Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  “Now we must leave,” he said. Paris took her by the hand and led her up the gangplank, smiling back at her as she made those fateful steps, so that all she could see was his handsome face, those golden eyes that promised so much drawing her forward. Once on board he took her in his arms, held her and kissed her and stroked her hair so that it felt as if the whole world were melting away and it was just the two of them left, just his strong arms and her beating heart.

  Then he let her go, and the world re-formed, and Helen realized that they were moving, that there was already a swathe of water between them and the shore, and growing larger every moment.

  Just like that, Greece was behind her, and she had barely noticed. She felt it now, though, felt her old life, her home, her family drifting away, shrinking into the horizon. All she knew and had ever known, good and bad, was riven from her by that swelling band of blue, and it was only now that she truly realized there was no getting back to it.

  A strange panic began to pulse in her stomach as she wondered whether she had done the right thing. It had felt so much safer while she still had the option of turning back, but now, with the water all around her . . . She wished she had brought her handmaids with her. What had she been thinking, not to even say good-bye to them? She had been so swept up by it all. Now she would never see them again. And Hermione . . . She wished she had kissed her daughter good-bye, given her one last memory of her. She was sad, too, as she realized she would never see her brothers marry, sad as she thought of the last words her mother had spoken to her. She was even a little sad at the thought of never seeing Menelaos again. He had been good to her, despite everything.

  But it was too late for all of that. She had made her decision. Paris was a good man too—and more than that, he loved her, and she loved him. She must love him, mustn’t she? To be following him halfway across the world? Something in Paris drew her to him, made her trust him, made her want to be close to him.

  She looked to her side, wanting to take his hand and steady herself, but he was not there. She spotted him across the deck, talking with his cousin. Helen turned back to the shrinking coast and gripped the side of the ship instead.

  She had done the right thing, she told herself. She had to leave. She was suffocating. No one would miss her. Menelaos least of all. He would understand. It would all come good. Her new life would be a rebirth, a new chance at love.

  And as she stood bracing herself against the swaying deck, she prayed to the gods that she was right.

  CHAPTER 32

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  Klytemnestra was sitting in the Hearth Hall, her newborn son gurgling in her arms. She couldn’t stop looking at him—and hadn’t for the past ten days. He was really here, an heir at last. Their little family was finally complete, and she couldn’t be happier. She beamed at the visitors as they brought their gifts and spoke their blessings. This was not just her son but the son of Mycenae, and it seemed half the kingdom had come to celebrate his naming day. A constant stream of reverent faces had been filing in and out of the hall all morning, their gifts ranging from silver rattles to hastily picked wildflowers. All were welcome. Klytemnestra wanted to share her child and her joy with as many as would come.

  Orestes, her husband had named him. A good name, she thought. He too had been beaming at the child all morning, proudly announcing him as “My son, Orestes, prince of Mycenae” to all who entered. Just as Klytemnestra had hoped, the birth seemed to have settled her husband. Today it was clear that there was nowhere he would rather be than here with her and their son.

  Suddenly, Klytemnestra became aware of a commotion outside the hall. It was understandable, with all the people queueing for a look at the baby, but she wished Talthybios would keep them quiet. She didn’t want Orestes getting upset, when he had been so good up until now.

  Agamemnon had noticed the disturbance too and was glaring in the direction of the doors. Then suddenly his expression changed, and Klytemnestra turned to see why.

  There, parting the queue of people before him as he strode into the hall, was Menelaos.

  “Brother!” boomed Agamemnon. “I was not expecting you! Have you come to bless your nephew?” His jovial tone sounded over the noise of the crowd, but his smile waned as he saw his brother’s face.

  “You must ask everyone to leave,” said Menelaos. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”

  He wore a queer expression that Klytemnestra could not quite read, but his eyes were serious. She instinctively put a hand over her son’s head, as if protecting him from an oncoming storm.

  Agamemnon nodded to his brother and rose to address the hall.

  “I and my son thank you for your blessings, but the audience has now ended. Go back to your homes.” He then signaled to Talthybios, who ushered the crowds out.

  When the hall was quiet and the doors closed, Menelaos told his brother what had brought him to Mycenae.

  “Gone?” boomed Agamemnon. “What do you mean gone? Have you lost her?” He exhaled a brief chuckle, but Menelaos was not smiling, and neither was Klytemnestra.

  “We had foreign guests staying at the palace, from Troy—”

  “Trojans? What possessed you to entertain those bastards? I wouldn’t give them a bed if they begged. Let them grovel to their Hittite masters instead, I say.” He spat on the ground.

  “I thought . . . They came in peace, brother. They wanted to reopen the trade routes, they said. But . . . you’re right. I shouldn’t have trusted them.” Menelaos’s expression was bitter. “My men think my wife left with them. I was away—at our grandfather’s funeral—and when I returned she was not there. It is not certain . . . how she was taken. But no one heard her shout for help.”

  Klytemnestra knew what he was implying, but she didn’t want to believe it. Helen would not willingly abandon her family. She must have been tricked. Perhaps they had threatened her daughter—she herself would do anything to protect her children.

  She feared for Helen. She must be so afraid, taken from her home, raped by a foreign man. But if she had not been raped, if she had left willingly . . . The thought was not much better. Oh, Helen. What have you done?

  “You were right to come to me,” said Agamemnon gravely. “Once the rest of Greece hears . . . what will they say? That we cannot keep our women? That we let our guests dishonor us? No, the House of Atreus will not be mocked. I will not—”

  Then a strange look came over his face, as if a thought had struck him. And, quite to Klytemnestra’s bafflement, a shadow of a smile curled at the edge of his lips.

  “No, we will not be mocked,” he repeated slowly. “Brother, this is not a trial the gods have sent us. It is an opportunity.”

  He was leaning forward in his seat now, a sudden energy animating his features. Menelaos looked confused, and seemed to reflect some of the disbelief that must have shown on Klytemnestra’s own face.

  “An opportunity? Have you misunderstood me, brother?” Menelaos asked tersely. “My wife is gone. Taken. Either by seduction, in which case I am cuckolded and made a fool before all the world. Or she was stolen by force, to be defiled by foreign men, raped and beaten. She may already be dead.”

  Klytemnestra felt sick, and the rare emotion in Menelaos’s voice scared her. She wondered where Helen was right now, and an image of her sister’s body rotting at the bottom of the sea forced its way into her mind. She pushed it away. Could Helen have really done this thing? Had she gone willingly? Had she done it for love? She was beginning to hope so.

  Agamemnon’s booming voice broke her thoughts.

  “I understand the situation quite well, brother. Better than you, it seems.” Menelaos’s brow furrowed in anger, but Agamemnon continued before he could speak. “Do you not see? Your wife, the flower of Greece, has been plucked by foreign guests from your own palace. They have broken the sacred laws of guest-friendship. They have dishonored you. Insulted y
ou. But more than that, brother, they have insulted Greece.”

  Menelaos was silent for a moment, surveying his brother’s face. Then, in a quieter voice, he said, “They emptied my treasury, too. I thought the matter of my wife more pressing, but—”

  “Even better,” cried Agamemnon, thumping his fist on the arm of his throne. Klytemnestra saw his shadow of a smile strengthen. “Those Eastern rats have stolen from Greece. We must show them that our wives are not theirs to rape, our gold is not theirs to plunder.”

  “And how do you mean to do that?” asked Menelaos warily.

  “By taking back that which was stolen.”

  Agamemnon’s words echoed around the chamber, and it seemed to Klytemnestra as if they had a heaviness to them, a significance that could not be taken back now that it had been breathed into the world.

  “You mean to go to war.”

  And with these words Menelaos gave solidity to the thought that was beginning to form in Klytemnestra’s mind.

  “Do not be foolish, brother,” he continued when Agamemnon said nothing. “We do not have the strength. Troy is a rich and powerful city, with rich and powerful friends. You ought not to underestimate her. Even with the forces of Sparta and Mycenae combined—”

  “Sparta and Mycenae? You misunderstand me,” said Agamemnon. “It is not us two alone who will wage this war, but all Greece.”

  “How?” asked Menelaos, perplexed. “How will you convince them? It is not their cause. Why risk themselves for another man’s wife?”

  “You forget. Helen was not just your bride, brother, but the bride of Greece. Every kingdom from here to Ithaka sent a prince to compete for her. And every one of those men gave an oath that if she was taken from the man who won her, they would aid him to get her back.”

  A new realization was on Menelaos’s face, and Klytemnestra saw in it that what her husband said was true. Fear began to rumble in her belly.

  “Greece is ours to command, brother.” Agamemnon’s voice was live with excitement. “We will remind the suitors of their oaths, tell them how the foreign defilers stole your wife, plundered your wealth. And we will teach those foreign dogs that Greece is not to be trifled with.”

  Klytemnestra hadn’t seen her husband this animated in months, perhaps years. Not even the birth of their son had brought such brightness to his eyes. It scared her. He was a determined man, and once an idea was in him . . . if it was a war he wanted, it was a war he would get. She saw now that he had been waiting for just such an opportunity. A chance to do something great, to grow his power. Mycenae was not enough. His family was not enough. Not even Orestes was enough. In that moment, Klytemnestra realized that her husband would always want more.

  Though she feared for her sister, she feared losing her husband too. She couldn’t bear for her family to break when it was only just starting to feel whole. And if Agamemnon should die, what would become of her children? What would become of her? But Helen was family too, bonded by blood and the years they had spent together in Sparta. The thought of her alone in a foreign land, at the whim of her captor—or even of her seducer—brought its own terror. In Klytemnestra’s head, Helen was still the hopeful, life-loving, naïve little girl she had left behind in Sparta, and now more than ever she wished she could see her again and know that she was safe.

  Torn between the family she had left behind and the new one she had nurtured, Klytemnestra gave neither warning nor encouragement to her husband’s visions of glory but sat in silence, gently rocking her son as the men made their plans, and the wheels of war began to turn.

  CHAPTER 33

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  Orestes was restless. It was a warm day, so maybe that was it. He had been crying on and off all morning, and had struggled against his swaddling cloth so much that Klytemnestra had finally removed it. She was wandering around the palace with him now, bouncing him in her arms as she went. It seemed to be working and he settled a little, his cries slowly turning to gurgled murmurs.

  There was a time when her husband had disapproved of her going about the palace without an escort, but he had grown less concerned with such things in recent years. She hoped it was because he trusted her and not because he no longer cared, but either way it was nice to have the freedom of the palace.

  She continued on her way, still bouncing little Orestes in her weary arms, until she reached the main courtyard. Just as she did, she saw a slight man scurry across it from the direction of the Hearth Hall.

  She paused for a second, then headed toward the open door he had just passed through. When she was close she peered in, and there on his gilt throne sat her husband.

  “Ah, wife,” he said, as he looked up and spotted her. “Bring my boy to me. I want him to remember my face when I’m gone.”

  And there it was: the reminder of what she had been trying so hard not to think about. She knew it was childish, but keeping the thought from her mind made it a little less real, at least for now.

  As she reached her husband, she realized he was holding a clay writing tablet, which he put on the floor so that he could take Orestes from her.

  “Some news?” she asked, peering down at the clay but knowing it was useless to try to make sense of the strange symbols. It had always seemed a little mystical to her, how men could look at the little lines and see the voice of another man, though he was perhaps miles away.

  “The last messenger has just returned,” said her husband in a tone of satisfaction. “Lord Odysseus had me waiting weeks. More than a little reluctant, so I’m told. But he’s come around in the end, just like all the others. No doubt he’s worried about missing out on all the glory!” Agamemnon barked another laugh, his eyes bright. “The whole thing went easier than expected, to tell the truth. Daresay I could have won a lot of them without the oath! Just give them a cause, let them tell themselves they’re fighting for Greece, or liberty, or . . . whatever, and they’ll jump at the chance for some action.”

  Klytemnestra smiled weakly, noting that he had said nothing of fighting for Helen; she bit her lip. She had been half hoping that the other princes would refuse the call, but it seemed they were as restless for glory as her husband.

  “You will soon be the wife not just of the King of Mycenae, but of the commander of all the Greeks. And our son’s kingdom will be greater than any of his ancestors’. I will bring such riches from the Troad.”

  His eyes sparkled as if already beholding the treasures he would plunder. She tried to force another smile, but the mention of their son was too much.

  “What if you do not come back? Mycenae is only ours because it is yours,” she said, looking to the little bundle in her husband’s thick arms. “Will you leave your children undefended?” She knew it was bold to speak out, but this was what she feared most. With Agamemnon gone, Mycenae would be left vulnerable, with her children the first targets for any ambitious wayfarer hoping to gain himself a kingdom.

  Agamemnon’s face became serious. “Have faith, wife. The gods would not have given us this opportunity if they did not mean for us to seize it, and for our seizing to come good. You will see.”

  She nodded, though still unconvinced.

  “Mycenae will not be undefended,” he went on. “I will leave a garrison of men, and a steward to aid you in ruling.”

  “Ruling?” she repeated, surprised.

  “You are Queen of Mycenae, are you not? Orestes is too young. The people need a figurehead.”

  She nodded solemnly. “O-of course.”

  “The steward will take care of most things. I just need you here to remind the people who their king is. Entertain guests and such.”

  “Oh,” she said, realizing she had overtaken his meaning. She was surprised at her disappointment. “Yes, my lord.”

  “And you must see to the sacrifices, of course. We must have the gods on our side.”

  “Yes, hus
band.”

  “In fact, I’ve already taken action to that effect, so you can stop your worrying.”

  She gave him a questioning look.

  “A seer. We will need one with us if we are to know the gods’ whims. I have already sent for him. The best in the kingdom, so they say, and I don’t doubt it.”

  Suddenly Klytemnestra felt worried.

  “Which seer?”

  “From Argos. I don’t remember the name, but you might know his face. He’s been to the palace before, years ago. He was the one who predicted my accident—that’s what put me in mind to send for him.”

  Kalchas.

  “Yes, I—I might remember him, if I saw him,” she said. Her heart was thumping at the memory of a time she had tried to forget, and of the anger in the priest’s eyes the last time she had seen him.

  “Are you sure he is the best in the kingdom?” she asked, trying her best to sound unconcerned. “I have heard of many great seers. There is one in Tiryns who—”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” snapped her husband. “There are many who claim to know the seer’s arts, yes, but few have proven themselves, and even fewer to me. He’s the one I’ll take.”

  “But husband, do you not remember why he came to Mycenae? It was . . . about that girl. And maybe, with the way things . . . ended, perhaps he might bear you ill will.”

  “Gods, woman! How you fret! I’ve said he’s the one I’ll take and I will. I’ve already sent to Argos for him.”

  Even after all these years her husband’s bark was enough to cow her. She wanted to say more, to warn him against trusting the priest too freely, but she knew he would not listen to her. He never did. And if Kalchas was already sent for there was little she could do at present.

  Agamemnon’s flare of irritation seemed to soften as he wiggled his finger at the grasping fists of his son. But then Orestes began to cry.