Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  Aineias nodded, looking about the empty courtyard. “I should wake the others.”

  Paris did not tell Helen to follow him, but she did. Her sandals slapped the stones behind his, her skirt held up with one hand while the other clutched an oil lamp. The moon was full enough not to need it, but she was glad of its light nonetheless.

  They were at the bottom tier of the citadel now. The sounds had grown louder than ever. Paris headed straight for the stairs up to the battlements, and Helen followed. When they finally reached the top and looked over the wall, her breath caught in her throat.

  The lower town was under attack. The Skaian Gates hung open, a stream of Greek warriors pouring through them. The streets below were already filled with their round shields. She watched as brave townsmen were cut down, as others fled their homes in terror, children clutched in their arms. And all the while the shields pressed closer to the citadel.

  “How did they get through?” Helen asked the darkness, bewildered by what she was seeing. Still foggy with sleep, she squinted down at the dark gate. It looked splintered, as if rent open by the claws of some huge beast. There between the battered doors she thought she could see the outline of some great, looming structure, but what scared her more were the endless shields that continued to stream either side of it. “We have to warn—”

  There was a choking sound by her left ear. She turned.

  Paris stood beside her, as before. But as she raised her lamp she saw it. A black arrow, shot through his throat. Blood bubbled from his mouth, his eyes wide with shock. There was a terrible gurgling sound and he fell, choking and spluttering, clawing the ground, holding his throat. Helen watched, transfixed, as his body writhed and jerked. And then it went still.

  It was as if she were still in her bed. As if this were the dream and not the waking. She stood, dazed, looking down at Paris’s body. The blood began to pool around his head, soaking into the soft ringlets of his hair. His white eyes stared up at nothing. Death had hung around Helen for so long, and yet she had never been this close to it.

  “Helen!”

  She dragged her eyes from Paris, unsure how long she had been staring at him. It took her a moment to recognize the figure of Polites, one of Paris’s younger brothers, striding toward her. He stopped suddenly as he spotted his brother’s body.

  “Helen,” he said shakily. “What are you doing up here?” He reached over and knocked the lamp from her hand, so that the oil spilled and the flame was snuffed. “Do you want an arrow too?”

  She looked at him blankly, her lips numb.

  “Go to the Hearth Hall,” he said, gripping her forearm. His touch made her focus a little. “Some of the women should already be there. You must shut yourselves in until we’ve driven the Greeks from the lower town. Do you understand?”

  She gave a small nod, and he seemed satisfied. Without waiting for her to move he rushed off down the stairs.

  It took a moment for Helen to recall the use of her legs, but once she had made that first step, and the next, she kept going. Even as she reached the stairs to descend from the wall, she did not look back.

  She stumbled through the citadel, shoulders brushing and bumping her as she went. There were men rushing past in the direction of the gate, spears and shields in hand, and women overtaking her, jostling past as she climbed the tiers to the Hearth Hall. She barely noticed them. As her feet carried her through the panicked streets, there was only one face she was looking for.

  She had reached the top terrace now. The palace courtyard opened before her, with the Great Altar standing stoically at its center. The ancient laurel tree that sheltered it was shivering in the night breeze. Helen watched it as she passed, tuning her ears to the rustling leaves. The shouts of the lower town were so distant now that she could almost block them out.

  When she finally reached the Hearth Hall one of its great doors stood ajar—she had just seen another woman hurry in, dragging a crying child behind her. Helen slid herself through the gap.

  The hall was bright compared to outside—the eternal hearth flame burning as ever. It took Helen a moment for her eyes to adjust, and to take in the frightened faces that stared at her as she entered. Some she recognized, some she did not. But there was still no sign of the face she had been looking for.

  “Have any of you seen Kassandra?” she asked the room at large.

  There was silence as sandals shuffled and faces turned away from her. But then one young woman stepped forward.

  “I think she was among those heading to the Sanctuary of Athena,” the woman said quietly. “They have gone to supplicate the goddess. Queen Hekabe was with them.”

  Helen gave a silent nod of thanks. In the absence of any other replies, she had to assume that the woman was right, and she turned to leave. If Kassandra was at the sanctuary, that was where she would go.

  But just as she stepped toward the door, a new group of women entered. And at their center was Andromache.

  Helen shrank back into the corner of the room. Andromache wore her black mourning veil—so long it trailed on the floor. By her side, his little hand clasped in hers, stood Astyanax, the heir of Troy. His resemblance to his father was striking.

  Helen wanted to leave—now more than ever—but the hall had only one door, and she feared passing Andromache. As she stood in her shadowy corner, the black veil turned her way and those dark eyes met hers before moving on.

  She couldn’t leave now. Andromache would think it was because of her. Because she felt guilty, because she was afraid—and she was. What if Andromache challenged her? What if they all did? What if they thought she was running to the Greeks? No, she had missed her opportunity to leave quietly. Hopefully, Kassandra would come to the Hearth Hall once the prayers had been said. Helen just wanted to know that her friend was safe.

  For now, though, she remained rooted in her corner, avoiding the eyes of the other women as they waited together in silence and listened to the distant rumble of battle.

  CHAPTER 54

  HELEN

  The sounds were getting closer. The shouts and the crashes. There were horns blowing now, too. And inside the Hearth Hall the nervous chatter grew.

  —What was happening?—

  —Were they inside the citadel?—

  —Would they reach the palace?—

  Helen tried to ignore them. She tried to ignore the sounds outside too, but they pounded in her head—every cry, every scream. Was some poor Trojan dying? Or a Greek? Was Menelaos out there somewhere? Was Kassandra safe? And the slaves—there hadn’t been room for all the slave women in the Hearth Hall, never mind the men. Was it their cries she was hearing? Each one pierced her like a knife.

  Paris had said that the walls could not be breached, that the Greeks would never step foot in Troy. But Paris was dead. It had happened so suddenly that Helen had to remind herself it was true. She closed her eyes and saw his lightless face once more, frozen in surprise as if he had not quite believed in his own mortality. What did she feel, to know that he was gone? Grief? Release? Fear? She had come to Troy for him. Had left her home and family, crossed seas and risked all that she had for the love he promised. And now? Now she was alone, no longer a Greek and yet never a Trojan. She looked at the fearful faces that surrounded her. Not one friend among them. She began to cry—for herself, for her foolishness, and for Paris too. For the Paris she had fallen in love with, for the beautiful dream she had chased. Now finally dead and gone.

  Helen’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the great doors being unbarred. Had Kassandra come from the temple? But as she watched the wood drawn cautiously back, it was the disheveled form of Queen Hekabe that emerged.

  Her veil was torn, her face gray, and blood trickled down her aged cheek from a cut above her eyebrow. She swayed on her feet as if she might fall, but when Andromache stepped forward to support her, the queen waved her away.

>   “They have breached the citadel. They have taken the sanctuary,” she said, struggling for breath. “All is lost.”

  There was silence while the words settled on the air. And then the panic began. Some women screamed, others cried, others shouted in anger.

  But through it all, Helen pushed her way to the door.

  “What about Kassandra?” she asked the queen, clasping her sleeve to get her attention.

  Hekabe turned, her face hollow.

  “Spoiled,” she croaked, her mouth stiff. The room had gone quiet again, seeing Helen move from her corner. There was an unspeakable pain in Hekabe’s eyes as she looked down at Helen. “Right there in the sanctuary.” She closed her eyes and sucked her teeth, as if there were poison in her mouth. “To have no fear of the gods . . . a beast, not a man.”

  Helen’s face spread in horror as she realized what the queen was saying. A quiet cry came from her throat.

  “I tried to bring her,” the queen continued, her voice distant. “I tried to take her away from there. But she would not stand. She would not move. I—” She swallowed painfully. “I had to leave her.”

  Helen was weeping freely now, tears streaming down her cheeks. Hekabe turned away from her and sank onto a stool, her eyes staring blankly at the hearth flames.

  Suddenly another figure stood before Helen.

  “Why do you weep?” asked the hard voice of Andromache.

  Helen looked up at her, confused.

  “Why weep for Kassandra, when every woman in Troy will meet the same fate before the night is out?”

  Her words rang through the hall, the truth of them rippling across the pale faces illuminated in the hearth light.

  “You must know that, Helen.” Andromache spat out her name as if it were dirt. “You must know what your coming here has cost us. What it will cost us. Or are you really that stupid?”

  Andromache stepped toward her, and Helen shrank back.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Why couldn’t you have just stayed in Greece? What was so terrible that you had to leave? That you had to come here and ruin all our lives?” The anger spewed from Andromache like venom. “Your life was easy. Do you know how old I was when I was taken from my home? When I came here, to Troy, with no one? I made a life for myself. I had a home and a husband and . . .” Her voice was ragged. “But now . . . now you have taken all that away.”

  Andromache stood, her black veil shaking, and Helen stared up into those dark, terrible eyes. It could have been her own sister speaking those words.

  The tears continued to spill down her cheeks, for Kassandra, for Nestra, for Andromache and for Hektor, for all that had happened, for all the misery she had caused. She could barely breathe. She had to get out of the hall. She had to get away from those eyes.

  She pushed her way to the door and out into the courtyard. The cold night air almost choked her as she sucked it into her lungs. She stood, chest heaving, not knowing where she should go. The courtyard was empty, but she could hear men fighting to the west. For a moment she thought of running to the sanctuary, to Kassandra, but fear held her back. That way would take her through the fighting. So she turned and ran down the east steps instead—toward her chamber.

  * * *

  By the time Helen reached her chamber she was shaking. The cold had leached through her dress and her heart was racing. She shut the door behind her and lit a few of the torches that hung on the wall. The light and the warmth made her feel better—as if they might somehow keep danger away.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, trying to slow her breathing. Tears still brimmed in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Her thoughts were full of Kassandra, picturing her alone on the sanctuary floor. Was she still there? Would she survive the night? Women were usually spared when a city was sacked—kept as slaves or sold—but there were fates worse than death. Helen whispered a prayer to Artemis, for Kassandra and for herself, but her heart wasn’t in it. What good had the gods ever done? They didn’t care about the lives of mortals. If they did, they would never have let her leave Sparta.

  Fresh tears welled, and she sobbed pathetically, self-hatred and regret gnawing at her insides until she felt as if she would throw up.

  She was so consumed that she did not hear the chamber door open. Nor the boots on the stone. Not until they were only a few paces away.

  “Deiphobos,” she said, startled. “You scared me.” She stood up and hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  He didn’t say anything but took another step toward her. There was a strange light in his eyes.

  “Are you injured? Have the Greeks been pushed back? Did you see Kassandra?”

  But he didn’t answer. He had stopped, and was regarding her.

  “Deiphobos?”

  “So much ruin,” he said slowly. “Over so common a thing.”

  Fear had begun to stir in Helen’s belly now. She went to step backward, but the bed was behind her.

  “Is the world not full of women?” Deiphobos asked, his dark eyes flashing. “And yet my brother had to have you.” He stepped forward, narrowing the gap between them. “Why? What makes you so special, Helen? What makes you worth a kingdom?” He came closer and took her chin in his hand, tilting her head a little to regard it. “It seems unjust, does it not? That Paris was the only one to know the answer, the only one to benefit from you, when we have all paid your bride price.”

  And before Helen could react his hand had moved to the back of her neck, and his tongue was pushing its way into her mouth.

  She tried to pull back, but he held her head, his fingers buried in her hair. She bit his tongue and he recoiled for a second, long enough for her to twist out of his grip.

  “Bitch,” he spat, and she cried out.

  “You think anyone will help you?” he sneered. “Do you think anyone will want to?” He stepped toward her again. “You’re nothing more than a whore.”

  Helen’s heart was pounding. She stepped back toward the wall, her eyes never leaving Deiphobos. And as he strode forward she reached and grabbed a torch from behind her.

  “Stay away!” she said shakily, sweeping the torch in an arc before her. “Paris will come back. He’ll—”

  “Paris is dead.”

  He knew, then. Flawed as Paris was—vain and selfish and cowardly as he had turned out to be—he had been her shield all these years at Troy. Now she had no one.

  Her eyes darted to the door. She could make a run for it. Take her chances in the citadel. But Deiphobos was fit and fast. He would catch her.

  Suddenly he leaped forward, seizing one wrist and then the other. He twisted and she dropped the torch. She cried out again, spitting and snarling, wrenching to be free as they grappled in the middle of the room. He was too strong. He pushed her against a table edge, both wrists held in one of his giant hands, high above her head. He thrust the other into the top of her dress, the shoulder pin snapping as he wrenched the material aside. Hard fingers dug into her breast. She turned her face away, determined not to meet his eye. There on the floor the dropped torch still burned, and the woolen rug with it. As Deiphobos’s hand moved to her skirt she squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to block it out—the violence and the fire and the pain. She would pretend it wasn’t happening. She would pretend—

  And then Deiphobos’s grip seemed to slacken. She opened her eyes and there were his, staring back at her in confusion. As he stared she watched a trickle of blood spill from the edge of his mouth.

  Her eyes moved down and she saw it—something sharp and bloody sticking out from his tunic.

  Deiphobos let go of her, his hands moving to touch the blood spreading from his navel. There was a sound of metal through flesh and he fell heavily, knees cracking on the stone. And as he did, she saw the man who stood behind him.

  Menelaos.

  She cried out in surprise,
an animal relief that broke from her throat before she could think what his being here meant. He looked at her, and she looked back. Neither moved. Neither spoke. His sword was still raised, his arm tense, his eyes afire.

  Would he kill her? Was that why he had come? So that he could be the one to do it? Would he plunge that sword into her exposed, hateful breast? Did she not deserve it?

  Their two chests heaved in the stillness.

  At the edge of Helen’s vision, she saw flames rising. The burning rug had set fire to one of the wall hangings.

  “The fire,” she said hoarsely. “We should put it out.”

  Menelaos’s eyes did not move. “Let Troy burn. I am done with it.”

  “And me?” Helen took a shaking step toward him, moving around Deiphobos without her eyes leaving Menelaos. “Are you done with me?”

  Another step. Menelaos’s eyes were still intense, his sword arm fixed. She reached out a hand and rested it on top of the blade, her eyes looking up into his. They stood like that for a moment, before the sword slowly lowered.

  Around them, the room had begun to fill with smoke. Menelaos coughed.

  “We should go,” he said.

  And, taking Helen by the hand, they left the chamber together.

  CHAPTER 55

  HELEN

  When Helen awoke the next morning, it took her a moment to remember where she was. Instead of a ceiling, there was canvas. And on the bed beside her . . . there was no one. The straw was springy and unslept on, the animal skins cold. Menelaos had not come back, then. He had driven her to his tent in silence after they had left the city, but once she had stepped down from the chariot and he had indicated which tent was his, he had driven right back out of the camp again—back toward Troy. She knew he must have returned to help his men, but part of her also wondered if he had gone back to be away from her, to delay the words that would eventually have to pass between them.