Down, down they went. Now five steps from the bottom. Now four. Now three.
“STOP!” came a booming voice behind them. The shock of it startled Klytemnestra so much that she stumbled down an extra step, and only just managed to stay on her feet. She stood motionless, gripping her basket, staring at the floor. She was afraid to turn around, to see the face she knew was there at the top of the stairs.
She could hear Leukippe’s terrified breaths beside her, morphing into whines as she began to cry. Then she heard the heavy footfalls begin behind her, growing louder as they fell from step to step. They stopped and she knew he was right behind her. She steeled herself. She was a queen, not a little girl anymore. She should not be afraid. She turned to face him, lifting her chin to show she was not scared. And as her eyes met his—
Thwack.
His hand hit her so hard she fell, dropping the basket as she rolled down the bottom few steps to the paving stones below. She could taste blood, and her face felt like it would burst with the pain.
She had never been struck before. She had seen slaves beaten many times, but had never been on the receiving end of a violent hand herself. Now she knew the pain of it, but what she felt more keenly was the humiliation. She could feel people’s eyes on her as she lay on the ground, her hand holding her face. How pathetic she must look. How weak.
Once the initial shock of the pain had subsided, she put her shaking hands out on the ground and pushed herself to her feet, rocking slightly as she straightened up and faced her husband.
His dark eyebrows were like storm clouds over the thunder of his eyes. His thick beard quivered with rage. Leukippe was beside him, silent, her head bowed, Agamemnon’s powerful hand around her wrist.
“Did you think I would not know?” he growled, his deep voice charged with anger. “Stupid woman. Even if you had managed to get rid of her, did you think I would not see your hand in this? You jealous bitch.”
His words were like another slap in the face. But she told herself they were not meant for her, not really. She could see some of her husband’s dinner guests crowded at the top of the stairs, watching everything, and heard more men shuffling behind her—inhabitants of the citadel come to see what was happening. She had defied him, undermined his authority, right here in his own palace, while his men feasted at his table. She knew that he could not let it stand. He had to shame her, to put her back in her place.
Now was not the time for pride. Seeing what she must do, she climbed the couple of steps toward her husband and knelt at his feet.
“I am sorry, my lord,” she said, trying her best to make her shaking voice loud enough for all those watching to hear. “I have wronged you and I beg your forgiveness. It will not happen again.” Then she kissed his feet, her split lip searing with pain as she did so.
He was silent for a moment, perhaps surprised by her actions and wondering how to respond.
“Get up,” he barked eventually, pulling his foot away from her. He marched back up the steps, dragging Leukippe behind him, and Klytemnestra followed, her head bowed conspicuously low, her stinging face set with a grimace of humble penitence.
She hoped she had done enough to stay any further violence, to Leukippe or herself. And as she walked she said a silent prayer that Eudora’s part in the scheme had gone unnoted.
One hopeful thought struck her as they reached the palace entrance: Agamemnon had assumed she had been motivated by jealousy, that she was merely attempting to get rid of a rival. He had made no mention of Kalchas or his part in it. The priest had risked more than shame or a beating in plotting against the king, but it seemed that he would be safe from retribution. That was something, at least.
CHAPTER 18
HELEN
It had been a little over two months since Helen had given birth to Hermione. After the initial trauma and gradual recovery, helped by the removal of the child into another chamber, Helen had been preoccupied with a new fear: that Menelaos would want to begin lying with her again. It was not the act she feared—she had grown used to it in the year or so before Hermione was born, and she had healed enough now that she did not think it would hurt—but it was the consequences that terrified her. Sex meant children. And there was nothing she dreaded more than another child inside her. The pain and the blood—she could not do it again. She had escaped death once, but she knew it had been a close thing. She was afraid to test the Fates a second time. Helen loved life, and she had so much of it yet to live. She would not throw it away for the sake of a child, nor for the sake of her husband.
She knew it was wrong to feel this way. Hadn’t everyone always told her that bringing a child into the world was the greatest joy a woman could have, that it was the greatest gift she could bring to her kingdom? They spoke about motherhood as if it would make her powerful, but it had only made Helen feel disposable. She wondered if her sister had had this fear with her children. No, she didn’t think so. Nestra always did what she was supposed to do, always felt how she was supposed to feel. It was she, Helen, who always seemed to be stepping to the wrong beat.
So far she had managed to avoid any intimate encounters with Menelaos. He had been sleeping elsewhere during her recovery, but over the last couple of weeks he had come and paid a visit to her chamber every other day or so. He would not say why he had come, but would linger uncertainly for a while, perhaps start a shallow conversation. They both knew why he was there, but neither acknowledged it. Sometimes he would even touch her, stroke her arm, or take her hand in his. But she would shift away from him, pretend she did not see his intention. She knew she couldn’t hold him off in this way forever—eventually he would lose patience—but for now it kept her safe.
Helen was weaving in her chamber this evening. She still wasn’t very good at it, but found she enjoyed it more than she used to. It was meditative in a way, sending the shuttle back and forth, building the cloth layer by layer. Whatever else was going on, she could sit here at her loom and forget the rest of the world existed.
A knock at the chamber door broke that illusion. Helen stopped the shuttle and turned to see who would enter. As the face appeared around the door, a nervous dread crept over her. It was her husband.
Helen remained seated on her stool, not wishing to close the distance between them. Perhaps he would see that she was busy and leave. Or pretend he had just come to ask her some trivial thing, as he sometimes did.
Not today, though. There was a new, purposeful energy in him this evening, as he stepped straight in and closed the door behind him. He walked toward her, a kind of forced firmness in his strides. Then, when he was right in front of her, he put a hand on her shoulder, bent down, and kissed her on the lips.
It was the first time they had kissed since she had had the baby. And despite her nervousness, she enjoyed it. The contact, the affection. It was soft, but firm too, and she found herself craving another. Suddenly she wanted him to hold her in his strong arms, to stroke her hair, to tell her that she was beautiful, that he loved her. More than anything that was what she wanted, all she had ever wanted. And yet it wasn’t. Not anymore. Not now that she knew what it could lead to.
He had straightened up now and she sat there gazing up at him, torn between two parts of herself. She should move away from him, put him off. But she was sitting down, with the loom behind her. Where could she go?
“Helen,” said Menelaos, before she could act. “Are you . . . well?”
She stood up, feeling trapped all of a sudden. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, moving around him. “Though I am quite tired. I should really go to bed . . .”
She stepped away from him, but he caught her wrist in his hand, his grip gentle but insistent.
“Helen,” he said again, turning so that he was in front of her once more. “I had hoped . . . that we might lie together. As husband and wife. Since you are recovered.”
He had finally said it. Th
ose unspoken words that had hovered around them for weeks. She tried to pull her arm away but he held on.
“It is too soon,” she said in a small voice, not looking into his eyes.
“It has been more than two months,” said Menelaos. “I know the birth was hard on you, and I have left you alone. But you are healed now. There is no need to delay any further.” He let go of her now slack wrist and took her hand instead. “We need another child, Helen.”
She knew she could not be honest with him, could not tell him she did not want another child, that that was the very reason she was resisting him. He would not accept it. A king must have heirs, and a queen must give them to him. Otherwise, she thought bitterly, what was she for? He might allow her to delay another day, another week, another month, but eventually she would have to do her duty. It was futile to try to stop it.
When he kissed her again, she did not pull away. And when he began to slide her dress from her shoulders, she let him.
After it was done, Helen lay awake in bed, unable to sleep. She was on her back, with her hands on her belly, staring up into the thick blackness. Menelaos was already snoring.
She could feel his seed inside her, a foreign substance, a poison. She imagined it seeping into the fertile earth of her womb, becoming ingrained there, sprouting like a weed. It made her feel sick. She wanted to flush it out, to reach in with her hand and claw it out. It was her own death, brewing inside her. She could feel it.
She was beginning to panic. Why had she let him? She had thought she could go through with it, that she just had to have a little courage. But she was wrong.
She had to get rid of it. She had to get it out of her. She had to save herself.
There was no time to lose. She slipped out from under the covers, careful not to disturb Menelaos, and stepped silently across the room. She quickly put her dress back on, struggling with the cloth in the darkness, and then felt her way over to the table near the door. She thanked the gods as her hands found the jug of water—it was still half full. She picked it up, along with the lamp beside it, and left the chamber as quietly as she could.
The torches in the corridor were still burning so she lit her lamp and hurried on to her destination—a guest room down the corridor that she knew was empty.
Helen went in and closed the door behind her. By the dim light of the single lamp she had brought with her she scanned the room, sighing with thankful relief as she spotted what she was looking for. A small piece of sponge, left beside the bath in the corner of the room. She could have made do without it, but it felt like a sign, a reassurance that she was doing the right thing.
She approached the bath and took off her dress. Then, picking up the piece of sponge, she dipped it in the jug of water and put it up between her legs. She reached in as far as she could, twisting it as she went, then withdrew it, washed it in the water, and put it up again. She repeated the process several times, each time feeling more cleansed, as if she were washing dirt from a wound. She carried on, even when she thought it was all gone. She had to be sure. The sponge was beginning to make her sore, but she couldn’t take any chances. When she finally stopped, her back ached from bending over and her fingertips were beginning to wrinkle. She squeezed the sponge dry and straightened up.
She stood there, alone in the darkness, naked and shivering. Now that it was done, now that she was no longer occupied with her task, she felt a tide of emotion rise up inside her. She let it take her over for a few minutes, the fear and the loneliness and the guilt, let it wash over in waves, let it leak out in warm tears and quiet sobs.
And then she stoppered it up. Calmed her breathing, wiped her eyes, put on her dress, and went back to her chamber.
CHAPTER 19
HELEN
The next day, Helen was exhausted. After her trip down the corridor she had lain awake the rest of the night, fretting. Had she gotten rid of it all? Had anyone seen her? What would Menelaos do if he found out? What would she do the next time he wanted to lie with her?
She sat in her chamber as usual, spinning wool with Adraste. Her handmaid was chatting away in the background, but Helen was too tired to listen. She was watching the spindle twirl at the end of the thread. Its endless rotation had a hypnotic quality, and she found her eyes beginning to close, her head beginning to nod.
“Mistress?” Adraste’s worried voice woke her, and she sat up with a start. “You fell asleep, mistress. That’s not like you. Are you unwell?”
Helen was embarrassed to have been caught napping, and began busying herself with her wool.
“No, no. I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little tired. Go on with what you were saying. Something about your brother . . . or your uncle . . .”
“Begging your pardon, mistress, but you don’t look fine. There are dreadful shadows under your eyes. You look like you haven’t slept a wink.” Adraste was peering at her, concern in her warm brown eyes.
Helen was unsure how to proceed. She could hardly deny it—the proof was in her face. And yet she couldn’t tell Adraste the truth, could she? Eventually, she decided to at least tell half the truth.
“The king came to me last night—” she began, but Adraste interrupted.
“Oh, mistress—I didn’t realize,” she said, a blush coming to her pale cheeks. “Say no more, I understand. I shouldn’t have—ah—forgive me for prying, mistress.”
Then after a short pause, in which the handmaid pretended to be concerned with her wool, she said, “Oh, that is good, though, isn’t it? I’m glad you’re well enough to . . . you know. And soon you’ll have another beautiful baby, gods willing. I am so very pleased for you, mistress.”
Suddenly, quite to her own surprise, there were tears in Helen’s eyes, and before she could stop it a sob had erupted from her throat. She turned her head away from Adraste, but there was no hiding it.
“Oh, mistress!” gasped the handmaid, reaching out to touch Helen’s knee. “What’s wrong? Did I say something I shouldn’t have?” She paused, and Helen could feel her worried, intense gaze on her face, searching for an answer she couldn’t give.
“I wouldn’t worry, mistress,” she said at last, squeezing Helen’s knee reassuringly. “I’m certain you’ll be able to have more children.”
But these words were like oil on the flames, and brought forth another shuddering sob from Helen’s chest.
Adraste stopped talking now, clearly realizing that she was making things worse. Helen took a few moments to get control of herself, and when she finally looked at her handmaid the girl’s eyes were so full of trepidation that she couldn’t help but pity her.
“It’s all right, Adraste,” said Helen, putting her hand on top of the one still resting on her knee. “I’m all right.”
“But you’re not, mistress,” said the handmaid, looking searchingly at Helen’s tear-streaked face. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong so I can help you? You can trust me, mistress. I promise.”
Helen looked into the other girl’s eyes, open and earnest. She did trust her. And perhaps it would help to share her fears, to tell someone what she was going through. She felt so alone.
Slowly, and with no small amount of hesitation, she revealed what she had done the night before, and why.
When she had finished, both of them were silent, until Helen eventually asked, “Was it wrong, what I did? Do you think I am a bad wife?”
“No, mistress,” said Adraste, after a brief pause. “I understand why you don’t want another baby just yet. The last one was so hard on you . . . perhaps it is best to wait a while, until you are ready.”
Helen nodded in reply, but she knew Adraste had not fully understood her. She was not simply trying to delay pregnancy, but to prevent it entirely. She never intended to have another child, not if she could help it. But she sensed this would be harder for her handmaid to understand, let alone to support. After all, what was a
woman worth if she did not bear children? It was a sad life, an unnatural life, and all the more unnatural was the woman who chose it. She could not bear to tell her friend the true extent of her feelings, could not bear to see those warm eyes harden with disgust, to feel her comforting hand slip away in fear, so she said nothing.
“You know, mistress . . .” said Adraste, looking down at her wool. “There are . . . methods. That women use, when they don’t want . . .” She glanced furtively at Helen. “I have heard some of them talk about such things. There is a woman, not far away, who they go to . . . She may have something that can help you.”
Helen was looking straight at her handmaid now. She tried to keep her expression even, but beneath her dress her heart was hammering. There were other women? Others who sought to prevent that terrifying swell? Others who spoke about it, as if it were not the greatest sin of their sex to desire barrenness where there should be life? Helen felt strangely relieved. Lighter, to not be alone in her unnaturalness. And yet she felt angry too, that no one had ever spoken of such things to her.
“I could find out where she lives,” said Adraste. “We could go to her. Together.”
Helen squeezed the girl’s hand, harder than she had intended.
“Do you mean it, Adraste? You’d go with me?” she breathed. “Even if it meant lying to the king?”
Helen thought she saw a flicker of fear in the handmaid’s eyes, but she nodded.
“You are a good friend, Adraste,” said Helen, a smile of gratitude and relief coming to her cheeks. “We will go tomorrow.”
* * *
Daughters of Sparta Page 13
