Her father had noticed her loneliness. After half a year of seeing barely a flicker of a smile on her face, he had presented her with two handmaids. Adraste and Alkippe, two noblegirls captured during the Mycenaean campaign, were of a similar age to Helen, and her father clearly thought they would be able to offer her companionship as well as service. He was right. The three girls had become good friends, as far as is possible when two friends must serve the third.
Adraste and Alkippe were in Helen’s chamber now, preparing her for the day. Alkippe was just finishing the complex arrangement of Helen’s hair—something she had become adept at—while Adraste riffled through an ivory jewelry box looking for some appropriate adornments for today’s outfit. Helen enjoyed this morning ritual. It made her feel grown up to have her own handmaids, and they would chat and giggle together as she was made ready. It wasn’t just that, though. There was a kind of magic in it. As each stage was done, each fine item of clothing placed upon her, each piece of gold or shining stone attached to her body, she felt as if she were being transformed, from Helen the girl to Helen the princess. She felt she had grown up a lot in the two years since Nestra had left, and she wished her sister could see her now.
“What do you think about this one, Mistress Helen?” asked Adraste, holding up a necklace of polished amber beads. “It would match your hair so well, but do you think it’s too much? Maybe we should save it for a special occasion.”
“No, no,” said Helen, as Adraste began to lower it back into the box. “I like it, and I don’t think it’s too much. I am the heiress,” she said with a grin.
Adraste smiled and nodded, then gently fastened the necklace around Helen’s throat. As she did so, Helen heard Alkippe’s quiet voice behind her.
“I never really understood that,” she muttered as she fixed a flower in Helen’s hair. “I mean, why are you the heiress?”
In front of her Adraste froze, her eyes wide. Helen opened her mouth to speak, but Alkippe beat her to it, her words tumbling out in high-pitched squeaks. “I’m sorry, my lady, that was so rude of me! I didn’t mean . . . only that . . . Well, you have brothers is all I meant. Isn’t it usually the sons that . . . It’s just something I’d wondered about, that was all.”
“It’s all right, Alkippe,” said Helen, turning to her with a smile. “I know what you meant. I suppose it would seem strange to you, if they don’t do it in Mycenae, but I don’t think it’s all that unusual . . .” She turned back around, flicking a tress of curled hair over her shoulder. “My sister once told me that it’s because Kastor and Pollux are twins. Father was worried they’d fight over the kingdom, so he made it so that neither would be king.”
“Lord Tyndareos is a wise man,” Adraste nodded, her face thoughtful. “Our kingdom was torn apart by brothers fighting over the throne. It’s the reason we’re here . . . Not that we’re complaining of course, my lady,” she added quickly. “We’re happy to serve you, and you and your father have been very kind to us.”
“Yes, my lady,” agreed Alkippe, with a respectful bow of her head.
Helen smiled faintly by way of reply. She sometimes forgot the true situation of her handmaids, the misfortune that had brought them here. Though she knew they were her slaves, she preferred to think of them as her friends. It was easier that way.
Now that she was dressed and adorned, Helen crossed to the corner of her chamber to see to the last phase of her morning ritual. There, on a low table covered with fine cloth, stood a small, painted figure, formed in the shape of a woman with her arms raised. Helen knelt down in front of it and held her hand out toward Adraste. The girl duly passed her a small bottle of perfumed oil, and Helen dabbed a little onto the head of the figurine. There were the rudiments of a face painted onto the clay, large round eyes and a smiling mouth. This is where Helen looked as she said, “Lady Artemis, I offer you this blessing, that you may keep my sister safe.” She had spoken these words every morning since Nestra had left. Then, anointing the figurine once more, she added, “And keep her child safe too, that it may live and bring joy to its mother.” She had been adding this second request for almost a year now. She knew how fragile the life of a child was. Her own mother had lost two babes to sickness, so Thekla had told her.
Her prayer finished, Helen stood up and left the chamber, her handmaids following dutifully behind her. They went everywhere with her, like a two-headed shadow. It was irritating sometimes, when she just wanted to be alone, but for the most part she liked it. It made her feel like a real royal lady.
Helen walked with measured steps through the corridors, affecting what she hoped was an air of elegance. She was in no hurry to reach the women’s room. No longer could she sit and laugh and gossip with her friends, carelessly spinning yarn. Now she was being taught to weave, and she was no good at it. It took too much concentration and she kept making mistakes. Then Thekla would come over to see her progress, and make that tsk noise of hers. No matter how grown up she felt, with her handmaids and her jewelry and the breasts finally budding beneath her dress, Thekla could always make her feel like a little girl.
They had reached the Hearth Hall now. They needn’t have come this way, but Helen was hoping her mother might be there and that she might be able to sit with her, two royal ladies together. But today, like every other day, she was disappointed. Helen felt as if she had barely seen her mother in two years. Since Nestra had left, she had taken to staying in her chambers most days. She would show her face every now and again when public occasion required it, but when she did she looked gray and lifeless. Helen could barely recall seeing her mother smile, and it was like a worm eating at her heart. It was as if it didn’t matter to her that she still had a daughter living here in Sparta. No, Helen knew she was not enough. She was not the right daughter. She had hoped that Nestra leaving might bring her and her mother closer together, that there would be more space in her mother’s heart, that the shared loss would bind them. But it had made it worse. She felt as if she had lost her mother as well as her sister, and somehow this loss was harder, for the ghost still lingered to haunt her.
She was crossing the courtyard when a voice called after her. Her father’s voice. “Helen! Wait, Helen.”
She turned to look at him, and smiled. Her father at least was unchanged by Nestra’s departure, if a little grayer than he had been two years ago. He always had a smile for her, and she drank it in like divine nectar.
“I need to speak to you,” he said, his tone serious but not grave. Helen suspected she knew what this might be about, and she felt a giddy excitement spring up inside her. “Why don’t you come and sit with me?” He gestured inside the hall, to his throne beside the hearth.
When they were seated, Helen fidgeting with her hands in anticipation, her father said, “You are to be married, Helen.”
She slowly let out the breath she had been holding. This was what she was expecting him to say, and indeed had been expecting for a couple of months. After all, she was as old as Nestra had been when she was married. Now it was her turn.
“I won’t have to leave, though, will I?” she blurted out, as the thought struck her. “I’m still the heiress, aren’t I? So I’ll stay here in Sparta with you?”
“Yes, yes. You’ll stay here, don’t worry about that,” he said. “Whoever you marry shall come here to live with you.”
“Whoever?” she asked, slightly puzzled. “So you haven’t chosen yet?”
“No, my dear. We will wait to see who is the best match,” he said, with the hint of a smile playing on his lips.
Helen’s expression was still puzzled, so he continued.
“There is to be a tournament, of sorts. The most eligible bachelors in Greece will all come here to compete for your hand. They’ll be arriving within the next few weeks. I’ve made it known that you are ready for marriage, and now they will flock from all over. All hoping to prove themselves the best man and win you
as their prize.”
“Competing for me?” she asked, incredulous.
“And why should they not?” replied her father with a smile. “You are heiress to a rich kingdom. And they have heard of your great beauty.”
Helen blushed. She quite liked the idea of men competing over her. She imagined the feats they would perform, the gifts they would bring, and a broad grin spread across her face.
“There is one thing I should tell you, Helen,” her father said, “before it all gets under way.”
Her smile waned a little and she nodded for him to continue.
“It’s just that, ah . . . the suitors, or at least some of them . . . they believe you to be the daughter of Zeus.”
“What?” she giggled. “But that’s ridiculous, Father! Why would they think that?”
“Because I have said that it is so,” he said with a small sigh. Helen stopped her giggling. “All I ask is that you let them believe it.”
She was silent for a moment, looking into her father’s eyes. She was surprised and a little confused, but she could not deny that the idea of people thinking she was descended from the gods had a certain appeal.
“Helen?” said her father, a little impatiently. “Will you go along with it?”
“Yes, of course, Father,” she answered. “If that’s what you want.”
He smiled. “Good.”
Once her father had left, her handmaids began tittering like sparrows.
“Ooh, how exciting!” cooed Adraste. “You thought it would happen soon!”
“And all those suitors!” chimed Alkippe. “I bet they’ll be handsome!”
“Yes,” breathed Helen. “Yes, it is exciting, isn’t it?”
This is it, she said to herself. You’ll be a real woman soon enough, just like Nestra. The thought filled her stomach with butterflies, but she told herself they were good butterflies. Womanhood would be exciting and glamorous, and no one would treat her like a silly little girl anymore. This was a good thing, and the tournament would be a spectacle. How she wished Nestra were here to share it with her.
CHAPTER 7
KLYTEMNESTRA
Klytemnestra sat in her chamber, idly spinning wool. Her handmaid, Eudora, was sitting beside her, but no words passed between them. They were enjoying the silence while Iphigenia slept peacefully in her cradle, and there was an unspoken understanding between them that it should not be broken. Her daughter was almost a year old now, and seemed to grow bigger with each passing day. Klytemnestra loved her more than anything in the world, more than she had ever thought it was possible to love something. If ever she felt lonely or sad or afraid, all she had to do was picture Iphigenia’s sweet face, those rosy cheeks, that mass of blond curls, and a smile would come to her lips. There had been times when she had struggled with her new role as wife and queen, especially in the beginning when she was still learning her place, before she knew when to talk and when to keep silent, before modesty had become habit and obedience routine. There were still times when she found it difficult to hold her tongue, when shrinking into the shadow of her husband felt like she was shedding parts of herself, as if one day she might disappear entirely. But then Iphigenia had been born, and the moment she had held her own child in her arms she had known that this was it. This was her reward for womanhood.
A dreamy gurgle erupted from the cradle and Klytemnestra felt her chest warm at the sound. The birth of her daughter had helped to bring her and Agamemnon closer together, too. Klytemnestra had pleased her husband by giving him a child so soon. And she felt he respected her more now, treating her like a true woman and wife rather than a child herself. He had been hoping for a son, she knew, but he loved his daughter dearly. Sons would follow, he said.
There was something playing on Klytemnestra’s mind as she sat spinning her wool in the cool quiet of the chamber. Her monthly bleed had not come. It had been half a moon since it was due, and every morning she would wake thinking that perhaps it had come, but there would be nothing. She knew what it might mean, of course. It was a blessing, yes, but she could not help but be a little afraid. Her daughter had brought her so much joy and another child would surely bring more, but she knew how lucky she had been for the birth to have gone well, for the child to have been healthy. Perhaps she would not be so lucky a second time. A swollen belly could bring death as well as life. It was the way of the gods.
She hadn’t said anything to Agamemnon yet, for fear of disappointing him. She might be mistaken, or it might not last. She would wait until she was sure, or until it started to show.
A noise came from outside the chamber, interrupting Klytemnestra’s thoughts. She turned her head just in time to see the door pushed open and her husband appear through it. He did not look at her, but rather headed straight for Iphigenia’s cradle. Before Klytemnestra could tell him not to wake her, his hand was reaching in and stroking her hair.
“How’s my princess today?” he boomed into the cradle, his loud voice shattering the sacred quiet that had existed a moment ago. Klytemnestra suspected that her husband could not whisper even if he wanted to.
“Shh—we just got her to sleep!” she chastised. A year ago she would not have dared speak to her husband in this way, but motherhood had changed things. Even so, it was too late; Iphigenia was awake now. Once her father had stopped tickling her and squeezing her cheeks, he came over to where Klytemnestra was sitting.
“You may leave,” he said to Eudora, dressing a command as a permission. The handmaid promptly obliged.
Once the door was closed Agamemnon sank his considerable bulk into the chair she had vacated.
“There is to be a tournament for the marriage of your sister,” he said in a casual tone.
“Oh,” said Klytemnestra, a little taken aback by the sudden delivery of the news. It had been a long time since anyone had talked to her of Helen. “When?” she asked.
“The suitors have already begun to arrive, so I hear. They’ve never even seen the girl and yet they flock to compete over her.” He waved a hand dismissively. “All the noblest young men of Greece, apparently, and some of the not-so-young too,” he added with an amused smile. “Your father is a clever man, I’ll give him that! To bring this about, over a girl of such, ah . . . questionable reputation.”
He hung on the last two words, watching Klytemnestra’s face for a reaction, a confirmation of the truth behind the rumors he had heard, perhaps.
Klytemnestra was annoyed to hear him speak of her sister in such a way, but tried to keep her face neutral, innocent even, as if she did not know to what he was referring. She wanted to defend Helen, to tell him Theseus was just a pathetic liar, but she knew she could not dismiss that rumor while ignoring the other . . . And she could not lie to Agamemnon. Not if he asked her straight out what she knew of Helen’s parentage. She was afraid to lie to him, afraid he would know, afraid he would get angry. She had not grown so bold that she had stopped fearing her husband. Best to say nothing at all.
Eventually he stopped waiting for a reaction. “I’ve come to tell you that I’ve decided to attend the tournament.” Klytemnestra broke her vow of neutrality with a look of confusion, but before she could say anything her husband continued, “Not on my own behalf, of course, but upon that of my brother, Menelaos. He’s in need of a wife and, thanks to your father, Helen is the most desirable bride of the age. Ha!” He barked so loud that Klytemnestra jumped. “Her beauty is the talk of Greece! Can you believe there are even those who believe her to be a child of Zeus himself? Well, whatever the truth of it”—he shot her a sideways glance once more—“it will be a slight on the honor of our house if some other man wins her. Menelaos must wed Helen.”
Klytemnestra sat in silence for a moment, taking in what she had just heard. Helen, the most desirable bride of the age? The talk of Greece? She felt proud and pleased for her sister, but somewhere in the back of her mind there w
as a twinge of something less pleasant. Resentment, perhaps? Or envy? That this was Helen’s fortune and not her own? She brushed that thought aside. She was happy enough, wasn’t she? And her husband was a great man, after all. This was a good thing, the very reason she had left Sparta in the first place. Helen would get a fine husband, and Sparta’s legacy would be secure.
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning,” came Agamemnon’s voice beside her, cutting off her reflections.
“Will you give my love to my father and mother, husband?” she said suddenly, realizing that he would see her family. “And to Helen, if you have the opportunity to speak with her?”
“Yes, if you wish. I’ll tell them what a beautiful daughter you’ve given me, too,” he said, smiling in one of those tender moments he granted her sometimes. Then, with one last stroke of Iphigenia’s hair, he left the chamber.
Part of Klytemnestra wished she could go to Sparta with her husband. It didn’t seem fair that he would get to see her family and she would not. But she pushed that thought down. She must stay and care for Iphigenia. My family is here now, she told herself. And when Agamemnon returned, perhaps she would tell him about the new addition growing in her belly.
CHAPTER 8
HELEN
Over twenty suitors had now arrived in Sparta, and each passing day brought at least one more. Helen was not allowed to watch as they arrived, but she would badger her brothers for news—what each wore, if they were handsome, what fine gifts they had brought. As they recounted such details to her, Helen would wonder whether this would be the one, whether this new man would shortly become her husband. There was a kind of romance in the mystery of it. The twins would tell her the men’s names too, and who their father was and what kingdom they had journeyed from, but it all meant little to her. It was not a princess’s business to know of foreign places, and even less so foreign men. But the other day a man had arrived of whom she had heard: Agamemnon, Nestra’s husband, attending on behalf of his brother. She had not been expecting him to come and neither, it seemed, had her father. Helen had been with him when Agamemnon’s arrival was announced, and an unmistakable look of surprise, perhaps even concern, had crossed his face. For a moment Helen had been excited, thinking that perhaps the Mycenaean king had brought Nestra with him, but her father had quashed any such hope. Nestra was a mother now. Her place was with her child, he had said.
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