Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” the priest interrupted, “but something has changed.” He took a step forward, his ribboned staff making a dull, foreboding thud on the stone floor of the hall. “I am not only a priest but a seer, my lord. Apollo has blessed me with the gift of foresight, and the ability to divine the sentiments of the gods. And I have come to tell you that this girl will bring you danger. Artemis is angry that one of her devotees was taken from her and defiled. She is angry with you, my lord, and she will punish you. I have seen it. The only way for you to stay her anger is to return the girl. That is why I have come, my lord. To warn you and to save you. Let me take the girl away and you will be safe.”

  Agamemnon listened in silence to what Kalchas had to say, his great hands gripping the arms of his throne. “Why should I believe you?” he said eventually. “Your powers of divination are not known to me. Why should I take you at your word?” He shifted in his seat. “Perhaps you want the girl for yourself, eh? Is that it? Does the thought of those white breasts keep you up at night, priest?” He gave a low, barking laugh, and Klytemnestra’s stomach turned. Then, more soberly, he said, “The girl is mine and I won’t listen to your lies.”

  Klytemnestra could see the anger in Kalchas’s eyes. She feared he was going to say or do something foolish, but tried to hide her concern.

  “They are not lies, my lord. The goddess is angry and you will suffer for it.”

  “That sounds like a threat to me,” growled Agamemnon, half rising from his chair. “I’ve heard enough of this. Guards!” he yelled, and within seconds they were in the hall. “Take this man away,” he commanded.

  “Please, my lord,” Kalchas shouted as the guards took him by the arms and half dragged him from the room. “You must listen, my lord! You are in danger! You must give up the g—”

  One of the guards punched him in the gut and his words were replaced with a grunt of pain. And before he could gather enough breath to say any more, he was gone.

  Klytemnestra’s heart was beating quickly in her chest. She felt for Kalchas. She knew his desperation, had seen it in his fierce eyes as he was dragged from the hall, but he had taken a great risk in coming here. She knew well enough that her husband would snap before he would bend. But then, if she were in his position, if Leukippe were Helen or one of her own daughters, what would she do? She would fight to the end.

  She jumped as Agamemnon suddenly addressed her.

  “These religious fanatics, eh?” he said, and broke into a throaty chuckle. “Send the next one in, Talthybios!”

  CHAPTER 21

  HELEN

  Three months had passed since Helen had visited the woman in the hills, and three times she had thanked the gods when her blood had come. She had been using the remedies as the woman had instructed, applying them every evening just in case her husband decided to lie with her. At first, she had been worried he would be able to tell, that he would smell it or feel it, but after the first few times her fear had abated. He lay with her as he always had—vigorously, dutifully, and in silence.

  Sometimes, remembering the old woman’s last words to her, she would tell him that she was tired, or that she felt unwell. Usually he would accept these excuses and let her be, but she sensed that he knew that they were just that: excuses. Helen didn’t like it, the lies, the secrets, the cross-purposes. She felt like she and Menelaos were further apart than they had ever been. That wasn’t what she had wanted, but neither could she end the deceit, give herself up to fate, and throw her life to the wind. She had to survive.

  It was midafternoon and Helen was in her chamber, spinning wool with Adraste and Alkippe. The three of them had been chatting and laughing all day, so much that Helen’s cheeks were beginning to ache. She hadn’t laughed this much in months. There had been the horror of the birth, and then she had been so anxious about lying with her husband, about the risk of another child. The fear had always been there in her mind. But now she found she was finally beginning to relax. Three months and three bleeds, and no baby. It seemed those precious little jars were doing their job.

  There was an unexpected tap at the door.

  “Who is it?” called Helen, still half giggling at Adraste’s impression of the shy waterboy whom she claimed was in love with Alkippe. Pink-cheeked Alkippe was giggling too, batting at Adraste to make her stop.

  The door opened, and Menelaos stepped in.

  The laughter died like a flame snuffed out. Helen’s handmaids hurried to their feet and bowed their heads.

  “I need to speak to my wife alone,” said Menelaos.

  As her handmaids scurried from the room, Helen started to panic. Why was he sending them out? Did he mean to lie with her? It was too early; she hadn’t prepared. He didn’t usually come till the evening. Could she make an excuse?

  Before she could decide what to do, it was just her and her husband. And he was coming closer.

  “I was just about to go and see Hermione,” she lied, standing up as if to leave.

  “It will only take a moment,” said her husband, stepping still closer. “I need to talk to you.”

  Helen’s heart was still racing, but she stayed where she was. “Very well,” she said. “If it won’t take long.”

  Menelaos took one of the seats beside Helen, and she sat back down.

  “We have been lying together for several months now, and yet you are still not with child,” he said in a low voice, fiddling with his signet ring as he avoided her eyes.

  Helen’s anxiety spiked again. Did he know? Was that why he was here? To confront her? To punish her?

  She didn’t dare form words for a reply, so she made a small noise of acknowledgment instead.

  “I thought it might be time to get some help,” he continued. “To hurry things along.”

  Helen’s fear was replaced momentarily by cautious curiosity. “What kind of help?”

  Menelaos shifted slightly and cleared his throat. “There is a cave. Not a day’s ride from here,” he said, his eyes flicking to Helen’s then away again. “They say it is sacred to Eileithyia. That if a man and woman make love there, the goddess will give them a child.”

  Helen almost pitied her husband. He was so desperate for her to become pregnant, and the poor fool had no idea that it was her, not the gods, who was standing in the way of his desire. But then she remembered the pain and the blood, the reality of what his desire would mean for her, and her pity dissolved into fear.

  “You want us to go to this cave?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.

  “Yes,” Menelaos replied. “Tomorrow. It is all arranged.”

  Helen’s fear swelled. It seemed the decision had already been made; she could hardly refuse. And what if it actually worked? What if the cave really was special? What if the power of the goddess was greater than her little jars? Panic was rising in Helen’s throat, choking her, suffocating her. But what could she do?

  “Very well,” she managed at last. “I will go.”

  * * *

  The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached the cave the following day. Squinting in the light of those blinding beams, Helen surveyed the gaping mouth in the rock. It was wide and high and the cave itself seemed to go back some way, so that its depths faded into a dark unknown.

  A slave appeared by her husband’s side, holding a lit torch. Menelaos took the torch in one hand and Helen’s slim wrist in the other, and with solemn strides he led her inside.

  Helen had applied the cedar resin and honey clod that morning, in the few minutes when she had been left alone. She had been worried that the clod would fall out of place during the jolting ride through the hills, but as far as she could feel it was still where it ought to be. She tried not to part her legs too far as they made their way into the cave, though. Perhaps it was silly, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Without her remedies, what chance would she stand aga
inst the goddess? As they made their way deeper into the cave Helen imagined those divine eyes watching her, imagined Eileithyia’s sweet breath raising the hairs on her neck. It made her shudder. Her own breathing began to quicken, her little gasps loud in the echoing silence of the cave.

  Suddenly Menelaos stopped. Helen had been keeping her eyes on the uneven ground as they walked, but now she allowed herself to look up.

  From the wavering light of the torch she judged that they were at the back of the cave. The ceiling was lower here, the walls narrower, but it was still spacious. And in front of her, taller than she was, there stood a huge, rounded boulder.

  “This is it,” said Menelaos in a hushed voice, touching the boulder lightly with his fingertips. “The stone of Eileithyia.”

  Behind her husband’s back, Helen screwed up her face. Was this it? A big rock? It didn’t even have a face. But then . . . people said there were places that were special, places where the gods lived, in ordinary trees and rocks and springs. And her husband said there were stories of people who had lain here and been blessed by the goddess. Maybe there was power here after all. Maybe it would actually work. That thought made Helen’s heart beat faster, her muscles suddenly tense as if they were telling her to run.

  She fought the instinct, though. If she ran, or refused, Menelaos would know her true feelings, would know she was working against him. Perhaps he would find the little jars and destroy them. Where would she be then? Safer to go along with it and hope with all her heart that the stone was just a stone.

  Her husband was praying now, pouring a libation and asking for the blessing of the goddess. All the while, Helen chanted a silent counterprayer in her head. Let the seed stay out. Let my belly be barren. Let the seed stay out.

  Then the prayer was done, and Menelaos turned to her. She was still wearing the light sun veil she had put on for the ride, and he carefully lifted it from her head. The gesture reminded Helen of her wedding night, the fear and the vulnerability she had felt then. Those feelings were still with her, but they were no longer those of a naïve girl. They were deeper, rooted in experience, watered with her own blood.

  His hands were undoing her dress now. No words—of course no words, she was used to that by now. No whispered sweetness. Her husband spoke only when it was necessary to speak. Now was a time for action.

  Her dress was around her feet and she shivered in the cold of the cave. The only warmth came from the torch, wedged between two rocks a few feet away.

  Menelaos took off his tunic and looked at her. Helen wondered if her husband could see her tremble—from cold, from fear. Did he care which it was? He surveyed her face, his mouth open, his eyes unsure. There was always this moment of slight hesitation, as if he might say something after all, but then his body would win out over his tongue.

  He put his hands on her shoulders then moved them down, over her breasts, around her waist. She flinched as they reached the mesh of jagged lines that cut across her belly. Did he notice? It seemed not—his hands were too hungry, grasping at her flesh as if it were his alone. Soon the two of them were on the floor of the cave, his firm brown body pressed against her soft white one. It was hard and uncomfortable, down there on the rough stone, but Menelaos didn’t seem to mind. He had come here for one reason, and he was going to see it through. But with every touch, every thrust and stifled gasp, Helen felt as if she were losing a part of herself, a part of the control she had gained, the wall she had built. It filled her with hot terror to think of that fatal seed, to imagine her protections failing under the determined assault of Eileithyia and her husband both. She set her body hard, as if she might become part of that stone floor—imperishable, impermeable. And even when he had finished she lay there stiff, lifeless but for the furious beating of her heart.

  They spent the night in the cave—he insisted they must—and although her husband was soon snoring, Helen found it impossible to sleep on the hard rock. She was freezing, despite having put her dress back on. Part of her wanted to move closer to Menelaos, to hold on to him and share his warmth. But another part of her warned against it. What if he woke up? What if he wanted to try again, just to be sure? And there was something else keeping her back, too. She couldn’t bring herself to be close with the man who might have just caused her death.

  The torch had gone out not long into the night, but now, after hours of utter darkness, a little light was beginning to seep into the cave. Morning had finally come. It was still dim, but Helen was glad to see even a hint of the dawn. She hadn’t slept and her whole body ached from lying on the cold stone.

  She stood up and stretched, half hoping that her movement would cause Menelaos to stir so that they could leave. It worked, and he sat up.

  “Is it morning?” he asked groggily.

  “Yes, husband,” Helen replied. She was standing a few paces away from him with her arms wrapped around herself, lest he get any ideas.

  But to her relief he said, “We have done what was needed. We should leave now.”

  They had brought no belongings that needed to be gathered, so he simply stood up and began walking toward the light of the day. Helen followed behind him.

  But when they were almost out, an idea struck her. She stopped.

  “Husband, may I go back to the stone? I want to leave an offering for the goddess. Perhaps if I give her something beautiful she will smile on us.” She slipped a gold bracelet from her wrist to show what she intended.

  “Yes,” he replied, after a short pause. “Yes, you go back. I’ll wait for you at the entrance.”

  She nodded and hurried back into the cave. She was soon back at the stone, and stopped in front of it. In the gloom, the huge boulder loomed over her. It did have a strange power, a kind of ineffable presence. She felt as if she were being watched, as if the stone were waiting to see what she would do.

  Helen took the bracelet and threw it to the back of the cave. It landed somewhere in the dark—she didn’t care where. Then she stepped up to the stone—and kicked it. As hard as she could without injuring herself. And again with the other foot. Then she spat on it, and watched with satisfaction as her saliva slid down over the immovable rock.

  She felt powerful. A little scared, perhaps, but powerful. Let’s see the goddess smile on me now, she thought defiantly.

  Then she hurried back to the entrance, and to her husband. He smiled when he saw her, and she cringed with guilt as his hopeful eyes met hers. But she had no regrets.

  CHAPTER 22

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  Another day, another afternoon at the loom. But as usual, the girls were breaking the monotony. Elektra was much steadier on her feet now, and her favorite game at present was to provoke Iphigenia into chasing her around the chamber. Her older sister was refusing to take the bait today, however, preferring to dress and undress her favorite doll with the miniature tunic and mantle Klytemnestra had made for her. Elektra was beginning to sulk at the lack of attention from her sister and Iphigenia, despite her impressive level of patience toward Elektra, was becoming annoyed.

  “Elektra,” said Klytemnestra, stopping her work. “Why don’t we go out into the courtyard?” Iphigenia could stay here with Eudora, she thought, and there’d be more space for Elektra to wear herself out.

  Elektra seemed excited at the prospect of leaving the chamber and came along willingly, holding her mother’s hand and swinging on it wildly as they made their way to the courtyard. Klytemnestra wished she could take her outside, to roll in the grass and throw stones in the river as she and Helen had done when they were children, but Agamemnon wouldn’t have it. Mycenae lacked the openness of Sparta; to reach the real outdoors you had to leave the citadel, go beyond the outer town. It wasn’t safe, her husband insisted.

  Over the past few months, since Kalchas’s second petition, Agamemnon had softened toward her. Now, when he came to see the girls, he would talk to her as well, ask i
f there was anything she needed. He had even shared her bed on occasion, and though their previous intimacy was still lacking, it gave Klytemnestra hope. Hope that he still wanted her. Hope that, once he grew bored of Leukippe, he would come back to her. Hope that everything would someday be as it once was. She just had to be patient.

  She and Elektra had reached the courtyard now, and as soon as she let go of her daughter’s hand she was off running around, pumping her arms in that determined little way of hers. Klytemnestra chased after her playfully, measuring her steps so as not to catch her up too quickly. When she caught her she tickled her ribs so that she squealed, then let her go again. They went on like this for some time, Elektra shrieking and giggling in turn and Klytemnestra laughing so much she had to stop and catch her breath. It was blissful, playing in the sun like this. Klytemnestra almost felt as if she were a child again, and all her other concerns seemed suddenly not to matter as she ran about, her skirts hitched in her hand.

  After a while, beyond the squeals and the giggles, Klytemnestra became aware of another sound. At first she thought it was just the daily bustle of the citadel, but then it grew louder and more distinct. A group of people getting closer, and some of them were shouting. Something was happening, and it was coming this way.

  Klytemnestra stopped laughing and caught Elektra in earnest this time. “That’s enough,” she told her, taking her by the wrist and leading her back toward the chamber. Elektra made a protest at first, but followed along when it was clear the game was over.

  Klytemnestra was relieved when they reached the chamber door. Whatever was going on, she didn’t want to take any chances—not with the children. Best to stay in the chamber and bar the door.

  Not long after she had done so, however, there was an urgent knocking and a familiar voice sounded through the wood.