Beauty's Daughter

by Carolyn Meyer

  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.

  7

  Gathering at Aulis

  MY AUNT, MY GIRL cousins, and I accompanied the men from Mycenae as far as the walled city of Tiryns and watched them descend the rocky path from the cliff to the beach. I stood alone, apart from the others, hoping that Father would turn and see me. He did not, but Orestes paused and looked back. I raised my hand in farewell, and he waved. I watched until he was lost in the crowd, wondering when I would see him again.

  A dozen ships were being loaded with leather shields, bronze helmets, tin greaves to protect their legs, and piles of spears and swords and javelins. When I spotted Father on the deck of one of the ships, I kept my eyes on his flame red hair until the conch shells sounded and the fleet moved away from the beach and started down the coast.

  The only one who did not seem in the least distraught at the departure was my aunt, Clytemnestra. Before the ships were out of sight she called for the porters to bring her chair and carry her back to the palace.

  Agamemnon’s messengers arrived to report to Queen Clytemnestra that the first of the promised ships had arrived at Aulis, with more gathering there daily from all around Greece. But the king of Cyprus, who had agreed to send fifty ships, instead sent just one real ship and forty-nine miniature ships with little clay figures representing their crews. Agamemnon, we learned, called upon the god Apollo to avenge the insult. Apollo did so, killing the king, whose fifty shamed daughters then threw themselves into the sea.

  But others made up for the deceit. King Idomeneus of Crete pledged a hundred ships if Agamemnon agreed to share the command with him, which he did. Great Ajax, said to rival Achilles in courage, strength, and good looks, joined them. Teucer, considered the best archer in Greece, was there. Also present was Little Ajax, small in stature but the best spear thrower and the second-best runner—Achilles was first in that as well. Diomedes brought several great fighters with him, and a man from Rhodes came with nine ships.

  Eventually a thousand ships crowded into the bay at Aulis. Provisioning these ships and men was assured by one of Apollo’s priests, whose three daughters possessed the power to turn whatever they touched into oil, wine, or grain.

  TWO FULL MOONS HAD passed since King Priam of Troy had refused Agamemnon’s demand for the return of Queen Helen. Everything was ready. We waited at Mycenae for word that the fleet had left Aulis, bound for Troy. Calchas, the seer, promised to help them steer a steady course by his second sight. But the winds were not favorable for sailing, days passed, and the ships were unable to leave. The men grew impatient, then angry. Something had to be done.

  Odysseus brought a message from Agamemnon. I was surprised to see him, and eager to hear what he had to say.

  “I bring you great news!” short-legged Odysseus announced. “Achilles has decided to marry before he undertakes this great expedition, and h
e has asked Agamemnon to offer him the most beautiful of his three daughters as a bride. Someone, I can’t say just who, has offended Apollo’s sister, Artemis, the archer with golden arrows. A wedding will please the goddess, and she’ll call upon the winds to shift.”

  Clytemnestra’s three daughters were astonished and delighted and immediately jealous of one another. “I am surely the one, am I not, Mother?” Chrysothemis asked in her shrill voice. Electra shot her a nasty look. “Don’t be stupid, Chrysothemis. You know that Father has sent for me. I’m plainly the choice.”

  Iphigenia didn’t even bother discussing it. She simply began packing her finest necklaces and bracelets, her loveliest gowns, and a shimmering veil. While Iphigenia prepared for a wedding she was certain would happen, the other two argued and insisted that they would all go to Aulis and let Achilles make his own choice. I packed too, not much concerned with gowns and jewels but taking my mother’s silver spindle, the only thing I had to remember her by.

  In fact, I was very unhappy in Mycenae and was glad to be leaving. I had heard Clytemnestra speaking to Odysseus, calling my mother a slut and a whore who had caused all of this misery. My aunt had made it clear to me in a hundred little ways that she would not have to put up with me if Helen hadn’t done what she did. I did not much like either Electra or Chrysothemis, and they had shown no great fondness for me. Iphigenia and I got along tolerably well, but if she was right, she would marry Achilles, and who knew where she would go then.

  The next day our procession left Mycenae for Tiryns and the royal ship waiting for us there. I hoped I would not return.

  IPHIGENIA, THRILLED AT THE prospect of what she believed was her coming marriage to brave Achilles, chattered endlessly about his strength, his courage, his superb good looks. Her sisters argued with each other, not ready to concede anything. Clytemnestra seemed proud that one of her daughters had been chosen for such an honor; I did wonder, though, how much—if at all—she looked forward to seeing Agamemnon. My mother had told me of how Agamemnon had murdered Clytemnestra’s former husband, King Tantalus. Had she forgiven him after all these years? I wasn’t sure I could ever forgive a man who had done such a cruel thing.

  After three days we arrived at Aulis. Who could have imagined such a scene! A thousand ships lay at anchor, long wooden vessels coated with black pitch to protect them from salt water and painted with huge, glaring eyes on the bows. Cheers greeted our ship as it maneuvered through the dense crowd, right up to the beach. All three of Agamemnon’s daughters stood ready, dressed in their wedding garb, smiling anxiously. Achilles came forward, carrying a garland of flowers for the bride. I knew it must be the great warrior, for he was the tallest and handsomest, and everyone stepped aside in awe of him.

  Achilles placed the garland around Iphigenia’s neck and led her toward a huge stone altar where a sacrificial animal would be slaughtered. Her beaming mother and two pouting sisters followed. Agamemnon waited at the altar, wearing a robe of deep purple. On his brow a golden diadem gleamed in the afternoon sun.

  Odysseus, who’d traveled with us from Mycenae, had melted into the crowd on the beach. Iphigenia and her family were taking part in an elaborate welcoming ceremony. I glanced around, searching for Father, always recognizable by his red hair and beard. I found him standing a short distance away and ran to him.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Hermione,” he said, embracing me, and steered me away from the crowd. We made our way up the scree at the base of the cliff.

  “When will the wedding be held?” I asked. “I want to have a good view of it.”

  “Soon,” he said, but I felt that he was avoiding looking at me.

  He chose a flat rock, but I wasn’t pleased with it. “I can’t see well,” I said, and insisted on finding a better spot. Why was he hesitating? Finally I found a satisfactory seat and pulled him down beside me.

  “We’ve been here for many days,” Menelaus said, “because the winds haven’t been favorable.”

  “I know. Odysseus told us.”

  “We’ve made all the proper sacrifices to Apollo, but his sister, Artemis, is angry with Agamemnon. My foolish brother once bragged that he’s as good a shot as she is. You don’t say something like that about the goddess of the hunt and not expect her to be angry! To punish him, she’s keeping the winds at bay until he does what she demands.”

  “Odysseus says a wedding will please her. And Achilles has chosen Iphigenia for his bride.”

  My father was silent—for much too long, I thought. Down on the beach a howl rose from the women, and I jumped up. Father grabbed my hand and pulled me back down beside him. “Artemis has demanded the sacrifice of Iphigenia.”

  “What?” I cried. “They’re going to kill her?”

  Father nodded, saying nothing.

  I convulsed with horror. “She’s not here to marry Achilles? It was all a lie? And her father is letting it happen?”

  Father shook his head. “Agamemnon knew Clytemnestra would never allow it. But the other Greek leaders were threatening to abandon the mission and return home. I couldn’t let that happen, Hermione! In the end, Agamemnon agreed.”

  I glared at him furiously. “So you persuaded him to lie!”

  “It’s more complicated than that, daughter. My brother only pretended to go along with my plan. He sent Odysseus to fetch Iphigenia and her sisters with the promise that one of them would marry Achilles, but at the same time, he sent a coded message to their mother, warning her that it was all a ruse. I learned about the coded message and had the messenger intercepted and killed.”

  “You made sure the warning never reached Clytemnestra?” I asked incredulously.

  “I did.” He didn’t even sound remorseful.

  “I don’t understand, Father—how could you do this?”

  “Because I want to get your mother back, and this is the only way to do it.”

  My poor cousin was going to die. My heart filled with loathing of everyone, including my father, who was involved in this terrible deception. Down on the beach the crowd had begun to chant. I shook off my father’s hand. “I’m going to be with her,” I told him, not bothering to hide my anger. “Don’t try to stop me.”

  I scrambled down off the rocks and raced along the beach toward the excited crowd. I wondered where Orestes was—surely he would try to save his sister! All eyes were focused on the stone altar. Breathing hard, I pushed my way through until I reached the front. Iphigenia lay on the altar, dressed in the lovely gown in which she had planned to be married. Her wrists were bound with a silken cord, and her ankles, too, were tied. I expected her eyes to be rolling in terror—as mine surely would have been—but she looked very calm and at peace.

  Agamemnon finished the ritual washing of his hands. Clytemnestra was hysterical, wailing and sobbing, her arms pinned to her sides by two strong guards. “I will put out your eyes, husband!” my aunt cried shrilly. “You will never draw another peaceful breath if you raise your sword by so much as the breadth of a finger! I will kill you, I swear by the gods!” She struggled futilely to free herself, and I was sure she would make good on her threat if she got away from them.

  “It is the will of the gods!” Agamemnon shouted, and drew the silver-handled knife that hung beside his sword. “I sacrifice my own daughter because it has been demanded by Artemis. The goddess cannot be denied!”

  “Murderer!” Clytemnestra screamed. “I curse you, Agamemnon!”

  I rushed forward and seized Iphigenia’s bound hands. “I’m with you, dear cousin,” I whispered. She turned toward the sound of my voice, but her eyes were glazed as if she’d been drugged, and she seemed not to recognize me. “It’s Hermione,” I told her. “I won’t leave you.”

  The murmuring of the crowd began to grow louder. Voices called out, some shouting that the sacrifice must be made to appease the gods, others shouting that the princess must be allowed to live. Where was Orestes? Surely he would come! But he did not.

  As the cacophony grew, strong,
handsome Achilles raised his arms and called out, “King Agamemnon!” His commanding voice brought instant quiet. My uncle, who was holding the knife against his daughter’s throat, hesitated. “By what authority have you used my name to deceive this beautiful virgin, your own daughter?” Achilles demanded.

  “Artemis requires it,” Agamemnon grunted, looking somewhat shamefaced. “Otherwise the northeasterly gale will continue, and we will not sail.”

  “Find some other way to appease her,” Achilles said sharply. He turned his attention to Iphigenia and with his own knife cut the silken cords that bound her hands and feet. “You’re free, Iphigenia,” he said. But the crowd turned against him and roared its disapproval, threatening to stone Achilles if he saved her. A goddess had demanded a sacrifice, and she must be satisfied.

  But my cousin didn’t move. “I am willing to die for the glory of Greece,” she said, gazing up at Achilles with her soft brown eyes. “And for love of you, Achilles.” She wasn’t going to flee! I thought she was unbelievably brave. I knew that I could never do what she was doing. She closed her eyes and murmured, so softly that I nearly missed her words, “Do what you must do, Father.”

  Eyes bulging, teeth bared, Agamemnon drew back and swiftly brought the bronze blade to Iphigenia’s throat as Clytemnestra unleashed a terrible scream and fainted. A deafening clap of thunder split the air, and the bright sky went blacker than the blackest night. It was as if we had all been struck blind. There was a rush of wind, and when the darkness vanished as suddenly as it had come and the sun again blazed on Agamemnon’s killing knife blade, Iphigenia was gone. In her place on the altar lay a hind, a female deer, with an enormous rack of antlers. The sacrificial knife fell on the beast’s throat, blood spurted in a red fountain, and the crowd gasped.

  One of Artemis’s priests stepped forward and in a high, reedy voice addressed the astonished crowd. “Princess Iphigenia has been spared,” he told them. “She has been wrapped in a cloud and taken away by the great goddess to serve as her priestess in the land of the Taurians.”