<Chapter One>
　　My father was a king and the son of kings.He was a short man, as most of us were, and built like a bull,all shoulders.He married my mother when she was fourteen and sworn by the priestess to be fruitful. It was a good match:she was an only child, and her father's fortune would go to her husband.
　　He did not find out until the wedding that she was simple.Her father had been scrupulous about keeping her veiled until the ceremony, and my father had humoured him.If she were ugly,there were always slave girls and serving boys.When at last they pulled off the veil,they say my mother smiled.That is how they knew she was quite stupid.Brides did not smile.
　　When I was delivered,a boy,he plucked me from her arms,and handed me to a nurse.In pity,the midwife gave my mother a pillow to hold instead of me.My mother hugged it.She did not seem to notice a change had been made.

The runners are gathered before the dais where my father and I sit,surrounded by prizes we will give to the winners.There are golden mixing bowls for wine,beaten bronze tripods,ash-wood spears tipped with precious iron.But the real prize is in my hands:a wreath of dusty green leaves,freshly clipped,rubbed to a shine by my thumb.My father has given it to me grudgingly.He reassures himself:all I have to do is hold it.
　　The youngest boys are running first,and they wait,shuffling their feet in the sand for the nod from the priest.They're in their first flush of growth,bones sharp and spindly,poking against taut skin.My eye catches on a light head among dozens of dark tousled crowns.I lean forword to see.Hair lit like honey in the sun,and within it,glints of gold - the circlet of a prince.
　　He is shorter than the others,and still plump with childhood in a way they are not.His hair is long,and tied back with leather;it burns against the dark bare skin of his back.His face,when he turns,is serious as a man's.
　　When the priest strikes the ground,he slips past the thickened bodies of the older boys.He moves easily,he heels falshing pink as licking tongues.He wins.

I stare as my father lifts the garland from my lap and crowns him;the leaves seem almost black against the brightness of his hair.His father,Peleus,comes to claim him,smiling and proud.Peleus' kingdom is smaller than ours,but his wife is rumoured to be a goddess,and his people love him.My own father watches with envy.His wife is stupid and his son too slow to race in even the youngest group.He turns to me.
　　'That is what a son should be.'
　　My hands feel empty without the garland.I watch King Peleus embrace his son.I see the boy toss the garland in the air,and catch it again.He is laughing,and his face is bright with victory.
　　Beyond this,I remember little more than scattered images from my life then:my father frowning on his throne,a cunning toy horse I loved,my mother on the beach,her eyes turned towards the Aegean.In this last memory,I am skipping stones for her,plink,plink,plink,across the skin of the sea.She seems to like the way the ripples look,dispersing back to glass.Or perhaps it is the sea itself she likes.At her temple a starburst of white gleams like bone,the scar from the time her father hit her with the hilt of a sword.Her toes poke up from the sand where she has buried them,and I am careful not to disturb them as I search for rocks.I choose one and fling it out,glad to be good at this.It is the only memory I have of my mother and so golden that I am almost sure I have made it up.After all,it was unlikely for my father to have allowed us to be alone together,his simple son and simpler wife.And where are we?I do not recognize the beach,the view of coastline.So much has passed since then.

<Chapter Two>
　　I was summoned to the king.I remember hating this,the long walk up the endless throne room.At the front,I knelt on stone.Some kings chose to have rugs there for the knees of messengers who had long news to tell.My father preferred not to.
　　'King Tyndareus' daughter is finally ready for marriage,'he said.
　　I knew the name.Tyndareus was King of Sparta and held huge tracts of the ripest southern lands, the kind my father coveted.I had heard of his daughter too,rumoured to be the fairest woman in our countries.Her mother Leda was said to have been ravished by Zeus, the king of the gods himself, disguised as a swan. Nine mouths later, her womb yielded two sets of twins:Clytmnestra and Castor,children of her mortal husband;Helen and Polydeuces, the shining cygnets of the god.But gods were known to be notoriously poor parents;it was expected that Tyndareus would offer patrimony to all.
　　I did not respond to my father's news.Such things meant nothing to me.

My father cleared his throat,loud in the silent chamber.'We would do well to have her in our family.You will go and put yourself forth as a suitor.'There was no one else in the hall, so my startled huff of breath was for his ears alone.But I knew better than to speak my discomfort.My father already knew all that I might say:that I was nine,unsightly,unpromising,uninterested.
　　We left the next morning,our packs heavy with gifts and food for the journey.Soldiers escorted us, in their finest armour.I don't remember much of the trip - it was overland, through countryside that left no impression. At the head of the column, my father dictated new orders to secretaries and messengers, who rode off in every direction. I looked down at the leather reins, smoothed their nap with my thumb.I did not understand my place here.It was incomprehensible, as so much of what my father did was. My donkey swayed, and I swayed with him, glad for even this distraction.
　　We were not the first suitors to arrive at Tyndareusi citadel.The stables were full of horses and mules, busy with servants.My father seemed displeased with the ceremony afforded us:I saw him rub a hand over the stone of the hearth in our rooms, frowning.I had brought a toy from home, a horse whose legs could move. I lifted one hoof,then the other,imagined that I had ridden him instead of the donkey. A soldier took pity on me and lent me his dice. I clattered them against the floor until they showed all sixes in on throw.
　　Finally, a day came in which my father ordered me bathed and brushed.He had me change my tunic,then change again.I obeyed,though I see no difference between the purple with gold or crimson with gold. Neither hid my knobbly hnees. My father looked powerful and severe, his black beard slashing across his face. The gift that we were presenting to Tyndareus stood ready, a beaten-gold mixing bowl embossed with the story of the princess Danae.Zeus had wooed her in the shower of golden light, and she had borne him Perseus, Gorgan-slayer, second only to Heracles among our heroes. My father handed it to me. 'Do not disgrace us,'he said.

I heard the great hall before I saw it, the sound of hundreds of voices banging against stone walls,the clatter of goblets and armour. The servants had thrown open the windows to try to dampen the sound; they had hung tapestries, wealth indeed, on every wall. I had never seen so many men inside before. Not men, I corrected myself. Kings.
　　We were called forward to council, seated on benches draped with cowhide. Servants faded backwards, to the shadows. My father's fingers dug into my collar warning me not to fidget.
　　There was violence in that room, with so many princes and heroes and kings competing for a singloe prize, but we knew how to ape civilization. One by one they introduced themselved, these young men, showing off shining hair and neat waists and expensively dyed clothing. Many were the sons or grandsons of gods. All had a song, or two, or more,written of their deeds.Tyndareus greeted each in turn, accepted their gifts in a pile at the centre of the room. Invited each to speal, and present his suit.
　　My father was the oldest among them, except for the man who, when his turn came, named himself Philoctetes.'A comrade of Heracles,' the man beside us whispered, with an awe I understood. Heracles was the greatest of our heroes, and Philoctetes had been the closest of his campanions, the only one still living. His hair was grey and his thick fingers were all tendon, the sinewy dexterity that marked an archer. And indeed, a moment later he held up the largest bow I had ever seen, polished yew wood with a lionskin grip.'The bow of Heracles,'Philoctetes named it,'given to me at his death.'In our lands a bow was mocked as the weapon of coward. But no one could say such a thing about this bow; the strength it would take to draw it humbled us all.

The next man, his eyes painted like a woman's, spoke his name. 'Idomeneus, King of Cretes.' He was llean, and his long hair fell to his waist when he stood. He offered rare iron, a double-headed axe.'The symbol of my people.'His movements reminded me of the dancers that my mother liked.
　　And then Menelaus, son of Atreus, seated beside his hulking bear-like brother Agamemnon. Menelaus' hair was a startling red, the colour of fire-forged bronze. His body was strong, stocky with muscles, vital. The gift he gave was a rich one, beautifully dyed cloth. 'Though the lady needs no adornment,'he added, smiling.This was a pretty bit of speech. I wished I had something as clever to say. I was the only one here under twenty, and I was not descended of a god. Perhaps Peleus' blond-haired son would be equal to this, I thought. But his father had kept him home.
　　Man after man, and their names began to blur in my head. My attention wandered to the dais, where I noticed, for the first time, the three veiled women seated at Tyndareus' side. I stared at the white cloth over their faces, as if I might be able to catch some glimpse of the woman behind it. My father wanted one of them for my wife. Three sets of hand, prettily adorned with bracelets, lay quiet in their laps. One of the women was taller than the other two. I thought I saw a stray of Dark curl peek from beneath the bottom of the veil. Helen is light-haired, I remembered. So that one was not Helen. I had ceased to listen to the kings.
　　'Welcome, Menoitius.'The speaking of my father's name startled me.Tyndareus was looking at us.'I am sorry to hear of the death of your wife.'

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