Goddess of Yesterday: A Tale of Troy

“The most ancient form of the goddess Athena. I shivered to be near it. She came as a huge stone from the sky, pocked and pitted and very strange.”

  A stone goddess out of the sky? “I wish I could have seen that!” I told him.

  “It was long ago. But some were there to see her come. They brought her to the pinnacle of Troy and built a temple around her. The sacred place is open to the heavens, so the goddess need not lose sight of home. I knelt and drew on that power, to save Sparta from plague.”

  “And did the goddess answer? Is the plague over and gone?”

  He took a long slow breath. “I do not yet know. Kinados, my captain, changed course when he saw the blackened height of Siphnos town. Many of my ships continued on to the Main Land. When we arrive at Gythion, therefore, my people will be expecting me, streaming down from Amyklai and Sparta to welcome me home, and they will tell me, and then I will know.”

  I listened carefully.

  He called everything “mine.” My people. My captain. I too, now a princess, must refer to my people, my palace. Anaxandra never existed, I said to myself. I am Callisto. Princess. Daughter of Nicander and Petra. Heiress to the Isle of Siphnos.

  “I am not quite sure of your many place names, O king,” I told him, omitting that I had grown up in a place without any name at all. “Sparta. Amyklai. Gythion. Will you tell me about your Main Land?”

  “The Main Land is very great and divided into many kingdoms. The largest kingdom belongs to my brother, Agamemnon. My part of the Main Land is Sparta, which is both kingdom and city. But I do not live in the city. I live in my palace, Amyklai, several miles south of Sparta town. First we will land at my port, Gythion.”

  Menelaus and his people had very different Greek from the speech of the pirates. The king made long puffs of air around each consonant, giving each word its own breeze. Every khhhh and phhhh and quhhh made his speech slower than mine. In comparison, my words tumbled harshly like pebbles. I expanded my syllables with “h”s. “What gift could be fine enough for the Palladium goddess?” I wanted to know.

  “I gave my best statues of marble and ivory, cloaked in purple wool embroidered by my wife, Helen, who is a brilliant needlewoman. I gave alabaster urns, gold cups, silver vases. Anything, in short, that could not be turned into a weapon.”

  “Would they have fought you?” I said excitedly.

  “Troy would fight anybody. Troy can make weapons without end. They cannot be beaten in war. They possess so much tin they don't even work it, but just leave it lying around in warehouses.”

  Everything I heard about Troy was so hard to believe. Copper is an easy sail away, being mined out of the island of Cyprus. But bronze requires tin, very hard to come by. No one even knows where tin is mined, because it has to pass through so many merchants on so many ships. “Is it true that Trojan horses are twice the size of ours?”

  “It is true. You'll see when you reach my palace at Amyklai, for I bought six Trojan stallions and fourteen mares. It is no easy thing to get a stallion into a boat and less easy to keep him there. Those ships I pray have already reached the Main Land. Their captains were eager to unload such difficult cargo. I shall tell you an amazing thing, Callisto.” Menelaus began laughing. His captain Kinados sat beside us for a moment and shared the laughter.

  I did not laugh. He had called me Callisto. It is a shivery thing to seize the name of another. It is a shivery thing to cease being oneself. 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 have never 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. Along the way I have a dozen watchtowers. It would not matter how much tin sits in a Trojan storeroom across the sea. Invaders would have no hope. Indeed,” said the king of Sparta, “I look forward to showing a prince of Troy that I too cannot be beaten.”

  Quickly he threw wine into the sea to placate any listening god, for it not good for a man to utter such a boast.

  All men can be beaten.

  AND SO WE LANDED in Gythion, where wharves stretched into the blue cauldron of a vast bay and the slate roofs of storehouses and workshops were strewn for a mile.

  Upon the sand, seagoing craft of all sizes were beached. Men were blackening hulls with pi
tch, making rope for rigging, and carving oars. Women were sewing together the many patches of linen required to make a sail, for no loom can weave so wide a cloth. Shipbuilders were hewing beams. Open-fronted potteries held thousands of bowls in towering stacks. Immense enclosures for sheep and cattle soon to be sold or slaughtered filled the air with the rich scent of manure and hide.

  All these lay abandoned as the people sprang forward to welcome their king and tell him the good news that the plague was over.

  It was a day of terrible heat. The sun leaned down to burn the skin and blind the eye. Menelaus had been oiled by his slaves so his skin would gleam, for the face of a god shines, and a king is arm to the gods. On his red hair sat a helmet cut through with holy shapes. From his shoulders hung an ivory-hilted sword, useless in battle, breathtaking in parade. His cape was embroidered with hundreds of arrows flying in all directions, the back panel woven with stallions chasing the wind while apple green oceans lay under bloodred skies. Queen Helen had made it, the captain Kinados told me.

  Men waiting on shore gave Menelaus the right hand of friendship and clasped his shoulder. Women knelt to embrace his knees. They all came: salt merchants and elegant ladies, little boys and sagging grandmothers and potters with clay-stained hands.

  We waded through crowds as deep as the water we had just left.

  Every citizen needed to touch him or his garments. I knew that kings were holy, but I had not seen a people worship their king. How proud Helen must be of such a husband. How eager to see him after so long a separation. How excited his four children, who would soon embrace a father returned in honor. A king whose prayers end plague is held in the cup of the gods' love.

  Gythion was unwalled. How strange to be inside a town and yet be able to look out. Gythion did not have the tight huddled anxiety of Siphnos. It was noisy and relaxed. Its central square was not square at all, but just an openness, called an agora, with a stone floor and stone benches. Trellises gave shade, black poplars stood behind a splashing fountain, and red flowers bloomed in great clay jugs.

  The priests had already begun the roasting of the gods' portion from the many sacrifices, and slaves carried forth the feast. There were fat twisted loaves of bread and bowls of black olives and stiff cool celery. There were casseroles of barley, cheese and onions, into which people dipped fingers or bread. There were poppy seed cakes and honey cakes with currants.

  And there was shopping.

  On Siphnos, we traded. Villagers brought cheese from their sheep or yogurt from their goats; fishermen came with their catch; traders landed with wheat and rope and furniture. These were laid out on canvas or dropped on the sand. Now and then a vendor might erect an awning to keep the sun off fresh berries.

  But Gythion had buildings for no purpose except the exchange of goods. These were arranged row upon row, their fronts open to the air, but their roofs permanent. Hundreds of people gawked and traded, arguing furiously about a fair exchange.

  There were perfumes and rouge, eye color and lip balm. Rings of gold and anklets inlaid with carnelian. Razors and combs, an ostrich egg and the ivory tusks of some great creature. Swords and daggers, double axes and arrowheads.

  There were leeks and scallions, pomegranates and figs, and salt in great barrels; cassia to control the bowel and hyssop to cure leprosy.

  There were mirrors and vases, idols and statues. Painted tables, sturdy stools. Feathered caps and bronze scimitars. Flutes of wood and lyres of tortoiseshell.

  There was a slave market.

  One does not normally give slaves a thought. But a very pretty pair of girls my own age were lifted up on the sale table.

  If Menelaus found out that I whom he rescued had stolen a birthright, slavery would be the best I could expect. Being flung off a cliff like a newborn unworthy of its father was more likely.

  I was surrounded by trembling slaves, fearful of who might purchase them and for what use. Fine strong men in shackles awaited the field or salt mine. Young women nursed babies, which would be taken from them so the breast could be used for the master's child. There were weavers for sale, potters and jewelers, holding up examples of their accomplishments, that they might be judged worthy.

  I entered the nearest booth and examined vests and kilts made of thick leather for men who could not afford armor. These were an unlikely purchase for me so I moved on. Sponges were available at many stands. One needs a sponge for hygiene. I picked them over.

  Behind me, the slave trader called out the final bid on the twins.

  A princess, I said to myself, does not notice slaves. I am Callisto of Siphnos. I do not give slaves a thought.

  In the next booth were dyes in copper vats: arsenic to make bright yellow and madder for dark red.

  I thought of color. How many people knew that Callisto had had black hair? That Callisto had been crippled?

  From booth to booth I walked in a daze, thinking of all that could go wrong; of all, indeed, that was wrong with the whole undertaking.

  And yet, my goddess had agreed with me. I must hold on to that.

  In a jewelry booth, I found something I could not identify. It was a tiny jar, the length of my finger, and hardly twice as wide.

  I forgot everything as I held this amazing jar. I could see through it. The merchant dropped a shiny red bead into the jar and I could still see the bead. It broke all the rules of a container. It contained, but did not hide.

  “What treasure have you found, my princess?” said Menelaus, smiling down.

  “A magic jar,” I told him.

  “Not magic, but glass. It comes from Egypt. I have sailed there twice and met their king. They are a very strange people.”

  “Glass,” I whispered, stroking the smooth surface of the magic jar.

  Menelaus bought it for me.

  The merchant lowered my glass into a bag of soft kidskin, and told me never to drop the glass or let it tip over, because it broke more easily than hearts.

  “She is too young to know about broken hearts,” said Menelaus. I saw that he had not really been smiling at me. He was smiling at the world. He was home. His queen, beautiful Helen, would have ruled in his stead, as had Petra in Nicander's absence. She would have planned a storm of joy to welcome him back.

  I held tightly to my new treasure.

  And there was also the treasure of Nicander to consider. Did I now own everything Nicander owned?

  If so, I was a greater pirate than anyone on earth.

  For I had stolen an island.

  We were to spend the night in the house of a noble named Axon. The house of Axon was larger than the palace of Nicander. Yet it was spare and unwelcoming. No tapestry brought warmth to the walls and no clay pot spilled over with flowers. I saw no altar. I shivered to come and go from a dwelling where no god watched the threshold.

  After Menelaus and Axon exchanged greetings and gifts, I was brought forward. “This,” said Menelaus, putting a hand on my head, “is the only surviving child of Nicander of Siphnos. Every ship and farmer, every sheep and slave she owned is gone. Yet the pirates fled before reaching the treasury.”

  “So her dowry includes an island and Nicander's treasure,” said Axon thoughtfully. He seemed puzzled. “I was a great friend of your father, little princess,” he said slowly. “Of course he loved you so.”

  I could think of nothing safe to say to Axon, but a silent girl is a good girl. I kept my eyes down. His toes were so long they lapped over the edges of his sandals like misplaced fingers. His hairy ankles bulged with blue veins. The torchlight made a cruel shadow of his potbelly. “You grace your father's name,” said Axon. “Yet I know your father Nicander feared for your health.”

  Children recovered from sickness. I, Callisto, could recover from being crippled. “My parents offered many prayers during my long illness,” I said, “sacrificing often. The goddess healed me. Where I was weak, now I am strong.”

  “How wonderful,” said Axon, but he was still puzzled. He took a lock of my hair in his
fingers.

  It was good he had not touched my hand, for my flesh had gone as cold as winter. I raised my face and smiled into the man's eyes. “My mother the queen often said that my hair is like rose petals,” I told Axon. “She said red hair is an uncommon gift from the gods, and she often gave thanks.”

  “And so do we all,” said Axon, smiling and relaxed. “Who could not rejoice in such beauty?”

  Twelve is a gawky skinny age. Only my hair was beautiful. I wondered what color Hermione's hair was, daughter of golden Helen and flaming Menelaus.

  The two slave women came with me to my room and when it was time to wash, I gestured that they might also bathe, and we had a happy time of it, for cleanliness is joy to a woman. Afterward, we used fragrant oil on our skin. The women knelt to me, holding up their hands and beseeching in their own language. They hoped not to be sold in the market. I held them by the back of the neck, they in submission and I in ownership.

  In the morning, I thought, I will beg the king's permission to keep these two.

  Then I remembered that I was a princess. In the morning, I would inform Menelaus of my decision.

  Axon's courtyard was grim and cold in the hour before sunrise. I was wildly excited and also afraid, for I did not know how far on top of the Main Land my goddess could come.

  I wanted to cling to my women's hands, and the real Callisto would have, but I wished to be a different Callisto. A stronger, more regal Callisto. So I did not hold a slave's hand. I stood as straight as the oar of Nicander's grave.

  Menelaus drew me aside. He looked very stern. The halflight of dawn cast harsh shadows over his face. His eyes, sharp now, not gentle, examined me from hair to sandals. Then he took my right hand and studied my palm, tracing the life line.

  Axon had told the king his suspicions. Menelaus knew now that the princess Callisto ought to be crippled and dark-haired. He who had so kindly bought me a magic jar would despise me. I was a cheat and a liar, to be sold on the table like the twins who had trembled before their buyers.

  “Little princess,” said Menelaus, “Axon has offered to marry you. It is a good offer. He will fortify your father's island and resettle it. He will care for your inheritance and make it grow. Your sons will enter the world with a fine lineage.”