Chapter Nineteen

 

 

 

I took a moment to study Priam’s last surviving son. Helenus’s full lips were the only generous feature in a lean face graven with deep furrows. Crow’s feet radiated from his dark, almond-shaped eyes. Gray streaked his braided ponytail. He favored Anatolian clothing: a fringed wrap over a long woolen tunic and red leather shoes with upturned points.

“All these men are competent and trustworthy scribes.” He handed me a tablet to study in the sunlight spilling through the sitting room window. “I recommend Kephalon. Perhaps you will allow me to arrange an interview?”

Palace administration should have been foremost on my mind, but I found it hard to throw myself into the role of dutiful wife. Instead, my attention kept wandering to the frescoes splashed across the wall, the loom behind Helenus, the flies buzzing in through the window—anything to avoid the task at hand.

For some strange reason I could not fathom, Helenus also seemed distracted. Though it took me long enough to notice, at last I did. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Not at all, my lady.”

“You seem like you would rather be elsewhere.”

Helenus indicated the tablet lying forgotten in my hand. “So do you.”

Chastened, I tried harder to focus on the names before me, a task which should not have been so overwhelming to a woman who already knew how to manage a large household. “You choose,” I said at last, glancing away.

“My lady,” he said quietly, “I know you are not happy with him.”

That was an understatement. I hated everything about my husband—his boorish manners, his immaturity, and his inconsiderate lovemaking, but discussing such intimate details with a male servant, even a high-ranking one, was something a queen simply did not do. And Helenus was not just any servant, but a Trojan prince, and brother of the man who had abducted and raped my mother. I forced a smile onto my face. “Marriage is a woman’s lot. It’s something I have to accept and endure.”

“That sounds like something your mother might say.” Helenus’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Hermione, look at me.”

He should not have called me by my name. It was too personal, too familiar, and summoned forth emotions a queen ought to keep private. “I really shouldn’t complain,” I said.

“I am well-acquainted with women who are dissatisfied with him.”

“That doesn’t reassure me.”

“You are not your mother.” His mouth crinkled in a wry smile. “She hid behind walls and veils. That does not seem to be your nature.”

I turned toward the window. There was not much of a view. “Did you know her well?”

“I knew her well enough to like her,” he replied evenly. “I felt sorry for her, seeing how Alaksandu treated her, and how people blamed her for the fighting when she had nothing to do with it. I even asked to marry her, after Alaksandu died.”

Startled, I looked back at him. “You loved her?”

“No, no, it was not like that.” Helenus laced his fingers together, tightening and loosening them; the question seemed to have struck a nerve with him. “We Anatolians practice the custom of levirate marriage, which means that an unmarried man takes his brother’s widow so she is provided for, and his sons with her are his brother’s sons. I asked for your mother because the omens said she must be returned to your father. I meant to restore her to Menelaus.” His chest swelled with a deep sigh. “My father saw right through me, and gave your mother to my older brother. I suppose my intentions were too obvious.”

Clearing his throat, he assumed his businesslike demeanor. “Let me send Kephalon to you,” he said. “I think you will find him competent and pleasant to work with.”

But his willingness to interact presented a welcome diversion from my own dour circumstances. I seized upon it, preferring to leave dry household expenditures and talk of scribes and storerooms for later. “Do you have any family left?” I asked.

“A few half-siblings who fled to Assyria or Hatti, but the others...” Helenus’s voice trailed away. “All my immediate family is dead except for me.”

“You were spared, though.” As he went ashen, I regretted uttering those words. “Forgive me for being so thoughtless.”

Helenus slowly waved aside my apology. “You would not be the first person to comment on it. Agamemnon would have cut my throat, except for one thing.” With an elegant, deliberate finger he tapped his temple. “I am a seer. Tarhunt, the Storm God of Hatti, speaks through me. As such, my person remains sacred, even though I was technically an enemy. So I was allowed to live.”

Shame at having wounded him like this outweighed my surprise at his revelation. “I seem to be saying and doing all the wrong things today.” I extended my hand to him, but he did not take it.

Instead, Helenus turned his head toward the door. “I will send Kephalon to you tomorrow.”

 

*~*~*~*

Pleading severe menstrual discomfort, I tried to avoid the summons, but when my husband’s young manservant returned he advised me that Neoptolemus was in a foul temper and that it was best not to gainsay him.

“And you told him about my condition?” I asked. The hot leather pad pressed against my womb was just starting to work, but the cramp bark tea had not yet taken effect.

Keos looked uncomfortable, as most men did when having to deal with female complaints. Myrmidons were no exception. “Yes, my lady.” A flush crept across his cheeks.

In the end, my husband left me no choice but to attend him. Surely he could not be stupid enough to expect conjugal relations tonight. But no, Keos had said he was angry.

I loathed visiting Neoptolemus’s bedchamber; he had made it a shrine to his deceased father. Neoptolemus’s inlaid bed sat underneath a fresco depicting Achilles dragging Hector’s bleeding corpse behind his chariot, while his father’s childhood shield and spear hung on the wall opposite the door. The wedding kylix sat beside a yellowing boar tusk helmet displayed on a wooden stand. Ghosts haunted that room. I had learned more in the last six weeks about Achilles than Neoptolemus, and found myself having to bite back the urge to complain about the wrongness of it all.

I found my husband drinking strong wine, which did nothing to improve his temper. He was in an outright snit, red-faced and slurring his words. “The Spartan ambassador tells me your cousin just married your brother.” Neoptolemus screwed his mouth into a tight line. “And do you know what else Myron told me? He told me your father gave away your dower lands, your entire inheritance! Agamemnon’s empty-headed daughter is going to be the next queen of Sparta, and Aethiolas...” He slammed his fist down on the inlaid table, rattling his cup and the pitcher. “Damn Menelaus! First he insults me by withholding your hand, and now this.”

So the blow had fallen at last. Not wanting to further rouse his anger, I said nothing.

He swept the table clear. The ceramic cup shattered as it hit the wall, and the pitcher landed on its side. Rich dark wine spattered across the trajectory, and started pooling on the painted stucco. “Did you know about this?”

But he did not give me a chance to answer. Neoptolemus surged from his chair and seized me around the waist. “You bitch! I am your lord and master. You and everything you own belongs to me. Me!”

“Let me go!” I twisted my head away from my husband’s savage kisses, but he did not release me or acknowledge my revulsion. He squeezed my sensitive breast, making me wince.

Neoptolemus hauled me toward the bed, just as he had dragged me away from Aphrodite’s altar, and tore open my dress; the thin linen ripped as easily as onionskin between his strong hands. Gods, no. Please, no, not this. “Stop! I’m bleeding.” I continued to struggle. “Stop!”

Another rough kiss stifled my scream before he shoved me back onto the bed. “You’re hurting me!” I wrenched myself free enough to scrabble away from him, but there was nowhere to go; he had me trapped. Clutching my torn gown closed, I curled into a little ball against the wall. “Don’t touch me!”

Neoptolemus grabbed my wrist and jerked me forward. Then, switching hands, he slapped me across the face—once, twice—striking both cheeks and each time he struck me, his profanity turned the physical blow into something even more reprehensible.

“Your lands are mine!” Merciless fingers twisted my right nipple. I screamed. “Just like your tits and cunt. Mine!”

When he shoved me away from him, I slumped bawling and hiccupping to the mattress, with one hand clasped over my throbbing breast. Even then there was no reprieve. Clutching my hair in his viselike grip, he dragged me forward, over the mattress edge. “Since you’re not going to spread your legs like a dutiful wife, then get off my bed.”

I seized the opportunity to scramble away from him to the washbasin. My face and breasts felt swollen, and I was shaking so violently I had to grab onto the sideboard just to stay upright long enough to splash water onto my burning cheeks. To get away from him was my only thought. Get far, far away before he changed his mind and raped me, menstrual blood and all. I held the ragged ends from my dress together. Let the sentries and servants stare at me, let them whisper about how my husband had treated me, as long as...

“Where do you think you’re going?”

It took all my nerve to turn and look at him. Neoptolemus jabbed a finger at the chair he had vacated. “Go sit down.” He waited for me to obey before snapping at me again. “And stop acting like I forced you. I’ll send you a new dress.”

As though that would take away his actions. Anger rushed through me. “You bastard!” I shrieked. “I had nothing to do with my father’s decision.”

Neoptolemus leapt from the bed, seized the washcloth, and thrust it at me. “I am your husband, and entitled to rule over your lands.” When I did not take the dripping cloth, he shoved it into my chest. “Gods above, women get worked up over such nonsense.”

I took the washcloth, just to have something to hide behind. “Send my father a letter, if it upsets you so.”

“Oh, he’ll hear about it.” His fingers clamped down on my shoulder, as though trying to convince me through his physical strength that he was Menelaus’s equal. “Come back to bed. You can’t leave like this, crying and with your dress hanging open. You’ll set tongues wagging.”

At that moment, I did not care who saw me disheveled and distraught. I loathed the prospect of lingering with him and pretending intimacy where none existed. “No, I hate that fresco over your bed.” There, I had said it. “Achilles has taken over this room. I might as well be married to him.”

A sharply indrawn breath indicated his displeasure. His face clenched, and he knotted his large hands into fists. But he did not strike. His expression betrayed a struggle against the urge to hit me. For a moment, I feared he would, but he somehow managed to master his anger. “You foolish woman. You have no idea what you’re saying. Now shut your mouth and come with me.” So saying, he took my arm and marched me back to the bed.

I climbed onto the bed and curled up facing the wall, but Neoptolemus failed to take the hint. It was as though the last hour had not happened. He nuzzled against my back, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Yes, Achilles dwells in this room, in me. How could he not?”

Neoptolemus exhaled a moist sigh against my temple. “You don’t understand. It’s not enough to be a hero’s son. I have to be Achilles, and be better than him, too. You never feel that way about your mother? I would think you’d have to compete with her.”

“Never. I am my own woman.” I did not want to look at him. Even his apologetic tone nauseated me. “You can’t be Achilles. He was god-touched, born for war, and there are no more wars to fight.”

“That’s not true. Heroes forge their own glory. That’s why they’re heroes,” he said.

Heroes were also their own men, and he did not have that in him. “You shouldn’t have lost your temper with me,” I said. “I have no control over what happens to my dower lands.”

“Of course not.” But I did not believe in his apology, because I knew he did not see that he had done anything wrong. Although my dread had receded with the lowering of his voice, my revulsion remained.

“I’m not feeling well tonight,” I murmured. “Keos must have told you about my impurity. I should sleep in my own bed until it passes.”

Mentioning my moon blood sufficed this time. Neoptolemus released me, grunting his permission; now that his anger was spent, the wine was making him sleepy. “When you feel better, write to your father. Sweet-talk him as women do when they want something, and get him to change his mind.” He swallowed a yawn. “Tell him I would make a good king.”

I crawled from the bed, while searching the room for something I could use to sash my torn gown. Neoptolemus started to snore. I was not going to try to wheedle concessions from my father, or do anything else on my boorish husband’s behalf. Let him be a man and make his complaints through the Spartan ambassador.

 

*~*~*~*

My fragile composure dissolved the moment I entered my darkened apartment and crept on silent feet into the bathroom. There, I fell to my knees on the stucco floor and sobbed soundlessly into my hands. I was not his slave woman to be knocked about and humiliated, but his queen, a daughter of the royal houses of Sparta and Mycenae. How could he dare treat me thus, and then expect me to speak favorably of him to my father?

Tremors shook my body. Had I not been bleeding, he would have forced me. I knew he would next time, for he was coarse and clueless, and of course there would be a next time. I bit down hard on my knuckles to suppress my sobs, not wanting my women to hear me, to come running and see me in such a state.

As the thought formed in my mind, a presence filled the doorway. Alarmed, I clutched my arms over my breasts.

Briseis wore a knowing look on her face. “I was waiting up for you.” On bare feet, she moved closer. “I will order you a hot bath. I know you need one.”

I dragged the back of my hand across one sticky cheek, then the other. “It’s not necessary. He didn’t...”

“But you still feel unclean,” she said. “I can see it.” She placed her lamp on the floor and let herself down onto the low stone ledge beside the privy. “Marriage can be a very unpleasant business. I used to spend many nights lying where you are now, hating my husband and my lot in life.”

I did not want to commiserate with her, not yet, when I could not even face the goddesses upon my altar. “Calling for hot water at this hour will be too much trouble.”

“You will not be able to sleep all wound in knots like this,” she said. “As for making trouble, you are the queen. You have but to give the command and it will be done.”

By now, my handmaidens had awakened and congregated in the doorway with their lamps. Briseis hustled them back to bed. “I will attend your mistress tonight.”

It was less trouble than I had thought to have steaming water brought up from the kitchens, and soon the slave girls were pouring their jugs into the terracotta tubs. Briseis made me surrender the torn shift and step into the bath where she washed my hair and massaged scented oil into my skin. “You should not be doing this,” I said. “You are not a maidservant.”

“I do these things because I choose to,” she answered. Her hands worked hard and deep, loosening knotted muscles. “There are letters for you. Keos delivered them after you left.”

Afterward, she dressed me in a clean shift. Chamomile tea awaited me in the sitting room. Briseis had left the letters on my chair. I had no desire to read them. Apathy surged through me.

I knew it was the wrong thing to do. Moping would accomplish nothing but to send me deeper into a morass of frustration and dread. Neoptolemus would violate me again in his anger and drunkenness, exercising a husband’s right over his wife. I either had to find some way to dissuade him, or to accept my lot and lie submissively under him.

I glanced down on the first letter with its familiar seal. Menelaus. I had no wish to suffer through his feeble solicitudes and excuses, and flipped the sealed letter against the wall. The second letter bore my mother’s seal. I should have tossed that one against the wall, too, but even from a distance my mother somehow commanded my attention. I broke the scarlet wax with my fingernail.

Helen showered me with recipes, spells, and remedies to help me conceive. “I pray that by the time you receive this letter, you will not need these measures,” she said, “but if you are not already with child, do as your mother says and undo all the knots in your bedchamber. Rub mandrake root on your kourotrophoi, avoid sage and mint, as these will expel the seed from your womb, and remember to offer Eleuthia and Artemis the prayers I am sending with this letter.”

There was more, much more, but she could not have chosen a worse time to send me her recipes and incantations. Any maternal aspirations I might have had after the wedding night now stained the menstrual linen between my thighs.

I set the letter aside. Maybe a night’s rest would let me think more clearly about matters.

Apollo’s sacred seal on the next letter gave me a start. So did seeing my cousin’s steady and articulate hand.

“My dearest Hermione, I am well enough to sit down and write my own letters, although Didymus cautions me not to overexert my strength. I dispatched messages to Pylades and your father this afternoon. You are the only other person in this world to whom I want to write.

“I heard about your abduction and marriage. I find it impossible to believe that Nestor’s son did not value you enough to pursue you. Believe me, I would have gone to the very end of the world to get you back.” I raised my hand to my mouth. Cruel fate that Orestes had not been there! “Menelaus assures me that your husband treats you well. Neoptolemus had better love and honor you, because if he mistreats you I will either haunt him as a shade or land a Mycenaean host on his shore and kill him myself.”

In the next line, he apologized for his brusqueness. “Forgive me for sounding like such an insolent brute. I am about to stand trial, and am terribly anxious, or I would never snap at you like this. And since this may be the very last time I ever write to you or anyone else, there are things I do not want to leave unsaid.”

Briseis noticed my growing distress from her place nearby, the footstool where she sat spinning wool. “Do not tax yourself, whatever it is. It can wait until later.”

Except that later would be too late.

I resumed reading to discover that Orestes had changed the subject. “I will have to meet the Erinyes where they dwell, deep under the earth. Not everyone survives that ordeal, because when a guilty man has truly offended the gods, then the Erinyes devour his substance and cast his shade down into Tartarus. If that is to be my fate, then let the double curses on our house go with me. I will go consenting. I have already made my funeral arrangements. Pylades will rule as king at Mycenae. It is the least I can do for him after dragging him down with me.

“I am prepared for this, and will accept whatever the outcome may be. And you will be with me, just as you have always been with me, watching over me every moment since we last saw each other. I am yours, until the waters of Lethe steal away my memories of you. Orestes.”

Orestes did not have to tell me what he was about to face, for any woman who had ever entered a sacred cave understood. Now the man who slew his mother must return to the womb to confront the primordial female powers he had so offended, and those remorseless goddesses would either absolve or devour him. I held out little hope that it would be the former. Men knew better than to intrude in those places. Few ever emerged whole.

“Briseis, I need writing materials.”

She stopped the spindle in her hands. “You need to rest.”

I vehemently shook my head. “No, I need writing materials. Orestes cannot wait.”

Briseis brought me the papyrus and cuttlefish ink the Spartan ambassador had brought as gifts. Waiting for her to gather the materials gave me space to think. This letter would go straight to Delphi. Let others say what they would. Orestes was my kinsman. I should not need permission to send him a farewell message.

“Dearest Orestes,” I wrote, “let swift Hermes deliver this in time for you to read it. I am not unhappy here in Epirus.” I hesitated over writing such a boldfaced lie, but then swallowed my misgivings; it was for his own good. “Right now, my only tears are for you. I am very glad you are ready to face your trial. It will mean an end to your torment, and I have no doubt that you will meet the Erinyes with all the courage and conviction you have shown these many long years.

“Other men would have fled abroad or denied their crime, but not you, because there is neither falsehood nor cowardice in you.” Each word cost me heartache, and my hand started shaking. The Erinyes would devour Orestes. I had to set down the stylus and pull a shuddering breath.

“Hermione,” Briseis began.

“Not yet.” I had to finish, no matter what. Taking a deep breath, I reached for more ink. “I wish with all my heart I could be with you, and hold your hand and go with you into the darkness. Should I hear that the Erinyes refused to absolve you, I will weep bitter tears because my heart is breaking.” And those were not simply words. My heart truly was breaking. “I am always your loving cousin, Hermione.”