30
THERE HAD ONCE BEEN a contest between Poseidon, god of the oceans, and Athena, goddess of wisdom. Both wanted to be the patron of the beautiful city ruled by King Cecrops, who had decreed that each must offer a single gift and let the citizens choose. Poseidon struck the ground with his trident, and a spring flowed forth, symbolizing the power of the sea. Athena planted an olive tree, a gift that would provide food, oil, and wood, symbolizing peace and prosperity. The people wisely chose the olive tree and named their city Athens in her honor.
I loved that story, told to me when I was a child at my father’s knee. Now we arrived in the gleaming city that had previously existed only in my imagination. Athens lay in a fertile valley green with olive groves, vineyards, and fields of grain. Within its thick walls Athens appeared well kept and prosperous, unlike Mycenae, where a pall of death now lay over the city.
We were immediately caught up in a swirl of activity in the agora, the sprawling marketplace. Vendors stood by their small booths with folded arms and wide smiles, inviting prospective customers to purchase baskets of barley and jars of wine to offer the gods. When a grizzled old fellow approached us with cages made of twigs and filled with songbirds, I recognized Hermes.
“King Menestheus knows you’re here,” he said. “You’ll receive a warm welcome from him.” The messenger god/bird seller disappeared, leaving the twittering birds behind.
The Acropolis, a sheer-sided rock plateau, rose starkly above a sloping hillside. Carrying the bird cages and offerings of barley and wine, we climbed a steep path and long flights of stairs that brought us finally to an enormous double gate and guardhouse. At the shrine of Athena in a large open square Ardeste unlatched the cage doors, and the birds flew off in a flutter of wings and feathers. We tossed handfuls of grain into the air and tipped a few drops of wine on the ground, praying for the safe return of Orestes, Pylades, and Iphigenia.
The royal palace stood outlined against the startling blue of a cloudless sky. Heralds announced our arrival to King Menestheus, and a handsome man with a dark beard trimmed to a point came out to greet us. “Hermione of Sparta! Electra of Mycenae! It was my honor to call myself friend to both your fathers and to serve with them in Troy as commander of the Athenian fleet. And I remain a great admirer of your mother,” he added, embracing me warmly as though we were already well acquainted.
The king led us through the magnificent megaron painted with lively battle scenes and into a smaller room opening onto a broad terrace. Fruit trees displayed new blossoms. Thick carpets covered benches and chairs, and servants poured wine from golden ewers and offered platters of sweets. It had been a long time since I’d enjoyed such luxury. I felt embarrassed by the condition of my well-worn peplos.
The conversation proceeded pleasantly, avoiding all serious subjects, until Electra, her palms pressed together, bent toward King Menestheus and spoke earnestly for us both. “We’ve come to Athens with the hope of finding my brother, Orestes, and his friend, Pylades,” she said. “They’ve been sent by Apollo to retrieve an image of Artemis from the shrine in Tauris where my sister Iphigenia has been kept for years by the Taurians. We pray that she’ll be rescued and they’ll bring her here. Have you had any word of them?”
The smiling Menestheus also turned serious, drumming his fingers on an ebony table. “I know about this. Orestes and Pylades stopped here on their way to Tauris.” He looked at me, eyebrows raised in a question. “I take it you have more than just a cousinly interest in Orestes? I remember seeing the two of you often in each other’s company in the encampment at Troy.”
I felt myself blushing and lowered my gaze. “We planned to marry.”
“But Menelaus had other plans for you, am I correct? And married you to Achilles’ son, Pyrrhus?”
“He did, against my wishes. But Pyrrhus insulted the oracle at Delphi, and he was killed by one of Apollo’s priests.”
“I know about that, too. Sooner or later we learn about everything of importance that happens in Greece. But Orestes has been driven mad by the furies, his mind destroyed. He’s become a different person from the young man I knew and admired at Troy.”
“It’s true,” Electra said. “He might not even recognize Hermione.”
“But I believe that once I see him, my love will restore him.” I covered my eyes with my hands, unable to continue.
“So you believe in the curative powers of love!” Menestheus sighed. “I don’t doubt that you can do that. But first he must return here to Athens with the sacred image, and—we hope—with Iphigenia as well.”
“And Pylades,” Electra murmured.
“Of course, with Pylades. A brave man. His mother was determined that he would not go to Troy and risk death. He walks with a stick, but that hasn’t diminished his courage. I loaned them a ship and fifty oarsmen and sacrificed three fine oxen to Apollo for their expedition. And now all we can do is wait.”
“You are most generous, my lord! But have you heard anything since they sailed from here? Any messages, or word of any kind?” I cried. “Because, as you said, sooner or later you learn everything that happens in Greece.”
“Perhaps this is still ‘sooner’ and we must wait a while longer for ‘later.’”
“Would it be possible to send another ship with a few men onboard,” I asked desperately, “to offer help, if it’s needed?”
“I can’t risk any more men or ships against the Taurians, Hermione. They’re a cruel people.”
I heard the slight impatience in Menestheus’s voice, but I could not give up, even at the risk of annoying him. “We came here in a small boat, not big enough to undertake such a long voyage. But if you would agree to lend me a larger ship and enough rowers, I’m sure my friend Leucus would serve as captain when he comes back from Sminthos. He was a captain in Pyrrhus’s fleet, and he’s been a great help to me. Zethus, too, would be willing to sail to Tauris, and Asius, who was once Orestes’ charioteer. That would be enough, surely!”
It seemed so clear to me what should be done—why couldn’t Menestheus see it as well? But his answer was no. I tried every way I knew, but I couldn’t shake him from that decision.
He did, however, offer the hospitality of his palace. “It would be my pleasure for you and Electra and your friends to stay here as guests of my wife, Queen Clymene, and me for as long as you wish. And I promise to do everything I can to get news of Orestes and Pylades and Iphigenia.”
My friends and I settled into a separate wing of the beautiful palace overlooking the city. Queen Clymene, a woman with a warm heart and a homely face, did everything to make us comfortable. I wondered at first how Menestheus could have married such a plain-looking woman—square jawed, her small eyes set too close together—when he’d once been in love with Helen of Sparta. But perhaps he’d been wise enough to recognize early that a warm heart is worth far more than all the world’s beauty, and I admired him all the more for it.
Queen Clymene furnished us with looms and shuttles, and during the cool mornings her daughters and daughters-in-law joined us with their servants to spin wool while children raced in and out, shouting noisily, or played quietly beside us. In the afternoons Electra and I made the long walk from the Acropolis down to the agora. We wandered through the marketplace, examining scarabs from Egypt, wine jars from Canaan, tin ware and other goods brought by ship to the port of Piraeus. Sometimes we visited the Kerameikos, where the potters produced their excellent wares, and we always made offerings for the safe return of Orestes, Pylades, and Iphigenia at the shrines on the banks of the Eridanos.
In the evenings the king and queen entertained us at lavish banquets with spit-roasted meats, bread still warm from the ovens, and rich red wine from nearby vineyards. The king’s four sons and their wives, and his four daughters and their husbands, along with numerous young children, all made us feel welcome. Musicians played, and poets recited stories about the lives of the gods, and afterward we retired to beds piled with soft fleeces.
I had fled from Pharsalos when the days were growing short and the nights long and bitterly cold. I had endured wintry days traveling on muddy roads and crossing wind-whipped seas and suffered through frigid nights trying to keep warm on musty fleeces. Now the days were mild, the air sweetly perfumed. Everything seemed fresh and new. I should have been content, but of course I was not. I was restless. If I were a man, I thought, I’d hire a ship and oarsmen and sail to Tauris myself. But a woman couldn’t do such a thing.
“I must be lacking in courage,” I grumbled to Electra, “or I’d smuggle myself aboard a ship as I did at Aulis when I sailed to Troy with the concubines.”
“I hadn’t heard about that!” Electra cried, and so I entertained the queen and her daughters and daughters-in-law with stories of my early adventures on the beach at Troy until they were weak with laughter.
Throughout the lengthening days of spring Electra and I wove glistening wool and soft linen for new gowns and tunics, and veils of rare wild silk, and we talked about the feasts we’d have when our lovers returned. But at night on our fleeces we wept in secret, not daring to mention our fear that we might never again lie in our lovers’ arms or exchange caresses. That we might never even see them again.