3
Psyche
When I was thirteen, I travelled with my family across the hills and valleys of Greece to attend the wedding of Helen and Menelaus in Sparta.
I pushed back the curtains of the palanquin I shared with my mother to peer at the other travellers on the road. Farmers bringing their crops to market, pilgrims on the way to some temple, even whole families travelling like us. At last, my mother grew tired of this and sent me to ride with my father at the head of the convoy. He greeted me warmly and set me in front of him on his horse as he had when I was a little girl, filling my ears with tales of the city-state of Sparta. They were a warrior people, renowned for the strength of their armies. Even their daughters were trained to hunt and fight, just like me. I noted this last fact with interest.
Eventually the city came into view. It had no protective cocoon of walls, since Sparta trusted her defence to her warriors rather than stone or mortar, but an honour guard was waiting outside to bring us to the palace. They led our convoy to a courtyard where a group of men stood waiting. One of them called out a greeting and stepped forward.
He looked much like my father, but swollen. Where Alkaioswas rangy and lean as a wolf, Agamemnon was a bear of a man, banded with muscle. His belly strained his tunic, which was stained with sweat at the armpits. His nose had been broken at least two or three times, giving him a lumpy, misshapen look. Even on this fine afternoon, he stank of sweat and bronze armour.
‘Alkaios!’ he boomed. ‘I didn’t know you had a son.’
My father shifted uncomfortably. ‘This is—’
‘I’m Psyche,’ I said in a rush. I dismounted quickly and bounded towards my uncle Agamemnon. ‘I’ve heard all about you, and—’
‘Oh, a daughter,’ Agamemnon said, the light of interest quickly fading from his eyes. He turned back to my father. ‘Alkaios, you’re late. Menelaus and I wanted your opinion about the matter with the Argives …’
They turned their backs, leaving me standing in the dust of the courtyard with only my mother’s covered palanquin and the servants for company. As I watched them go, my heart sank further in my chest.
My mother pled illness and was led away to the sleeping quarters; the journey had taxed her, and she needed rest. I, on the other hand, found myself being dragged down another hallway. I was hastily divested of my dusty travelling clothes by a set of servants and shoved into an old stiff chiton that smelled of must and aged cedar. I smoothed down the skirts, which were much longer than the hems of the practical riding clothes and short dresses I usually wore. Then the servants trundled me into a dark room, though I nearly tripped more than once. As soon as I was fully inside, the door slammed shut behind me.
‘Who have we here?’ a melodious voice asked.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. This room was located in the interior of the palace, windowless, withonly a few lamps for illumination.The women’s quarters, I realized with frustration. I wondered how far I was from my father and uncles and if I could still find them.
‘I’m Psyche,’ I replied awkwardly, looking towards the woman who had spoken to me. I wanted to show off my axe-throwing skills, not sit in the darkness with strangers. ‘I’m Alkaios’s daughter.’
‘Princess of Mycenae,’ the woman said graciously, inclining her head. ‘Well met. My name is Penelope, and I am the queen of Ithaka.’
Through the dimness, I could see Penelope’s wide dark eyes and the mane of curly brown hair pulled back sternly from her face. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but there was a thoughtfulness to her gaze and a rare note of confidence in her voice that made her intriguing. Many years later, when I met her husband, Odysseus, I would be utterly unsurprised to learn of his connection to the goddess Athena. Penelope, with her quick hands and even quicker mind, was a mortal reflection of the goddess.
‘This is Clytemnestra, wife of Agamemnon,’ Penelope continued, indicating a sour-looking woman, ‘and her daughters, Iphigenia and Elektra. Iphigenia is quite a skilled weaver, not much younger than you.’
Iphigenia was indeed only a few years my junior, and she gazed at me with wide-eyed fascination. She had a sweet, open face, with cheeks like the halves of a cut peach, and the copper shade of our skin marked us as kin. Her mother, Clytemnestra, on the other hand, appeared as if she was holding a slice of lemon in her mouth. Nearby, baby Elektra slumbered in a basket.
‘Where is her mother?’ Clytemnestra demanded. ‘We can’t have a respectable young girl wandering around the palace by herself.’
‘I wasn’t wandering,’ I replied irritably. ‘My mother is resting.’
Clytemnestra gave a huff of disapproval, but Penelope simply chuckled. ‘I bid you welcome, Psyche, and a good rest to your mother. But to finish our round of introductions,’ she gestured to the fourth figure in the room, ‘this is my sister, Helen. Our beautiful bride.’
So dark was the room that I did not immediately notice the radiant gorgeousness of the woman to Penelope’s left. Calling Helen beautiful was like calling the sun bright; while technically true, the word failed to encompass the sheer splendour of its subject. Long hair the colour of honey skimmed her sharp cheekbones and hung past her elegant neck. I noticed the fine dress she wore and the ceremonial henna that adorned her hands, signs of celebration for her upcoming nuptials. I remembered the stories that the palace guards in Tiryns whispered about Helen’s conception, about Zeus himself coming upon her mother in the form of a swan. At the time I found these stories fanciful, but now I wondered if they might hold a grain of truth.
It was only after the initial shock of Helen’s beauty faded that I noticed the unhappiness etched into those perfect features. She was so distracted by her private misery that she didn’t even turn to acknowledge me. Her slim fingers continued to push the shuttle of her loom back and forth in a desultory fashion. I wondered if she might have a stomachache or some hidden injury. How could one be so sad on such a happy occasion?
Penelope turned back to her weaving.Sister, she had said. When I looked hard enough, I supposed that I could see some family resemblance between Penelope and Helen, though it was like comparing a duck to a swan.
I sat down, and for the first time in my life I was confronted with the daunting and unfamiliar prospect of a loom. I knew how to do many things: tell the size of an animal from its prints, move soundlessly towards my quarry in the underbrush, shootunerringly from foot or horseback. But I did not know how to weave. In retrospect, this seemed like an unfortunate gap in the education of a royal girl.
I glanced at the other women to see what they were doing, but that was little help. Penelope’s hands moved as though they had been made for the task, pushing the shuttle back and forth with a satisfying clack, and even the pouting Helen’s work was smooth enough. Yet every time I tried to imitate the other women, I was left with nothing but a snarled mass of string. Why did women need to weave all the time, anyway? How much cloth did one household really require?
‘You’re looping the warp under the weft.’ A small hand swept up beside mine to untangle the threads. ‘You want to fold this part under, see?’ I looked over, and the sweet, trusting face of Iphigenia smiled up at me.
I returned her grin. ‘Thank you. I’ve never done this before.’
‘You haven’t?’ A crease appeared on Iphigenia’s forehead. ‘A girl who doesn’t know how to weave? That’s like a bird who doesn’t know how to fly.’
