Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  “Lady Klytemnestra? Are you there?”

  Though she was glad to hear someone she knew, the urgency in Talthybios’s voice scared her.

  She unbarred the door and opened it enough to see the grave face behind it.

  “It’s the king, my lady,” said the herald, short of breath as if he had been running. “He’s had an accident.”

  * * *

  Agamemnon was in a bad way. He was barely conscious, and when he was he groaned with pain. Klytemnestra was not used to seeing her husband so vulnerable, and it shook her with a fear she had not known before.

  He had been out hunting with a few of his men when his horse had been startled by a boar. It had come out of nowhere, they said, and rushed straight at them. The king’s horse had reared, thrown him to the ground, and landed on top of him. His left leg had been twisted when he fell, it seemed, and crushed under the weight of the horse. Not to mention the cut on the back of his head, and the bruises that were already coming up on his ribs.

  She didn’t know whether he had asked for her or if she had been summoned simply because she was the queen. With the king incapacitated there was a keen lack of a leader, yet in her panic Klytemnestra felt she was a poor choice to fill the role.

  Nevertheless, she had tried to master the situation. She ordered that the king be put in one of the guest chambers and sent slaves to fetch fresh water and linen. She also sent for the royal physician and ordered all non-useful people out of the chamber. It was too chaotic with everyone buzzing like flies around a corpse, but she had another reason, too. She knew her husband would not want the whole palace to see him in this way. He looked so fragile, so mortal, so weak. A king must not be weak.

  She mopped his brow with cool water, having already washed and dressed his head wound. It was not as bad as the amount of blood had led her to fear.

  The physician seemed most concerned with the king’s leg. It didn’t look right, lying at a slightly odd angle, and seemed to swell greater by the minute. It was clearly the main source of his pain and he cried out pitifully as the physician pressed and prodded it. Klytemnestra winced at the sound. Even after all they had been through, she cared for her husband. It pained her to see him this way, and she was afraid to think about what might happen if he should die. Would the men of Mycenae choose a new husband for her? Or would they forsake their bond with Sparta and drive her out? And what of her children? Daughters were not a threat to a new king, she told herself, and yet they might become pawns in the struggle for power. She found her chest tightening, and forced herself to take a slow breath. She was letting her thoughts run away with her. Her husband was still living, and he was strong. She had to keep calm, for him and for herself.

  When the examination was over, Agamemnon managed to gather himself a little. He finally seemed to register where he was and who was sitting beside him.

  “. . . nestra . . .” he groaned faintly, looking up at her. His eyes were still full of pain, but at least they were present now.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “The boar . . . the boar . . .” he murmured.

  “Yes, a terrible accident. But you’re safe n—”

  “No,” he said, suddenly moving to grip her hand. “Not an accident.” He was looking at her intently now.

  Klytemnestra looked back at him, confused.

  “What do you mean? Did—did someone do this?” She couldn’t believe it, but he looked so serious.

  “No . . . not someone,” he rasped, pausing while he overcame a wave of pain. “It was the goddess.”

  Klytemnestra fell silent, not sure how to respond.

  “Artemis. She sent the boar,” he continued, squeezing her hand. “The priest . . . he was right. We must return the girl. You must . . . get rid of her.”

  Klytemnestra opened her mouth to respond, but before she could think what to say, he spoke again.

  “Get rid of her,” he said, and passed out.

  She sent a messenger to Argos, and Kalchas arrived the very next day. The king was not fit to receive him and so, as queen, the duty fell upon Klytemnestra.

  She was nervous about seeing the priest again. Would he be grateful that he was finally getting his sister back? Or angry that it had taken this long? Leukippe had been at the palace almost six months now. And there was another thing that worried her, more so than anything else: Kalchas didn’t know about her condition.

  The two women sat waiting in the Hearth Hall, Leukippe on a plain wooden chair that had been brought in specially and Klytemnestra on her usual carved seat. The king’s throne stood empty. She had not been sure whether the hall was the appropriate place for such an exchange, but at least it was private. There was a guard at the door, but other than that they would not be overlooked.

  Leukippe was tapping her feet nervously. Klytemnestra reached out a hand to hers and squeezed it. The girl smiled back and seemed to settle a little.

  It wasn’t long before they heard conversation outside the hall, and Kalchas walked in. His eyes found Leukippe immediately and he began striding toward her, a broad, relieved smile on his face. Leukippe gasped with excitement and stood up. As she did, the wings of her mantle fell apart and between them the round swell of her belly appeared.

  Klytemnestra saw Kalchas’s face change. His cheeks fell and lost their color as his eyes darkened with realization.

  But it was only a second before Leukippe was upon him, her arms around his neck and her cheek on his chest.

  “Kalchas,” she breathed as she let go and looked up at him. “I knew you’d come. I knew you wouldn’t leave me.”

  The priest seemed to snap out of his paralysis and forced a smile.

  “Yes, of course I came,” he said, and folded her into his arms. But over her head his eyes met Klytemnestra’s, and they were full of fear.

  She knew what troubling thoughts gripped him, for she too had wrestled with them. Who would marry Leukippe now? What would they do with the child? What future could there be for the two of them?

  But Leukippe seemed unaware of her brother’s concern.

  “Are we going home now? This afternoon?” she asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” her brother replied, still fighting to overcome his dismay. “Yes, we’ll leave as soon as we can, to be back before sunset.” His eyes were drawn inevitably back toward her belly and he looked as if he were going to say something more to her, but didn’t. Instead he turned stiffly to Klytemnestra.

  “Farewell, my lady. I doubt we shall meet again. My regards to the king.” And then they were gone.

  She noted that he had managed to feign polite reverence to her husband without wishing for his return to health, but she couldn’t say that she blamed him. It was her duty to love her husband, but he had wronged that girl and her family, and might very well have ruined Leukippe’s life.

  When she returned to the chamber where Agamemnon lay, semiconscious, she took up her seat beside him and poured him a cup of honey water. As she brought it to his lips and watched him drink it down, his heavy brow lined with pain, she found herself thinking that perhaps her husband deserved to suffer a little, for the pain he had caused to others. But she pushed the thought down. That was no way for a wife to think. It was done now. Leukippe was returned, and Kalchas would not be back. She had to focus on returning Agamemnon to his full strength, and perhaps then her own life could resume.

  CHAPTER 23

  HELEN

  Months had passed since the trip to Eileithyia’s cave, and yet Helen’s belly was still empty. She had been so scared those first few weeks, convinced it had worked, cursing herself for thinking she could resist the power of the goddess. But then the blood had come. And then again the next month. And again and again. Half a year and no baby. With each month Helen had felt more powerful, more invincible. She had taken on a goddess and won. />
  She couldn’t let herself become complacent, of course. She still used her remedies—in fact, she had had to send Adraste into the hills to purchase more—and she would hold Menelaos off whenever she could. She knew she was hurting him, saw in his eyes that he knew she was deliberately pushing him away, but what else could she do? He wanted a child, and she wasn’t willing to give him one. There was nothing she could say to him, nothing either of them could do to get past that. It was like an invisible, immovable wall between them.

  There had been word from Mycenae that Nestra was expecting another child. It scared Helen, of course, that her sister was facing the same risks that she herself had taken such lengths to avoid, but she was happy for her, too. Nestra had always dreamed of having lots of children; at least one of them might end up with the life they had wished for. Helen, on the other hand, felt trapped. She was caught between life and love—or at least the possibility of it—but as she clung desperately to one she felt the other drift ever further away from her, out beyond her grasping fingertips.

  It wasn’t just her husband who lay at a distance from her, but her daughter too. Hermione was nearly a year old and yet Helen felt no closer to her than she had when she had given birth to her. Agatha had taken full responsibility for her care, in a separate chamber just as Helen had ordered. And even when Helen went to call on her daughter, it was clear that Hermione preferred the slave girl; she would cry whenever Agatha left the two of them alone. It made Helen feel so terribly guilty that she had not been able to love the child, that she herself had created what felt like this unbridgeable gulf between them. It was as if her daughter knew Helen had not wanted her.

  None of this was Agatha’s fault, Helen knew that in her honest heart. And yet she resented her. For doing what she could not, for being what she was not, for giving her daughter what she had not. Whenever Hermione smiled at the sight of the slave girl, and grasped toward her with her chubby little arms, Helen knew that really she hated herself. But it was easier to hate Agatha.

  She had taken it into her mind that she would go and see Hermione today. It had been several days since her last visit, and she had finally finished the blanket she had been weaving for her. The pattern was a little crude and there were faults in the fabric, but she wanted to give her daughter something, to be with her when she was not. A poor substitute for a mother, she knew, but it was something at least.

  When she reached the chamber door she pushed it open without knocking. She entered to find Agatha nursing Hermione, her dress undone to her waist. The girl jumped when she saw Helen.

  “G-good afternoon, mistress,” she stuttered, trying to pull her dress up with her free hand. “I didn’t realize you’d be visiting today.”

  “I can see my daughter whenever I feel like it, can I not? Or do I need to make an appointment?” Helen’s reply had a sharpness she hadn’t quite intended.

  “Yes, of course, mistress. I mean, no . . . she’s finished now anyway,” she said, moving Hermione away from her wet, pink nipple so that she could pull her dress up fully.

  Helen simply nodded. She knew she had made Agatha self-conscious, but she couldn’t help staring. It still fascinated her, in a bitter way, this life-nurturing ritual that she herself had never managed to accomplish.

  “I was going to set her down for a while, mistress,” said Agatha uncertainly. “She gets sleepy after a feed. But if you’d like I can—”

  “No, that’s fine,” said Helen, still standing on the same spot she’d been on since she had entered. “Carry on, it’s all right.”

  Agatha carried Hermione over to her cot and laid her inside it. As she began arranging her covers Helen remembered what she was holding in her hand.

  “I brought a blanket,” she said awkwardly, taking a step forward and holding out the piece of cloth.

  Agatha turned to look at her.

  “The king had one made not long ago, mistress. Didn’t he tell you?” But then she seemed to see the disappointment on Helen’s face. “No matter,” she said, stepping forward to take the blanket from Helen’s hand. “I’ll use this one instead, mistress. It’s very fine,” she lied, with a polite smile. Then she went back to the cot and finished tucking Hermione in.

  Helen stepped toward the little wooden structure and peered in. Hermione was still awake, but her eyes were drooping heavily. Helen stood there watching her little chest move up and down. She wondered whether she should reach out and touch her. But would it upset her? She wasn’t sure, and she could feel Agatha’s presence beside her. She always felt as if the other girl was judging her every action.

  “I’m a little hungry, Agatha,” she said suddenly, turning to the slave girl. “Would you get me something to eat?”

  “Of course, mistress,” the girl replied.

  Helen had to get rid of her, just for a little while. Her natural ease with Hermione only served to highlight Helen’s own painful uncertainty, and she couldn’t bear it. She needed space if she were to learn to love her child.

  The sound of the door closing told her that Agatha was gone. She relaxed a little, but there was still this life before her, sleeping now but still very much real and living and . . . unknowable. What did it think of her, she wondered? Did it love her? No, she didn’t think so. How could it? And yet maybe, in time . . .

  She stretched out a nervous hand and stroked the soft skin of Hermione’s cheek. Her little nose wrinkled and Helen quickly drew her hand away, worried the child would start to cry.

  But then her eyes were open, and she was looking up at her. Not upset or angry. Just looking at her.

  Helen suddenly felt more confident and she reached out again, this time toward one of the little hands. And then Hermione was holding her finger. Helen wiggled it around in those tiny, gripping fingers, and a little giggle erupted from the cot.

  Helen smiled, her nervousness forgotten. With each little burbling giggle she felt she was making some progress, going some way toward forming that elusive connection, the absence of which had lingered around her like a veil of shame for the past year.

  But then there was a loud clatter behind them and the spell was broken. Hermione began to cry and Helen spun around to see Agatha in the open doorway, a mess of bread, broth, and broken pottery at her feet.

  Anger flared inside Helen. It was as if Agatha had done it deliberately, as if she couldn’t let her be happy.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she yelled at the slave girl, not sure what else to shout, but feeling a terrible need to do so.

  “I’m sorry, mistress,” the girl said, getting down on her hands and knees to clean up what she could. “It just tipped and—”

  “You clumsy fool!” Helen snapped. “Look what a mess you’ve made! And you’ve upset Hermione. I should have you whipped.” She took a step toward Agatha, but then a voice from the doorway made her look up.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Behind Agatha, standing in the corridor, was Menelaos. He looked angry.

  “Ah, husband,” Helen said, stepping toward him. “Just in time. This idiot has made such a mess, and she’s made our daughter cry. She needs to be—”

  “That’s enough,” he snapped, and looked down at Agatha. “Are you all right?” he asked, putting a hand out to help her up.

  The slave girl’s eyes were still fearful, but she nodded and said, “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” Then she took his hand and pulled herself to her feet.

  Helen was still fuming, but her rage was briefly stunned by what she was seeing. What was he doing? He was her husband. Why wasn’t he asking her if she was all right? How many times had he ever asked her that? But before she could find any words to utter Agatha was speaking instead.

  “It’s true what she said, my lord. I dropped the tray and it made a noise and—”

  “That’s hardly an excuse for a whipping, though, is it?” he
said, looking at Helen sternly. “Agatha is caring for our daughter, and I expect you to show her a little more kindness.”

  Agatha’s head was lowered, her eyes on the floor. She must feel so smug, Helen thought. It stung her to hear her husband defend a slave over her. Was Menelaos shaming her, for her failure to care for Hermione? Her cheeks burned with anger, with hurt, with embarrassment, and her tongue felt stuck in her mouth.

  After a few moments’ silence Menelaos said, “I was planning to spend some time with Hermione. You may stay if you wish, Helen.”

  “I was going, anyway,” she lied, thinking she couldn’t bear to stay here with Agatha and Menelaos, who made her feel like a naughty child. So she strode from the room, passing the two of them with her chin high as she stepped out into the corridor.

  And as she did she saw Menelaos put a hand on Agatha’s elbow. It was a small gesture and yet it irked Helen, and she dwelled on it as she strode back to her chamber. Was he simply ushering her into the chamber, or was it something more? Was there some tenderness between them, born in those hours her husband spent visiting Hermione?

  Like a creeping tide suddenly breaching the harbor wall, Helen realized that she was jealous. She knew that it didn’t make sense when she was actively trying to avoid her husband, when she was deliberately creating distance between them. And yet the thought that he might care for another woman left a bitter taste. Despite all that had happened, despite all she had been forced to do, Helen still wanted Menelaos to love her, and only her. And it wasn’t until now that the possibility of losing his affection to someone else had really struck her.

  But then again, she thought as she sat at her dressing table that evening, perhaps she had imagined it. She passed the ivory comb through her long hair, admiring the shine of it in the lamplight. Her husband had a decent heart—perhaps he was just defending Agatha as a loyal servant. Deep down, Helen knew the girl hadn’t deserved the scolding she had given her, and her husband had known that too. He was just being kind. Yes, it was likely to be nothing more than that. After all, the thought of it was quite ridiculous. Agatha was very plain-looking, and she . . . well, she was Helen of Sparta.