of his.”

“Then maybe we should have Nikostratos crown him.” Earlier, I had noticed the prince throwing fond looks at my younger half-brother.

Echephron presented a bland countenance during his crowning, a marked contrast to his youngest brother, who won the chariot race. A dusty, sweaty Peisistratus sauntered up to the platform like a conquering hero. “It’s a shame you couldn’t accompany me, the way Pelops had Hippodamia with him for his fateful race,” he said.

“So my father could chase you to the Isthmus and nail your severed head to his door?” I lifted both eyebrows, but kept my tone light. At least the compliment was original. “Or were you planning to replace his linchpins with wax?”

Peisistratus gave me a sheepish smile. He had not thought it through. “It seems love was more dangerous in those days,” he replied.

 

*~*~*~*

Nestor wanted to pay his respects to Tyndareus and Leda, so we went down from the citadel bearing garlands, leading a sacrificial calf, and carrying the wine and mixing bowls. Nestor performed the blood sacrifice before the tomb, then seized the opportunity to turn the traditional drink offering into a long-winded speech. I tried not to show my boredom, even attempted to follow the old king’s rambling conversation with the dead, but at last gave up the effort. At least it was a pleasant day. We were standing in the shade, and were about to enjoy a picnic by the river.

I sat with my mother and the other women on blankets under the trees. Servants brought roast veal from the carcass, and additional food and wine from the palace. I picked flowers and wove garlands with the young women, listened to their gossip and endured their questions about the handsome princes, who, with the other young men of the court, raced and wrestled in the grass.

Late in the afternoon, Peisistratus escorted me back to the palace. He presented me with a perfect swan’s feather he had untangled from the reeds, and tucked it behind my ear among the flowers Erigone had woven for my hair, using the gesture as an excuse to brush his fingers against my cheek.

I blushed. “Would you like to wear my daisy chain?”

“Your flowers look lovelier on you than they would on me.” Peisistratus twined his arm in mine. Stratichus walked with Chrysothemis, while Echephron carried on an animated conversation with my half-brothers. A forlorn Erigone wrestled with tears until Aethiolas gallantly came to the rescue.

Peisistratus acknowledged the mishap. “I’m afraid Echephron is a bit thickheaded when it comes to women. All he cares about is athletics. Father will have a word with him.”

Had I not observed the man’s athletic obsession firsthand, I would have assumed that Peisistratus was trying to disparage a rival suitor. Not that he had to try very hard. I remembered what Nestor had said about his son that first day. He’s all man under those dandified Cretan lovelocks. Echephron’s manliness fell short when it came to women, though. Stratichus tried harder, paying me trite compliments, but I found his company painfully dull. Peisistratus alone managed to be engaging.

The late afternoon sun washed the valley with gold and tinted the growing shadows blue and violet. A gentle breeze blew at our backs. I was enjoying the walk, and leaned into my escort. “I like your father and his stories.”

He laughed. “That’s because you haven’t heard them six dozen times.”

“Have you ever traveled or been on any adventures like him?” I asked. As we started to ascend the mount, the sentries saluted us from above.

“Not much,” he admitted. “Whenever Father has to send one of us to handle a border dispute or greet an ambassador, it’s always Thrasymedes or Aretus he chooses. Don’t misunderstand, I love them very much, but it’s difficult being the youngest.”

In the lower court, the party began to disperse, with the young men headed toward the palaestra to while away the hour before supper. Peisistratus looked torn.

“You should go,” I said.

Locking eyes with me, he took my hand and raised it to his lips. Only one man had ever done that, yet while an uncertain shiver passed through me at the intimate gesture, it felt nice.

Impatient shouts from his brothers and mine threatened the moment. Groaning, Peisistratus waved them on. “I pity the women they marry,” he muttered, then swiftly banished his displeasure to resume his wooing. “Will you sit beside me tonight when Antimachus plays?”

A furious blush crept from my cheeks to my breasts. Glancing aside, I noticed our fathers standing on the stairs beneath the portico, observing and conferring with each other. I turned back to Peisistratus and, realizing to my dismay that my voice was quavering, answered, “You know that isn’t allowed, but I can bring you honeyed wine before the third libation.”

Peisistratus gave me a wry smile. “Then it will be like ambrosia from the gods.”

Nestor’s youngest son was pouring on the charm. “Perhaps you should release me now.” I indicated Menelaus and Nestor watching from above.

Acknowledging them, he let go my hand, yet when he took his leave, he forsook the palaestra to climb the stairs and pay his respects to the two kings. I should have left then, retired with my women to bathe and dress for supper. Instead, I lingered below to watch the three men interact. Peisistratus spoke in low tones, while our fathers nodded and looked pleased with his answers.

Stunned, I realized what was happening. No, not like this! I had always assumed it would be a solemn occasion with libations and bride-gifts, with me, my mother, and a priestess present to witness the marriage negotiations, not this casual conversation in the courtyard!

Menelaus gave Peisistratus an amiable thump on the shoulder. Nestor looked on like a sage old priest, smiling his congratulations. I felt sick. They had done it, they had just decided my marriage, without even consulting me.

 

*~*~*~*

It did not get better. That night, raucous guests soused on honey mead, retsina, and the festive occasion banged their fists on the tables to demonstrate their impatience. Good-natured catcalls rang out.

“Do it properly, young man!”

“Give her your tongue!”

First, the negotiations had been a sham, and now the betrothal announcement was a drunken disaster. Menelaus and Nestor had waited too late, until most of the guests were drunk and ready to hurl all decorum out the window. My mother wore a long-suffering look, while my inebriated father gestured for me and my new fiancé to oblige the guests.

Peisistratus took me in his arms for the betrothal kiss. I tasted too much honey mead on his mouth. He lingered over the kiss, giving me his tongue, to thunderous applause. It did not feel right. A Spartan princess’s betrothal ought to be a sacred occasion, not some voyeur’s cheap entertainment!

When we sat down again, I found it difficult to tolerate my fiancé’s presence. He should have been sober and respectful; he had no right to drink so or strut about, for he had not won anything. Menelaus had liked his breeding and initiative, and simply handed me to him.

Peisistratus noticed my sour mood. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

Confessing the truth would be pointless. “Everyone is drunk.”

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “It’s a celebration.”

When the time came to retire, he caught my hand and kissed it. “We should have had the wedding tonight.” What a transparent seducer! “Six weeks is an unbearable time to wait.”

I withdrew my hand. “I’m sure you will survive it.”

Chrysothemis trailed me all the way back to my bedchamber. Her hangdog look alerted me that she was going to brood all night unless someone cheered her up. For once, why could she not find someone else to pester with her problems? “What’s wrong?” I asked.

A little sob escaped her. “I’m not drunk.” Her slurred words gave evidence to her lie. “I simply thought maybe one of the other princes...”

I dismissed the maids and sat down on the edge of the bed to console her. “You truly want to get married, don’t you?”

“More than anything.” As she clung to me, her heavy scent twitched my nostrils. “I don’t want to end up the old spinster aunt everybody pities and shoves into a corner.”

I sympathized, but lacked the patience to cosset her all night. “I thought you liked Prince Stratichus.”

Chrysothemis made a sulky face. “He’s as dull as clay, and his older brother is worse, always mooning over Nikostratos.” She sniffled, then wiped her knuckles across her nose, ruining her paint. “Surely there must be someone for me to marry! He doesn’t have to be a prince, just suitable.”

I found a linen cloth on the dressing table and retrieved it for her, while repressing the urge to shake her and snap at her to stop being such a goose. “Perhaps you should ask my mother to ask my father.” Chrysothemis blew her nose. “There might be an eligible bachelor or two at the wedding feast.” Of course, she would also need a proper dowry to sweeten the offer, but she was a pretty and biddable noblewoman, the daughter of the late High King, and surely it would be nothing for my father to dower her with an estate and some treasures.

Two days later, Nestor and his sons departed. Peisistratus kissed me again in the courtyard as our kinsmen said their farewells. Although I had had time to adjust to the idea of marrying him, and to accept that our fathers were acting in our best interests, I remained uncomfortable with him. His slick manners seemed less genuine and more a younger prince’s calculated ploy to become Sparta’s next king.

I forced a smile as he climbed into his chariot. My father and grandfather had been fortune seekers, too. Why should Peisistratus be any different?

My mother whisked me away to the storerooms that very morning to select the fabric for my wedding costume. We had a mere six weeks to sew and cut new clothes; prepare an apartment, stables, and storerooms for my husband and all his possessions; invite guests and ready their accommodations; organize the bridal feast; and observe all the rituals.

I selected a fine, light blue wool, and gave it to the weavers to saturate the fabric with virgin olive oil to make it shine. Once it was rinsed out and dried, my maids fitted me for a bride’s traditional open bodice, pinned the cloth, and cut it. Helen traced leaves and curling vines onto pale green bands with a charcoal stick, then chose skeins of thread in various shades of cream, green, and soft yellow.

From her chests, she brought out the sheer linen veil spangled with golden starbursts and spread it across my lap where it lay like a shroud. “Mother,” I said, sighing, “I don’t know...”

“Would you prefer something else?” Throughout, she had remained oblivious to my misgivings.

“It isn’t the veil.” I crushed the linen between my hands in my frustration. “It’s everything.”

She rescued the delicate fabric and draped it across a chair before sitting down again with the unfinished bodice. “I thought you liked Peisistratus.”

“No one asked me.” Articulating my emotions proved a challenge. “Father and Nestor just stood there in the courtyard and decided. I saw them, and they saw me, and they never once called me over to ask what I thought.”

Helen’s harsh laugh deflated me. “Foolish girl! Listen to you, complaining about the arrangement when you have no idea how fortunate you are. Perhaps you would rather have been outraged and thrown into a chariot like your aunt, or subjected to a spectacle like I was? Peisistratus is handsome and courteous, with a sensible head on his shoulders. He can read and write, and commands a chariot corps. You should be grateful, and thank your father for his consideration.

Her words stung, all the more so because she was right. “I know.” I twisted my fingers in my lap. “But I am not looking forward to it.”

“You’re thinking about the wedding night.” Helen rolled the bodice’s raw edges under and pinned them. “That’s how it is when your first time is rape. It doesn’t make any difference how considerate the second man is. All the old terrors come back. I had to drink retsina on my wedding night.”

How I wished I had brought my wool basket. I felt naked sitting there with nothing to do. “Peisistratus will notice that I’m not a virgin.”

“It isn’t always easy for a man to tell.” She held up the basted bodice to gauge the seams. Next, she would want me to strip down and try on the garment. “Give him enough alcohol to befuddle his wits on his wedding night and he won’t notice a thing.” She was so cold and calculating, weaving her webs like the spider she was. “Rub oil between your thighs beforehand to moisten the way, drink some honeyed wine to calm your nerves, and just let him do whatever he wants.” Helen stood and motioned me to my feet. “Here, let’s see how this fits.”

Stripping to my waist, I tried on the bodice. “What was it like for you?” I winced at the myriad pins pricking my bare skin.

“It was exactly what you would expect when a fourteen-year old girl lies with a man twice her age. Hold out your arms.” She wrapped one of her own girdles around my waist to secure the bodice. “I drank strong wine and rubbed myself with oil as the priestesses advised, and your father tried his best to make me comfortable, but... Hmm, yes, I think that will do.”

I massaged the pinpricks while readjusting my clothing. “Do you love him?”

“There is more than one kind of love.”

“You know what I mean.”

Helen sat down again and selected pale blue thread from her sewing basket. “We are comfortable together. He’s a considerate and good-hearted man who’s never struck me, never abused me or flaunted his concubines in my face. He’s a loving father and an excellent ruler. A woman could not ask for a better husband.” Rare emotion choked her voice, forcing her to pause and collect herself. “It may seem strange to you, but a woman can like a man and be content with him without knowing passionate love. Sometimes it’s better that way.”