“If there is safe shore to ground the ship, do it,” Theseus ordered. “We would be fools to do otherwise even with the protection of a goddess.”
But there were only cliffs, and the men struggled on their oars to keep the ship from being smashed against them. The drum could barely be heard over the roar of the rain and the sea, wave after wave washing over them. Theseus took an oar himself closest to the bow, shouting the beat until his throat ached, but by then the men had the rhythm.
Father, give them your mercy, if not me. Let them see the shore again, and sleep in the arms of their wives.
Cold water, waves mixed with rain, covered their legs nearly to the knee, but the more water they took on, the more Theseus could feel the sea tugging at his bones, its currents as clear to him as the pulse of blood through his own body. He did not call the man back to his oar, for fear of losing him with the next wave over the rail, but he shouted his direction to the men.
“To the sea!” If they could find the current, it would carry them out of the storm. They could not hope to find a place to beach the ship; they could only pray for escape from the rain and the waves. “Into the storm!”
The men had sailed with him often enough not to argue, and the ship fought to turn. The wind rose as if in answer, and Theseus shouted for Ariston to take the oar. Perhaps Poseidon had taken pity on them after all, and sent the North Wind to guide them out. Theseus sloshed through the water to the mast, and climbed the slick wood again. The moment he pulled the ropes loose, the sail caught the wind. The ship lurched with the force of another wave, throwing him free.
Theseus struggled for the touch of wood, but the deck was no longer beneath him. Seawater filled his mouth, the water winter-cold on his limbs, seeming even to slow his heart. He kicked his legs, struggling up toward the muted cries of his men. Everything was gray, then black.
Father, please. Not this way. In Athens they said he could breathe water as easily as air, but the proof was here. His arms thickened, muscles screaming. The cold leached the strength from his body, dragging him down. He needed air. Athena! Remember your pledge!
To come this far and fail—and what would become of Helen, if he drowned? So black, so cold, and he could hear nothing now but the roar of the sea. It filled his ears, calling his name as a lover might. He struggled against the Siren song, swimming still, though he had lost his bearings. Did he only draw himself deeper? Air. He must have air. He must live, for Helen’s sake, if nothing else. To keep his vow, to see her made safe.
He broke the surface with a gasp, his lungs burning, and a wave bore him up, pitching him toward the hard wood of the hull. A hand caught his, heaving him up over the rail.
“My lord!” It was Pallans, the man whose oar he had taken. “It looked as though Poseidon had raised you up out of the water by his own hand!”
“Not Poseidon.” On hands and knees in the water that still flooded the deck, he coughed, his body shaking with relief. “Athena. Pray to Athena, or we will never survive this day.”
The sail snapped against its ropes, secured by the other men after he had been thrown overboard. The clouds loomed green-gray, but the rain no longer beat upon his shoulders like stones. Blue sky blazed in a crescent ahead. As long as they kept the wind long enough to reach the current, they might make it out from beneath the storm. They must make it.
Another wave crashed over the deck, washing over the tent, and he dragged himself to his feet, fighting through the swells of water toward the bow. Helen. All of this was for nothing if Helen did not make it, too, and Ariston still worked upon the oars. Helen was alone.
“Pallans, keep the sail and steer us east as best you can. When you meet the current, do not fight against it. I must find an offering for the goddess.” Theseus did not wait for his acknowledgment. Nothing would please Aphrodite more than sweeping Helen into the sea, but he would give her something else. Helen had some gold, from the gifts he’d given her. It would have to do, and he needed to see with his own eyes that she was safe.
He ducked through the dripping flap of the tent to find Helen a sodden heap, shuddering with the cold.
She let out a cry at the sight of him and crawled against the pitch of the deck. The bow was more sheltered than where the oarsmen sat, and the water flowed from the planks toward the benches, but the waves had soaked her still. He fell to his knees, gathering her close. She trembled in his arms, though she did not weep, and he felt pride for her courage. Had she left the tent in fear during the storm, he could not have blamed her.
“Brave Helen.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “The storm weakens even now. We will be through it before long.”
“They said you were lost in the sea,” she rasped. “I heard the men screaming your name.”
“Athena saved me, as she promised. She would not let Aphrodite take my life or yours. It is the men I fear for now. The armband you wore the night I sent you off with Ariston—do you have it still?”
She struggled out from the wet fur around her shoulders and twisted the armband free, holding it out to him. “I took only what I thought would not be missed, but I have a bracelet, too, from what you gifted me.”
“I will need something yet for Athena, when we reach shore.” He took the armband and rose. “Stay against the bow if you can, and I will send Ariston back to you again as soon as I am able.”
She grasped his arm before he turned away, her green eyes wide. “My life is not worth theirs, Theseus.”
He squeezed her hand. “Athena has never abandoned her people. I do not believe she will begin now.”
Then he went back out into the rain. He could not afford to linger with her, much as he might want to. The men would notice, and wonder, and if they believed Helen was the reason for this storm, he would not be able to stop them from launching her into the sea. Instead, he took the gold armband, dedicated it to the goddess, and threw it into the storm-dark clouds.
Aphrodite, accept this offering, be appeased, and spare the lives of these men, who only wished to honor you.
He was not the only man who watched for it to fall, squinting into the sea spray and the rain. The tightness in his chest eased when there was no sign of the gold dropping back to the sea. Where the armband had pierced them, the clouds broke, fingers of sunlight streaming down upon the ship. The men cheered, some singing hymns to the goddesses, others to Zeus and Poseidon.
Father, grant us your blessing. Send us home.
But it was sunset before they moved beyond the reach of the storm, and a long night, and a longer day before the storm cleared from the sky at their stern. By then, they were well caught in the current, whether by Athena’s design or Aphrodite’s, he did not know, and he could not risk turning back toward Athens as long as the clouds threatened more abuse. The ship would not take it and neither would his men, so Theseus ordered the oars pulled, and the men to turn their minds to prayer. The freshwater would last longer if they did not row, and Theseus did not mean to see them escape the storm only to die of thirst.
They sailed on in the hands of the gods, for everything around them turned to mist, and they would not have seen land until they smashed against it. He was able to slip away into the tent for a few hours’ sleep with Helen, leaving Ariston to stand for him on deck.
“I have never been to sea before,” she said, shivering in his arms. The clothes and blankets were damp still, and the mist did nothing to warm her, though the tent kept the worst of it from chilling her skin. “I would not ever sail again!”
He could not bring himself to tell her the trip might have been easy if the men had not taken her for Aphrodite. The goddess did not easily forgive insults of that kind.
“We will make land soon,” he said. “I am sure of it.”
“But where?” she asked. “There is no sun to guide you. How can you know which direction we sail?”
“It is in the hand
s of the gods, Helen. Athena will bring us home.” He smoothed her hair beneath his chin, calming her mind with the touch. “If she did not mean to, we would have smashed against some cliff face long before now, or drowned in the storm.”
“There are times I envy you your certainty,” she mumbled against his chest. The chattering of her teeth had stopped, at least, and her words came soft on the edge of sleep. “But even if I have none in the gods, I will keep faith in you.”
It was the second sunrise after the storm when the fog finally lifted and they beached the ship on a sandy shore at the first sign of freshwater. Theseus sent the men up the river to hunt and bathe and stretch their legs after so long at sea. Better still if they found women, but he had seen no settlement.
Once all had gone but Ariston, he helped Helen down from the ship. With the physician, he made a second shelter for her from the sodden blankets between two oak saplings. They would spend the day checking the ship to be sure it had not suffered any breach in the storm, and the night resting weary bones on solid earth. If no repairs were needed, they could leave as soon as the following morning, when the tide allowed.
Helen’s legs wobbled on land, but she only laughed when she fell, and Theseus thought her too grateful to have the sun above her and the sand beneath her feet to be troubled by anything.
“Where are we?” she asked, shading her eyes to see the sun.
“East of Achaea, perhaps in the Trojan lands. I cannot say for certain, though I am sure the men will meet someone to tell them. Pallans will not rest until he finds something worth raiding.”
Helen’s eyes darkened to the color of pine. “They will rape the women.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, though he wished he had not mentioned it. “But if they do, they will likely keep them as slaves, or even as wives. Pallans is in want of a bride, and rich enough from raiding to be satisfied by one taken as a prize. None of the girls in Athens please him, though I had offered him any of the palace women he wished.”
She pulled her knees to her chest, her hair falling in a shining curtain between them. “I had not realized the king of Athens lived the life of a pirate.”
“In my youth I did many foolish things, but now it is only to keep my men sharp. If war comes to Attica, I will have blooded men to defend it.” He brushed her hair over her shoulder that he might see her face, but he could not tell if she found it offensive. She already knew too much of war and blood for a woman who had never survived one, and he did not mean to make her think he would bring more of it. “In truth, it has been a long time since I set out to sea for any purpose. I only came to Sparta to quiet Pirithous.”
Her nose wrinkled. “If you only came because of him, I suppose I owe him my thanks, though it galls me to offer it.”
Theseus laughed. “He is a loyal friend, Helen. In time, I think you will come to see it. After what happened, he would have stolen you away himself if I had refused, though he would never own to it now.”
“A son of Zeus through and through, then.” But she smiled before she rose. “I think it is long past time I bathed. I feel crusted with salt and grime. Is it safe?”
He touched his fist to his forehead in respect, refusing to think of the pale skin of her breasts bared, or the softness of it beneath his fingers. He kept his eyes on her face. “I will guard your body as well as your honor, but keep your gown near to hand, in case the men return.”
All he need do was think of Menelaus to smother his desire. He meant to give her every honor in Athens and make her his wife besides if she was willing, but until then, he would not touch her.
It was the least he could do to make up for what he had not been able to prevent.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I bathed in silence, not wishing to talk to Theseus and test him further when he already sat stiff-backed along the bank, not even so much as turning his head in my direction. Perhaps it was cruel of me to ask it of him, but I had never felt so filthy in my life, between the time spent in the basket and the salt of the sea so thick in the fabric of my shift. The river water soothed my skin, and I turned my back to Theseus before dunking my head beneath the water to scrub the salt and sweat from my scalp. I couldn’t decide if I was pleased or offended that he did not glance my way, but I would not tempt him, and I did not want to know if he looked.
When I raised my head and brushed the water from my eyes, I could have sworn I saw something stir in the trees on the other bank. The idea that the men might see me naked, and worse, with Theseus, had me reaching for my shift and covering my chest. I had hoped to scrub the fabric against the rocks before putting it on again, but the rinse I had given it would have to do. A branch snapped, and my head turned to the sound, searching for some sign of movement.
A boy’s face appeared, peeking out from behind a tree, and I breathed a sigh of relief. We were so far from Achaea, it mattered little to me if rumors of a pretty girl spread. They would not reach Menelaus, and if they did, it would only lead him on a fool’s chase. Perhaps it might even make me safer in Athens. It was Theseus’s men I had to fear, for they would not mistake me for Aphrodite a second time.
The boy’s face was mostly shadow, but he could not have been even my age. Certainly he did not have the height of Pollux, and his face was still soft more than masculine. When he realized I saw him, he waved to me, gesturing me to his side of the bank.
I glared at him and tied the belt of my shift before swimming back to the bank I had come from. I did not dare to call Theseus by name where someone might hear it. It was one thing for word to spread of a pretty girl seen bathing in the river, another if she was found in the company of the king of Athens so soon after my disappearance. He turned when I splashed into the shallows; then his gaze shifted over my shoulder, and he drew his sword so quickly, I barely saw the motion.
“Go back to Ariston,” he said to me, his voice low and tense.
A crash in the brush told me the boy had run, and I could not blame him. The look on Theseus’s face spoke clearly of his intention. “You cannot mean to chase him down.”
“If he spies on you, he should be taught respect at the least, and I cannot risk his meeting the men now. Go to Ariston and wait.”
“Theseus, he’s only a boy.”
But he was already running up the bank, moving with the easy grace of a wolf. I pressed my lips together. If I tried to follow, I had more chance of running into his men than catching him, and if Pallans was raiding for women, he was just as likely to take me as a prize, unwitting. Theseus leapt from one bank to the opposite side in one bound and disappeared into the trees.
I did not know what I would do if he came back with blood on his hands, but the thought made my stomach churn. I tied up my sandals and tucked the bottom of my shift into the rope belt, freeing my legs at the knee. Theseus was only a son of Poseidon, I told myself. A daughter of Zeus should be swift enough to match him.
I swam the river instead of jumping it, but Theseus had left a trail anyone could follow. I ran after him, realizing my foolishness too late. I had spent four days in a basket, and at least three more trapped idle in a tent barely as wide as Theseus was tall. My legs tired and my lungs burned; daughter of Zeus or not, I hadn’t raced this way in years. I stumbled, and then I fell, but Theseus had married an Amazon, and I would not give him reason to say I was not Antiope. I picked myself up and pressed on until the trees thinned into a clearing.
Theseus had his knee pressed hard into the boy’s back, pinning him to the ground. His head came up when I broke into the meadow, narrowed eyes going wide.
“You can’t,” I gasped, pressing my hand into the stitch in my side. “You can’t hurt him. Just make him swear not to speak of it.”
“Lady,” the boy panted. “Lady, run! Up to Mount Ida, and the gods will protect you from these men! Lord Apollo will save you!”
“Fool boy!” Theseus rose, releasing him.
“Is that what you thought? That you would rescue her from raiders with the men from the village?”
“Surely she must be a naiad, taken as your slave.”
“Tell me your name, boy.”
“Paris, son of Agelaus,” he said proudly, climbing to his feet. “My father is a shepherd for King Priam, the greatest king Troy has ever known.”
Theseus grabbed the boy by the tunic before he could escape, but he was looking at me. “He will tell the tale, no matter what he promises. You know what it will mean if word travels before we leave. Troy is not so far from Achaea that rumor will not spread.”
I met the boy’s eyes. They were honey brown, but bright with adoration when they fell on me. He did not even know my name, but Theseus’s men would not hide his. Those they met would know they were Athenian, traveling with their king, and word that Theseus guarded a beautiful woman would send Mycenae to the Rock. But he was only a boy, so young, unarmed, an innocent shepherd, and I could not let him die for me. Not like this.
“I am not held against my will, Paris, but if anyone hears of me, that will be the least I suffer. This man is my hero, not my abductor. If you care for me at all, you will tell no one of this. Swear to me and to the gods you will keep this secret. Swear it to Lord Apollo.”
He sagged against Theseus’s grip, the brightness draining from his expression. He had wanted to save me, to make himself a hero, I guessed, but then he straightened and his boy’s face turned grave. “I swear by Lord Apollo, and my love for you, my lady, I will never speak of this, if you will grant me one thing in return.”
Theseus’s eyes narrowed, and I swallowed, knowing already what he would ask. But he was only a boy, younger than me. I felt my heart trip with pain all the same, that even a boy could not look at me without wanting to possess me as well.
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