Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  That evening, pulse racing, Helen told Menelaos of her plans to leave the palace. She said she needed to get out, to see the sun, after her long confinement. And there was a rural shrine not far away, which she wanted to visit. It was said that the gods answered the prayers of those who left offerings there, and she wanted to ask them to give her another child. It was a bold lie, she knew. But she also knew that her husband would not object to such a mission.

  He had initially insisted that she take guards with her, as she feared he would, but she had told him that the shrine was for women only, and that she would take her handmaid with her as a travel companion. When he was still not satisfied, she said that she would dress as if she were a common woman, and that two humble women would draw less attention than a queen and her retinue.

  Eventually, mercifully, he had conceded. And so that morning Helen and Adraste had set out, plainly dressed, wrapped in the humble, practical veils that were worn by working women. It was liberating in a way, to go out into the world not as Queen Helen, but just as Helen herself, a girl of seventeen out on an adventure with her friend. There was almost a gaiety in her step as they set out beyond the palace. She felt free, and buoyed up by the hope of securing further freedom when they reached their destination.

  It was a long walk, longer than Helen had been used to in recent years, anyway. The soles of her feet were aching when Adraste suddenly stopped.

  “I think that’s it,” she said, pointing to a small building halfway up the hill in front of them.

  “Are you sure?” asked Helen, squinting skeptically at the little hut. It looked like little more than a goat shed. She had been expecting something more . . . impressive.

  “Yes, I think so,” Adraste replied, setting off toward the building, hitching her skirts for the climb. “This is the place they described,” she called over her shoulder.

  Helen had no choice but to follow her companion. The hut was farther up the hill than she had estimated, and her lungs were burning when they finally came to a stop outside its warped wooden door. The two girls looked at each other.

  “Do you want me to knock, mistress?” whispered Adraste, sounding as if she would really rather not.

  “I don’t know,” Helen whispered back. “Now that I’m here . . . Do you think we can trust this woman? What if she tells someone? Or . . . or what if she’s some kind of witch? Who knows what she’ll do to us?”

  “But we’ve come all this way, mistress, and—”

  Suddenly, the door opened. And there before them stood an old woman, small but robust-looking, with skin tanned like leather and a worn cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Her sharp eyes flicked between the two girls.

  “I can hear you, y’know,” she said. “And I en’t a witch.”

  Helen blushed and smiled apologetically.

  “We . . . we heard that you might be able to help us,” she said, her voice squeaky with nerves. “Me, I mean. To help me.”

  The woman looked her up and down. “If y’ve come for a purgin’ I can’t help you. I’ve run right out o’ lead and—”

  “No, no,” said Adraste. “It’s not that. She wants something that’ll stop it in the first place. Something to stop the seed.”

  The woman was still eyeing Helen as Adraste spoke, and didn’t respond straightaway. Helen worried she was going to turn them away and it made her realize that, witch or not, she wanted this woman’s help.

  Eventually, the woman said, “You’d better come inside.”

  The room was as small as it looked from the outside, with the embers of a fire burning in the middle. The woman waved them toward two stools, their seats worn smooth by previous visitors, and shuffled over to a wooden chest in the corner of the room. After a minute or so of rummaging and inspecting, the old woman came and sat down on a third stool, a small jar held in each of her weathered hands.

  “Now afore I give you anythin’, y’ll have to prove y’ve got the means o’ payin’ me,” said the woman, holding the jars close to her chest. “Though I don’t think that’ll be a problem with you ladies,” she added with a knowing grin.

  Helen was suddenly worried, and it must have shown on her face.

  “Don’t worry, child. Y’d be surprised how many noblewomen I have knockin’ at my door. I won’t ask yer name as long as you don’t ask mine.” Then she put the jars in her lap and leaned forward slightly, a wrinkled hand outstretched. “Now what’ve you got for me?”

  Helen looked nervously at Adraste, who nodded, so she put her hand inside her dress and brought out a small cloth bag. She opened it and poured the contents into her own palm: a long string of polished amethyst beads. She had taken them from her dowry box—the clearest stones she could find—and was pleased with her choice. She watched the woman’s wrinkled face with anticipation.

  Eyes squinting, the old woman reached forward and took the string from her, dangling it in the light from the small window.

  “I was hopin’ for some wine perhaps, or maybe a new shawl, but this’ll do nicely,” she said, peering at the smooth stones. “Yes, very nice. Y’ can have the full works for this.” Then she hid the beads away in the recesses of her clothing.

  Suddenly a question bubbled to Helen’s lips, and it was out before she could stop it.

  “Why do you live here, if you have wealthy women paying you, as you say? Those beads alone are worth . . . well, they’re worth a lot. Surely you could afford somewhere less . . . remote.”

  “You want t’ know why I live in this godforsaken hovel, eh? Is that it?” asked the woman with a chuckle. “Well, I used t’ live just outside Amyklai—nice place it was. But it was the people what were the problem. Not everyone thinks good o’ what I do, y’ see. So it’s safer t’ be out here. And I find the goats make less judgmental neighbors,” she added with a toothless grin.

  Helen smiled, but she couldn’t help pitying the woman a little. What sort of life could she have, out here alone? And yet it seemed the woman always had a smile ready in her cheeks. Alone she might be, but she was also free. Helen felt something strange mingle with her pity. Was it envy?

  “Now y’ve paid, I best be keepin’ up my end.” The woman’s face became more serious. “Your friend says y’ want t’ stop a baby growin’, is that right? And you know there’s not one there already, do you?”

  Helen nodded.

  “How do you know?” the woman asked. “You must have a man visitin’ you, or you wouldn’t have come t’ me. How do you know his seed hasn’t already sprouted? If it has, all this’ll be for naught.”

  Helen hesitated. It had been hard enough to speak of such things with Adraste. And yet the woman spoke so matter-of-factly, Helen doubted anything would shock her.

  “I recently had a baby,” she began in a quiet voice. “So my husband and I haven’t been . . . but then he visited me two nights ago, and he . . . put his seed in me. But I washed it out, so it wouldn’t grow. I washed it all out.”

  “You washed it out?” repeated the woman. “What do you mean?”

  “I used a sponge. Put it up there and . . . washed it out,” said Helen, but she was feeling more and more uncertain as the woman stared at her.

  “Oh, child. That won’t work,” she said, shaking her head. “No, no. That’s not—here, let me show you.”

  Then she was on her feet and peering around the smoky room. After a moment she picked up a small waterskin and shuffled back to her seat.

  “See, child, a woman’s womb—you know what that is, don’t you? Where the baby grows?—well, a womb is like this waterskin here, ’cept upside down.” She turned the skin so that its stopper was pointing to the floor. “This bit here is where the baby grows,” she said, pointing to the pouch. “And this bit is what we call the neck,” she went on, pointing to the lower section with its stopper. “Now a man’s seed is small, y’ see, so it can go through the neck and
get inside the womb and grow into a baby. But if you try and clean it out, you won’t be able t’ get past the neck, not with yer hand, and not with a sponge. The hole’s too small. What y’ need t’ do is stop it gettin’ through in the first place.”

  Helen nodded to show that she understood, but her cheeks were burning with embarrassment. She was a woman grown, had already had one baby, and yet she didn’t even know this much about her own body. How stupid this woman must think she was. But how was she to have known? Her mother had never spoken to her of such things, nor Thekla, nor Nestra. Perhaps even they did not know. After all, you didn’t need to know anything to get a baby inside you. It was stopping it that required learning, it seemed.

  “It’s all right, child. I’m sure y’ did yer best,” the woman said with a sympathetic smile. “But y’ have to understand these things, so I can help you.”

  Helen nodded again. But then a frightening thought entered her mind.

  “If I didn’t clean it out, does that mean it’s still in there? Will a baby grow?” Helen felt sick at the thought that all her efforts might have been for nothing, the thought that his seed could be sprouting inside her right now, with her powerless to stop it.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” said the woman. “It was only the one time, you said? There’s a good chance that nothin’ll come of it.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “If it does, though, come back t’ me and I’ll try my best t’ help you. I should have the supplies by then.”

  Helen recalled what the old woman had said when they arrived, something about a “purging.” Part of her wanted to ask what it meant, and yet the grim expression on that wrinkled face told her that she was better off not knowing.

  The woman adjusted her creases into a reassuring smile and continued. “What we need t’ be concerned with now is how we’re goin’ t’ stop it the next time. And that’s where these come in,” she said, holding up the two jars that had been resting in her lap.

  “What are they?” asked Helen, eyeing them with equal parts curiosity and suspicion.

  “This one here is full o’ cedar resin,” said the woman, passing Helen the slightly larger of the two. “Remember that neck I was talkin’ about? Well, you need to take some o’ this on your fingers and put it up there, before he lies with you. That’s very important.”

  Helen took the stopper out of the jar and sniffed inside. The smell was not unpleasant, and she thought it sounded like a simple enough task.

  “Yes, I can do that,” she said.

  “Good,” said the woman, “but you’ll be wantin’ this as well,” she said, handing Helen the second jar.

  She opened it and sniffed the contents.

  “It’s honey!” she said, surprised to smell something familiar. “Do I just put it on like the resin?”

  “Not quite,” said the woman. “Floatin’ in that there honey is a clod made out o’ . . . various things. After y’ve put the cedar resin on, take the clod out and put it up there too, as high as it’ll go—and make sure t’ soak it in the honey again when you’re done. It’ll stop the seed gettin’ into the neck—like this stopper here,” she said, pointing to the waterskin that now lay on the floor.

  Helen was less certain about this second jar.

  “What exactly is in this . . . clod?” she asked.

  “Well . . . there’s some acacia tips, and some mugwort . . .” the woman replied, not meeting Helen’s eye. “And the sheep dung, o’ course . . .”

  “Sheep dung?!” Helen spluttered, thrusting the jar away from her. “You expect me to put sheep dung . . . up there?”

  “I do if y’ want t’ stop a baby growin’,” the woman replied, a sharp edge to her tone. “It’s you that came t’ me for help, and this is the help I’m offerin’. If you don’t want it—”

  “No,” said Helen. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . .”

  “You don’t have to use both if y’ don’t want,” said the woman, her tone softening slightly. “But it depends how much it matters to you. These remedies are the best I got, but that en’t to say they’ll work for sure. Yer best chance is to use everythin’ y’ve got, and hope for the best. But if you’re willin’ to take the risk . . .” she said, putting out a hand as if to take back the honey jar.

  “No,” said Helen, clutching both jars tightly. “I’ll take them.”

  “Good,” said the woman, drawing her hand back. “Just make sure you use ’em like I told you.”

  Helen nodded.

  “Well, if that’s all, y’d best be off,” said the woman, pushing herself up on her spindly legs. “This valley’s no place for young girls once the sun starts t’ drop.”

  They left the hut, the jars safely tucked away in the folds of Helen’s clothes. But as she and Adraste were about to head down the hill, the woman took Helen’s wrist to stop her.

  “I’ve given you what I can, girl, and gods willing it’ll work,” she said in a serious voice. “But the best way to be sure o’ stoppin’ a baby is the one y’ already know,” she went on, looking at Helen meaningfully. “Every time he lies with you, there’s a risk. Just remember that.”

  CHAPTER 20

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  It was the first day of the new moon, and so Klytemnestra was seated in the Hearth Hall, listening to petitions with her husband. She had been taken quite unawares this morning when he had come to her chamber and asked her to join him, but her surprise had been outmeasured by her relief. He hadn’t allowed her to attend the last one, it being so soon after her transgression. And though she knew he was still angry with her, knew that he hadn’t slept in their bed since the incident, knew that today might be no more than a public show, a demonstration that she had been brought to heel, she nevertheless had hope that this might be the beginning of their reconciliation. He was bringing her back into the fold of his life, and she clung to that thought as if it were a lifeline.

  She needed her husband, she had come to realize. Her already small life had become even smaller without his companionship, without his visits to her chamber, without his news of the world beyond Mycenae. And she could tell that the girls missed him. He still visited them, of course, but his manner was stiffer, his attentions more dutiful. For a time they had been a family, and Klytemnestra wanted nothing more than to make them one again.

  She had been on her best behavior all morning—keeping her head dipped so as not to look too proud, and holding her veil across her face, even though it was unnecessary, in an attempt to emphasize her modesty. She hadn’t dared say a word to her husband, and instead declared her deference to him with her humble silence. She knew this was the best way to be if she was to earn his forgiveness. It was her boldness that had angered him, her independence of will. She must reassure him that he had stamped that fire out, and hide the embers that still glowed within her.

  It was midday now, so there was a short break in the petitions while some food and wine was brought into the hall. All the refreshments were set down on a table beside Agamemnon, on the opposite side of his throne from where Klytemnestra sat in her carved wooden chair. Had he ordered that done deliberately, she wondered? Was he punishing her, still?

  She was hungry, and parched too, but even now her humility had not brought her so low as to beg. So she resolved to ignore the refreshments, to look straight ahead and keep her hands in her lap until he had finished.

  Then she felt something tap her upper arm. She turned to see that it was a cup of wine, held in the thick-fingered hand of her husband. He was offering it to her, she realized, and hurried to take it.

  “Thank you,” she said in barely more than a whisper, and was surprised at how much this small gesture meant to her. And when he passed her a fig, too, she couldn’t help but smile up at him.

  He only grunted in reply, but Klytemnestra felt a hopeful warmth spread through her as she nibbled at the sweet flesh of the fig. He still cared for her. She
knew that now. And that meant there was still a chance to find happiness and harmony in their shared life. It felt like a dreadful weight was being lifted from her chest as she silently sipped her wine.

  Once Agamemnon had finished eating he waved for the rest of the food to be cleared away. Then he called across the hall to his herald, who stood at the entrance.

  “Let the next one in, Talthybios,” he boomed. “I don’t wish to be here all afternoon.”

  The herald nodded, disappeared for a moment, then came back and announced the next petitioner.

  “Kalchas of Argos, son of Thestor, seer and priest of Paion-Apollo.”

  The warmth that had spread through Klytemnestra before turned into a chill, and she tried not to let her alarm show as the priest strode into the room.

  Agamemnon finished pouring a fresh cup of wine and glanced up to see who had entered.

  “Ah. Haven’t you been here before? You look familiar,” he said casually, swilling his wine in its cup.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Kalchas, looking at Agamemnon very directly. Klytemnestra knew he must have seen her sitting beside the king, but he seemed determined not to glance at her. She was thankful to him. “I came two moons ago, on behalf of my temple. We were concerned about the girl, Leukippe.”

  He hadn’t come last month, then, when she wasn’t here. That was wise, Klytemnestra thought. Agamemnon’s anger would have been too fresh, and he might have guessed at the priest’s involvement in the plot. She tried to calm her shaking hands with another sip of wine.

  “Ah, yes,” said Agamemnon, sitting up slightly. “Yes, now I remember. Well, I can assure you that she is perfectly well.”

  “That may be,” said Kalchas, looking as if he were suppressing an urge to challenge the king’s account. “But I have not come simply to ask after the girl. Rather, I mean to bring her back to the temple.”

  “Yes, that was what you wanted last time,” said Agamemnon, sounding irritated. “Well, my answer is the same as it was then. The girl stays with me. Nothing has changed, so if that’s all you’ve come to ask you had better go back—”