Beside Menelaos stood another, broader man who was leaning on a thick staff of wood. She realized that it must be Agamemnon, though his face was turned from her. He was saying something to his brother, but Menelaos’s eyes seemed fixed ahead of him, to the spot where Paris stood.
If he looks up at the wall, will he see me? she thought suddenly. Will he know me? Would his chest clench as hers had? Or would he feel something else? Hatred? Anger? Disgust? She ducked her head a little, pulling the veil tighter to cover her flaming hair.
“Do not be afraid for Paris,” came Kassandra’s voice from beside her. “My brother has a way of avoiding harm.” She turned and smiled at Helen. “The Greeks will have to breach the walls of Troy before a drop of his blood falls.”
She knew her friend was trying to reassure her, but Helen was barely listening. She was still watching Menelaos. The tiny figure of her husband was pacing impatiently down on the plain, so distant as to barely feel real, and yet so real that it was as if he were right here in front of her, as if she could smell his sweat and hear his heartbeat.
Her own heart beat in her throat as she watched him, and she thought of those years they had spent together, and of her home in Sparta. It was another life, and yet seeing him there, so close, so palpable, she felt as though she could reach out and take it all back.
“They’ve brought the rams!” Kassandra announced, leaning over the battlement to see as a chariot carried two thick-fleeced rams, one white, one black, out of the city gates. A path was cleared through the Trojan ranks, and the chariot came to a stop beside King Priam.
“What are they for? A sacrifice?” The rams were being unloaded from the chariot now.
“They’ve made an oath,” Kassandra replied, not taking her eyes from the scene on the plain. “The sacrifice is to seal it. My father doesn’t trust the Greeks’ honor.”
“What oath?” Helen asked, as King Priam cut the throat of the black ram.
Kassandra finally turned to look at her.
“They fight for you, Helen! I assumed . . . I thought you knew,” she breathed, the wind half-whipping her words away. “Whoever wins shall have you as his wife, and all the Spartan treasure too. And the war will be at an end.”
Helen gripped the battlement, her heart suddenly beating faster. Would this really all be over? She watched unseeing as the white ram’s blood spilled on the plain. Behind it her former husband gripped his spear, his muscles wound tight, ready to spring. Meanwhile, Paris was speaking into his father’s ear, his expression angry, urgent. But King Priam shook his head and turned from his son to climb onto the chariot that had brought the rams. As it drove back to the city, Agamemnon too stepped away from his brother and into the Greek ranks.
There were just two figures left in the barren avenue now, with the spilled ram’s blood a dark threshold between them. And as Helen watched them pace, spears in hand, she found herself hoping that Menelaos would win.
Paris was the first to throw his spear, dashing forward to hurl it and then quickly running back again. It flew straight but missed Menelaos as he darted aside, light on his feet despite his size. And he didn’t stop moving, but sprinted toward Paris, spear arm raised. He let loose and kept running, and when the spear stuck in Paris’s shield Menelaos drew his sword, pressing forward all the while. Paris backed away as if repelled, farther back and farther, until the Trojan crowd was at his back—solid, unyielding. At last he drew his sword, just as Menelaos reached him. The bronze sang as the two blades clashed, the sound reaching Helen up on the battlements. Menelaos will win, came a voice in her head. He is the fiercer.
But then his sword broke—shattered into pieces, as if struck by Zeus. Menelaos stepped back, but he was not done. He launched a new assault, swinging his shield like a beast enraged. Paris hesitated, visibly unsettled by Menelaos in his whirling fury, unsure where to strike. He took his moment, thrust out his sword arm, but the swinging shield blasted it aside, and the sword flew from his hand, falling uselessly several feet away.
Paris leaped toward it, but Menelaos was too fast. He surged forward and gripped Paris by the horsehair of his helmet, wrenching him off his feet. Menelaos began to drag him, his hands and feet scrabbling in the dust.
This is it. Helen felt sick and relieved at once. Paris’s hands moved to his throat, clawing at the strap under his chin, and Helen realized he was choking. That wasn’t right. Didn’t Menelaos realize? Despite everything, it pulled at her heart to see Paris so desperate. This was not a man’s death.
And then suddenly the helmet was yanked away in Menelaos’s hand—the strap must have broken. And Paris was on his feet, was running before Menelaos could realize what had happened. He turned in pursuit, but it was too late. Paris was at the Trojan ranks. And then he was in them. Helen’s pity turned to disgust as she lost sight of him among the hundreds of heads. The coward.
Menelaos stood alone in the open arena, chest heaving. He yelled something Helen did not hear and hurled the empty helmet at the Trojan crowd. He shouted again, his arms raised, but the words were drowned out by the clamor that was growing on both sides, as the men realized what had happened.
When it was clear that Paris would not reemerge, Menelaos turned to his own men, then back to the Trojans. Helen watched as Hektor appeared from the crowd and began to talk with Menelaos. But he had barely reached him when Agamemnon came out from among the Greek ranks and joined the two men in the middle. Even at this distance Helen could see that Menelaos was angry. He paced back and forth, shield still gripped in his hand. It seemed Hektor was trying to appease him, but it was Agamemnon who was speaking back, arms crossed over his broad chest.
What was happening? Helen’s heart was beating hard as she leaned over the battlement. She wished she could hear their words. Had Menelaos won? Was she going home? But as she saw Agamemnon shake his head and walk back to the Greeks with Menelaos following, Helen thought she knew the answer, and was surprised by how far her heart sank.
Hektor stood for a moment, watching the backs of the two brothers, before returning to the Trojan ranks. Shortly afterward the two armies began to part ways—the Greeks back to the beach, and the Trojans through the Skaian Gate into the lower city. Today’s fighting was over, but the war was not.
She and Kassandra stood silent on the wall. Kassandra leaned over to watch the Trojans flow through the gate, but Helen’s gaze stretched farther, trying to follow the figure of Menelaos as it disappeared into the thinning mass of the Greeks. With a pain she would not have thought possible only hours ago, she wondered if she would ever see it again.
When her Greek countrymen were no more than black specks, Helen announced that she was returning to her chamber. For once, she felt as if she could not bear Kassandra’s company. She felt shaken. Divided. As if pulled in two directions. A moment ago she had thought she was going home, but now she found herself stuck, still, behind these walls, among the Trojans but not one of them.
She was self-conscious—even more so than usual—as she headed back through the citadel to her chambers. She wrapped her veil tightly once more, cursing the bright hair that had once made her so proud, and kept her eyes on the cobbles as she pushed through the crowds. Everywhere she heard voices discussing the duel.
—What happened?—
—How did Paris escape?—
—Is he keeping the Greek whore?—
It was a relief when she finally reached the quiet of the chamber. But as she stepped past the curtain screen she saw that she was not alone.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Paris dully. He lay reclining on a cushioned couch, his armor removed. “I thought it might be Hektor, come to tell me what a coward I am.” He scoffed, and reached for a grape from the bowl beside him.
“You are a coward,” Helen said, her arms stiff by her sides. “Now the war will continue because of you. More people will die.”
“Watch your tong
ue,” Paris snapped. But as he stood up, his face softened. He stepped toward her and laid his hands on her waist. “Lips so beautiful should not make ugly words.” But as he leaned to kiss her she turned her face away.
“You would deny me?” he asked, half playfully, but with an edge to his voice. “After I just fought for you?”
“You fought because you had no choice,” she said quietly, but clearly. “And even then you could not see it through.”
“You ungrateful bitch,” he said, his handsome face twisted in anger. He pushed her away from him and turned to pour himself a cup of wine. “You know, all these years my brothers, my father, my mother, they have all begged me to give you up. Send her back, they said, and perhaps the Greeks will leave. And every time, do you know what I said?”
Helen was silent.
“I said no.” He looked straight into her eyes. “And I have paid my friends generous gifts to say no, too. Each time the matter is discussed. Gods, do you know how much loving you has cost me?”
Cost him? she thought bitterly, taking a step away from him. And what had it cost her? What had it cost Greece? Or Troy?
He moved toward her. “And your husband, when he came. I said no to him too. Even when he said I could keep the treasures I stole. I said no. And I will keep saying no. Because you are my woman. I won you and I took you. The most beautiful woman in the world is mine, and no other man shall have you while I live.”
He took another swig, as Helen stood unmoving. There was a time when those words would have disturbed her, but it was long since passed. Now they only confirmed what she already knew: that she had only ever been his prize, like that poor beautiful creature he wore about his shoulders. No, it was not those words that caught her attention.
“When did Menelaos come?” she demanded, a strange heat rising in her chest. “You never told me that.”
But it was as if she had not spoken. Paris took another long drink, a little of the red wine escaping to run down his neck. He wiped his mouth lazily, and Helen wondered how she had ever thought him beautiful.
“Now, since I have paid so dearly for you,” he said, letting his empty cup clatter on the floor, and stepping yet closer. “Since I have fought for you and faced death for you”—he placed a hand on her shoulder, and drew back her veil with the other—“will you not comfort me now, as my wife?”
For you. For you. The words itched in her ears, and she felt her teeth clench. What had he ever done for anyone but himself?
He pulled her toward him, and pressed his lips against hers, his wine-breath filling her nostrils. But this time she did not turn away. She did not speak as he untied her sash, did not flinch as his hateful hand grasped her breast. What point was there in resisting? He was right; she was his woman. Her life had never been her own. She had been foolish to think it could be. Let him have her. Let him use her. It made no difference.
CHAPTER 49
KLYTEMNESTRA
Klytemnestra was a little late to Iphigenia’s tomb this morning, though she performed the rites with her usual care. It was the quietest part of her day, out here beyond the citadel walls, just her and Ianthe and the wind.
Once the prayers were said and the wine poured, it was back to the palace and another busy day. Damon had requested a meeting about the grain stores, then she had an audience with the new head priest of Argos, and then she had promised Chrysothemis that she would help her with her writing. Perhaps Elektra would join them—Klytemnestra hoped she would. She saw so little of her these days.
She had just reached the top of the palace steps when she heard Eudora’s voice.
“Yes, there she is. I told you she would be back soon.”
Klytemnestra grinned as Aletes wriggled free from Eudora’s hand and ran toward her. He was getting fast on his feet now—it was fortunate that Eudora had Ianthe to help her.
As Aletes reached her Klytemnestra scooped him up in her arms. He was getting heavy too.
“Did you miss me?” she asked, nuzzling his nose with hers. Aletes giggled. “Has he been good?” she asked Eudora, lowering him to the ground. “Do you mind watching him for a while longer? I still have some business to attend to. Ianthe will help you.”
“Of course, my lady.” Eudora smiled, the gaps in her teeth showing. “We’ll find something fun for the prince to do, won’t we?” She grinned down at Aletes, whose little hand was back in hers. “I left Chrysothemis with her sister,” she said, turning back to Klytemnestra. “I hope that’s all right, my lady.”
“Oh yes,” she replied, bending down to kiss Aletes good-bye. “They’re young ladies now. I’ll go by their chamber once my business is finished. Thank you, Eudora.”
The older woman nodded, and led Aletes away through the palace.
* * *
Her audience with the priest concluded, the heavy doors of the Hearth Hall were closed and she sat alone in the square chamber. The sun was still high, its light streaming in through the hole above the hearth fire, illuminating the bright paints that daubed the walls. Men of red and women of white processed around the hall, leading their horses, carrying their baskets, striding through a world of blue and yellow. She leaned back on her seat, admiring the elegant figures who surrounded her. How long had they been marching? On and on around the hearth. How long had these walls stood? How long had the fire burned? Longer than she had lived, and her mother before her, and her mother before that. There was a strange comfort in it, in the grounded permanence of these walls.
She took a deep breath, the smoke of the eternal flames filling her nostrils. This fire would continue to burn after she had gone, and who would remember her then? Once her children too were gone, and their children after them. What voices would sound here in the echoing hall? Would the name of Klytemnestra ever be spoken across the crackling hearth? What would those faceless tongues say? How wise she was? How just? How dutiful?
Her fingers gripped the arms of her throne, palms sweaty as she stared at the flames. Her face grew hot in their light and she leaned back, forcing her fingers to loosen. She closed her eyes as if the voices might drift to her on the hearth smoke. What was she hoping to hear?
The bark of a palace dog brought her attention back to the present. She remembered her promise to Chrysothemis and pushed herself up from the gilded chair. Leaving the hall and crossing the courtyard, she had just started down the corridor to her daughters’ chamber when a hand touched her arm. She turned, and smiled.
“I didn’t expect you back unt—”
But Aigisthos stopped her with a kiss. His lips were warm on hers, his hand pressed against the small of her back.
“Good morning to you, too,” she said breathlessly, leaning back a little to see his face. “Did you catch anything?”
“A couple of hares,” he shrugged. “The boar eluded us. We decided we’d be better going back out tomorrow, once the horses are rested.” His cheeks were red from riding hard.
“Yes, you’re probably right.” She smiled, glad to see him so full of energy. “Chrysothemis will be pleased with the hares in any case—she’s been wanting a new collar for her winter cloak.”
He beamed. “And she shall have it!”
Klytemnestra laughed. “That girl has you wrapped around her finger. I think you’d give her the sun if she asked for it.”
“I’d certainly try my best.” He grinned and kissed her again. “And for you, my queen, the moon and the stars!”
“That’s a fine offer, but I think we’ll leave them where they are. I don’t need anything but what I already have.” She smiled, her hand on his shoulder.
“Well, we’re not done quite yet,” he said, resting his hand on her belly.
“Don’t,” she said, pushing it gently away. “It’s only a feeling . . . I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“You could never disappoint me,” he said, moving the hand to her
cheek instead. He smiled, and she smiled back.
They stood there for a moment, their breath mingling.
“I should bathe,” said Aigisthos eventually, stepping back from her.
“Not in our chamber,” said Klytemnestra. “I’ll be helping Chrysothemis with her writing. Come and meet us when you’re done though—you can show her the hares.”
He grinned. “I won’t be long.” Then he hurried off toward the guest chambers.
Klytemnestra smiled as she watched him go, and once he had turned the corner she herself turned and continued down the corridor to the girls’ chamber. With an acknowledging nod to the guard outside, she knocked and opened the door.
“Good morning, girls,” she said brightly. Her daughters were spinning wool.
“Good morning, Mother,” Chrysothemis replied with a smile. Elektra did not look up from her spindle.
“Do you still want me to help you with your letters?” she asked her younger daughter. “I have the tablets ready in my chamber.”
Chrysothemis nodded enthusiastically, abandoning her spindle and crossing the room toward the door.
“Would you like to join us, Elektra? There’s a tablet for you too. Or you could bring your spinning.”
Elektra finally looked up. “Will he be there?”
Klytemnestra paused. “Yes.”
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