He nodded and stroked her hair from her cheek. “Anything that you wish, Helen.”
“And if I wish to be your wife?”
“Then I will make you a queen.” He tipped her chin up to meet her eyes. “But not before you are ready. And not before it is safe. We have all the time in the world now.”
Still he couldn’t shake the goddess’s words, worrying them in his mind. Perhaps spilling the wine meant nothing. Perhaps it did not mean their blood. It could not be something that would harm Athens. Athena would never permit Zeus to meddle in her affairs. But if it were wholly unrelated to them, the goddess would not have mentioned it. His mother’s life? But surely as high priestess, Hera would not allow it. One of his sons? Theseus grimaced and tucked Helen’s head beneath his chin. He could not bear to think of it. Not after Hippolytus. Surely the gods would not be so cruel as that. Athens could not afford to lose another heir. Athena would protect his sons. He had to believe it.
“You’re very quiet,” Helen said.
He grunted, forcing the thoughts from his mind. It would not do to worry her now, when she was so weak. “In the hope that you might sleep, that is all.”
“I have slept for four days. Let me hear your voice.”
He smiled. “If you wished for a practiced voice, you might have been wiser to seek the protection of King Nestor. He would have served you, and his sons are good men.”
“Perhaps.” She rested her head against his shoulder. He could feel the cold of her fingers against his ribs even through his tunic. “But I have never known a better man than you, Theseus. Even now, you would give me up if I asked it of you. If it were not what I wished.”
“Only a fool seeks to hold a daughter of Zeus against her will.”
“Then the world I have known is full of them, and you are the only wise man in it. How could I have chosen any other but you?”
“Heracles might have served you just as well.”
She shook her head. “He might have kept me safe, but I could not have loved Heracles. You think you are fortunate that I have chosen you, but I believe I am the one who should give thanks that you came for me. I do not know what I would have done if you had denied me.”
“What man could deny you anything?”
She fell silent, and he wished he had not spoken. They both knew the answer, and Menelaus’s name hung unspoken between them. Trembling again, she hid her face against his chest. Menelaus, the fool. He should have done more than scratch his neck. He should have slit his throat and let the life bleed from him into the ground. He should have offered him in sacrifice to Zeus, in payment for Helen’s freedom.
Perhaps he still would, if Mycenae marched against Athens. Zeus might require a lesser war, and if that were so, Theseus would count himself fortunate. But if Mycenae marched, Sparta would, too, and with their city, Castor and Pollux. For Helen’s sake, he could not wish for it.
Theseus kissed her forehead. “Rest, Helen. No further harm will come to you now, and the morning is soon enough to speak of more serious matters.”
“You’ll stay?”
“As long as I am able.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He leaned back against the canvas wall, set against the forward rail, and tucked the blanket more firmly around her shoulders. The line of her mouth eased, her eyes closing. But it was not until the cadence of the drums signaled moonset that her breathing settled into sleep.
Turning Athena’s words over in his mind, he did not rest at all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I would never forget the days I spent trapped in the darkness below. I dreamed of my confinement, my limbs cramping and my chest tight as though I had too little air. But I woke to Theseus’s presence, his even breathing, his heartbeat, and drifted back to sleep. Stiff, and sore, and weak, I found that first sleep cradled against his side did more to restore me than any draft of Ariston’s, as if Theseus’s own strength became mine.
But when I woke again later in the dark of the tent without the comfort of his warmth, or the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek, and the only sound in the blackness was the slap of water against the hull, my heart raced. I was in another tomb, like the basket. Even the thought made my legs cramp and my body stiffen with remembered discomfort. I couldn’t breathe, too stifled by the blackness, and I dragged myself toward the sound of the water. Even drowning would be relief from another day trapped in the dark, with the rats chewing on my bones, and until I sank, I would be free, with the world around me.
My fingers touched thick cloth, oiled against rain and sea spray, and lifting it brought a splash of pale light. I sobbed at the sight, my throat thick, and crawled beneath the edge into fresh air and the false dawn before sunrise. How long I rested there, with only my head and chest free of the tent and gasping like a fish, I don’t know. But gradually, I realized I lay upon the deck of the ship, and the slap of water against the hull was broken by the sound of creaking oars heaving and splashing in the sea.
Oars. Rowed by men. I took a steadying breath before the panic in my chest swallowed me whole. If they had seen me, they would have spoken. There would have been some call, some startled shout. As silently as I could, I tried to ease myself back, but the tent cloth rolled itself into the fabric of my shift, catching me, stopping me from slipping back the way I had come. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my lips together and holding my breath. Forward. I had to pull myself forward, and then, perhaps, I could dart back inside the tent through the main flap.
A quick glance at the deck reassured me that the men faced the other direction as they rowed, brown backs bent to their oars as one body. If I was silent and quick, it was possible I would go unnoticed yet. I slithered forward again, my shift unrolling from the oiled cloth as I did so, and then I forced myself to my feet, stumbling only for a moment before I steadied myself on the rail, and caught sight of the sea.
The sun had just begun to rise over the edge of the wine-dark sea, glinting and dazzling to my eyes. I could not stop myself from leaning out over the rail to see beyond the bow, where the kiss of sunlight turned the sky orange along the horizon. We traveled into it, east to Athens, and for a moment, I could see nothing else but the bright burning glow and the white sparks it threw on the water.
I had seen ships, of course. Tyndareus had taken me to Gytheio once in my fifth year, when he learned from Pollux and Castor I meant to run away for just a sight of the sea. We had only a river at Sparta, and at the height of summer, it ran so shallow, even the smallest fishing boats would grind against the bottom.
But the sea. The sea had stretched forever, as vast as the sky, the waves unending, sometimes no more than a ripple against the shore, and other times rising taller than a man. I could have stared at the sea all day and all night from solstice to solstice, and still I would not have looked my fill. Now, it entranced me, calling of freedom, of peace, of sun upon my face, and wide, open waters. My heart ached with it, my body rejoicing with the drum of its song, even as the sea spray stung my eyes.
“Aphrodite comes to us!” one of the men called out, startling me back. He pointed, and the dark heads of the men on the oars all turned together, just as they had rowed. The wind picked up, blowing my hair across my face, and Theseus called out for the sail to be raised even as he moved toward me.
“My lady, grant us your blessing!” another man shouted. “Grant us your favor and your protection!”
My heart tripped, and my throat closed. I turned my face away, hoping no one on the deck would recognize the princess of Sparta. Then Theseus stood before me, blocking me from the sight of the men, his mouth a grim line and his eyes flat gray and storming. His jaw went tight.
“May the goddess forgive me,” he murmured, then dropped to one knee, clasping my hand in his and kissing it. The men roared behind him, stomping their feet against the deck until the vibration of the w
ood reached my heels.
He pressed my hand to his forehead, but I urged him up again, cold fear rippling down my spine. Thirty men stared at me—thirty men who would not forget what they had seen. I should never have left the tent, even to escape the nightmare of the rats, the darkness of the basket. They were not supposed to see me, their backs to the bow. But I could not have stayed inside without suffocating, then. It was the sea that had lured me, held me stunned by its endless beauty.
Theseus rose, and I saw what it cost him in the deep lines of his face, to treat me as a goddess when he knew I was only Helen. I turned from him, drawing the dignity of a princess around me like a shield against the terror in my heart, and I waited for him to raise the tent flap, as a goddess would wait upon a man to serve her. There was nothing left to do then but go back in, and hope the men would believe the goddess had gone again.
Inside, the strength I had found drained out of me, and I fell to my knees on the deck, burying my face in my hands. Theseus stepped in behind me and let the flap fall, throwing the tent back into darkness.
“Aphrodite forgive me, but for a moment even I saw the goddess, with the sun behind you.” His voice was low and rough. “We will not give the men cause to doubt their hearts if they saw the same. I can only thank Athena for confusing their eyes and pray that Aphrodite takes no offense.”
“I did not mean for them to see me,” I said, “but I could not breathe, with the darkness pressing in and the closeness of the walls around me.”
“Hush,” he said, crouching beside me. He gently pulled my hands away, tipping my face up. “It is done now, and you are hidden safe still. Ariston will hear if one of them suspects something more, but there would be rumors regardless after how I treated you. Men will talk of how King Theseus could not keep his eyes from Helen of Sparta, but with luck and Athena’s blessing, they will speak, too, of how King Pirithous stole my prize and fled after you were found missing. It will be enough, and if it is not, the Rock will not fall.”
I nodded, though the suggestion of war made my stomach twist into knots. I should not have left the tent, no matter how suffocating or how desperate my need to see the open sky and the sun, but he was right. It was done, and I could not take it back. He was right, too, that rumors would spread, whether I had shown myself or not. I had been too partial toward him, too attentive, and too warm at the festivities. Menelaus had made that clear to me. I shivered at even the thought of his name, and the way his hot breath had haunted me inside the basket.
Theseus drew me into his arms, and I hid my face against his neck. The sea clung to him, salty and clean, and I breathed it in for comfort, banishing the memories of Menelaus.
“Shh,” Theseus said, stroking my hair, for he must have felt the gooseflesh rise on my skin and the tension in my body. “These men are mine. Loyal to Athens and me. If they come to know you are not the goddess, they will only be proud of their king for taking honors he deserves. You are safe, Helen. I promise you.”
It was enough to calm me in the dark, and in the golden light that bled through the tent during the day, with no word from Ariston that things were not as they should be, my fears diminished.
We sailed directly for Athens, planning only one stop so that the men could sleep, though Theseus would not let them go ashore. It would be only two days of sailing around the coast of Achaea in good weather, and if I had not known better, I might have suspected Theseus had some power over the sea that we were sped so easily on our way. The men undoubtedly believed it was so, from the conversation that carried through the canvas to my ears, or at least that he had the favor of his father, Poseidon.
“Not Poseidon,” he told me, half-asleep in the midafternoon heat.
The tent was hearth-hot when the sun beat down upon it, and, enclosed within the thick canvas walls, there was no breeze to lift the stale air. It was still better than the hold and the basket, even if it might have been cooler below.
“It is by Athena’s grace we’ve escaped any trouble. My father has not favored me for a decade now, at least. Not since Hippolytus.”
“What happened?”
Theseus sighed and rubbed his forehead. “It’s a long story full of old sorrows better left alone. I had thought I would escape the pain of seeing my children die in such a way, though I should have known it could not be the case after I heard Heracles’s tale. I suppose I am fortunate that my father’s wife is not nearly so jealous as Hera, and I lost only the one son.” His mouth snapped shut then, and he grimaced. “May the gods protect Demophon and Acamas from the same fate.”
We had been lying together, flat on the cool deck, but I sat up at his words, staring at him. No wonder he had been so offended by the bard’s song. “You killed him?”
He did not move, though I saw the ripple of tension in his jaw, and his shoulders bunched as though he prepared for battle. “Aphrodite felt herself spurned by Hippolytus’s devotion to Artemis. She made Phaedra fall in love with him, and when Hippolytus refused the advances of his stepmother, my wife, Phaedra accused my son of rape to hide her shame. Hippolytus fled, but Aphrodite filled my heart with blind fury, and she used me as her tool to bring about his death. In that it was by my order he was pursued, I am responsible, but my mind was not my own.”
A chill ran down my spine with his account. These were the gods we all served, so faithless! They demanded our sacrifices and attention, then made us their playthings and threw us away when we objected. They punished us with death to serve their pride.
“Did he?” I could believe Aphrodite would be so cruel as to use him in such a way. “Rape Phaedra, I mean.”
“No.” Theseus looked away, his jaw clenched and his hand balled into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white under the strain. “I learned the truth on my return home. Phaedra killed herself while I hunted my son, and Artemis told me what had happened. I don’t know why the goddess confessed. Perhaps out of pity for Hippolytus. Perhaps to give me greater pain. Artemis could have protected him, but because he was the son of Antiope, she let him die. To punish me for marrying her sworn servant.”
I wrapped my arms around my knees and stared at my toes. “You must have loved Phaedra very much.”
“I thought I did,” he said, “or I would not have married her. I had an heir in Hippolytus already, and he would have made a fine king for Athens when I was gone. But she was not Antiope. She did not know how to be queen.”
“How do you mean?”
“She was interested only in how she might be served, not by how she might serve Athens. I should have known as much when I married her, for that was how things were done in Crete under her father, Minos. But I hoped she might change when she came to me. I thought in time she would become accustomed to Athens.”
“Oh.”
I was afraid to ask how he judged me, with all my talk of freedom. I was afraid of how he would compare me to these two women who had come before. Would he say to Pirithous that I was not Antiope? That I was not Phaedra? Worse still if his people thought it, too. But I could not be an Amazon, nor was I a princess of Crete. I was Spartan, and I served my people first.
“I did not think I would ever find love again, after Phaedra.” Theseus sat up and brushed my hair over my shoulder. “Nor did I ever believe I might consider taking another wife, but you have the right to know what you might marry. I would not have you make this choice with blind eyes, Helen. You will have my protection, no matter what you decide.”
I said nothing. I could not hold what the gods had done against him, but nor could I ignore what it might mean for my fate. If I tied myself to him, would his misfortune become mine? It was not a fair question to ask, and I had already answered it once, in the courtyard when he spoke of Zeus’s price.
“Think on it, Helen. There is no hurry.” He rose and slipped out of the tent, leaving me to my thoughts.
The master of the ship greeted him l
oudly enough that I heard the words through the canvas. Theseus spoke to him about nothing of consequence, and from the sound of his men and the calls that followed, he walked among his crew. Ariston had told me Theseus often took a turn on the oars when he sailed, and I wondered if that was what he had left me to do, while it was daylight still and I would not be troubled by the dark.
I sighed, aching to follow him, though I knew I could not risk being seen again. Yet the thought of Theseus working an oar, his back and shoulders bare to the sun, made my heart race.
My future would be what I made of it. My future, with Theseus.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The storm blew up from a clear sky, and Theseus climbed the mast himself to roll the sail and secure it, trusting that Athena would not let him be thrown from the ship no matter how it pitched. The hair on the back of his neck rose when he heard the wind howl with a woman’s voice. Laughter like silver chimes carried over the crash of the waves, and a dove lighted upon the snake’s head of the prow.
“Aphrodite’s blessing!” the shipmaster said. “She’ll protect us through the storm.”
Theseus stared at the bird, the truth of its presence sinking his stomach like rocks. Not her blessing, though he did not dare so much as whisper it to his crew, but her curse. His gaze fell to the tent snug against the bow, and Ariston, who stood outside it. Their eyes met, Ariston’s expression as grim and dark as Theseus felt. The dove flapped its wings, soaring up into the clouds, and the rain broke in sheets.
Athena, protect us, and protect my men. An offering to Aphrodite would not go amiss, but he had only the cursed guest-gifts from Tyndareus in his hold. Better if he had left them behind. Hestia, goddess of the hearth, forgive me.
No, he told himself. Helen had asked for his help, begged for his protection. As a member of Tyndareus’s household, he was honor bound to do for her what he could as a guest-friend. He had not violated the sacred laws of the hearth or hospitality in this. If he had stolen her unwilling, that would be one thing, but this was in defense of Sparta as much as the rest of Achaea.
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