Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  “I don’t think that’s true,” came Kassandra’s soft voice. “The war is at its height now. I think it will come to an end before the next winter.”

  Deiphobos laughed bitterly.

  “You do, do you? And what would you know about it, sister? You have not fought on the plain. You have not witnessed the spirit of the Greeks. They will fight until their last breath.”

  “I did not say they would give up,” Kassandra replied, but she said no more about it. The four of them sat quietly for a short while before she spoke again. “Who else was injured in the fighting?” she asked. “Was Hektor still unharmed when you came back to the city? And Paris?”

  Helen realized that she had not asked for news of her own husband.

  “Yes, they were both still among the ranks,” Deiphobos replied. “I think I saw Aineias too.”

  “And Othryoneus?” Kassandra asked. “Did you see him, too?”

  “I did not,” he said slowly. “But he may have moved down the bea—”

  “No.”

  The sound came from the bed, and they turned to see Helenos push himself upright.

  “Kassandra, I’m so sorry. I was going to tell you.”

  “Tell me what? Was he injured?”

  Helenos shook his head heavily. “He went down in the fighting. I saw it.”

  “But are you sure?” Kassandra asked, her voice rising. “He may have only been wounded.”

  Her brother shook his head again. “He’s dead, Kassandra. He took a Greek spear to the gut. It went straight through his corselet.”

  Kassandra’s head fell a little, as if nodding. Even Helen knew that such a wound could not be survived. Kassandra’s lips hung open, but soundless. She sat staring straight ahead, and Helen saw her eyes begin to glisten. Helen’s heart was like a stone as she watched her friend’s grief spread silently through her.

  And as Kassandra eventually turned her head and looked into Helen’s eyes, her stone heart sank into her stomach. There on her friend’s face was the look she had seen a hundred times before. The look that followed her through the citadel and haunted her at its gates. It was sorrow and pain and loss. But more than that, it was blame.

  CHAPTER 52

  HELEN

  Helen sat in the corner of the women’s hall, alone. It was the first time she had been to the hall in months, and she would have continued to avoid it given the choice. But she had nowhere else to go. She and Paris had argued, and he had sent her from his chamber. She should not have riled him, she knew that, but it was so difficult to remain meek when all her unhappiness was his doing. Why should his life go untroubled and hers be torn in tatters?

  In the past she would have retreated to Kassandra’s chamber, but that door was not as welcoming as it once had been. She still saw Kassandra sometimes—in passing, or if she came to Paris’s chamber on some errand—but their closeness had been fractured by Othryoneus’s death, and had split wider in the weeks that followed. Now, whenever their paths crossed, her friend would smile politely and they would exchange a few words, but their stilted encounters would leave Helen with a heavier heart than if she had not seen her at all.

  Part of her was angry. What cause did Kassandra have to blame her? If not for the war, Othryoneus might never have come to Troy—they would never have been betrothed if he had not had the opportunity of winning her hand with his spear. It was not fair, Helen told herself, that his death be added to all those that already weighed upon her. It was not fair that her one friend now could not bear her company.

  And yet she suspected that Kassandra knew this. If she truly blamed Helen, she would hate her, revile her, rage at her. The truth was that Helen, whether guilty or not, trailed death behind her. She was like a cloud of pestilence, harming all she touched, spreading grief and misery and decay. She didn’t blame her friend for running.

  Kassandra was in the women’s hall this afternoon, sitting in the center mixing poultices with some of the other noblegirls. The hall had become a place to tend the wounded, and a row of straw mattresses had been laid out along one side. All but a few of them were in use.

  On one mattress, not far from where Helen was sitting, lay Prince Hektor, attended by his wife, Andromache. He had been brought to the hall the day before, so she had gathered. He had no bleeding wounds, unlike the other men who lay in the hall, but had been hit in the chest by a great stone, hurled into the melee by one of the Greeks. He lay without a tunic, his skin a swell of red and purple beneath the black hair of his chest. He kept telling his wife not to fuss over him, and yet Helen could tell he was in pain. He would wince whenever he had to sit up to take water, and she had seen him cough up clots of blood. She was worried for him and couldn’t help looking over to his bed whenever Andromache’s head was turned away from her.

  The fighting had been hard since the early morning. Even from the hall they could hear the clash of arms, the screeching whinnies of the horses, the bellowing war cries. The Greeks had pressed right up to the city walls and had been sending men to the hall all day, bleeding and broken. It was as if some new spirit had entered them, a new rage, a thirst for blood—or perhaps simply for an end to the war.

  Hektor had grown more and more frustrated as the day wore on, as more and more of his brothers and comrades filled the mattresses beside him. Many more, no doubt, lay dead on the field. And yet he could do nothing about it. He could not defend them, nor avenge them, stuck as he was inside the citadel walls.

  Helen had witnessed several attempts by Hektor to leave his bed. But each time Andromache would chide him.

  “Do not be foolish!” she would say. “If you die, Troy will be lost! And what then of your son? What of me? You cannot protect anyone if you are dead.”

  Her tone was severe, but Helen could see genuine fear on her face. She had dark circles beneath her eyes from tending her husband all night. It was clear that what she dreaded most was losing him.

  In the midafternoon, a slave woman entered the hall and went straight to where Hektor lay.

  “Lady Andromache,” she said with a bobbing bow. “The lord Astyanax wants you, my lady. He’s in such a terrible temper.”

  “Well, can’t you calm him?” she said irritably. “I must care for my husband.”

  “Yes, my lady, I’ve tried that. Only, he says he wants you. He’s got himself into such a state.”

  “Well, why don’t you bring—no. I don’t want him in here,” she said, looking about at the bleeding men. “Very well, I shall come.”

  She got up from the cushion she had been kneeling on, then leaned down to kiss her husband’s hand.

  “I won’t be gone long,” she said, her expression torn. She clung to her husband’s hand, and seemed unwilling to let it go. “He’s probably just scared. You know how he gets.”

  “Go,” said Hektor. “I’m sure he needs you more than I do. I’ll be here when you get back.” He smiled up at her reassuringly, and let go of her hand.

  Andromache hurried from the hall, with the slave woman following at her heels.

  She had been gone a short while when a voice called Helen’s attention from her spinning.

  “Helen.”

  She glanced around to see Hektor looking toward her.

  “Would you mind sharing your water?” She saw that his cup stood empty, and gave a shy nod. She picked up the jug from the table beside her and stepped toward his mattress. Helen was surprised that he had asked her of all the women in the hall, but she supposed she had been close by, and the others were more occupied than she. When she reached his bed, she knelt on the cushion Andromache had been using and began to fill Hektor’s cup. Her hands shook a little as she tipped the jug, which only made her more self-conscious. She so admired Hektor, and while part of her was pleased that he had asked for her help, she felt nervous under his scrutiny.

  Suddenly, as she poured and the sile
nce stretched between them, Helen felt she had to say something, while she had this chance.

  “I am sorry, you know,” she murmured. “For everything that has happened.” Her eyes flicked to his and away again. “I never realized what coming here would mean and . . . I know that you think me a fool. But I didn’t mean for anyone to die because of me.”

  She could feel his eyes on her as she stared down at her knees, her small words sinking into the silence.

  “If I think you are a fool, it is for loving my brother,” he said.

  She looked up cautiously.

  “I have thought of trying to leave him. Leave the city,” she whispered. “Even now I could give myself up to the Greeks. I thought maybe—”

  “It would make no difference,” Hektor sighed. “Not now. Maybe not even in the beginning. This war is about more than you, Helen.”

  She didn’t know whether he meant to alleviate her guilt or chastise her self-importance. But he didn’t look angry. Just sad. Whatever his meaning, she felt something shift inside her, as if a heavy weight had been lifted a little.

  As she put the jug down on the stone floor, a shadow fell over her. She looked up to see the scowling face of Andromache.

  No words were needed. Helen left the jug and hurried to her feet. Without meeting Andromache’s eyes again, she scurried back to her chair in the corner and took up her distaff.

  When she dared to look up, she saw that Andromache had resumed her place on the cushion and was holding her husband’s cheek in her delicate hand. They were speaking in low tones that Helen could not hear.

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon when the messenger arrived. A young man, healthy and fit, yet his face was gray as he entered the hall.

  “Lady Laothoe.”

  Somehow his fractured voice carried through the hall, and a hush fell.

  “Lady Laothoe,” he said again, as she stepped out from a cluster of finely dressed women. She was the youngest of King Priam’s wives—younger than Helen—with large, pale eyes.

  “I bring news that your two sons have been killed, my lady.” He bowed his head. “Their bodies are being borne to the citadel.”

  “M-my sons?” she asked, her fair face confused. “No, you must be mistaken. They weren’t . . . they weren’t in the fighting. The king said they were too young. It can’t be them.” Her voice sounded far away, and her large eyes shone.

  “It is them, my lady. Lord Polydoros was running spears down to the men, and Lord Lykaon was helping to bear back the injured. Both were cut down by the one they call Achilles. There were many who saw.”

  Without warning, a terrible cry broke from Laothoe’s mouth. The women near her rushed to stop her from falling as painful sobs began to rack her body.

  “I need to see them,” Helen heard her mumble. “They can’t be alone. I need to be with them.”

  It made Helen’s chest tight to watch her, to hear the pain in her voice. She had seen the two boys running around the citadel over the years. The youngest of Paris’s brothers, they had been small children when the war began. Now it had claimed them both, before their first beards had grown.

  Once she was steady enough to walk, Laothoe was led from the hall with some of her companions, taken to tend the corpses of her only children. It made Helen feel angry and guilty at once. How many more lives would the gods demand in payment for her folly? She squeezed her distaff until the wood cracked. But then another sound turned her head.

  “No! Hektor, please!”

  Andromache was clinging to her husband’s forearm as he stood beside his mattress.

  “What kind of a man kills little boys?” he thundered, raising his voice to the hall. “I will give the Greeks a real man to contend with.”

  His bruised chest heaved with rage as he began to strap his corselet about it.

  “Please, Hektor,” Andromache begged again, her eyes wide with a desperate fear. “Please. Don’t go out there.”

  Suddenly another voice sounded through the hall.

  “She is right, brother,” said Kassandra, her words soft but clear. “You would be right to fear Achilles. He has killed many men today. His violence is at its highest swell. You should wait until it ebbs.”

  But it was as if Hektor could not hear her. He bent to put on his greaves—his face creasing in pain as he did. Andromache wept as she stood helplessly beside him.

  “Today’s fighting is already over, brother,” Kassandra continued, stepping toward him. “Save your strength for another day.”

  Hektor put his helmet over his head, as if to block out her words.

  “Please,” Andromache begged a final time, pressing her hands to his face. “Please, husband.”

  He stopped and looked down at her, stroking her wet cheek with his hand. “I fight for you, and for Troy.”

  And with that Hektor strode from the hall, Andromache hurrying behind him.

  The hall was silent for some time, as if Hektor had taken the very air with him. Helen sat motionless, her distaff abandoned on her lap. She had heard terrible things about Achilles. They said he was the most deadly of all the Greeks. The fastest on his feet, the strongest with a spear. Hektor was the greatest of the Trojans, but he was wounded. Fear grew in Helen’s stomach, grabbing at her insides and twisting them like rope.

  As she sat, she began to feel a familiar sensation—that of eyes boring into her, of anger and sorrow hurled at her as if they were sharpened spears. She glanced up from her lap to see hate-filled faces, despairing and afraid faces, pointed at her. She imagined that every face in the room was turned to her, though she didn’t dare look up long enough to know. She wanted to find Kassandra’s face among them. To find one pair of friendly eyes. But she was afraid of what she might see there instead.

  So she ran. She left her wool and hurried from the hall, head bowed. She would go back to her chamber. Paris would have forgiven her by now. He had to. She couldn’t stand to be so alone.

  She made her way through the citadel, avoiding the gaze of those she passed, veil drawn across her face. It was as she was crossing the courtyard to Paris’s chamber that she heard it. A terrible scream that made her stop dead.

  And as she stood and listened, it turned into a wail. Like a wounded animal, a wild and formless sound. Pure emotion pouring from a throat. And then it spread and began to sound from other directions. And soon it was as if the whole city were wailing, one body with a thousand voices.

  Helen’s heart was clenching painfully as she turned back the way she had come. Then up, up, climbing the stairs to the battlements. She could barely breathe as she stumbled forward to clasp the wall, looking over it to the plain below.

  It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. There outside the city, in plain view from both its walls, a chariot drove back and forth. And behind it, ankles bound with rope, there dragged a body. The flesh was torn, black blood mixed with dust, and the head bounced against the stony ground.

  Helen knew it was Hektor. Just as she knew it was Achilles who drove the chariot. The city was mourning the death of its prince, the loss of its protector.

  A sudden sickening sob rose in her throat and she looked away. She could not bear to look upon that body, so disgraced and lightless. It made her feel nauseous. It made her chest feel as if it were being crushed.

  She leaned against the wall to steady herself, taking in stabbing lungfuls of air. And there below, on the outer wall above the Skaian Gate, only a stone’s throw from where she herself stood, Helen saw the figure of Andromache. Her black hair streamed wild in the wind, whipping about her as she screamed and sobbed, clawing at her breast, at the white skin of her bare arms. Helen realized that this had been the poor creature to utter that first piercing death knell, and she watched as Andromache’s grief poured out of her in an unending stream. Beside her stood the dark figure of Queen Hekabe
, quite still beside the storm of Andromache, though Helen could see her aged shoulders shake as she watched the ravaged corpse of her firstborn dragged before her.

  All around Helen the city continued to wail, the sound growing louder as the news spread. Her tears fell silently, streaming down her cheeks as she stood alone with her grief.

  Hektor, the Lord of Troy, was dead.

  CHAPTER 53

  HELEN

  SEVERAL MONTHS LATER

  Helen awoke suddenly, surfacing from a deep dream that was forgotten as soon as she left it. The chamber was dark. Paris lay beside her, unstirred. So what had woken her?

  She turned over to burrow back into the warm bedding. And then she heard it. A shout. And then another. And a woman’s scream.

  “Paris.”

  She shook his shoulder, an ear still turned to the open window.

  “Paris. Wake up.”

  He grunted, and she shook harder.

  “Do you hear that? Something’s happening.”

  “Hear what? I don’t hear—”

  But then there was a crash of wood, distant but not so distant. And more shouts.

  Paris was sitting up now.

  “It may be nothing,” he said. “A brawl in the lower town.” And yet even in the darkness Helen could see that he looked afraid.

  He stood up from the bed and began to put on his tunic. Helen groped around for the dress she had discarded that evening and hastily threw it over herself, fixing the shoulder pins with fumbling hands.

  When they were both dressed and sandaled they left the chamber, stepping into the moonlit courtyard. There was more shouting now, or perhaps they could hear it better. Helen thought she heard the clang of metal too.

  “Cousin!” Suddenly Paris hurried forward, spotting Aineias across the courtyard. “What is happening?”

  “I don’t know,” Aineias replied, looking as fresh from sleep as they were. “I heard the shouts and—”

  “I’m going to the wall,” said Paris, putting a hand on his cousin’s shoulder.