Helen Had a Sister

by Penelope Haines

  Spartan scholars were not to risk their health, reputations and fortunes in the shanty town that followed the games. Of course, we ignored him and made our way into the fascinating market. There were sweetmeats to buy, wandering players to entertain us and exotic goods for sale. How could we stay away? For the majority of us it was the most exciting event of our young lives.

  More important visitors stayed at the palace as guests. That year we hosted Theseus, King of Athens. He was supposed to be a great hero after his exploits defeating the Minotaur in Crete, but he didn’t impress me. He was a short, wiry little man with an opportunist’s face and a lecher’s awareness of women. I was conscious of him among the spectators watching Helen as she competed and gave a shudder of revulsion. He ogled her so freely it was indecent.

  I watched his behaviour that night when he dined in the hall with my parents. He expected a little too much adulation, which sat ill with us Spartans who were accustomed to understating our achievements in case we incited the gods’ jealousy. He was particularly obnoxious in his attentions to Leda who deflected him with grace and charm, although I could tell she was offended.

  When he was introduced to me I felt, as a physical force, his quick assessment of the body beneath my tunic. His oily words only completed my disgust.

  We were all relieved when he elected to leave early.

  No one noticed at first that Helen was missing. Usually her absence would have been noted immediately but the games had meant a relaxation in the strict disciplines and routines of our lives. It was next morning that a slave arrived at the palace from the school with the news that Helen had been missing for the night. Frantic questioning established that she hadn’t been seen since the early afternoon of the previous day. Sparta’s military were put on high alert. A systematic search of the visitors’ campsite was undertaken, the occupants of every tent questioned.

  I was with my distraught parents when a witness was brought in.

  “He claims to be Gyras, from Athens,” stated Fotis, who led the terrified man into the audience room. “He says he was camping besides a tent full of fellow Athenians and heard them talking.”

  Tyndareus stood up and approached the prisoner. “Tell us what you heard.”

  Gyras fell to his knees. “I didn’t know anything was wrong. I haven’t done anything,” he said. “I just came for the games.”

  “Oh, stand up, man, and stop snivelling,” said my father. “We just want to ask you a few questions. What did you hear from the Athenians?”

  Gyras clambered to his feet. “They were talking about their King Theseus.” He stopped abruptly.

  “Go on,” said Tyndareus patiently.

  “They said he had seen this girl, the princess. They said he wants to marry the daughter of a god, because he is himself the son of Poseidon. He and his friend Pirithous have a bet that they can both get gods’ daughters as their wives.” His face was sly when he looked at Leda. “Everyone knows Zeus is the father of the princess Helen.”

  Leda had turned very pale, the knuckles of her hands white where they gripped the arm of her chair.

  Tyndareus erupted. “What a complete load of horse shit. Whichever minstrel thought up that tale needs a dagger across their throat. Helen is my child, and no more divine than any other princess. Are you saying Theseus stole my daughter?”

  Gyras flinched. “I don’t know, but that’s what the men in the camp were talking about. I don’t know anything else, I swear by the gods. I don’t know whether King Theseus would actually steal her. Maybe he wanted to marry her?”

  “Over my dead body, and the dead carcass of every man in the Spartan Army. That pompous, arrogant little bastard from Athens isn’t good enough to wed a poxed whore from Piraeus. How dare he lift his eyes to a daughter of mine?”

  Gyras collapsed back on his knees again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  Tyndareus looked down at him with contempt. “Get this milksop out of here, Fotis, before I kick him to death.”

  “What do you want me to do with him?” asked Fotis cheerfully. “Flog him, spear him, or chuck him into a ravine?”

  At this point an unfortunate wet patch appeared on Gyras’s tunic as he lost control of his bladder.

  “Just throw him out of the palace,” said Tyndareus in disgust. “Get out of Sparta,” he said to the grovelling man. “And don’t ever come back. Do you understand?”

  Gyras nodded his head as Fotis hauled him to his feet.

  “Get a maid to clean the floor,” Tyndareus shouted as Fotis dragged the man away.

  Tyndareus’s tone was gentle as he turned to his wife. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Leda bowed her head. “I had heard that tale, but I didn’t actually think anyone believed it. I am sorry, my lord, for bringing such shame on you.” Her eyes were wet, but she kept herself from crying.

  Tyndareus knelt beside her and took hold of her hands. “Dear heart, you and I know who fathered our children, and we both enjoyed doing it very much.” This drew a wan smile from my mother and an embarrassed squirm from me. If I hadn’t been so worried about Helen I would have willed myself anywhere but here with my parents. Their tender affection mortified me.

  “Don’t waste your time on that nonsense, as I certainly won’t.” He kissed her hands and stood up. “Now we need to arrange for the return of our daughter. The sooner our troops are after that bastard Theseus, the sooner we will get Helen home.”

  He strode towards the door. “Fotis!”

  “Father,” I said.

  He stopped and turned.

  “Please let me go on this mission. Helen’s my sister.”

  He looked at me for a minute.

  “Please. You know I am good in a fight, and I’ll have my bow and my javelins with me.”

  He nodded curtly, “Get your things,” and strode out of the room.

  I turned to Leda, who was now in open tears. I felt a moment of contempt. No proper Spartan woman should give way to crying.

  “It will be all right, Mother. We’ll get Helen back,” I said awkwardly.

  “But now I have to worry about you as well,” she said softly. “Take care, Nestra, and come home safely.”

  I allowed her to hold me briefly in a damp embrace before I escaped to pack my kit.

  * * *

  The men assembled were chosen for their ability to move at speed. Theseus had a full day’s lead on us, so every soldier and his charioteer would be involved in the race to catch up with them.

  I stood uncertainly as the men paired up. I was trained as a Spartan warrior, and well able to carry my share of the fighting, but these men had lived together in barracks since they were seven. They were partners, some even lovers, of long standing and weren’t about to yield that place to a girl, princess or no. I saw Castor glance my way and avert his gaze. Pollux was with another boy from his year. I felt a slow flush of shame start to burn as I wondered what to do.

  A chariot pulled up beside me. “Do you want a ride?” Agamemnon enquired.

  I nodded my thanks and scrambled up beside him, my relief and embarrassment making me uncharacteristically clumsy.

  “Hold on,” he said cheerfully. “This is going to be a wild ride.”

  We galloped the miles, following the easy line of the road as it ran out of our valley and turned up along the coastline. The mile markers flashed by. Looking eastward, I could see the far-distant sea. I realised I had never been this far from home before.

  I gripped the edge of the chariot and spread my legs to hold my balance. I was very aware of Agamemnon standing close beside me. He was concentrating on driving, so there was no conversation, but I watched the muscles move beneath the tanned skin of his arms. The dark hair on his forearm fascinated me. I wanted to put my hand out and touch it. Occasionally the sway of the chariot would bring our bodies into contact. Once he turned to me, the excitement of the chase clear in his grin.

  I focused on him to
distract me from thoughts of what might be happening to Helen. True, she was warrior trained, tough and courageous. She was also twelve years old and alone in the hands of a man who already had a dubious reputation with women. I shuddered, and returned to studying Agamemnon.

  We reached Troizen two days later.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  TROIZEN AND ATHENS LIE, OF COURSE, in opposite directions. We had assumed Theseus would take Helen directly to his capital, but at Argos we lost the trail. We waited at the crossroads for the scouts to return. They had gone north to Corinth but came back with no news of Theseus. The horses were tethered so we got down and stretched our legs.

  I was aware of Agamemnon striking a ragwort that had dared grow at the base of the mile marker. He was staring up the road towards Mycenae. A palpable air of rage and frustration emanated from him. He threw his whip down and took a few steps up the road. I had lived around men in barracks long enough to know when not to talk, so I sat down on the abused milestone and picked the seeds off a stem of grass while we waited. Even among the various sounds of the war party, I could hear the harshness of his breathing.

  “Moody bugger, isn’t he.” The charioteer on my right jerked his chin at Agamemnon’s back. “Happy as a cricket one moment, then something sets him off. Don’t let it worry you.”

  I sighed. “I won’t. I suppose he misses Mycenae.”

  The charioteer grunted. “What he misses is common sense. We’re not going to Mycenae today. Why waste your time pining over it?” He went off to rub his horses down. I smiled a little at his practical attitude. He was perfect warrior material.

  Across the road was a wayside shrine to Artemis. I went and stood in front of it and offered prayers for the safe return of my sister. I promised the goddess a magnificent offering if Helen and I returned to Sparta safely. I believed Artemis to be my special protector, so I prayed with all the intensity a young woman could muster. There was no answer, but I took comfort in the words and ritual.

  Eventually, after losing half a day casting round in other directions, one of the scouts picked up the trail, this time heading south-east.

  We started in pursuit again but were warier. Eventually we came down the coastline and here had some luck. We stopped at a wayside inn, and one of the scouts learnt Theseus’s mother lived in Troizen on a small property, set back in a valley away from the coast. The innkeeper, for a fee, described the layout of the farm and gave us clear directions to her estate.

  We gathered some miles further on to plan the raid. There were older, more seasoned warriors, but this mission belonged to Castor. His sister had been abducted, and it was his responsibility to get her back. I felt the same weight, but no Spartan would allow a woman to lead a war band.

  There was only an hour of daylight left as we gathered in the olive grove to the north of the farm. Lights were already burning in the house. Scouts checked the stables and farm buildings, but there was no evidence Theseus was in residence, although there were fresh horse droppings in the muck heap, as if several animals had been stabled overnight.

  I gripped my javelins firmly. Agamemnon was somewhere on my right, beside Menelaus and my brothers. When the scouts gave the all-clear, Castor raised his arm and indicated we were to move forward. We crossed the open area between the trees and the house without being challenged. Castor and Pollux ran to the door, put their shoulders against it and burst into the house.

  Too late the occupants realised they were under attack. Castor cut down a couple of men who tried to oppose him, but there was little resistance. These were farmhands, not warriors. A terrified housekeeper was hauled out from where she had taken shelter behind a door.

  “Where is Theseus?” demanded Castor.

  “He’s not here,” the old woman whimpered. “He left this morning with his men.”

  “What about my sister?”

  “The girl? She’s upstairs with Aethra.”

  “When will Theseus return?”

  “I don’t know. He went with his friend Pirithous.”

  Castor gave a grunt of exasperation and ran her through before shoving her aside. Her body collapsed to the floor. I had to jump over it as I followed him up the stairs. Others were there before him and had pushed open the door.

  Helen was chained to a bed frame on the far side of the room. Beside her, two other women, obviously noble, frozen in the act of eating.

  “Which one of you is Aethra?” Castor asked.

  The older woman rose to her feet. “I am.” She stood proud and tall, a princess in her own palace. “Who are you, and why do you invade my home?” She addressed me, I presume as the only woman present.

  I ignored her and turned to the other woman. “Who are you?”

  The girl wasn’t much older than me, pretty in a pale, indoorsy way. Now she was shaking like a leaf. “I am Phisaides,” she replied.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “So, why are you here?”

  “My brother is Pirithous, friend of Theseus. He brought me to help guard the capt-.” She broke off suddenly as she realised who she was talking to. “I mean, to keep Princess Helen company.”

  I stalked passed her to Helen. She gave me a small grin, and I hugged her.

  “Remove those chains from my sister,” shouted Castor.

  I examined Helen. There were bruises on her wrists and on her cheek. Her knees were grazed and her fingernails torn. I gave her a grim smile. “I take it you didn’t go quietly?”

  She smiled back, a little wavering smile. “They grabbed me before I realised what was happening. I fought with all I had, but I was unarmed.”

  Pollux came forwards with a hammer and chisel and worked his way through the links to free her. I helped her stand and hugged her to me, almost giddy with relief.

  We drove the captive women before us down the stairs and into the kitchen. Others of our troop had arrived after checking the outbuildings. I saw Agamemnon among them and was pleased he was unscathed, although there had been little enough danger in our raid. The bodies of the dead servants had already been dragged out to the midden, leaving streaks of blood across the tiled floor.

  “What are you going to do with the women?” Agamemnon asked my brother.

  “I am going to do to them exactly what they planned to do with my sister,” was the curt reply. Castor gestured to Pollux. “Put the chains on both of them.”

  He turned and faced Aethra. “Your son took my sister for his own pleasure. Now you will serve her, as a slave, for the rest of your life.”

  For the first time I saw Aethra rattled. “But Theseus never hurt her,” she exclaimed. “He wanted to wed her but was prepared to wait until she was old enough. She is a maiden still.”

  I had heard enough. “Do you see the bruises on my sister?” I asked. “Do you see the cuts, grazes and scratches? Did you put the chain round her to bind her to your will?”

  Aethra made a sort of choking noise. “But you can’t make me a slave,” she wailed.

  I ignored her. “You will serve her, and serve her well, as my brother has decreed. If you or Phisaides ever fail in your duty, then you will die as slaves in a foreign land.”

  I felt a warm pair of hands on my shoulder and, turning my head, saw it was Agamemnon.

  “I told you you could defend Sparta all on your own, little cat,” he whispered softly so only I could hear.

  Aethra’s actions had raised such anger in me I was hard put to contain it. I struggled to control my breathing before I could turn and smile back at Agamemnon. “Always beware of a cat,” I teased.

  “For some they are good luck.” His fingers gripped tighter before he released me.

  We feasted that evening on the food meant for Aethra and her household. Pollux had discovered the wine store, and it was a happy, raucous group of Spartans who sat round the brazier in the courtyard.

  Castor called to Aethra. “Woman. More wine for my cup, then serve the men.”

&nb
sp; “I am not a slave,” she said stubbornly. “I am the daughter of a king. You can’t make me a slave.”

  Castor’s eyes narrowed. “Pour the wine.” He spoke slowly, as to one who has difficulty understanding. I recognised the menace in his tone.

  Aethra stood her ground. “If you hadn’t slaughtered my servants, they could have waited on you. Let their corpses serve you, not I.” She was all queenly attitude and disdain.

  Castor leapt to his feet, crossed the distance between them in one stride and hit her so hard across the face that she flew several feet before sprawling on the ground.

  “Pour the wine,” he growled.

  I watched Aethra very slowly stagger to her feet and stand, swaying. Her lip was split, her nose at a strange angle and a trickle of blood ran from it, pooling in the crease at the side of her mouth. Very slowly she gathered herself together.

  “Pour!” demanded Castor again.

  Aethra would have been much of an age as our own mother Leda. I forced the thought away.

  The fight had gone out of her. With a choked sob she lifted the amphora and poured Castor his cup full then turned to Agamemnon.

  Beside me Pollux snorted, “Stupid cow. She’ll find it much easier if she just gets on with it.”

  I turned my head and looked at Phisaides, already pouring wine like a dutiful slave. The drink had got to the men, and she was fending off groping hands with every sign of distress. As a Greek princess she would have been as gently reared as Helen and I. More gently in fact, for no one would have taught her to fight or kill. There would be a difficult night ahead for her, I guessed.

  I looked back at Aethra, now serving our warriors, but crying silently as she bent beside each one to refill their cup.

  We had been taught that pity is a weakness we could not afford. I was strong, I reminded myself. I was a Spartan princess. I was not weak. I summoned the image of Helen in chains and hardened my heart.