Helen of Sparta (2 page)

Two bodies lie at his feet, a gray-haired man, a king by the circlet he wears, and a woman with black hair shot with silver. Seeing their lifeless faces brings tears to my eyes, as if I know them well, but no names come to mind. I raise my chin and stare over Agamemnon’s head. Splashes of red and brown coat the brightly colored fresco behind him. So much blood, so much death, so much waste, and for what? My hands ball i
nto fists.

“My brother has been waiting for this day for years. Menelaus says he plans to kill you for what you’ve done, for making a fool of him all this time.” Agamemnon stands, stepping down from the throne and treading upon the dead woman’
s fingers.

He holds a golden cup in his hand, a king’s goblet filled with wine. As he passes the dead man, he tilts the cup as if offering a libation to the gods. The wine splashes over the body, and he lets the cup drop from his hand. It clatters on the tile floor, rolling into the pool of blood seeping from the dead man’s skull. Agamemnon grabs me by the arm, pulling me close. His breath is hot against my ear, in my hair, and sour with wine. “It seems such a waste, don’t you think? I could save you still. Speak to my brother on your behalf. Ask him to show y
ou mercy.”

“No.” I push him away, twisting my arm t
o free it.

He laughs and lets me go. “You’d rather die at your husband
’s hands?”

“Menelaus has paid for me in blood. If he wants my life, he’ll
have it.”

“
So be it.”

His words make me shiver, and I stumble back into the prince of Locris. Ajax’s hands close over my shoulders with the weight of mountains, though he is hardly much taller than I am. He makes up for his lesser size with meanness, taking strange pleasure in the pain he inflicts upon others. If only it had been Ajax the Great who found me, I would not be standing before Agam
emnon now.

“Tie her up,” Agamemnon says. “Bind her to the throne, and leave us. If she’s going to die, I may as well have my share of the spoils before Menelaus snaps her pre
tty neck.”

The sharp clop of hooves on stone and the cry of a messenger shouting for Leda jarred me from the dream. My bedding was damp, but my throat did not feel raw from shouting, and I was grateful for that much. I rubbed my face and sat up. My wrist still ached, but it took
my weight.

A horse whinnied, drawing me to the window. The messenger stood with his animal, greaves, cloak, and leather chest-plate covered in dust from the road. My brothers greeted him, looking as though they had come straight from the practice field. They certainly didn’t look like twins, but of course the priests had attributed that to parentage, and said the same again when Clytemnestra and I were born, three years later, different as moon and sun in appearance and temperament. Leda swore Zeus had been in her husband’s guise the first time he came to her. She only realized the deceit later that night, when Tyndareus himself had returned and took her to bed a second time. The priests believed, then, that fair, green-eyed Pollux had been born of Zeus, and dark-haired and olive-skinned Castor came from Tyndareus’s mortal seed. When my brothers’ looks were repeated in Clytemnestra and me, their declarations were only made more c
onvincing.

If only my sister Nestra shared Castor’s temperament as well as his looks; Pollux’s twin could always be counted on for kindness whereas my twin seemed filled with nothing but spite. She still hadn’t forgiven me for spilling the walnut dye on her gown, though it had been an accident, and she was certain everything I did was to make her look all the worse beside me. Leda didn’t help; filling the entire palace with her moaning over my beauty and how it would cause all men and even gods to be overtaken by lust, she made Nestra even mor
e jealous.

Pollux laughed at something I didn’t hear and glanced up at my window, then looked again, his mouth forming a thin line. Castor followed his gaze, his eyebrows rising. I pulled my head back into the shadows so they would not se
e my hair.

Leda glided out from the megaron and into the courtyard, waving for a boy to take the horse to the stables. The messenger bowed, and I recognized him as the son of one of t
he nobles.

Tyndareus had sent most of Sparta’s men home after Mycenae fell almost half a year ago, but some two dozen warriors had remained with him as guards and aides. From Mycenae, it was two long summer days by foot to Sparta, three if one stopped to rest and eat along the way. I had never been there, but by all accounts the palace at Mycenae was immense and the city at least twice the size of Sparta. Only Athens was richer tha
n Mycenae.

But Tyndareus had not laid siege upon Mycenae for any share of its wealth. Just as Heracles had helped him to reclaim his own kingship, Tyndareus had marched to support Agamemnon and Menelaus, to help them win back the throne of their father, Atreus, now that Agamemnon was old enough to keep it. I was simply glad to see Agamemnon gone, after all these years in our household, for he had never been anything other than sour, and as for Mene
laus . . .

I had missed him this last year, but the time apart was for the best. Let Menelaus go live as prince of Mycenae and find what pleasure he might among his own people. Perhaps Corinth would desire him for a son-in-law, and he might become king elsewhere. Anywhere but here, as m
y husband.

“King Tyndareus comes, my lady. He begs you to have refreshments waiting for his men and his guests. Menelaus and Ajax the Great accom
pany him.”

“All is prepared for my husband’s arrival,” my mother said. “Go make use of the baths. Wash the dust from your skin before finding y
our wife.”

The messenger bowed again and left; Pollux and Castor disappeared with him. No doubt they sought to avoid any last duties Leda might find
for them.

As children, we had all scrubbed the painted-tile floors and frescoed walls of the megaron until our knees grew calloused, and then had been forbidden from the feasting we had worked toward. In recent years, Tyndareus had allowed us to take part in the celebrations, but not even my brothers were old enough to escape the work demanded beforehand. At least being confined to my room kept me from that particular unple
asantness.

I sighed and withdrew before Leda could see me and be reminded of my disobedience. I had meant to sneak out of the palace to watch the soldiers parade home. From the height of the city wall, the valley spread out below in rich greens and fertile fields, our crops and our city sheltered by the mountains, but I was not often permitted the view. I had stood at the wall when Tyndareus marched away with his men, shining bronze armor and glossy horses turning to dust, and I had hoped to see the dust turn into men again. But that would be difficult to accomplish while my door was locked an
d guarded.

Leda had returned to the megaron, and I leaned out the window. The drop to the ground was not so far even from the second story. If I hung from the ledge, I might be able to climb down the stone face, and if I fell, I would not be serio
usly hurt.

I dug through my chest for a scarf to hide my hair and face so if I were seen, I might avoid being recognized at once. I would go to the wall to see my father and then make Pollux help me climb back into my room the same way I’d left it. He would understand, I was sure, even if he thought me a fool for dyein
g my hair.

With the scarf wrapped tightly around my head, I climbed backward out the window, glancing down only once to be sure I would not tumble onto any of the drying amphorae where they waited to be refilled with wine. The clatter of breaking pottery would bring half the pala
ce slaves.

I hung from the ledge, my sandaled toes searching for some kind of purchase below, but finding nothing. I would have been better off barefoot, but it was too late now. I took a deep breath and prepare
d to drop.

“Helen!”

I slipped, choking off a scream that would certainly bring Leda. The wall fell away, and my arms flailed until I remembered not to panic at the whistle of air in my ears. I closed my eyes tightly and went limp just before a pair of strong arms
caught me.

“Helen, what on earth are you doing?” Pollux
demanded.

I breathed more easily when I heard my brother’s voice. I had been sure Menelaus called my name. But when I opened my eyes, it was not Pollux who held me; he stood nearby, arms crossed. I shoved at the dusty chest I had fallen into, trying to fr
ee myself.

Menelaus laughed and set me down on my feet. “You haven’t changed a bit,
have you?”

My face burning, I wrapped my scarf more securely around my hair and gathered what dignity I had left, raising my chin. I refused to even look at Pollux, and glared at Menelaus instead. “What are you doing under m
y window?”

“I rode ahead of the others.” Menelaus caught a strand of my hair, pulling it free from the scarf, his eyebrows rising. “By the gods, Helen! What did you do to
yourself?”

I knocked his hand away, dropping my gaze to the bronze greaves he still wore, dusty and scarred by battle. I didn’t want to see his dismay, even if I had hoped for just such a response, and his amusement would be worse. He had changed so little. It would have been easier if he were
different.

I crossed the courtyard, intent on leaving the palace before Leda found me. I wanted to see my father before he learned what had happened, to have just one moment of happy reunion before his anger found me, too. If I could only get beyond the palace walls without being
seen . . .

“She dyed her hair.” Pollux’s tone was grim, and I heard the ping of leather against bronze, the song of a soldier’s jog, as they caught up with me on the broad porch of the palace entrance. “I told you she’s been in trouble. Leda’s furious
with her.”

I shook my head, quickening my pace. “You gossip like a kitch
en slave.”

“It isn’t as though you could hide it for long.” Pollux walked on my right side; Menelaus on my left. They had no trouble matching my stride, and Menelaus seemed not to be weighed down by his armor in the slightest. “Or that you
meant to.”

“Oh, Helen.” Menelaus sighed. “I suppose I should have expected it, with all the things Leda says. As if Zeus would rape his own
daughter—”

“No,” Pollux said. “It has nothing to do with Leda’s carrying on about Zeus. If onl
y it did.”

“Pollux!” I regretted, then, having told him anything about my nightmares, but at the time I had been desperate to share the burden, and at least Pollux could be trusted to act in my
interests.

“What’s this?” Menelaus caught me by the arm, turning me to
face him.

We stood on the near side of the palace wall, by the gate. Leda would greet Tyndareus at the porch, and I expected her to step from the palace at any moment to be sure the stone had been sw
ept clean.

“She’s still having nightmares,” my brother said. He wasn’t looking at Menelaus, but at me. I hadn’t told him what I meant to do with my hair. His jaw tightened, and he lo
oked away.

“You promised.” I couldn’t meet Menelaus’s eyes and glared at Pollux instead. “You promised you would
n’t tell.”

“You would’ve told him anyway.” We both knew this wasn’t true. From the start, Pollux had felt Menelaus should know what role he might play, if the dreams were visions. I had refused. The less anyone knew, the safer we
all were.

“You remember them?” Menelaus asked, and I could feel him studying me. “But why would nightmares make you dye your hair? I don’t un
derstand.”

“It’s nothing.” I pulled my arm free. “It doesn’t matter. Please, if Leda sees me here, I’ll be in even more
trouble.”

“For dyeing your hair?” I could hear the laughter in Menelaus’s voice again, but he let me go, walkin
g with me.

“Not exactly
,” I said.

“Then what?” Menel
aus asked.

I pressed my lips together and sped up, leaving them both behind. I was so angry that I could not even look at Pollux. He had no right to say anything at all, and now Menelaus would never let it rest, asking questions until I told him everything. Before the nightmares had come to me, I would never have kept such a secret
from him.

I slipped through the gate, relieved to have the wall between me and
my mother.

“Helen.” Menelaus caught my hand this time, his skin warm and dry against mine. My fingers closed around his without my permission, and I let myself be drawn to a stop. “You can tell me anything. When have I ever betrayed yo
ur trust?”

I bit my lip, looking up at him. His forehead was creased with concern, unruly red hair falling over his ears. His skin had bronzed this last year, and his shoulders had broadened. He looked like a man, now. And I was no longer a girl. The way he looked at me, it was as if he had starved on campaign, and only now realized h
is hunger.