by Amanda Elyot
“I intend to go on raiding parties with my brother.”
I let that response pass unremarked for the time being, but said instead, “Then who do you expect will govern Sparta in your absence?” Before my wedding, Clytemnestra had drawn me aside and quietly informed me that during Agamemnon’s frequent freebooting expeditions, she had become High King of Mycenae in all but name. Although her husband was largely ignorant of the extent of her influence, while he was away, my sister heard petitions, mediated disputes, and controlled the stewardship of the wealthiest realm in all Achaea with the efficiency of a military commander. Still, between the lines, it was evident that she was not a happy woman. She had hated carrying the seed of Agamemnon in her belly and was not as sorry as I had originally believed that her womb had rejected the baby, given the alacrity with which she accepted my Iphigenia. Her second husband was a rough lover, quick to take his pleasure of her body without seeing to hers. And yet he slaked his sensual thirsts on serving women when it suited him. Adultery was a crime punishable by death, the retribution often sought by the legitimate offspring of the transgressor, but when one is High King of Mycenae, the rules of conduct do not apply. Or at least that was the way Agamemnon behaved, to read Clytemnestra’s words. Not only that, but he was also a warrior and a raider, and it was common knowledge that plundering a village included the pillage of the treasures between any woman’s thighs. My sister confided that she bore her disgrace with outward dignity and had mastered well the art of patience. There would come a time, she disclosed, when Agamemnon would be punished for his numerous infidelities.
I glanced at Menelaus and wondered if he would follow his brother down the same adulterous path. He looked to Agamemnon for guidance in all things, much to my disgust. A single night in my husband’s bed had taught me that he was nearly indifferent to the nuances of sex, although that was no indication whether he might force his inept attentions on others. Yet his temper was quick to rise when he perceived that I had encouraged the glances of strangers. I, too, was a gilded possession to Menelaus. And he was not a man to be despoiled of his riches.
When we returned to the palace, the charioteer sprang from his perch to assist me in descending. Along the path to our rooms, Menelaus grasped my upper arm, pinching the tender flesh. “What do you mean by this?” I demanded of him, wrenching my arm away. A discoloration the size of his thumbprint marred the paleness of my skin. At least, owing to my demimortality, the mark would soon disappear.
Menelaus stalked about the room like a lion deprived of his prey. “That man touched your breast!” he said to me angrily.
“What are you talking about?”
“When he lifted you down from the chariot, his hand brushed against your breast. Don’t deny it, Helen. I saw it.”
“I felt nothing,” I said, stunned by his jealous reaction to an act I was not sure had even occurred. “I don’t believe he touched me improperly at all.”
“That is not for you to determine,” Menelaus said, his choler increasing. “I will be the laughing stock of all Achaea if I permit any man to handle my wife, to avail himself of her charms—particularly a common charioteer.”
I had to plead with him not to whip the poor man. “What would you have me do?” I asked Menelaus. “I will not shut myself indoors and shun the world because you married Helen!” My tears and rage began to get the better of me, and I came dangerously close to indiscretion. “There are men far better than you who would be happy to consider me an asset, rather than a detriment, to their lives.”
A scowl darkened my husband’s countenance. “Did he take you to his bed?” Menelaus nearly choked on the question.
“Who?” I asked, although I was sure I knew the answer.
“Theseus. You were not much more than a girl then. Did he rape you?”
Was that the only way the Atridae thought that men took their sexual pleasures? I was angry with his presumption. Not only that, I would defend my first love forever against any attacks on his character and aspersions on the nature of our relationship. I acknowledge that Theseus did not have the most noble reputation; but where I was concerned, his behavior was irreproachable. True, I would have gladly become his bride, but I knew that he had no plans to wed me when I slipped into his bed and urged him to make me a woman. I faced Menelaus and irately met his steel-gray eyes. “No, my lord, Theseus did not rape me,” I said tensely, measuring every word. “And you will never ask me that question again.” Whatever had passed between myself and the king of Athens had happened months before Tyndareus had chosen Menelaus as my husband. I owed the son of Atreus nothing and chafed at his audacity to claim a proprietary interest in me before he had even met me. Already I was regretting the vow I had taken only hours earlier—to look for joy in my marriage. It was the hardest promise I had ever made. And then, there was this . . .
From the flat delivery of his words, I could not discern the primary meaning behind them. Was Menelaus angry or confused? “There was no blood on the sheet this morning,” he said.
He had looked? “I have ridden horses since I was old enough to sit upon them. Do I need to explain to you the effects of horseback riding on a young girl?” I bit my words. Clytemnestra had been right about marrying a son of the House of Atreus. They were all cursed, and it seemed that their wives would be likewise doomed to unhappiness.
Menelaus let the matter drop. But I had been warned. Our union was on rocky shoals and we had been wed less time than it took for Helios to make a single revolution.
THIRTEEN
The months went by, during which Menelaus occupied himself chiefly with his plans to remodel the palace and extend its grounds. Tyndareus seemed perfectly complacent in his orchards, never interfering with Sparta’s governance, as I had suspected he might do. Given his parsimony, I was certain that he would be quick to express his displeasure over what he ordinarily considered unnecessary expenditures. New rooms were to be built, the Great Hall enlarged to rival Mycenae’s throne room, and Menelaus had hired artisans to paint every wall with elaborate frescoes of battle and hunting scenes or to illuminate them with brightly colored borders of flora and fauna. Most of the floors were to be tiled with rich mosaics, utilizing as much Laconian lapis and porphyry as possible. It was not difficult to see that Menelaus was trying hard to outdo his older brother. Now that he had the prettier wife, his next step was to have the prettier palace.
I would spend many hours at my loom in conversation with Aethra. We both agreed that my husband’s behavior was childish at best, and, at the other end of the spectrum, churlish. “It’s because he has no war to fight,” Aethra said, helping me card a fresh basket of wool. “Men need an activity, a project to occupy them or they go mad. They have no ability to be idle, if only for a moment.”
“Indeed, since a modicum of contemplation might make them think twice about what it is they’re about to destroy,” I agreed curtly. Menelaus had made it no secret that he longed to be on a raiding party. As I understood it, for men like my husband and his brother—in fact, for all the Achaean chieftains, according to Menelaus—there was nothing like the fever that I tartly termed plunderlust. To hear him rhapsodize about these expeditions, neither wine, nor women, nor even the chewing of hallucinogenic laurel leaves (as the Pythoness at Delphi did before she made her oracular predictions) could provide a man with the same thrill as sacking a city or town and despoiling its inhabitants and its property in every way.
And this was the man who was going to be a father in a few moons. It took longer for my body to show the obvious effects of pregnancy this time. But I was more ill than I had ever been when I carried Iphigenia. I vomited so often in the mornings that it seemed as though I spent the entire afternoon eating parsley by the bushel to sweeten my breath. All the chamomile tisanes in Achaea availed little. And yet, in the evenings, I had a tremendous appetite for physical affection. At first, Menelaus was happy to comply with my voracious needs, and I looked forward to his caresses and to feeling the sturdy wa
rmth of his body entwined with mine. I pretended to blame my pregnancy for my boldness when I finally achieved the courage to show him how to touch me. I tried to teach his fingers, lips, and tongue to learn my body. Sometimes he was an eager student; on other occasions he expressed impatience and questioned the scope of my desires, calling them unnatural for a woman and branding me a sybarite. I honestly think that he was embarrassed to have a wife who was such a wanton in bed, and the frequency with which I urged him to perform made him ill at ease. The Fates had played a cruel trick on me. Menelaus had married the most beautiful woman in the world; how many men would gladly have exchanged places with him! There were nights when I would humiliate myself begging him to pleasure me. Naturally, he also assumed that I had developed my appetite between Athenian sheets.
As I came closer to term, Menelaus refused to share our bed for fear I would compel him to make love to me. He was certain we would injure our unborn child. I believe he thought I was seeking a way to miscarry because pregnancy temporarily marred my perfect figure. He must truly have thought me a shallow woman. I was not trying to expel my babe prematurely, and any man who thinks a woman takes such a decision lightly is an uncomprehending fool not worthy of being called a man.
My sister, however, did everything she could not to carry Agamemnon’s babe, but to no avail. Clytemnestra sent me word that despite her frequent use of pessaries made from lambswool soaked in lemon juice, her husband’s seed was more powerful than her prophylactics, and she was, unfortunately, with child again. Her hatred for him was as strong as ever. My older sister was never prone to forgiveness; but since the man whose bed she warmed—if he wasn’t with one of his serving women—had slaughtered her husband and baby boy in front of her, I admit that I sympathized with her revulsion. When Tyndareus permitted Agamemnon to wed Clytemnestra, she gave up all faith in the power of love. From that day forward, her concentration was focused on power itself as a means to an end.
It was nearly time. A small, low cot was brought into my rooms to ease the first pains of labor. I lay flat on my back with a soft cushion beneath my buttocks, my feet drawn up together, but with parted thighs. As my cervix began to dilate, Aethra introduced her finger, generously coated with olive oil, at the too-tender opening. I yelped in pain. “It hurts! Cut your nail!” Aethra showed me how short her nails indeed were, but still I acutely felt her efforts to encourage the widening of my womb. When she was satisfied that my cervix was dilated to the size of a hen’s egg, she and Polyxo assisted me in moving to the birthing stool.
Aethra had obtained her own stool so we would never again have to scramble around Sparta to borrow one from another midwife. After Iphigenia was born, I had sent a basket of dates and pomegranates to the generous soul who had laid aside her business to loan us her stool. This time, two palace serving women and Polyxo, who had come all the way from Rhodes just to be with me for the birth, stood by in attendance, so we had the full complement of ladies surrounding me. Polyxo was in a happy mood. She had put on a deal of weight in the past year or two, but she had retained her optimistic spirit, reflected in the warm and genial glow of her moonface.
With your birth, Hermione, my body remembered its lessons, and although I might as well have been standing under a waterfall, so drenched was I with sweat, I found the pushing less of a travail.
And with the element of secrecy removed, I assumed—incorrectly—that there was less of a danger with this birth. I breathed and pushed and screamed and screamed and pushed and breathed, and as your head breached my elastic walls, the room fell silent, save my cries of struggle to expel you. I realized then that there was something terribly wrong. I looked down at Aethra’s grave expression. “What’s the matter?” I thought of Clytemnestra and her stillborn babe. Was I giving birth to death? It had been prophesied that this would be so.
“The cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck,” Aethra said, her voice betraying her level of concern. “You must hurry to push the child from your womb, and I will do my best to save it.” With all the strength I had, I forced my body to obey Aethra’s commands, and a little girl, more blue than pink, was delivered of me. I held my breath and watched Aethra as with all due speed she sought to unwind the umbilical cord from around your tiny throat without causing you further injury. You may not believe this now, Hermione, but I despaired of losing you from the moment you first came into this world. Dear Eileithyia, I prayed to the goddess of childbirth, let her live. I begged her not to punish me for the daughters of Leda’s lack of sympathy toward the sons of Atreus. If my babe survived, I would propitiate the shrine of Eileithyia every day for a month.
After many agonizing moments, Aethra prevailed, and soon your skin began to regain its proper rosy hue. She inspected your every cavity for signs of damage or marks upon your person, and although you looked quite battered and bruised from your ordeal, she pronounced you fit to take your place in the world as a princess of Sparta. As an honor to your father, I waited until he returned from a hunting trip, assuming that he might wish to have a say in selecting the name for his first child, although girl children were considered inferior to boys.
I feared Menelaus’s reaction to the news that his firstborn was a daughter. The House of Atreus, through the Houses of Tantalus and Pelops, were known for begetting strong sons—so strong that they overpowered each other’s families to the point of murder. What use, I thought, would my husband have for a tiny girl? But Menelaus surprised me greatly. By the time he returned to Sparta, he was presented with a daughter who resembled him in so many ways that I sought in vain to find a trace of myself within her, for you possessed the russet curls and freckled skin, particularly across the face, arms, chest, and throat, that was pure Menelaus. And he was delighted with this miniature female image of himself.
I told him of the terrifying moments accompanying your delivery in every particular and how you bravely fought for breath. “Would you like to name her, my lord?” I asked Menelaus.
He grew thoughtful, running his fingertips through the short hairs of his beard as though it would aid his decision. “I will give her a name of my people,” he said, referring to his ancestors, the tribes of Aryan horsemen who came down from the northern plains, overwhelming the agrarian Goddess worshippers with weapons of hammered bronze. “Hermione. It means ‘strength,’ for that she has aplenty to have withstood her mother’s near strangulation upon her birth.”
All of my goodwill evanesced in an instant. “Dare you insinuate that I tried to kill my own daughter in the very act of giving birth to her?!”
“I know nothing of childbearing, Helen. I can only arrive at a conclusion based upon the information you have yourself provided me.”
I have never been quick to violence like Clytemnestra, but I admit that even in my severely weakened state, I used my last bit of strength in an attempt to claw out my husband’s eyes. Aethra tried to soothe me. “It will do your health no good to anger now. Your body is as battered as Hermione’s. You must rest, my lady.” She glared at Menelaus.
And so, you became the apple of your father’s eye, always more his daughter than mine. Even when our first son, Pleisthenes—named for both a brother and a cousin of his father’s—was born a year later, your star was not dimmed. After another year, the twins, Maraphius and Aethiolas, entered this world, and Menelaus’s dotage over you never ceased. There were jokes about the palace that Sparta’s ruler had been weakened by a female no higher than his knee. As for my role, I felt like nothing but a brood mare those first few years of my marriage.
Clytemnestra commiserated. She had given birth to a daughter shortly after I was delivered of you, Hermione, and named her little girl Electra for her amber-colored locks. Electra resembled Agamemnon as much as you were the mirror image of your father. The year my twin boys were born, Clytemnestra had another daughter, Chrysothemis, a yellow-haired child whom she said favored me most in looks for her golden coloring. My sister confessed in the most couched terms that she found it difficult t
o love the children of Agamemnon, adoring Iphigenia more than she could ever bring herself to care for little Electra and even tiny Chrysothemis. The reason was clear: Though no child of Clytemnestra’s, Iphigenia had not sprung from her husband’s vile loins.
Over the years, Menelaus had let his beard grow long, a sign that he had given up the notion of battle, as a long beard was an enemy target in close combat. For a few years our region enjoyed a relative peace, although my husband still participated in piratical raids whenever he claimed that our treasury was depleting. The realm had settled into a kind of placid complacency, but during the fourth or fifth year of my marriage, the mood on the Peloponnese began to shift and darken. Talk of war became a frequent topic of discussion among the Achaean chieftains. Penelope gave birth to a son whom Odysseus named Telemachus—Final Battle—as though it were a portent of things to come. She wrote to me that on Telemachus’s birth, an oracle had predicted that his father would go off to battle and not return home for twenty years. This news put my pragmatic cousin into a panic, and the wily Odysseus was equally concerned. No one dared dispute an oracular prediction.
When I had Menelaus’s ear, I asked him if he thought the Greeks would go to war. Troy was the territory most often mentioned in their discussions of battle and of the weakening economy, but sometimes there was talk of Ilios, and a few times I heard the name Wilusa bandied back and forth.
“They are all the same place,” Menelaus replied. “The Hittites of Anatolia call the great city Wilusa, which is Ilios in our dialect. We would invade Troy if we can find a good enough excuse,” he added gruffly. “King Priam controls the Hellespont—the narrow entrance to the Black Sea—and collects a duty on all goods that go in and out of the channel in both directions: to the north and south.”
