Goddess of Yesterday (18 page)

I tidied Pleis as much as possible, given that our clothing was stained and ruined by salt water. I arranged the yellow shawl over my red hair, letting the hem dip down to shade my eyes.

Zanthus stepped off
Ophion
and onto the stone dock, where he took a long deep breath and then another one. He was braced for something. The crew stayed on board, the only crew to do so, Zanthus standing as if to protect them. He was worried.

He could not have been as worried as I was. With Pleis in my arms, I too stepped onto the wharf. Pleis wiggled to get down and I let him. He hopped up and down on the solid rocks, his chubby fingers exploring the rough edges of stone. Joyfully he tugged at the loose end of a great coil of hemp rope.

Zanthus grunted, and Pleis, who knew enough to be afraid, stood very still.

But Zanthus was watching the approach of Paris.

Paris! I would have expected him to be with the king of Sidon or with Helen. Why was he not inside the city, enjoying the admiration of his host, and good rich food and warm bathwater? Surely when Pleisthenes and Hermione were sent for, a slave would run such an errand.

Paris was wearing his parade armor, but carried no weapons and wore no helmet. His chest plates glittered in the sun. I stared at my feet, my features hidden by the scarf. My heart could not decide whether to beat faster or give up altogether. Pleis waved the frizzy end of the rope.

Twenty paces away from us, Paris came to a halt. He put his hands on his waist and stood with his legs spread. Zanthus saluted. The crew saluted. Nobody spoke.

“Rope,” said Pleis, holding it out to Paris.

“They survived,” said Paris.

Zanthus said nothing.

O my captain, O Zanthus! You were told to see that the children of Menelaus died. You sailed at the rear of the fleet, using your great skill to be slow instead of swift, that we would not cross paths with your prince. That you would not have to do such a shivery thing as take the lives of two royal children. You did protect us, Zanthus. You had orders from your commander and you did not obey them.

O goddess of yesterday. Thank you for your unexpected messenger. Thank you for your protection.

Paris turned on his heel and walked away.

The wind tugged like fingers and my scarf came loose and blew into the water, where it curled wetly as if over a drowned face.

A little parade of servants scurried toward us. “Your mother awaits you in the palace of the king of Sidon, princess,” said a fussy little man. He was beaming and excited.

“If you mean Queen Helen,” I said, “she is not my mother.”

“We heard that you are very angry, princess,” said the man. He bowed twice and gestured toward a carry chair. “But you must no longer speak in such a manner. The queen your mother is a goddess. No one in Sidon has ever seen her like.”

That I could believe.

I pried Pleis' fingers off the rope coil, stuck the Medusa in them instead, and got into the carry chair with him in my
lap. Four men lifted the chair. The slaves had been branded like cattle, which I had never seen before.

“Princess, how you have suffered!” cried the little man, trotting beside us. “Soon you will be bathed and comfortable, and your hair braided and perfumed. Jewels befitting your station will be pinned to a fresh and flattering gown. Then you shall be reunited with your lovely mother, who even now graces the finest suite we have. Tonight you and your brother sleep safe in a king's palace.”

Yes. Tonight Pleis would be safe. In that fine suite of guest rooms, Helen would cuddle her little son for a moment or two. But from the look of the ships, Troy would sail in the morning. Helen would have handed me over for execution, and for Pleis, Paris would choose a different captain, to whom a prince's life was nothing.

Sun hit pavement with a ferocity that even my homeland could not equal. It blazed through my eyes and under my skin and into my thoughts. I was broiled like a fish on coals.

Sidon was lumpy and low, buildings spread like seed scattered by a careless hand. The palace walls were not painted, but left the color of sand, and its floors were plain stone, buffed smooth. Wherever sun could get in, heat came also, a seething blast, so there were few windows and the dark ceilings were high to let the heat rise. There were few statues or embroidered cushions or even flowers. The palace was decorated only by coolness and dark, and it was enough.

My bath was joy.

Six servants, all for me.

Soft oils and lotions. A comb gently taking out snarls, fingers cajoling curls back into place, a file to shape my
broken nails. Perfume and ribbons. A gown of soft warm blue like a bird's egg. A shining sash, tied high and wide.

The servants found Hermione's amber necklace in my little bag of possessions, but I could not wear that noose of dead wasps. “Is there other jewelry I might borrow for the evening?” I asked.

“Of course, princess,” said the women, delighted. They opened an ivory box, and from its piles of gems chose ornaments for my throat and ears and hair, for my wrists and fingers and even ankles. It was far more than a girl from Siphnos or Amyklai would wear, but in the shadowy rooms, it gleamed like treasure in a cave.

I tucked my Medusa into my gown, where she rested in the safety of the sash, and at the last moment, I wore the amber necklace after all. Perhaps the sight of her daughter's necklace would soften Helen toward me.

Pleis had won the hearts of all six servants. They fed him sweets and cooed over his smile, while he ran back and forth, exploring every corner and showing me everything. He was out of breath with excitement. He had not been able to run around like this in days.

Who would calm him tonight, when he was cranky and afraid? Would Helen rock him and sing him a lullaby?

I spoke firmly to my goddess, instructing her to stay with Pleis as long as he should live. It would not be easy to speak so firmly to Helen, goddess of another sort.

“Your daughter wanted to murder you, O queen, so be grateful. I have saved you and her from such a fate.”

What mother could believe that?

“Bia, slave of your daughter, forced me to do this.”

A slave could not force a princess to do anything.

“I took Hermione's place for Menelaus' sake, because he was kind to me and what you have done will destroy him.”

I would merely hasten my death by mentioning Menelaus.

“I was afraid for your son Pleisthenes. And how right I was, for Paris gave orders that your son should die at sea. You do not owe me death. Helen, you owe Zanthus the life of your son.”

But Helen would simply have Zanthus killed as well, for telling such lies about his commander.

I walked slowly to Helen's room. The servants chatted excitedly about the great feast to come. It would not come for me.

Who was ever prepared for the pale gold phantom of Helen?

I had forgotten how people drew back, stunned by her, and slightly afraid. The six servants lined the wall like paintings.

I had forgotten that Pleis loved her. “Mama!” he cried, running forward joyfully. “Mama!”

Helen swung him into the air, kissing his little throat and cheeks, hugging him and laughing into his eyes.

She does love Pleis, I thought. Thank you, all gods, that I was wrong about her. Thank you that Pleis is safe now.

I had forgotten that even I yearned for Helen's smile. She was so beautiful it hurt the eyes, as looking into the noonday sun hurts the eyes.

“Calli,” Pleis told his mother happily, “sto.”

Helen glanced my way, surprised but not yet angry. “Girl, tell my daughter I am here.”

I swallowed. “Your daughter the princess Hermione remained at Amyklai, my queen.”

Helen stared at me.

I felt very thin, as if the queen could see through me, as I had seen through the magic jar.

“Impossible,” hissed Helen. She set down Pleisthenes, who immediately began whimpering and pulling on her dress. “Up,” said Pleis, tugging. “Up, up.”

Helen hated her gown to be in disarray. She looked at the toddler with dislike and the six slave women, like a flock of hens, flapped forward to get Pleis. He opened his mouth to complain, but they popped a cake onto his tongue, whisked him into a corner and kept him busy eating.

“I have just received a report from Zanthus,” said Helen. Her voice was very cold, as if sleet were falling. “The captain of the
Ophion
told me my daughter behaved well. Did he mean you, girl? Am I to understand that you dared pretend to be my daughter?”

“I had to, my queen. The servant Bia kept Hermione by force and ordered me to take her place.”

“Why did you not run after me and tell me? The soldiers of Paris would have dealt with such a slave woman.”

I had nothing to say.

Her voice hung like snakes in a tree. “A little nobody from some rock in the sea. You deny me my own daughter in a foreign land!”

“I have cared for your son, my queen. He had no one else. His nurse was thrown overboard when she provoked the rowers. I—”

“Liar!” Her voice was a thin whip against my skin. “Zanthus told me how gladly Rhodea sacrificed herself to the sea god.”

The door filled with men. Soldiers and sailors and Paris. Paris would not mind that Hermione was still at Amyklai. One less child of Menelaus to get rid of.

Helen was trembling with fury. “Dispose of the girl,” she told Paris, who smiled.

But Pleis broke free from the flock of slave women. He ran to me, arms out to be held. “Calli,” he demanded, tugging on my borrowed blue gown. “Sto. Up, up.”

I obeyed, and he hugged me in the strangling way of babies, and from the safe and well-known seat on my hip, surveyed the room.

Zanthus' voice came from the doorway. He had told an untruth about Rhodea, but he did not tell one about me. “The girl did care for the little boy. She tied him to her during storms. She fed him and rocked him and kept him safe. She did at all times behave like a princess.”

“She is not one,” snapped Helen.

“I regret that I have not pleased you, O queen,” I said. “I beg for the privilege of continuing to serve the prince.”

Paris turned Helen toward him, kissing her diadem and hair and forehead. He stroked her cheeks and shocked everyone in the room by reaching into her gown to take out and stroke what should be kept hidden. The slaves blushed and dropped their eyes. The sailors gaped.

“Let her be a slave, Helen,” he said, “and care for your dear son. He is happy enough with her and we have much travel before we are safely in Troy. Before I show off the most beautiful woman in the world to the most beautiful city.” He stepped back to admire her. “Come, my goddess queen. Let us show the world how the gods have smiled upon us.”

They walked out together, two stars in the night sky. But Helen paused in the door and turned to look back. “I do not like the girl's red hair,” she said. “The color reminds me of
someone I would prefer to forget. Shave off the hair. Do not permit her to have hair again.”

Aethra held Pleis as they removed my hair. Pleis had never had a haircut himself and I suppose had never seen one. He was upset by the auburn curls and braids that piled on the floor as the sharp knife cut them away. He screamed when the knife pared close to my scalp. The king of Sidon's barber shaved my head smooth.

Many people gathered to watch.

Hair is the glory of man and woman. Even a slave may have fine hair. A warrior always prepares his hair before battle. Now I stood like an old man, comic and bald.

When it was done and people had finished laughing at me, Aethra oiled my bare scalp as one oils the feet. “Listen to me, princess. I have wept much over the years, and I am wise, for when they have dried, tears are the source of wisdom. Helen will do no more to you.”

I was a slave and bald. What was left?

At least Aethra looked well. Perhaps for her, the sea air had been a tonic. I thought of Rhodea, whose last breath of sea air had been mixed with seawater. “Aethra, I am glad you are all right. We had a terrible voyage on the
Ophion.
They threw Rhodea overboard. Aethra, she was trying so hard to take good care of her little prince. Why didn't the gods help her?”

“Gods move only in the best of society,” said Aethra. “No god yet has cared what happens to a slave. Therefore, my Callisto, never forget that you are a princess.”

But I was weak without my hair. They had sliced away my courage. I could not keep from crying.

Aethra pressed her thumb against my forehead, exactly
where the bloody print of Queen Petra had blessed me six years before. She raised her voice so all could hear. “Now, my princess, I give you a turban. See how finely this scarf is woven, eight feet of scarlet and purple lace. I twist it around your head like so; tuck it here; pin it there. And now, my princess, look into this mirror of silver held by your slave. See how dramatic and striking you are in such a turban.”

Every person in the room had heard Paris refer to me as a slave. But Aethra was not going to let it stand.

She is an island in the sea, I thought. She is my goddess of yesterday, or sent by my goddess.

How unexpected were the messengers of gods.
Angelos
is the word. I had met two of them that day, Zanthus and Aethra.

A squire poked his head into the room. “Are the prince and princess ready?” he asked. “The king has sent me to escort them to the banquet.”

I could understand that the king of Sidon was confused. Was the girl from
Ophion
a princess or slave, daughter of Helen or child from a rock? Certainly Aethra was not going to make it clear. “They come,” Aethra told him.

I could not appear in the king of Sidon's court as if I really were Hermione. Helen would rip the turban off my head. Then she would rip my head off my shoulders.

“When you bring them into the dining hall,” said Aethra to the squire, “you will announce first the prince Pleisthenes, son of Menelaus, and you will announce second the princess Callisto, daughter of Nicander.”

The squire bowed, as if Aethra were still a queen.

And she was.