The face of a thousand ships

I was ten years old when I realized I was beautiful.

Centuries have passed since then. My beauty has become the stuff of legend; I am described as “the face that launched a thousand ships.” The woman who started a war and brought about the fall of an entire civilization.

In the kinder versions of the story, I was a victim, abducted by Paris against my will. In most people’s minds, less charitable ones, I was a frivolous woman, indifferent to the devastation she would cause. I wish I could say the truth lies somewhere between the two. What I can say is that my life cannot be reduced to my beauty, nor to the destruction it caused.

My life was a succession of decisions, many of them terrible. Some I made myself. Others were made for me.

I could not tell you whether I was a good person or a bad one. But I was more than “the face that launched a thousand ships.”

* * *

I was ten years old when I realized I was beautiful.

Before that, life was gentle, measured out in long summers spent chasing my brothers, sun-warmed paving stones flashing beneath my bare feet. The palace was the stage for our heroic adventures: we slew minotaurs, sirens, and cyclopes before collapsing, breathless from our feats of war, in the shade of the enormous century-old olive tree in the courtyard, lulled by the soft rustle of its leaves in the breeze. As a fitting reward for our imaginary victories, we were brought cups of cool orangeade, which we gulped down greedily. Even now, if I close my eyes and think back to my childhood, it tastes of oranges, smells of hot stone, and sounds like the deep, powerful song of cicadas hidden in the scrub, parched by the summer heat.

Of my brothers, Pollux was the taller, and the stronger. He had the same blue-green eyes and golden hair as I did, the same sun-browned skin from running beneath Sparta’s blazing sun, so that everyone took him for my twin rather than Castor’s.

Castor was slightly shorter and more slender, and his unruly brown curls made it easy to tell him apart from his twin. He was more serious and thoughtful by nature, gentler too. He liked to daydream beneath the olive tree, legs crossed, his interlaced fingers serving as a makeshift pillow. He adored horses, and we spent hours together in the stables grooming our favorites, whispering sweet words to them and telling them stories we had invented.

Pollux sometimes felt left out, so he would come and tease us to get our attention, and his relentless provocations always ended in a wrestling match in the hay, which he invariably won. Afterwards, as though apologizing for being so loud and overbearing, he would give us his most angelic smile and become helpful and agreeable for a few hours, before starting to torment us again until we chased him through the palace corridors, narrowly avoiding the servants bustling around us, almost invisible.

Those were the happiest days of my life.

And then I turned ten.

My body began to change, and the men around me noticed. The eyes of my father’s guests—my father being the king of Sparta—now lingered on me longer than they should, their gazes carrying a new gleam as they traced the budding curve of my breasts or the small of my back where my blond hair fell.

Castor and Pollux had noticed my transformation too. My early puberty had become a constant reminder that I was a girl and they were boys. I was still allowed to take part in their epic adventures, but I was no longer their brother-in-arms. In their strangely prophetic games, I was now the princess who needed rescuing, the passive prize at the end of a heroic quest.

It was my mother who finally sounded the death knell of my childhood. That day, my father was entertaining several of his war chiefs who had recently distinguished themselves in combat. He was holding a banquet in their honor, and the table groaned beneath wine and roasted lambs slaughtered for the occasion.

The feast was in full swing, and I was laughing as I ran between the tables after my brothers when a large, rough hand seized my arm.

One of my father’s generals was staring at me, his unpleasant eyes clouded with drink, grease dripping from his beard.

“Where are you running off to, little one?” he asked in a syrupy voice, bringing his face so close to mine that I could smell the fumes of wine on his breath.

Terrified, I tried to pull my arm free, but he tightened his grip and leaned closer.

“Don’t play the coy little virgin. Give me a kiss. I’ve earned it. I killed plenty of men for your father.”

He caught me around the waist and bent to kiss me when the sound of someone clearing their throat made us both start.

My mother, Leda, stood a few paces away, watching us sternly. She looked even more austere than usual in her midnight-blue tunic, hands planted on her hips, her thin, pointed elbows making her look like a great raven about to spread its wings.

The man, whose face was already red with drunkenness, turned crimson. He loosened his hold, stammering an apology and showing my mother a respect he probably would not have shown my father.

That was the effect Leda had on people. Unlike my father, Tyndareus—a small man in both stature and personality, balding, with a high-pitched voice that always seemed to be apologizing—my mother had presence and natural authority.

I remembered that she had once been beautiful, when I was younger, with long black hair and turquoise eyes that Pollux and I had inherited. Now her hair hung to her hips in a limp, brittle braid; her eyes, though still beautiful, had lost their brightness and seemed empty, and her figure was gaunt. Yet she had kept that dry, cutting tone, that way of standing straight and proud, that indefinable something that seemed to rob the entire world of the ability to contradict her.

When the man released me, my mother took my hand and pulled me outside, away from the feast. We could still hear the clamor of the celebration mingling with the song of the cicadas. A cool breeze stirred the branches of the great olive tree and raised gooseflesh on my bare arms.

My mother looked me up and down from her full height, then asked in an emotionless voice:

“He didn’t hurt you?”

I shook my head.

“Good.”

Then she slapped me. I heard the sharp, brief crack before I felt the pain and heat spread across my skin. I lifted a hand to my cheek, fighting back the tears rising in my eyes, overwhelmed by a wave of sadness, shame, and profound injustice.

“From now on, Helen, you are no longer a child. You cannot run around with your brothers under men’s feet, your tunic in disarray and your hair loose. Starting tomorrow, you will spend your time with your sister. She will teach you how to become a respectable wife for your future husband.”

My sister, Clytemnestra, embraced her new task with warmth and enthusiasm. Although she was only a year older than I was, we had never been close. She had always been quiet and reserved, spending her days peacefully playing with her favorite terracotta doll or arranging her pretty brown curls in front of her mirror. I was far more unruly and had broken every doll I had ever been given within a matter of days.

Clytemnestra taught me everything an exemplary wife of our rank was expected to know: how to weave, how to speak to her husband, how to behave in society. She also taught me to sweep my hair back, adjust my tunic, and draw black lines above my eyes in the Athenian fashion.

All the while, she talked endlessly about her coming marriage, what she imagined her future husband would be like—handsome, strong, and kind—and how many children she would have—at least four.

Clytemnestra had been betrothed since childhood to a man named Tantalus, whom she had never met. He was roughly twice her age, but according to our mother he was an excellent match, though at ten years old I did not really understand what that meant.

A year passed, during which my sister and I grew very close. Faced with the kindness and gentleness she showed me, I felt pangs of guilt whenever I remembered all the times Castor, Pollux, and I had excluded her from our games and mocked her for not being reckless enough to follow us everywhere.

Clytemnestra’s wedding drew nearer, and despite her cheerful chatter, I could feel her anxiety growing. One morning, as I accompanied her to the temple of Artemis to perform her pre-wedding rites, I noticed that her hands were trembling around her clay doll. That day, she was to leave it as an offering to the goddess, symbolically abandoning her childhood behind her as she entered her life as a wife.

When we reached the temple, I saw Clytemnestra hesitate, clutching the toy even more tightly against her. I knew what a sacrifice it was for her. That articulated little figure had been a confidante, a friend, and a source of comfort throughout her childhood, and she had always treated it with the greatest care.

Slowly, she finally placed the doll gently at the feet of the goddess’s statue, recited her prayer, then rose with her face lowered to hide her tears. We left in silence, and I could see that her now-empty hands were trembling more than ever. I took one of them, and she squeezed mine as we walked back to the palace without exchanging a word.

On the day of the wedding, my mother and I helped Clytemnestra prepare in the women’s quarters. She was quieter than ever, her complexion greenish, and I feared she might vomit. At that point, neither of us had the slightest idea what her husband would be like.

We saw Tantalus for the first time together at the banquet, and I felt my sister stiffen at the sight of him.

He was a true colossus, unquestionably as strong as Clytemnestra had imagined, though certainly not handsome. His face was disfigured by severe burn scars that made him look far more threatening than kind.

But the instant Tantalus raised his intense blue eyes to my sister, his scarred face broke into a broad, blissful smile that softened his features and made him almost endearing.

Clytemnestra smiled shyly back and took her place beside him, not far from our father, who was already drunk, and our mother, still wearing her customary austere expression and wrapped in silence.

Throughout the evening, I watched Tantalus shower his young wife with attention, gazing at her with blissful devotion, making sure she always had something to eat, that her cup was never empty, and that she was never cold. Little by little, I watched Clytemnestra relax and even laugh at her husband’s awkward jokes. A weight lifted from my chest. I would miss her, but at least she would be in good hands.

As I had suspected, life at the palace without Clytemnestra was dreary and dull. Without her, I had no one to talk to. I had never been close to my father, who spent his time shouting orders at everyone while dabbing the sweat from his ruddy, balding forehead. My mother had never been much of a conversationalist and spent her days by the lake throwing pieces of bread to the swans while staring absently into the distance. Castor and Pollux, more than ever, were preparing to become men and never stopped boasting about their exploits at military school.

Pollux was becoming a formidable warrior, the undisputed master of close combat. Adolescence had finally broken the bond that had united us as children. I often caught him ostentatiously flexing his muscles whenever a pretty servant girl passed nearby, hoping to catch her attention and win her favors.

Castor, meanwhile, was the brains of the pair. Sensitive and thoughtful, he still had a natural gift with horses that reminded me of the hours we had spent together in the stables. That time now seemed to belong to a distant past, but sometimes, for lack of anything else to say, he made an effort to awkwardly compliment my clothes or my hair. Every now and then, when he caught me watching him and Pollux train, he would wink at me, the last remnant of our childhood complicity.

Most of my days were devoted to weaving, and although I had become rather good at it, I had no interest in the activity. The rest of the time, I wandered aimlessly through the palace corridors and eventually sat in the courtyard with my back against the olive tree, listening to the birds sing. I watched them fly freely in and out of the courtyard, beating their wings without a thought for the walls they left behind. Unlike them, I never left the palace except to visit the sanctuary of Artemis or the lake.

The oppressive torpor of daily life was disturbed only by my father’s visitors, each of whom seemed louder and more intrusive than the last. Princes and kings feasted at his table, raising their cups to their own victories, bellowing obscene songs while groping the unfortunate servant girls who came near to refill their wine. Most paid me no attention, except to brush their fingers through my hair as they passed or let a damp hand linger on my arm or hip. Some waited until my father’s back was turned. Others did not even bother. All of them, however, made sure my mother was nowhere nearby.

As I grew older, marriage proposals began pouring in. My father greeted each new offer with stammering hesitation. He promised to think about it, then postponed his decision until the next day. The next day became the following week, then the following month.

I was twelve the summer the worst happened.

The heat had been particularly oppressive, and I remember that on the day it happened my tunic clung to my back with sweat. I was on my way to the temple of Artemis to leave flowers and say a prayer for Clytemnestra, whose pregnancy we had just learned of.

Dazzled by the sun, I climbed toward the sanctuary, pushing stray strands of hair from my damp forehead, slightly breathless from the effort. A voice suddenly rose behind me.

“Forgive me for troubling you, young lady, but I could not help noticing your dazzling beauty. Would you consent to tell me your name?”

I turned around, frowning, and looked the speaker up and down. He seemed to be in his twenties, rather tall, with a square jaw and broad shoulders. Thick chestnut curls fell to his shoulders and caught the sunlight in a kind of divine halo. I might have found him handsome if I had begun to take an interest in boys, which I had not.

His clothes were finely cut, in an elegant style unlike anything the men of Sparta usually wore.

Behind him stood another young man, blond, shorter and stockier, wearing a dazzling smile that, for reasons I could not explain, made me uneasy.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” the first young man apologized as I continued to eye him warily. “My name is Theseus, son of Aegeus and prince of Athens. This is my friend Pirithous. We are only passing through, but I was so captivated by your beauty that I could not help stopping to speak to you.”

I had been right: he was not Spartan. I glanced over his shoulder and saw two horses tethered to a tree farther down the hill. They must have been following me for some time, and despite their charming manner, unease settled inside me. But I had been taught to remain courteous in every situation, so I introduced myself in turn:

“I am Helen, daughter of Tyndareus, princess of Sparta.”

Theseus’s smile widened, his eyes sparkling with something I did not yet know how to interpret.

“Rumors of your beauty have traveled all the way to Athens, Helen, but they do not do you justice. I hear, however, that you are not yet ready for marriage?”

The question was so abrupt that it left me speechless. It was so improper that I felt my cheeks burn. I had not yet begun to bleed, and for a little while longer that spared my father the burden of promising me to a suitor.

The two men exchanged a smile, clearly amused by my embarrassment. I stammered:

“I... I am going to the temple to make an offering for my sister.”

It was my attempt to take my leave politely. I turned my back on them and resumed my walk toward the temple, but instead of leaving me alone, they fell into step beside me, pretending to take an interest in Clytemnestra’s pregnancy before turning the conversation to my father.

“Good old Tyndareus is a better man than I am,” Pirithous said, barely concealing the mockery in his voice. “If I had a daughter that pretty, I would keep her locked away at home instead of letting her parade herself before everyone.”

I felt my cheeks flush again. Was he right? Was I parading myself? I already left the palace so rarely, and my mother had taught me to avoid men’s eyes whenever possible.

I continued toward the temple, the two men still at my heels. From time to time I tried to quicken my pace, but they simply matched it. When I reached the temple, I laid down my flowers and recited my prayer, acutely aware of the weight of their eyes fixed on the back of my neck.

When I turned back to descend the hill, they positioned themselves on either side of me. I felt trapped between them and searched desperately for a way out, a way to tell them to leave me alone without seeming rude. I answered their questions in monosyllables, a strained smile on my lips. When we reached their horses, Theseus said:

“You look tired from walking, and I would hate to see you exhaust yourself in this heat. Let me take you back to the palace.”

“Thank you, but there’s no need,” I stammered in a small voice. “The palace really isn’t far. I can walk back.”

“I insist.”

His tone left no room for argument, and he gestured toward his horse. I did not know how to react. So, reluctantly, I let Theseus help me onto his horse. My mouth was dry, I felt hotter than ever, and my heart was pounding. Once he was seated in front of me, Theseus dug his heels into the horse’s sides and it bolted forward, forcing me to cling to his waist to keep from falling.

The wind and my hair whipped across my face, blurring my thoughts. I counted the minutes until we reached the palace, and relief flooded through me when I saw its walls rising on the horizon. But we rode straight past without stopping, and I thought my heart might leap out of my chest. I shouted at Theseus to stop, told him again and again that he had gone far too far, naively hoping he would turn around. He did not.

The ride to the town of Aphidna seemed endless. Every mile carried me farther from the only place I had ever known, and fear overwhelmed me. Even now, I do not remember all of it; my mind blurred certain details as though trying to protect me. But I remember crying, begging for the first few hours. Theseus remained unmoved, sometimes smiling, plainly amused by my distress, repeating casually that I had nothing to worry about.

We stopped several times along the way, and sometimes I tell myself I could have tried to run then, but I do not think I did. Perhaps I was paralyzed by fear. I simply stayed there, passive, waiting to learn my fate.

I understand now that any attempt would probably have been futile: I was barely twelve, they were grown men, and I was alone against two of them, so far from home. I know all of that, and yet, years later, I still find myself imagining scenarios in which I manage to escape. I dream of some improbable ending in which I slit both their throats. Most often, I imagine versions in which I simply never climbed onto that damned horse just because I did not know how to say no.

But I stayed there, passive and silent, staring into nothing while they argued over my “ownership.”

“I did all the work!” Theseus protested.

“But I was the one who spotted her! And it was my idea to come to Sparta and keep watch near the temple.”

They argued like that for a long time, but I was not listening. My thoughts were with my family. How would my father react? Would he even look for me, or would he be too relieved to be rid of the burden of the decisions I represented? What would my mother say? I could already picture her pinched, disapproving expression. She, too, would probably decide that I had been “parading myself.” Shame swept over me, followed by grief at the thought that I might never see Castor and Pollux again, nor Clytemnestra. I might never meet her unborn child...

Lost in my thoughts, I barely paid attention when my abductors decided to draw lots for me, though I vaguely understood that Theseus had won.

We reached Aphidna, though I could not say how long the journey had lasted. My memories of that event have blurred together. I have, for instance, only a hazy recollection of arriving at the home of Aethra, Theseus’s mother. I do remember clearly, however, the grotesque, almost childish pride with which he introduced me as his betrothed. He explained to Aethra that he was entrusting me to her care until I was old enough to marry.

Aethra was a small, slightly plump, middle-aged woman with graying temples. She lived in a comfortable house which, I later learned, had been given to her by Theseus’s father, the king of Athens, to whom she was not married. She seemed neither surprised nor particularly pleased by her son’s antics, but she asked no questions.

I remember spending several days in Aethra’s house, but the worst of it, I think, happened only once, on the very evening we arrived. Theseus, no doubt proud of his new trophy, wanted to savor his victory.

He took me into a small, pretty bedroom. A large bed dominated the room beneath a heavy wool hanging embroidered with a lioness chasing a deer, surrounded by saffron flowers. Through the window, a light breeze carried the soft scent of iris into the room.

What happened next is among the things my memory has blurred most, but I remember the smell of his body, anointed with rose-scented oil. The fragrance was overpowering and sickening, and from that day on the scent of roses has always made me nauseous.

I remember staring the entire time at the wool hanging, at the fierce lioness rippling in the breeze. If I narrowed my eyes, I could almost see her running. I imagined her catching the deer and tearing it open with her sharp teeth until nothing remained but a steaming, bloody carcass.

I wanted to be that lioness. I wanted to struggle, bite, scratch, hit. All my life, I have blamed myself for not fighting harder.

I wanted to be that lioness, fierce and merciless, but I was only a little girl.