Beauty's Daughter: The Story of Hermione and Helen of Troy by Carolyn Meyer

her. And Prince Paris is bewitched by her. He’s as enamored as he was when he first set eyes on her. Every man in Troy is at least a little in love with Helen. Even when she was great with child, her beauty was incomparable. The Trojan men may be devoted to their wives, but it’s Helen they think of when they’re making love.”
    “And the wives don’t hate her for that?” I asked incredulously.
    “You’d think they would.” Hippodameia smiled. “But they don’t. They truly worship her. Her dearest friend is Andromache, the wife of Hector, Paris’s oldest brother. Such a lovely woman, with her lustrous dark hair and her exquisite green eyes—any man would feel fortunate to have Andromache for his wife. But it’s Helen whom everyone desires. The Trojans won’t give her up. They’ll fight until the last man falls dead before they surrender their beautiful queen.”
    How could it be, I wondered, that my mother was so universally adored? Surely her great beauty must have inspired jealousy among at least a few of the women and resentment among some of the men that they were being asked to fight and die for her. I couldn’t explain it. Maybe no one could.
    I gathered my courage and asked, “In the times you were with her, did my mother ever speak of me? Did she ever mention that she had a daughter?”
    Hippodameia hesitated and dropped her spindle. “Oh, yes!” she assured me as she pretended to search for it. “She spoke often of you. It was ‘My Hermione said this’ and ‘My Hermione did that.’ You were always on her mind.”
    But that hesitation before she answered told me all that I needed to know.
     
    RESTLESS, I STRAPPED ON sturdy sandals and set out alone through the Greek encampment. It had become like a huge city, the men’s crude tents clustered on the beach near the ships, the officers’ well-furnished tents and huts placed among the scrub growth, each group identified by the shield of its commander. The encampment was mostly deserted now, except for slaves and their overseers.
    I passed a slave fixing the broken wheel of a chariot. His shoulders glistened with sweat. We glanced at each other, he looked as though he was about to speak to me, and then he quickly went back to his task.
    I frowned and walked on, but I’d gone only a few steps when it struck me:
I know him!
I turned and hurried back.
    The slave laid aside his tools and greeted me with a low bow. “Princess Hermione,” he said, grinning.
    “Zethus!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”
    “Unfortunately for me, Princess, I’m here as a slave. After I left you with your father at Gythion, I joined a ship bound for Thebes. From there I planned to go on to Troy, but your great Achilles came marauding with his Myrmidons. I was captured and brought here. The overseer discovered my talent for working with wood.”
    “I still have the little wooden boat you carved for me.”
    He wiped sweat from his brow and glanced warily over his shoulder. The overseer, who’d been watching suspiciously, was advancing toward us. “I must stop talking to you, mistress, or I’ll shortly feel the sting of his whip as well as the lash of his tongue.” Zethus hefted his tools and the length of wood he was shaping for the wheel. “The next time we meet, perhaps you’ll tell me what
you’re
doing here.”
    “Yes, the next time,” I promised. There was so much more I wanted to ask Zethus, but I knew it would not go well for him if I did, so I moved on.
    I passed the mounds of earth where the ashes of hundreds of our dead lay buried, and followed a well-worn path toward the battlefield. The sounds of men shouting were louder now. When I paused to fill my leather water bag from the communal tank, I saw a white-bearded man, thin as bone, hobbling slowly along the same path. It was old Calchas, the seer.
    “Where are you going, Hermione?”
    “To watch the battle.”
    He shook a warning finger. “Come with me. We’ll watch