Free The Song of Troy by Colleen McCullough Page 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, beginning to look practical and efficient.
    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