She's gone.

The covers are still rumpled from her body; she must have moved quickly and kicked them aside. The chests lie open everywhere, their contents ransacked. Her retinue is gone; they were complicit, or they are afraid of him, or both. The lamps have only been snuffed recently, and one of them still sends up a sad, grey tendril, like the last of a burnt offering. Although the sun is high, outside it is still grey and the rain can't be far distant; Menelaus sits, a prisoner of his own making, in the queen's room, staring out onto the courtyard and trying to think.

She never seemed unhappy. Of course she was kind to Paris and laughed at the Trojan envoy's jokes—she was only being a good hostess. That was what he had thought, or what he had wanted to think. There was nothing improprietous about it; she was never alone with the man.

But was she? When, and how? Who would she have had to bribe? Menelaus cherishes no illusions that his staff are incorruptible, but surely someone would have been loyal enough to him to tell, or to try to get a message to him. (The unskilled slaves scatter like birds when he walks by, and this both unnerves and saddens him.) Where could they have met?

He doesn't want to think about why. They didn't marry for love; few people of their rank do. Nonetheless, he cherishes her, and he's tried to be kind to her. He doesn't always understand women very well, and he knows that; there have been times when he's failed to anticipate her wants. Could that have been it? Did he disappoint her in some terrible way that he can't put his finger on? Was it the affair with Lanike? (No, it can't have been—that was a long time ago, and she said she forgave him.)

Brooding, Menelaus turns a ring on his finger over and over again. But if it wasn't him…and then, of course, it dawns on him.

If it wasn't him, perhaps it was Paris.

Yes. That must be it. It's the only thing that makes sense—only a barbarian would be so shameless and impious as to carry off his host's wife. They're not civilized; they don't think like Achaians. Menelaus has heard that in Asia, guests who admire a possession of their host's are often given it. And Paris did admire Helen, very much; Menelaus is no stranger to the effect his wife's beauty has on men. Since he was less than open-handed when it came to his wife, perhaps Paris decided just to take her? Menelaus wouldn't put it past him.

That must be it. And now that he knows what happened, he knows what to do.

The door is slightly ajar; he hears voices and movement, distantly. Menelaus strides, with new resolution, towards the door and pushes it open, sticking his head out. "Dimas!" he thunders into the hall, startling a couple of the servants. "I want Dimas the Egyptian," he adds by way of explanation. The best and most capable of his scribes, Dimas is usually there before Menelaus needs him.

Sure enough, Dimas comes down the hall a scant few seconds later, ink and paper already in hand. "You called, my lord?" He inclines his head slightly; there has always been something a touch condescending about his manner, though Menelaus can't put his finger on it. No matter. Menelaus needs him now.

"Good man, Dimas." He claps the slave on the shoulder; the Egyptian flinches, but Menelaus doesn't notice. "I have a delicate task for you."

"My lord."

"I want you to take down a letter," Menelaus says. "It's to go to my brother, King Agamemnon, at Mycenae."