“Nonetheless, that is how it will seem,” said Odysseus gravely. “Not only will they be angry with you and with Sparta, but there is a danger that one of them may take matters into his own hands, and simply take by force the prize he has been denied. Such is the risk when men’s desire has been so skillfully enflamed, and their pride so sorely wounded.” Helen could not resist turning her head, looking for reassurance from her father and her mother. Would they really try to steal her? The thought of that brute Ajax carrying her off made her shudder.
“I have seen the danger for myself, but what is there to be done?” asked her father, his voice strained. “I can see no way—”
“There is a way, Lord Tyndareos. A way to guard against any violence or theft,” Odysseus replied. Helen saw a slight smile creep into the corners of his mouth as he finally revealed his cunning. “You must make the suitors swear an oath. Before you announce the victor, make them swear to almighty Zeus, scourge of oath-breakers, that they will accept your decision with goodwill, and do no violence against you, nor Helen, nor the victorious suitor. Moreover, make them swear that if any man does take your daughter by force, that they will aid her true husband in retrieving her. They will swear any oath you ask of them, if it is a requirement for being considered as a suitor. But you must strike while the bronze is hot, while the suitors are still so enraptured by the idea of Helen that they have fooled themselves into thinking they have a chance. Do it tomorrow, at dawn. Then hold one final day of contests, to maintain the illusion that the decision has not yet been made, and by dusk you will be free to announce Menelaos as the victor.”
His plan laid out, Odysseus smiled with satisfaction. As an afterthought he added, “I would also suggest that you return all the suitors’ gifts back to them, once you have made the announcement—to ease the bitterness of defeat. All but Agamemnon’s, of course. You’ll be deprived of a small fortune, yes, and no doubt the princess will be sad to see the fine clothes and jewelry go”—his eyes flicked to Helen’s and away again—“but a war would be dearer by far.”
His piece said, Odysseus fell silent. Her father, too, was silent for a while. Helen watched as the lines of his face deepened, his sharp eyes distant as he sat in thought. At length he said, “You are a clever man, Odysseus, son of Laertes, and I judge your counsel to be sound. I will do as you say, for I can find no better solution myself. Let us hope that it goes as smoothly as you predict.” He sighed deeply, as if expelling the cares of several weeks with one breath. “I thank you for your advice, but I do not think it was given out of charity. You mentioned before that you hoped to win a bride, but you must know that I have no more daughters.”
“Indeed I do know. It was rather your niece that I had in mind. Your brother Ikarios has a daughter who will soon be of age to marry, does he not? She may not come with a kingdom, but I already have one of those. All I require is a dutiful wife and sons to fill my halls.”
“Yes, Penelope. A sweet girl,” said her father. Helen remembered her cousin from when they had played together as children. Penelope had lived in the palace for a time, but she hadn’t seen her for several years. “I will speak with my brother on the matter, as thanks for your service tonight.”
“That is all I ask,” said Odysseus, with a humble bow. “And now I think I will return to my tent. Good night to you all.”
Once Odysseus had left Helen got up from the floor, her knees sore from the hard stone. As she was removing the shawl she heard her mother’s voice, quiet but angry. “If you were going to choose Menelaos all along, why did you bother gathering us all here and asking our opinions? Just another sham, to make us feel like we had a say? Is that what it was?”
“No, it wasn’t like that, Leda,” sighed her father. He sounded tired. “I still thought we might have a choice . . . I wanted to at least talk about it with you. All of you,” he said, looking around at each of them. “But Odysseus is right. We must choose Menelaos. And gods willing, his plan will succeed and all will come out well.” He turned to Helen. “This is what you wanted anyway, isn’t it, my child?” he said with a kind but halfhearted smile. “You said you wanted to be Nestra’s sister-in-law, and you will be. I know Menelaos. He is a good man and a fine warrior. He will make you happy, I’m sure.”
Helen returned her father’s smile, though inside she was a little afraid. It had been all right when they were talking about it before, exciting even, thinking who her husband might be. But now that it was decided it felt so much more real, so much closer. Soon she would be marrying Menelaos, a man she had never seen, let alone met, and whom she knew scarce little about. She felt like an autumn leaf, plucked from its tree by the snatching wind and dropped into the racing river below. All she could do now was to stay afloat as that ceaseless current bore her toward her future.
* * *
The next morning, in the mist of the dawn, the suitors were gathered and the oath sworn by all. Odysseus had been right; none objected. And he himself swore along with the rest. Libations were poured, and a spotless white stallion sacrificed. A ram would have done, but Father wanted to make clear the gravity of the vow. Helen knew the horse from the royal stables. It was a magnificent beast, towering over the men as it was led, calm and unsuspecting, to the altar. Helen had to look away as her father slit its throat.
There were contests as Odysseus had suggested, with a chariot race to end the day. And then, when the sun hung low in the sky, her father announced Menelaos, son of Atreus, prince of Mycenae, as the man he had chosen to wed his daughter. And so it was done. Without protest or violence, Helen had finally been won.
CHAPTER 10
HELEN
Menelaos arrived in Sparta at dusk, a month after their betrothal had been decided. A great feast was prepared so that Sparta’s new heir could meet and drink with Helen’s father and brothers, and with the other noblemen of Lakonia. Helen, too, was present at the feast as custom demanded, though she felt more like an elaborate decoration than a guest. Father had insisted she be covered with a veil so thick that she could not see through it—not even the light of the hearth fire. It was such a strange and frustrating experience to hear the feast going on about her, to know that her husband-to-be was so close by, and yet to be unable to see anything. Her father only allowed the veil to be lifted so that Alkippe could give Helen sips of wine and morsels of food, and even then it was not lifted high enough nor long enough for her to get a view of the man to whom she would soon be bound. Though she usually enjoyed the food and music and frivolity of such occasions, it was a relief when after an hour or so she was led back to her chamber, where she could throw off the hateful veil and breathe the unstifled air.
The next day brought a long afternoon of anticipation as she awaited the wedding procession that would take her from her father’s palace to her new home a little farther along the river, which had been built to house her and her new husband until such time as he replaced her father as King of Sparta. When her handmaids finally came to prepare her in the early evening, Helen was pleased to see the much finer veil in Alkippe’s hands, like a glimmering net of gold. Now at last she would be able to look upon her betrothed, she thought with satisfaction. And yet once she was dressed, with the shining veil laid like filigree over the copper of her hair, and led through the palace to join the procession outside, her heart sank when she learned that Menelaos had already taken up his position at the head. She asked her mother which horse was his, and tried to make out his features in the evening light, but almost as soon as her eyes had found him her father was taking her hand to lead her to the bridal chariot. She mounted it alone, the gleaming centerpiece of the whole procession, and though she felt the eyes of Sparta upon her, as the chariot began to move, she looked ahead through the crowd and the darkness and the smoke to that golden helmet glinting in the torchlight.
When they arrived, Helen was told to wait in the marriage chamber. She wasn’t alone, of course. Her two handmaids
and her old nurse, Thekla, had accompanied her so that they could perform their duties. They undressed her from the bridal outfit she had worn on the short journey from the Old Palace to this new building. The earthy smell of ocher hung in the still air of the chamber from walls freshly painted only days before.
The women proceeded to bathe Helen, scrubbing at every inch of her skin with pieces of coarse cloth until it felt raw and tingling. When she made a noise of complaint her nurse said, “Hush, we need to wash the child from you.”
Once she was dry they stood her up and set to work on their next task: massaging scented oil into her skin. It made her smell of flowers and sage, and gave her white skin a pearly sheen. Finally the women brought over a small bowl filled with strongly scented rose water. Helen couldn’t see that she needed more perfuming; she already smelled sweeter than she ever had in her life. But as Thekla dipped a single finger into the fragrant water, she was relieved to see that she was not about to be dowsed. Instead, with delicacy and precision, the nurse dabbed the scent onto the pale pink of Helen’s nipples. Helen was a little taken aback, but she did not let it show. She was a woman now, and this was obviously how women were prepared. And when Thekla asked her to lie back on the bed, so that she could put some of the rose water between her legs, Helen obeyed without protest. When she arose, though, there was a sense that something had changed, that parts of her body had been elevated to a level of importance they had never held before.
Her shining skin exposed to the evening air, Helen began to shiver, and was grateful when the women helped her back into the bridal dress. It was simple in style but richly dyed with saffron, with a smell that contributed to the intoxicating cloud of scents that already hung about her. They replaced the fine veil too, but left her hair unbraided, her wrists, throat, and ears unadorned. The time for display had passed; now it was down to her to impress her husband.
Adraste left the room now, no doubt to relay that the preparations had been completed.
Thekla spoke softly in Helen’s ear. “Now we are done, your husband will come to you. He will no doubt lie with you as is proper for a husband to lie with his wife. Do not be afraid. I shall be just outside the door. It may hurt when he puts it in you, but you must let him do what he will. Indeed, what he must. It will go better for you if you receive him willingly. Try to please him, Helen. Gods willing, you shall have a blessed life together.”
Helen did not understand all that the nurse had said to her, but she gave a stiff nod nonetheless, and returned the woman’s kind smile. Thekla shuffled to the corner of the room to wait with Alkippe so that Helen was left standing alone in front of the bed, her eyes fixed on the door. Now that she was here, in her bridal chamber, she realized that she didn’t really know what to expect. All her thoughts had been spent picturing what her husband would look like, what she would wear for the procession, what their bridal gifts would be. This part of the wedding had remained a vague blank in her imagination, and it was no clearer now. She wished that she had asked more questions when she had had the chance.
Minutes passed, with no sounds beyond the door, no sound in the room except Helen’s shallow breathing and Thekla’s restless shuffling. Helen perched herself on the edge of the bed and waited.
A noise. Footsteps in the corridor. Voices. Male voices. Helen quickly rose to her feet and stood as straight as she could, arms by her sides, chin slightly raised. She felt frozen solid as she waited for the door to open. It was only as she heard the bar being lifted that she realized she had been locked in.
The door opened, and in stepped two men. One was fair-haired and of a good height, the other dark and slightly shorter. Helen knew the fair-haired one as her husband from the glimpses she had caught during the procession. He was wearing a fine red tunic and sturdy boots, but had removed the gleaming armor he had been wearing earlier. She couldn’t help but be a little disappointed, now that she saw him up close. Even through the haze of the veil she could see that he had a large scar over his right eyebrow, which marred his face with its dark streak. And there was a crookedness to his nose, as if it had been broken more than once. His hair was light in color and not unattractive, but his beard was more mottled and had a dirty look about it. Some of the men at the tournament had been much more handsome.
Helen tried not to be disheartened, though. She had been promised a warrior and a warrior was what she had gotten. Though he was a little rough-looking, he seemed strong and healthy. Her mother had always said that was what was most important, in husbands and sons.
Helen realized she had been holding her breath, and carefully let it go. Menelaos had given her a quick glance when he came in, but was now muttering something to the dark-haired man. The pair seemed to agree on something, then faced the room again. Menelaos gave a curt nod to Thekla and Alkippe, and they scuttled out, the nurse giving Helen one last look of reassurance before she left.
The dark-haired man closed the door behind them, but stayed in the room.
“This is Deipyros, my companion,” said Menelaos, waving a hand toward the dark-haired man. His voice was low and gruff. Helen was expecting him to carry on and explain why the other man was there, but he didn’t.
“I am Menelaos, son of Atreus, your bridegroom. I am come to conclude the marriage rites.”
He spoke as if addressing an audience, though she stood alone. He was older than Helen by ten years or more, and had a firm, steady bearing, and yet she thought she sensed an uncertainty in his stride as he crossed the room to stand in front of her.
With no more words he raised his hands and removed the veil from Helen’s head. Their eyes only met for a fleeting moment, however, before he began to slide the saffron dress from her shoulders. His callused fingers felt rough against her skin. She was used to being touched and handled, dressed, undressed, and bathed by her serving women, but this was entirely different. These were the hands of a man, and a strange man at that. She had to stop herself from recoiling.
As the dress fell to the floor Helen felt more exposed than she ever had in her life. Her heart racing, she maintained her steady gaze, looking straight ahead over Menelaos’s shoulder. She could feel his eyes on her, drinking in the sight of her naked body.
He did not touch her again, however. Rather he took several steps backward, and continued to regard her. She watched his eyes as they flicked from her breasts to her hips to her ankles, and came back to rest on the hair-covered patch beneath her belly.
“Do you bleed?” he asked.
Helen was startled by the sudden question. She realized he meant her monthly blood, so she gave a twitching nod.
Then he turned to his companion. “Her breasts are still buds. Her hips are too narrow. Do you agree, Deipyros?”
The dark-haired man, who was also surveying her from the corner, gave a nod. She felt like a heifer being examined for sacrifice. Her skin was getting pimpled without her dress to keep off the evening chill. She wanted to wrap herself in her arms and turn away from both of them. But she was Helen of Sparta, and a little girl no longer. She fixed her eyes on the wall once again and pursed her lips to stop them from quivering.
“A child too soon would be risky,” said the dark-haired man, his eyes still lingering around her hips. “She is still young. I suggest that you wait, but it is your choice, of course.”
“You counsel well, Deipyros. I will wait.” She couldn’t tell whether her husband’s face showed disappointment or relief. “But the marriage must still be completed.” Menelaos looked at his companion. Deipyros nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Helen knew she had failed in some way. She pressed her lips harder together and blinked to hold back the tears that stung her eyes. Despite all the oils and perfumes, she was not good enough. Not woman enough. But at least he had not left altogether. He was still willing to take her as his wife. She and Nestra would still be doubly bonded, as sisters twice over. She woul
d still be Queen of Sparta, one day.
Menelaos crossed the room once more. Again, he seemed uncertain. Or maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she just didn’t want to feel like the only one who didn’t know what was going on.
Her husband stopped in front of her. He too smelled of scented oil. She wondered if he had rose water on his nipples, or anywhere else . . . The thought made her blush.
He lifted her chin now so that she had no choice but to look into his eyes. They were dark, and difficult to read. She tried to avoid staring at the scar.
Gently, he took a lock of her hair in his fingers. “Your hair is very . . . fine,” he murmured.
She smiled. A genuine smile. Something about her had pleased him, at least.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Yes. I am your lord now, as you are my lady, and so we shall be for as long as we live.” He allowed her the smallest smile. Then he hesitated, before leaning forward and kissing her softly on the lips. His mustache tickled her nose and his breath smelled of wine. It wasn’t unpleasant, yet she had expected to feel . . . more. She realized he was watching her expression and tried to smile but her face felt stiff. When he spoke again his voice had lost some of its softness.
“Now, we must complete the marriage, if you are to be my true woman-wife.” He paused. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”
She gave a small nod.
“Then you must lie back on the bed and open your legs.”
Her stomach dropped. She remembered her utter nakedness, forgotten momentarily as he touched her hair and kissed her lips. Yet she nodded obediently and did as he had asked.
Menelaos seemed to hesitate. Then, to her surprise, he moved away from her and walked over to the chest beside the bed. He picked up the small pot of olive oil that sat on top of it and poured a generous amount into the palm of his hand. Then he lifted his tunic.
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