If this king and this captain found out, what would they do to me?
“In Troy,” said Menelaus, “they sit upon the backs of their horses as we do on mules and donkeys.”
I did not tell the king I already knew about this. “How do they hold on?”
“Tightly,” said Menelaus, and the three of us laughed together.
“Did you try, my king?” I asked.
He shook his head. “They offered me a gentle one and said I would have no trouble, but I could not see the point.”
Kings were not stable boys, to handle animals. In parade, Menelaus would ride in a carved and painted cart, sitting on cushions his queen had embroidered, while his driver managed the horse. In battle, Menelaus in his armor would stand up in the chariot while the driver held the reins. I could not imagine Menelaus with his feet sticking out on either side of a rearing stallion, but I imagined myself. My stallion would gallop as I clung to his mane. Together we would leap over stone walls and my stallion would paw the air with his front hooves.
“Oddly enough,” said Menelaus, “Troy will soon be sending a delegation to me, for almost the same reason I went to Troy. The king of Troy, whose name is Priam, has a son named Paris.”
“The king of Troy,” interrupted the captain, “has
fifty
sons.”
“No, he doesn't.” I was laughing. “No woman could bear fifty sons.”
“True,” said Menelaus. “But Priam has many wives. I havenever seen such a thing and I have traveled much of the world. My wife, Helen, would not be amused were I to wed time and again.”
“And were you to keep every one of those wives in the same palace with her,” said Kinados, “Helen would put a knife through you.”
He and Menelaus laughed.
“I myself have three sons,” Menelaus told me, “and think myself lucky. Two of my boys are older than Hermione, the daughter with whom you will play, and one little more than a babe. But imagine having fifty sons! Anyway, Priam's son Paris is careless and wild and spoiled. He was playing with the child of one of his father's generals and got too rough. He accidentally stabbed the little boy with his sword.”
I hated stories where children died. “Was the little boy all right?”
“No. He died in anguish when the wound turned putrid. Myrrh was brought, and packed into the depths of the cut, and even myrrh had no effect.”
Myrrh is rare and costly. I have never seen it myself. I believe it to be the resin of the tree of life. Nicander once told me that myrrh is so far away, the man who harvests it must walk on land for an entire year before he reaches the Aegean Sea.
“Of course Paris paid the family a large death duty,” said Menelaus, “but he is stained by his deed and must cleanse himself. Now it is I who can offer the remedy. My temple of Apollo was built long ago in honor of Hyacinth, a boy whom the god Apollo—in similar fashion—killed by mistake.”
I had not known that gods made mistakes. Were they not less god for having done so? And if gods made mistakes,why were they not kinder to men who made mistakes? If Apollo killed Hyacinth by mistake, why didn't he forgive Nicander, who had given Apollo a leaden egg by mistake?
But of course, Nicander had made no mistake. He had just cheated. And while Menelaus was making a mistake thinking that I was the daughter of Nicander, I was not making a mistake claiming it. I was cheating.
I wondered how a god as cruel as Apollo would make me pay.
“I am chief priest of Apollo's sanctuary,” said Menelaus, “so I will cleanse the Trojan prince.”
“Are you not worried that this prince Paris, when he comes, will look around and see how
your
kingdom might be attacked?”
“Couldn't be done. Sparta is inland, wrapped in mountain ranges impossible to penetrate. Attackers would have to land at Gythion, leave their ships and walk two days through a land they do not know. It's difficult land, ledge and crag and hidden glens—where my men can lie in ambush.
“In Troy,” said Menelaus, “they sit upon the backs of their horses as we do on mules and donkeys.”
I did not tell the king I already knew about this. “How do they hold on?”
“Tightly,” said Menelaus, and the three of us laughed together.
“Did you try, my king?” I asked.
He shook his head. “They offered me a gentle one and said I would have no trouble, but I could not see the point.”
Kings were not stable boys, to handle animals. In parade, Menelaus would ride in a carved and painted cart, sitting on cushions his queen had embroidered, while his driver managed the horse. In battle, Menelaus in his armor would stand up in the chariot while the driver held the reins. I could not imagine Menelaus with his feet sticking out on either side of a rearing stallion, but I imagined myself. My stallion would gallop as I clung to his mane. Together we would leap over stone walls and my stallion would paw the air with his front hooves.
“Oddly enough,” said Menelaus, “Troy will soon be sending a delegation to me, for almost the same reason I went to Troy. The king of Troy, whose name is Priam, has a son named Paris.”
“The king of Troy,” interrupted the captain, “has
fifty
sons.”
“No, he doesn't.” I was laughing. “No woman could bear fifty sons.”
“True,” said Menelaus. “But Priam has many wives. I havenever seen such a thing and I have traveled much of the world. My wife, Helen, would not be amused were I to wed time and again.”
“And were you to keep every one of those wives in the same palace with her,” said Kinados, “Helen would put a knife through you.”
He and Menelaus laughed.
“I myself have three sons,” Menelaus told me, “and think myself lucky. Two of my boys are older than Hermione, the daughter with whom you will play, and one little more than a babe. But imagine having fifty sons! Anyway, Priam's son Paris is careless and wild and spoiled. He was playing with the child of one of his father's generals and got too rough. He accidentally stabbed the little boy with his sword.”
I hated stories where children died. “Was the little boy all right?”
“No. He died in anguish when the wound turned putrid. Myrrh was brought, and packed into the depths of the cut, and even myrrh had no effect.”
Myrrh is rare and costly. I have never seen it myself. I believe it to be the resin of the tree of life. Nicander once told me that myrrh is so far away, the man who harvests it must walk on land for an entire year before he reaches the Aegean Sea.
“Of course Paris paid the family a large death duty,” said Menelaus, “but he is stained by his deed and must cleanse himself. Now it is I who can offer the remedy. My temple of Apollo was built long ago in honor of Hyacinth, a boy whom the god Apollo—in similar fashion—killed by mistake.”
I had not known that gods made mistakes. Were they not less god for having done so? And if gods made mistakes,why were they not kinder to men who made mistakes? If Apollo killed Hyacinth by mistake, why didn't he forgive Nicander, who had given Apollo a leaden egg by mistake?
But of course, Nicander had made no mistake. He had just cheated. And while Menelaus was making a mistake thinking that I was the daughter of Nicander, I was not making a mistake claiming it. I was cheating.
I wondered how a god as cruel as Apollo would make me pay.
“I am chief priest of Apollo's sanctuary,” said Menelaus, “so I will cleanse the Trojan prince.”
“Are you not worried that this prince Paris, when he comes, will look around and see how
your
kingdom might be attacked?”
“Couldn't be done. Sparta is inland, wrapped in mountain ranges impossible to penetrate. Attackers would have to land at Gythion, leave their ships and walk two days through a land they do not know. It's difficult land, ledge and crag and hidden glens—where my men can lie in ambush.
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