Helen of Sparta

by Amalia Carosella

  It was the only measure of time I had, that growing urge, and the heaviness of my eyelids, and the pain of sitting in such a small, confining space for so long. I counted again. Each prick of the straw through the blanket, each scratch and scrabble of the rats, each heartbeat filling my ears so loudly, I thought I would scream. And then they were inside. Crawling over me, biting my arms and legs and back and scratching at my skin with their sharp-clawed naked paws.

  I swatted them away, crying, sucking back sobs and screams for fear the men might hear, and they couldn’t, or Menelaus would come, and steal me back, and fire would swallow me whole. The rats would burn, all char and ash and smoke and the stink of singed flesh and fur, choking me, gagging me until the bile rose, sickly sweet and bitter on the back of my tongue. I swallowed back my own vomit, afraid to give them more to eat, and curled into the smallest ball possible, covering my face and head, and weeping into the blankets and straw until I had no tears left.

  Was escaping Menelaus worth this? I imagined Theseus discovering me three days from now, flea-bitten and half-eaten by rats, covered in my own waste. I would be dead. I would be dead and dead and dead, and the war would not come, because I would not live to be stolen again.

  The thud of wood against wood brought me out of a doze, and I stiffened, listening hard for any sound, any sign of who it might be. If it was one of Theseus’s men, I did not dare even to breathe too loudly. If it was Ariston—oh please let it be Ariston. I bit my finger to stop a whimper of need. Ariston, Ariston, Ariston, and the freedom to stretch my legs at last, at last, at last. And relief. My thoughts veered away from the temptation, for if I thought about it any further, I would lose control.

  “Princess?” Ariston called softly, and I cried out. He hushed me almost as quickly, fumbling with the ropes that secured me inside. “I could not risk coming sooner. Forgive me for making you wait so long—the men are asleep. I brought you food and water.”

  I groaned, even the word making me desperate. “Hurry. Please.”

  The lid came off, and hands caught me up. A strangled cry broke from my throat, my muscles so sore, burning now that I might move. I tripped over the edge of the basket, and my legs gave out the moment Ariston released me. But I did not care, even when my knees stung, scraped on the rough boards.

  “A pot, I beg of you.”

  “Here.” He helped me up, guided me toward the overbright lamplight. I had been in the dark for so long, it was blinding. “Careful, my lady. Watch your head.”

  He steadied me as I took my relief, then supported me as I stood, both of us half-stooped. “Three days.”

  “Just two, now,” Ariston said softly. “Perhaps if I gave you a potion for the discomfort.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I thought I could, but I can’t. Don’t make me go back, please. Don’t shut me inside again, in the dark, with the rats. They gnaw at the sides, chew through me.”

  “Rats?” Ariston frowned. “There are no rats on this ship, my lady.”

  I shook my head. “I can hear them, feel them biting and clawing, crawling all over—”

  “A potion for your discomfort, and to help you sleep as well,” Ariston said. “It will help the time to pass more swiftly.”

  “The nightmares—”

  “Better to risk them than risk your mind altogether.” He sat me upon a chest, then turned back to the lamp and the supplies he had brought, taking a pinch of some powder and mixing it with another in a cup. “Not too much water, or you will not last until I can return again.”

  I closed my eyes, leaning back against a bundle of some other good. It was too dark to see outside the circle of Ariston’s light, and I was tired. So tired.

  “Drink this, my lady,” Ariston said sometime later, holding a cup to my lips.

  I did not have the strength to argue.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It would have been faster if Theseus had ridden a single horse, rather than hitched the team and gone by chariot to the coast, but he did not dare appear too much in haste. Pirithous had taken the worst of the suspicion after so many had witnessed the kiss on the practice field. The temptation to break Pirithous’s jaw for that imposition had nearly won out, but Theseus resisted. No wonder Helen had hesitated to travel with Pirithous when he had led her from the city.

  “It was kind of you to give us your aid, King Theseus,” Leda said.

  Her face was still pinched and gray over her daughter’s disappearance, but Theseus wondered if part of it was not fear for what the sons of Atreus might do to her for losing their prize.

  The news of Helen’s abduction had flown through the palace almost before Clymene had whispered it in Tyndareus’s ear. Menelaus had glared blackly at anyone and everyone who came too near or drew too much attention, and more than once it had nearly come to bloodshed in Tyndareus’s hall. Somehow, Agamemnon had kept his head and prevented his brother from such a breach of conduct, but only by luck and the grace of the gods. Ajax the Lesser had been so insulted by Menelaus’s baseless accusations that the man had left for home, which had served Theseus well enough. Pirithous had told him Helen’s words at the practice field, and he could not even look on Ajax of Locris without envisioning the future that Helen saw.

  “It was only right to offer you what help I could, as your guest,” Theseus said, checking the horses’ hooves and bridles. “But I am afraid I cannot put off my departure any longer. Athena has given me the sign, and I must obey.”

  “Of course,” Tyndareus said. “May the gods give you a safe and swift journey home to Athens, by land and sea.”

  “I will keep my eyes and ears open for any sign of your daughter, sir. If word comes to me in any form, you shall hear of it at once.”

  “You will have my eternal gratitude if you see her safely found and returned home, King Theseus,” Tyndareus said. “And, ah, if you hear from King Pirithous?”

  He had not been pleased with Pirithous’s plan to flee almost before they had begun searching. Theseus thought it went too far, but as Pirithous could be accounted for by several of the servants, maids no longer, Agamemnon had been persuaded not to mount an offensive against the king of the Lapiths. Theseus could not deny the diversion had helped, but the conduct was unseemly.

  He clasped hands with Tyndareus and tried not to let the man’s trust disconcert him. He had done what was necessary to preserve Helen as her own father had not. Even Pirithous had agreed that leaving Helen would have been the more grievous offense.

  Theseus did not have to force his scowl, with the thought of all that Tyndareus had not done for his daughter so fresh in his mind. “You can be sure that if Pirithous harbors Helen, I will see her delivered back into your hands.”

  The horses stamped as he took his place in the chariot, then lurched ahead with the order to move off. The men who had driven the cattle and livestock for sacrifice over land by the Isthmus road would return now by sea as would the guards who had come with him. None of his men would think it amiss if their king traveled ahead once they put the city behind them.

  It had been three full days since Helen’s abduction, and it would be four by the time he reached Gytheio. The only good to come from his delay would be the time it gave Ariston to arrange things above ship to accommodate her needs. He’d ordered a tent pitched, enclosed on all sides on deck—not so unusual for summer sailing. It would be small, fitted against the bow and barely large enough for himself, never mind the two of them, but it would allow her to stretch her legs and lie flat to sleep after days in the basket. At least it would be better than the pitch-black hold.

  Theseus rode without stopping, pushing the horses hard. The others fell back, and he did not give them so much as a glance over his shoulder. Freed of the party and the press of people and animals at their sides, Theseus gave the stallions their heads.

  All he could think of was Helen.

  His men
cheered from the ship when they caught sight of him at the shore, Ariston among them. The tent made an odd hump on the deck, almost the same brown as the wooden planks and larger than he had expected. The oars were still drawn into their banks, and the square sail had been laid flat on the rocks where two men mended small tears in the fabric.

  Theseus dismounted with little ceremony, giving orders to the man who met his horses to see them sold. He leapt to the deck.

  “My lord,” Ariston greeted him. “All is arranged as you wished.”

  He clapped the physician on the shoulder. “Well done, Ariston. See the basket brought up to my tent as soon as it can be arranged.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Theseus let the man go, unwilling to ask about Helen’s welfare with so many who might hear. He clasped hands with his men and grinned at their enthusiasm to be back upon the sea.

  “Will we raid up the coast?” one man asked. The others seconded the suggestion.

  Theseus shook his head. “Not this trip. Athena has given me her sign. We are needed at home, and I would not have delayed even this long if it had not been for the loss of the princess.”

  A mumble rose from the men that he understood as their acknowledgment. The news had been spread to every town within two days’ ride of Sparta, and Gytheio, as the nearest port, would have been among the first to know.

  “We wait only for the rest of the party, and then we sail with the tide,” he told them. “Those of you with any business in town, see to it now and be back well before then. I will not wait.”

  A few chuckled, and a few more took his suggestion, vaulting overboard to settle their accounts or find the relief of a woman before they set sail. Others went about securing the sail back to the mast, climbing up and down with the ease of long practice. He was anxious to see Helen, but forced himself to wait and speak with the men until they had settled and he could slip away without drawing too much notice.

  After a time, Ariston and another man hauled the basket up from the hold, and Theseus saw it carried into the tent. He waited for the men to leave before calling to Ariston for wine, food, and water for washing. A couple of the older oarsmen teased him for not just bathing in the sea, but he only grinned and waved them off. It made an adequate excuse to see to Helen’s needs.

  He ducked into the tent after Ariston had gone in search of his requirements and thanked the man’s foresight for providing a shielded lamp. Dim light came through the canvas, but that was to be expected with the sun so low in the west. Helen had been in the dark for days.

  The basket seemed smaller than he remembered, and he set his jaw as he untied the knots holding the lid in place and lifted it free.

  Helen’s pale face looked up at him, her hair tangled and dull. She blinked at even the little light inside the tent, and a long moment passed before her eyes focused upon him with any recognition. When they did, she sighed and her arms unwrapped, slow and stiff, from around her knees to reach for him.

  “Helen,” he murmured, pulling her up and out of the container.

  Her body trembled, and she hissed as she stretched muscles that had gone unused for so long. Had she always been so thin?

  Her gaze shifted from his, taking in the room, and she swallowed. Men laughed outside, and she flinched from the sound. Ariston ducked under the flap, with a jug of water for washing, food, and drink. The physician bowed his head respectfully and set the things he had brought atop another basket, upturned to serve as a table.

  Ariston poured a measure of wine, and offered it to Helen. “I did take the liberty of adding a potion to the cup,” he said quietly. “For I am certain you cannot be any more comfortable today than you have been the last three.”

  She reached for it, but her hand shook. Theseus helped her to bring it to her lips. She drank it down without complaint or pause.

  “Thank you, Ariston,” Theseus said.

  “If you have further need of me, I will be just outside, my lord. Shall I tell the others you are not to be disturbed?”

  “If they have need of me, but not before.” Theseus set the cup back down, and sat upon a low stool, settling Helen across his lap. “See that it is only you who comes to speak with me, at all costs.”

  Ariston bowed and left.

  Her body liquid against his, Helen rested her head against his shoulder, hiding her face in the curve of his neck. He stroked her hair and held her close.

  “Soon enough, we will be home to Athens,” he murmured in her ear. “But the worst is over now, I promise.”

  “You escaped without suspicion?” she asked, her voice cracked from disuse.

  “With Pirithous’s help and the grace of Athena. I owe them both a debt.” But when she tried to speak again, he hushed her. “We have not left Gytheio yet, and we cannot risk any of the men hearing your voice. Speak only if you must.”

  She made a noise that sounded almost like a grunt and wrapped her arm around his neck. With one hand he refilled the cup with wine, and when he moved to drink it, she lifted her head, guiding the cup to her lips instead. He helped her drink, then finished what she could not.

  “Don’t put me back in the basket,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “Shh.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re free of it now. You’re free.”

  She shuddered once against him, then relaxed. From the way her arm fell limp back to her lap, he thought she slept.

  The rest of his men arrived not much later, and he heard them come aboard, laughing and joking with the others. Ariston ducked into the tent and, seeing Helen asleep, spread blankets on the deck. Theseus set her down carefully, but she stirred, her eyes fluttering open with a groan when her limbs were moved. She gripped a handful of his tunic when he made to stand.

  “Don’t leave me.”

  He pried her fingers free from the linen and stroked her hair. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.”

  She sighed and turned her face away.

  “Stay with her,” he ordered Ariston, and left the tent.

  “My lord!” The master of the ship raised his fist to his forehead in salute. Theseus had brought the man back from Crete years ago, and now the entirety of his navy followed the Cretan custom in showing their respect. “We are ready to sail.”

  Theseus glanced over the bronzed backs of his men, seated at their oars. A bank of fifteen lined each side and no bench was empty. The handful of extra men, those who had driven the cattle, waited at the stern to push the ship back out into the sea before they might leap aboard. “Everyone’s accounted for?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “The sacrifices have been made twice over to my father, and Athena has promised us her protection on this voyage.” He nodded to the water, the tide beginning to pull away from the shore.

  In the moonlight the water was all black, but he felt it tugging at his bones. An affinity for the sea’s mood came with being Poseidon’s son, and it had served him well. He’d never lost a ship, never sailed into a storm. It was a calm night; Athena had honored her promise.

  “Push off and take us home.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The shipmaster saluted again and turned, calling out the order to the men. Wood scraped over sand, the ship carving a path into deeper water as smoothly as a swan, even while the men splashed around it, scrambling onto the deck again. A drummer at the prow beat the time, and the men took their first stroke. The ship creaked its own sigh of relief as it broke from the shore, echoed by the men who manned it and the flap of the great red sail in the wind.

  Theseus walked the length of the deck, stopping to greet those he had missed earlier. He touched a hand to a shoulder here or an arm there, welcoming them back by name. They smiled, offering their own salutes when they were able and their nods when they were not.

  “I’ll be inside,” he told the shipmaster when he had finished. “Send Ariston for
me if I am needed.”

  The shipmaster bowed, and Theseus left them. They did not need him standing over them, urging them on.

  He pushed open the tent flap and entered. Ariston had lit the shielded lamp, and Theseus was pleased to see the light did not carry through the canvas with shadows. Helen would be able to rise and walk if she desired.

  She reached for him, and he took her hand. Cold fingers closed around his own.

  “Sit with me?” She offered him a weak smile. “Or are you too great a king and hero to sit on the deck?”

  He smiled, too, his heart easing at the return of her humor. “I am not too great to do anything that brings you comfort.”

  Theseus nodded to Ariston, and the man rose and left.

  Helen struggled upright, and it took all his will to let her do so without help. She seemed so determined, he did not dare offer it. Her jaw clenched, and while she might have groaned, she made no other sound of discomfort.

  She patted the blanket, and he lowered himself to the deck beside her. Leaning against him with a sigh, she said, “Can we speak more freely now that we’ve left port?”

  “The drum and the creaking of the oars should keep our voices from their ears as long as we do not shout.” He wrapped his arm around her, and when she shivered, he pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. “You’re so cold.”

  She made a low noise in her throat, like a hum. “I feel much better now. And the cold will pass. It’s the darkness I can’t abide. And the silence. How long was I below?”

  “Four days.” He rubbed her arm to warm the skin. “I could not return sooner, though I wished to. Every night away from you I spent sleepless, thinking of what you must be enduring.”

  “I am well, Theseus, truly.” She smiled when he frowned, searching her face in the dim lamplight. “I’ll recover quickly now. You’ll see. Just do not leave me alone in the dark.”