Beauty's Daughter

by Carolyn Meyer

  The other suppliants waiting to speak to the oracle had brought animals to sacrifice to Apollo, and I had only a necklace of gold beads, each bead in the shape of a Greek warrior’s shield. This may not have been the right sort of offering. I looked around uneasily at others, all with the proper kind of offerings of meat. Behind the old couple was a goatherd with a ram, a doe, and three bleating kids, and as my nervousness grew I decided to barter some of my beads in exchange for two of his animals. Surely he didn’t need so many.

  The goatherd listened gravely to my proposal, and after some thought he nodded, holding up two fingers. I unstrung two beads from my necklace, and he handed me a rope and walked away. I realized that I was holding the rope with all five animals, and the beads were still in my hand. “Wait!” I called after him. “You forgot the beads!”

  Then I noticed his winged sandals as he disappeared.

  When I reached Apollo’s shrine, below the oracle’s stool, a priest led my goats away to slaughter. I’d been waiting for a long time, but before I felt quite ready, I was standing before the pythoness. I knelt and clasped the bony knees of an ordinary-looking woman, neither beautiful nor ugly. Her eyes were her most striking feature. She seemed to be looking at me, but I couldn’t tell if she actually saw me. I licked my lips and stated my request.

  “I love Orestes, prince of Mycenae,” I told the pythoness, trying not to stammer. “But my beloved has committed a grave deed. His mother murdered his father, and he in turn has killed his adulterous mother and her lover. Now he is pursued by the Furies, who have driven him to madness.”

  “I know all this,” the pythoness interrupted sharply. “Apollo advocated avenging the murder of Agamemnon, telling Orestes when he came here that if he did not exact retribution, he would be an outcast of society and prevented from entering any shrine or temple. I instructed him to pour libations of wine next to Agamemnon’s tomb, to cut off a lock of hair and leave it on the tomb, and then to contrive a way to punish Aegisthus and Clytemnestra for what they’d done. But I also warned him: the Furies do not readily forgive a matricide. I gave Orestes a bow made of ox horn to fend them off when they became too much to bear. There is nothing more I can do.”

  The oracle’s words needed no interpretation. She wasn’t raving, and her eyes looked straight into mine.

  “If there’s nothing more you can do for him, then please tell me what I can do,” I pleaded. “I believe I can save him, but first I must find him.”

  “You are married to Pyrrhus. He will be displeased.”

  “Yes, he’ll be very angry,” I admitted. “He’s always very angry.”

  The pythoness answered sternly. “You have been promised to two men, a cruel one whom you despise, and a kind one who has committed the gravest of deeds. You will find Orestes, and yet not find the man you are looking for. He has two sisters. Trust one, but not the other.”

  “Which one should I trust?”

  “The one who earns it.”

  “But who is the man I’ll find, if not Orestes? How do I help Orestes once I find him? And what shall I do about Pyrrhus?”

  Abruptly the pythoness began to speak in a tongue I couldn’t understand. A priest came forward to interpret. “The pythoness says a long road lies ahead of you, and you must follow the road to its end. She has nothing more to say to you.”

  He pushed me firmly away. It was not at all clear to me what I was to do. A second priest was already accepting the offerings of the old couple with the four daughters.

  I searched for Zethus and Ardeste among the surging crowd, and I was relieved to hear them calling me from where they waited with the donkey. I saw the questions in their eyes. “Later,” I said.

  We had started down the slopes of Mount Parnassus on a rough path somewhat parallel to the main path leading up when I twisted my ankle on the loose stones and injured it. Zethus insisted that we stop to rest on a jutting rock. Far below us was a bustling port on the shores of a sea so large I couldn’t see the opposite shore. Small fishing boats bobbed among bigger ships anchored in the harbor.

  “What is this town?”

  “Krisa,” Zethus said, “ruled by King Strophius. This is the Sea of Corinth.”

  I knew about Krisa. Orestes had come here as a child to stay with his best friend, Pylades. He’d often spoken of it. I wondered if he’d come here when he consulted the pythoness at Delphi.

  Ardeste volunteered to continue on down to the beach to trade some of my silver spangles for fish. “Shall I inquire about some sort of lodging for the night, mistress? You shouldn’t walk far with your injured ankle.”

  Zethus insisted on staying with me, hovering nearby but leaving me with my thoughts: What man does she think I’ll find? What about Orestes’ sisters? How will I know whom to trust?

  A fleet of black ships had entered the harbor. They were so close that I could also make out the emblem painted on the bow: the horns of a bull on a rayed star. Pyrrhus’s emblem.

  I called to Zethus. “What are these ships? Where did they come from? Pyrrhus destroyed what was left of his fleet when we first arrived in Iolkos.”

  Zethus squinted at the ships. “I don’t know, but I’m afraid he has come searching for you.”

  I shuddered. Pyrrhus must have learned where I was going, asked questions, perhaps even tortured people to tell him. I thought of Ardeste’s cousin, the wife of the sandal maker, and worried what she may have suffered until she’d been forced to confess that she had helped me escape.

  Ardeste returned, breathless from her climb up from the beach. Her eyes were large and frightened. In her basket were grilled fish and a loaf of bread, but my hunger was forgotten when we heard her news.

  “Those are Pyrrhus’s ships! I heard the fishermen talking. He went to Iolkos, looking for you. The blind minstrel directed him there. As you know, the minstrel hears everything, his sense of smell is better than an animal’s—he knew we’d left together, and he deliberately sent Pyrrhus and his Myrmidons off in the wrong direction, to Iolkos. That bought us time, but not enough.”

  “But the ships? What have you heard about them? I saw his entire fleet go up in flames!”

  “The fishermen said that Pyrrhus and his men seized ships from merchants at Iolkos and sailed to a port on the Saronic Gulf, left the stolen ships there, and crossed the narrow strip of land to Corinth. Then Pyrrhus demanded that Corinthian merchants surrender their vessels. “No one dared to defy him. Pyrrhus had his emblem painted on the stolen ships and sailed for Krisa.”

  “And now he’s come here to claim me! I hardly think I’m worth his trouble. He’s convinced that I’m barren. It’s Andromache who gave him a son.”

  “He’s enraged,” Ardeste said. “Not only at you for leaving him, but at Apollo, too. He blames Apollo for his father’s death.”

  Hordes of men were streaming off Pyrrhus’s pirated ships and onto the beach below us. I could easily pick out Pyrrhus himself, preparing to climb the path to the oracle. Behind him the seamen were attempting to herd a pair of fat oxen up the path still crowded with cold, weary suppliants.

  “He may be too late to speak to the pythoness before the time of prophesying ends until spring,” I said. “I wonder what he’ll do then.”

  “Hard to imagine,” Zethus said. “But when he hears that somebody has been trading silver spangles for food, he’ll guess that it’s you.”

  “I spoke to a fisherman willing to let us stay as long as we wish in his hut a little way from the beach,” Ardeste said.

  “Then let’s go now,” Zethus said. “We’ll be safer there.”

  He helped me onto Onos’s back, and we picked our way cautiously down the steep, uneven path toward the beach. I was careful to keep my hair covered, hoping that no Myrmidon would happen to recognize me.

  Word was being passed along from the oracle’s priests that this was the final day of prophecy. Whoever had not reached the pythoness by sunset would be turned away. I was relieved that I’d had an opportunity to co
nsult her, even if I still didn’t understand the prophecy I’d received. Follow the road to its end. But what road? And to what end?

  The clouds parted. Helios’s flaming chariot was already low in the western sky. Pyrrhus had no doubt heard the warning and surmised that he would not arrive in time—unless he eliminated all those suppliants ahead of him. He shouted an order, and his men charged ruthlessly through the anxious crowd, shoving aside any who blocked the path and sending them tumbling down the steep slope.

  Pyrrhus forced his way to the head of the line, and his oxen were led away for slaughter. “I demand satisfaction for the death of my father, Achilles!” he bellowed. “It was Apollo who killed him, disguised as the cowardly Paris—Apollo’s and not Paris’s arrow that found its mark in my father’s one vulnerable spot! And I demand the return of my lawful wife, Hermione!”

  We were close enough to hear Pyrrhus raving, but not close enough to hear the pythoness’s response. Whatever she said to him, Pyrrhus flew into a rage and issued another command to his Myrmidons. With fierce cries they surged forward and invaded Apollo’s sacred shrine. They plundered it, seizing gold and silver and gems brought there as offerings. Myrmidons seized the butchered carcasses of the two fat oxen and carried them off. At another order from Pyrrhus they set fire to the shrine. It was a shocking sight, a scene of complete chaos.

  “What can Pyrrhus have been thinking?” Zethus murmured. “To insult the great god Apollo in such a way!”

  Tongues of flame consumed the sacred shrine. Pyrrhus raised his arms toward the orange-tinted sky and shouted curses at Apollo as the sun began to slip below the horizon. The pythoness seated on her tripod and the priests of Apollo surrounding her appeared unable to move, as if they’d turned to stone.

  The sun disappeared, and the pythoness stirred. The priests pressed forward. One of them drew a sacrificial knife from his belt and plunged it into Pyrrhus’s chest, stopping his beating heart.

  25

  The Long Road

  PYRRHUS WAS DEAD, HIS Myrmidons in disarray. Before nightfall the pythoness ordered Apollo’s shrine to be rebuilt and my husband’s body to be buried beneath the threshold, in accordance with custom.

  The Myrmidons wandered around aimlessly. The priests of Apollo, the wielder of the sacrificial knife, and the pythoness had all disappeared. Shocked and in a daze, I climbed onto the back of little Onos and let him carry me down to the town of Krisa by the light of a moon sometimes blocked by scudding clouds. We found the fisherman’s hut that Ardeste had arranged for us. Zethus left Onos to graze in a patch of greenery. We ate the grilled fish and bread and poured a libation to the gods in thanksgiving for our safety. Not wishing to be haunted by Pyrrhus’s ghost, I also poured a libation and cut off the ends of my hair, as was expected at the death of a spouse.

  Above us on Mount Parnassus smoke still curled up from the ashes of Apollo’s shrine. Naturally, everyone in Krisa was talking about what had happened. A new set of priests, those serving Dionysus, had arrived to celebrate the coming of winter with drinking and ecstatic orgies. Soon the people dismayed by the terrible behavior of Pyrrhus turned their attention to the return of Dionysus. Despite the death of their leader, even the warlike Myrmidons allowed themselves to be caught up in the festive atmosphere, though I was afraid the copious amounts of wine they consumed would soon turn them vicious again.

  Flakes of snow drifted down from the black sky. Our borrowed hut was damp and too small for three. The days were short with only a little weak sun, and the nights long and dark and very cold. I wanted to leave as soon as possible. We talked about traveling south, where it might be warmer.

  Was that the long road I was supposed to follow? I didn’t know.

  Something else was troubling me: it was obvious that Zethus and Ardeste had become lovers. I was sure of it. I hadn’t found them in each other’s arms, but it was possible to sense these things. The way she looked at him. The way he “accidentally” touched her arm when they passed. How she said his name. He was too concerned for her comfort. When he served her a piece of the fish he had finished grilling, it was a better portion than he took for himself. There was a change in the sound of her laughter—what was there to laugh about?—and a lilt in her voice when they spoke to each other.

  This had happened subtly, over time. I didn’t know when it first began, but I envied them. I was jealous. Not that I wanted Zethus for myself, for I did not. He had been a loyal friend for a very long time, but I had never been drawn to him in the way that a man and woman are drawn to each other, as Orestes and I were. I wanted that kind of love, but I wanted it with Orestes.

  The two came back from a nearby spring carrying animal skins filled with water. Ardeste had borrowed a bronze cauldron from the wife of a wine merchant she’d met in the marketplace. I had not had the luxury of a bath in a long time, and she promised that I’d have one that night. Zethus heated the water over our supper fire and waited outside the hut while I bathed. I invited Ardeste to bathe in the water after I’d finished.

  “May Zethus then take his turn, mistress?” she asked, and I grudgingly allowed that he might. I disliked myself for the resentment I felt, but I couldn’t help it.

  Later, Ardeste carried the cauldron back to the wine merchant’s wife and returned to our crowded little hut with a jar of wine and three clay goblets, a gift from the merchant.

  “I have good news, mistress,” she told me as she poured the wine. “The merchant’s wife has offered us a second hut, smaller than this one but close by. You could then have this hut all to yourself, and we can share the other hut.”

  “‘We’? You mean you and Zethus?”

  “Yes, mistress.” She lowered her eyes. “So that you’ll be more comfortable.”

  I slammed down my goblet too hard, and wine splashed everywhere, but I didn’t care. “Absolutely not! We’re not staying here any longer.” My tone sounded petulant, childish, even to my own ears. “We must make our plans and leave.”

  They glanced at me and then looked away, saying nothing. I had to get over this. I needed both of them, and I was afraid of my behavior driving them away.

  PYRRHUS HAD ARRIVED AT Krisa with ten stolen ships, each with fifty of his Myrmidons as oarsmen—a total of five hundred men, plus their captains. Ashore, these oarsmen were again warriors, and with their king dead, they rampaged through Krisa. The Myrmidons were barbarians, interested mainly in killing and plundering. Their name means “ant people,” descended from Zeus, who turned himself into an ant and mated with a princess of Phthia after turning her into an ant as well. But without Pyrrhus the men didn’t know what to do or which way to turn. They drank and brawled and made nuisances of themselves among the people of Krisa, who’d grown sick of them and wished them gone.

  Although most cared nothing for Pyrrhus’s wife, I didn’t feel safe with the Myrmidons around, for I was sure there were some who would find sport in capturing and tormenting me. Dressed in my ragged tunic and well-worn robe with a shawl covering my red hair, I avoided them. No one paid me any attention.

  I visited a healer, an old crone who wrapped my injured ankle with herbs soaked in wine, and after a few days the pain disappeared and I felt strong again. I walked along the beach, so deep in thought that I scarcely noticed the long, steep road leading up to the citadel. Servants and tradesmen trudged up and down. I stopped a man carrying a load of wood on his back and inquired if by chance Prince Pylades was at the citadel.

  “He is not,” said the man, barely pausing. “But King Strophius is waiting for you.”

  I wanted to ask how that could be, but he was already too far away. Then I glimpsed the wings on his sandals.

  I rushed back to the hut and asked Ardeste’s help. We searched through the bundles I’d packed when we prepared to flee from Pharsalos. Somewhere in the depths, with Helen’s silver spindle and my golden wedding goblet, Ardeste located the embroidered peplos she’d advised me to bring, predicting that I might find an occasion to wear it during
our journey.

  I dressed in my fine peplos and the jewelry that I hadn’t yet needed to trade for food and shelter and offerings. Ardeste combed and plaited my hair.

  I set off to climb the steep path to Strophius’s citadel. My mother never went anywhere without at least three of her women, but I was not Helen, and I preferred to go alone.

  A herald ushered me into the megaron. The walls were beautifully painted and the furnishings as grand as any I’d seen. I waited nervously as the herald announced me. “Hermione of Sparta!”

  The old king glared at me from his throne. He appeared so cold and unfriendly that I regretted coming. “You’re here to talk to Pylades,” he said after a silence heavy as iron. “He’s no longer my son. I’ve disowned him.”

  “Disowned him, my lord?” I hadn’t expected this.

  “I have, for participating in the murder of Queen Clytemnestra. There is no forgiveness for a matricide. Orestes and Electra should have been stoned until they were dead, and Pylades with them. Only then would justice have been served. May the Furies torment Orestes for the rest of his days.”

  I gasped. Zethus had not mentioned Pylades’ involvement in the slayings. But how could Strophius wish death for his own son? “I’ve heard that Orestes went to Delphi to consult the oracle after he learned of Agamemnon’s murder,” I said as calmly as I could. “Did he also come here to Krisa, my lord?”

  “Yes, he came here,” the old king said, sighing. “I hadn’t seen him since he left for Troy with Agamemnon. Such a fine boy he was then! He often stayed with me. I loved him like my own son. But now I hardly recognized him. He’d just learned of his father’s murder; he was angry and confused. Powerful Apollo informed him that if he failed to avenge his father’s death, he would become an outcast. The pythoness instructed him to go to Mycenae and even told him what to do when he got there. Pylades went with him, though I begged him not to be a part of this. I disagreed with Apollo, and I disagreed with the pythoness. But Pylades wouldn’t listen to me. My son was an accomplice in the killings. Electra, too. They deserve to die.”