11
ON THE FOURTH MORNING after Agamemnon agreed to send Astynome home, he dispatched two heralds to inform Achilles that he must now surrender Hippodameia to him. With the heralds went Agamemnon’s son, my cousin Orestes. And Orestes, having observed the close friendship I’d developed with the two captive girls, asked me to accompany him to Achilles’ tents. I leaped at the chance.
Once a shy boy with a sweet smile and a love of poetry, Orestes had grown into a handsome young man with broad shoulders, strong arms, and well-muscled calves. He served as a lieutenant under his father’s command and was known among the men as a skillful archer. His smile was as winning as ever, and when he recited poetry or sang the songs of our faraway country, my heart sang too. Though often in each other’s company, we were seldom alone. Nevertheless, I knew that I loved him.
I probably fell in love with Orestes when we were children. While we were mere infants, our grandfather, Tyndareus, king of Sparta, had promised me to Orestes. After Tyndareus died, my mother told me about the promise he’d made. She said she’d speak of it again when I was older and ready for marriage, but she left with Paris before we had that conversation. It was something I had always known and taken for granted but hadn’t thought about much. Until now.
Many nights I dreamed of becoming Orestes’ wife. But we were at war. Death lay all around us. This was not the time to speak of marriage, or even to think of a life together. Yet I did think of it, imagining Orestes’ lips on mine, my fingers tracing his smooth brow. I wanted to believe that he loved me, too, though we had never said the words. Our grandfather’s pledge had not been mentioned. I wasn’t sure he even knew of it.
Instead of the future, we talked about the past, things we remembered from our childhood. Pleisthenes was always on my mind, and I confided to Orestes how deeply I yearned to see my little brother again. Orestes spoke often about his best friend, Pylades, son of his father’s friend, King Strophius, and fondly recalled the months they’d spent together as children in Krisa at the foot of Mount Parnassus. He’d give anything, he’d told me, to have Pylades fighting by his side at Troy.
“Pylades was ready to come,” Orestes said now, as we walked along the beach toward Achilles’ tents. The dark sea was like a wild beast that day, the surf hammering the shore. “His father was willing. But his mother made offerings to Artemis, and the goddess of the hunt saw to it that Pylades was gored in the thigh while hunting wild boar. Now he must walk with a stick.”
We’d reached the camp of the Myrmidons and paused to consider our next step. “I’ll talk to Achilles,” Orestes said. “You see to Hippodameia. I have no idea how she’ll feel about making this change.”
“I’ll do as you ask,” I said, “but I do have an idea of how she’ll feel. I’ve spent enough time with her to know that she’s fallen in love with Achilles. She won’t want to leave him.”
“Astynome fell in love with Agamemnon too. I would not have expected the captives to fall in love with their captors,” Orestes said. “Would you?”
“Who can predict such things?” I had first met Achilles when I went with Iphigenia to what she thought was to be her wedding and nearly turned out to be her death. He was rugged, powerful, fearless—and beautiful. Nine years later, he hadn’t changed. He was still all the things that Iphigenia had loved and now Hippodameia loved too. “What I can predict, though, is that Achilles is going to be angry.”
“‘Furious’ is probably more accurate.” Orestes sighed. “All right, let’s do what we were sent to do.” He signaled for the heralds to announce our presence.
Achilles burst from his tent. “Why have you come here?” he demanded, his face close to Orestes’. “What do you want?”
Orestes held his ground and didn’t allow Achilles to force him to step back. “I’ve been sent by my father, King Agamemnon, to speak to you on a personal matter.”
Achilles turned his burning glare on me. “And you, Hermione? Why are you here?”
I managed a weak smile. “To visit with Hippodameia.”
He gestured with his thumb. “Go in, then,” he ordered.
Hippodameia seemed glad to see me. I suggested that we go out walking. I wanted to get her away from the rage that was sure to erupt at any moment. She was agreeable, and we were preparing to leave—but first she wanted to show me the veil she’d almost finished weaving. I had acted too slowly, and now it was too late.
“I refuse!” we heard Achilles roar. “She is mine, and I will not give her up!” Every word was clear.
Hippodameia’s eyes widened, and she looked at me for an explanation. Orestes’ words were muffled, but his tone sounded calm and reasonable. “What are they talking about?” she whispered.
Before I could answer, there was another roar from outside the warrior’s tent. “I will keep her, and I will take that message to Agamemnon myself!”
“It’s me they’re talking about, isn’t it?” Hippodameia said, her voice unsteady.
I nodded. “Agamemnon has agreed to send Astynome back to her father, Chryses, to stop Apollo from killing our men. Now Agamemnon wants you in Astynome’s place.”
“I won’t go,” Hippodameia said, suddenly stubborn.
“King Agamemnon demands it.”
“He can demand whatever he wishes.” She spoke calmly, her voice strong with resolve. “I won’t go. I’ll kill myself.”
I gaped at her, stunned. There were no tears in her lovely blue eyes, no hysterics in her voice. I believed she would do as she threatened. Afraid that she might do something terrible right then—were there any knives around, a sword that she might plunge into her own breast?—I seized Hippodameia’s soft white hands.
“No! No!” I cried. “Please listen to me, dear friend, and come with me now. Agamemnon will be kind to you, I’m certain of that. Astynome doesn’t want to leave either, and I’m sure something can be arranged. If you want to stay with Achilles, you’ll be returned to him, just as soon as Chryses agrees to allow his daughter to come back. Then everything will be right again.”
I continued coaxing and pleading, having no idea if the peaceful solution I promised her was possible.
Achilles stormed into Hippodameia’s quarters, followed by Orestes. “Go! Take her, then!” Achilles growled, his face dark with murderous fury. “But pay the price for it as you lose your greatest warrior!” He rushed out again without even a word to poor Hippodameia.
Orestes and I exchanged worried glances. His lips were pressed in a tight line. “We must go, then,” he said. “I’m sorry, Hippodameia.”
“I told her that a solution could be found,” I put in.
Orestes hesitated. “Maybe so.”
We began the long walk up the beach to Agamemnon’s tent, Hippodameia between us, her head down and her footsteps lagging. “This must be very painful for you,” I ventured, wondering if she was still thinking of killing herself and what could be done to keep her from it.
“It’s in the hands of the gods,” she said, staring at the ground. “And one can’t defy the gods. I was captured on my wedding day, still a virgin. I expected the worst when Achilles brought me here, the spoils of war who meant no more to him than anything else he had seized. But he has treated me with great kindness. I know that he cares for me, even if he doesn’t love me yet.”
“But you believe that someday he will?”
“It’s my greatest hope! The person he loves more than anyone, more even than his son, Pyrrhus, is his cousin, Patroclus,” Hippodameia said. “Achilles eats with Patroclus, drinks with him, fights beside him, stays up talking with him throughout the night. Patroclus, too, is kindhearted—he visited me daily and consoled me when I found myself alone and a prisoner of the man who murdered everyone in my family. He says that Achilles is sure to fall in love with me and will someday want to make me his wife. Patroclus promised to provide our wedding feast with days of singing and dancing and roasted meats and fine wine and honey cakes, after the war ends.”
Hippodameia smiled, thinking of the glorious future that would one day be hers. She described such a lovely scene that for her sake I wanted it to be true. “I’m sure Agamemnon won’t harm you in any way.” Even as I spoke the words, I hoped I was right. I was never quite sure how my uncle would behave.
Before we reached the king’s tents, Achilles, swift runner that he was, raced past us, shouting for Agamemnon. A crowd gathered quickly; I spotted Pyrrhus on the edge of it, sneering as usual. Orestes and I with Hippodameia between us made our way through the crowd toward the king’s tent, the largest and most luxurious in the Greek encampment. Agamemnon emerged with brow furrowed, fists on hips, hard jaw jutting. “You called for me, Achilles?”
The argument quickly reached white heat. Agamemnon demanded his prize now, and Achilles shouted that Agamemnon—“the greediest man alive, armored in shamelessness”—must wait, because all the plunder seized from the conquered had already been divided among the warriors and could not be reclaimed.
Agamemnon’s eyes blazed with anger. “Do not dare to cheat me, Achilles! You, the most violent man alive!”
Achilles shot back, “I have no reason to be here on this miserable beach! The Trojans never did me any harm! No, I followed you, to please you, to fight for you and win your honor back.” Achilles turned abruptly to my father, who stood helplessly to one side. “And you, Menelaus, you dog face! What do you care? You look neither right nor left but seize everything you want, and now you’re threatening to take away my lovely girl, the prize I deserve!”
Achilles wheeled again on Agamemnon. “Whenever my men sack some rich Trojan city, they are the ones who take the brunt of the savage fighting. But when it’s time to divide the plunder, you step forward and seize the lion’s share, and I return to my ships clutching some pitiable scrap, some pittance you’ve allowed me. Well, I’ve had enough! I’m taking my men and my ships and returning to Phthia.”
“Go, then!” Agamemnon bellowed. “I won’t beg you to stay! You are less than nothing to me.”
Achilles reached for his sword and whipped it from its sheath. Orestes leaped forward to stop the flashing blade. Pyrrhus smiled, a nasty look in his eyes. I gasped and cried out, “No!”
In that instant Zeus’s daughter Athena in her helmet and breastplate swept down from the heavens. The goddess of wisdom and war seized Achilles by his hair and ordered him to put up his sword. “Stop fighting, both of you,” I heard her say. In the same instant she was gone, soaring back to Mount Olympus. Everyone looked puzzled. It all happened in less than a heartbeat. Had I really seen her?
Achilles sheathed his sword, but his anger still boiled. He roared insults, calling Agamemnon “a coward with dog’s eyes” and “a fawn’s heart who spends his time in his tents instead of on the field of battle.” Nestor emerged from the crowd and tried to talk sense to the two wrathful men, but neither wanted to listen to the old sage’s words.
Achilles stalked off. Agamemnon ordered a fast ship to be hauled down to the sea with gifts for Chryses and ten sacred bulls for a sacrifice to the gods. Odysseus took the helm, and beautiful Astynome, face streaked with tears, stepped aboard. Twenty of the strongest oarsmen sped the priest’s daughter on her way.
Agamemnon turned to Hippodameia, who waited nervously nearby, and greeted his new mistress. “Welcome, my lovely girl,” he said in a tone as sweet as honey. Hippodameia smiled up at him with a quivering lip, her head held high, and followed a servant to her new quarters.
And Achilles, the mightiest of warriors, striding back to his tents in the thickening darkness, vowed to fight no more. Pyrrhus turned and looked back, his burning eyes fixed on me.