Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  Just then, there was the sound of wood scraping on stone and all thoughts of her mother vanished. Finally, the great doors were opening.

  As the wood parted and the slaves stepped aside, there emerged the most extravagantly dressed man Helen had ever seen. His clothes were a chaos of color—rich purples, deep reds, vibrant yellows, all jostling in wonderfully complex patterns. A leopard skin was draped over his shoulders and hung down his back, adding its own sumptuous décor to the mix. His long, dark hair fell in lustrous ringlets down to his shoulders and across his forehead, which was adorned with bands of gold and glittering jewels. Similar ornaments spangled on his ears, at his throat, and on his fingers, so that the overall effect was of a mosaic of light and color, shimmering as it sauntered toward them. The man’s companions, following behind, were dressed in a similarly extravagant fashion and yet he was like a beacon among them, a sparkling jewel among polished rocks.

  Now that he was close, Helen’s attention turned to the man’s face. He was very handsome, with fine features and tanned, unblemished skin. He was young, perhaps around Helen’s age, and had a lightness about his expression, as if a smile might spring to his lips at any moment. His eyes were a golden hazel and ringed with kohl, so that one could not help but be drawn into them. Truly, Helen did not think she had ever seen a man so beautiful.

  To her left, Menelaos rose to his feet, and she followed suit. Then her husband greeted their guests, raising his naturally gruff voice so that all the hall could hear.

  “Prince Paris of Troy, Sparta greets you and welcomes you as her guest. May your visit breed friendship between our kingdoms, and may the gods allow us both to prosper from it.”

  Once the echoes of her husband’s final words had faded, the glittering prince made his reply.

  “King Menelaos, Troy thanks you for your hospitality, and honors you as a noble host and guest-friend. To mark the friendship between our peoples, I have brought gifts for you and your kingdom.”

  Here the prince turned around and nodded to his companions. A great chest was brought forward, and the lid raised. One by one the prince lifted items from the box and held them up for the admiration of all present. A fine bronze bridle, two golden mixing bowls, silver-patterned daggers with ivory handles, purple-dyed cloth, a comb inlaid with lapis lazuli . . .

  Once all the items had been presented to Menelaos, and received with ceremonious thanks, the prince bent down once more and brought a small, carved ivory box out of the bottom of the chest. Rather than presenting it to the king, however, he turned and held it out toward Helen, managing to bow his head and keep his eyes upon hers at the same time.

  “One final gift, for your lovely queen,” he said in his strange, smooth accent.

  Helen was surprised, and hesitated a moment. Guest-gifts were for kings, not their wives. She glanced at Menelaos, who gave a small nod, so she reached out and lifted the box delicately from the prince’s hands. With the attention of the hall suddenly on her, she removed the lid with faintly shaking hands and lifted out the contents for all to see. It was a necklace—three strings of bright, clear amber, and droplets of gold between the beads.

  “It is beautiful,” she said breathlessly, smiling as it caught the light of the torches.

  She glanced up to see the prince smiling too, but his face soon changed to mock disappointment.

  “Alas, I thought it would complement the fiery beauty of which I have heard so much, but now I see that it looks pale and dull beside you.”

  Helen could not help her smile broadening at his flattery, and she felt her cheeks redden beneath her makeup. Was her beauty really known as far away as Troy? In truth, she did not really know how far away Troy was, but his words made her feel as if she were the talk of the entire world. Even after all these years, she still mattered. She was still somebody, to young men in foreign lands if not to anybody here in Sparta. Suddenly, with those few words, Helen felt brighter than she had in a long time.

  Now that the gifts had been presented, they were cleared away so that the feast could begin. Helen’s mood remained buoyant for the rest of the evening, and though the prince did not speak to her again, she found her eyes meeting his golden ones on several occasions. All thought of talking to her mother was forgotten as she passed the evening in smiling contentment, and watched the glittering prince from across the crowded hall.

  CHAPTER 27

  HELEN

  For the next five days, Paris and his companions were entertained in Menelaos’s halls. There was some discussion of politics, but mostly there was drinking and feasting.

  Each evening, Helen would attend the Hearth Hall, and each evening she would feel the prince’s eyes upon her. She had gone from watcher to watched, it seemed, and although she was shy at first, her eyes darting away when they caught his, she found that she liked the attention. She would choose her best gowns to wear at the feasts, showing as much of herself as she dared, anticipating his gaze upon her exposed skin and feeling a flutter of excitement as she did. It had been so long since she had felt desired, or even noticed, so long since a man had looked at her in that way. Her husband never did, not anymore, and no other man would dare. But Paris was different. He was bold. Even when she caught him staring, he did not look away, but met her eyes and held them. At one point, his eyes locked with hers, he picked up a piece of fig from his plate and put it to his lips, and sucked on its sweet flesh, the red juice making his lips glisten. She had blushed and turned away, glancing furtively around her to check that no one had seen. But even as she started an empty conversation with her neighbor to distract herself, she had smiled inwardly as she felt his gaze still upon her, her skin warming as if those golden eyes were the sun itself.

  On the sixth day, as Helen was weaving in her chamber and wondering which dress she might wear that evening, Menelaos came to speak with her.

  “I’m going away, Helen,” he announced abruptly, stopping a few feet from her stool at the loom. “News has just arrived from Krete. My grandfather Katreus has died and I must go and see to the burial rites.”

  “Yes, yes, of course you must,” she replied, absorbing what he had said. “Will you leave straightaway?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he said. “It is ill timing with our guests here, but it cannot be helped. They will understand, I am sure, but that is partly why I wished to speak with you. I must ask you to play host in my stead. Make sure that our guests are well looked after for the rest of their stay, and ensure that suitable parting gifts are given if I should not return in time for their departure. I trust you to represent Sparta and myself in this,” he ended solemnly.

  Helen nodded stiffly in reply, but a strange, conflicted feeling was growing in her stomach. There was gratitude and no small measure of surprise at her husband’s revelation of his trust in her, but something else, too—a kind of nervousness.

  “I will do my duty, husband,” she said softly. And then, the nervous feeling bubbling up, “When will you return?”

  “I shall only be gone a week or so,” he replied with a reassuring half smile. “And your brothers will be here.”

  Feeling as if he were looking for some sort of confirmation, Helen smiled and nodded, pushing down her anxiety. “Yes, I’ll be fine. And so will our guests. May the gods keep you safe on your journey.”

  “Thank you, Helen. Now I must go.” And with a final brief nod he turned about and left the chamber.

  Once the door was closed, the nervous feeling began to beat stronger in Helen’s chest. Menelaos was leaving. His presence had felt like a kind of anchor these last few days, while Paris’s eyes watched her from across the hall. Yes, the prince was flirting with her, and yes, perhaps she had encouraged him, but having Menelaos seated beside her had made it feel safe, made her feel under control. While she was tethered to her husband, flirtation was just that, and could not be anything more. But now she felt as though she had been
cut adrift, and the freedom of it was at once exhilarating and terrifying.

  CHAPTER 28

  HELEN

  Helen sat as head of the feast, Menelaos’s empty throne beside her. She had opted for a more reserved outfit than the night before, not wanting to draw more attention than she felt able to handle, nor tempt fate more than was decent. She felt strangely exposed without her husband, and her heart was beating noticeably in her chest as she took her seat and welcomed the guests.

  Paris entered, gave a polite nod to his host, and took his seat among his companions. As the feast got under way, as cups were filled and emptied and filled again, Helen waited for those golden eyes to come beaming across the room, to feel them on her skin as she pretended not to notice. But she never felt them, and every time she looked over toward the foreign prince she would find him laughing and drinking with his neighbors. He seemed wholly uninterested in her, barely sparing her a glance all evening. Indeed, he gave far more attention to Helen’s brothers than to her.

  She was relieved in a way, having been worried as to how his flirtations would escalate with the removal of Menelaos, and yet she found herself feeling a little hurt too. Perhaps she had imagined the prince’s interest in her. Or perhaps his eyes had taken their fill. As the evening wore on, she wished she had chosen a more inviting outfit, and picked at her food in deflated silence.

  After a couple of hours, Helen decided that her duty as host was fulfilled and left the men to their drinking. She doubted that she would be missed—her brothers were doing a fine job of entertaining their foreign guests without her.

  When Helen reached her chamber she was thankful to find it empty. She was in no mood to chat with her handmaids right now, and dressed herself for bed. She knew she ought to be glad that the prince’s interest had abated. She need no longer guard herself, or be worried for her reputation. But if this was a good thing, why did she feel so disappointed?

  She washed the kohl from her eyes, the lead from her cheeks, the red ocher from her lips, feeling a sting of bitterness as she remembered the nervous anticipation with which it had been applied. What a fool she was. Then she put out the lamps and went to bed.

  * * *

  Helen didn’t know what time it was when she was startled awake by a knock at the door. Very late, she imagined, as she had already slept and dreamed awhile since leaving the feast. Surely everyone was in bed by now, so who was this knocking at her door? A slave? But what would they be doing at this hour? Or a messenger, perhaps? Had there been some news of her husband?

  Helen sprang from the bed and padded barefoot across the chamber floor. When she reached the door she pulled it open, but only a little, feeling somewhat indecent in her nightdress. And as the light of the corridor spilled through, she was greeted by a pair of golden eyes.

  “Prince Paris!” she exclaimed in surprise. The unexpectedness of that face made her tongue seize in her mouth, but when she had found her words she said, “What are you doing here? Is there something you need? I’m sure the slaves will be able to fetch—”

  “I want you, actually,” he said with a smile. “To speak with you, I mean.”

  “It is very late,” she said, hoping he could not see her blush in the dim light. “I—I am alone and . . . not dressed for company.” He simply smiled at her, and she paused. While all these things were true, and she could have used any one of them to send him away, she did not. Instead, she opened the door wider. “Come in, Prince Paris.”

  “Please, just call me Paris,” he said as he stepped past her into the center of the room. “And I hope that you might allow me to call you Helen in return,” he continued, turning to face her.

  “Yes, if you like,” she said shyly. “We are guest-friends, after all.” Her heart was thumping at her boldness. It was not right for her to be alone with this strange man, guest-friend or not. She knew she should not have let him in, that she should send him away even now. But another part of her was thrilled by his presence, here in her private space, her marriage chamber, where he ought least of all to be.

  Helen turned around to light a lamp and close the chamber door, and when she turned back she was startled to find that he had stepped closer to her so that he was only a couple of feet away. She could smell his perfumed skin, at once earthy and sweet with foreign scents she was not used to.

  “Helen,” he said suddenly, his silken voice curling around the edges of her name. “Let us not pretend you have no idea why I have come. You must know that I admire you, that I have watched you. You have been haunting my thoughts since I arrived here. I had to speak with you, to confess my heart. Will you allow it?”

  Helen stared at him, confused. Had he not ignored her all evening? And now suddenly he was here to confess his heart? It didn’t make any sense . . . But then she smelled it, drifting on the air with his perfume.

  “You are still full of the wine of the feast,” she said, annoyed and strangely disappointed. “You should leave.”

  She turned to open the door once more, but suddenly his hand was on her wrist.

  “No, my lady,” he said earnestly, his eyes fixing hers. “I swear that was not what drove me here. I have barely drunk two cups this evening.”

  “But . . . I saw you,” she said, determined not to be swayed by those eyes. “You were drinking with my brothers. I imagine you have only just left them.” There was a bitterness in her voice as she said this. To think she might have risked everything for no more than wine-fueled lust.

  “You have it wrong, Helen,” he said urgently. “I made it seem as if I were drinking as much as they, but that was not the reality. I thought that if I could fill them with wine, I would be better able to visit you tonight . . . unobserved.”

  Helen was silent, trying to read his eyes for truth. He did not seem drunk, and yet she still felt wary.

  He slid his hand from her wrist, and held her white fingers instead.

  “I am sorry I ignored you this evening. I did not want to risk suspicion, but now I fear that I have hardened your heart against me. I just needed to see you alone, to speak with you . . . But perhaps you are right. Perhaps I should leave . . .”

  He let go of her fingers and made a step toward the door, but this time it was Helen’s turn to grasp his wrist.

  “No, wait,” she said. “Don’t leave.”

  He stopped and turned back to her.

  “I believe you,” she said slowly. “And . . . I think that you should say what you came to say, now that you are here.” She spoke as if he had merely come to make a petition, and yet her heart was thumping at the thought of what he might say.

  His golden eyes were searching hers. They seemed so very close now.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice soft. He moved even closer to her, so that she could smell the sweetness of his breath. “I love you, Helen. That is what I came to say. That I love you with a fire that burns so bright I can no longer see anything or anyone but you. I came to say that your face fills my eyes in the day and my dreams at night. That your beauty makes the sun look dim, that it makes my heart ache, that I would go to the ends of the earth just to be close to it. That the thought of leaving here, of living the rest of my life without you, feels like I am being sent to die, for a death it may as well be if I can never again see your face.”

  Helen stood silent, unable to speak or move. Paris’s outpouring was like a flood after a decade of drought. Right now, it was all she could do not to drown in it.

  He took her hands in his, and his touch brought her back to herself. She looked down at those smooth fingers, glittering with their bands of gold, and then back up into his eyes.

  “Your husband does not appreciate you for what you are. He cannot, for I have seen the way he is with you. He barely looks at you. If you were my wife, Helen, I would never stop looking at you.” He raised a hand to her cheek and laid it there softly. “I would never stop hold
ing you, never stop touching you, never stop—”

  And then his lips were on hers, soft and warm. Before she knew what was happening she was kissing him back, her lips eager for that life-giving nectar, like a feast to the starved. She could have stayed there forever, caught in his arms, breathing his heady scent.

  It was he who pulled away.

  “I’m sorry. That was wrong. I shouldn’t have . . . it’s just . . . when I am near you it’s all I can think of.”

  “No, we shouldn’t have,” she said, stepping away and trying to calm her ragged breathing, and yet she wished he would kiss her again.

  They stood in silence for several moments, her green eyes held by his golden ones, so close she was sure she could hear his heart beating. Or perhaps it was her own.

  “You should go,” she said eventually, turning her eyes away. “You shouldn’t be here . . . I— You shouldn’t have said those things to me.”

  “Do you wish I had not?”

  Helen opened her mouth but could not reply. After a moment she repeated her previous words, though quieter than before. “You should go.”

  Paris gave a shallow bow and Helen opened the chamber door, glancing both ways down the corridor outside. Sure that the coast was clear, she stepped aside to let him out. But just as Helen was about to close the chamber door behind him, he put his hand against it.

  “May I come again?” he whispered.

  Helen paused, her eyes searching that beautiful face. Then she gave a brief nod, and closed the door.

  CHAPTER 29

  HELEN

  Paris came to her chamber again the next night, and the next. They sat together in the darkest hours of the night and he would gaze at her, tell her how beautiful she was, sometimes hold her hand or touch her arm. He would tell her stories from his youth, of roaming Mount Ida with his brothers, of racing their horses on the plain or waging mock wars with one another among Troy’s winding streets. He would tell her of his travels too, of the places he had seen and the people he had met, in far-off lands of which she knew nothing. He was a year younger than her, she discovered, and yet he had done so much. It made Helen realize how small her life was. She had never even left Lakonia.