Helen of Sparta

by Amalia Carosella

  When I had managed to climb back in through the window, tripping over a stool and nearly falling over a table, my mother had been waiting for me. A servant had seen me talking with Menelaus and Pollux, and said as much to Leda.

  “I am sorry for leaving my room. I only wanted to see your return to the city.” I bowed my head, trying to ignore my father’s guest. Ajax the Great stared at me beneath hooded eyes, and I wished I did not have an audience for my disgrace.

  “But you do not apologize for speaking ill of the gods.”

  I glanced at my father’s face, trying to judge his mood. His expression was empty of emotion, a perfect mask for a king. Pollux sat on one of the low benches skirting the interior of the megaron. I was not sure why, or what he had said to Tyndareus, but after this afternoon, I did not trust that he would keep my secret for much longer.

  “I only said that they were fickle.” I raised my chin to match my mother’s. This much, I did not deserve punishment for.

  Ajax’s roar of laughter startled me into stepping back. He leaned against a pillar painted with lightning bolts, one of four central columns set around the hearth, each with the symbols of a different god. He was so immense a man that I wondered the stone did not move from the weight of him.

  “You would have her punished,” he gasped between laughs, “for speaking so plain a truth? One every child should grasp at the earliest age?”

  Tyndareus rubbed his forehead. He studied me for a long moment, waiting for Ajax to regain himself. His eyes were tight and dark, his expression weary. He dropped his hand back to the arm of his chair and sighed.

  “Knowing this and proclaiming it are two different things, I fear. Can you not see, Helen, how this might offend them? We should not criticize the gods in any small way. Your mother and I know this better than most.” He took Leda’s hand, and I looked away from the intimacy of the gesture.

  “I cannot put my fate in their hands, Father. I cannot trust them.”

  “I do not blame you for your fears, Helen, and Ajax is right that I cannot punish you for speaking honestly. But nor will I turn a blind eye to insult beneath my roof. You will make an offering to Zeus directly after the morning meal, begging his forgiveness.”

  “But my lessons—”

  “Alcyoneus has taught you quite enough.” And I knew then that he had guessed where I had learned how to make the dye. “One day missed will hurt nothing.”

  I bowed my head again. “Yes, Father.”

  “Let me see your hair, Helen.”

  I swallowed hard, glancing quickly at Ajax, who had straightened and fallen silent at my father’s words. At least he was not the other Ajax, from my dreams. Even the thought of standing in the same room with Ajax of Locris made my stomach twist into knots.

  I unwound the scarf from around my face and hair, staring hard at my father’s sandaled feet as I did so. Tyndareus rose, coming toward me. He took my chin in his hand and raised my face to his, giving me no choice but to look at him. His mouth formed a thin line, and his brown eyes narrowed. The way he looked at me, inspecting the damage I had done to my beauty, reminded me of Agamemnon’s touch in my dreams. But Tyndareus, my true father or not, would never hurt me.

  “I do not think I need to ask why you have done this, Daughter, but it grieves me all the same.” He met my eyes, and I could not look away. “I am sorry that you have been driven to this, but I did not think there was purpose in sheltering you from the truth of your birth and the danger of your beauty. I would not see a daughter of mine kept in ignorance and shadow. You deserved the light of knowledge.”

  “I just wanted to be free,” I said. Tears burned behind my eyes.

  I had not expected his understanding, his grief. Disappointment in me I could have lived with, but I could see he blamed himself for the second rape my mother had suffered by Zeus, from which I had been born, and for the future my beauty threatened. Tyndareus did not just fear the men who might abuse me, but the gods as well.

  “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  He squeezed my shoulder and let me go. “For disobeying your mother, you will be forbidden from the feast. A servant will bring you dinner in your room, and this time, you will not leave it. Do you understand me?”

  I nodded. It was a much kinder punishment than I deserved, and I saw Leda glaring at me over his shoulder. She did not think it severe enough, either, but would not contradict Tyndareus in front of his guest. Perhaps that was his purpose in keeping Ajax near. If so, I was grateful.

  “In the morning, you will allow your mother to cut your hair. I will not tolerate any further trouble in this regard, Helen. You must accept who you are, and learn to live as the gods made you.” He turned from me, toward the dais. “Pollux, escort your sister. She is to go directly to the women’s quarters.”

  “Of course, Father.” Pollux came forward, waving me ahead of him.

  “Even with the ruin of her hair,” I heard Ajax say before I left the megaron, “she is still beautiful, Tyndareus. She would make any man a fine wife.”

  “She would make any man a fine queen, my friend,” Tyndareus said.

  Then the door closed behind us, and Pollux and I were alone.

  “Tyndareus was very kind to you,” my brother said, “but you should have told him the truth.”

  “I will.” I glanced up at his face. He walked stiffly beside me, eyes straight ahead. “But you can hardly expect me to confess my nightmares in front of Leda and Ajax the Great. It is a private matter, for his ears alone.”

  “And what of Menelaus?”

  I frowned, trailing my fingers along the painted oak branches on the wall as an excuse not to look at him. We’d had this conversation dozens of times. “You heard Tyndareus. I’m to remain in my room.”

  “Helen, you can’t really be serious. Rejecting Menelaus’s friendship, hiding the truth. If the dreams reveal your fate, he is to be your husband!”

  I whirled, grabbing him by the arm, but I pulled him to a stop only because he let me. He was so strong, now, so adult. The next time Tyndareus went to war, Pollux would go with him. And the time after that, he and Castor would lead the soldiers themselves. Would he lead men in the burning city for Menelaus as well? Would my brothers die there, with all the others?

  “Promise me you will not tell him!”

  Pollux searched my face, but he did not reply at once.

  “Promise me, Pollux! Whatever happens, I must not marry Menelaus, and if he knows, it will only encourage him to love me.”

  He sighed. “Helen, with your marriage goes the kingdom of Sparta. Tyndareus will not choose a husband for you based on love. The best you can hope for is a friend. A man who will respect you. Menelaus will be that man, and he will be a good king for our people. You cannot ask for more than that.”

  “I can ask for peace. I can ask for war to be averted. There are other men,” I said. “Greater men than Menelaus.”

  Pollux shook his head. “You sound like Leda. To hear her talk, you would think the great hero Heracles or King Theseus had already asked for your hand. There is no shame in an alliance with Mycenae.”

  I flushed and began walking again. We were not far from the women’s quarters, and Pollux would not be able to follow me there. Only the king could walk within that part of the palace; all other men were forbidden. When I saw the curtained entrance, I ran toward it.

  “Helen, wait!”

  I glanced back over my shoulder as I pulled open the curtain. “Enjoy the banquet, Brother.” And then I let the fabric drop, cutting off his reply.

  The stranger holds me by the hand, drawing me past stalls of colored fabrics in brilliant purples and blues, even the rarest greens, and stands that overflow with finely wrought gold and silver in quantities that make even Agamemnon seem poor. The people around us smile, bowing as we pass, and the merchants call to us, waving their goods in the air.
He looks back at me, grinning, his pale brown eyes alight with joy, and my breath catches. For the space of a heartbeat, I wonder if I came with him willingly.

  The thought startles me, and I try to pull my hand free, but he does not let go. His smile fades and he tugs me closer, his fingers twining through mine. For all that he laughs and smiles, his grip is too tight, as though he fears I will free myself and run.

  “Is my city not beautiful?” he asks.

  We stand at a jeweler’s stall. The man lays out a variety of gemstones before us. One is an emerald larger than my thumbnail. The jeweler grins, holding it up. “To match your eyes! Any setting that you desire, I can make.”

  I shake my head with a smile and step back.

  “It is very beautiful,” I agree.

  “All of it can be yours, Helen.” The stranger pulls me into his arms, and the heat of him burns through me. “If you will be my wife.”

  I look back at the merchant with his emerald, at all the bright colors, and all the people.

  It turns to ash before me. The reds and golds and purples flame into smoke and shadow and darkness, stinging my eyes. I cough and push the stranger away, but he will not let go. He buries his face in my hair, his arm around my waist holding me firm. His lips move against my neck and throat, trailing fire with kisses, while the world is torn with screaming women and crying children, running through the streets.

  “Helen,” he murmurs, as though we are lovers. “Helen.”

  “No.” I shove at his chest, but he does not move. “No! They’re dying! Can’t you see? Everyone will die!”

  “Helen?” This time the voice is louder, no longer a whisper of passion. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and try to knock it away. I have to get free. I have to hide. Ajax will find me. And then Agamemnon—

  “Helen, wake up.”

  My eyes flew open, and I screamed at the shape leaning over me. A hand clapped over my mouth, half suffocating me, with a hissed plea for quiet. The form bent closer, and I struggled to free myself, biting the hand and digging my nails into the arm behind it.

  “Helen, stop!”

  I stilled at once, blinking. My vision cleared as the tears slipped down my cheeks, and I could see Menelaus’s face, the red of his hair shining copper in the moonlight. He sat on the edge of the bed.

  “It was just a dream,” he murmured.

  He waited another moment after I quieted, then removed his hand from my mouth. I stared at him, my heart racing, and pulled the blanket up over my chest.

  He brushed the moisture from my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “What—” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. I must have been screaming in my sleep. The noise of the banquet floated through my window, drunk men laughing and singing and stumbling through the courtyard. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard you crying from below. You sounded terrified.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.” I sat up with the realization. Clytemnestra? No, she was not back yet, or she would be shrieking now. But she could return at any time. And Leda. She might check on me, to be sure I was still in my room after what I had done today.

  “Shh,” he said, pressing me back. His breath smelled of wine. “Your mother is still at the banquet.” He snorted. “And Nestra is so busy flirting with your father’s guests, I think she’ll forget to sleep tonight. I have never seen a woman her age so desperate for a husband.”

  “Please, you cannot be here. If Leda finds out, she will have me whipped.”

  “If Leda finds out, she will have you married. And how is it, Helen, that Nestra, in everything your junior, has become a woman when you have not?”

  I froze at his words. Was that why he was here? To claim me? The wine had certainly given him courage, to bring him through my window in the middle of the night. But he was right. Better to have me married than dishonored. Leda would make me his bride if she found him here, even if he had not touched me. My hands closed into fists in the linens.

  “I think you had too much to drink at the banquet, Menelaus.”

  He stroked my hair, winding his fingers through it. “I could not listen to you cry and do nothing. What do you dream of that upsets you so? Your brother refuses to speak of it at all now, and Nestra will only say that you weep.”

  I closed my eyes and turned my face away. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You never kept secrets from me before.” His hand fell away from my face. “I wish I knew what I had done to lose your trust. To lose your friendship, after all this time. Have I not always treated you kindly? Have I not always kept my word to you in everything?”

  The pain in his voice cut through my heart, and I caught his hand. Sword work and spear throwing had calloused his palms, and he wore a heavy ring now, on his thumb. My fingers brushed over it, imagining the lion carved into the gold, the mark of a true prince of Mycenae.

  “Leda says I must remain distant from my suitors.” It was the only excuse I could give him, and I clung to it. “I must trust my father to choose the best man for Sparta.”

  “And you think I am your suitor?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Oh, Helen.” He raised my hand to his face, pressing it to his lips, then his cheek, roughened with stubble. The moonlight washed the bronze from his skin and hid the breadth of his shoulders, and, for a moment, I saw the boy who had been a brother to me. “There is not a man who has seen you who does not wait for the day that Tyndareus calls us to compete for your hand. But I missed your friendship sorely. Did it mean so little to you?”

  I pulled my hand free, glad that it was dark and he could not see my face flush. “It meant the world to me.”

  “Then why, Helen? Would it be so terrible to marry your friend?”

  The pressure behind my eyes made his face swim into shadow. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

  He was silent for a heartbeat; then he laughed, low and gentle. “Why would I?”

  “You will!”

  My voice rose, and he hushed me, touching a finger to my lips. I pushed it away, sitting up. My hand found his knee, and I gripped it so hard, he hissed.

  “You want to know what I dream of? I dream of war, Menelaus. The world turned to ash and fire. A golden city that burns while I hide in a temple, begging the gods to protect me, and then Ajax of Locris—”

  I stopped. I did not want to think of Ajax the Lesser. I did not want to speak of it, for fear I would have the dream again. My father worried about the gods, but it would not be the gods who abused me.

  “Menelaus, in my dream, you hate me. There is no love between us, no kindness, no friendship. All of it is gone. And so many die, so many. I cannot risk it. You have to understand. Please.”

  He stared at me, and even in the dark I saw the whites of his eyes. He shook his head slowly, as if denying my words, and his hand covered mine on his leg, wrapping around it. His other hand was in my hair again, his fingers threading through the strands and cradling my head.

  I smothered a sob, but he pulled me to him, pressing my face against his shoulder and holding me in his lap while I cried the tears I could no longer hold back. He stroked my hair and wrapped his arm around my waist, rocking me against his body, warm and solid, and as familiar as the scent of leather and wood smoke that clung to his tunic.

  “It is only a dream, Helen.”

  But I did not think he believed it, either.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Leda came to me not long after dawn, touching my shoulder to wake me, and pressing a finger to her lips when I would have spoken. Clytemnestra had not come to bed until the birds had started their early songs, and she slept like the dead beside me, her breath foul.

  I dressed and followed Leda from the room. Slaves already ducked in and out of the other sleeping rooms, linens draped over their arms. Morning light poured into
the hall through high-cut windows where the roof of the corridor rose taller than the rooms on either side. It painted the plaster walls sky blue, giving life to the purple-and-gold-feathered peacocks, which chased one another along the bottom third.

  My mother had forbidden any symbols of Zeus in the women’s quarters, choosing to honor Hera instead. But Zeus’s wife was not known for her sympathy when it came to those women her husband had taken interest in. Proof, I thought, that these gods were not worth our regard, if Hera could be so cruel.

  Leda brought me to the baths, where she bade me sit on a high stool while she cut my hair. The sound of the shears filled my ears, and I held still as the strands fell around me to the limestone floor, like so much flotsam in the painted waves. The terra-cotta tub where she had scrubbed the dye from my hair still bore darker brown splotches in the grooves of the fish swimming along its edges.

  It had been for nothing. But I was not certain if I was more worried or pleased that Menelaus loved me for more than just my looks. We still could not marry. I still should not be his friend any longer. I had not realized how difficult a habit it would be to break.

  “Undress, Helen.”

  Leda’s voice was even and soft, but my nails dug into the wood of the stool.

  “You may as well bathe, or you’ll be scratching at yourself all day. I won’t have a princess of Sparta fidgeting in her seat.”

  I had known from the beginning that it was only a matter of time, but I had hoped to hide my bleeding for another month or two. Until Menelaus left again, at the least. If I bathed now, in front of Leda, in front of Leda’s servants, she would know the truth at once and my childhood would be over. Tyndareus could not afford to put off my marriage for too long once it was known I had become a woman. The sooner I had a husband, the sooner Tyndareus could begin to teach him about the kingdom he would inherit, and secure the succession.