Helen of Sparta (35 page)

Theseus smiled. “There, you see? You’ve nothing to fear about my going with Pirithous. Your own dreams have said
as much.”

“But if Menestheus is yo
ur enemy—”

“Menestheus is my cousin, my blood, and he has served Athens loyally for decades. He would not act against her interests, and if he did, the people would not allow him as their king. Can you imagine any Athenian turning a blind eye to a plot against me? You have seen the devotion of my people, Helen. That will not change because I have honored a promise to a friend. And why should Menestheus want the kingship when he has done so well as my steward and adviser? He has been rewarded, time and again, and he knows his place. Kingship is not an easy burden
to bear.”

“If you are gone, Menestheus will take advantage
,” I said.

“Even if such a threat existed—and I do not believe for a moment Menestheus would reach so far—Demophon will not permit it. Just as he will not permit any harm to befall you in my absence.” He passed me the bowl of strawberries. “Eat, now. If there is more to discuss, it will be do
ne later.”

Ignoring the bowl, I stared at him, half-tempted to take my meal elsewhere. Something of my feelings must have shown in my face, for Theseus set the berries aside and took my hand. He kissed my
knuckles.

“I had hoped you would be pleased with the meal after all the lamb, and I never meant for it to be spoiled with the politics of the city. Humor me
in this?”

I exhaled my frustration and nodded. With the excuse of reaching for my wine cup, I pulled my hand away. Theseus let me, though I knew he was n
ot fooled.

For the rest of the meal, I did not look at Pirithous, but at least he had the grace not to speak of the plans to steal
his bride.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

T
heseus stripped off his tunic and dropped it to the floor where one of the servants would find it. Helen had gone to bathe, preferring to do so in the evenings and braid her hair before sleeping. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his face. Helen had been polite enough during the day, but Theseus had not had two wives before her without learning that women did not forget arguments
so easily.

She would not like what he had to say. Not at all. But she could not truly have expected Pirithous to change
his mind.

The door to the bathing room opened, and Helen crossed to the hearth, toweling her hair as she went. At the fire, she let it down, running her fingers through the strands to help them dry. The flames lit the outline of her body beneath the thin robe she wore, and Theseus could not bring himself to look away. He wanted to remember this moment, the warmth of the light on her skin, the swell of her hips and breasts beneath
the linen.

She glanced up, a crease in her forehead clearing into something nearer to a smile. “Am I so fas
cinating?”

“Always,” he said. “You are sunlight after the storm, clear and bright, leading
me home.”

The crease returned, making a line between her eyebrows.
“And yet.”

“And yet your own dreams tell you that I will survive this journey. As long as I do, I will return to you, no matter where you are in the world. I give you
my word.”

“Then you admit there is a risk in leaving me?” Her fingers stopped moving through her hair, her eyes me
eting his.

“As long as you live, there is a risk. As long as Menelaus breathes and we remain within marching distance of Agamemnon, there is a risk. But the Rock will not fall, even if the gods turn against us. Athens will defend you if need be, led by Demophon. Pirithous did not exaggerate when he said the men needed a war. If Mycenae comes, they will fight with joy in their hearts. And if by some cruel trick, you are taken, I will hunt for you. Anywhere in the world, I will find you. Troy or Egypt or Sparta, I will come and carry you away. On the Styx, I
swear it.”

She combed her fingers through her hair again, and the silence weighed heavily between them. He did not think it would come to war, but it would be no use to te
ll her so.

She began to plait her hair, but her movements were slow, as if she had forgotten how it was done. “You risk Athens in this. You risk the war we have fought so long to stop from coming. You might as well leave me in Mycenae on
your way.”

His eyes narrowed. “That is not fai
r, Helen.”

“You trusted me once, Theseus. Why
not now?”

“After everything that’s happened, you ask me that?” The sea roared in his ears, and he could not keep his hands from balling into fists. “You did not even trust me with our daughte
r’s life!”

Her face paled. “You serve the gods first. How could I have known you would fi
ght them?”

“How could you have believed I would not do everything in my power to save her?” he demanded, all the anger and frustration of those days surging through his heart. To have heard the gods’ commands from Menestheus of all people, and then learn Helen had known of it from the start! “If you had not gone to Poseidon and traded your life, we might have found a way. Even if it meant sending her away, to be raised by Pirithous among the Lapiths or by the pharaoh in Egypt, she might have lived at least. You tied my hands, Helen, and look what came of it. You did not trust me, and we both suffere
d for it.”

“To save our family,” she breathed. “To save our
daughter.”

“And what came of it, Helen?” he demanded, his voice cold even to his
own ears.

She dropped to her knees before him, grasping his knee in supplication and pressing her face against his leg. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice broken by tears. “Forgive me, Theseus
, please.”

She had never wept before because of him, and every sob made him ache. He hadn’t meant to fight with her this way. He had not wanted to make this any harder for either of them. And in truth, if Zeus had feared their child, it was not likely he would have succeeded where Helen had failed, but he had only wanted the opportunity to try. That he might look back and know he had done everything within
his power.

“When I took you from Sparta, I knew what you wanted, and how far you would go to see it done. I knew what you were, Helen.” He drew her into his lap and wiped her tears away. “I loved you for it. Then
and now.”

“All I have done is bring you pain. And now, this threat of war again, when we thought we were free
at last.”

“You said yourself you thought these dreams were nothing, at first. Just too much time spent at the loom.” She shook her head, but he caught her by the chin and held her eyes with his. “Put all of this from your mind, and set your weaving away. Let us see what comes when your thoughts are distracted by othe
r things.”

“That is easy to say,” she said, “but so difficu
lt to do.”

He wound his fingers in her hair, remembering the color it had been in Sparta. Bright as sunshine and just as golden. He did not think he would recognize her now if she came to him so honey blond. He kissed her throat, where her pulse beat beneath sm
ooth skin.

“With this at least, I can help,” he murmured. “If you woul
d let me.”

He made love to her until she slept, and watched her face while she dreamed. Over and over again, as often as she was willing, and when she tired of his bed, he drove them to Piraeus and the small cove where they had seen his father’s sign, letting her swim herself into an exhaustion just as
complete.

Every crease of her forehead, every line of her face, he studied for some sign that the nightmares she’d had were truth and not just old fears coming back to haunt her mind. And when he kept her so distracted, so well loved, they did not come with any regularity. Once in four days, then once in seven, then two nights during the entire rest of the month, and the fear that had made crow’s-feet in the corners of her eyes sli
pped away.

She laughed again, as she had in those first days after their marriage, and when she looked on him, it was not with the echo of loss and pain, but with love so bright and full, he thought he might be lost in it. During those days, for the length of those moments, he wondered if he could bring himself to
leave her.

“Solstice is not far off, Theseus,” Pirithous said to him after that first month, during an evening banquet, in honor of Dionysus and Demeter. “I trust the reason you make love to your wife is to remember the feel of her in your arms while w
e travel.”

Theseus dragged his gaze from Helen, her lips stained red from pomegranates and wine, and her green eyes shining with the fire of the emerald in her crown. He wanted to take her back to bed, though they had barely rise
n from it.

“I hoped the distraction would ease her fears and he
r dreams.”

“And?”

“And she no longer begs me not to leave with tears in her eyes for what will come in my
absence.”

“You can’t really believe you’ll fall from a cliff,
can you?”

He smiled. “As long as you aren’t planning to push me, I have no fears. But you had better be certain about this, Pirithous. Perhaps you ought to find distraction yourself and be sure that you are not just dreaming
to dream.”

Pirithous smirked. “I think you’ll find half a dozen of your women showing the proof of it before we leave. I expect to hear Aethra chiding me before long, but it simply isn’t a proper visit if she hasn’t. Whatever happened to Menestheus’s sister, anyway? I have not seen her since I
arrived.”

“Aren’t the women in the palace eager enough? I am told they still complain bitterly that I sleep with no one but
my wife.”

“Who can blame you?” Pirithous’s eyes followed Helen as she rose to reach for more bread. “If she weren’t your wife, I’d have taken her to bed by
now, too.”

“As she is my wife, I would thank you to stop ogling her before I can no longer i
gnore it.”

Pirithous sighed and redirected his gaze. “Soon enough, Theseus, you will be ogling my bride, instead. Only I won’t be so miserly that I do not
let you.”

Theseus shook his head. “I’m afraid I have no interest in any goddess. No matter how beautiful she is. All they have ever brought me is pain. I hope for your sake, your experience is d
ifferent.”

Pirithous clapped him on the shoulder. “You need not worry, my friend. Once we find her, she will be so pleased to be brought back into sunlight, she will bless
us both.”

“It is not exactly something I can pray for, Pirithous, but I hope you’
re right.”

“Theseus?” Helen touched his arm, her lips curving in a smile he knew well. “Might I steal you from you
r friend?”

Pirithous snorted. “Yes, of course. Go enjoy the pleasures of your wife while you may. We leave before the next full moon, Theseus. I hope you will
be ready.”

He would never be ready to leave her, no matter how many days and nights he spent in her arms. But perhaps, if they succeeded in this, the gods would u
nderstand.

Theseus would never again serve as their
champion.

CH
APTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I
stood on the walls to watch Theseus and Pirithous ride out, my heart flying with them. What little sleep I had managed, wrapped in Theseus’s arms, had passed dreamlessly, and relief made me giddy. Theseus wou
ld return.

Theseus would ret
urn to me.

I had to b
elieve it.

They disappeared over the horizon by midday and Acamas came to fetch me from the wall. “Aethra says Father will not forgive her if you catch a chill while h
e’s away.”

I laughed and followed him down the stone steps. “He would not forgive me, either,
I think.”

“Father said we should not expect him back before the weather warms. That is how we will know to look for him, for Persephone’s return to the earth will bring Dem
eter joy.”

An early spring would bring them home regardless, and perhaps it would be enough to convince Pirithous to give up on his quest. After all, there was no point in traveling to the Underworld if Persephone had already returned to the surface and her mother, Demeter, as she did every year. They would have to wait for winter to fall before they could try again, for there would be no reaching her o
n Olympus.

I sighed. The idea of spending the winter in an empty bed did not appeal to me in the slightest, but I could not bear to try persuading Theseus of the fruitlessness of his journey any further. He was set upon it, and it would have only caused us
both pain.

“We’ll have a feast for them,” I promis
ed Acamas.

“A wedding feast for the new queen of the
Lapiths!”

I smiled and let him dream. He was young enough still to believe his father capable of any feat, and when it came to Theseus, it would never be far from the truth. But he was no god, to fight them this way. Perhaps one day Acamas would understand that some powers should not be tested, but I would not be the one to spoil his childhood with such
a lesson.

At that moment, I wanted too much to believe Theseus
would win.

A week later, the dreams returned. Aethra shook me awake when the city began to burn, the prince’s hand a fetter on my wrist. I sat straight up in the bed, the scream still in my throat. She caught me by the shoulders and eased me back, searching my face by the
lamplight.

“The servants thought you were being murdered in your bed,”
she said.

I closed my eyes, but fire licked at the inside of my eyelids, making my stomach churn, and I opened them again. “Something has
changed.”

“I imagine it has.” She smoothed my hair back from my forehead the way Theseus always did. “By now they’ve passed through the gates to the Underworld, and what they meet there, only Had
es knows.”

“He won’t return.” Saying it aloud brought fresh tears to my eyes. My bedding was already wet from them. “Menelaus will come, and then th
e prince.”

“Hush now, Helen.” Aethra squeezed my hand. “Theseus will find a way. He has not conquered so much to be struck down now. Athena will bring him home, no matter what trouble they meet. She will not let Hades take her
champion.”

I turned my face away, and the room swam with screaming women and crying children. Theseus had always soothed me to sleep after my nightmares, but in his absence, I had little hope of anything but sleeplessness. My heart still raced in my chest, and the echo of the dream rang i
n my ears.

“You are queen of Athens, Helen. You must give the peo
ple hope.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “Thank you for w
aking me.”

“Should I send yo
u a maid?”

“Not if you wish the people to h
ave hope.”

She frowned. “Perhaps a potion of A
riston’s?”

“For tomorrow night, though I can make no promises as to it
s effect.”

“We’ll try it.” She sighed. “When Theseus told me you might dream, this was not at all what I expected. Crying we might explain as lovesickness, but screaming is another matter entirely. There will
be talk.”

“Theseus’s beautiful queen, suffering from nightmares.” I did not like to think what might happen if word of it spread. “Pollux and Menelaus both knew I dreamed this way, and Clytemnestra, too. If rumor flies to Mycenae, they w
ill come.”

She pursed her lips, staring into the darkness. “Then we will pray Theseus returns
swiftly.”

I did not reply. The gods would not help Theseus betray them, no matter how much we pray
ed for it.

Aethra patted my arm and rose from the edge of the bed. “Sleep, now, my dear, if you can. I’ll send for Ariston in the
morning.”

She left me the oil lamp, and when the door shut behind her, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Going back to sleep would only bring more nightmares. I took the lamp with me and went to my loom. Theseus had set it up again before he left, knowing the comfort weaving brought me when my heart was
troubled.

I worked the yarn through the warp, focusing on each thread with all my attention. I did not even notice when the sun rose until a slave came with my mor
ning meal.

After that night, even with Ariston’s potions I did not sleep much. The nightmares only g
rew worse.

Aethra sat a servant by my door at night with orders to wake me from my nightmares, but word spread from the palace to the city all the same. Menestheus came to see me more than once, his dark eyes searching my face. With Aethra’s help, I made certain to keep my hair dyed. Whatever Menestheus searched for, whatever ideas he might have, I would not give him
any help.

He wasn’t the only one who came. Many of the younger nobles took to calling on me in Theseus’s absence, their hungry gazes sweeping over my body when they thought I would not notice. All those days they had come to bring me gifts, I had not realized how much Theseus’s presence had protected me. Now that he was gone, the men of his court circled like wolves, waiting for the first sign of weakness, so they might offer me false comforts and worm their way into my c
onfidence.

I kept Ariston and his wife close, and even allowed Aethra to assign me a maid during the day. Rumors of nightmares were one thing, but I would not give anyone in the palace reason to suggest I had been unfaithful to my king. Even when I walked the walls, I kept a woman near, and if that failed, Acamas could often be persuaded t
o join me.

Demophon, of all the men, kept his distance, busy with the affairs of a king, and mindful of the specter of Phaedra that still haunted Athens. When he wished to consult with me, it was always done under Aethra’s eye, and with Acamas’s presence. If he had not insisted upon it, I would have, and when I sat beside him in judgment, listening to petitions and complaints, we exchanged
no smiles.

The weeks turned into a month, then nearly two, and no word came from Theseus or Pirithous. Aethra took my place in the megaron when the dark circles beneath my eyes could no longer be hidden by paints, and the men began to watch me with op
en desire.

“It is better this way,” Aethra assured me one afternoon. We often shared the midday meal privately, with Demophon and Acamas, too, i
n council.

Behind her, Demophon poured us both wine, his expression carefully blank. It was the king’s mask I had seen Theseus wear so often. What I would have given to see him look upon me even so coolly, now, when he had been gon
e so long.

“Let them forget the sight of you, for a time, and perhaps their ardor w
ill cool.”

“Then I am to be locked away again, after all,” I said, forcing a smile I did not feel. But nor was it bitterness that weighed so heavily in my heart. No wonder Demophon wore such an expression, if this was what he had decided. I did not blame him for it, and in truth, I was worn thin with exhaustion and worry. My nightmares were neither restful nor r
eassuring.

“Not wholly,” Demophon promised, passing me a wine cup. “Though you might consider wrapping your hair and covering your face if you wish to leave your rooms. The way the men talk—I would not ask it of you if I did not have reason, Helen. Were it not for Phaedra, I might have pretended my own claim to you if the worst comes to pass, but as it sta
nds . . .”

He did not need to say it. We both knew too well. If the people believed he had fallen in love with me, or I with him, we would both be in danger of exile. “Do the guards suffer from the same af
fliction?”

Demophon shook his head. “Father set the bull dancers upon the walls, the men he rescued from the Minotaur in Crete. They would sooner die than betray their king in such a way. We need not question their
loyalty.”

“Then I will limit my wanderings to the wall and remain in the king’s rooms, otherwise,” I said, staring into my cup. “It will hardly last forever, ei
ther way.”

And so another month passed, and I spent my days at the loom, the burning city weaving itself into the warp no matter how many times I tore it free. I tried to sleep, but even with Ariston’s potions, the dr
eams came.

I call for Theseus to save me, to protect me, to rescue me, but he does not come. The prince takes me through the market of Troy, laughing and eager to please me. I stare at an emerald, laid out for my inspection. My fingers caress the stone, thinking of the crown Theseus ma
de for me.

“Do you like it?” The prince’s fingers lace through mine, just tight enough to keep me from being able to
pull free.

“It’s lovely.” I drop my hand and step back. “But I have no ne
ed of it.”

The prince laughs. “With you it is always about need. Do you never wish for something just to have it, to show the world that it
is yours?”

“There is only one thing that I wish for,” I say, thinking o
f Theseus.

“And what I wish for,” the prince says, turning my face up to his, “is to have you willing as my wife. Think of the freedom it would give you. Menelaus barely allowed you to be seen, he was so jealous. But I will shower you with gold and fine cloth and jewels and share you with t
he world.”

“And all the world will see how splendid you are, to have found yourself such a wife,” I mock him. “I have no wish to be one of your things, to be put on
display.”

His fingers squeeze mine painfully. “I’m offering you a bet
ter life.”

“You’re offering
me death.”

The prince jerks me into his arms, his heat flooding through my body. “There is nothing cold or lifeless ab
out this.”

He kisses me, and the city bursts i
nto flame.

My own screams woke me, and when the servant girl opened the door, I waved
her away.

“I’m fine,
I’m fine.”

Korina came to the bed anyway, pouring me wine. “Another draft,
my queen?”

“No.” A glance toward the balcony told me dawn was not long off. I had not meant to fall asleep at all, only to doze for a moment. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Perhaps jus
t a walk.”

She helped me dress, and I wrapped myself in one of Theseus’s cloaks. The smell of him still clung to the fur. Korina followed me dutifully up the sto
ne stairs.

The guard at the top knew me well and offered a hand to steady me as I climbed the final steps. So early in the morning, I had not expected the number of men on the wall who greeted me. Demophon stood not far off, staring at the northwest road by which Theseus and Pirithous had left. He glanced at me, and from the circles beneath his eyes, I did not think he had slept much more t
han I did.

“My lady.”
He bowed.