Helen Had a Sister

by Penelope Haines

  After a moment the dark companion spoke. “What my brother is trying to say is that he is deeply shamed by his foolish words and begs your forgiveness.” His lips quirked slightly. “We were seeking directions to King Tyndareus’s palace. It was no part of our plan to insult his daughters. On behalf of my brother and myself, I apologise and beg your pardon.”

  My wits had slowly returned. “Who are you, and why do you want my father?” I allowed my tone to be arrogant. One apology doesn’t necessarily make a truce.

  The dark man hesitated, glanced at his silent brother and shrugged. “Agamemnon and Menelaus. We are brothers of the house of Atreus from Mycenae.”

  I nodded as if this meant something to me, although I had never heard of either. I realised they were both young, Agamemnon perhaps eighteen, and Menelaus, a year or two younger. They were travel-stained and dusty from the road, but their clothes were of fine quality and their chariot well made, cast with reliefs and decoration, the harness formed from supple leather that spoke of high-quality workmanship. Suddenly I felt shy in their presence, aware of my dusty feet and tangled, damp hair.

  Helen said helpfully, “If you want the palace, you should take the left branch of the road just ahead of you.”

  I admired her eight-year-old poise and forced myself to say, “It’s only a couple of miles further.”

  Agamemnon thanked us gravely.

  We watched them drive ahead up the road.

  “I want to get home quickly,” said Helen. “I want to hear what they’ve got to say when they speak to Father.”

  We started running.

  * * *

  I had been looking forward to the feast that night. Alcman, our most famous poet, had returned on one of his cyclical visits. It was a celebration for all, as we assembled to hear his news, stories and scandals. Tomorrow he would be amongst the girls at school, teaching us the latest poems.

  The addition of the visiting princes was a bonus. We take guests seriously in Sparta, and xenia, or providing for such visitors, is a sacred obligation. As I dressed for the feast, I wondered how their story would affect the poet’s programme. I was attending as one of Leda’s companions, which meant I would be near her at the high table and in a good position to hear what the princes had to say.

  Agamemnon and Menelaus were escorted into the room and bowed before my father. They had cleaned themselves from their travels and changed. I could see again the quality of their clothes, and they bore themselves with the balance and grace of trained warriors. The redheaded one, Menelaus, had brushed his hair, and it gleamed deep gold in the torch lights. He saw me standing behind Leda’s chair and nodded to me with a slightly embarrassed smile.

  Tyndareus, seated beside Leda, rose to greet them. “Welcome strangers,” he said formally. “You will join us and be entertained as our guests here tonight. After you have feasted, we ask that you will tell us your story, and let us know if we can help you in any way.” Their formal recognition as guests having been dealt with, Tyndareus offered them seats at the table.

  Leda leant forward and smiled at them. “I hope our maids looked after your comfort?”

  “Very well, thank you,” replied Agamemnon. “We travelled a long way in the heat, and it feels good to be clean and refreshed.”

  Leda nodded and sat back in her chair, satisfied.

  Conversation ceased as the maids busied themselves bringing food to the table. Large platters of venison, flatbreads, olives, cheeses and flasks of wine were circulated by the servants. I noticed our guests behaved courteously enough but ate with a ferocity that suggested it had been a while since their last meal. As we ate our fill, conversation slowly started up again.

  Warriors’ conversations are always the same: raids or hunting, discussed for hours; about who had performed well or indifferently and what the catch or loot was. I could see our men taking the measure of the newcomers. A couple of questions were asked, and answered by Menelaus. Agamemnon was the more reserved, while his younger brother seemed to make friends easily. Whatever Menelaus replied seemed to please our men, as I saw a couple of approving nods. Perhaps he had cracked a joke, as there was a sudden gust of laughter from those sitting close to him.

  The maids worked through the hall keeping wine cups replenished, cheerily slapping the hands of importunate warriors and clearing empty platters and trays. There was a deal of good-natured teasing going on. Everyone was excited by the presence of strangers at our feast and looking forward to the entertainment the poet would offer.

  Eventually Tyndareus called for silence. “I now invite our guests to introduce themselves, and tell us what brings them to Sparta.”

  The two men stood, and Agamemnon bowed to my father. “Thank you, Tyndareus, and your gracious wife, for your welcome to us, travellers to your land. I am Agamemnon of the house of Atreus, and this, my brother Menelaus. Our father, King Atreus, has been killed by Aegisthus, his nephew, and we are fugitives from Mycenae.”

  There was a murmur of conversation that ran through the hall. This was news indeed.

  “Aegisthus and his father Thyestes led an insurrection against our father. They now hold sway in Mycenae and rule our dead father’s kingdom.” Agamemnon paused for breath. “I ask, King Tyndareus, for sanctuary, until my brother and I can win our kingdom back. We place our swords at your disposal to serve in whatever way pleases you.”

  Tyndareus looked at Agamemnon thoughtfully. “Please sit, Prince Agamemnon. These are sad tidings indeed. We grieve with you for the death of your father. All here will give you welcome and comfort while you are our guests.”

  Agamemnon sat, and an elderly warrior at the back of the room stood.

  Tyndareus waved to him to speak. “Adrastos.”

  Adrastos nodded to my father. “Prince Agamemnon, I heard a tale many years ago, which claimed Atreus’s wife had an affair with her brother-in-law, your uncle, Thyestes. Atreus discovered this and in anger cooked Thyestes’ children and served them to their father as a meal. Is it this act, perhaps, that Thyestes and his youngest surviving son have avenged by killing your father?”

  I watched Agamemnon turn pale, but he stood and answered Adrastos firmly enough. “I have heard this story, though my brother and I are too young to know if it is accurate or even true. I have also heard that Aegisthus was bred by his father solely to destroy Atreus. That may also be true. Sometimes the gods drive men mad. My father never spoke of this to me. I knew him only as a noble, brave man who honoured the gods.”

  Adrastos sat down with the pleased look of a man who has done his duty. There was a shocked silence in the room. I saw Tyndareus examining Agamemnon thoughtfully. I knew he would respect the young man’s poise, even if he loathed Atreus’s actions.

  I heard Leda mutter beside me. “What a monstrous, impious family. Cursed by the gods, indeed.”

  I felt sick. What sort of person cooks children? I looked across at Agamemnon. Frankly, I thought his uncle had good reason to murder the man who’d massacred his family so foully. I supposed the faithless wife must have been Agamemnon’s mother, and wondered, with a shudder, what had happened to her.

  Finally Agamemnon sat down.

  A younger man, Fotis, stood, and my father nodded to him to speak.

  “Prince Agamemnon and Prince Menelaus are our guests,” Fotis began. “Our king has welcomed them, and it is not good to cause them distress. Stories and minstrels’ tales may not always be true. Our best poets take facts and make them elaborate to please an audience. We hope for one of the best of them to perform here tonight. ”

  When he sat down there was a good deal of head-nodding in agreement. I wondered how many believed the story false, and how many simply wanted to forget its horror as soon as they decently could. We were lucky, I suppose, that we had eaten before hearing the tale. I couldn’t have faced a platter of meats straight after tales of butchered children. My tummy felt queasy enough even now.

  It was a relief when Alcman
stood up to perform. Perhaps he, too, had been affected by the earlier tensions in the hall, as he chose to stay away from the more stirring tales in his repertoire. Instead he told the ancient story of Philemon and Baucis. This married couple loved each other so much they wished to die at the same moment, so neither had to grieve for the other. They prayed to the gods to grant them this boon. The gods, pleased with their piety, granted their wish and on their death transformed them into trees. Philemon became an oak and Baucis, a lime. Their boughs intertwined forever as a symbol of their everlasting love.

  It was one of my favourite stories, and I saw my father reach out for Leda’s hand and squeeze it gently. I smiled at his unwarrior-like affection for his wife.

  * * *

  Both foreign princes were seasoned warriors and were accepted as such in the messes. They became an accepted feature of Tyndareus’s court. Agamemnon was true to his word. His sword was there to aid Tyndareus in any mission or battle.

  Sparta as a kingdom was never wholly at peace. What would be the point of that? There were always skirmishes with those peoples to the south and west who didn’t move out of the way quickly, or pay their levies fast enough.

  We were not a trading kingdom. Our wealth was our slaves, our strength was our army and our fortress the ring of mountains that surrounded our lands. Unlike other kingdoms there was no central, fortified palace to protect the royal family. We lived spread out through the land, protected by our geography and our warriors.

  In contrast, as I came to learn, Mycenae’s wealth was based on where it lay at the apex of the trade routes. Ships and traders came there from all quarters of the world with their goods to sell. By charging a small tax on each transaction, Mycenae grew rich. I had noticed the richness of Agamemnon’s clothes when he and Menelaus were received by my father, but it was years before I fathomed just how wealthy that kingdom was. I came to understand that Sparta was unusual amongst the Greek kingdoms. Self-sufficient, but poor in luxury goods and great art, our culture was purely militaristic.

  Slaves were a great asset but didn’t necessarily translate into fine jewels, clothes and buildings, and the number of slaves Sparta owned was a problem in itself. I had heard my father comment that there were eight helots for every Spartan citizen. Slaves, for all their obvious usefulness, caused problems. Our warriors spent much of their time pursuing and disciplining the wayward and rebellious. Castor was immensely proud that he had killed two helots himself as part of his education.

  Leda always treated her house slaves with unusual courtesy and kindness and ensured that Helen and I did the same. I didn’t see why we should; a slave is a slave, after all, and not worth considering.

  When I was seven, a slave stood in my way when I tried to climb over the balustrade high above the entrance to the palace gates.

  “Little lady, you must not do this,” he remonstrated as I put my foot over the railing.

  I was filled with stories of Daedalus and Icarus and was determined to try flying for myself. When his words failed, and I persisted in my folly, the slave reached out and dragged me to safety. I was outraged, picked up a loose stone and threw it at his head, cutting him deeply on the temple.

  Two things made this memorable. The first was, that night I went down with a fever and spent the next six weeks fighting for my life. Consequently I was forgiven my petulant action as it must have been a precursor to the illness. The second, the slave was flogged for grabbing at me.

  I didn’t hear of this until weeks later when I lay recovering on a pallet in my mother’s room. Calliope let it slip while she was feeding me sweet gruel to tempt my appetite.

  “He was old,” she said. “It was nothing special as a flogging, but he died all the same. The physician said his heart gave out.” She reached forward to wipe my chin, but I grabbed her hand.

  “Are you saying the slave died because he warned me?” I asked, outraged.

  Calliope looked startled.

  “No, of course not, little mistress. He was flogged because he laid his hands on a member of Sparta’s Royal Family. He died because his heart was weak, nothing more.”

  She was right, of course, but the guilty feeling remained. Perhaps it was worth noting that Leda’s slaves were loyal, reliable and never caused trouble. I never admitted my childish guilt, but I made a point of not actively abusing slaves from then on.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  BY THE TIME I WAS SIXTEEN, the princes had been with us for four years and had become an integral part of the palace and army. I think my father enjoyed their company. They were older than Castor and I, so he could deal with them as adults while treating them as surrogate sons. They represented a different set of values and culture, and Tyndareus, a wise man in many ways, valued widening his own knowledge and understanding.

  I was old enough by then to know I was going to need a suitable husband in a few years, and was aware of a bond forming with Agamemnon. I saw him as he exercised in the training grounds, and I watched his technique, his power and the naked planes of his body. He was of stocky build, a function of muscle structure rather than weight. It made him a powerful wrestler, and he won several classes at the games.

  Menelaus, lighter and taller, was better at running.

  Agamemnon confessed that the warrior training he’d received as a boy in Mycenae was much less vigorous and harsh than a Spartan’s. If so, it made him no less a warrior as far as I could see.

  Helen had noticed my preoccupation with the prince.

  “So, do you fancy Agamemnon?” she asked me with a grin. “You can’t take your eyes off him.”

  I flushed a little. “Not really,” I shrugged, as if unconcerned. “I just wondered how they train their men in Mycenae.”

  Helen giggled. “You mean they do things differently there?”

  It wasn’t the words, but her tone which made the statement sexually charged.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I said sharply. “You’re too young.”

  She laughed at me and stuck her tongue out. “I’m not that young anymore,” she chuckled.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, Leda had also noticed my interest in Agamemnon.

  “Stop making cow’s eyes at the man,” she said to me sharply. “That’s no way for a respectable girl to behave. Grow up, and stop acting like a trollop. Men will misunderstand if you go on like that. It’s an open invitation for trouble.”

  I bowed my head obediently. Leda was not a woman to cross. Inside I seethed with embarrassed fury. This was a private matter, and I didn’t appreciate anyone else speculating about my feelings.

  Agamemnon’s princely status automatically ensured he had his own troop of men, which was augmented by the refugees from Mycenae who had followed him to Sparta.

  I was too shy to approach him directly, but Agamemnon fell into a friendly way of stopping to talk to me if we passed. Eventually I relaxed and learned to enjoy those casual encounters. He teased me about when I first met them and Menelaus had tried to summon me as a slave.

  “You looked like an angry cat,” he said. “I expected your tail to start twitching, just before you pounced on him for the kill.”

  I was shy, but smiled at him. “I’m not used to strange princes riding into my land.”

  “Well, you looked very able to defend all of Sparta by yourself,” he said, grinning.

  I grinned back.

  He was a handsome man and there was enough humour in his manner to make him appealing.

  Perhaps he, too, was thinking about his future marriage prospects. He was a refugee prince, but if ever he regained his kingdom, he would need a wife, and Sparta, with its formidable army, was a good ally to have.

  The potential for an alliance and for romance was a heady brew. I indulged myself, imagining being Agamemnon’s queen. Of course, he had yet to win the kingdom back, but I thought I would rather like to be queen of Mycenae. My mind was occupied by Mother’s words from yea
rs ago about princesses being forced to marry away from their homes and all they were familiar with. At least Agamemnon wouldn’t be unknown, and I could imagine loving him. My parents’ marriage was my guide. Leda may have come from a culture that required submissiveness in a woman, but she had no difficulty imposing her will and personality on the palace when Tyndareus was away, and she served as his de facto regent in his absence. Loving and supportive of each other all through the years, their relationship survived Tyndareus’s frequent absences in wars or raids.

  * * *

  It was the time of the annual Gymnopaedia, those sacred games dedicated to Apollo, and almost all the students were involved in the events.

  I had entered and won a running race and was to participate in some dance performances. I watched Helen dance, compete in javelin throwing, and then run. She was deceptive. Blonde, pretty and blessed with an apparently sweet, undemanding nature, many wrote her off as too gentle to handle competition or conflict.

  Those who thought so were wrong.

  I watched as she ran, long hair and long legs flying. Helen was the most competitive person I knew. I smiled as I saw her tear down the track of the stadium to a well-deserved win. She was pure ambition, never to be swayed once she had set her heart on a prize.

  A campsite had been set up outside the precincts of the temple. Immediately a market established itself in close proximity, with traders selling everything from wine and stuffed pastries to spare bedding and clothes. A makeshift hospital had been established to cope with those injured in the games, or, more prosaically, those victims of drunken stoushes in the camp itself. For a few days our quiet valley teemed with people.

  Strangers from every level of society and from every kingdom came to join in the competitions and celebrations. At the start of the festival our head tutor gave all the students a speech. I could have summed it up in two words – keep away. Keep away, keep away.