Free The Song of Troy by Colleen McCullough

used any excuse to touch my hand or my shoulder, a few of the bolder ones jokingly offering to wrestle with me anytime. It was no effort to dodge their sallies; crude, unsubtle stuff.
    In years I was still counted a child, but their eyes denied that; their eyes told me things about myself that I already knew, for there were mirrors of polished copper in my rooms, and I too had eyes. Though they were all nobles of the Court, none of them was of great import in the scheme of things. I shook them off like water after a bath, snatched a linen towel from my woman and wrapped it about my bare, sweating limbs amid a chorus of protests.
    Then I saw my father at the back of the crowd. Father had watched? How extraordinary! He never came to see the women play at their parodies of masculine sport! My expression caused some of the barons to turn; in an instant they had all melted away. I went to my father and kissed him on the cheek.
    ‘Do you always have such an enthusiastic audience, child?’ he asked, frowning.
    ‘Yes, Father.’ I preened. ‘I am much admired, you know.’
    ‘So I see. I must be getting old, losing my powers of observation. Luckily your elder brother is neither old nor blind. He told me this morning that it might be prudent for me to drop in on the women’s sports.’
    I bristled. ‘Why should Kastor bother with me?’
    ‘A poor state of affairs if he did not!’
    We reached the door to the Throne Room.
    ‘Wash off your dirt, Helen, dress, and then return to me.’
    His face told me nothing, so I shrugged and ran off.
    Neste waited for me in my rooms, clucking and scolding. I let her unwrap me, looking forward to the warm bath, the tingle of the scraper on my skin. Chattering away, she threw the towel into a corner and undid the strings of my loincloth. But I was not listening. Skipping across the cold flags, I leaped into the bath and splashed merrily. Such a delicious sensation to feel the water lap around me, caress me, cloud enough to permit me to caress myself without Neste’s beady eyes detecting it. And how pleasant afterwards to stand while she rubbed me with a fragrant oil, rub a little of it in myself. There could not be too many moments in one day to caress, to rub, to give myself those shocks and thrills girls like Xanthippe seemed not to care about nearly as much as I did. Perhaps that was because they had not had a Theseus to teach them.
    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