The Song of Troy

One of my other women shook my skirt into circles on the floor so that I could step into its middle. They drew it up over my legs and fastened it about my waist. It was heavy, but I was used to the weight by now, for I had been wearing a woman’s skirt for two years, ever since my return from Athens. My mother had deemed it too ridiculous to put me back into a child’s shift after that episode.

Then came my blouse, laced below my breasts, and the wide belt and apron which could be fastened only while I sucked in my breath. A woman coaxed my curls through the hole in the gold coronet, another looped a pretty pair of crystal earrings through my pierced ears. I held out my bare feet one at a time and let them slip little rings and bells on all my ten toes, held out my arms for dozens of jingling bracelets, fingers for rings.

When they were done I went across to my biggest mirror and surveyed myself in it critically. The skirt was the nicest one I possessed, all frills and fringes from waist to ankles, weighed down with beads of crystal and amber, amulets of lapis and beaten gold, golden bells and pendants of faience, so that every move I made was accompanied by music. My belt was not laced tightly enough; I made two strong women pull it in.

‘Why can’t I paint my nipples gold, Neste?’ I asked.

‘No use complaining to me, young princess. Ask your mother. But save such artifice for when you need it – after you’ve borne a child and your nipples have turned dark brown.’

I decided she might be right. I was one of the lucky ones; my nipples were a good rose in colour and furled in on themselves like buds, my breasts were high and full.

What had Theseus said? Two plump white puppies with pink noses. My mood changed the moment I thought of him; I flounced away from my image in a tinkle of spangles. Oh, to lie in his arms again! Theseus, my beloved Theseus. His mouth, his hands, the way he tormented my body until it raged to be fulfilled… Then they had come and taken me away, my estimable brothers Kastor and Polydeukes. If only he had been in Athens when they arrived! But he had been far away on Skyros with King Lykomedes, so no one dared to oppose the sons of Tyndareus.

I allowed my women to trace a line of dissolved black powder around my eyes and paint their lids gold, but refused the carmine for my cheeks and lips. No need of it, Theseus had said. Then I went down to the Throne Room to see my father, who was sitting in an easy chair by one window. He rose at once.

‘Come here to the light,’ he said.

I did as I was told without question; he was my indulgent father, yes, but he was also the King. While I stood in the harsh, unfiltered sun he stepped back a few paces and looked at me as if he had never seen me before.

‘Oh yes, Theseus had a more discerning eye than anyone in Lakedaimon! Your mother is right, you are grown up. Therefore we must do something with you before another Theseus comes along.’

My face burned. I said nothing.

‘It is time you were married, Helen.’ He considered for a moment. ‘How old are you?’

‘Fourteen, Father.’ Marriage! How interesting!

‘It is not too soon,’ he said.

My mother came in. I avoided her eyes, feeling peculiar standing in front of my father while he looked at me with the eyes of a man. But she ignored me, went to his side and assessed me too. Then they exchanged a long, purposive look.

‘I told you, Tyndareus,’ she said.

‘Yes, Leda, she needs a husband.’

My mother laughed the high, musical laugh which (so rumour had it) had so entranced almighty Zeus. She had been about my age when they found her with her naked limbs wrapped about a great swan, moaning and keening in pleasure: she had thought quickly. Zeus, Zeus, the swan is Zeus, he has ravished me! But I, her daughter, knew better. How would those delicious white feathers feel? Her father had married her to Tyndareus three days later, and she had borne two sets of twins to him: Kastor and Klytemnestra first, then, some years after, Polydeukes and me. Though now everyone seemed to think Kastor and Polydeukes were the twins. Or that all four of us were born together, quadruplets. If so, which of us belonged to Zeus, and which to Tyndareus? A mystery.

‘The women of my house mature early and suffer greatly,’ Leda my mother said, still laughing.

My father did not laugh. He just said, rather dourly, ‘Yes.’

‘It won’t be hard to find her a husband. You will have to fend them off with clubs, Tyndareus.’

‘Well, she’s highborn and richly dowered.’

‘Rubbish! She’s so beautiful it wouldn’t matter if she had no dowry at all. The High King of Attika did us one favour – he spread praise of her beauty from Thessalia to Crete. It isn’t every day a man as old and jaded as Theseus becomes so besotted he abducts a twelve-year-old child.’

My father’s lips tightened. ‘I would prefer that that subject is not mentioned,’ he said stiffly.

‘A pity she is more beautiful than Klytemnestra.’

‘Klytemnestra suits Agamemnon.’

‘A pity then that there are not two High Kings of Mykenai.’

‘There are three other High Kings in Greece,’ he said, begi

I moved surreptitiously away from the light, not wanting to be noticed and dismissed. The subject – myself – was too interesting. I liked to hear people call me beautiful. Especially when they went on to say I was more beautiful than Klytemnestra, my older sister, who had married Agamemnon, High King of Mykenai and High King of all Greece. Though I had never liked her, she used to awe me when I was little, sweeping round the halls in one of her famous tempers, her flame hair stiff with fury, her black eyes blazing. I gri

My parents were debating my marriage.

‘I had best send heralds to all the Kings,’ said Father.

‘Yes – and the sooner, the better. Though the New Religion frowns on polygamy, many of the Kings have not taken queens. Idomeneus, for instance. Imagine! One daughter on the throne at Mykenai, the other on the throne of Crete. What a triumph!’

Father demurred. ‘Crete is not the power it used to be. The two positions are not equivalent.’

‘Philoktetes?’

‘Yes, a brilliant man, destined for great things, they say. However, he is a king in Thessalia, which means he owes Peleus homage as well as Agamemnon. I’m thinking more of Diomedes, just back from the Thebes campaign and covered in wealth as well as glory. I like the idea of Argos, it’s just down the road. If Peleus had been a younger man he would have been my automatic choice, but it is said he refuses to marry again.’

‘No use dwelling on those who are unavailable,’ my mother said briskly. ‘There’s always Menelaos.’

‘I haven’t forgotten him. Who could?’

‘Send invitations to everyone, Tyndareus. There are heirs to thrones as well as kings. Odysseus of Ithaka is King there now that old Laertes is senile. And Menestheus is a far more stable High King of Attika than Theseus was – thank all the Gods that we do not have to deal with Theseus!’

I jumped. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, skin prickling. In my heart I had been hoping that Theseus would come for me, claim me as his bride. Since my return from Athens I had heard no mention of his name.

My mother took my hands in hers and held them firmly. ‘Well, best you find out from us, Helen. Theseus is dead, exiled and killed on Skyros.’

I wrenched away from her and ran from the room, my dreams in ashes. Dead? Theseus was dead? Theseus was dead and a part of me was forever cold.

Two moons later my brother-in-law Agamemnon arrived with his own brother, Menelaos, in his train. When they walked into the Throne Room I was present – a novelty for me, but an exhilarating one; suddenly I was the pivot upon which all discussion turned. Messengers had come from the palace gate to warn us, so the High King of Mykenai and all Greece entered to the blare of horns, a cloth of gold spread for his imperial feet.