How could she tell such obvious lies? She’d never been as scrawny and clumsy as me. It wasn’t possible! A stork didn’t turn into a swan. I couldn’t stand to hear any more. “Will you all stop talking about me as if I were a stone?” I exclaimed. “I’m right here!” And with that, I wasn’t right there. I ran off, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment, leaving my family to pick apart my appearance to their hearts’ content.
The awful thing was, Clytemnestra was right. My face had changed along with my body. When guests came to Sparta, all their compliments now seemed to be about my height. I learned that regal is just a polite way to say spindle-thin and sapling-tall. I didn’t need Mother’s mirror to tell me that I was no longer “the pretty one,” but every year on my birthday I stole a peek at it anyway. It told me what I already knew: My face was thinner, the cheekbones and chin sharper, the nose more prominent, and the mouth wider-looking.
I didn’t need to be “the pretty one,” but I needed to be something. If I wasn’t pretty anymore, what was I? Who was I now?
I was glad to have the training ground for my refuge. When I was there, I didn’t have time to brood over my changed looks. I used Glaucus’s lessons to get my gawky arms and legs back under control.
By the time I was thirteen, I not only looked like a younger version of Polydeuces, I was fighting like one too. Sometimes I was even able to give my brothers better than I got during our sparring matches, though by that time they were eighteen, full-grown young men, using real swords except when I challenged them to a bout. They complained that I won because they’d forgotten how to handle a wooden blade. Glaucus just told them to shut up and accept defeat like honorable men. As for me, I told them that as soon as Glaucus let me use a real sword all the time, they’d need to find some new excuse when I beat them.
That day finally came when I turned fourteen. There had been a great fuss in the palace that morning. Clytemnestra and I stood beside Father while he made a thanksgiving sacrifice to his favorite goddess, Aphrodite, in our honor. After that, we were given sweetened, watered wine and plate after plate of cake drenched with honey and sprinkled with chopped figs and almonds. After just a few bites it got too sweet for me, but Clytemnestra made a pig of herself, honey dribbling down her chin.
I couldn’t wait to get away. Glaucus had been dropping hints for a whole month about how there’d be something special waiting for me when my fourteenth birthday came. As soon as I could manage it, I ducked away, changed my clothes, and raced to the training ground.
My brothers were already there, grinning, nudging each other, and whispering until Glaucus reminded them that even though they had beards and brawn, he could still put a sandal up their backsides. They dropped their clowning, and only then he gave me the sword.
It was more like a large hunter’s knife than the warrior’s blades my brothers used, but it was new. I could tell that Glaucus had had it made specially for me. I was so overjoyed, I felt ready to fly.
Two months after our fourteenth birthday, on the very day that Clytemnestra sewed the final stitch of crimson thread into the delicate, saffron-yellow wool of her last and finest of her bridal dresses, a courier from Mykenae came running up the steep, rocky path to the palace. It was a most wonderful coincidence; you could almost hear the gods laughing.
We royal sons and daughters all knew that something significant was happening. Father sent word for us to put on our most splendid clothes and come to the great hall. This was the room where all important visitors were greeted and where Father handed down his most vital decisions about the future of Sparta.
There was a small blaze burning in the large, circular hearth that lay in the middle of the room, in front of Father’s throne. The thin thread of smoke wafted up and out past the second-floor balconies that ran all around the wide square opening above. The sun was still high enough to pour light into the hall, so no one had to light the stone oil lamps.
My brothers were at Father’s right, sunlight and flame flickering over their tanned faces. My place was at Mother’s left, and Clytemnestra was between our parents. We were all supposed to keep our eyes straight ahead, the picture of dignity, but even though I stood as if my feet had taken root among the brightly painted patterns on the floor, I couldn’t help letting my eyes wander.
The messenger stood on the far side of the fire, on travel-weary legs. He’d been given wine and other refreshments the moment that he arrived (we Spartans knew how to be good hosts) and was even offered some time to rest after the long journey from the north, but apparently he’d refused.
What he’s got to say must be urgent, I thought. I wonder if he’s brought us good news or bad?
Father’s throne was carved from stone, massive and immovable, but for certain occasions a smaller, wooden throne was brought in for Mother. When I saw her sitting beside him like that, tall and proud and beautiful as a goddess, I found it hard to believe that this was the same woman who’d gone hunting through the hills with me just the other day. The deer we’d shot was in the hands of the kitchen slaves. My arrow was the first to hit it, but hers was the one that brought it down.