“But why would anyone choose that?” Helen frowned. A world with no compassion, no care, no love...? That gaping chasm opened itself before her. It made her want to cry. What God would be cruel enough to let their people suffer so?
The coals sparked and the priestess lowered her white gaze on Helen, making Helen shiver despite the sweltering heat.
“The love that you receive is equal to the love you give.” Her white-lidded eyes bore into her. “And for those rare souls who give with no thought of receipt, on those I bestow my special favor.” The Goddess’ voice rose in volume, cresting in ecstasy. “Only they are worthy of the eternal love; the force that breaks bonds of brotherhood, that transcends the vagaries of pride and ego, a binding of souls that endures across the Ages.”
“...soul mates.” Helen whispered. Was it possible? She had thought such tales were fabrications by the bards who sang for their suppers. The original Man was neither male nor female, the legend went, but a perfect balance of both parts, a creature so whole and happy that the Gods looked down from Olympus with envy. And so Zeus, in his jealousy, struck Man down with a bolt of lightning, severing its soul in two. And thus mankind was doomed to roam the earth, searching in vain for their other half.
Helen’s heart skipped a beat. Why was the Goddess telling her this? “Am I...? Are you...?” her feeble tongue choked on the words.
The brazier blazed to life, flames leaping five feet into the air. Tryphosa rose to her feet, her perfect features aglow with a burning power.
“You, Helen of Sparta, will have the greatest love that ever was, is, or is yet to be. Your love will rock the foundations of this earth.”
Helen didn’t breathe. She didn’t even dare move. A clamoring bell of alarm rung loudly in her mind. Her father was choosing her husband on the morrow and none of her suitors invoked the feelings the Goddess described. “How will I know?”
“It is a power undeniable, a force stronger than the turning of the tide. You cannot mistake it, for the visage of your other half will be as familiar to you as your own. You will know.”
Tryphosa lurched forward, her arms flopping at her side as though someone cut the cord that made them function.
“But how!” Helen leapt to her feet, desperation lending her strength.
“Follow your heart.” The Goddess’ heavy words drifted away as though sucked back into the priestess’ quivering throat. “It never lies.”
An enormous gust of wind rushed through the temple, lifting Helen off her knees. It seemed a living entity, this wind, a ghostly touch of some unseen power. It wove around the priestess, her limp and lifeless body held tight in its embrace. Tryphosa’s arms spread wide and back and her head tipped up towards the heavens. In a rushing vortex, the gust crested to the sky and vanished. Unsupported, the priestess collapsed to the ground.
The room was utterly empty. Not a trace of incense remained, and the brazier coals burned low, its heat replaced with a bone chilling cold. The magic woven by the Divine Presence was gone.
Helen rushed to Tryphosa’s side, lifting her head as the woman’s eyes rolled back into place. Helen soothed her brow as she regained her bearings, the priestess moaning as though she were entangled in a lover’s embrace. As an open vessel to the Goddess, Helen supposed she might have been.
Slowly, her breathing calmed and Tryphosa’s luscious smile returned. She pulled herself up into a sitting position, her round eyes watching Helen with a naked expression of fear and awe.
“A child no longer.” She trembled, pulling away from Helen’s touch.
Helen shivered, equally frightened by the Goddess’ powerful foretelling. She had come seeking a solution to her marital dilemma and was now more uncertain than ever.
“All things must end.” Helen whispered with a touch of remorse, her tremors tripping her voice. And tomorrow they would end, soul mate or not.
“They must.” Tryphosa agreed, kneeling before her. “But they must also begin.” She raised Helen’s hand to her lips. “Long may you reign, My Queen.”
Chapter 5
The Oath
MORNING CAME all too soon for Helen. She waited outside the megaron, exhausted from her ordeal in the temple. She had hardly slept. What precious moments she claimed prior to dawn were robbed of her as Aethra stormed her apartments with an army of chambermaids. The world would be watching her today, and the princess must look the part.
The matron had outdone herself with her preparations. Helen’s hair was gathered up into a pile of small coils draping over her bare right shoulder. A crown of parsley leaves and white blossoms of heliotrope lay atop her brow. Her ivory chiton had sashes of vermillion and rose criss-crossed over her torso and down the pleated folds of the dress. A net of hammered gold links rested on her collar, the adornment chiming ever so softly whenever Helen turned her head. The matron even pressed lavender oil to Helen’s lobes and wrists. Helen knew the effect must be dazzling. Still, she feared this armor of grace and beauty would not be enough protection in the battle ahead.
Follow my heart?
Those words played over and over again in her head. It was a simple instruction, but one she could not fathom. Her traitorous heart pulled in several directions, none of which aligned with the suitors gathered on the other side of those double doors. She was drowning in worry that the wrong path would be chosen, that she would prove herself unworthy for Aphrodite’s blessing.
“I missed you last night.” Clytemnestra spoke softly beside her, a faint hint of hurt in her tone. Nestra had the uncanny ability to walk soundlessly when she wanted, and was equally talented at spotting anyone trying to sneak up on her. Their father could never catch her unawares.
All of Helen’s frayed nerves seemed to explode at the sight of her lovely sister. Clytemnestra, looking every inch the queen, was resplendent in a heavy chiton of gold and saffron red. Helen impulsively wrapped her arms around her twin, a small sob escaping her lips.
“Helen?” Nestra’s hard facade broke, real concern pouring out of her. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
But Helen couldn’t find words for what plagued her. The pressure of the imminent betrothal weighed down on her like the burdens of Atlas. She must uphold the honor of her father, of Sparta, of the Goddess, and in some small portion, her own heart. “I’m... scared.” She finally admitted out loud.
“Shhhhh.” Nestra held her tight, soothing her shaking arms. “There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll walk inside. Father will make his decision, and it will be over. There’s nothing more to say or do.”
It sounded so easy when Nestra said it. Helen simply had to accept her fate, and go to whichever future shores the Zephyrs chose to send her. But something inside her rebelled against surrender. Down that path, she was noting but a prize to be handed out by others, not a person worthy of great love.
“It will all be over.” Nestra cooed, wiping away Helen’s tears. “And you’ll find a way to be happy.”
“But Tryphosa—“
“The priestess did this to you?” A crease of anger shot across Clytemnestra’s face. “Helen, she’s nothing but a drug-addled zealot. You can’t take her advice to heart. You’re going to be queen, not some village house wife.”
Clytemnestra’s words were harsh, and they cut right through the fog that paralyzed her. “That’s blasphemy, Nestra.”
“That’s reality, Sister.” Nestra countered. “There’s a real world out there, filled with men, and kingdoms, and wars. And you and I have real responsibilities in it. You cannot be so easily manipulated.”
Was I? Helen played through the events at the temple, looking for any instance where Tryphosa tried to influence her. She shook her head with the effort. There was none.
“You’ll have to trust me.” Nestra asserted, holding Helen’s hand in a death grip. “‘Where you go, I follow’, remember?”
Nestra was so certain, so strong. With no real guidance from the priestess or her father, such confidence was a relief. Clytemnestra
had survived her own betrothal and marriage. She knew, intimately knew, the path Helen would soon be forced to walk. Facing that unknown future, Nestra was the only person she could trust.
“I remember.” Helen’s resolve returned, a warm wave of relief flooding over her. She clung to her twin’s hand, a lifeline in the torrent of her fears. Together, she felt strong. Together, she was safe.
A great fanfare of horns trumpeted from inside the megaron. The double doors flew open and a pair of heralds stepped forward, both wearing the colors of Sparta, the same saffron red of the carpets beneath their feet. They carried polished wooden hoplon shields, their surface plated with a thick layer of bronze. In their other hands, the heralds lifted two long ox horns decorated with flags of ochre red and brownish yellow. They pressed the horns to their lips and trumpeted two short blasts, the regal notes hanging in the air, an invitation for Helen’s entrance.
Inside, a crowd of dignitaries, both citizens of Sparta and Suitor alike, spread apart, carving a clear path for her to travel to the throne. Their heads bowed forward, each man and woman eager to catch a glimpse of the princess.
Helen steeled herself. A confidence that previously eluded her snuffed out her fears. She lifted her chin, a defiant glint in her eyes. Fear does not exist. It will not be my master.
Clytemnestra moved to disengage herself, but Helen held her fast. “Walk with me.” She placed a gentle hand on her sister’s forearm.
Nestra’s smile was unforgettable. Reaching out, she tucked a stray hair out of Helen’s face. “I envy the man who lays claim to your heart. He will possess riches beyond the wealth of this world.”
If Helen’s heart had wings it would have fluttered away. Together, they faced the megaron and began the long walk to her future. She set a stately pace.
A solemn hush fell over the crowd as they passed. Fevered whispers of awe and admiration rose to the rafters. Her suitors could barely contain themselves. For a moment, Helen feared their aggressive behavior would return, but something more powerful held sway in the hall. Some crossover of her regal bearing fused into the men. They held themselves straight, more than one with a touch of embarrassment on his face for past behavior.
Tyndareus faced the gathered men from where he sat upon his throne, his visage akin to engraved stone. Both she and Nestra curtsied low before him, and his stern eyes softened when they fell on her.As Helen straightened, her sister finally released her arm and took her place beside her husband in the front row. Helen waited for the crowd’s murmuring to lessen, and then walked up the raised dais to joined her noble father. When she finally settled beside him, he began to speak.
“Honored guests!” His strong voice rang out across the hall. “You have come here, to glorious Sparta, seeking the hand of my daughter, Helen, blessed of Zeus and Aphrodite. Over the past week, you have displayed your prowess in feats of strength. You have impressed this king with your courage and fortitude. But in the end, only one man can claim Helen as his bride.”
The crowd shuffled, the nearness of the announcement stirring them like the winds of Aeolus. Helen bristled as the entire room laid eyes on her. It was unsettling to be the center of so much attention. She turned to her sister for support, locking eyes with the queen. That was when she noticed Agamemnon whispering discreetly into the ear of King Odysseus. They were the only people in the room not wholly focused on Tyndareus words.
“Before I continue, if there be any item of concern, I would have my guests speak forthwith. Let each man be at peace before this decision is set.”
Helen distrusted the cunning look on Agamemnon’s face. She turned to her father to see if he had noticed and was shocked to see the same hard look on Tyndareus’ face. She turned back to the crowd just as Odysseus stepped forward.
“Humble Tyndareus,” Odysseus began with a bow. “It has been an honor to court your daughter, the beauty of our Age. And while I swell with pride to be considered alongside such noble and honorable men, I must respectfully withdraw my candidacy.”
A shocked titter ran through the crowd. Odysseus waved down his fellow suitor’s questions. “I beg your forgiveness, dear Princess.” He turned to Helen. His insincerity oozed over her, freezing her in place. “In truth, I would be a poor choice for you compared to these great warriors.”
Many men harrumphed their agreement. Ajax of Salamis, a giant of a man who towered a good head over Odysseus, quickly puffed up his chest and stepped in front of the Ithakian king, casting Helen an eager grin.
“I appreciate your candor, young Odysseus.” Tyndareus acknowledge the request formally. “As consolation for your loss, I will speak with my brother Icarius. I know his daughter Penelope has loved you from afar. May fortune favor you in that match.”
Helen turned to her father, puzzled. Penelope had never laid an eye on Odysseus. What was going on here?
But she had no time to question. Tyndareus raised his hands, gathering the attention of the remaining crowd. “And now the time has come.” He paused, waiting for each man to hang on his words. “Last night, virtuous Artemis visited me in a dream. As patron Goddess of this city and of all chaste and innocent girls, she warned me of the repercussions of this day. Helen, sweet Helen, was soon to be lost to her. She would not let such a joyous event be soiled by jealousy and anger.”
Tyndareus’ words chilled Helen. She had always known her father to be devout, a faithful servant to the Gods. Had he been visited the same as she? Or was this all the posturing of kings and kingdoms, as Nestra insisted? Somehow, her fate was woven into this maneuvering, and she was powerless to stop it.
The men muttered in anticipation. This news, whatever Tyndareus was trying to say, sat no better with them than it did with Helen.
“‘Goddess,’ I swore to Artemis, ‘the friends of Sparta would not dishonor you with such vile actions.’ But she was not assured. She then insisted that any man who thought himself worthy to be wed to such beauty abide by a sacred oath. Only then would she allow the matrimony to commence.”
The double doors opened again, this time for a pair of stable hands towing a massive heifer. The poor beast bellowed in fear, sensing her imminent doom. Helen had never heard a more pitiful sound. They led the beast to an altar beside the central hearth.
Tyndareus stepped down from the throne, unsheathing his ornate short sword. “Come all who would be my son. Come and swear this sacred oath. To defend and protect he who is chosen like a brother of your blood. Swear to defend him against any wrong done to him in regard to this union. Swear by the blood of this sacrifice, and share in the protection of Artemis and Her Almighty Father.”
He sliced open the heifer’s neck, a crimson tide of blood spilling into a bronze urn at his feet.
“I will swear that oath,” Diomedes declared, stepping boldly beside Tyndareus and thrusting his hand into the flowing blood.
“As will I!” Protesilaus joined them. Then Patroclus, and Achilles and Ajax. Even Odysseus, caught up in the moment, joined his peers.
Tyndareus studied them all, counting to ensure there was none unaccounted. And then Agamemnon stepped forward, his mighty fist thrust between the others. Helen turned in alarm to her sister who seemed as shocked as she.
“Don’t be greedy, Agamemnon.” Diomedes teased. “You already have a wife to warm your bed.”
“I assure you brothers, one daughter of Sparta is enough for me.” He announced to great laughter while Clytemnestra blushed. “I stand for my brother Menelaus, who, by no fault of his own, was left behind to tend to affairs of state.”
There were forty men, Agamemnon included, who so swore. Helen watched in disbelief as they commingled their bloody hands into an enormous fist.
“All hail the Oath of Tyndareus!” Odysseus proclaimed, his voice ringing out the pact with great finality.
“THE OATH OF TYNDAREUS!” the others shouted in unison.
The voice in her head told Helen this was a momentous event. The men of the Hellas had never made an oath of unity.
But here they stood, the mightiest warrior kings of the western world, hands locked in purpose. And she was that purpose! Should some ill fate befall her, all of Greece would unite in her defense. Tyndareus had achieved the impossible, and he had done so in her honor.
But that voice also whispered other words, bitter words her sister had confided just one night ago. It was not respect for Sparta that created this moment, but hubris and ego. Sadly, she understood why her father’s oath was necessary.
“Helen,” Tyndareus startled her from her reflections. “Lay your crown at the foot of your chosen.”
“The choice is mine?” She was so stunned she forgot to address him properly. He smiled at her slip.
“Choose wisely.”
She removed her crown of flowers with a shaky hand, her eyes darting over the men eagerly awaiting her decision. The hunger was written in their faces. They wanted her body, but there was something more. Violent streaks of crimson blood ran down their arms. Red was the color of conquest, of victory. She was nothing but a prize to them. And her choice would elevate the victor over his brothers.
Again she turned to Clytemnestra. Standing alone now, her sister had a sad look on her face. Helen’s heart flooded with remorse, remembering the day Nestra left their home for Mycenae. They were losing each other again as sure as they had three years hence.
But it didn’t have to be. The choice was right before her.
Follow your heart.
Clytemnestra locked eyes with her and Helen knew what she must do. She stepped forward boldly and placed her crown at Agamemnon’s feet. Menelaus, the man she had never met, would be her husband.
The room erupted in cheers. The Mycenaean king seemed utterly surprised by her choice. Cries of “Huzzah!” rang out while his peers congratulated him. Helen was all but ignored. She worked her way over to her sister, happy to join Nestra in the shadows.
Helen finally understood what the Goddess was trying to tell her. Her great love, the other half of her separated soul was right in front of her. Where Clytemnestra went, Helen knew she must follow. She reached out to her twin, gently wiping away Nestra’s tears. “Sisters forever?”
The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 5