6

Homecoming

THE MOON SENT SILVERY beams skittering across the black surface of the River Eurotas as our slaves heaved against the oars and drove the royal barge toward Sparta. Father paced agitatedly across the deck, sometimes pausing and leaning against a rail, staring down into the dark water.

By the time the boatmen had steered the barge toward the pylons where the royal boats were tied up, something had changed in him. The shock had worn off, pushed aside by a seething anger. He stalked silently into the palace. Guards shook off their drowsiness and anxiously watched the king. Servants, warned of his return, stumbled from their beds. King Menelaus strode through the palace, saying nothing.

He peered into my brother’s room and found it empty. “Pleisthenes?” he called softly, and leaned down to touch the fleeces where his son had slept. “Pleisthenes?”

He checked the room adjoining it Aethra, the former queen and now the boy’s nurse.

Empty.

I followed behind him, stepping softly, trying to make no noise. I had to know how he would react, had to see it with my own eyes. Finally he reached the marital chamber that he had shared for more than a dozen years with my mother. He stared at the empty bed. “Helen,” he said, as softly as he had called out to his little son. Then, louder, “Helen!” Of course there was no reply. “Helen!” he shouted. “Helen!” He was answered by silence. “Helen! Helen!” Now he was roaring, so loudly that I put my fingers in my ears. “HELEN! HELEN!”

Menelaus burst out of the bedchamber and rushed down the hall, still shouting my mother’s name. The guards stood stiffly, wincing as he bellowed, frightened by his terrible anger. Still I hurried after him, staying out of his sight, though he saw nothing but his own red rage.

Finally he charged out of the palace courtyard like an enraged bull and bolted toward the treasure house. I didn’t try to follow him there. It would be just as awful, I knew. I heard him shouting for Pentheus, his vizier. But Pentheus was long gone, surely never to return to shoulder the blame that would be heaped on him.

The night wore on and morning came. At some point I slept a little, though I’m not sure Father did. When the servants set out a meal at midday, he came to the table, stared at the food with haggard eyes, ate little, but drank a quantity of wine. Still he said nothing. Sometimes he wept. Sometimes he actually laughed, though I didn’t know at what—there was no merriment in it. I wondered if my father had gone mad.

I continued to tiptoe around him, not knowing what to do. Then the madness left him as suddenly as it had come. He called for a servant and ordered him to have his ship prepared for a voyage.

Finally he called for me.

“We’re going to Mycenae, to King Agamemnon and Queen Clytemnestra,” he said. “You will stay with your aunt and cousins, and your uncle and I will go to all of Helen’s rejected suitors and demand that they make good on their oath. Then we will go to Troy and bring your mother home.”

I collected a few things to take with me, expecting a rather short journey, though Zethus had warned me that it might not be. I decided to take my mother’s silver spindle, and then added the tiny carved ship Zethus had given me. None of my other possessions held any deep meaning.

I was glad to be leaving our palace at Sparta, with its vast, echoing chambers, suddenly filled only with sadness, misery, and deep anger. I began to look forward to the journey. For a long time I had wished to travel on my father’s great ship. I would see my aunt and cousins again. I had few friends my own age in Sparta. Electra and Chrysothemis paid no attention to me, but I got along well enough with Iphigenia, though she was awfully vain. The only cousin I truly liked was Orestes.

With a company of guards and servants, we traveled down the river to Gythion and boarded Father’s royal ship. Seamen swarmed the deck, preparing for the journey. Slaves hauled up the great anchor stones that dragged on the sea floor. The rowers on their benches bent to their oars, and the ship moved slowly away from shore. When we reached open water, the great white sail was hoisted and caught the wind. The ship gathered speed, skimming the whitecaps, throwing out sparkling necklaces of foam. We sailed southward first, crossed the gulf, and then turned northward and followed the coast of the Peloponnese.

Father’s broad brow was dark and his manner brooding. We spoke little. At sunset the sail was lowered and the rowers took us toward the beach. The anchor stones were let down, and we went ashore. Slaves put up sleeping shelters, built fires to keep wild animals at bay, and prepared a meal. A few musicians and the storyteller who traveled with us tried to entertain us, but their songs and stories brought Father no pleasure. I watched him pace the dark beach restlessly, until at last sleep overtook us. The next morning we continued our journey.

After two more days the ship arrived at a rocky shore below the walled city of Tiryns, built high up on a hill. Father ordered runners to make their way overland from Tiryns to Mycenae with a message for King Agamemnon. “Tell him that King Menelaus has come with his daughter, Princess Hermione, but without his wife, Queen Helen of Sparta.”

 

A BLAST OF TRUMPETS announced the arrival of King Agamemnon at Tiryns. My father and my uncle greeted each other first as kings and then as brothers. I could easily read their expressions, even if I couldn’t hear the actual words they exchanged, as my father explained what had happened: wife, son, and treasure—all gone, stolen by the Trojan prince. Father was gesturing wildly. Agamemnon’s brow furrowed deeply. He asked questions, and Father replied, his voice rising to a shout. Shaking of heads, nods, and finally the two brothers embraced and walked together to where I was waiting.

“Come, Hermione,” Agamemnon said in a gruff voice, so much deeper than my father’s. “We will go to the citadel to meet Clytemnestra and your cousins.”

“I’m ready,” I said.

A carrying chair was brought from the ship by slaves who bore the poles on their shoulders. Most of the time I preferred to walk rather than to be jolted in a chair, but when my feet were sore from the rough path, I willingly climbed in and let myself be carried. The great citadel loomed over the city of Mycenae. We entered through the Lion Gate, where two standing lionesses were carved into the rock. Clytemnestra and her children came out to greet us, bringing us figs recently picked and still warm from the sun. Iphigenia held my hand, and Orestes smiled at me sympathetically. Baths had been prepared for us, and after sleeping quarters had been arranged and I’d eaten and rested, Clytemnestra sent my cousins away and sat down by me.

“All right, Hermione, tell me what happened. Spare no detail.”

And so I did, starting with the arrival of Prince Paris, how my parents extended to him every hospitality, how it soon became apparent to everyone that Paris had fallen in love with my mother.

“And King Menelaus?” Clytemnestra demanded. “Your father noticed none of this?”

I shook my head and stared at my feet in the new sandals my aunt had given me. “None of it,” I admitted. “He was blind to it all.”

“Fool!” Clytemnestra muttered. “I could have predicted this,” she said darkly. “It might have been prevented if Menelaus had simply paid attention.” She sighed. “And now he wants help to get Helen back. In my opinion, she made her choice and she should stay in Troy, if they’ll keep her.”

“Oh, no,” I protested. “It wasn’t my mother’s choice. Paris abducted her. I’m sure of it.”

Clytemnestra looked at me with a small smile and shook her head. “It pains me to tell you this, Hermione, but you’re wrong. I know my sister. Helen went willingly.”

Her reply upset me deeply, and I burst into tears. If what my aunt said was true, my mother had truly abandoned me. I could not forgive her.

 

MENELAUS AND AGAMEMNON MADE their plans. First they would send an embassy to King Priam and demand the return of Queen Helen and of the treasure stolen from Sparta.

“And if Priam refuses?” Menelaus asked.

“He’s a proud and stubborn old man,” Agamemnon said. “It’s likely he will refuse. And when he does, then we will go to every man who took the oath on the bloody pieces of the horse that Tyndareus sacrificed. I’ll remind them that by stealing Helen, Prince Paris has insulted every man in Greece. Who can be confident that his wife will be safe?”

Agamemnon and Menelaus had no doubt that the Greek princes would honor their oath with pledges of ships and warriors. “But first,” my father said, “we must consult the oracle at Delphi and ask if she means for us to proceed.” Agamemnon agreed.

The two men left soon after, and before the quarter moon had turned full, they had returned, firm in their resolve. “We will begin preparations now,” Agamemnon said.

Three days later, my father went off to find Nestor, king of Pylos, to ask for his help. Nestor had seen more than a hundred winters, but even at his great age he was much admired for his bravery and his speaking abilities. Menelaus trusted him to persuade the Greek leaders and soon brought him to Mycenae. How ancient Nestor looked, with a long white beard that nearly covered his chest! Agamemnon would join Nestor and Menelaus in their next journey, to Ithaca to convince Odysseus that he, too, must be a part of this.

“You watch, Hermione,” Clytemnestra muttered when the men left for Ithaca. “I know Odysseus, and he’s a shrewd one. He and his wife, Penelope, have a little son, Telemachus. Odysseus will not want to leave his comfortable home to make war on Troy, and he’s sure to figure out some way to avoid his responsibility.”

Clytemnestra was right. Menelaus, Agamemnon, and old Nestor came back from Ithaca with an extraordinary story. Odysseus had heard the three kings were coming, and he had guessed what they wanted. He pretended to be mad, putting on quite a performance, according to my father.

“He dressed as a peasant,” Menelaus told us, “and as soon as he heard that we had arrived he began plowing a field with an ox and an ass yoked together, which everyone knows will not work. He sowed handfuls of salt in the furrows instead of seed, and he chattered away in nonsense, pretending not to recognize us. We knew it was an act, but we had to prove it. Penelope was standing nearby with little Telemachus in her arms. I whispered to one of our attendants to seize the infant and set him in the furrow in front of the plow. No sane man would allow his only son to be killed, and as expected, wily Odysseus reined in his mismatched team, giving himself away. Telemachus was spared, and Odysseus has to join in our mission, whether he wants to or not.”

The days passed; the moon waxed and waned. King Priam sent his answer: Queen Helen would remain in Troy. Paris would not let her go.

While my father and my uncle traveled through the countryside, assembling their supporters, I stayed in Mycenae with Clytemnestra and my cousins. Iphigenia and I spent our time with our tutors, learning to write and do sums, which I enjoyed much more than my cousin did. Instructed by Agamemnon’s round-faced, big-bellied court minstrel, I practiced on the lyre, the instrument my mother had played so skillfully.

When our fathers returned from amassing still more ships and soldiers for their mission to Troy, we welcomed them with feasts and entertainment—I played the lyre, not nearly as well as my mother; Iphigenia sang sweetly with her two sisters, and Orestes recited poetry in a rich, melodious voice that had not yet begun to change from a boy’s to a man’s.

Odysseus was with them, unhappy to be there, already missing his wife and son. I could guess how he felt: just as Father must have felt. All of us ached for those who should have been with us. I missed my mother. Even more, I missed little Pleisthenes.

“What do you suppose he’s doing?” I wondered aloud.

“Probably learning to play knucklebones,” Iphigenia said. “Or whatever games Trojan children play.”

I didn’t want to know what my mother was doing, what her life was like in Troy, if she was happy with Paris, if she thought about me. I tried not to dwell on it, and yet it was almost always on my mind.

Iphigenia’s maidservant was fixing my cousin’s hair in a new style, arranging little curls across her forehead. “What do you think, Hermione? Do you like it this way? Or is it better the old way, pulled back with combs?”

“Either one is nice,” I said, trying hard to hide my envy of her beautiful hair. No one even attempted to do anything clever with my wild red locks.

All day and into the night the men discussed plans for their mission to Troy. I preferred to sit and listen to their talk when I could no longer bear to be around Iphigenia and her hairstyles and carnation-scented perfumes and cosmetics and clothes. Or her questions about whether or not I had become a woman yet. I had not. That bothered me enough without being asked about it continually.

I usually felt more at ease with her brother, Orestes. And since Orestes liked to sit with the men in their planning sessions, I often sat nearby—quietly, and out of the way, of course. Greek women were not usually included in such discussions, but since I was not yet “a woman,” as Iphigenia constantly reminded me, no one objected. They might not have even noticed that I was there. Menelaus, as I have pointed out, was not the most observant person. And now he was especially distracted. It had been months since we’d walked together into the countryside and we’d talked about the lives of the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus.

The two kings pored over maps of Greece and had scribes keep an accounting of which princes had pledged to join the mission and who had yet to be persuaded, calculating how many ships and soldiers each would provide. Menestheus, who’d replaced Theseus, my mother’s childhood abductor, as king of Athens, pledged fifty ships. The king of Cyprus sent a handsome breastplate for Agamemnon and a promise of fifty ships. One by one the pledges came from all around Greece.

I happened to be present when they talked about Achilles.

“Calchas has already foretold that we can’t defeat Troy without the help of brave Achilles,” Agamemnon reminded Menelaus. Calchas was a seer for whom the men had great respect. And they had even more profound respect for Achilles, son of Peleus, the king of Phthia, home of the Myrmidons, the fiercest warriors in all of Greece. There was a rumor that Achilles’ mother, Thetis, the sea goddess, didn’t want her son to join the mission to Troy, knowing that he would not return alive, and she was ready to go to unusual lengths to stop him.

“I’ll talk to him,” old Nestor told Menelaus. “You know how persuasive I am.” He turned to Odysseus. “And you’ll come with me, my friend. We’ll have Achilles’ agreement in no time, I assure you.”

White-bearded Nestor and short-legged Odysseus set off together and a number of days later returned with Achilles’ promise to lead his army of Myrmidons to Troy. His cousin and closest companion, Patroclus, would be with him.

The plans were ready. Ships would gather at Aulis, a wide beach in a large bay between two rocky peninsulas and sheltered by steep cliffs. Father showed me the crude map he’d drawn. With his finger he traced the route they’d follow from Aulis, sailing across the Chief Sea to Troy.

“We must pray that Aeolus sends us strong winds,” Father said. “We can be there in three days.”

 

THE LEAVE-TAKING WAS VERY hard. Iphigenia and her older sisters, Electra and Chrysothemis, were weeping. Orestes strutted around, proud to count himself among the men leaving home to go to war, though he was barely thirteen. I asked to go too and was laughed at by everyone. Orestes laughed even harder than the rest. “Girls don’t go to war! They do not fight!”

But Menelaus didn’t laugh at me. He patted my red curls and smiled fondly. “I need you to stay here and wait for me, daughter,” he said. “And I promise that I will bring your mother home again.”

“You swear it?” I asked tearfully.

“I swear it, Hermione.”

I believed him.