Helen of Sparta

by Amalia Carosella

  It would be a bad day for the palace slaves, and Leda would make sure they all blamed me.

  I lay on the bed, staring at the star-painted ceiling as the morning sun rose to its zenith. From my room I could hear Leda shouting at servants in the kitchens, the noise of preparation floating up from the courtyard below my window.

  Clytemnestra and I had been given an inner room to ensure our safety if the city ever came under siege, for Tyndareus had never forgotten how it had been taken from him once before. My sister complained frequently that she wished we had a room on the opposite side of the women’s quarters, so she might watch the men sparring in the practice field beneath the palace wall. From the second story, the view would be ideal, and we might even have glimpsed the edge of the city over the wall, with its red-tiled roofs and square, whitewashed homes.

  I tried to stay awake, but my eyelids began to droop. As I drifted toward sleep, the shouts took on the quality of warriors and crying children instead of servants preparing a feast. I could hear Menelaus sometimes, calling my name, his voice hoarse with fury, and Agamemnon bellowing at the soldiers. Or worse, I heard him laughing while women screamed.

  In this dream, I am naked. Ajax the Lesser pulls me from the temple, dragging me through the streets of the city. Bodies and blood spill in the dust, and the Achaean soldiers are ransacking the houses of the dead. Women huddle against the brick walls, sobbing as they try to cover themselves with the tattered shreds of their robes. It is now beyond the point of fighting. All those who might have struggled are dead or subdued. When I don’t move quickly enough, my captor jerks me forward, shoving me before him. My legs are slick and sticky, my body sore, but I keep walking, through the courtyard and into the palace, and then into the megaron. The central hearth fire has been smothered with corpses of soldiers, stripped naked, and piles of bloody swords and armor sit waiting to be loaded into carts and hauled to the shore. The room stinks so much of human waste, I would be grateful to choke on smoke.

  Agamemnon sits on a golden throne, richly detailed with rearing stallions among emeralds and rubies. He leans forward when he sees us and smiles slowly, his eyes traveling over my body, full of lust and greed. A chill slips down my spine.

  “Helen, my dear sister-in-law. It is so good to see you delivered safe at last.”

  Two bodies lie at his feet, a gray-haired man, a king by the circlet he wears, and a woman with black hair shot with silver. Seeing their lifeless faces brings tears to my eyes, as if I know them well, but no names come to mind. I raise my chin and stare over Agamemnon’s head. Splashes of red and brown coat the brightly colored fresco behind him. So much blood, so much death, so much waste, and for what? My hands ball into fists.

  “My brother has been waiting for this day for years. Menelaus says he plans to kill you for what you’ve done, for making a fool of him all this time.” Agamemnon stands, stepping down from the throne and treading upon the dead woman’s fingers.

  He holds a golden cup in his hand, a king’s goblet filled with wine. As he passes the dead man, he tilts the cup as if offering a libation to the gods. The wine splashes over the body, and he lets the cup drop from his hand. It clatters on the tile floor, rolling into the pool of blood seeping from the dead man’s skull. Agamemnon grabs me by the arm, pulling me close. His breath is hot against my ear, in my hair, and sour with wine. “It seems such a waste, don’t you think? I could save you still. Speak to my brother on your behalf. Ask him to show you mercy.”

  “No.” I push him away, twisting my arm to free it.

  He laughs and lets me go. “You’d rather die at your husband’s hands?”

  “Menelaus has paid for me in blood. If he wants my life, he’ll have it.”

  “So be it.”

  His words make me shiver, and I stumble back into the prince of Locris. Ajax’s hands close over my shoulders with the weight of mountains, though he is hardly much taller than I am. He makes up for his lesser size with meanness, taking strange pleasure in the pain he inflicts upon others. If only it had been Ajax the Great who found me, I would not be standing before Agamemnon now.

  “Tie her up,” Agamemnon says. “Bind her to the throne, and leave us. If she’s going to die, I may as well have my share of the spoils before Menelaus snaps her pretty neck.”

  The sharp clop of hooves on stone and the cry of a messenger shouting for Leda jarred me from the dream. My bedding was damp, but my throat did not feel raw from shouting, and I was grateful for that much. I rubbed my face and sat up. My wrist still ached, but it took my weight.

  A horse whinnied, drawing me to the window. The messenger stood with his animal, greaves, cloak, and leather chest-plate covered in dust from the road. My brothers greeted him, looking as though they had come straight from the practice field. They certainly didn’t look like twins, but of course the priests had attributed that to parentage, and said the same again when Clytemnestra and I were born, three years later, different as moon and sun in appearance and temperament. Leda swore Zeus had been in her husband’s guise the first time he came to her. She only realized the deceit later that night, when Tyndareus himself had returned and took her to bed a second time. The priests believed, then, that fair, green-eyed Pollux had been born of Zeus, and dark-haired and olive-skinned Castor came from Tyndareus’s mortal seed. When my brothers’ looks were repeated in Clytemnestra and me, their declarations were only made more convincing.

  If only my sister Nestra shared Castor’s temperament as well as his looks; Pollux’s twin could always be counted on for kindness whereas my twin seemed filled with nothing but spite. She still hadn’t forgiven me for spilling the walnut dye on her gown, though it had been an accident, and she was certain everything I did was to make her look all the worse beside me. Leda didn’t help; filling the entire palace with her moaning over my beauty and how it would cause all men and even gods to be overtaken by lust, she made Nestra even more jealous.

  Pollux laughed at something I didn’t hear and glanced up at my window, then looked again, his mouth forming a thin line. Castor followed his gaze, his eyebrows rising. I pulled my head back into the shadows so they would not see my hair.

  Leda glided out from the megaron and into the courtyard, waving for a boy to take the horse to the stables. The messenger bowed, and I recognized him as the son of one of the nobles.

  Tyndareus had sent most of Sparta’s men home after Mycenae fell almost half a year ago, but some two dozen warriors had remained with him as guards and aides. From Mycenae, it was two long summer days by foot to Sparta, three if one stopped to rest and eat along the way. I had never been there, but by all accounts the palace at Mycenae was immense and the city at least twice the size of Sparta. Only Athens was richer than Mycenae.

  But Tyndareus had not laid siege upon Mycenae for any share of its wealth. Just as Heracles had helped him to reclaim his own kingship, Tyndareus had marched to support Agamemnon and Menelaus, to help them win back the throne of their father, Atreus, now that Agamemnon was old enough to keep it. I was simply glad to see Agamemnon gone, after all these years in our household, for he had never been anything other than sour, and as for Menelaus . . .

  I had missed him this last year, but the time apart was for the best. Let Menelaus go live as prince of Mycenae and find what pleasure he might among his own people. Perhaps Corinth would desire him for a son-in-law, and he might become king elsewhere. Anywhere but here, as my husband.

  “King Tyndareus comes, my lady. He begs you to have refreshments waiting for his men and his guests. Menelaus and Ajax the Great accompany him.”

  “All is prepared for my husband’s arrival,” my mother said. “Go make use of the baths. Wash the dust from your skin before finding your wife.”

  The messenger bowed again and left; Pollux and Castor disappeared with him. No doubt they sought to avoid any last duties Leda might find for them.

  As children, we had a
ll scrubbed the painted-tile floors and frescoed walls of the megaron until our knees grew calloused, and then had been forbidden from the feasting we had worked toward. In recent years, Tyndareus had allowed us to take part in the celebrations, but not even my brothers were old enough to escape the work demanded beforehand. At least being confined to my room kept me from that particular unpleasantness.

  I sighed and withdrew before Leda could see me and be reminded of my disobedience. I had meant to sneak out of the palace to watch the soldiers parade home. From the height of the city wall, the valley spread out below in rich greens and fertile fields, our crops and our city sheltered by the mountains, but I was not often permitted the view. I had stood at the wall when Tyndareus marched away with his men, shining bronze armor and glossy horses turning to dust, and I had hoped to see the dust turn into men again. But that would be difficult to accomplish while my door was locked and guarded.

  Leda had returned to the megaron, and I leaned out the window. The drop to the ground was not so far even from the second story. If I hung from the ledge, I might be able to climb down the stone face, and if I fell, I would not be seriously hurt.

  I dug through my chest for a scarf to hide my hair and face so if I were seen, I might avoid being recognized at once. I would go to the wall to see my father and then make Pollux help me climb back into my room the same way I’d left it. He would understand, I was sure, even if he thought me a fool for dyeing my hair.

  With the scarf wrapped tightly around my head, I climbed backward out the window, glancing down only once to be sure I would not tumble onto any of the drying amphorae where they waited to be refilled with wine. The clatter of breaking pottery would bring half the palace slaves.

  I hung from the ledge, my sandaled toes searching for some kind of purchase below, but finding nothing. I would have been better off barefoot, but it was too late now. I took a deep breath and prepared to drop.

  “Helen!”

  I slipped, choking off a scream that would certainly bring Leda. The wall fell away, and my arms flailed until I remembered not to panic at the whistle of air in my ears. I closed my eyes tightly and went limp just before a pair of strong arms caught me.

  “Helen, what on earth are you doing?” Pollux demanded.

  I breathed more easily when I heard my brother’s voice. I had been sure Menelaus called my name. But when I opened my eyes, it was not Pollux who held me; he stood nearby, arms crossed. I shoved at the dusty chest I had fallen into, trying to free myself.

  Menelaus laughed and set me down on my feet. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  My face burning, I wrapped my scarf more securely around my hair and gathered what dignity I had left, raising my chin. I refused to even look at Pollux, and glared at Menelaus instead. “What are you doing under my window?”

  “I rode ahead of the others.” Menelaus caught a strand of my hair, pulling it free from the scarf, his eyebrows rising. “By the gods, Helen! What did you do to yourself?”

  I knocked his hand away, dropping my gaze to the bronze greaves he still wore, dusty and scarred by battle. I didn’t want to see his dismay, even if I had hoped for just such a response, and his amusement would be worse. He had changed so little. It would have been easier if he were different.

  I crossed the courtyard, intent on leaving the palace before Leda found me. I wanted to see my father before he learned what had happened, to have just one moment of happy reunion before his anger found me, too. If I could only get beyond the palace walls without being seen . . .

  “She dyed her hair.” Pollux’s tone was grim, and I heard the ping of leather against bronze, the song of a soldier’s jog, as they caught up with me on the broad porch of the palace entrance. “I told you she’s been in trouble. Leda’s furious with her.”

  I shook my head, quickening my pace. “You gossip like a kitchen slave.”

  “It isn’t as though you could hide it for long.” Pollux walked on my right side; Menelaus on my left. They had no trouble matching my stride, and Menelaus seemed not to be weighed down by his armor in the slightest. “Or that you meant to.”

  “Oh, Helen.” Menelaus sighed. “I suppose I should have expected it, with all the things Leda says. As if Zeus would rape his own daughter—”

  “No,” Pollux said. “It has nothing to do with Leda’s carrying on about Zeus. If only it did.”

  “Pollux!” I regretted, then, having told him anything about my nightmares, but at the time I had been desperate to share the burden, and at least Pollux could be trusted to act in my interests.

  “What’s this?” Menelaus caught me by the arm, turning me to face him.

  We stood on the near side of the palace wall, by the gate. Leda would greet Tyndareus at the porch, and I expected her to step from the palace at any moment to be sure the stone had been swept clean.

  “She’s still having nightmares,” my brother said. He wasn’t looking at Menelaus, but at me. I hadn’t told him what I meant to do with my hair. His jaw tightened, and he looked away.

  “You promised.” I couldn’t meet Menelaus’s eyes and glared at Pollux instead. “You promised you wouldn’t tell.”

  “You would’ve told him anyway.” We both knew this wasn’t true. From the start, Pollux had felt Menelaus should know what role he might play, if the dreams were visions. I had refused. The less anyone knew, the safer we all were.

  “You remember them?” Menelaus asked, and I could feel him studying me. “But why would nightmares make you dye your hair? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s nothing.” I pulled my arm free. “It doesn’t matter. Please, if Leda sees me here, I’ll be in even more trouble.”

  “For dyeing your hair?” I could hear the laughter in Menelaus’s voice again, but he let me go, walking with me.

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “Then what?” Menelaus asked.

  I pressed my lips together and sped up, leaving them both behind. I was so angry that I could not even look at Pollux. He had no right to say anything at all, and now Menelaus would never let it rest, asking questions until I told him everything. Before the nightmares had come to me, I would never have kept such a secret from him.

  I slipped through the gate, relieved to have the wall between me and my mother.

  “Helen.” Menelaus caught my hand this time, his skin warm and dry against mine. My fingers closed around his without my permission, and I let myself be drawn to a stop. “You can tell me anything. When have I ever betrayed your trust?”

  I bit my lip, looking up at him. His forehead was creased with concern, unruly red hair falling over his ears. His skin had bronzed this last year, and his shoulders had broadened. He looked like a man, now. And I was no longer a girl. The way he looked at me, it was as if he had starved on campaign, and only now realized his hunger.

  “You’ve been gone for over a year, Menelaus.” It hurt me to say it, and it would hurt him, too, if I went on. But I had to. I would not give him any encouragement. “Things have changed. You’re different now, and I am, too.”

  His brown eyes sharpened, his gaze moving down my body before flicking back to my face. He stepped closer, and I realized how truly I had spoken. This was not the boy who had been kind to me because I was a child, or treated me with the fondness of a little sister. This was not the boy I had counted as my closest friend.

  “Are you?” He kept his voice soft, but there was a determination beneath the words that I had never heard before. “How different, Helen?”

  My face burned again, and I had to look away. I should never have said it. With Clytemnestra shouting her change from the highest windows of the palace, I would not be able to keep my own a secret for much longer. My sister was mad for a husband, but the sooner I married, the sooner the visions would come for me. The sooner the stranger would come to take me away and mountains would be built of th
e dead.

  Menelaus took my chin in his hand, lifting my face to his. “Even if you have changed, Helen, I haven’t. Not in any way that matters to you. I am still your friend.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, grasping for any excuse to leave him behind. Not even Menelaus would risk Leda’s ire so soon after his return. “Mother says I am too old to have friends who are men. Not even you.”

  Menelaus dropped his hand as if I had burned him, and I turned away before I could see the pain in his expression. I left him beneath the wall of the palace and did not dare to look back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I stood before Tyndareus’s throne in the megaron, the raised central hearth too hot at my back. A skylight above me lit the room with bright sunlight, making me even warmer. During the feast, the gallery overlooking the hearth would be filled with children and young women not permitted to attend. Long tables had been set and benches and stools brought out to seat our guests, but the food had not been laid out yet, nor would it be before these household matters were addressed. The megaron was not just our banquet hall, nor even just a center for ritual. As Tyndareus’s throne room, it was where Spartans could come with petitions and the nobles gathered when he called a council, but family affairs always came first.

  Gray flecked Tyndareus’s black hair at the temples where there had been none before, and the lines in his face cut deeper around his eyes and mouth. The war for Mycenae had aged him, and I felt ashamed for behaving as I had. His homecoming should never have been ruined by my disobedience.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, Helen?” he asked, his voice soft. Tyndareus did not seem upset, but he rarely did, dismissing most of our misbehavior as childhood mischief. Mine most of all.

  Leda stood beside him on the dais, her skirt tiered in shades of red. Now that Clytemnestra and I had seen thirteen summers, my mother did not believe we should be treated as children anymore. She raised her chin, her eyes as cold and flat as the great bronze-colored eagle that stared down on us from the wall behind the throne, flanked on either side by mustard-yellow griffons.