Helen of Sparta (19 page)

The master of the ship greeted him loudly enough that I heard the words through the canvas. Theseus spoke to him about nothing of consequence, and from the sound of his men and the calls that followed, he walked among his crew. Ariston had told me Theseus often took a turn on the oars when he sailed, and I wondered if that was what he had left me to do, while it was daylight still and I would not be troubled by
the dark.

I sighed, aching to follow him, though I knew I could not risk being seen again. Yet the thought of Theseus working an oar, his back and shoulders bare to the sun, made my h
eart race.

My future would be what I made of it. My future, wit
h Theseus.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
he storm blew up from a clear sky, and Theseus climbed the mast himself to roll the sail and secure it, trusting that Athena would not let him be thrown from the ship no matter how it pitched. The hair on the back of his neck rose when he heard the wind howl with a woman’s voice. Laughter like silver chimes carried over the crash of the waves, and a dove lighted upon the snake’s head of
the prow.

“Aphrodite’s blessing!” the shipmaster said. “She’ll protect us through t
he storm.”

Theseus stared at the bird, the truth of its presence sinking his stomach like rocks. Not her blessing, though he did not dare so much as whisper it to his crew, but her curse. His gaze fell to the tent snug against the bow, and Ariston, who stood outside it. Their eyes met, Ariston’s expression as grim and dark as Theseus felt. The dove flapped its wings, soaring up into the clouds, and the rain broke
in sheets.

Athena, protect us, and protect my men.
An offering to Aphrodite would not go amiss, but he had only the cursed guest-gifts from Tyndareus in his hold. Better if he had left them behind.
Hestia, goddess of the hearth, f
orgive me.

No, he told himself. Helen had asked for his help, begged for his protection. As a member of Tyndareus’s household, he was honor bound to do for her what he could as a guest-friend. He had not violated the sacred laws of the hearth or hospitality in this. If he had stolen her unwilling, that would be one thing, but this was in defense of Sparta as much as the rest
of Achaea.

“If there is safe shore to ground the ship, do it,” Theseus ordered. “We would be fools to do otherwise even with the protection of a
goddess.”

But there were only cliffs, and the men struggled on their oars to keep the ship from being smashed against them. The drum could barely be heard over the roar of the rain and the sea, wave after wave washing over them. Theseus took an oar himself closest to the bow, shouting the beat until his throat ached, but by then the men had t
he rhythm.

Father, give them your mercy, if not me. Let them see the shore again, and sleep in the arms of th
eir wives.

Cold water, waves mixed with rain, covered their legs nearly to the knee, but the more water they took on, the more Theseus could feel the sea tugging at his bones, its currents as clear to him as the pulse of blood through his own body. He did not call the man back to his oar, for fear of losing him with the next wave over the rail, but he shouted his direction t
o the men.

“To the sea!” If they could find the current, it would carry them out of the storm. They could not hope to find a place to beach the ship; they could only pray for escape from the rain and the waves. “Into t
he storm!”

The men had sailed with him often enough not to argue, and the ship fought to turn. The wind rose as if in answer, and Theseus shouted for Ariston to take the oar. Perhaps Poseidon had taken pity on them after all, and sent the North Wind to guide them out. Theseus sloshed through the water to the mast, and climbed the slick wood again. The moment he pulled the ropes loose, the sail caught the wind. The ship lurched with the force of another wave, throwing
him free.

Theseus struggled for the touch of wood, but the deck was no longer beneath him. Seawater filled his mouth, the water winter-cold on his limbs, seeming even to slow his heart. He kicked his legs, struggling up toward the muted cries of his men. Everything was gray, t
hen black.

Father, please. Not this way.
In Athens they said he could breathe water as easily as air, but the proof was here. His arms thickened, muscles screaming. The cold leached the strength from his body, dragging him down. He needed air.
Athena! Remember yo
ur pledge!

To come this far and fail—and what would become of Helen, if he drowned? So black, so cold, and he could hear nothing now but the roar of the sea. It filled his ears, calling his name as a lover might. He struggled against the Siren song, swimming still, though he had lost his bearings. Did he only draw himself deeper? Air. He must have air. He must live, for Helen’s sake, if nothing else. To keep his vow, to see her
made safe.

He broke the surface with a gasp, his lungs burning, and a wave bore him up, pitching him toward the hard wood of the hull. A hand caught his, heaving him up over
the rail.

“My lord!” It was Pallans, the man whose oar he had taken. “It looked as though Poseidon had raised you up out of the water by his
own hand!”

“Not Poseidon.” On hands and knees in the water that still flooded the deck, he coughed, his body shaking with relief. “Athena. Pray to Athena, or we will never survive
this day.”

The sail snapped against its ropes, secured by the other men after he had been thrown overboard. The clouds loomed green-gray, but the rain no longer beat upon his shoulders like stones. Blue sky blazed in a crescent ahead. As long as they kept the wind long enough to reach the current, they might make it out from beneath the storm. They mus
t make it.

Another wave crashed over the deck, washing over the tent, and he dragged himself to his feet, fighting through the swells of water toward the bow. Helen. All of this was for nothing if Helen did not make it, too, and Ariston still worked upon the oars. Helen
was alone.

“Pallans, keep the sail and steer us east as best you can. When you meet the current, do not fight against it. I must find an offering for the goddess.” Theseus did not wait for his acknowledgment. Nothing would please Aphrodite more than sweeping Helen into the sea, but he would give her something else. Helen had some gold, from the gifts he’d given her. It would have to do, and he needed to see with his own eyes that she
was safe.

He ducked through the dripping flap of the tent to find Helen a sodden heap, shuddering with
the cold.

She let out a cry at the sight of him and crawled against the pitch of the deck. The bow was more sheltered than where the oarsmen sat, and the water flowed from the planks toward the benches, but the waves had soaked her still. He fell to his knees, gathering her close. She trembled in his arms, though she did not weep, and he felt pride for her courage. Had she left the tent in fear during the storm, he could not have b
lamed her.

“Brave Helen.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “The storm weakens even now. We will be through it bef
ore long.”

“They said you were lost in the sea,” she rasped. “I heard the men screaming y
our name.”

“Athena saved me, as she promised. She would not let Aphrodite take my life or yours. It is the men I fear for now. The armband you wore the night I sent you off with Ariston—do you have
it still?”

She struggled out from the wet fur around her shoulders and twisted the armband free, holding it out to him. “I took only what I thought would not be missed, but I have a bracelet, too, from what you g
ifted me.”

“I will need something yet for Athena, when we reach shore.” He took the armband and rose. “Stay against the bow if you can, and I will send Ariston back to you again as soon as I
am able.”

She grasped his arm before he turned away, her green eyes wide. “My life is not worth theirs,
Theseus.”

He squeezed her hand. “Athena has never abandoned her people. I do not believe she will b
egin now.”

Then he went back out into the rain. He could not afford to linger with her, much as he might want to. The men would notice, and wonder, and if they believed Helen was the reason for this storm, he would not be able to stop them from launching her into the sea. Instead, he took the gold armband, dedicated it to the goddess, and threw it into the storm-da
rk clouds.

Aphrodite, accept this offering, be appeased, and spare the lives of these men, who only wished to
honor you.

He was not the only man who watched for it to fall, squinting into the sea spray and the rain. The tightness in his chest eased when there was no sign of the gold dropping back to the sea. Where the armband had pierced them, the clouds broke, fingers of sunlight streaming down upon the ship. The men cheered, some singing hymns to the goddesses, others to Zeus and
Poseidon.

Father, grant us your blessing. Sen
d us home.

But it was sunset before they moved beyond the reach of the storm, and a long night, and a longer day before the storm cleared from the sky at their stern. By then, they were well caught in the current, whether by Athena’s design or Aphrodite’s, he did not know, and he could not risk turning back toward Athens as long as the clouds threatened more abuse. The ship would not take it and neither would his men, so Theseus ordered the oars pulled, and the men to turn their minds to prayer. The freshwater would last longer if they did not row, and Theseus did not mean to see them escape the storm only to die
of thirst.

They sailed on in the hands of the gods, for everything around them turned to mist, and they would not have seen land until they smashed against it. He was able to slip away into the tent for a few hours’ sleep with Helen, leaving Ariston to stand for hi
m on deck.

“I have never been to sea before,” she said, shivering in his arms. The clothes and blankets were damp still, and the mist did nothing to warm her, though the tent kept the worst of it from chilling her skin. “I would not ever sa
il again!”

He could not bring himself to tell her the trip might have been easy if the men had not taken her for Aphrodite. The goddess did not easily forgive insults of
that kind.

“We will make land soon,” he said. “I am su
re of it.”

“But where?” she asked. “There is no sun to guide you. How can you know which direction
we sail?”

“It is in the hands of the gods, Helen. Athena will bring us home.” He smoothed her hair beneath his chin, calming her mind with the touch. “If she did not mean to, we would have smashed against some cliff face long before now, or drowned in t
he storm.”

“There are times I envy you your certainty,” she mumbled against his chest. The chattering of her teeth had stopped, at least, and her words came soft on the edge of sleep. “But even if I have none in the gods, I will keep fait
h in you.”

It was the second sunrise after the storm when the fog finally lifted and they beached the ship on a sandy shore at the first sign of freshwater. Theseus sent the men up the river to hunt and bathe and stretch their legs after so long at sea. Better still if they found women, but he had seen no s
ettlement.

Once all had gone but Ariston, he helped Helen down from the ship. With the physician, he made a second shelter for her from the sodden blankets between two oak saplings. They would spend the day checking the ship to be sure it had not suffered any breach in the storm, and the night resting weary bones on solid earth. If no repairs were needed, they could leave as soon as the following morning, when the tid
e allowed.

Helen’s legs wobbled on land, but she only laughed when she fell, and Theseus thought her too grateful to have the sun above her and the sand beneath her feet to be troubled by
anything.

“Where are we?” she asked, shading her eyes to se
e the sun.

“East of Achaea, perhaps in the Trojan lands. I cannot say for certain, though I am sure the men will meet someone to tell them. Pallans will not rest until he finds something worth
raiding.”

Helen’s eyes darkened to the color of pine. “They will rape t
he women.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, though he wished he had not mentioned it. “But if they do, they will likely keep them as slaves, or even as wives. Pallans is in want of a bride, and rich enough from raiding to be satisfied by one taken as a prize. None of the girls in Athens please him, though I had offered him any of the palace women h
e wished.”

She pulled her knees to her chest, her hair falling in a shining curtain between them. “I had not realized the king of Athens lived the life of
a pirate.”

“In my youth I did many foolish things, but now it is only to keep my men sharp. If war comes to Attica, I will have blooded men to defend it.” He brushed her hair over her shoulder that he might
see her face, but he could not tell if she found it offensive. She already knew too much of war and blood for a woman who had never survived one, and he did not mean to make her think he would bring more of it. “In truth, it has been a long time since I set out to sea for any purpose.
I only came to Sparta to quiet P
irithous.”

Her nose wrinkled. “If you only came because of him, I suppose I owe him my thanks, though it galls me to
offer it.”