She glanced over at Damon, who was looking at his feet.
Aigisthos continued. “My lady, if I reclaim the throne of Mycenae, few here would stand in my way. Indeed, Damon assures me that many would welcome my return. There is much resentment toward your husband for his unnecessary and expensive war. But you, my lady, you are popular with the people. If the two of us united, we could lead this kingdom with strength and a fair hand. And I vow that your children will be as my children. Your daughters will grow up in safety and happiness. And your son, Orestes, will still have his birthright, should he return to Mycenae to claim it.”
He stopped speaking and there was silence as he awaited Klytemnestra’s response.
“You . . . are asking me to betray my husband,” she said eventually, though it was more a statement of fact than a protest. What sort of wife would she be, to hand her husband’s throne to another man? But then, what sort of wife hoped that her husband would be killed, or contemplated that she might be the one to kill him?
“Agamemnon has taken from us both,” Aigisthos said softly. “I have seen you at your daughter’s tomb. I have heard the story of how she came to be there. You owe him nothing.”
Klytemnestra straightened in her chair, trying to keep her expression even. What did this man know about Iphigenia? He had not known her, had not heard her sweet voice, had never held her soft hand in his. Would he sink so low as to use her memory for his own aims? And yet when she studied his eyes she found nothing but sympathy there. And as he looked back at her she felt that he understood something of the pain she tried to hide.
“But . . . it is not possible,” she sighed. “You speak as if there will be no bloodshed, but . . . I cannot believe it. My husband will want news of his kingdom. When he hears that he has been deposed, he will come back to reclaim his throne. There will be civil war. I cannot bring that on my kingdom.”
“He will not hear of it,” said Aigisthos confidently. “Not if we control what news he receives. You send regular supplies to the Troad, yes? Then we send a report with each ship—give him the news before he asks for it. Damon tells me you have the loyalty of the scribes. They will write what you ask. And we send our own men to deliver it—men we trust.”
“And if he sends his own messenger?”
“We send one of ours back. He is far away, and must rely on what you send him. Tell him that all is well, and he will believe it—for it is what he wants to hear. In the two years since this war began, how often has Agamemnon returned to his kingdom? Not once. His concern is with Troy, not Mycenae. He takes his sovereignty here for granted, while his hand grasps for more elsewhere. His back is turned to us.”
“But it is not as simple as that,” Klytemnestra protested. “What about outsiders? The other kingdoms? They will know the truth. They may send word to Agamemnon.”
“I will avoid foreign audiences. You will remain the figurehead of Mycenae, at least until Agamemnon is no longer a threat. But foreign guests are few in any case. How many have you entertained since your husband left? They are all either fighting in the fields of Troy or trying to hold their own kingdoms together.” He paused, leaning closer. “Trust me, my lady. I know I have given you little cause so far, but for the sake of yourself and your children, you must see that this is your best course. The longer you wait, the greater the chance that your husband will die in the field. He may be dead already. And as soon as that news reaches Greece, the wolves will descend. And then you will wish that you had a lion to deter them, a friend to defend you. That is what I offer.”
His piece said, Aigisthos leaned back in his chair, watching her face closely. He knew her situation, understood it as well as she did. All he had had to do was get in to see her, to pluck her as if she were a ripe piece of fruit.
“Well, I see you have figured it all out,” she said sharply. “But there are things you don’t know, things that . . . you don’t know me at all. And I do not know you.”
“No,” Aigisthos replied, leaning forward once more, his hands clasped together. “No, I don’t dream that I know you, my lady. Though I hope that we will get to know one another, in time. Damon tells me that you are a remarkable woman—kind and brave and intelligent.” He glanced over at the steward and she followed his gaze. Damon’s eyes flicked up toward hers briefly, and then back down at his feet. She felt her cheeks warming.
“But above all else,” Aigisthos went on, “I know that you are a mother, and that a mother would do anything to protect her children. I am giving you that chance.”
Klytemnestra was silent, looking at Aigisthos critically. Could she trust this man? Did she trust her husband any more? Could she really trust anyone except herself? And yet he was right. She was vulnerable. Even a lioness could not rule alone.
“I will need time to consider your proposal, Lord Aigisthos,” she said, adopting a stately tone. “In the meantime, you will remain here in the palace—under guard.”
“If you wish it to be so,” Aigisthos replied with a humble nod.
“I do,” she said, folding her hands across her lap. And yet it was all pretense. She had already made her decision.
Aigisthos was right; she would do whatever it took to protect her children, to secure their future. She just had to summon the courage to trust him, and to pray that the gods would not strike her down for becoming that worst manifestation of womanhood: a traitorous wife.
CHAPTER 47
HELEN
SEVEN YEARS LATER
As Helen sat weaving in her chamber she could hear the clash of bronze through the window. The fighting was close to the city today—usually she would have to strain to hear it, if she could at all. The sound didn’t frighten her as it used to, though. There would be battles most days now, outside the city walls, out on the plain, or away down by the Greek camp on the beach. The Greeks had exhausted the hinterland’s plunder a year or so ago, and the Trojans had grown tired of being shut up inside their walls—not to mention all the trade wealth they were losing as the war dragged on. And so all there was to do now was to fight, man to man, prince to prince, until one side won out.
Since the Greeks had turned their attention to the city, it had become harder and harder to get supplies through. The nobles in the citadel complained about the lack of wine and spices, the meat rations, and the ban on feasts, but Helen knew that it was the people in the lower town who truly suffered. Kassandra would go out with her mother to tend the sick and raise morale—when the fighting was away from the walls—and she had told Helen that the people were living on the bitter vetch they usually kept for their animals.
This war had taken from rich and poor alike. Each day the women of the citadel would wait by the West Gate for their husbands and sons to return from the fighting. Helen used to wait with them, even when Paris was safe in his chamber. She would watch each day as the sun lowered and the crowd dwindled, each woman crying out with relief as her man appeared through the gates. Even those who had been injured, who were carried through by their comrades, bleeding or unconscious, were a welcome sight to those waiting eyes. But at the end of every day there would always be some women left waiting. And every day more women would have cause to hate her.
She didn’t go to the West Gate anymore. She didn’t go to the women’s hall either. She couldn’t face the glares and the curses, but neither did she blame the women. She knew the war was her fault, that so many men’s lives were on her hands, and other lives too—her mother’s, and Iphigenia’s. If she could take it all back, she would. But as it was, all she could do was to endure her punishment—their hatred and her own terrible guilt.
Paris was sitting across the chamber from her, polishing his greaves as the sound of battle continued to drift through the window.
“Are you not needed on the plain?” she asked innocently. “The battle has been going on for some time, and yet you are here.”
He did not look u
p.
“Women know nothing of warfare,” he said, dipping his cloth in fresh oil. “If you did, you would know that it is important for some of the men to remain fresh, so that they might relieve their weary brothers.”
Helen went on weaving her thread.
“It sounds like they need relieving now,” she said quietly.
He didn’t reply, but his face was sour as he turned his attention to his helmet, which already shone brightly.
As she watched her husband, with his carefully curled hair and his unsoiled tunic, the bile of resentment sat in her stomach. To think that she had caused so much strife and horror for his sake. She had had such hopes for her new life, for the love and happiness she would find in Troy, but the reality had turned out to be quite different. It had been intoxicating at first, but she had quickly learned that her new husband was like a wine jar—beautifully decorated and so inviting, but once the wine was drunk all she had been left with was an empty pot. But then that was all she had ever been to him, wasn’t it? Slowly, slowly, over the long years she had spent in this lonely citadel, she had let go of the lie she had let herself believe, and had come to realize the truth. That she, Helen, the flower of Greece, the jewel of Sparta, was just another ornament to adorn his chamber.
And yet, aside from Kassandra’s friendship, Paris was all she had to cling to at Troy. She could resent him, hate him even, but she could not forsake him. And he knew that.
Just as she turned her eyes away from her husband, there was a noise from the door of the chamber.
“Paris!” Hektor’s voice rang through the marble-floored chamber.
He strode into view from behind the curtain screen, his brown skin shining with sweat, his breastplate spattered with blood. Helen was afraid he had been hurt, but she could see no injuries.
“Paris,” he growled, his brow set hard, his voice a little hoarse from running. “I thought I could not see you on the field! What are you doing, hiding here? You coward. The men fight for you and you are not with them!”
Paris stood up, shining helmet in hand.
“I was about to join the fighting, brother,” he said, keeping his chin raised as he met Hektor’s fierce gaze. “Come, Helen. I asked you to help me with my armor.”
Helen’s mouth fell open, but it was pointless to argue. She rose from her stool and dutifully made her way to him, her lips tight.
Hektor’s eyes were still glaring, but he too decided not to waste words.
“Go straight to the gate when you are ready,” he said, already turning to leave. “I will meet you on the field.”
And as quickly as he had arrived he was gone again, hurrying back to join his comrades.
Helen was silent as she tied the straps of Paris’s armor, pulling the leather a little tighter than she needed to. Once she had finished she straightened up so that they stood facing each other, her eyes fixed on the leopard paws tied at his throat. As he leaned toward her she turned her face away, before realizing that he had only been reaching for his shield. Then he left for the gate, without a word passing between them.
* * *
The battle continued to rage beyond the city while Helen remained in her chamber. She was not alone for long, though—Kassandra came to sit with her soon after Paris had left. She seemed to have a knack for knowing when Helen needed her company.
Kassandra was a young woman now, and Helen’s best—and only—friend. It had been strange to watch her grow, knowing that her own daughter was of a similar age. She sometimes thought of Hermione, across the sea, spinning wool in Sparta’s halls. Did she ever think of her mother? Did she even remember her?
Helen had found it much easier to be a friend to Kassandra. The two of them would often sit together, spinning and talking, though only when Paris was elsewhere. He did not like the chatter of women. Helen was surprised that Queen Hekabe had let her and Kassandra become so close. She knew the queen disliked her, or at least distrusted her—after all, she was Helen the Whore. But then Kassandra did not have many friends among the other women, so perhaps her mother was happy for her not to be alone.
Kassandra was humming to herself, as she often did. There never seemed to be a tune behind it, just sounds strung together, but Helen found it oddly comforting.
“Do you think animals ever marry, Helen?” she asked suddenly, without looking up from her spindle. “It’s a queer thought, isn’t it?”
Helen smiled and nodded. She was used to Kassandra asking such questions, and not knowing what to say in response. She had found it was best to simply let her talk it out with herself.
“I suppose people do it because other people do. They think they ought to,” Kassandra mused, unhooking the finished thread from her spindle. “It’s funny how much of life works like that.”
Helen nodded again. They sat in silence for a while before her friend spoke again.
“Father says I’m to be married.”
She said it so simply that it took Helen a moment to respond.
“Really? When? To whom?”
“His name is Othryoneus,” she said quietly, as if it were a secret. “He arrived at the city a fortnight ago, from Kabesos. He . . . is not a rich man, but has promised my father that he and his men will drive the Greeks from our shores in return for my hand. He is out there fighting right now.” Her young brow was creased with concern.
“Have you met him?” Helen asked.
“Oh, yes. He asked to meet with me, when he first arrived. He wanted to ask whether I would consider marrying him.”
“To ask you?” Helen asked, surprised. “Well, that is unusual. Surely he knew it would be your father’s decision.”
“Well, yes, but he said that he only wanted me if I wanted him.”
“And what did you say?”
“Well, we talked for a while. He confessed that he was not as wealthy as other suitors might be, that he could not offer a bride price worthy of my birth, but that he would do all he could to make me happy. And . . . I believed him. I liked him. So I said that if he could convince my father, I would marry him.”
Kassandra’s cheeks were pink, but there seemed to be a genuine excitement beneath her shyness. Helen wondered how long she had been waiting to tell her.
“So when will you wed?”
“Father told him that he couldn’t have me until he had fulfilled his promise and the Greeks were gone. But we can still see each other in the meantime—when Mother is there, and there are no battles to fight. He says I am like no woman he has met before.” Her face spread into a bashful grin, and Helen could not help smiling in return. She was glad to see her friend so happy.
“I hope the war will end soon,” she said, leaning over to clasp Kassandra’s hand.
They continued their spinning for an hour or so, comfortable in their silence as in their chatter. But Kassandra never could abide sitting for too long.
“I’m going to go down to the gates,” she announced, putting down her distaff. “I want to hear what news there is.”
Helen nodded, but did not rise with her. “I’ll stay here,” she said. “Paris wouldn’t want me to dirty my skirts.” She gave a weak smile.
Kassandra nodded back. They both knew the real reason Helen didn’t want to go to the gates, but she was grateful not to have to admit it. The thought of those hateful stares made her wince.
Alone once again, Helen returned to her loom. Tracking the threads was a greater distraction than spinning. It gave her brain less space to think, less time to reflect.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed, but she slowly became aware that the noise outside had quietened a little, so perhaps the battle was finally drawing to a close. How many women will be left waiting today? she wondered, but quickly pushed the thought from her mind. Focus on the threads, she told herself.
Suddenly she heard running footsteps, light but urgent,
and seconds later Kassandra reappeared.
“Helen,” she gasped. “Come quickly. It’s Paris.” She stopped to take a breath. “He’s going to fight Menelaos.”
CHAPTER 48
HELEN
Come on! They’re just waiting for the rams.” Kassandra began to pull Helen toward the chamber door by her wrist. “We can watch from the walls.”
Helen stumbled after her, still trying to make sense of what Kassandra had said. Paris was going to fight Menelaos? Why now? After all these years? A couple of hours ago he had not wanted to enter the fighting at all.
As if she had heard Helen’s thoughts, Kassandra called back to her over her shoulder.
“Menelaos challenged him—that’s what I heard. And I suppose he couldn’t refuse. He’d be called a coward—or worse.”
They were at the steps that led up to the battlements now. Kassandra held her skirts in one hand as she took them two at a time. Helen followed, her legs growing more unsteady with every step.
Once at the top they looked out over the wall. There outside the city, little more than an arrow’s flight from where they stood, the two armies were amassed, face-to-face, with a clear avenue running between them. And in that avenue were the figures of four men.
Even at this distance she knew three of them instantly. There was Paris, his leopard skin draped around his shoulders, his golden helmet glinting in the sun. Its plume of horsehair swayed and flicked as his boots scuffed the dusty earth. Behind him stood Priam, his father, the white-haired King of Troy. And there, opposite them, the figure that made her heart skip: Menelaos. He was older, of course, but his build was little changed. Still the warrior, his thick arms strapped with leather, his chest covered with a battered corselet. His straw-colored hair fell beneath a boar tusk helmet, which left his face exposed—a face she knew had been so close all these years, and yet she had not seen it since leaving Sparta. Her chest grew strangely tight at the sight of it.
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