Helen thought she should look away, but her head would not turn. His member was stiff and thick and, as she watched, Menelaos ran his oiled hand over it several times so that it glistened.
Helen had seen men naked before, of course, when they wrestled in the palaestra or ran their races down by the river. She had seen their members, but never like this. And never this close. It frightened her.
The nervous feeling that had been sitting in her stomach all evening flared stronger now. She didn’t want Menelaos to come any closer. She wanted to hide under the covers, to call for her nurse. A small whimper escaped her throat.
He was back beside the bed, in front of her, now leaning over her. Her legs were still wide open, despite her overwhelming desire to close them. She felt so exposed. She closed her eyes, as if she could hide behind her eyelids. Then something fleshy was touching the place between her legs. A finger, she thought. No, larger than a finger. And then it was entering her. She gasped at the sudden intrusion. It felt alien, unwelcome. And thick, too thick, burrowing into her body. She wanted it to stop. He was hurting her. She opened her eyes, reached out her small hand toward his chest, trying to push him away. And then it was gone. He slowly straightened up and moved back from her, avoiding her eyes. She snapped her legs shut and rolled onto her side, drawing her knees toward her chest and blinking back tears.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you, my lady,” said Menelaos, his voice gruff, but with something that might have been genuine concern running through it. “It is done now. You are a maiden no more, but a woman-wife, in name and in body.”
She raised her head a little. “I am?”
But he had already turned away. He stood beside the chest again, wiping the oil from himself with a cloth. His back to her, she allowed herself to uncurl a little.
“I shall not enter you again,” he said over his shoulder. “Not until you are fully grown and ready to bear children.” His voice sounded strange, but she could not see his expression. Though she was relieved, she once again felt as though she had failed somehow.
When he finally turned to face her he did not smile, but he did not look angry either. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but closed it again before any words came out. Instead he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, and stooped to untie his boots.
Beyond his bowed head, over on the chest, Helen saw the cloth he had cleaned himself with. And there on the pale linen, illuminated in the lamplight, she saw the dark streak of blood. Her blood. The sight of it made her feel ill. It made her think of her first “woman’s blood,” as Thekla had called it. This was not the first, nor would it be the last of her blood taken in payment for womanhood.
Suddenly, fear rose again in her chest. The sting of pain that had shocked it back before became something deeper, a hollow haunting that spread through her body. The feeling that she had lost something, that she could never get it back.
Menelaos had stood up again now and was removing the rest of his clothes. She turned her eyes away and spotted the saffron dress, abandoned on the floor. She got up from the bed as lightly as she could, trying not to look desperate as she threw it back over her head, eager to cover her nakedness. As she stood in the middle of the chamber, hugging herself with shaking arms, she realized that Menelaos had gotten under the bedcovers. His face was turned away from her, his breathing quiet.
She hesitated. She should return to the bed, she knew. And yet something held her rooted to the floor. That hollow fear, thumping in her chest.
She could leave. She could go out into the corridor and cling to Thekla’s knees, beg her to take her back to the Old Palace, her old room, her and Nestra’s, the room of her childhood. She didn’t want to sleep here with this strange man.
She listened for any noise beyond the room. Nothing. Perhaps Thekla had gone. Perhaps the dark-haired man was out there. Perhaps she had been locked in again. She felt utterly alone.
As she stood there the restraints she had put upon herself began to crumble. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Her voice broke out from her throat in a whine.
There was a sound from the bed. Helen turned to see Menelaos sit up and look at her. He opened his mouth, but seemed unsure what to say, and closed it. When he opened it again, he said, “Put out the lamps before you come to bed,” and lay back down.
Helen did as he commanded, still sniffling. When the room was dark she felt her way over to the bed and slid herself in, taking up as little space as she could so as not to risk brushing Menelaos. She lay on her back, silent tears running into her ears. As her husband’s breathing slowed and turned to snores, she wondered why she had been so desperate to become a woman. How stupid she had been. Womanhood was strange and painful and humiliating. And there was no going back.
PART II
CHAPTER 11
HELEN
TWO YEARS LATER
All was silent as Helen entered the Hearth Hall, following behind her husband. It was not an empty silence, but live and bristling, full with stopped chatter and stifled coughs. All eyes were on Menelaos as he took his measured strides across the hall, but Helen also noticed them flicking to her, her husband’s lesser shadow. No, they weren’t looking at her. It was her swollen belly that drew their eyes.
Menelaos had reached the hearth and stopped before it. Helen took her place beside him, feeling the heat of the flames on her face as she drew close to them. She wondered if the baby could feel it too. Instinctively her hand moved to her belly, a shield between the fire and the life inside her.
Her husband was handed a large golden chalice, filled with wine. Raising the cup high, for all to see, Menelaos poured its contents into the flames, making them hiss and flicker. That was a good sign; the gods were pleased.
The libation offered, Helen’s husband turned his back on the flames and addressed the hall in a loud voice. “The gods accept me as your new king, and demand that you do the same.”
Today was the day. Menelaos was finally gaining the kingdom he had been promised more than two years ago when he had won his bride. And Helen was finally becoming a queen. Ever since she had become the heiress, the idea of it had thrilled her. Helen, Queen of Sparta, she would announce in her head. She liked the sound of it. But now that the time was here she was a little frightened. It was a big responsibility being the wife of a king, and she already felt the weight of it upon her. The only reason this was even happening was because of her, because of the child she carried. Once the pregnancy had been confirmed, her father had agreed that he would step aside and hand his kingdom on to his successor. It was the reason she had been given such a prominent role in the ceremony, too, placed beside her husband. They needed to put her on show as a proof of fertility, a promise of legacy. She knew that was all she was, really, as she stood here in front of the hearth, silent and actionless. But she felt the pressure of it nonetheless. She was only just seventeen and yet a whole kingdom had put its hopes in her, was dependent on her for its very security. She, Helen, was the vessel of its future.
Her father stepped forward now, taking the crown from his own head. He held it out toward Menelaos, who took it respectfully from his hands. It was a band of finely wrought gold, with long, golden points fixed on top, like rays of sunlight. As her husband settled it onto his own head, his image of royal splendor was complete. He wore an exquisite purple mantle, threaded with gold at the hems and down the front. More gold ringed his neck and hung from his ears and now, with the addition of the crown, it burst from the top of his head too. He shone like the fire in the hearth behind him. Even Helen, accustomed as she was to such finery, had to admit he looked magnificent. She felt a swell of pride as the whole hall looked upon her husband, the king, with reverent admiration.
With the coronation complete, the final preparations for the feast could be carried out. A great number of sheep and goats were sacrificed, as well as two muscular bullocks. Th
e sight and smell of the blood made Helen nauseous, and she didn’t like watching as the life was stripped from them one after another. But she knew it would please the gods, as well as the many people who had gathered to see their new king, and both were of great importance today.
Once the gods’ share of fat and bones had been burned as an offering, the meat was roasted, and the feast begun.
* * *
Helen didn’t really feel like eating at the feast. She kept getting pains in her belly and her back was aching. It was nothing to worry about, she knew. Likely just the baby kicking as it often did. But it was uncomfortable all the same, and was spoiling her appetite. She knew the feast was important, and it was nice to be celebrated, even if it was only in the reflected glow from her husband, but really all she wanted right now was to go and lie down in the cool quiet of her chamber.
Helen’s mother sat on her right. She, too, was barely eating, but then she never did seem to have much of an appetite. Helen had watched her mother grow thinner and thinner over the past years, since Nestra had left. It was like she was slowly disappearing, shrinking to nothing. Her famous beauty had withered, lost in the hollows of her gray cheeks and the dark patches beneath her lusterless eyes. Helen wished there were something she could do to bring some brightness back to her. But maybe she had helped her, in a way, by becoming queen. Helen knew her mother found it hard, going out in front of people, being the focus of attention, letting people see what she had become, but now her mother would be free from public duties. Now she could live out her days in peace and privacy. And perhaps a grandchild would be a new source of joy for her. Helen hoped so, cradling her belly as she thought of hearing her mother laugh again.
“Is something wrong, Helen? Is it the baby?” asked her mother beside her, looking concerned as Helen stroked her belly.
“No, no, everything’s fine,” she said with a smile. “I was just thinking about what it will be like when the baby is here.”
Her mother gave a small nod, and her look of worry ebbed.
“I am proud of you,” said her mother quietly. “You know that, don’t you?” She glanced into Helen’s eyes and down again.
Helen’s heart fluttered. “Yes, Mother,” was what she said, but she hadn’t known, not until that moment. How could she know, when her mother barely spoke to her? When she barely ever saw her? Tentatively, she reached out to her mother’s bony hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, but she didn’t want to lose the moment. She wanted her to know how much her words meant to her, how much she meant to her.
Her mother gave a ghost of a smile and patted Helen’s hand before drawing hers away.
“I have been praying to Eileithyia that the birth goes well,” she said, her face serious again. “There is always a danger with these things, you know.”
“I know,” Helen replied. “I’m not worried, though,” she said, and she wasn’t lying. Nestra had already given birth to two children with no problems. Why should hers be any different? There was no sense in worrying about what might happen, not until it did. That was what she figured, anyway.
To her left sat Menelaos, in all his splendid regalia. She turned to him now, trying to catch his eye. She was feeling happy and proud, her mood buoyed by her mother’s words, and she wanted to share it with her husband somehow. A smile between them would be enough, but he didn’t look her way. She began to reach toward his hand with her own, but just then one of the local nobles engaged him in conversation, and the opportunity was lost. Barely a word had passed between them all day; she simply wanted an acknowledgment of their shared fortune. This afternoon they had become King and Queen of Sparta—didn’t it warrant some sort of comment, or at least a tacit exchange?
This frustration was not new to Helen. She had not chosen her husband, not really, nor had she loved him when they were bound to each other, but she had entered into her marriage with an open heart. She wanted love and passion, such as she had heard about in all those stories Nestra had told her when they were little. She wanted a connection. She wanted to share every peak and trough of her life with her husband. But sometimes she felt as though she were married to a stone wall. Menelaos talked little and shared even less. Despite their physical intimacy, Helen felt as if she barely knew her husband. In the absence of words, she could only ever guess what he was feeling, and what he felt about her. He was never cruel, had never raised his voice at her, or his hand, and she knew she should be thankful for that, but she hated being so full of doubt all the time, about whether he was content, whether she pleased him, whether she was good enough. She had never dreamed she would have this problem—she had been the most desired bride in Greece! Men had composed poems about her, competed to praise her, to prove their love to win hers. But Menelaos was different. If he loved her, he did not say it. If he thought her beautiful, he kept it to himself.
But Helen had a new hope now, in the child she carried. Menelaos’s feelings were not so unreadable where the baby was concerned. He would stroke her belly with touching tenderness, smiling absent-mindedly as he did so. He had made sure Helen was given every comfort while she was pregnant and showed concern at every twinge. Helen knew he would love this baby, whatever he felt about her, and it was her desperate hope that through this child she and Menelaos would grow closer. After all, not only their blood but their hopes and fears, their joys and worries would be forever united in this new life. Yes, this child would be the beginning of their love, the union of their souls. Helen was sure of it.
Having failed to gain her husband’s attention, Helen decided she might have some food after all. She reached over toward some lentil broth, not sure she could stomach the meat, but as she did so the pain in her belly returned, stronger than before. She flinched and knocked over a cup of wine near her elbow. She sensed both Menelaos and her mother turning in her direction, but she was too absorbed by the pain to apologize for the wine.
“Is it your time?” came her mother’s worried voice from beside her.
Helen looked up at her, suddenly scared. “I don’t know. Is it?”
She felt her husband’s hand come to rest gently between her shoulder blades. Finally, she thought, feeling the connection she had been looking for all evening. But when he spoke it was not to her but to her mother.
“Is it now?” he asked.
The pain was subsiding. She was about to tell them so, when she felt a wetness down below. Worried she was bleeding, Helen stood up, and as she did so more wetness ran down her legs. Terrified, she lifted her skirt. There was a small puddle on the floor between her feet, but it was not blood.
“It’s time,” said her mother.
CHAPTER 12
KLYTEMNESTRA
Today, like most other days, Klytemnestra was weaving in her chamber. She had been working on a fine, patterned dress for several days now, and before that it had been a mantle, and before that a tunic. This was how she spent her days, here in this room. Once the children were older, no doubt she would be able to do her work in the Hearth Hall, to watch people come and go and sit beside her husband as he carried out his affairs. Perhaps she would even be able to aid and advise him. But for now her place was here, and she didn’t begrudge her confinement. The girls made every day different—sometimes joyful, sometimes trying, but never dull. They were like the sun, painting her world in light and shade, bringing definition to an otherwise gray, formless existence.
Iphigenia was now three years old, her blond curls grown to longer ringlets, and her character blossoming day by day. Her speech was coming on, and she would sing little songs to herself as she played with the wooden dolls her father had had made for her. She had a sweet soul, and was so gentle with her younger sister. Nothing made Klytemnestra happier than seeing the two of them play together, though occasionally a pang of sadness would spring up amid the joy, as she was reminded of times spent with her own sister.
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Elektra was only one and a half, but already showing a strong spirit. She had Agamemnon’s eyes, and when she set her jaw just so, in a look of unmovable defiance, then more than ever was she her father’s daughter.
A pull on Klytemnestra’s skirt told her that Elektra was at her feet. Settling herself into a seated position, she began to pull on the loom weights dangling around her head.
“Eudora,” Klytemnestra called over her shoulder. “Would you come and move Elektra? She’ll spoil my work.”
Her handmaid did as she was bid and scooped the child up in her arms, taking her back over to the seat where she sat spinning. Elektra made a protest at first, but soon settled down. Eudora had been invaluable to Klytemnestra these past years, not only as a servant, but as a friend. They were raising her children between the two of them and she knew she could rely on her as an ally in all matters. In fact, if it weren’t for Eudora, Klytemnestra would feel very alone in the palace, despite it having been her home for over four years. She was an outsider here, even now.
Her feeling of isolation had grown stronger of late. She feared she was losing her husband, the one person who truly tied her to this place. He still slept in their chamber most nights, but recently it seemed that was all he wanted. Before now they had made love almost every night. He had always seemed to want her, no matter how long the day or how late the hour. And Klytemnestra had looked forward to those times. Not at first, perhaps, when the marriage was new and her husband a stranger, and the experience more daunting than exciting. But she had come to find pleasure in it, and an intimacy that had grown deeper with time. There, alone in the darkness together, Klytemnestra almost felt that she and her husband were equals. She would even sit atop him sometimes, controlling his pleasure with the movement of her hips. She liked that feeling, the power of it. It was a feeling she seldom enjoyed in the daytime, as she performed the head-bowed shuffle of the deferent wife, but there in the darkness, away from the world, she could be different. He could be different.
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