The Memoirs of Helen of Troy

by Amanda Elyot

  “I think he must be an unnatural child,” I giggled.

  “Son of demons most probably,” Aethra concurred. “Crete is also one of the last bastions of Goddess worship. Idomeneus has permitted the razing and torching of her shrines and has turned a blind eye to the ravishing and torture, even murder, of her priestesses.”

  “I will hang myself like my mother did if Tyndareus chooses him,” I vowed. Aethra could tell that I meant every word I’d uttered, although she reminded me that any suicidal attempts would prove fruitless, despite my best intentions. “If these chieftains represent the finest of the Argives, I despair of the future of Achaea,” I insisted. Worse even than Idomeneus was smug Menestheus—the same Menestheus whom my brothers had brought with them to Athens in the hope that the former exile would usurp Theseus’s throne. I promised Aethra that I would fling myself from the summit of Mount Taygetos if I had to spend the remainder of my days in the arms of the man who would displace my darling. “I cannot even bear to look upon his face long enough to tell you whether it pleases me,” I insisted.

  Not only did I despise at least half of these rivals, but I also had no favorite among them. The fair-haired Patroclus of Thessaly, cousin to Ajax and Teucer of Salamis, was sweet-natured and gentle but lacked the makings of a king. At age fourteen, he was even younger than I was, the merest slip of a boy; besides, conversing with him was like talking to Polyxo, except when he rhapsodized about Thessaly’s fields of golden grain, its fertile plains, and the herds of galloping wild horses that thrived on its hilly grasslands. Lycomedes, king of Skyros was too old, and I could have sworn that he was already married, with several concubines as well to keep him warm at night. He had no need for Helen of Sparta to grace his bed. Philoctetes caught my attention because he exhibited little use for human contact. Penelope and I once encountered him at the edge of the plain feeding a field mouse to a snake. He jerked his hand away just in time, for the serpent nearly bit him. Then, there was beetle-browed Diomedes of Argos, who made lovestruck cow eyes at me whenever I passed. I think he believed himself deeply in love with me, although he was always too shy to address me directly.

  In addition to the athletic contests, Tyndareus interviewed each of the suitors more than once, and the rivals vied to see which of them could offer Sparta the most wealth and bring her the greatest glory should he be chosen. My heart sank when Idomeneus offered the superior seamanship of the Cretans, and my spirits plummeted further when Menestheus promised an alliance with Athens. Tyndareus had no need to be reminded of the advantages of such a union.

  The two weeks quickly passed, and my stepfather was at a loss to settle on a winner for my hand. His larders were diminishing, the men grew quarrelsome in their cups, and he feared that if such minor disputes could erupt over dinner, imagine what might happen once he had made his decision! The rejected rivals would tear bridegroom and kyrios—and Sparta—to pieces. What was to be done? The days dragged on. The lavish feasting and games and petty arguments continued. It would not be much longer before the palace stores would be completely depleted and the great wealth of Sparta revealed to have dwindled to a precarious pittance.

  Penelope had accompanied me to several of the sporting competitions and had taken a fancy to one of the strangest of the suitors. Odysseus, chieftain of the remote and rugged land of Ithaca, had not even bothered to arrive in Sparta with bride-gifts. He dressed in plain, homespun garments with no pretense of adornment. His complexion knew the rigors of a life outdoors, but Penelope was right in spotting something about the man’s manner that was more remarkable than that of any of his rivals. For one thing, he spoke well, and it was evident that he gave much thought to his words before he uttered them. “I believe he enjoys being underestimated,” I remarked to Penelope. His legs were so much shorter in proportion to the rest of his body that he looked nobler sitting down. Certainly, there was nothing about the man that would make anyone look at him twice, and yet Odysseus almost dared you to give him your full attention.

  “I find him absolutely fascinating,” Penelope confessed. “I would rather hear anything he had to say than watch another stupid wrestling match or weightlifting contest.” On that point, I concurred. And yet, I was relatively sure that Odysseus had not come to Sparta to sue for my hand. He respected my beauty, most assuredly, but unlike his rivals, he was not overwhelmed by it.

  The presence of Odysseus was the first puzzle to be solved. The second was the mystery of Agamemnon’s. I had not numbered him among my forty-five suitors. I overheard Tyndareus speaking with him, reminding him that he was married already to Clytemnestra and that in fact he had petitioned quite vociferously for her hand. Despite his status as High King, he should not dare to expect that Tyndareus would permit him to dispose of one princess of Sparta in order to espouse the other.

  “The Mycenaean alliance with Sparta is an old and honored one,” Agamemnon said, his voice ever so slightly colored with threat. “Were my younger brother Menelaus to become Sparta’s ruler, our families and our kingdoms would truly become forces to be reckoned with on the Peloponnese.”

  Tyndareus acknowledged the strength of the argument and promised Agamemnon to give it his full consideration. I tried to recall anything about Menelaus that might separate him from the wolfpack of suitors. Taciturn was the first word that came to mind. At least, as many of the other men did, Menelaus didn’t salivate lecherously at the Laconian women, whose mode of dress in comparison to that of other Achaean women would best be described as scantily clad. He did not indulge in the suitors’ scatological jokes or drunken games. Either it marked him as more of a gentleman or else he better hid his baser nature. But what I noticed most about him at the time, a quality that stood out above any other, was his lack of overt response—if not something of a tight-lipped disapproval—regarding any form of sexuality.

  His looks neither fascinated nor repelled. Menelaus had the same russet-colored hair as Agamemnon, a shade that the superstitious believed had destined them both to be kings, but he lacked the imposing stature of his older brother. His hair was cropped much shorter than Agamemnon’s leonine mane. His eyes were not the blue-green shade of Agamemnon’s but were a dark gray as though they had perpetual storm clouds scudding behind them. Menelaus was well formed, although there was nothing about his person that would encourage a young girl’s heart to quicken its pace. With regard to his achievements in the Heleniad, I recall that in every event for which he was appropriately suited—omitting such contests as weightlifting, for example—he placed a solid second. In short, he was not my best hope, perhaps, but he was far from the worst.

  My numerous suitors had descended upon us during the month of the grape harvest with the intention of remaining with us for two weeks. By the time Tyndareus wearily announced that he would render his decision on the following day, bellicose tempers were thin as membranes, tensions ran high, and the rivals for my hand had bled Sparta’s resources dry for more than two months.

  TEN

  I did not sleep that night. Aethra offered to infuse some poppy juice into a tisane for me, but I had already lost enough control of my destiny to hand it over to Morpheus. After all, this would be one of my last nights in my own bed, free to focus my thoughts solely on my beloved Theseus and my beautiful Iphigenia. The muffled sound of men’s voices drifted across the per-gamos into the gynaeceum, and I strained to hear their words. Unable to clearly discern them, I threw on a cloak and stealthily made my way toward their source.

  A knot of men was clustered around the volcanic table at the head of the room. Tyndareus sat on the throne, surrounded by Menelaus, Agamemnon, and one other man, whose identity I could not glean from the rear view. I waited patiently for his voice to give him away. It was wily Odysseus, whom my cousin Penelope was secretly sweet on. “I have a possible solution, if you are willing to entertain the humble suggestion of a man from such a lonely and impoverished outpost as Ithaca,” I heard him say.

  The sons of Atreus exchanged glances with
Tyndareus. All three spoke in low tones, conferring among themselves before Odysseus was favored with a reply. “No matter whom I choose,” Tyndareus said tensely, “there is the good possibility of war. None of us can afford that. My intention, as you know, gentlemen, is to find ways to unite, not divide, the Achaeans.”

  “We all ride the back of the same horse,” Odysseus said, nodding in agreement. “Naturally, I would require a comparatively modest recompense in exchange for my counsel.”

  I held my breath, anxious to hear both the Ithacan’s suggestion and his terms. Just then, a fly seized an opportunity to buzz around my head, landing in my hair. Startled and repulsed, I batted it away, but it persisted, attracted perhaps to the perfume I had been wearing or to the olive oil that gave my tresses their gloss. After the tenth such assault, the mite had become my primary focus; and unthinking, I emitted a cry of frustration, which immediately disclosed the presence of a stranger in their midst.

  “Who’s there?” Agamemnon called, his hand quick to his dagger. I remained silent, rooted to my hiding place behind a pillar. The High King repeated his question. I decided it was more prudent to reveal myself than to risk a nasty puncture if Agamemnon started poking around pillars with his unsheathed weapon.

  I emerged from the shadows, clutching my cloak about me. “Helen!” Tyndareus exclaimed. “Go back to bed. This does not concern you.”

  I looked from man to man. “I think it does,” I replied. “I think you must secure the strongest possible political alliance for Sparta, which can only be done by marrying Helen to the man with the most advantageous connection. If I am not mistaken, you would not be having this conversation with the Atridae and the Ithacan chieftain if you did not mean to wed me to one of them. One of the men who stands before me is already my brother, being the husband of Clytemnestra. Please sheathe your dagger, Agamemnon, I mean you no bodily harm, no matter how tenuous your affection for my sister.” In a rare moment of humiliation, Agamemnon returned his knife to his belt. Odysseus chuckled at him as I continued to address Tyndareus. “One of the men at your side journeyed to Sparta without bride-gifts, a clear indication that I am not the prize he seeks to gain. Therefore, reason and logic tell me that you wish to further strengthen your ties with Mycenae.”

  “Reason? A woman’s not supposed to have reason!” Odysseus said in mock horror.

  “Or logic,” Agamemnon concurred in all seriousness. “Good luck, brother,” he added, clapping Menelaus on the back in soldierly fashion.

  The High King had confirmed it. Menelaus was to be Tyndareus’s choice. I admit that I was unsurprised. And unmoved as well. My husband-to-be appeared neither distressed nor overjoyed. The more I saw of him, the more I determined that he was a man who had always been a follower, perfectly satisfied to heed the wishes of those who were older or more powerful. This second son of Atreus was as useful an appendage to Agamemnon as his brazen-hilted dagger.

  “Helen, I commanded you to go to bed!” Tyndareus thundered. No man appreciates being shown up by a young woman, particularly a young and extraordinarily beautiful one. I had bested the lot of them, with the possible exception of Odysseus, who seemed more amused than put out by my presence, although I had not yet learned the details of his scheme to avoid a war once Tyndareus announced his selection. “Tomorrow,” Tyndareus declared, “when the chariot of Helios is at its zenith, I will reveal my intentions to everyone.” That was clearly the end of the matter tonight as far as I was to be concerned. The men held their tongues, attending my exit from the Great Hall before resuming their deliberation.

  Aethra chided me for fidgeting so restlessly while she dressed my hair the following morning. In just a few hours, the details of my fate—and that of the kingdom over which I would eventually be queen—would be disclosed. There was little doubt in my mind that within a year’s time I would be breeding the issue of the house of Atreus. “One daughter married into that accursed household was enough,” I lamented. “Why both?”

  “You know very well why,” Aethra responded, curling a lock of my hair with the metal wand we had brought back from Athens. “I’m perfectly aware that my son opened your eyes to the intricacies of diplomatic negotiations and strategic alliances.”

  “The sons of the House of Atreus have been cursed with bringing ruin on their fathers and upon their households,” I argued. “Every generation has been punished by its own hubris in thinking it could escape the curse laid upon it for their ancestors’ sins of cannibalism. Cousins turn upon one another, nephews kill their uncles.”

  Aethra dosed me with my own medicine. “I thought you were the one who believed in the exercise of free will. Curse? If that’s what you choose to believe, then it must be true. But men don’t need to blame gods they created for the arguments they invented to explain why claimants to a ruling family’s throne engage in bloody feuds.”

  I chose a chiton of aqua-colored silk and a shawl of Aegean blue embroidered with melissae, golden honeybees. My bracelets, necklace, and earrings were of hammered gold so exquisite that Hephaestus himself could not have done half so well on his godly forge.

  Penelope and I walked down to the valley where the spectators’ benches had been erected for the athletic contests. Tyndareus was already there, sweltering in the blazing sunlight, clad regally in garments of deep plum. The suitors began to straggle onto the plain, also attired in their finest robes, with the usual exception of Odysseus, who looked like he had arrived fresh from the plow. Once everyone was assembled, Tyndareus began to address the gathering. He commenced by praising the suitors, finding something laudable to say about each of them. This canny prologue, which I suspected was coached by Odysseus, regained the men’s loyalty and primed them with a coat of compliance.

  Tyndareus reiterated the sentiment that I had heard him express the night before—his goal of uniting the Achaeans. Divided and feuding, the Argives were no match for the powerful kingdoms of Egypt and Asia Minor. To that end, he demanded that each of the suitors swear an allegiance to the future king of Sparta, the Oath of Tynda-reus, which would commit them to defending my future husband—whomever he would be—should I ever be abducted from his household or harmed in any way by another, whether Achaean or barbarian. “Well, I know,” Tyndareus continued, “that there may be those among you who will nurse a grudge against the victor, believing that Helen’s unrivaled charms are rightfully yours. You will look for the chance to topple his reign in Sparta and take Helen to your own bed by seizing her from him. The Oath of Tyndareus will bind you all to uphold the rights of her husband. My choice remains a secret and will not be divulged until every one of you has taken the oath.”

  I scanned the faces of the suitors. Some seemed reasonably acquiescent to Tyndareus’s proposal; others grumbled and frowned. I noticed Menelaus about to come forward, but Agamemnon stopped him, grasping his younger brother’s forearm to pull him back into the crowd.

  After several moments, Odysseus was the first to step away from his supposed rivals. “I will happily subscribe to this wisely drafted pledge,” he said.

  I was so sure that he had devised the oath himself that I almost whispered it to Penelope. I saw her hold her breath while he spoke. “He must know something the others don’t,” she whispered.

  Despite her astute speculation, I decided not to let on how much I surmised. One by one, the suitors stepped forward to express their acquiescence to the pledge. The last to swear his allegiance to the Oath of Tyndareus was Menelaus. Agamemnon did not have to take the pledge as he was not one of my suitors.

  Tyndareus declared that the oath must now be solemnized. He headed the procession of suitors to a corner of the field, where a small stone structure, which Tyndareus called the Horse’s Tomb, had been erected. A large black Mycenaean stallion was kicking up the dust, impatiently straining at its halter.

  “I can’t look,” I told Penelope, and lifted my hands to my eyes. The horse uttered a final defiant whinny and gave up its brave life to the sharp blade of Tynda
reus’s knife. From the stifling, metallic odor in the air, I could tell that the steed’s warm blood had stained the altar and rendered the ground below it incarnadine. Into forty-five equal portions the flesh was divided, each suitor receiving his share. Forty-five cavities were made in the fertile earth, ringing the perimeter of the temple. Every suitor placed his right foot upon his bloody portion of horseflesh and formally reiterated his oath. Then each man buried his share, raising a small mound above it.

  Now there was a renewed crackle of energy in the air. The moment of revelation was imminent. The knot in my stomach was not the progeny of suspense but was born of the realization that my entire life would be forever altered by my stepfather’s announcement. All eyes were focused on Tyndareus. I stood beside him, scanning the faces of my suitors.

  Then Tyndareus spoke. “My choice has been a difficult one, which is why you have enjoyed my hospitality for so long. Many factors were measured, not the least and most practical of which was the consideration of the wealth and resources that would enure to Sparta in the marriage.”

  He made no mention of what would enure to Helen.

  “I mean therefore to enrich my kingdom by wedding Helen to a man of means who has the makings of a strong leader.”

  At this point, my brothers, who stood beside Menestheus, discreetly shook hands. Polydeuces gave him a nudge in the ribs. Menestheus was clearly their choice for my hand, and the words of Tyndareus had given them reason to suspect that they might be rewarded.

  “You have all sworn the Oath of Tyndareus to stand by, support, and defend Helen’s husband in the event of her abduction, rape, or injury. The man who each of you will guard and protect with your ships and spears under those circumstances and in such occurrence is Menelaus of Mycenae, son of Atreus.”