Helen Had a Sister

by Penelope Haines

  With the troops gone, I relaxed my vigilance over Iphigenia and took her with me each day to see the work being undertaken to manage the town and citadel. I smiled when I remembered Leda trying to show me how to manage a household. When had I begun to turn into my mother? Iphigenia was at least interested in some of the work, which was more than I’d been. I enjoyed her company, her laughter and sometimes her common sense. She was immensely popular with the people in the town. They called her ‘their golden princess’ and cheered when she was around. Unselfconsciously she would wave back and smile. She had no affectations. She loved the city and her people, and they returned that fourfold.

  * * *

  Myrto marched into the room I had set aside for business with a child in tow.

  “A problem,” he said tersely. I looked at him, then at the child.

  She was small and looked about eight or nine, ill kempt and dirty. Her hair had been cut short, her tunic even shorter. Even with her eyes cast down, she looked to me like trouble. I raised my eyebrows interrogatively.

  “She’s a stray, left behind by the troops. She’s nowhere to go and has started stealing to survive. If I hadn’t grabbed her she’d have been beaten up by the good law-abiding citizens of this town.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. I could recognise sarcasm. “What’s your name?” I asked the child.

  “Charis.”

  I nearly laughed. A less graceful creature would have been hard to imagine. She’d already guessed my reaction; I could read it in her hunched shoulders and dipped head.

  “Why was she with the troops?” I asked Myrto.

  “Seems she’s an orphan. She used to dance and sing for the men. They made a pet of her and adopted her as a sort of mascot. Spoilt her rotten for a short while before abandoning her. Now they’ve gone, and she’s been dumped to fend for herself.”

  “Not much of a mascot then,” I said, looking at the child. “More like an abandoned puppy. If the gods are just they’ll curse men that treat a lucky mascot so casually. What do you want to do with her, Myrto?”

  He looked embarrassed. “I wondered if you could do something with her. Make her a maid, maybe. If not, she’ll end up in the brothels, or else murdered by some self-righteous citizen who disapproves of vagabonds.”

  I looked at him with a hint of exasperation. I didn’t need a small child in the household. She’d have picked up all sorts of unfortunate ideas from the troops she had entertained, and judging by the independent cast of her eye, she probably had a fine idea of her own importance, which would have to be schooled out of her. The other maids and servants wouldn’t be thrilled to have her dumped in their midst. I imagined endless complaints and grudges caused by this small creature.

  On a moment’s impulse I turned to Iphigenia. “What would you do?” I asked. I was interested in her response. I had noticed there were times when my daughter saw things in a situation that I had missed.

  Iphigenia had been following the conversation keenly. I watched her assess the child.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Thirteen.”

  I glanced at Myrto in surprise. I had put her as much younger.

  “Have you any skills?” asked Iphigenia.

  The child gave us a sly look. I shuddered at the knowingness in her eyes before she dropped them. “I can entertain,” she said at last. “I dance and sing. The men liked me. I can be funny.”

  “How did you learn to do this?” my daughter asked. “Who trained you?

  For the first time I saw uncertainty in the girl. “I don’t know who taught me,” she mumbled. “I’ve always known these things.”

  “But these are real skills,” pressed Iphigenia. “Someone taught you the words to the songs. Someone must have taught you the tunes, and how to dance. You must remember.”

  The girl dropped her head again. “I don’t know. It was in the time before.”

  “Before what?” I asked, mystified.

  “Before the warriors came and burned the village. I don’t remember before.”

  We looked at her in silence. It was pointless to ask which warriors, what village.

  I supposed I would have to take her into the household. I had daughters of my own, and the thought of this waif abandoned by the troops was disturbing.

  “She could go to school,” said my daughter.

  I looked at Iphigenia in surprise.

  “Would you like to learn?” she asked the girl. “You could serve me and attend the school. Then you would learn new skills as well as lessons in song and dance.”

  “You are sure of this?” I asked Iphigenia in surprise. It was one thing to ask her opinion, another to have her launch into such an ill-advised project.

  “I am certain,” she replied. “Just think, this may be a test. She may be a goddess in disguise asking for help. All the priests tell us these tales. We would be harshly judged if we turned her away from our door with no assistance.”

  I could count all the obvious problems with this idea and was about to present them when the girl said, “Yes.”

  I drew Iphigenia aside. “Darling, she’s a street urchin. You don’t know whether she’ll steal from you or be trustworthy. You know nothing about her. And she knows nothing about being a lady’s maid. She’s going to have to learn everything – how to dress hair, look after your clothes, serve food. Everything.”

  Iphigenia just smiled at me.

  Bother, I thought. So much for passing a decision to my daughter’s judgment.

  “You would have to behave,” I said to the girl. “The school has the right to get rid of students who don’t work and apply themselves.”

  The girl ignored me. She was looking at Iphigenia with adoring eyes.

  “You would live with the other servants in the palace,” said my daughter, “and you would be known as my maid, so that no one could throw you out or mistreat you.”

  The girl nodded.

  It was typical of Iphigenia to take on the care of the waif. I remembered how kind she had been to her little cousin Hermione. I gave a sniff and wondered, with some amusement, what our noble families would make of the newest student at the school.

  When I had arrived in Mycenae as a young bride, there had been no school for girls, a fact that had shocked me deeply. The conservative Mycenaeans saw no point in educating girls to simply end up as wives and mothers. The argument that they would grow up to be better wives and parents, with some education, held no water for them. There was little I could do to change this; it was too deeply entrenched.

  As Iphigenia grew up I was determined she would enjoy the same education I had received, and ensured that suitable tutors were imported to give her lessons. Such lessons work best when there are a group of students, so I invited the daughters of a few noble families to join her. The opportunity to become a friend and playmate of a princess overcame their parents’ scruples about over-educating daughters, and places on the course were fiercely prized.

  It was a small step to open the classes up to other girls. The number of students was kept small, enrolment was by invitation only and, as in Sparta, no external hierarchy was allowed to influence discipline or the requirements of the curriculum. Achievement and effort were the only criteria that mattered. If a girl failed to strive, she was dismissed from the school.

  It was a different exclusivity to one based purely on birth, and there were some early complaints and ill feeling from those who assumed nobility of blood would automatically guarantee them a place. In the end, the opportunity to receive an upbringing fit for a princess won over most. Iphigenia, and more latterly Electra, was growing up in a circle of friends. If there were still some nobles who were disaffected, there were many who waited hopefully for their own child’s admittance.

  I was pleased with the academy and saw it as a sign of progress. Iphigenia, who had nearly completed her education, was committed to the continuity of the school, and I hoped she would take w
hat she had learned with her when she married the husband Agamemnon chose for her.

  I wasn’t sure how a street urchin would fit in, but I had given Iphigenia the right to this experiment and couldn’t back out now.

  I shrugged. The waif would either succeed or fail. Either way, I had no doubt that news of Iphigenia’s latest charitable gesture would circulate and reinforce her popularity with the townspeople.

  * * *

  Altogether, the first months of the Trojan campaign were a happy and satisfying time for the family Agamemnon left behind. True, Electra sometimes asked after her daddy, but Orestes seemed happy to live in the present. Iphigenia, having a more adult appreciation of what the campaign was about, also seemed content to view it as something men were supposed to do, and left it at that.

  We received regular messages about the troops’ progress. Agamemnon had established a system of runners to send news to the Greek kingdoms, so we were well informed of what went on at Aulis. Agamemnon had been right – those kings who had taken the oath at Helen’s betrothal did indeed honour it.

  But there were those who tried to evade their obligations. Odysseus, that wily character, pretended he had lost his mind and couldn’t understand the message. He was ploughing when Palamedes arrived and refused to pull over or listen to what he had to say. In frustration Palamedes eventually picked up Odysseus’s toddler son and stood him right in the path of the heavy team of oxen, causing Odysseus to swerve, which put paid to his pretence of insanity.

  I was amused when I heard the tale, even though I was sorry Odysseus’s ploy hadn’t worked.

  Odysseus, narked at the exposure of his own deceit, was particularly willing to help track down Achilles. Although the boy was only sixteen, he already had a fearsome reputation as a warrior. To protect him from the draft, his mother concealed him amongst the women in Lycomedes’ household. I tried to imagine the rage an adolescent male would feel, forced into this deceit, until I heard his refuge was sweetened by Lycomedes’ daughter, Deidamia. Inevitably the silly girl became pregnant, about which time Odysseus arrived, disguised as a merchant, with a gift of a sumptuous suit of armour. Achilles’ masculine enthusiasm and admiration for the gift betrayed his gender and soon Agamemnon’s army had another conscript.

  By the beginning of spring, the Greek army and fleet had assembled at Aulis. The weather grew warmer and more settled, and they waited for the winds that would blow them across the Aegean Sea to Troy. They waited, and they waited. The sun shone brightly, the sea sparkled and the wind blew from the wrong direction. Weather patterns, which should have been a given for the time of year, simply failed to eventuate.

  The men had no alternative but to try and keep themselves amused until the wind changed.

  The messengers brought us news of this delay.

  “Still no wind.”

  I imagined Agamemnon’s frustration and was thankful I wasn’t there to share his misery. He would be worried about losing his army if disaffected warriors decided to go home.

  We came to accept these regular messages as the norm.

  The months passed; messengers arrived with the same dull news, and time went on. If the weather didn’t change soon they would be stranded at Aulis for another winter.

  Then I received an unexpected message. Agamemnon had contracted a marriage between Iphigenia and the young warrior Achilles. I was to send her immediately to Aulis for the wedding. It would, said my husband, bring joy to the Greek army to celebrate a wedding between Mycenae’s princess and the hero Achilles.

  I went in search of Iphigenia.

  I could hear her before I turned the corner onto the balcony. She and Charis were laughing together as they bent over a game of dice. I stopped in the doorway to watch them. Two pretty girls – one dark, one with lighter brown hair. Charis had scrubbed up surprisingly well, and an unlikely friendship had developed between the girls.

  I took a deep breath and approached them. “Iphigenia, I have received word from your father.”

  She looked up in pleasant anticipation, seeing from my face I had something to tell her. “Have the winds changed then? They must have been getting intolerably bored.”

  “He has arranged a marriage for you. With Achilles,” I blurted out. “He wants you to leave immediately for Aulis for the wedding celebration.”

  Iphigenia straightened up slowly. “Achilles? For my husband?”

  I could see her assessing the news.

  “Well, I’ve heard he’s a hero,” she said, “and young as well.”

  I tried to gather my rattled thoughts. “He’s a Myrmidon. His father is King Peleus.”

  “So, it’s a good match, my lady?” Charis had never learned that she should be seen and not heard.

  “I suppose so,” I said. I looked helplessly at my daughter. “I didn’t think it would happen like this. I knew your father would organise a marriage, but this is so sudden.”

  I sat down rather hurriedly on the stone seat.

  Iphigenia sat beside me, wound her arm round my waist and leant her head on my shoulder. “What do we have to do?” she asked practically.

  There were, of course, endless things to do. Only a man could assume a bride could get organised, not just for a wedding, but for travel as well, in the space of two weeks.

  The palace was in uproar. Seamstresses, embroiderers and every kind of skilled worker had to be called in to prepare the trousseau.

  Iphigenia was massaged, oiled, her hair brushed until it fell in a fall of silk. I looked at her and realised how beautiful she had become. It wasn’t just the regularity of her features; some part of her sweet nature shone out through her face. She would make a lovely bride, and Achilles would be a very lucky man.

  Agamemnon had left the details around the wedding infuriatingly vague. What was to happen to Iphigenia after the ceremony? If the army was departing for Troy, they could hardly take her with them. Would she return here to Mycenae, or was the intent for her to travel to her new father-in-law’s home? I could make no sense of it, and I gave Iphigenia comprehensive instructions about making sure all these details were sorted out.

  I wouldn’t be travelling with her. I couldn’t leave Mycenae, nor could I travel with Electra and Orestes. My little girl would be going to her bridegroom on her own, without her mother beside her. My heart ached for her.

  A week after the first message, a second arrived urging haste in dispatching Iphigenia to her bridegroom.

  Iphigenia laughed at me when I swore at this missive.

  “If my husband is looking forward to receiving me, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  I had to agree, through tight lips, that it was. I wasn’t going to spoil her pleasure with my own worries and petulance. I strode off to find a negligent servant to berate instead.

  Orestes was too young to have any idea of why the household was in chaos, but Electra was very excited. She followed her big sister around, watching as the maids made her beautiful, the dressmakers gowned her and the jewellers covered her in necklaces, bracelets and earrings. I found her playing brides and bridegrooms with some of her friends, trailing an old shawl over her head as a veil. How quickly they grow, I thought as I kissed her.

  The night before she left, Iphigenia and I sat together in the hall. She was unusually quiet, toying with the olives and wine Charis had brought for us. Charis would be travelling with her, and I had given the girl a long list of instructions to ensure her mistress’s happiness and comfort.

  The baggage train was already packed, ready for an early departure on the morrow. I could think of nothing useful to do.

  I put my hand on Iphigenia’s. “You will make a wonderful bride,” I told her.

  She nodded.

  “Is there anything you want to know? Anything you want to ask me?”

  She smiled. “About being a wife? No, not that part.” She turned her hand in mine and squeezed my fingers. “I’m just sad to be leaving here. Everything
is changing so suddenly. But I’m excited as well. Father wouldn’t arrange a bad marriage for me, and everything I have heard of Achilles has been good.”

  She was rising to this challenge as a true daughter of Sparta should. I knew how much I would miss her and tried to counter that with thoughts of how proud I was of her. Of all that had sprung from my marriage to Agamemnon, Iphigenia was the most beautiful.

  I kissed her and went to bed.

  They left early. The crowds lined the streets to wave and cheer their princess off on her wedding trip. She smiled and waved back, a happy, laughing girl going off on her greatest adventure. Charis, seated beside her, looked as proud as a peacock.

  I watched them disappear out of sight then went to my chamber and cried like a child. Did all mothers feel like this? Grief clenched at my stomach, and terrible regret filled me. I wouldn’t see her on her wedding day. She would do well, I knew. No one who met Iphigenia could do anything other than love her.

  I clutched this little reassurance to me, and prayed to every god that they would care for my girl.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  THE PALACE SEEMED NUMBINGLY EMPTY WITHOUT Iphigenia. I realised how she had become my companion, as much as a daughter. Even Myrto looked a little subdued as we worked through the usual business of the day.

  I counted out the miles and days in my head. She would be at Megara; by now she must be at Thebes; perhaps today she would arrive at Aulis. I hoped Achilles was a good man and that they pleased each other. All daughters know our fate is to be married to whomever our fathers choose, but some men are wiser than others. I hoped Agamemnon had thought carefully before he contracted his daughter.

  It was early evening. I said goodnight to the children. Orestes wanted to be told the story of our ancestor Perseus. Electra wanted to know about exactly what Iphigenia had worn for the wedding. She already knew every detail of her sister’s wardrobe but wanted to hear it all again. We had to assume that the wedding had been celebrated by now. I couldn’t wait for the messenger to arrive with the news and as many details as he could provide. I should have liked a female messenger who at least would have the sense to look at the important details. Was the bride happy? Did the groom appear to love her? Did Iphigenia look beautiful? Was her father happy? Instead I was likely to get a roll call of which heroes had attended the wedding, and an itemised list of warriors who had won fame in the hunt by providing the most meat for the feast.