by Laura Gill
As I made my obeisance, I recognized the square of linen draped over his thigh, and the scarlet, yellow, and blue stitches. My attempts to master the kind of embroidery my aunt and the court ladies excelled at had left the fabric rumpled and the threads looking worn. No matter how hard I tried to embroider a neat, even pattern, I kept knotting the thread, then, in the act of trying to undo the knot, breaking the thread and pulling the fabric. A princess should not do such disgraceful work. What guest would ever want a cloak or tunic of my making?
Father made a show of studying the embroidery, turning it over, hemming and hawing, while I trembled with anticipation. Finally, glancing up at me, he said, “Your aunt says this is acceptable workmanship for a beginner, but next time I expect better.” He smoothed the fabric with one hand before passing it back to my aunt, standing behind his chair. “A princess of Argos must be as industrious and as skillful as Athena.”
I did not want to be turned into a spider like Arachne, and would have said so had I not feared Father’s temper.
“Now, then” he continued sternly. “Wordeia tells me you have been practicing the graces of a princess. Let us see what you have inherited from your mother.”
Trying to remember everything my aunt had taught me, to conjure the sensation of the thorns she had pinned to my gown to make me hold my head high, and the baskets of wool she had balanced on my head to keep my posture straight, I moved across the breadth and length of the chamber. How clumsy I felt, comparing myself to my mother’s memory. She had glided like a goddess across terraces and through corridors, her dainty feet seeming never to touch the ground. I might as well have been playacting at being a queen, as I had done at Mother’s dressing table when she let me drape myself in her jewelry and apply ocher to my cheeks.
Father said nothing about my grace or lack thereof, only called me to him to answer questions regarding weights and measures. “How many measures of barley does a common pithos hold? What precautions does the mistress of the household take to keep oil from going rancid?” Surely I knew this! Time dragged, and Father’s patience seemed to wear ever thinner, while I scoured my memory for the correct answer. Wordeia had told me once; the solution hovered on the very tip of my tongue, it was so very simple, if only my mind would work...
“It must be stored in a dark, cool storeroom, in a pithos half-buried in the earth, and used within eighteen months of pressing,” I blurted out. Why had I not remembered that sooner? What a simpleton Father must think me.
Father grunted what I assumed was his approval. “Now,” he inquired, “what must a king do if a wounded man bleeds in the megaron? If a woman afflicted with her courses bleeds?”
What was he asking? I did not know about such matters as woman’s blood. A desperate glance toward Wordeia prompted her to interject, “She cannot answer that second question, Brother, as she is a maiden, and has not received the female mysteries. But she should know the first as a matter of piety and common sense.”
Should I? If a wounded man bled inside the megaron, what then? “The blood must be scrubbed away and the man tended,” I began hesitantly, grasping at whatever sounded best, and knowing how utterly ignorant I sounded. “And...and a priestess should be called?”
Father betrayed no expression, gave no hint as to whether or not my guess was correct. “Why should a priestess be called, Daughter?” He sounded skeptical, even bored. Surely I had answered him wrongly.
“Because, uh, his blood pollutes the megaron and offends the gods?” I ventured, at once hating myself for not exuding more confidence.
Father’s heavy brows beetled together. “Are you certain of your answer?” I swallowed, nodded. “Speak up, child!” His reprimand caused me to flinch. Would he hurl his wine cup at me as he had at Deinias of Tiryns? I had not been insolent—at least, I did not believe I had—but he was almost certainly exasperated with my ignorance.
“Yes, sir!” I cried.
His sharp, unexpected laughter only heightened my apprehensions. “Come here.” He crooked a finger at me. When I did not hasten to obey, he asked sharply, “Why do you cringe, Danaë? Do you fear me?” I nodded. Father laughed again, a bitterer and darker laugh than that first, startling one. “Just as well that my daughter should fear and obey her elders.” His arm came up, and he stroked my back, gently brushing aside my plaited hair. “Your answer is correct, but next time I shall expect you to be quicker, sharper, fearless, as a true daughter of Danaus. I will have you enter womanhood as a shining example of piety and obedience, not like Proitus’s impious wretches. Speaking of which, Sister, has there been any further word of those impious harpies?”
“They have been seen roaming the hills below Nemea, but in such utter madness and disarray that none dare approach them,” Wordeia replied. I did not understand what she was talking about, why my cousins should be mad or running loose in the wilderness, except that I knew better than to interrupt my elders. “Proitus has sent messengers with gifts and entreaties to the seer Melampus in Pylos, but that venerable man refuses to aid him.”
“Hah!” Father snorted. I felt awkward standing there, with him still stroking my hair, otherwise ignoring me. “I hate to leave Argos at such a time, yet the gods demand it.” A morose sigh escaped him. “Danaë, child, I am leaving the Larissa for a while. You must obey your aunt and Lord Melanippos while I am gone.”
The man he named often acted as his regent whenever he left Argos. Melanippos rarely paid attention to me, but was always very polite when he did.
I felt brave enough to venture an innocuous question. “Where are you going, Father?”
“To consult the oracle at Delphi,” my father answered. “If Apollo Far-seer allows, the Pythia will reveal whether the immortal gods will grant me a suitable wife and you a brother.” He spoke pleasantly, rather than reprimand me for my inquiry, but where he should have sounded optimistic his voice carried a hint of hopelessness, even remorse.
Once my aunt escorted me from Father’s chambers, and we were securely beyond his earshot, I asked what Proitus’s daughters had done that everyone considered them so wicked. “Why have they run away from home?”
“Queen Hera has sent a demon to drive them mad, as well she should.” Wordeia kept her voice down. “They defiled her sanctuary and offended her by stealing ornaments for themselves from her storehouse.”
I could not fathom why anyone would do such an outrageous thing unless they were already deranged.
From the conversation in the garden court, I gleaned that the news had already spread through Argos, and that I was among the last to hear of it. Yet the ladies were far less interested in Proitus’s daughters and their current plight in the wilderness than in the stranger who had recently appeared at Proitus’s court.
“Who’s that handsome young man they say seeks purification in Tiryns?” Lady Polykratia asked. “Did he really murder his own kinsman?”
“I heard it was a nobleman from Corinth,” Philinna countered. Her daughter worked her embroidery beside me. Althea’s stitches were better than mine. I resented her for her talent and for her curling golden hair.
“It was definitely his brother,” Eurynome stated firmly.
“His name is Bellerophon.” Chrysopeleia’s smoky voice lingered strangely over the syllables of the young murderer’s name. “My husband’s contacts in Tiryns say he is quite delectable. Proitus’s new queen sighs and hangs over him. That shameless sow! Stheneboea’s old enough to be his mother. A pity he didn’t come here. Argos has better sanctuaries and a more pious king.” All the ladies murmured their agreement. “Proitus is a cantankerous, impious old goat, certainly not fit to purify a murderer. What could that young man have been thinking?”
“Perhaps someone told him that King Acrisius is leaving for Delphi.” Polykratia paused her spinning in order to shake a fallen leaf from her skirt. The day was warm and pleasant, the air of the courtyard heavy with the fragrance of late spring’s blossoms. “Or perhaps Proitus’s agents maliciously instru
cted him to avoid Argos. I’ve heard they have such orders, to spread slander about the king and discourage merchants and petitioners from coming.” More nods and mutterings of agreement from the ladies.
“It’s a pity that the king didn’t consult the Pythia before he married that woman from Sparta,” Eurynome observed.
“But he might not have gotten a clear answer if he had then, and he might not receive one now.” Among the ladies, only Chrysopeleia had ever personally consulted an oracle. “This was the oracle of Nemea,” she explained. “I was fourteen. My father was on his deathbed, and my greedy brothers were so busy vying with each other over who would have the greater share of the inheritance that their quarreling threatened to tear the family apart. Father sent me with my uncle and two goats to the Nemean oracle so he could learn the god’s will and die in peace.”
She flicked her spindle whorl of precious amber; when it caught the sunlight I could see air bubbles and a whole mosquito preserved inside. “The answer the oracle gave struck me as foolish. ‘Divide your property equally among your sons.’ Any fool in our household could have told Father that, without spending two goats on a sacrifice and a week coming and going from Nemea. When Uncle Aikhweus reported the oracle’s answer, Father almost did have an apoplexy, he was so exasperated.” Laughter. “But then, after he calmed down and pondered the god’s reply, he recognized the brilliance in those words.”
I did not see what was so brilliant about that simple phrase. Zeus wanted Chrysopeleia’s father to spend his final days cataloguing and halving his possessions, unless... “He cut everything in two!” I exclaimed.
“Graciously,” Wordeia counseled. “A princess does not blurt out her words.” She always chaperoned me among the ladies, both to ensure that the conversation did not stray too far beyond the bounds of propriety, and to glean useful information for herself, as the ladies often heard things through their husbands and servants even before she did. “Lady Chrysopeleia will tell us what her father did in due course.”
“You need not be so strict, Lady Wordeia. The princess is a clever child.” Chrysopeleia licked her lips with a dainty tongue. “Yes, Father divided his property according to Zeus’s command—or at least he started to. Uncle Aikhweus split two footstools, a chest, Mother’s loom, and two rams before my brothers realized what was happening. So naturally they mended their differences right away, begged Father’s forgiveness, took solemn oaths, made sacrifices, and played the part of dutiful sons until he was dead and in his tomb, at which time they went straight back to quarreling. Aikhweus couldn’t do anything with them then, though he tried hard, and I... Well, their squabbling meant absolutely nothing to me, for I was married and the dowry paid by the time Father died.”
“It’s a terrible thing when kinsmen quarrel,” Polykratia observed. “Then one has to choose sides, and that’s impossible.”
Wordeia made a concurring sound in her throat. “Indeed.”
*~*~*~*
As for my father, he returned from Delphi within the month, but it was not a joyful homecoming. From the moment his chariot rattled through the outer gates of the Larissa, a perceptible gloom descended on the citadel mount. He stalked from the outer courtyard and up the stairs toward us—myself and Wordeia and Lord Melanippus with the courtiers dressed in their summer best—with a thunderous look. I could practically hear the obscenities spewing from his lips, even though he made his progress in stern silence. I self-consciously edged closer to Wordeia while waiting for him to explode at his manservant or Lord Melanippus, or someone else.
The heat of the day seemed to freeze as his immense shadow fell across me. I shivered. “So, Daughter,” he rumbled. Afraid to look at him, I cast my gaze instead to the pavement. What did he want with me? What could I have possibly done that he would address me first, and in such displeasure? I faithfully attended my lessons, practiced my sewing and spinning, and listened to Wordeia. What misdemeanor could I have possibly committed?
“Go to your room,” he ordered. Abashed and bewildered, swallowing tears, I fled gracelessly, pushing past ranks of lords and ladies who hastily stepped aside to accommodate me. Straight into the palace, up the stairs, and down the corridor to my chamber, without marking whether my maidservant followed. I almost shut the door on a breathless Sinope, who with her greater strength shoved her way inside.
“Go away!” I cried. A ragged sob escaped with the command. “Go away and leave me alone!”
“Lady Wordeia ordered me to follow.” Sinope folded her arms across her breasts, an insolent expression on her face. “If you’re going to bawl, go ahead.” She smiled maliciously, indicating how she relished the moment.
“Shut up!” I screamed.
Sinope did not move, only answered, “You shut up.”
I stiffened. She had never dared speak so rudely to me. Twitching with the need to hurt her, I hurled a cushion, which she easily ducked, and then another. “Get out! I don’t want you here. You’re a terrible maid.”
Sinope evaded that cushion, too. “At least Father isn’t angry with me.” She retrieved the first cushion and flung it back, striking me in the head. I had not ducked, had not thought about anything else, once she said that.
Then I collected myself. “He’s not your father! He’s the king, and you’re just an ugly, nasty laundress girl.”
“Stupid princess!” she scoffed. “The king has bastards everywhere. I was here before you were born.” Her face was red now, flushed with anger. And still she kept talking, spewing lies. “My mother was—”
The cup I hurled at her shattered against the door right beside her head. “Liar!” I screeched. A scarlet slash blossomed on her cheek. Enraged that she should speak so, that she could possibly be my father’s offspring and therefore my half-sister, I flew at her, alternately clawing and pummeling. My nails scored the flesh of her arms, digging deep tracks that bled. She stumbled backward, her heavier body thumping against the stout wooden door, but then she fought back, shoving, cuffing my ear, my cheek, scratching my temple with her nails and pulling my hair, which had come loose from its gold-spangled bandeau.
“Get off me, you spoiled brat.” With that, she gave a mighty heave, and sent me wobbling backward. I wavered a moment, struggling to keep my balance, then tumbled to the floor. A bedraggled, wounded Sinope, breathing hard, her mouth curled into a feral snarl made uglier by her hideous harelip, lurched to her feet. She took a step toward me, intending to pounce. My heart thundered in my chest, though not from fear. Blind rage drove me; it made me forget that she was older and stronger and stood at least a head taller. I had fight left in me. I would claw her eyes out and—
“What is going on here?”
Neither of us had heard the door open, but Wordeia’s sharp, angry voice abruptly brought our struggle to an end. As I stared at my aunt, I began to feel the sting of unnoticed scratches and a painful throbbing in my head. My bandeau lay trampled on the floor, along with clumps of brown hair that were surely mine.
“Go home to your mother, Sinope.” Wordeia jabbed a stern finger at the corridor behind her. “I will deal with your insubordination later.” Her voice was as hard as stone, but as ice cold as Father’s had been. “Danaë, sit down and be quiet. I will have your explanation once those scratches are tended and this room put back in order.”
Obviously, she did not expect me to sweep the broken potsherds and replace the cushions, because the moment I started to fetch a cushion she banished me back to the footstool. Instead, she sent a scrub maid to clean. That was worse, in a way. Idle hands gave me time to cool down, ponder, and become frightened. If I had been innocent before, I was no longer. Father in his glum mood would certainly hear about the scuffle and send for me to thrash me, even though he always left the discipline to my aunt. I trembled where I sat, and felt nauseous, and broke down sobbing when Wordeia returned to bathe my scratches in steaming water.
“Stop your bawling,” she reprimanded. “Your behavior today has been thoroughly unbecoming
a princess.”
“She started it,” I cried, sniveling. “She was insolent. She was mean and she pushed me, and then she lied and—”
“I do not care.” Wordeia thrust a linen cloth in my face to blow my nose with. “Stop your blubbering.”
I finished the sentence, anyway. “She said Father was her father, too.”
“That is because he is. She is your half-sister by the laundress Xanthippe.” I winced as Wordeia vigorously rubbed my scratches in the hot water to draw out any evil humors; later, she would apply a poultice of honey and medicinal red clay to stop the demons of sickness from entering my body. A cool compress helped the aching in my head; though I had lost hair, Sinope had drawn no blood. I fervently hoped she was whipped bloody for her insolence even as I tried to process the truth Wordeia had just admitted.
“She’s not,” I insisted.
“She is.” Wordeia held firmly onto my arm to prevent me from pulling away. “Men have their concubines and bastards as they will, and kings are no exception. You are not your father’s first or only daughter, simply the only one who matters. He has three other daughters here in Argos, and blessed Lady Eleuthia only knows but he may have scattered his seed elsewhere. He may even have sired a son that he knows nothing about. Sinope is the eldest bastard. The other two are younger, and you have never met them. Now hold still, you foolish child.” She squeezed my wrist. “A wife does not quarrel with her husband’s concubines, and a true-born daughter does not quarrel with her father’s bastards. Let this be a lesson to you.”
“But I didn’t know.”
“You did not know,” she corrected. “I would have told you about your father’s bastards when you were old enough to hear about the mysteries between men and women, but now...” She did not finish the thought. “Your father does not abandon his bastards as other men might, but provides well for them and their mothers. He confided to me that Sinope might make a decent marriage if she did well as your maidservant. Well, that will not happen now. An obedient servant never assaults her mistress, no matter what the provocation.”
