Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  “Ooh, don’t you have such lovely hair, Mistress Helen,” she sighed. “I think your mother must have been visited by Zeus himself to birth a child with such fire in her.”

  There was a sudden movement to Helen’s left, then a thwack and a sharp yelp behind her. Helen spun around. Melissa was reeling on the floor, holding her head, fear and confusion in her wide eyes. Helen looked up to see her mother standing over the slave, shaking as she massaged her hand. Her expression was strange. Somewhere between rage and pain.

  “Get out.” Her mother’s voice was low and hoarse. “Both of you. Get out.”

  Helen was terrified. She’d never seen her mother like this before. She was on her feet and running from the hall before the slave even had time to get up. She never saw Melissa again.

  * * *

  That night, Helen lay awake in bed. She had replayed what had happened in the Hearth Hall over and over in her head, trying to make sense of it. All she could think was that it must have had something to do with her hair. That was what had upset her mother. When Melissa said how lovely her hair was.

  Maybe Mother was jealous, thought Helen. It made sense. Queen Leda was famous for her beauty, but her hair was nothing special. It was dark as pitch, like Father’s, like her brothers’, like Nestra’s. Like most of the palace. But Helen’s hair . . . it shone. Like fire. Like gold. Everybody always said so. It was special, a gift from the gods. Like Melissa had said, just before . . . Yes. It made sense. Her mother was jealous. Maybe Helen could try covering her hair. Maybe then her mother would love her like she loved Nestra and the twins. But why should she have to hide herself? The thought of it made her suddenly angry. Why should she have to barter for her mother’s love, when her siblings got it for free? She couldn’t help it if she was the most beautiful.

  Something else was playing on Helen’s mind, too. Her father was going to war. The thought made her stomach feel like it was filled with lead. She wondered whether Nestra knew. I should tell her, she thought. Her sister should know. Besides, she didn’t want to think about it alone.

  “Nestra?” she called quietly into the darkness. Her sister’s bed was only a few feet away. “Nestra, are you awake?”

  “Yes,” her sister whispered back.

  “I found out something today. Something bad.” Helen paused. “Father’s going to war.”

  “I know,” said Nestra.

  “You do?” asked Helen, sitting up.

  “They’ve been making preparations for weeks, haven’t you noticed?”

  Helen was a little irritated. For once she thought she had known more than her sister.

  “Mother’s making Father a purple cloak,” she offered, though she knew it was hardly prime intelligence. She just wanted to show she knew something Nestra didn’t.

  “Hmm,” was all her sister said in reply. “I asked Thekla and she confirmed it. But she said he shouldn’t be away for more than a few months.”

  “Aren’t you worried for him?” Helen asked.

  “Of course I am. But he’s strong, and clever. He’s been to war before. A good king always helps his friends.” Her voice sounded like it was wavering slightly, though. She carried on. “Thekla . . . Thekla said that if the war goes well, if the men prove themselves, then he might start looking for suitors. I’ve already started my bleeding, but she says Father won’t want me married straight away. He needs to find the right man, to make sure Sparta is strong.”

  Helen was silent for a minute. Too many things were changing. Father going to war. Nestra getting married. Everyone was going to leave her. She wished her mother were leaving instead of Father . . . No, that was a horrible thing to think. She loved her mother. And Nestra wouldn’t really be leaving. She’d still be here. She was the heiress of Sparta, so her husband would have to come and live here with her until they became the new king and queen. It was she, Helen, who would have to leave. That was what she really feared, she realized. Once Nestra was married, her own wedding would soon follow. And then she really would be alone.

  “Who do you think you’ll marry?” Helen asked at last, lying back down.

  “Well . . . whoever gives the greatest gifts, I suppose. Or the best warrior. Father will decide who is the man most worthy to rule.”

  “Yes, but who do you want to marry?” pressed Helen. “What do you think your husband will be like? You must have thought about it.”

  It was a few seconds before Klytemnestra answered. “Someone kind, I hope. And wise. And a good father.”

  “I hope my husband is handsome,” said Helen, imagining what he might look like. Would his eyes be dark, or green like hers? “Tall, and good at running and riding and wrestling. And nice, of course. He has to be nice to me.”

  “Gods willing, we will both get good husbands. And lots of strong, healthy children,” said her sister.

  “Yes,” Helen agreed. She did want to get married. She wanted to become a woman. She wanted to run her own household and be consort to a powerful man. But she didn’t want to leave her home.

  “I’m scared, Nestra,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to go and live somewhere else.”

  “You might not have to,” came her sister’s voice from the darkness. “Father may get you a husband who’ll come and live here with us. Then we can be one big family, and raise our children here together. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  Helen didn’t respond. It was true, her father might do that. But she knew he would have to do whatever was best for Sparta. And so would she.

  In the absence of a reply from Helen, her sister continued, “Don’t worry about the future, Helen. You never know what will happen. We’ll be all right, though. Father will make sure of it. Everything will be fine.”

  That’s easy for you to say, thought Helen as she fell into an uneasy sleep. You’re the heiress.

  CHAPTER 3

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  THREE YEARS LATER

  Father was coming home. He’d sent his herald ahead to announce the army’s arrival into Lakonia, and he was due in Sparta this very afternoon. Klytemnestra was feeling like she could finally start to relax. Her father was safe, and uninjured. The campaign had been a success, so the herald said, just like the one before it, and the one before that. And yet every time her father left Klytemnestra’s stomach knotted itself like a ball, becoming tighter and tighter as the weeks passed. Every time he left she knew that he might not return. It was a thought she couldn’t push from her mind. What would she do without him? What would Sparta do? Her mother had been making sacrifices to the gods all summer, asking for the king’s safe return. It seemed the gods had listened, finally.

  A huge feast was being prepared in the palace, to welcome the warriors home. The smell of roasting meat had reached the Hearth Hall, where Klytemnestra sat with her mother and sister, waiting. Kastor and Pollux were there too, playing dice at a table in the corner. Father had decided they were too young to join him on campaign, being only eighteen, and had left them to defend the palace instead.

  Though Klytemnestra had been worried for her father as the length of the war grew, she had also felt guiltily grateful. The longer he was at war, the longer her marriage would be delayed. It wasn’t that she was afraid to marry, but she knew that everything would change once she did. She and Helen would no longer be able to spend all their days together, and her freedom to wander outdoors would be even more restricted than it was now. Her mother barely ever left the palace. And there were other things that came with marriage, too . . . things she was not sure she was ready for. When the time came, though, she would do everything required of her. She was determined to be the best wife there ever was, to win praise for her loyalty, her prudence, her chastity, her obedience, and, gods willing, her many strong children.

  There were times she felt frustrated to have been born a girl. She wanted freedom. She wanted authority. She wanted to do something
other than work wool all day. To ride and hunt and travel and debate, as she saw her brothers do. To compete and win prizes, to compose songs and not just dance to them, to speak and really be heard. But each time she felt those frustrations rising, she pushed them down. She had to make her peace with that which could not be changed. So she bit her lip, worked hard at her weaving, nodded obediently, and smiled prettily. If the gods had willed that she be a woman, she would be the very best woman she could be.

  And that time was fast approaching. She was of marriageable age now and, being the heiress of Sparta, she would not have escaped the notice of Greece’s bachelors. She was a valuable prize and there would be many nobles wanting to win her. Soon she would fulfill the purpose she had been preparing for since she was old enough to hold the spindle, the purpose her father and her mother and Thekla had been preparing her for: to secure her house and her father’s line, to secure Sparta’s future. It was a heavy prospect and yet, despite herself, the thought of it brought a flutter of excitement to her chest.

  There was a noise from the far end of the hall. A moving of feet on stone, the deep creaking of the great wooden doors. Klytemnestra gripped her spindle tightly as her father’s herald appeared between them. He took a deep breath and addressed the hall.

  “Lord Tyndareos, King of Sparta, has arrived.”

  * * *

  The feast had been going on for a couple of hours, during which the Hearth Hall had echoed with laughter, song, and tales of valor. The noblest of the warriors were feasting there, along with the king and his family, while the rest of the men and the palace household were getting their fill outside in the courtyard. It was a warm summer evening, and the afterglow of the setting sun still hung in the sky. The meat was finished now, but the wine still flowed. Klytemnestra had even been allowed a cup and sipped it carefully, breathing in the sweet, herbal fragrance. Her sister was sitting beside her, giggling as one of the palace dogs licked meat-fat from her fingers.

  Klytemnestra scanned the room, her thoughts still occupied with one subject above all others. Could one of these men be my future husband? They were all proven warriors, and wealthy. Perhaps Father would choose a suitor from within Lakonia, one who had impressed him on campaign. She studied each of the faces illuminated by the hearth fire, some lined and weary, some bright and expressive, and wondered whether she was looking upon the face of her future.

  Her thoughts were disturbed by a hand on her shoulder. She jumped slightly, and looked up to see her father standing beside her.

  “Klytemnestra.” He said her name with unusual gravity. “I must speak with you.”

  Her heart began to race. This is it, she thought. She tried not to let her agitation show, rising calmly from her chair and smoothing her skirts before following him from the hall.

  He led her out through the revelry of the courtyard and into the quiet of the corridor that led to her own chamber. And there he stopped. There was no one to be seen; everyone was at the feast.

  “That should be far enough,” her father said. “I just thought we should have a little privacy. I won’t keep you from the feast for long.” His face looked strange, almost nervous. It wasn’t an expression she was used to seeing there.

  “What is it, Father?” she asked, as if she had no idea.

  “You are betrothed, my daughter.”

  He has chosen, then. She took a breath, a little disappointed that he had not asked her opinion of the suitors. But perhaps it had been too much to hope for. Her father was wise and prudent; she had to trust that he had chosen the best man.

  “To whom?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. She felt as though he must be able to see her heart thumping through her dress.

  “To Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, as he has just become.” His voice sounded tight, and he seemed to be avoiding her gaze.

  “A king?” she said, confused. “Why would a king want to marry me? He already has a kingdom. Why give up one for another?” There was a bad feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.

  “I’m sorry, Nestra,” he said very quietly. He was still refusing to look at her.

  “Father?” she said, her voice cracking slightly. She was becoming afraid.

  “I’m sorry, my child. It was necessary.” He looked tired, and sad. He raised his hand to his face, shielding it from her view. “You will marry King Agamemnon and go to Mycenae to be his queen. It has been arranged. As soon as his kingdom is in order he will come for you. I . . . I hope you will be happy.”

  “But Father . . . I am the heiress. I’m supposed to stay here. To be Queen of Sparta.” She tried to take his hand in hers, but he pulled it away. “Why? Why have you done this?” Tears were welling in her eyes. She could barely talk for the sobs in her throat. “Am I not good enough? I have always . . . I have tried to show you that I am worthy. Please, Father, please. Don’t send me away.” She sank to her knees and took the hem of his mantle in her fists, sobbing against the pillar of his leg. “Please, Father.”

  He stood stiffly, but placed a light hand on the top of her head.

  “It has been decided,” he said. “Your sister . . .” he began, but stopped.

  “Helen?” Klytemnestra looked up, suddenly angry. “You’ve chosen Helen over me? Is that why you’re sending me away?” He said nothing. “She’s a fool. Just a beautiful fool. And you’re a fool if you think she’ll be a better queen.”

  “Enough,” snapped her father, and with that she knew she had gone too far. He took his hand off her head and wrenched his mantle from her fingers. “I have told you your duty. Now honor your father and obey.”

  She looked up at him, speechless, and his eyes finally met hers. They were set hard, and yet she saw an apology in them too. If he was sorry, then why do it? Why punish her when she had only ever strived to be the daughter he wanted her to be—the daughter Sparta needed her to be?

  “We all must do things we would rather not.” He sighed, his eyes softening a little. “Now, you may calm down and come back to the feast or go to bed. Whatever pleases you.”

  And with that he walked away from her, back toward the noise of the courtyard. She was left kneeling on the hard floor, her chest heaving with angry sobs. Once she had regained enough control to stand, she made her way to the chamber she and Helen shared.

  She lay on her bed, fully clothed, the smoke of the Hearth Hall still in her nose, her father’s words ringing in her head. Everything had changed. Her whole life, the life she had imagined for herself, was gone. She would not raise her children in these halls. She would not care for her parents as they grew old. She would have to leave behind everyone she had ever known. And the landscape too, the hills, the river, the trees—the boundary markers of her world. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. It was a bitter realization to learn that despite all her efforts, despite all the times she had held her tongue, all the limits she had accepted, all the desires she had quashed, she could not even hold on to the future she had submitted to. Not even that was hers.

  Tears were running into her ears. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her dress and turned over onto her side. There across the chamber stood Helen’s empty bed. She imagined her sister still sat in the Hearth Hall, as carefree as she always was, laughing in her pretty little voice. In that moment she hated Helen for getting to keep the things she would lose. And yet she knew that it wasn’t fair to hate her. One of them was always going to have to leave. She had just never imagined it would be her.

  * * *

  Klytemnestra lay there for some time, her sobs coming and going. They ebbed as she calmed herself, telling herself there was no use in tears, but then they would come anew when she thought of leaving her home, of the people she would never see again, of being alone in a foreign land with a husband whose nature she did not know.

  Eventually, she was able to master herself. Tears would not help her, but that did not mean
there was nothing to be done. She would not give up her birthright so easily. She would go and entreat her mother. She was sure she would disapprove of Father’s decision. Her mother had raised Klytemnestra to be queen since she was a small child and had talked about how they would one day raise her own children together, here in the palace. Her mother would support her. She would talk to Father, make him see sense. This was not the end. Betrothals could be undone.

  Mother is probably in her chamber right now, she thought. She never stayed late at feasts, often retiring to bed as soon as etiquette allowed. Klytemnestra knew she must go to her now, while she was alone. The sooner the better. Agamemnon might come to collect her at any time.

  She got out of bed and left her chamber. She could still hear sounds of revelry from the heart of the palace, but the corridor was quiet. Her parents’ chamber was not far from her own. She walked down the corridor a little way before turning into another one. Halfway down it she could see a slither of light on the floor of the otherwise gloomy passage, leaking from beneath the door of her parents’ chamber. She was right; her mother was there. Klytemnestra’s heart fluttered with hope, and she headed toward the light.

  As she drew near, however, she heard voices. Raised voices. One was her mother’s, and sounded angry. The other voice belonged to her father.

  Klytemnestra stopped. If her parents were arguing this was not the right time to speak to them about her marriage. And if they caught her out here, they’d think she was eavesdropping. She silently turned around and started back the way she had come.

  But then she heard her name. They were talking about her. She stopped again. She knew she should go back to her chamber, but if their argument concerned her, she had a right to know, didn’t she? And if they were arguing about her betrothal . . . The temptation was too strong. She crept back toward the light.