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Copyright © 2021 by Claire Heywood
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Heywood, Claire, author.
Title: Daughters of Sparta: a novel / Claire Heywood.
Description: [New York]: Dutton, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020047756 (print) | LCCN 2020047757 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593184370 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593184363 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Trojan War—Fiction. | Helen, of Troy, Queen of Sparta—Fiction. | Clytemnestra, Queen of Mycenae—Fiction. | Mythology, Greek—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6108.E99 D38 2021 (print) | LCC PR6108.E99 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020047756
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020047757
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author’s use of names of historical figures, places, or events are not intended to change the entirely fictional character of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Kaitlin Kall; cover illustration © George Greaves
pid_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0
For there is nothing in this world so cruel and so shameless as a woman when she has fallen into such guilt as hers was . . .
. . . her abominable crime has brought disgrace on herself and all women who shall come after—even on the good ones.
—Homer, The Odyssey
She, the ruin of both Troy and her own fatherland . . .
—Virgil, The Aeneid
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part II
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part III
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Part IV
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Acknowledgments
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Trojan War has been a perennial subject of Western art and literature for the last three millennia. The story was extraordinarily popular among the Greeks themselves, from Homer through the works of the great tragedians, through pottery and visual culture, and later through to their cultural successors in the Roman Empire. The ancient world largely treated the Trojan War as a historical event that had really taken place, with some even attempting to trace their lineage from its great heroes and thereby claim their share of hereditary glory.
Modern scholarship has taken a more skeptical approach to the war, or at least to the version of it presented in ancient literary and artistic sources. However, there is some archaeological evidence that suggests that a war such as the one described by Homer may have in fact taken place. Ancient Hittite documents refer to a conflict between the kingdom of Ahhiyawa (Achaea, an ancient name for Greece) and the city of Wilusa (Ilios, later known as Troy). Archaeologists also claim to have found the actual site of Troy at Hisarlik in northern Turkey, as well as evidence of its destruction by fire sometime around 1180 BC.
To correspond with this archaeological timeline, Daughters of Sparta opens at the end of the thirteenth century BC and is therefore set within the Mycenaean civilization of the Late Bronze Age, so called because of the dominance of Mycenaean culture in Greece at this time. However, my aim in writing this novel was not to argue for the historical reality of the Trojan War. Nor was it an attempt to tell a story that is historically true, but rather to tell one that could be described as historically authentic—that is, a reimagining of the Trojan War myth that was consistent with the material evidence we have for this period of prehistory, as well as being a reworking of and response to the canon of ancient literature that was built upon the myth. Daughters of Sparta therefore weaves archaeological reality with mythological tradition, but also imagines a new story to fill the gaps left by each of these frameworks. At its heart the novel is not even a retelling of the war itself, but of the private lives of Helen and Klytemnestra, two characters whom I found to be either inadequately or unfairly treated across the ancient sources. What were these women thinking? What did they feel? What made them act the way they did? If they really had lived, as royal women in Bronze Age Greece, what might their lives have been like? These are the questions I found myself asking, and which I hope I have answered in Daughters of Sparta.
If you would like to learn more about this period of Greek civilization, The Cambridge Companion to the Aegean Bronze Age (2008) is a good place to start. I would also recommend Bettany Hughes’s wonderful book Helen of Troy (2013), which was a great source of information and inspiration during my research. And for anyone interested in reading more generally about the experience of women in the ancient world, Sarah B. Pomeroy’s Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves: Women in Classical Antiquity (1994) provides an accessible overview and has become something of a go-to guide.
NOTE ON THE NAMES
In the spirit of historical authenticity, I decided to use Greek spellings for both people and places, as opposed to the later Latin spellings with which we may be more familiar. For example, I spell Klytemnestra with a K, rather than the more common Clytemnestra, to render it closer to its spelling in the Greek alphabet. I made deliberate exceptions to this rule in a few cases, such as the use of Mycenae rather than the Greek-style Mykene, when the Latin spell
ing is far more entrenched both academically and in terms of public familiarity. The most extreme case is that of Troy, which would be more authentically referred to as Wilusa or at least Ilios/Ilion, but in which case “historical authenticity” would quite clearly create problems of recognizability.
PROLOGUE
She sat frozen, hands bloody. When she closed her eyes, she could still see it. She squeezed her eyelids tighter, sent her shaking breath into the silence. And still she could see it. White turned red. Eyes dead.
She dipped her trembling hands into the water, tendrils of blood spreading instantly through that once-pure bowl. Now her forearms, now up to her elbows, until the bowl was dark and refilled and dark again. Even once her arms were white, once the dark water had been taken away and the shaking had stopped, in her mind’s eye the red remained.
How had it come to this? How did any evil come to be? Was it the work of the gods? A punishment for some other evil? Or did they sit above, impassive, watching as one stone hit another, and another? Blank faces blinking in the dust of the landslide.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
KLYTEMNESTRA
Klytemnestra! Have a care, girl! Your spindle’s gone all a-wobble!”
Klytemnestra’s eyes snapped into focus at the sound of her name. In front of her the spindle bobbed, her carefully spun wool unraveling quickly. She stopped it with her hand.
“Not like you, Nestra,” tutted Thekla, turning back to her work. The crease in her nurse’s brow lingered, but at least she had returned to calling her Nestra. Klytemnestra had never really liked her full name—it was too big, too cumbersome—but she liked it even less on a sharp tongue. It was her sister, Helen, who had taken to calling her Nestra when she was too young to manage the whole thing, and it had stuck ever since.
Helen was sitting beside her now. They had been working wool together all afternoon, and Klytemnestra’s arm was beginning to ache from holding up the distaff. Her sister was singing a song to herself as she watched her spindle twirl on its thread, and though Helen had a sweet voice, she only knew half the words and kept repeating the same verse. Klytemnestra wished she would stop.
The women’s room was dim, the walls plain, the air thick and still. As one of the innermost rooms of the palace, it had no windows through which daylight might spill, nor any fresh breeze to break the stagnation. It was summer, and the warm air was made warmer still by the many women who filled the room, lamps and torches illuminating their dark heads and their white, working hands.
Klytemnestra’s woolen dress clung to the sweat of her back as she looked over her shoulder toward the brightest corner of the room. There stood the looms, three large wooden frames with half-finished cloth stretched across them. Only two were being worked at present, by the most skilled of the household slaves. Admiring and envious, Klytemnestra watched as they led the shuttles back and forth, building their clever patterns thread by thread. It was like watching a mesmerizing dance, or the playing of a complex instrument.
“You know,” came Thekla’s voice, “we could start you on loom work soon.”
“Really?” asked Klytemnestra, pulling her eyes from the dancing hands.
“You’re eleven now. In a few years you’ll be married, and what kind of wife will you be if you don’t know how to weave?”
“I would like that very much,” she replied with a grateful nod. Working the loom certainly looked more interesting than spinning.
Helen stopped her singing. “Can I do weaving too?”
Klytemnestra rolled her eyes. Helen always wanted to do what she was doing, even though she was two years younger. She hadn’t shown the slightest interest in the loom before now.
“I think you’re still a little young, Mistress Helen. You’ll get your chance soon enough, though.”
Helen made her face into an exaggerated pout and turned emphatically back to her spinning. Klytemnestra knew she would soon forget she was supposed to be sulking, though, and sure enough her face smoothed as her attention became absorbed once more by the motion of her spindle.
The three of them continued working for a little while until Thekla said, “I think that’s enough work for one day. Why don’t you girls go and find some food?”
Klytemnestra stopped her spinning. “Can’t we go and play outside for a little while before supper? It’s not dark yet. I can’t stand being indoors all day.”
“Ooh yes, can we?” piped Helen.
Thekla hesitated. “I suppose so,” she sighed. “But you must take a slave with you. So that you’re not alone.”
“But we’ll be with each other!” Klytemnestra protested. “It’s no fun when there’s someone watching.” She gave Thekla a pleading look but the nurse’s face was unwavering. “Fine,” she said with an indignant huff. “We’ll take Agatha.” The girl was between her and Helen in age, and a better playmate than any of the sour-faced escorts Thekla might have chosen for them.
The nurse looked unconvinced, but she nodded her assent.
“Agatha! We’re going to play outside, come with us,” Klytemnestra called across the room before Thekla could change her mind. The slave girl shuffled over to them, head bowed, while Klytemnestra took Helen’s hand and headed for the door. The three of them were already halfway down the corridor when Thekla called after them.
“Keep close to the palace! And don’t stay out too long or you’ll be brown as goatherds! And who will marry you then?”
* * *
The three girls left the palace and walked down the hill to the meadow, Klytemnestra leading the way. The grass was high, the dry seeds brushing off on her dress as she strode through it. The sparse trees rustled above their heads and she was glad of the fresh breeze on her arms after so long in the women’s room. Once they were far enough away from the palace not to be overlooked, she stopped.
“What shall we play?” she asked the other two.
“I’ll be a princess,” said Helen, without hesitation. “And Agatha can be my handmaid.”
Agatha nodded shyly.
“But you are a princess,” said Klytemnestra, exasperated. “Don’t you want to pretend to be something different? Like a sorceress or a pirate or a monster?”
“Nope. I’m always the princess.”
“All right, fine. Then I’ll be the king,” sighed Klytemnestra. She had learned that it was easier to just let Helen have her way. Otherwise she would start crying.
Helen snorted. “You can’t be a king, Nestra. You’re a girl!” Helen looked over at Agatha, encouraging her to join in with the joke. Agatha let out a quiet giggle, but clamped her lips shut when Klytemnestra shot her a scornful look. Agatha looked at her feet.
“Fine, then. You can be the princess, Helen. Agatha, you be the handmaid. And I’ll be the nurse.” She thought for a second. “But I’m a nurse who can make magic potions,” she added.
“What are you playing?”
The voice came from behind them. A boy’s voice. Klytemnestra spun around to see who had spoken.
The boy was sauntering toward them through the long grass, now only a few paces away. He was a little older than they were—tall, but without his first beard. He had long, dark hair and a smile that made Klytemnestra suddenly shy. She had seen him arrive at the palace with his father a few days ago. Some sort of diplomatic visit, she supposed, or maybe just passing through. People came and went all the time, on their way through the mountains or coming up from the coast. Her father’s hearth was always lit, but it was rare to have a guest so young. Usually, the only noble-born boys around were her twin brothers, Kastor and Pollux, but they were too old to play games with her and Helen. And Thekla said it was unseemly for princesses to play with slave boys. Surely they could play with this boy, though? He was a guest.
“He-hello,” said Klytemnestra, her tongue suddenly clumsy in her mouth. “We were just about to play a prince
ss game.” She cringed at how childish it sounded, and hurriedly added, “It’s just silly, really, but Helen wanted to play. We can do something else if you want to join in.”
There was that smile again. “No, a princess game is fine.”
Klytemnestra was worried he was laughing at them, but at least he wanted to play. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Theseus. My father and I are visiting from Athens.”
“Theseus,” she repeated. “All right, well, Helen was going to be the princess, and Agatha—she’s just our slave—she was going to be her handmaid. And I’m a nurse who can make potions. What do you want to be?”
“I’ll be a foreign king. A great warrior.”
Klytemnestra smiled, pleased that he seemed to be entering into the spirit. “Well, how about you get shipwrecked on our shore and then I find you and heal you with a potion and . . .”
But Theseus didn’t seem to be listening. He had turned away from her and was looking at Helen instead.
“You do indeed look like a princess, my lady,” he said, with an exaggerated bow. “You’ve got the brightest hair I’ve ever seen.” He raised a hand, as if he might touch it. “It’s like fire. And your skin’s so white—like a real lady. I bet you’ll be as beautiful as Hera herself when you’re fully bloomed.”
Helen giggled, but Klytemnestra was annoyed. People were always commenting on Helen’s hair. She didn’t see what was so special about it. And her own skin was just as fair as Helen’s. Besides, she was nearer “full bloom.” Helen’s chest was as flat as a boy’s.
She tried to bring his attention back to the game. “Anyway, I was thinking you could be shipwrecked—”
Theseus cut in. “How about I’ve just arrived from a battle, and I’ve got a wound that needs herbs to heal it. You have to go and fetch the herbs.”
“All right.” Klytemnestra smiled, glad he had given her an important role. “I’ll go and do that.”
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