Helen nodded, not wanting to admit that the women’s hall scared her as much as the prospect of being left alone.
Paris walked with her the short way to the hall as he had promised, striding between the fine buildings that crowded the middle terrace as Helen trotted just behind him. When she arrived, one of the doors to the hall was ajar and she could hear voices coming from inside. She turned to bid Paris farewell, but he was already disappearing through the gate to the lower terrace. She took a breath and slid herself through the gap between the large wooden doors.
Silence rippled across the hall as she entered. Helen avoided meeting any of the gazes she felt upon her and shuffled, head bowed, toward the nearest unoccupied corner. Gradually, the general hum resumed, though Helen still sensed the occasional disapproving head turn her way, and whenever she heard women speaking in the local tongue she was sure they were talking about her. She listened out for her name among the blur of foreign sounds, but they spoke too quickly.
Helen cursed herself for not bringing her spindle to the hall; it would certainly have helped to make her look less awkward. She felt such a fool, sitting there in her lonely corner, staring at her sandals. She should just leave. An empty chamber was better than this. It was just her silly fear that made her feel vulnerable. No one would even dare enter the chamber, not while Paris wasn’t there.
Helen was just about to stand up when a blue skirt shuffled into her eyeline. She looked up to find a young girl staring back at her.
“Hello,” said the girl, smiling brightly. She was fair-haired and slight, with bony elbows and friendly eyes. “My name’s Kassandra. Can I sit with you?”
Helen was a little taken aback by the girl’s sudden apparition, but managed a reply. “Y-yes, I suppose. Sit down—if you wish.”
The girl beamed and pulled up a nearby stool. She sat with her hands in her lap, fiddling with the material of her skirt.
“I’m Helen.”
“I know,” said the girl. “You’re married to my brother.”
“Ah. So you’re one of King Priam’s daughters,” Helen replied, almost to herself. There were so many women at Troy—the king’s wives, the king’s daughters, the king’s sons’ wives—she got confused about who everyone was.
“Your hair is ever so lovely,” said Kassandra, pronouncing each word carefully. She spoke Greek perfectly, though it was not her mother tongue. “My brother Polites teases me about my hair,” she continued, glancing from Helen’s eyes to her own lap. “He says the gods forgot to dye it. But I told him that’s stupid. The gods don’t dye people’s hair.”
Helen giggled, surprised by how at ease she suddenly felt.
“Well, I think your hair is very pretty,” she said, smiling cautiously.
“Why are you sitting over here on your own, instead of with the other ladies?” Kassandra asked quietly. “Don’t you like them?”
“It’s not so much . . .” said Helen, glancing over to the other women. “They . . . it’s just that I don’t really fit in with them.”
“Oh,” said Kassandra, nodding her blond head sagely. “I don’t fit in with the other girls either. They talk such nonsense. And they never really understand when I try to . . . Some of them call me names.”
Helen didn’t reply, but sat watching the girl’s face as she stared down at her knees.
Eventually, Kassandra looked up. “Do you mind if I stay over here with you for a while?”
Helen nodded. “If you like,” she said casually, and silently thanked the gods that one person in the women’s hall wasn’t treating her as if she had plague.
CHAPTER 43
KLYTEMNESTRA
Ah, Theophilos. Has a bull been chosen for tomorrow’s sacrifice?” Klytemnestra asked as she spotted her head priest crossing the courtyard toward her. “The last one had a bad temperament. We cannot have another incident like last time.”
The priest bowed a greeting. “Yes, my lady. This one is sure to please the Lady Hera. A fine beast.”
“Good,” she replied, without slowing her pace. “Thank you, Theophilos,” she called after him, as the elderly priest shuffled on toward the royal shrine.
As she turned her head back around she saw Damon, the steward, waiting at the doorway in front of her.
“Lady Klytemnestra,” he said graciously, walking alongside her as she strode through the cool palace interior. “Have you thought what we should say to Argos? Only you told me I wasn’t to send our reply until—”
“Yes, Damon. Thank you for reminding me. Tell them we appreciate that the harvest was not as good as last year, but that they are better off than most. Tell them that the kingdom needs their contribution,” she said briskly. Then, pausing her pace, she turned aside and added, “But make sure you flatter them a little. You know what the Argives are like.”
“Yes, my lady,” Damon replied with a curt nod, and turned down a side corridor, while Klytemnestra continued on her route to the main entrance.
Behind her trotted Ianthe, a young handmaid she had taken on soon after returning to Mycenae. She had thought the girl could help Eudora with the children, while she herself was suffering through the worst of her grief. But that was before she had decided to send Orestes away.
She had to do it, she knew that. As the male heir he was a target for those who might wish to take Mycenae in her husband’s absence. And yet it had been so painful, so soon after that other loss. Whenever she began to regret her choice and to think of her son growing up without knowing his mother’s face, she told herself that in her life she must make many hard decisions, as a mother and as a queen, and she could not let her heart rule her head. So now her beautiful son was growing up in Phokis, at the palace of King Strophios and his wife, Anaxibia, Agamemnon’s sister. It was farther than she would have liked, but at least he was with family. He would be safe there, and that was most important.
As Klytemnestra stepped out of the palace and began to descend the Great Stairs, she took a deep lungful of morning air. Mycenae felt more and more like her true home. She had the respect of the palace, the love of the people—the artisans of the citadel smiled and bowed as she passed by—but despite all the people that surrounded her, she found that loneliness still had a way of creeping past them.
The loss of her mother had affected her more than she would have thought it could. The news of Queen Leda’s death had reached Mycenae a little over a year earlier and it still pained her, like an open wound on her heart. She couldn’t help thinking that if she had been there . . . She must have been so alone after Father had died. And then with Helen gone . . . Her mother had dismissed all her ladies by that time and was hardly seen around the palace, so people said. It was two days before they found her. The thought of her bloated body hanging there, unmourned, unmissed, haunted Klytemnestra’s dreams.
People said that she did it out of shame—because of Helen. Perhaps they were right, perhaps the scandal had tipped her mother over the edge, but she had always been fragile. Even as a child Klytemnestra had seen her mother’s sadness. It had hung around her like a cloud. But then there would be these breaks and the cloud would lift awhile, and her mother would shine through—her real mother, with all her warmth and her humor and . . .
She hadn’t seen her mother since the day she had left Sparta, and yet she felt her absence all the same. It was as if there were one less anchor tying her to the world, as when her father had passed. So many people had left her; she felt as if there wasn’t enough of her to patch the holes they had left behind.
Her children were her anchors now, and they renewed her every day. Elektra was already a young lady and Chrysothemis was hurrying to catch up with her older sister. It gave Klytemnestra comfort to watch them grow, to see them play and laugh together. But there was a sadness too, when she thought of the sister who should be there with them. She had not told the girls the full truth of what had ha
ppened—how could she? Whenever they asked about it, they must have seen how it upset her, and eventually they had stopped asking. Now Iphigenia’s name was barely spoken at all, as if she had never even existed.
That was why Klytemnestra had to make her daily journey beyond the citadel walls. Someone had to remember. She had to keep her daughter alive, if only in her own head.
She had passed through the gate now and was almost at the tomb—she could see it ahead of her, rising from the ground like a giant beehive. She came to a stop before the monumental stone doorway. It was sealed, of course, until such time as the tomb was reopened for the next burial. She made a silent prayer that it would not be for another of her children and set about making her offering to those she had already laid to rest.
She gestured to Ianthe, who brought forth the wineskin and silver goblet. Klytemnestra filled the cup to its brim and, pouring the dark liquid onto the dusty earth, made her prayer.
“For my daughter, Iphigenia. May the Thirsty Ones bless and protect her soul in the place beneath the earth.”
Then she refilled the cup and poured out its contents once more.
“For my two babes, who never saw the sun with living eyes. May the Thirsty Ones look kindly upon them.”
The two infants she had lost at birth lay inside the tomb with their sister, wrapped lovingly in gold leaf. Though they had never known each other in life, Klytemnestra gained a little comfort from the thought that her children were together in death. One day she too would be laid to rest in the stillness of the tomb, and she hoped that their souls might find one another in the hereafter.
She stood for a moment, remembering the children she had lost. She called Iphigenia’s face from her memory, though it was blurred and shifting and grew less distinct with every day that passed. Instead she remembered her kindness, her laughter—yes, those were less easy to forget. But so was her fear on that morning, the tears in her voice as she cried out for her mother—
No. Some memories were too painful. The dead felt no fear, she told herself.
Before leaving the tomb she laid out some honey cakes on the ground—Iphigenia’s favorite. Then, straightening up, she headed back the way she had come, with Ianthe following behind her.
As Klytemnestra approached the Lion Gate, she looked up at those two fierce beasts that had so terrified her on that night when she had first arrived here in Mycenae. A strange feeling rose in her chest—half amusement, half sadness—to think of her fear then. A childish fear—for what had that girl known of true terror? Now she had grown used to those stony stares, and she felt a kind of security as she walked beneath them, to be guarded by those ferocious lionesses. She was one of them now, she thought, as she made her way through the smoky streets of the citadel. She had to be, for the sake of her children, for the sake of her kingdom. A protector, a provider, a leader. A Lioness of Mycenae.
She was not far from the Great Stairs when Damon appeared in front of her, a little out of breath.
“My lady, I was just coming to find you,” he said, with a quick bow. “A man has arrived at the palace, seeking hospitality. He claims he is of noble blood. Will we receive him or would you like me to send him away?”
“Are we barbarians, Damon?” she asked, though she smiled when she saw the seriousness of his expression. “Of course we will give him hospitality. Gods know guests are few in times of war. I daresay we could do with a new face.”
“Very well, my lady,” Damon nodded with grave sincerity. “I will show him to a chamber.”
He turned to stride away but Klytemnestra called him back.
“Wait, Damon. I will accompany you to the palace,” she said, starting up the sloped street. “I would like to see this visitor with my own eyes.”
CHAPTER 44
HELEN
Helen sat staring into the flames of the hearth, cradling her wine cup in her slender fingers. She had only been inside the Trojan Hearth Hall on a few occasions since her arrival to the city. It was a place for important men, for the royal family, for sacred ritual and matters of state. It was the jewel at the peak of the citadel, the ordered heart of the city—not to be upset by foreign wives who brought war and death behind them.
But today every nobleman and noble woman in the citadel had been admitted to its sacred space—or at least to the courtyard outside, for those not royal enough for a place in the crowded hall. Helen sat inside, beside her husband. All the other princes had their wives in attendance, so she supposed they could not exclude her.
At the head of the feast, beside King Priam on his painted throne, sat Paris’s elder brother Hektor, heir of Troy. He was broad and tanned, with a black beard and steady eyes. Beside him sat his wife, Andromache, with black hair to match her husband’s and large almond eyes. And in her arms, a squirming bundle of cloth. The feast was in celebration of the birth of Hektor’s son, heir to Troy after his father. Even with the supply routes threatened and the food stores preciously guarded, an occasion such as this demanded a little indulgence. They had named the boy Astyanax, “Lord of the City.” It was a big name for such a small thing—but then, Helen mused, we are all born to our fates.
Paris sat on Helen’s right, though he had barely spoken a word to her all evening. He did not mean to ignore her, she was sure, though she wished he would realize how alone she was without him. At present, he was deep in conversation with his cousin Aineias, who sat on the other side of him.
“Hattusa will send its forces soon, and all this will be over,” she overheard her husband say in a casual tone, as he swilled his wine. “You worry too much, cousin!”
“But they have troubles of their own,” Aineias replied as she strained her ears to listen over the din of the hall. “Just last week they sent word that the Assyrians had . . .” But Helen couldn’t hear any more as a raucous song started up somewhere on her left.
Feeling as if her mouth would soon seal shut with not talking, Helen turned and put a hand on Paris’s forearm. He didn’t respond, so she gave it a light squeeze and raised her thin voice through the din.
“Do you like my dress, husband? I just finished it this week.”
“Hmm?” was his response, turning half toward her. “Yes, it’s very nice,” he said, without looking at it, and turned back to his cousin, taking a swig of wine on the way.
Helen let out an inaudible sigh and poked around at the lentils on her plate. She thought of when she and Paris had first met, when she had felt as if she were all he desired in the whole world, how he would talk to her all night in those smooth tones of his, and kiss her as if her skin were the air itself. He still desired her—at least, he still lay with her—but their life together wasn’t quite as she had imagined it.
As she raised a few of the spiced lentils to her lips her gaze slid to Hektor and Andromache, illuminated by the glow of the hearth as if they were made of gold. Hektor was encouraging his son to grasp his finger, tickling the baby’s palm and laughing softly as the tiny fingers closed around his own. Andromache was beaming down on them both, radiant in her motherhood. It made Helen a little sad to look upon the scene, and to think of the child she herself had borne, how different it all had been. But she was glad too. She rarely saw Lord Hektor smile, and it suited him. He was usually so serious, though she didn’t blame him. In fact, she admired him greatly. The defense of Troy fell upon his shoulders and he bore his duty solemnly. He was little older than Paris and herself, and yet he was so noble, so stately . . . He would make a great king one day, Helen knew.
She was still staring at the happy couple, unable to draw her eyes away. The way they looked at their child, the way they looked at each other . . . Hektor raised a gentle hand to his wife’s cheek and it was like only they existed. Watching them brought a strange ache to Helen’s heart, but it was like a bruise she couldn’t help pressing.
Her absorption was broken by a sudden jolt from her left. Deip
hobos, another of Paris’s brothers, had leaned toward her, knocking her arm with his cup-filled hand.
“Apologies, my lady,” he slurred, spilling wine over her plate. Then he turned his head and looked intently at her face, his eyes a little glazed. “By the gods, you are beautiful.” He spoke as if seeing her for the first time, though they had met on many occasions. “I don’t blame my brother for bringing you here,” he carried on, as his eyes gravitated downward.
Suddenly there was an arm behind her back, a hand on her waist. Helen looked to her right, but Paris was occupied talking with his cousin. Deiphobos pulled her toward him. “Perhaps I should have stolen you myself.”
Helen shifted away from him.
“Husband,” she said, a little shakily, and the hand retracted. “May I bestow a favor on your nephew?” she asked quickly.
“Hmm? Yes, whatever you like,” he replied, before returning to his conversation.
Helen rose from her seat and began to make her way across the hall. She had barely taken five steps when there it was again, the pregnant hush that followed her wherever she went. Songs stopped, cups were lowered, and all eyes seemed to fall upon her. She began to regret leaving her seat.
She carried on, though, putting one self-conscious foot before the other, until finally she was standing before the royal couple.
“I . . . I wanted to offer my congratulations,” she said nervously. “And my blessing for the child. Here,” she said, taking the golden hoops from her ears—some of the only jewelry she had brought with her from Sparta. “A gift for the lord Astyanax.”
Helen held out the offering in her trembling hand, but Andromache turned her face aside, pulling her son close as if she thought Helen might infect him.
Helen was about to draw her hand away when Hektor spoke.
“Thank you, Helen,” he said, taking the earrings from her. “You are most kind.”
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