Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  CHAPTER 24

  HELEN

  A few weeks later, Helen was lying in bed. The evening was still young and yet she had already undressed from her day clothes and settled herself under the covers. She knew that Menelaos would likely come to the chamber soon, and she was hoping to avoid any amorous intentions by pretending to be asleep. She had already rebuffed him twice this week, feigning illness or fatigue, and she wasn’t sure he would swallow another hollow excuse.

  She had run out of cedar resin the week before, but hesitated to send Adraste to fetch more. Her handmaid still believed that the remedies had been a temporary measure and Helen didn’t know how much further she could stretch that lie. Of course, Adraste would have to do as she asked in any case, but that was little comfort. What would her friend think of her, a woman—a queen—who refused to do her sacred duty? And worse, what if she told someone? What if Menelaos found out?

  She might yet send Adraste, but these fears had delayed her. And now she was stuck, reliant upon only the honey clod and her wits.

  So here she lay, her back to the chamber door, hugging the bedcovers tightly. Unable to sleep, she listened for the faintest noise from the corridor. And then she heard it. Bootsteps on stone. He was here.

  The chamber door opened and light spilled in from the torch-lit corridor. The bootsteps stopped, as if he had paused in the doorway. Then they resumed, and the bed shifted as he sat down.

  Helen’s heart was racing, but she tried to keep her breathing slow. The silent seconds stretched on unbearably.

  “Helen?” came her husband’s gruff voice from behind her. “Are you awake?”

  She didn’t answer, but lay as still as she could, her eyes shut.

  Then his hand was on her shoulder, shaking it gently. “Helen?”

  She couldn’t ignore him now. She stirred a little, and made a faint sound of waking. She turned her head toward him, but didn’t roll over fully.

  “What is it, husband?” she asked, with feigned grogginess.

  “I . . . err . . .” he replied vaguely. “The sun has only just set. I thought you would still be awake.”

  “I had a headache so I went to bed early.” She let the lie hang in the air, half expecting him to challenge it. But he didn’t.

  “Very well,” he sighed, and into that exhaled breath he managed to pour a sadness and annoyance that made Helen’s heart shrink with guilt. In a way, this disappointed surrender was worse than if he had challenged her lie.

  Perhaps she should just lie with him, she thought. The honey clod should protect her—she was being overcautious. And she was beginning to miss the intimacy between them, the touch of his skin on hers.

  But before she could act on her changed resolve, Menelaos spoke again.

  “I’m going to check on Hermione.” And within seconds he was gone from the chamber.

  Helen lay there for a while, staring into the darkness. The realization loomed that she had pushed it too far, denied him too many times. Her husband resented her. She could feel it, hear it in the hollow way he spoke to her. Was this the price she must pay to preserve her life? She even began to wonder whether a life so devoid of love was worth preserving.

  But perhaps it was not too late, she thought. Perhaps she could still bring him back, and they could share their lives as man and wife should. Perhaps she could still find the love she had always longed for. She could still use her remedies—they had worked so far, hadn’t they?—but she would stop pushing Menelaos away. She was bound to him, after all. If she could not find love in his arms, she would not find it at all.

  Stirred by this realization, Helen threw off her covers and got out of bed. She put a mantle over her nightdress and silently left the chamber. She would find Menelaos, tell him she was feeling better, bring him back to bed. Despite the risk, she found she was excited. It would be a thrill, she thought, to play the seductress. She couldn’t wait to see Menelaos’s face. All would be forgiven in her kisses and caresses, she knew it.

  Hermione’s room was only at the other end of the corridor, and Helen was soon at the door. Though she could hear no voices behind it, she put her hand on the wood to push it open.

  But just then she did hear something. Not from Hermione’s chamber, but the one just farther along from it. It was a guest chamber, not currently occupied, and yet the door was half-open.

  Curious, Helen left Hermione’s door and stepped toward the open one. As she approached she heard a gasp—a woman. And a lower voice. A grunt. A murmur. Two breaths mingling in the quiet of the night. Helen thought she knew what she was listening to, but she didn’t turn back. Perhaps it was two of the slaves. She should leave them alone, but her curiosity urged her on. And a strange uneasiness too, that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  And then she saw them, and her stomach tightened. There, through the half-open door, were Agatha and her husband.

  They didn’t see Helen. Menelaos had his back to the door, and Agatha’s eyes were closed. She was naked, perched on a table’s edge, and Menelaos had his tunic lifted, his mouth on her neck, his hand on her breast, his hips pressed between her white thighs. The sight of his tensing buttocks made Helen feel sick, and yet she did not look away. He was kissing Agatha’s lips now, stroking her cheek, whispering in her ear.

  It was this that made Helen look away. She recoiled a few paces and stopped, falling against the corridor wall. Her rattling breaths were so loud she thought they might hear her, but she didn’t care. Part of her wanted them to hear.

  It wasn’t so much the infidelity that hurt her—what else did she expect, when she herself had pushed him away? No, it wasn’t that. It was the way he had touched her, kissed her. As if she were all that mattered in the world. He was so tender, so passionate. Why had he never been that way with her? Why had he never shared that part of himself? Even before the baby, before everything, he had not been like that.

  And then a dark thought struck her. Was it her?

  There lay the real source of her hurt, she realized. Despite all her beauty, all her fine clothes and much-lauded charms, her husband did not love her. All the time she had thought it was he who was lacking, he who was unable to feel or to show it when he did. And now she realized that it was she who had been the problem all along. Helen of Sparta, the unlovable beauty.

  PART III

  CHAPTER 25

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  SEVEN YEARS LATER

  Klytemnestra sat on her carved seat in the Hearth Hall, sewing sequins of gold onto the front of her husband’s new mantle. There was a chill wind blowing through the palace today so she had come seeking the warmth of the hearth fire. She smiled as its light caught the gleaming disks, rippling across the work she had already done. It gave her satisfaction to imagine how magnificent Agamemnon would look in his new robe, and to know that the eyes that admired her husband would also be admiring the work of her own hands.

  She was starting to feel as if her life were going the way it ought to. The few years after Leukippe had left had been difficult. Klytemnestra had thought the girl’s departure would be the end of her trouble, but really it was only the beginning. The hope that had been stirred by her own pregnancy, so soon after reconnecting with her husband, had turned to bitter ash when the baby had finally come. It was blue and still. And the one the year after too, just the same. It was an ill omen to bring forth death where there should be life, but twice in as many years . . . She had been convinced that she and Agamemnon were being punished, that Artemis was still angry about what had happened with Leukippe. Had her husband’s accident not been enough? He had recovered, yes, but not fully. His leg was still twisted and he walked with a permanent limp. But then again, perhaps it was not Artemis who was punishing them. Perhaps they had done something to offend Eileithyia instead, forgotten her in their sacrifices or neglected her shrine. Both goddesses had power over childbirth; it could be eith
er one who was set against them. Klytemnestra had spent many sleepless nights churning over such things, wondering how she might mend them.

  To her relieved surprise, Agamemnon had not blamed her for any of it. She had felt as if she were failing him as a wife, and yet he had stayed by her side, had kept telling her that a child would come. If anything, that dark time had brought them closer than they had ever been.

  And then a child did come. Chrysothemis, they had named her. Another girl, yes, but after what had happened, Klytemnestra was happy to see a live child come out of her, pink and screaming like it should be. She could have had twelve toes for all she cared; it was a new, warm life to hold in her arms, and that was all she wanted. Even Agamemnon didn’t seem to mind that she was a girl. Heir or not, she was a sign that their fortune had changed, that their punishment had ended.

  Klytemnestra had still been worried, though. For at least the first couple of years, a part of her had been sure that Chrysothemis would fall ill and be taken from them after all. But she had survived. She was past her fourth birthday now, and Klytemnestra’s heart was finally allowing her to trust that she was theirs to keep. Not only that, but she was pregnant again, her belly already swollen and getting larger by the day. Gods willing, it wouldn’t be long before she held another child in her arms, and this time she was sure it would be the son Agamemnon had been waiting for. This one felt different from the rest. She couldn’t say how exactly, but she knew in her heart that she was carrying a boy.

  It had been a long road, and far from easy, but it really did seem that their fortunes had changed. And the Leukippe era, those few months that had caused Klytemnestra so much distress, seemed little more than a distant memory now. If it weren’t for Agamemnon’s leg, she might have been able to forget it had ever happened.

  Klytemnestra looked up from her work. Her eyes were beginning to dazzle from staring at those glittering gold disks, each one sewn with precision. She sat back in her chair, eyes closed, and enjoyed the feeling of the hearth fire warming her skirt. Twelve years into her marriage, she finally felt at home in Mycenae. She was a real queen now, commanding respect throughout the palace. Agamemnon would even ask her advice on occasion. He always invited her to attend public audiences and would have her by his side when receiving guests.

  She spent a lot more time beyond the walls of her chamber than she had in those early years. In the afternoons, as today, she would often be found in the Hearth Hall, working on her latest garment or spinning wool with Iphigenia and Elektra. They were like little ladies now, especially Iphigenia. Klytemnestra knew she might not have many more years with them so she savored this time as if it were the last jar of a good vintage. In time they would marry and have children of their own, but not yet. For now they remained here with her, and her little family was whole and happy, and about to get larger.

  There was a shout from the courtyard that made Klytemnestra open her eyes. Her husband’s unmistakable boom carried easily through the great wooden doors of the hall—indeed, she doubted there was any room in the palace to which it would not carry. He was complaining about something or other, but that was hardly unusual so she closed her eyes once more.

  Despite their domestic harmony, Agamemnon had been restless these past months. He could still ride and hunt, despite his leg, and yet even that did not seem to satisfy him when he was in one of his moods. A happy home and a prosperous kingdom seemed to her to be all that a man could wish for, but it was not enough for her husband. She hoped that the arrival of a son might quell whatever was agitating him. Yes, she thought as she rubbed her swollen belly, an opportunity to pass on the lessons of manhood might be just the thing to absorb his nervous energy. But the baby was a good month away yet. For now, her husband would just have to wait.

  CHAPTER 26

  HELEN

  Helen watched as Hermione played in the courtyard, her hair shining in the sunlight. It was darker than her mother’s, but still had some of its reddish luster—closer to dark carnelian than dazzling flame, but pretty nonetheless. She had inherited Helen’s fair skin too—though she wouldn’t keep it for long if Agatha kept letting her play outside. Perhaps she should talk to Agatha about it, tell her to keep Hermione indoors more, but she shrank from the idea. It was strange; she was Hermione’s mother and yet she felt she had less authority over her daughter’s life than Agatha did. The slave woman—she could hardly call her a girl anymore—was more Hermione’s mother than she was, and for the most part Helen let her do as she saw fit. She had decided long ago that it was easier to cede her role than to fight for something she had never really wanted.

  She still saw her daughter, of course. Sometimes, like today, she would watch from the shade of the portico as Hermione danced and laughed in the sun; other times, Agatha would bring her to Helen’s chamber and a formal exchange would ensue. Helen would ask how her spinning was coming along, or what she had eaten for breakfast, and Hermione would answer politely in her high, soft little voice. Helen rarely touched her daughter—it had been years since she had hugged her or sat her on her knee—but it was better that way. It would feel unnatural, she thought, when such a gulf had grown between them. Better to watch from a distance. Hermione seemed happy with Agatha, anyway. Helen doubted she could compete, so it was easier on her pride not to try.

  Agatha had outdone her in another way, too: she had given Menelaos a son. Megapenthes, as his father had named him, was playing in the courtyard as well, curly-haired and pink-cheeked. Agatha was raising the two children together, and Menelaos doted on his bastard son as much as he did his trueborn daughter. Helen did not begrudge Hermione her playmate, nor Menelaos his heir—they had gained something she refused to give and that, she told herself, was to the good—but she could not help feeling a little usurped. Agatha was as meek and unassuming as ever, and Helen was not even sure that she and Menelaos still lay together, but by giving him a son she had raised her station to a level that was dangerously close to Helen’s own.

  She might still be queen in name, but her role in the palace had felt increasingly undermined over the years, so that now she felt as if she stood on little more than a hollow mound, and that it might one day collapse entirely, plunging her into a twilight of lonely irrelevance. Her mother had met that fate already, her last strut of support having been removed with Father’s passing. Perhaps it was inevitable that she, Helen, would sink too.

  In a way, Helen’s life was simpler now. For one thing, she no longer had to worry about conceiving a child. She and Menelaos still shared a bed, as was proper, but it was rare that he made any move toward intimacy. It seemed the arrival of Megapenthes had made him less determined that she should bear him another child. She supposed she should thank Agatha for that, but sometimes it felt more curse than blessing. What little tenderness she and Menelaos had once had was better than none at all. He was still kind, yes, and respectful, but sometimes, lying awake beside the warm mass of his body, she wished more than anything that he would reach out and touch her.

  The sound of brisk boots made Helen realize she had been staring at nothing for some time. She dragged her consciousness away from her marriage bed, from warm hands and soft skin, and back to the sunny courtyard. And there, as if bidden by her straying thoughts, was Menelaos striding toward her. Her heart fluttered hopefully at the sight of him. What did he want to talk to her about, she wondered?

  “Helen,” he said when he had reached her. “Guests have arrived from across the sea—a royal delegation from Troy. I will be hosting a welcome feast this evening and I would like you to attend.”

  Helen felt deflated, but forced a dutiful nod. Ah yes, the hollow queen still had some uses, she thought bitterly. After all, what was the point of winning the most beautiful bride in Greece if you didn’t show her off to your guests?

  * * *

  Helen sat in the Hearth Hall, on the chair that had once been her mother’s, waiting. The wine had been mixed and
the food prepared. Her stomach rumbled as she surveyed the feast in front of her, the smell of roasted meat, of coriander and cumin, wafting toward her. She longed to stuff some boar’s meat into her mouth, but it would be impolite. They must wait for the guests to enter and present their gifts. Helen wished they would hurry up about it.

  To her right sat Kastor and Pollux. Neither had yet married but, as sons of the previous king and brothers of the queen, they enjoyed prominent positions at the Spartan court. Menelaos had every right to send them away if he desired, but he seemed to enjoy their company. And they were both skilled warriors, should the kingdom have need of them.

  To the left, on the other side of Menelaos, sat Deipyros, her husband’s childhood companion and right-hand man, and to the left of him sat Helen’s mother, the dowager queen Leda. Helen was secretly thankful that there was some distance between her and her mother. She still loved her greatly, of course, but it was always so difficult to know what to say to her. Father’s death had been hard for them all, but for her mother most of all. Though it had been five years since his burial, she still wore her mourning clothes, the black veil a permanent frame for her specter-pale face. That was a true love, thought Helen, observing her mother with a kind of sad envy. Father had been devoted to her, and she to him, even now. It wasn’t proper for a widow to mourn so long, but no one was willing to tell her that. Helen was surprised she had even agreed to attend the feast. Usually she avoided public occasions, but perhaps Menelaos had made a special request.

  I should go and talk to her, Helen thought, imagining her mother sitting alone all evening. Her brothers would occupy themselves with drinking and swapping bawdy tales with whomever would listen. Mother’s company was too grim for their taste nowadays. No, it would have to be Helen who reached out.