Helen of Sparta (12 page)

I shook my head, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. Theseus sighed, lifting me up and carrying me to a bench nearer the fire. He sat me in his lap and let me cry against his shoulder. I struggled to control my breathing and stop the hiccupping sobs. I could feel Menelaus still, his touch, his body against mine, in mine, and I clung to Theseus, the solidness of him, the warmth, the gentleness of his touch, to put it fro
m my mind.

“You’re safe,” he murmured into my hair when I had calmed. “Whatever’s happened, you’re
safe now.”

I felt him pull back to brush my hair from my shoulder, but he froze in the middle of the motion, his whole body stiffening b
eneath me.

He lifted my chin gently and turned my face. His expression blanked into a king’s mask, the warm blue eyes becoming the flat gray of a hurricane o
n the sea.

“Whoever did this to you will answer to me, and he will be lucky if I do not kill him in
his bed.”

I covered the mark on my neck with my hand, my cheek
s burning.

Theseus’s eyes narrowed. “Was this Agamemnon’s work? The way he looked at you at the feast, I would not be surprised if he did
you harm.”

“Not Agamemnon.” I stared at his chest and felt the pressure of tears behind my eyes again. Would he still protect me now that I had been used? I didn’t know. But I could not ask him to help me and not tell him the truth. “Menelaus was waiting for me in my room. He said my father had already given his word that I would be his wife. That Agamemnon had arrange
d it all.”

Theseus’s expression hardened to stone, and his voice was cold. “Menelaus oversteps
himself.”

My hands trembled, and I pressed them against my thighs so he would not see. “Forgive me, my lord. I did not know what else to do. If I had not given mysel
f to him—”

I couldn’t continue. I did not even want to think the words, but I had felt the violence behind every gesture he’d made, every word he’d whispered. I had felt his fingers close around my throat. There would have been no hiding what happened, if I had refused. No hope of freedom. I’d have been married the moment Tyndareus and Leda caught si
ght of me.

Theseus set me down on the bench and rose, pacing to the window. His hands balled into fists at his sides. “Where i
s he now?”

“Asleep i
n my bed.”

Without Theseus’s warmth, the chill returned to my skin and settled into my bones. The flames danced, the shadows making the painted river on the opposite wall look as though it flowed. I pulled my knees to my chest, though it made me wince. At least it kept me from
shivering.

“Perhaps I should not have come,” I
whispered.

Theseus swore a low oath. “The only person who did not act as he ought was Menelaus, and if he were within my reach, I would end his life with my o
wn hands.”

“He asked me to meet with him before the feast and I refused. If I had just gone to speak to him, he would not have been tempted to climb through m
y window—”

“No.” He crossed back to me and sank down on one knee, forcing me to look into his eyes. “This is not your fault. He had no right to climb through your window, no right to touch you at all. Do you not see he lie
d to you?”

I shook my head. It made no sense. No matter what else had happened, Menelaus had always been my friend. I had trusted him with everything since the age of six. Even if we had fought—I had never tolerated Menelaus’s temper, but to betray me
like this?

“I spoke to your father just this evening, and he swears he will not promise you to any man until the proper ceremonies have been observed. Tyndareus will make no exceptions. Not even for
Menelaus.”

My heart tripped heavily against my ribs, and I closed my eyes for a moment, rocking on the base of my spine. The ache in my body was nothing compared to this
new pain.

“But he said that A
gamemnon—”

“Agamemnon has been bartering for a bride, but not for Menelaus. Your sister, Clytemnestra, will be his queen. Pollux gave me the news of it
himself.”

I shook my head again. How could he have lied? I wante
d to weep.

“I’m sorry, Helen.” Theseus’s thumb brushed over my cheek, wiping away my tears. “I’m sorry that any of this had to happen. I wish I had been able to stop him, but if you had not given yourself to him, things would have been worse. A man that desperate would not have taken no for a
n answer.”

“I thought—” My voice broke, and I tried again. “I thought he loved me. As a sister, if noth
ing else.”

“Crazed by his love, perhaps,” Theseus murmured. “But to abuse you this way is unfo
rgivable.”

I swallowed, staring at the worn fabric of the cloak. My fingers knotted in the cloth. “If you no longer wish to have me as your wife, I beg you still to help me leave the city. I cannot stay. I will not be his wife, and I will not give hi
m Sparta.”

He stroked my face. “When I leave, I will find a way to take you with me. If you still wish to offer yourself as my wife after you are made safe, that will be a differen
t matter.”

The pain in my chest eased, and I pressed his hand against my cheek, comforted by the dry warmth of his palm, the kindness in his eyes. As long as I had his protection, I could believe that all would be well. Poseidon’s son or not, my father would think twice before he moved against the king of Athens. Even Agamemnon would have to
hesitate.

I forced myself to rise, though my muscles protested. Theseus helped me to my feet, steadying me with an arm around
my waist.

“If Menelaus wakes and finds me gone, he’ll be furious. Better he think I am resigned to our marriage and the fate it will bring.” I pressed my lips together. “He cannot know we hav
e spoken.”

Theseus’s eyes flashed, his face turning to stone again. I could have sworn in that moment I heard the crash of waves against the cliff. “You need not return to him at all. And better if you do not expose yourself to more of
the same.”

“And how will I explain myself if I don’t return to my room? He will be furious, Theseus. Already he thinks me ungrateful—
disloyal.”

“Tell him, if he questions it, that you were hurt, and went to your father’s physician for relief. If he is any kind of man at all, he will not press you further, if only for the sake of his own pride. And from the way you move, I have no doubt you’ve suffered. He will see that, too. Find another bed to sleep in this night, I be
g of you.”

I looked away, hoping he would not see the truth in my expression. For all that I had been willing, it had not felt li
ke loving.

Theseus turned my face back to his, lifting my chin. “I will never hurt you, Helen. I promise. Not l
ike that.”

I forced a smile. “I thought the same of Menela
us, once.”

Theseus rapped on the door to the hall, unbolting it, and Pirithous opened it from th
e outside.

“Stay close to me,” Pirithous said, “and pray to the gods we meet no one along
the way.”

I glanced back at Theseus as the door closed. He stood with his back to me, his shoulders bowed and his head bent. For everything I had asked of him, perhaps I could at least give him some happiness
in return.

I owed him that. I owed him e
verything.

C
HAPTER NINE

T
heseus paced his rooms and concentrated on keeping his hands from balling into fists. What little peace he had gathered shattered with the memory of the marks on Helen’s neck and the visions of Menelaus forcing himself on her that rose in
his mind.

The door opened and he spun, reaching for the nearest weapon at hand. It was nothing more than a table knife, but the ocean roared in his ears, and he knew it would be enough to cut down whatever came.
Let it be
Menelaus!

“Peace, Theseus,” Pirithous said, his voice low. He didn’t move from the doorway, his eyes trained on the knife. “She made it back to the women’s quarters without being seen, and you have no enemies here yet. I should think Menelaus will feel quite secure after
tonight.”

He forced himself to release the knife, but he couldn’t stop the growl. “If he weren’t hiding in her room, I would see him dead by my own hands this night, guest of Tyndareu
s or not.”

“Not without bringing war upon Athens.” Pirithous entered and shut the door behind him. “Peace, my friend. For her sake, if not your own. You do her no good if Mycenae rises against you as you leave, to say nothing of what it will mean for your people. Athens is strong, but breaking the sacred laws would mean incurring the wrath of the gods as wel
l as men.”

Theseus ground his teeth. “And if it were the woman you loved who had just be
en raped?”

“Then I would depend on you to speak reason until my judgment was restored. Is that not the greatest purpose of friends and allies?” Pirithous’s eyes blazed with Zeus’s fury, but he poured wine for both of them and kept his voice level. “Come, Theseus. Drink and be seated. If you intend to steal her, we will need a plan. Your love for her is obvious to even the blindest of men, and Menelaus will accuse you first, even if Tyndareus w
ould not.”

“If you had seen her face when she spoke of it, Pirithous, you would not be so
easy now.”

“I saw enough.” Pirithous’s jaw tightened. “And heard more. You have my help in this, Theseus, and not just for the sake of our friendship. Helen is a daughter of Zeus, and she deserves better than what Menelaus will give her. He’s proven that
tonight.”

Pirithous’s face was lined with the strain of too little sleep and too much wine. For the first time since they had met, Theseus glimpsed his age. They had both lived too long with all the appearance of youth, and all the weight of wisdom earned by hard years as kings, but until that moment, Theseus had always thought his friend wore i
t lightly.

Theseus took a long drink of the wine and dropped to a seat at last. He had not been sleeping as he should, spending too many late nights drinking with Tyndareus, and all for nothing now. He needed rest, but he did not know how he would manage it, knowing what Helen had suffered. And dawn was alrea
dy coming.

“I have spoken to Tyndareus, offering him gold and iron and beasts in numbers that would tempt more powerful kings than Sparta. I cannot be certain it is me he objects to, or simply that he does not wish to barter her without full honors. But he must realize even Mycenae cannot match the offer I
’ve made.”

“Then she will have to be stolen,” Pirithous said quietly. “And if it is to be done, we should do it
quickly.”

Theseus rubbed his face. “And so I take her from the prison of her nightmares of Menelaus and death, to a gil
ded cage.”

“Shall I see if there are any black sheep in the city to be bought?” Pirith
ous asked.

Theseus nodded. “A sacrifice would not go amiss. At the very least, I must beg my father for calm seas and fair winds on the voyage back t
o Attica.”

“Will he
hear you?”

He pressed his lips together and met Pirithous’s eyes. “I can o
nly pray.”

Ariston arrived not long after dawn with news that Helen’s maid had come and gone, white faced. Helen would not be at the morning meal, so Theseus excused himself from it also, leaving Pirithous to see to her safety while he wen
t to pray.

He had already made offerings to Zeus tenfold, but he could not forget his father when he traveled by sea, nor Hera and Aphrodite, if he wanted his relationship with Helen to grow, and they would need Athena’s protection now more than ever if Mycenae ros
e in arms.

He saved her offering
for last.

Olives would have made a better gift than the wine he brought, but he did not trust himself not to slit Menelaus’s throat on sight if he ran into the man in the palace on his way to collect them. Just thinking about it made the ocean roar in his ears. No, he could not see Menelaus yet, and Pirithous was right; it would affront more than Tyndareus to violate the laws of hospitality. War he could win, but he could not fight the gods if he meant to keep H
elen safe.

Athena’s temple stood a little ways from the others, in a thick grove of sacred olive trees, though Theseus could not tell if the trees or the shrine had come first. Snakes wrapped around the columns, winding and weaving into braided patterns, and owls were painted across the lintels between them. The temple itself was little more than its roof and one back wall where a statue of Athena, carved from olive wood, fit into an alcove above a stone altar. Olive trees formed the other two sides, fit between the columns, their branches reaching beneath the roof for their
mistress.

Theseus laid the wine upon the altar and dropped to his knees before the image of the goddess. They had given the temple a stone floor, and he felt no grit or dirt beneath him, though he had seen no sign of any pr
iestesses.

“My lady, you know what I beg of you. Athens is yours, and will rise as far as you wish, giving glory to your name in everything we do. But if we must fall, if it is your will that such a fate waits for your people, let it not be
for this.”

A dark-haired priestess stepped up to the altar, opening the wineskin and pouring a measure into a golden cup etched with owls. Theseus sat back on his heels, staring as she lifted the cup to
her lips.

“My lady—” He rose to his feet in shock, one arm outstretched to
stop her.

But she had alre
ady drunk.

Priests and priestesses were kept on the offerings given to the temples, but he had never seen one profane an offering at the god’s
own altar.

“Attic wine,” she said. “A fitting gift from the man who holds Attica to the goddess who has ma
de it so.”

“I would not give the goddess anything less,” he manag
ed to say.

“No.” She set down the cup and fingered an offering of wool that rested beside it. “No, you have always done your du
ty to us.”

She looked up at him, then, with bright silver eyes, a
nd smiled.

The beauty of her face rivaled Helen’s, but even suggesting the comparison in the silence of his own mind made him tremble, and he fell to his knees at once before Athena, bowing
his head.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said. “I did not
know you.”

“And how could you know me, if I did not revea
l myself?”

He thought she might be laughing, but did not dare to raise his eyes. Her hand, cool and gentle, touched his face, lifting his chin so that he looked at her. Her flawless skin seemed to glow, and her ey
es danced.

“You need not grovel before me, Theseus. We are family, a
fter all.”

He shook his head. “I am nothing, my lady. Only your
servant.”

“You are my champion, Theseus. My hero. Is that not what you have been named? Hero of Attica. Do you think you would be called so if it were not by my favor? Rise, for you have done nothing to displease me, and I would speak with you as my cousin, not as my
servant.”

She held out her hand to him, and he had no choice but to accept it. As her fingers closed around his, a shock traveled through his bones like lightning. Her lips twitched. When he stood, he barely matched h
er height.

“I am honored,
my lady.”

Athena pressed her lips together, her eyes flashing. “I did not come to listen to you give homage. Had I wanted that, I could have heard it from the comfort of
Olympus.”

He had to stop himself from stepping back, and for a dizzying moment he wondered if this was how men felt when they met him for the first time. “Forgive me, my lady, but what is it you’ve
come for?”

“To help you, Theseus. As far as I’m able. Neither one of us, I think, wishes to see Athens in ruins over a woman, but you seem to be committed, and if I do not help you, no one will. Certainly not Aphrodite, jealous as she is. And Hera has never had any love for Zeus’s misbegotten
children.”

“Helen has done nothing to deserve their enmity.” He looked away and swallowed the rest of his words. It was not his place to judge the gods. “I would give them any offerings they desire. If they will not help Helen, would they not at least offer me their blessing? Help me,
instead?”

Athena sighed, turning his face back to hers with a cool hand on his cheek. “It would be easier if it were only a question of incense and the blood of bulls, Cousin, but it will never be so. Not wi
th Helen.”

He stared at the goddess, turning her words over in his mind. She was so beautiful, it hurt to look at her, but to look away would have been an insult. “T
hen what?”

She shook her head, her silver eyes filled with sympathy. “Nothing, Theseus. There is nothing you can do, and certainly nothing that Helen will, poisoned against us as she has been. If Leda had only kept her spite to herself—but no. It is too much to expect of any mortal woman, or immortal for tha
t matter.”

Her lips thinned again as she searched his face, though he did not know what she looked for. She held his head still, and her fingers curled around his ear, her nails biting into
his flesh.

“Swear to me that you will not forget where your loyalties lie, no matter what Helen might say. Swear you will not turn from us, and I will give you my aid, even if they
will not.”

“I swear it.” But he frowned at the crease in her pale brow, as if she listened for the lie in his words. “My lady, how could I turn from you? No matter what else comes, I am my father’s son. I cannot turn from my family, even if they do not love me as well as I mi
ght wish.”

She barked a sharp laugh, and her hold on him eased. He freed himself carefully, watching her face for any sign that she might tak
e offense.

“Not half as well as you
deserved.”

Athena stepped back and turned away, seeming to stare at the altar before them. Her dark hair fell past her waist in a thick braid, woven with strands of gold and silver. The gown she wore moved like silk, and he imagined it would be nearly translucent in
sunlight.

“I am sorry for that,” Athena said after a moment. “It was cruel of my sisters to make you suffer so, in love. Especially what happened with Phaedra and Hi
ppolytus.”

He flinched at the sound of his son’s name, his jaw clenching. Hippolytus. Poor Hippolytus. Hippolytus, who had paid in blood for sins he had not committed. He almost wished Phaedra had been successful in her seduction of his son and that Hippolytus had happily gone to his stepmother’s bed. If he had, perhaps his son would s
till live.

“I beg you not to speak of it,
my lady.”

Athena bowed her head. “Yet you risk it all again f
or Helen.”

His stomach turned to ic
e. “Do I?”

“Theseus.” Her pale face seemed even whiter than before, the warm glow of her skin dampened with grief. “It breaks my heart to pain you further when all you ask of us, all you have begged for these last years, has been peace. Love her, if you must. It is too late for us to stop you, for no god can undo what another power has done. Marry her, if you will. I will see you safely to Athens. But there will be a price that must be paid, and I can do nothing to
stop it.”

He shook his head, stumbling back a step. The ocean roared in his ears, the surf pounding against a cliff. He had paid with his own blood, with the blood of his son, with the lives of his wives twice over. He had given up Ariadne, whom he loved, to Dionysus when it was asked of him. He had paid with his own sweat, serving them in everything he had done. And now they would ask for more? They asked him to pay, when he acted at Helen’s request to save
the world.

“Is it this war from he
r dreams?”

She looked at him with pity, silver eyes liquid with regret. “The price is not mine to name, bu
t Zeus’s.”