Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  She felt she was traveling the world with him when Paris told his stories, and when he said he must return to his chamber, she asked him to stay just a little longer. His words, his gaze . . . they nourished a part of Helen that had shrunk so small with the passing years that she had learned to live without it. But now, with every profession of love, every praise of her beauty, every tender touch of her arm, she felt that shriveled part of her swell. And she could not ignore it any longer. It made her heart throb and her lips hunger for his skin, her skin hunger for his lips. It made her feel alive.

  On the fourth night, Helen was sitting on the edge of her bed when the knock came. She was still wearing the fine gown she had chosen for the feast, having insisted to her handmaids that she would undress herself tonight. She didn’t like lying to them, but Paris’s visits were so precious to her that a little deceit seemed a small price. She could not risk that someone would find out, that Paris would have to leave, that the whole beautiful dream would end.

  The knock came a little earlier than usual, and Helen smiled when it did. She went to the door and let the prince in, closing it softly behind him.

  “Have my brothers gone to bed already?” she asked.

  “No, I left them drinking with my cousin Aineias.” He took a step toward her and raised a soft-skinned palm to her cheek. “I had to come. I couldn’t wait.”

  Helen smiled and put her small hand on top of his.

  “I’m glad you did. It will give us more time. You can finish telling me about your visit to Hattusa, or about the Queen of Miletos, or the time you saved your sister from drowning—I liked that one.” She beamed up at him.

  “I had another idea,” he said, moving his hand down from her cheek and onto her shoulder. He looked down before turning his eyes back to hers. “Helen, your beauty is like the sun.” She smiled and he continued. “But . . . as it is, I feel I have only glimpsed a portion of its splendor, like a beam bursting through a gap in the clouds. I . . . I wondered if you would allow me to see your full beauty. Unveiled.”

  Those golden eyes looked at her meaningfully, and she blushed as she realized what he meant.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I’ve embarrassed you. I should not have asked. It’s only that—”

  “No,” she said, grasping his hand in hers. “I want you to see me. All of me.” She only realized the truth and strength of her feelings as she said it.

  Helen lifted his hand, past her thumping heart, to the piece of cloth that lay over her shoulder. He paused, his eyes fixed on hers, and then delicately slid the cloth down over her arm. And then the other side.

  Helen took an involuntary breath as she felt the material slip from her breasts, but Paris’s eyes did not leave hers. Rather, he lowered his hands, and set them to untying the sash around her waist. Helen could feel herself shaking, but it was not from fear. Her whole body was alive with energy, and as he pulled the fine cloth down over her hips every brush of his hand on her skin sent a warm shiver through her.

  The dress was around her feet now and Helen stood transfixed, her rattling breaths the only sound in the room. Paris stepped backward, and his eyes finally left hers, roaming over her white skin, taking in every inch of her. It was strange; she did not feel self-conscious, as when Menelaos looked at her, or even her ladies. Paris’s eyes made her feel beautiful, desired, worthy, and she basked in the feeling of it.

  “You are more beautiful than I had even imagined,” Paris said finally, his golden gaze coming to rest on her eyes once more. “Truly, the goddesses themselves could not overshadow you.”

  Helen ought to have chastised him for speaking so impiously, but she could not help smiling instead. Paris stepped toward her again and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently.

  “Thank you, Helen. I am glad I came tonight. I had to see all of you, before I left.”

  Helen’s heart seized. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes. First thing in the morning.” He regarded her steadily.

  “No, you can’t,” she said, panic rising in her chest. “You must stay longer. At least until Menelaos returns. You cannot leave yet. I could not bear it.” From her happiness a moment ago she now felt on the verge of tears.

  “Alas, I must.” He turned his body as if already making for the door. “I am needed at home, and it would not be wise for me to be here when your husband returns. I fear he would see what has grown between us.”

  Helen stood staring at him, her mouth open, her eyes pleading, but she saw from the decision in his eyes that they would have no avail.

  Desperate, she drew his hand to her breast, and pressed it there.

  “Lie with me, then, before you leave, if you must go. Please,” she said, her heart pulsing beneath the warmth of his fingers. “I . . . I cannot bear the thought of things going back to the way they were before you came. Worse than before, now that . . .” She blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. “But perhaps, if I had that memory to cling to . . . perhaps then I could bear it better.”

  She knew how pathetic she must seem, but she didn’t care. Her little piece of happiness was slipping away—she had to grasp it, to keep it for as long as she could, to store some of it away within herself. It was the only way she would survive.

  Paris had not spoken and she could not read his expression.

  “Say you will,” she said, putting her other hand on his cheek. “Say you’ll lie with me tonight. Menelaos would never find out. I won’t get pregnant, I have ways—”

  “Helen,” he said softly, moving his hand gently from her breast to her cheek. “I cannot lie with you. It wouldn’t be right, to sleep with another man’s wife in his own house.”

  “Nor is it right for you to have seen me like this, to have spoken the things you have spoken to me, but you have done it!”

  “To lie with you would cross another line, Helen, and you know it. I will not make you a whore in your own home. You are too good for that.”

  Helen was angry. Could he not see what he was abandoning her to? What he had awoken within her? It was not fair of him to dangle love when it pleased him and deny it when it did not. Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears.

  “Don’t cry,” he said, lifting her face toward his. She closed her eyes to avoid looking at him, and felt his lips brush her eyelids as he kissed one and then the other.

  Even now he made her love him. She winced with the bitterness of it, at her foolishness in not seeing that this end would have to come. She leaned forward and put her head on his chest, wetting his tunic with silent tears.

  They stayed like that for some time, Paris’s arms wrapped around her, his hands stroking her bare skin. Then, eventually, he spoke.

  “What if you came to Troy with me?”

  Helen froze. The question sounded so absurd, hanging there in the silence, that she gave a bitter laugh. “As your whore, you mean? I thought I was too good for that?”

  “Not as my whore. As my wife.”

  Helen straightened up, and looked at him.

  “Your wife?” The words felt strange on her tongue. She had never even considered the possibility before now. “But . . . I already have a husband,” she said.

  “Barely,” said Paris. “Who is he to lay claim on you? To neglect you as you waste your youth and beauty?” He cupped her face in his warm hands. “I love you, Helen. I could give you a new life, one you deserve, with every comfort you could want. You would no longer be a queen, perhaps, but a princess of Troy is no mean station. And you would have all my sisters and sisters-in-law as your companions. They would welcome you as if you were their sister too. I know you would like that.”

  She would like that, she realized. It had been so long since she had had a sister. He made this new life sound so inviting, so easy, as if she could reach out and take it, if she chose. But she couldn’t, could she?

  “I .
. . you would not want me as your wife, Paris,” she said, pulling away from him. “I will not have any more children. I would disappoint you.” She knew the weight of those words, and braced herself for his look of confusion, even disgust. But he barely blinked.

  “That does not matter to me,” he said with a smile, drawing her toward him once more. “I am not the first son. I do not need heirs.”

  “But don’t you want them?” she asked incredulously. Every man wanted sons.

  “What I want is you.” He leaned forward and parted her lips with his.

  Helen was in a whirl. Could she really believe it? That a man might want her for herself alone, and not for the children she could give him? And yet those golden eyes were so sincere, that embrace so comforting. She felt unburdened in his arms, as if the weight of being heir and queen and mother had all drifted away from her. An hour ago she had been Helen of Sparta, the only light on her horizon the thought of another evening with Paris, and the world beyond that an unconsidered blur. But now she found herself faced with the possibility of a new, hopeful, liberated life, the chance to be Helen of somewhere different entirely. It all felt so strange and unstable, as if the world had been pulled from beneath her feet, and the only surety she had to cling onto was that she wanted to be close to Paris, to have him touch her again, kiss her again, to hear him say that he loved her. She didn’t think she would ever tire of those words.

  “You don’t have to speak your answer right away,” came that honey voice. “Though we must leave soon or not at all, if we are to avoid being seen.” He took her chin gently in his hand. “Think about it, Helen. Think about the life you want, and I will return in an hour to hear your decision.”

  Then he kissed her again and left the chamber.

  CHAPTER 30

  HELEN

  Helen put her dress back on and sat on the edge of her bed, her head resting on her fist. In less than an hour she would have to decide: did she want to remain Helen of Sparta, or become Helen of Troy? Part of her could still not believe she was even facing this choice. Could she really do it? Could she really just leave, begin again somewhere new? Abandon her home, her family? Was it madness to even think of leaving? Was it madness not to?

  There was a knock at the door.

  Helen froze. It was too soon for Paris to have returned. But if it was not him, who was it? It was late—no one would have cause to call on her at this hour. Perhaps Paris had changed his mind. Perhaps he had decided the risk was too great. Helen’s heart sank at the thought.

  A second knock came, more impatient than the first.

  Helen rose quickly and trotted to the door. Before opening it, she took a breath, bracing herself for disappointment. But as she pulled the door toward her, it was not Paris’s face that appeared.

  “Mother!” cried Helen, astonished.

  Her mother said nothing but pushed past her into the room, looking about her as she went. From her manner Helen judged that she had been drinking, and the waft of wine that followed her into the room confirmed her suspicion. There were bags under her eyes and her dark hair had come loose.

  “What a surprise it is to see you, Mother,” Helen said uncertainly, trying to smile. “I wasn’t expecting—”

  “I know what’s been going on, Helen,” said her mother suddenly, throwing her a sharp look. “No one pays any mind to poor Queen Leda, no—lost her beauty, lost her daughter, lost her husband . . . But I am yet living, though it’s easier for you all to pretend I am not. And I see things . . .” She paused, peering unsteadily at Helen. “I see you . . . whore.”

  She said the word with such venom that it was like a dagger in Helen’s chest. She felt paralyzed, fixed by those hate-filled eyes.

  “I knew you would be,” her mother continued. “Not like your sister, such a sweet girl . . . But whores are born of whores, and here you are, spreading your legs for any man who gives you a pretty necklace.”

  No, it wasn’t like that. Helen wanted to defend herself but the words stuck in her tightening throat, and her mother continued before she could get them out.

  “You needn’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. It would shame your father in his grave. No, I couldn’t heap that shame on him too. Too much, too much . . .” Suddenly she was crying, shaking her head as if fighting something inside it. Helen was bewildered, watching her mother with wide eyes. Part of her was hurt but another part wanted to embrace her, to hold her and keep her from crumbling. But then she seemed to collect herself.

  “No, I will not expose your shame.” She took a deep breath, and her emaciated chest seemed to shudder with the effort. “What I came to say is that I see you, Helen, and what I see makes me sick. You may be my blood, but you are not my daughter. You never have been, not really. And I want nothing to do with you.”

  She shot one last piercing glare and strode out of the chamber, leaving Helen alone with her mouth still open.

  So there it was. Her mother hated her. She had always hated her, in a way. She saw that now, even if she did not understand it. She had never been good enough, never been like Nestra. Helen the whore, Helen the disappointment, Helen the unwanted.

  She began to cry, fat tears rolling down her face and neck, squeezed out in painful, soul-racking sobs. For a while all she could do was let the tears fall. It felt as if they had been gathering for years, all her life in fact, rising and rising, waiting for this moment of realization.

  But eventually they began to ebb, as if she were coming out of a storm. And as the sky of her mind cleared, another thought slowly surfaced. She did not have to be Helen the unwanted. Not anymore. She could leave with Paris, and become Helen the desired, Helen the loved—she could be Helen of Troy.

  What was there left to stay for? Nestra was gone; Father was dead. Her mother hated her and her husband was indifferent. Her brothers would continue to dice and drink whether she was here or not. And Hermione . . . she had once thought that love might grow between them, but it seemed less likely as the years passed. Hermione did not need her. She had never needed her. She had Agatha. Helen doubted whether, in time, her daughter would even remember her face.

  She was resolved. Her home had become little more than a familiar shell. No one here would much care if she was gone, so why stay? Faced with a decision between the hollow life she knew and the hopeful one she did not, she had to choose hope.

  CHAPTER 31

  HELEN

  They rode through the night, reaching the southern port of Gythion just as dawn was beginning to break. Helen had not slept, but she didn’t feel tired. It was all so exhilarating, slipping away in the middle of the night, riding toward her new life with Paris’s chest against her back, his breath on her neck, his arm around her waist. She had been tingling throughout the whole journey and now, as the black ships came into view, a shiver went through her. It was really happening. She was really going to leave.

  They dismounted and Helen found herself facing Paris, her hands in his. Her legs felt unsteady after the long ride and she swayed slightly where she stood, smiling up at him. He smiled back.

  “I’m glad you came with me, Helen,” he said in a low voice, his eyes roving over her face.

  “I’m glad too,” she breathed.

  Then he leaned forward and kissed her, soft and long.

  When they parted, Helen glanced over his shoulder and noticed several large chests on the shore, waiting to be loaded onto one of the ships.

  “What’s in those?” she asked casually, as Paris’s men began to haul the first one up the gangplank.

  “Just a few trinkets to take back,” he said, putting a hand on her cheek to lead her gaze back to him. But she kept watching the men.

  “From the palace?” she asked.

  He paused before answering. “Yes, from the palace.”

  “Did my husband gift them to you? I thought he told me—”

  �
��He did not gift them to me, no,” said Paris, an edge of annoyance creeping into his voice. Helen turned to him.

  “I didn’t mean . . . I was just curious,” she said, not wanting to ruin the heady excitement of their flight.

  “It is right that guests should receive parting gifts. We have only taken what is rightfully ours. And yours too,” he added. “A bride must have a dowry. Sparta’s wealth is your wealth too, is it not?”

  Helen didn’t answer, but watched the chests being loaded, a little frown creasing her forehead. It didn’t feel right. It was for a host to present gifts, not for guests to take them. Surely Menelaos would not be happy when he returned to find his palace ransacked, along with his wife. She didn’t want to cause him more injury than was necessary.

  “Helen, look at me,” came Paris’s voice, and she turned to him. “It is nothing. Just a few trifles. You are the greatest treasure Sparta has to offer. What should I care for gold when I have you?”

  She smiled at this. The smoothness was back in his voice, the light in his eyes.

  “I wouldn’t have taken anything if I had known it would trouble you. I thought you would like some memories of your home, some comforts for your new life. I would take them back if I could, but there is no time now.” He looked at her remorsefully, waiting for a response.

  “It’s all right,” she said, with a reassuring smile. “I know you didn’t mean any harm. But I don’t need treasures. I only need you.” She smiled again, and as he smiled back she pushed away her misgivings. He took her by the shoulders and kissed her again.