The Memoirs of Helen of Troy Read online

  Despite her frequent torments, that day I loved Clytemnestra. Loved her desperately. I wrapped my arms around her waist and together we wept. Yet, even in that unusual moment when I felt so close to my sister, we were markedly different. My tears were in sorrow, while hers were mostly in anger. Perhaps it was after that incident that Clytemnestra was determined to wear red. The color of warm blood. So it wouldn’t show, perhaps. My sister scorned her father ever after. I don’t believe that she anticipated that Tyndareus would master, rather than indulge, her. That day, she lost respect for him for another reason: In her eyes, physically fighting her for the rabbit was a sign of weakness. I read it in the determined set of her jaw and in the cold onyx darkness of her eyes. Tyndareus disgusted her. He had failed her. How I wished that she had allowed herself to turn to me then so we could share our disappointment, but the rabbit incident illustrated one of the most fundamental differences between us. Needing someone else made me happy. For Clytemnestra, needing someone else made her vulnerable. And that terrified her.

  THREE

  I had one girlhood friend. Polyxo, the youngest daughter of a local farmer, was the only one who didn’t exclude me from play. Until we met, I preferred to remain alone rather than insinuate myself where I was clearly unwelcome. And for choosing isolation, I became the target of further derision.

  We used to play a jumping game that was very popular in Laconia. It was the fashion for girls to wear short tunics then, and we would remove our sandals and see how many times we could jump and hit our buttocks with our heels. It’s not nearly as easy as it sounds. The boys would gather to watch us, of course, and sometimes they would jeer or shout words of encouragement. Thigh-flashers, they called us. I became quite adept at the game, but little Polyxo, with her short, stubby legs, was somehow the champion of us all. On the playing field and in the wrestling pit, Clytemnestra was the undisputed queen, and no one could outrun her either. So it gave me a secret pleasure to see Clytemnestra bested in something, and Polyxo’s frequent victories in the jumping game permitted her the confidence to approach her ringleader’s outcast younger sister.

  We made a quite a pair: chubby Polyxo with her coarse black hair and olive skin that turned nut brown in the sun; and me, slender and golden bronze, with my ivory complexion that I was constantly reminded to shield from the direct glare of Helios. My willful disobedience resulted in a profusion of freckles across the bridge of my nose, which my nurse would then try to scrub off with lemon juice.

  From the time I was about six or seven summers old until my fourteenth year, Polyxo and I were more like sisters than Clytemnestra and I could ever dream of becoming. Such is often the case between girlhood friends, I suppose. With Polyxo I could share my most coveted secrets, knowledge I would never trust in the hands of my older sister.

  Between the comfort of Polyxo’s presence and the danger of Clytemnestra’s was my first cousin Penelope. Actually, she and I were not blood at all, unless you accept the fiction that Tyndareus was my father. His brother Icarius was Penelope’s father. When they were younger, the brothers quarreled over the kingdom of Sparta. Tyndareus, in marrying my mother, emerged the victor. When Icarius eventually died, Penelope came to live with us in the palace. She was always an old soul, I remember. You have something of her gravity, Hermione. Where I always needed to be active, Penelope could sit for hours at her loom without uttering a word, completely intent on her weaving. Although she was between my age and Clytemnestra’s, Penel-ope acted as though she had no time for girlhood games, nor, to her credit, did she ever appear interested in any of Clytemnestra’s wily schemes. I remember her wit was lively, once engaged, but she did not actively seek mirth or merriment. The simplicity of the Spartan lifestyle suited her well, and it was expected that she would eventually make a good marriage, since she exhibited all the domestic virtues of a proper young lady with none of Clytemnestra’s temper or my extraordinary looks—things that might tempt suitors to think twice before making an offer, despite our noble birth.

  When I was a bit older, I used to enjoy watching Penelope while she worked at her loom. As she separated the colors, it reminded me so much of the way my mother’s fingers had plied the lengths of thread that one day I asked Penelope if she had ever heard about the Goddess. “I’m busy now,” she answered. “Why don’t you come back and tell me all about her another time?”

  Polyxo and I tugged on each other’s hands to pull ourselves to our feet, and I apologized to Penelope for disturbing her. We left her room on tiptoe so we would make less noise, and when we got to the courtyard, Polyxo said, “I want to hear about the Goddess. My mother has mentioned her, but my father says she’s wasting her time with the old ways and that she must grow accustomed to worshipping all the sky gods now.”

  “Can you keep a secret?” I asked Polyxo. She nodded and squeezed my hand. I brought her to the sacred grove and showed her the ruins of the little temple, trying to remember everything my mother had told me, pointing out where the relic once stood and where the never-ending fire had been kindled, only to be smothered for all eternity by Tyndareus. “Now that my mother is gone, he no longer needs to concern himself about the old religion and the followers of the Goddess,” I sighed. We raced each other back to the palace, for I had yet another secret to reveal.

  In one corner of my sleeping room stood a large wooden chest with a bronze hasp. I lifted the heavy cover and pointed to the colorful garments that lay inside, folded with reverential care. “These were hers,” I whispered, “for ceremonies.” I had never seen my mother wearing the accoutrements of a priestess; but her wishes had been, upon her death, that I should receive the chest and all its contents.

  “Can we look at them better?” Polyxo wanted to know.

  My fingers trembled as I lifted the first garment from the chest. It was a long, tiered skirt in the old Cretan style, bib-fronted and stiffened with horsehair, quite unlike any of our simple, flowing habiliments. It bore a colorful pattern, intricately applied, of vines and wildflowers. I felt the tremendous urge to try it on. Naturally, it was far too long and dragged behind me. I had to walk gingerly to avoid trampling the hem. Polyxo had taken another garment from the chest and was admiring it, though with an expression of extreme puzzlement. “What do you think this one is?” she asked me.

  “I think you have it upside down,” I told her. It was a short-sleeved bodice that cinched the waist tightly and completely exposed the bosom. I tugged my shift out from under the big tiered skirt, lifted it over my head, and allowed Polyxo to help me don the alluring top. It pushed together my then-budding breasts, creating the illusion of cleavage, although it would take a few more years before I would be able to turn heads. Still, I was somewhat intrigued by the result.

  “You’re quite a sight!” Polyxo exclaimed. She lifted a box, not much larger than a reliquary, out of the wooden chest and tentatively removed its pretty cover, inlaid with red marble taken from the quarries at nearby Mount Taygetos. “Look! No, Helen, smell!”

  It was my mother’s cosmetics box, filled with powdered colors, fragrant unguents, and strong-smelling herbal salves. Polyxo held a small bronze mirror in front of my face as though she were my handmaiden and encouraged me to experiment with the newly discovered treasure. I dabbed my cheeks and lips with cochineal and rimmed my eyes with cobalt. Content with the results, I rose and danced around the room as I imagined the acolytes had done while my mother waited naked on the altar for the arrival of her lover. “Do you think I look like a priestess?” I giggled, very pleased with myself. Poor Polyxo looked paralyzed, her face stricken with fear. “What’s the matter?” I asked her, and she spun me around to face the doorway.

  Tyndareus stood there, looking like Zeus himself about to hurl one of his mighty thunderbolts. “One whore in this house was enough!” he said. “Now remove those clothes immediately, and never let me hear that you have worn them again!”

  “The Goddess was here before you were,” I spat, finding my courage within my moth
er’s priestly robes. “The Great Mother was the creator and sustainer of all,” I added for good measure, straining to recall Leda’s words. I knew that Tyndareus didn’t like to be challenged. And besides, as my child’s mind peevishly reasoned, he shouldn’t be skulking about the gynaeceum, king or no king!

  “The first woman on earth was called the kalon kakon,” the king said, nearly choking on the words. “Kalon kakon,” he repeated. “The beautiful evil. You were given to us by Zeus as a punishment!”

  He turned on his heels and left us alone. Although we were both left trembling, Polyxo’s tremors were born of fear, where mine were born of ire.

  “How dare he,” I fumed under my breath. “And what had brought him to the women’s quarters in the first place?” I didn’t need to wait long for my answer. A flash of carmine passing between the pillars of the portico told me everything I needed to know.

  That night, the chest was removed from my room. I didn’t see it again for several years.

  In my eleventh summer, a great announcement was made from the center of the pergamos. Clytemnestra would be married to Tantalus, King of Pisa. It should come as no surprise that I rejoiced almost as much as the bride-to-be. My nemesis would be leaving Laconia, which was reason enough for me to celebrate. When she told me that Pisa was far from home, my smile must have broadened even more. Here in Sparta I would no longer be within reach of her jealous temper. Perhaps Tyndareus would cease to be so disapproving of me as well. It was nearly too much to hope for.

  I followed Clytemnestra about as she prepared for her wedding festival issuing orders imperiously as if she was already the Pisan queen. She even chose which animals would be burned on the altar for the ritual sacrifice. I went down to the palace stores with her and watched her select the wine for the libations and those that would be consumed at the feasting tables. From the olives to the figs to the flowers I would wear in my hair, my sister controlled every decision down to the minutest detail. I began to wonder about the groom. Would she control Tantalus, too? I found my tongue and took a rare opportunity to taunt her. “Didn’t you hear the bard’s song last night?” I said, smug with the knowledge of what I was about to say. “The word for wife is damar—the tamed one—and Tantalus will tame you, just as Castor breaks wild horses!”

  She grabbed a broom and tried to beat me with it, but I was too fast for her. She broke a wine jug and blamed me for that, too. But as it grew nearer to her wedding day, I noticed a change in her demeanor. Clytemnestra’s often strident cadences, to my astonishment, softened to the melodic coo of a dove. Tantalus had come to stay with us during the final week of preparations; and every evening in the Great Hall, after the feasting had ended, while the servants cleared the remnants of the meal, my sister would settle herself at her betrothed’s feet and favor him with a smile that would melt the winter snows on the summit of Mount Taygetos. I was fascinated by the metamorphosis. Was this the effect of love?

  The bard picked up his lyre and began to sing of Medea’s love for Jason, how the barbarian priestess was even moved to kill her own brother and father for love of the Grecian prince. I looked from Clytemnestra to Tantalus to Tyndareus and the Dioscuri and wondered if the bard’s choice had been wise. But Tyndareus was asleep in his great carved throne, watched over by emblems of the lion and griffin, Sparta’s royal guardians. My half brothers were busy arm wrestling and didn’t even hear the bard insert their names among Jason’s brave Argonauts, even though the great adventure to capture the Golden Fleece took place several years before my brothers were born!

  The bride-to-be and her groom were gazing at each other as if there was no one else in the feasting hall. Tantalus would reach out to brush an errant lock of hair from Clytemnestra’s face, and she would bring his palm to her lips and give it a gentle, lingering kiss. I found myself unable to take my eyes from them. The way they would incline their bodies toward each other and exchange smiles filled with secrets only they could share, heated the feasting hall better than the coals in the pit at the center of the room. Perhaps this was the presence of Eros and Himeros—Lust and Desire—that my mother had spoken of six summers earlier. And if it was, I could barely wait to become a bride myself.

  There were games, and for the first time, Clytemnestra didn’t try to trip me or tie a knot in the lace of my sandal so it would chafe the skin on my calf. Of course that’s because the contests were held in her honor, and therefore, she didn’t participate in them. For the first time, too, I was victorious in every footrace. Polyxo grabbed me about the waist at the finish line and gave me a hug, even though we’d run shoulder to shoulder all afternoon. Flushed and glowing from my athletic triumphs, I presented myself to the king and lowered my head so he could place the wreath of laurel on my golden curls. Some of the Spartan women reached out to stroke my hair, for they believed its color was divinely bestowed and to touch it would bring them good luck. I always thought that was a silly wives’ tale, but I was so happy that this time I didn’t flinch from their attention.

  I had yet to catch my breath after the final race, but there was nothing I could do about that. Tyndareus crowned me with the verdant circlet and smiled. I had won his approval—finally! I looked through eyes misted over with tears at the bridal couple and noticed that Tantalus was regarding me with favor; his approving gaze was one I had seen him reserve only for my sister, and it made my cheeks flush even redder. Clytemnestra was watching her betrothed watch me. A dark cloud eclipsed her sunny disposition. “Put on something proper!” she commanded, pointing imperiously at my short tunic, underneath which I was completely nude, as was the custom in athletic competitions. “You look like a flute girl!”

  Shamed, I slunk off to the palace, tossing the laurel wreath into the dust.

  The following day, the proaulia, or second day of the wedding festivities, I followed my sister to the temples to make the requisite offering to the gods. The Goddess was never mentioned; it was the sky gods or Olympians whom we were now expected to worship. A procession of girls and young women, our heads crowned with flowers, sang and danced barefoot along the rugged path to the temple of Artemis where Clytemnestra refused to permit the priestess to slaughter a kid, insisting on making the deadly incision herself. The stately sixteen-year-old bride, heavily ornamented in gold jewelry and clad in shades of fire, had come a long way from the little girl who tried so fiercely to protect her pet rabbit. My sister also placed a lock of her hair upon the altar and a bronze ring thickly plated with gold as the zemia or payment believed to ease the transition from virginity to womanhood. I felt a tinge of sadness on Clytemnestra’s behalf, because it was traditional for the mother of the bride to help her daughter prepare for her wedding and to enjoy a place of honor at the ritual sacrifices. As our nostrils were seared by the smoke from the burning kid, I wondered what Leda might have made of our pilgrims’ progress to several shrines, offering at each one a separate tribute. The virgin goddess Artemis received her due, and then we proceeded to the shrine of Aphrodite, where a basket of bloodred pomegranates was offered as a proteleia to the goddess of love to ensure a fruitful womb. Honors would also be accorded to the goddess Demeter, who in the Olympian pantheon provided the link between a woman’s agricultural sphere, her social life, and her fertility. How crowded it must be on Mount Olympus! I mused, thinking that men had spent so much time inventing all these goddesses to do the work of one, who once oversaw all creation.

  That night there was more feasting, hosted of course by Tyndareus. The groom’s father was no longer alive, and we raised our cups and poured a libation in his memory. There were roast meats so succulent they took your breath away, and figs and dates and sticky sesame cakes mixed with honey, which Clytemnestra, after four cups of strong Ithacan wine, giggled were an aphrodisiac.

  On the gamos, the final day of the nuptial celebration, Clytemnestra permitted me the honor of attending her in the bride’s ritual bath. I drew the water from the Eurotas River and carried it to her room in a special vase called
a loutrophoros. As she sank deep into the tile tub, I poured the river water over her head, then dipped a silver ewer in the warm bath water and allowed it to trickle slowly over her silken hair and skin. She looked like a naiad, a water nymph, with her tendrils of dark hair clinging to the curves of her breasts. My beauty is legendary, but the bards never did give my sister her due. She was a handsome young woman who turned many a head; and when I saw her in love, I realized how truly beautiful she could be when her eyes shone with desire instead of anger and the usually fierce set of her jaw softened into an almost gentle solicitousness. In those quiet moments while I bathed and dried Clytemnestra and then readied her to meet her groom by anointing her body with oils and dressing and scenting her hair, I took time to reflect upon our already complex and thorny relationship. I thought about how my sister’s departure from Sparta would benefit her in a way I hadn’t previously considered: Only outside my presence would people accept and admire my sister for who she was, not find her lacking because they were comparing her to me.

  Clytemnestra had chosen a garnet-red chiton and a himation with a golden border embroidered with ivy for eternal love and lions for strength and courage. The himation had tiny bronze weights stitched into the rolled hem so that it would drape properly. I used a brooch decorated with a russet-colored Laconian porphyry stone to fasten it to her chiton. We draped the himation so that her left shoulder would remain bare.

  I swept my sister’s thick dark hair away from her forehead and coiled it into elaborate ringlets, placing a stephane of burnished gold on her head. The diadem complemented her golden owl-shaped earrings and the embossed cuffs, a wedding gift from Tantalus, which she wore on each wrist.

  Once Clytemnestra was prepared for the final bridal procession, I quickly donned a white chiton, securing it with subtle gold pins at the shoulders and belting it twice about the breasts and waist. I placed a simple gold circlet in my hair, and when my sister wasn’t looking, I dipped my fingers into the pot of crushed pomegranate seeds and stained my cheeks and lips. I stole a glance in her mirror and was pleased with the results. Apart from the sheerest tinge of pomegranate, I had done nothing at all to call attention to myself. I had forsworn all jewelry and wore an undecorated garment that would be considered perfectly proper attire for any eleven-year-old maiden. And besides, today was Clytemnestra’s biggest day. All eyes were supposed to be on the bride.