Goddess of Yesterday (9 page)

“I know about Castor and Pollux,” I said delightedly. “They sailed with Jason on the
Argo
to bring back the Golden Fleece. Every bard who ever visited Siphnos sang of Jason's voyage.”

“You will hear them sing even more now,” said Tenedos dryly. “Castor and Pollux never tire of hearing how wonderful they are. The twins have even coaxed the astronomers at the palace to name stars in their honor.”

A princess should not let a slave speak badly of his betters. I should have Pyros use his whip. But I wanted Tenedos silent about my stair mistake, so I let it pass. I said, “I have never heard of the naming of stars.”

He stared at me. “But how do you study them, as they
cross the sky every night?” When I had no answer to this, Tenedos chewed down hard on his grass and said, “Queen Helen has a sister Clytemnestra, and Clytemnestra married the older brother of Menelaus, who is Agamemnon, strongest king in the world. So two sisters married two brothers. Agamemnon's far-flung lands are beyond those mountains on the north. When the brothers visit each other, they do not cross the mountain range, for the pass is fit only for wild goats. Each king returns to the sea and sails to his brother's port.”

I drew a picture in my head of marriage lines between the brothers. I drew lines down for the children of each king. With a sickening thud in my heart, I realized that I had paid little attention to the genealogy of Callisto. No noble child exists who cannot preach the family genealogy. I would be expected to recite it back ten generations. I began piecing together the lineage. I knew the parents and grandparents of both Petra and Nicander. Could I recall anything more than that?

“The sisters Helen and Clytemnestra are the most beautiful women in the world,” said Tenedos. “Helen is so lovely that goddesses are jealous. But even the jealousy of a goddess cannot hurt Helen. In fact, nothing can hurt Helen, for she does not have an earthly father. She is the daughter of the Lord God Zeus.”

I had known this, of course; all the world knew. But now I would meet her. Was Helen fully human or would I be able to tell that she was half god? Was her blood red like mine? Would she know things, the way immortal gods did? Would she know, for example, that I was not Callisto? “What did Zeus look like?” I asked. “Did Helen's earthly mother tell anybody? Was he a giant with huge muscles and a curly beard?”

Tenedos shook his head. “Zeus came to Helen's mother in the form of a swan.”

“Oh.” I was blank. “What is a swan?”

Tenedos sucked in his breath and held it.

In his silence, I heard a thousand noises: the creak of wheels and axles; the panting and wheezing of donkeys and mules; the clopping feet of oxen and horses; the slap of sandals; the talk and laughter of men.

“Little princess,” said the slave softly, “the court of Menelaus and Helen is sophisticated, and you have been isolated. You have never seen glass, don't know what a river is, have never walked on a road, do not know the names of stars, have never seen a swan. Here is my advice to you. Stay silent. Be fearful of Helen. The daughter of a god pays no price for any action she takes. She cannot suffer and so does not discern the suffering of others.”

How dare a slave speak like that of his queen? I was angry with him.

But—
Listen carefully
, said my goddess.
You enter a strange world under a false name. He is an ally. Be thankful
.

Pyros missed nothing. He was beside us in an instant, eager to inflict pain. “The slave has offended you?” he asked me eagerly, flourishing his whip. I thought I knew how he had come by the name Fire. He burned to hurt Tenedos.

And then I saw sailing on the Eurotas River several large and beautiful birds whose slender heads turned on remarkable long thin white necks to study me. “In the river,” I said to Pyros. “What are those?”

Pyros turned but saw nothing worthy of comment.

“Those are swans, princess,” said Tenedos.

In such a shape had Zeus visited the mother of Helen.
How white Helen's skin must be. How long and slender her throat. How graceful her profile.

We walked on. I dreamed of swans and cold clear gods.

“Swans are vicious,” said Tenedos. “Be careful of swans, my princess.”

T
HE WALLS OF
S
IPHNOS
were a sheepfold compared to the walls of Amyklai.

Men standing on the shoulders of men standing on the shoulders of men could not have touched the top of Menelaus' wall. Above his immense gate, stone lions snarled at one another. They were not painted the tawny color of the wild, but scarlet. Their eyes and fangs and claws were laid with gold leaf.

Had I been six years old, and newly come from a primitive rock, I would have thought the lions frozen where they fought, forced to stand forever with fangs bared and claws drawn. I knew now that the hand of man had sculpted them. And yet the lions had such strength I could readily believe that one day they would leap down and tear to pieces those who tried to pass beneath them.

That night I met the lion.

Her name was Helen.

O Helen.

Think of hot gold infused on icy silver.

Think of a soft blue sky over an iron-hard sea.

The warmest sun and the coldest marble.

Helen. Swan and goddess.

But Menelaus did not notice. He gave his wife a mild hug, as if she were his sister. She in turn smiled briefly and returned to her embroidery. Her yarn was green shot through with sun, like the sea underwater. Elderly maids sat by her side, on stools so low their knees touched their chins, and threaded her needle for her.

Menelaus boxed fondly with his older sons, Aethiolas and Maraphius, who looked about ten and twelve. They were hopping up and down with the joy of having their father home. “Don't go anywhere without us next time, Father.”

“Let's go hunting, Father!”

“We've trained new dogs, Father! Wait till you see.”

“Father, let's—” and they had a great list of things to do together: wrestling, chariot racing, ball games, hunting boars, running the hounds.

Menelaus tossed his baby boy Pleisthenes into the air and a cascade of giggles came from the pretty child.

With Hermione, a fragile copy of her beautiful mother, the king was gentle, but Hermione was as wildly excited as her brothers. “I'm so glad you're home, Father!” she cried, wrapping her arms around him and tugging on his flaming beard. “I missed you so. Nobody else will play checkers or pegs or kings with me.”

“That's because you can't bear to lose,” said her father affectionately. “And nobody but me can tolerate your tears.”

“I've outgrown tears,” said Hermione haughtily. “I have not cried at the end of a board game in months.”

“Because you haven't played in months, Hermione,” said her brother Maraphius. “You're still a crybaby.”

Hermione flew at her brother, her frail fists as effective as dust kittens.

Helen's long slender fingers searched among the bright
yarns spilling out of a silver basket. How fair of skin Helen was. Like the last mother and daughter I had known, Helen and Hermione seemed never to have been under the sun, which was what kept their skin white, but would also keep their lives dull. I expected that they had never seen a swan either, nor trembled in a forest, nor drunk warm milk from a pail.

For the boys, Menelaus brought out sets of toy Trojan soldiers, with shields and spears and even toy greyhounds and horses and chariots.

For Hermione, the king had chosen strange top heavy dolls. I did not like them.

Hecuba, queen of Troy, whose name I liked, for it had to do with moons and arrows, had sent Hermione a miniature tiara: roses, leaves and thorns beaten out of gold. Hermione's nurse set it gently on the little princess's head and laced her hair through it.

For Helen, Menelaus had brought a silver rimmed bathtub. It was high and round, just enough room for one person to sit with her knees drawn up as warm water was poured down over her shoulders, to make a lake around her so she might relax her tired limbs. Helen did not look like a person who ever did enough to be that tired. In any event, she hardly glanced at the silver bath, but took another stitch.

The day I was brought to Siphnos, Nicander had forgotten about me, but Menelaus was a greater king and forgot nothing. He took my hand tenderly. “This,” said Menelaus, “is a little lost princess. Her name is Callisto. Her father, King Nicander of Siphnos, was killed by pirates as she watched and her mother, Queen Petra, was made a slave, while the palace burned to the ground.”

“Oh, how sad!” said Hermione, rushing over to kiss and sorrow with me. “You saw it happen? Callisto, how dreadful. I am glad you are here where it is safe.”

“Callisto will be a sister to you, Hermione,” said Menelaus. “She will play pegs or kings with you.”

I was stunned. Nicander had explained to his family that I was a hostage whose value was gone…but this king announced that I was a sister.

And because of my lies.

Hermione clapped so gently that her hands made no sound. “I have two wonderful girl cousins,” she confided. “Iphigenia and Electra. They were here all last summer. I loved them. But they aren't coming this year. I'm so glad to have you instead. You must sleep in my room so we never have to stop talking.”

“I would be honored to sleep in your room, princess.”

“Oh, good. How old are you? I'm nine. Your hair is beautiful but you wear it so plain. Do the ladies on your island not braid their hair?”

I ignored the question about my age. “My mother the queen liked my hair loose. She said it looked like rose petals.”

Helen paused in her needlework. Everyone in the room—family, squires, maids, noblemen awaiting assignments—was aware of the change in her. I realized suddenly that the courtiers and servants in this large room had hardly been aware of the touching reunion between father and his children. They watched only Helen. They breathed in her rhythm and looked where her eyes looked.

I too felt the god in her and ached for her approval. When she turned and looked at me at last, an uncertain smile
fluttered inside my mouth, eager to jump out and spread my lips and show my joy. I was breathless waiting for her permission to be happy.

“We once entertained Petra and Nicander,” said Helen. Her voice had no inflection. It had no wrath, it had no sympathy, it had nothing. It was merely air. “Petra and Nicander attended a festival at our temple of Apollo. They were dark haired.” Helen looked me up and down as one examines a slave on the table. The courtiers looked me up and down as one examines a slave on the table. My smile stuck inside.

“Usually,” she said, “a child resembles one of her parents.”

Fear sucked on me like an octopus.

“None of us has red hair, Mother,” Hermione pointed out. “You would think with four children at least one of us would have Father's hair.”

“How old are you, girl?” said Helen. Her face showed no more emotion than a statue. The god part of her was made of stone, not swan.

“I am fifteen,” I said. “I know I look younger. I had much illness as a child.”

“Are you betrothed?” Hermione wanted to know.

“I am not.”

“How strange,” said Helen. Her eyes hooked mine, as a sharp hook will fasten to a fish. “A king's only child is fifteen years of age and yet that king arranged no betrothal?”

She was right, of course. It was unheard of. What king would allow chance to decide his heir? I could not explain that since Callisto was crippled and likely to be barren, no one wanted her, because now I was Callisto.

I said nothing, and it was the right course, for Helen had arrived at a favorite topic. “I myself at fifteen,” said Helen,
her voice growing rich and pleased, “had a palace full of suitors.”

She was famous for those suitors. There had been so many eager to wed her. As men in athletic competition will become fierce, trying to prove day after day who is strongest and best, so the suitors turned to dueling. Helen's earthly father, the old king of Sparta, did an extraordinary thing to stop the suitors from killing each other. He brought forth his finest stallion, sliced its throat, and made every suitor stand in the blood of the horse. Then they had to swear the most terrible oath known in our times: that the man Helen chose in marriage would forever have the loyalty of all the rest.

The sacrifice of a horse was shocking, because men do not eat horse meat, and a sacrifice is also a feast, and every citizen will partake in the great meal that follows. To make a horse holy is very powerful and strange, as its meat will not be put upon the coals. It must be buried, and the earth around it becomes sacred.

I had heard bards sing about the oath of the horse as many times as I had heard them sing of Jason and the Golden Fleece. I never liked thinking of those young men with their bare feet soaked in blood, but when I looked at Helen, I imagined something more terrible: Helen watching them.

Now she watched me.

The room watched me.

“Recite for me,” said Helen, “the genealogy of Petra.”

I froze like the boy in Nicander's courtyard. I could not remember one name from that family not my own.