Book Review: Daughters of Sparta by Claire Heywood
A quick little look at a well-renowned example of a feminist mythological retelling
Ever since I wrote about the controversy regarding the surplus of ancient myth retellings on the market today, I felt guilty about not being able to produce a real baseline example of a “good-enough” retelling. This is not to downplay the quality of Daughters of Sparta, which we will evaluate in a minute, but rather to introduce the idea that I understand that I was not in the target audience for this book, and yet enjoyed it anyway. Therefore, in contrast to the typical structure of these reviews, I will talk about what I disliked about the novel first, and then follow with all my praise.
This is a Victorian novel. There have been other British authors whose dialects in writing have been distractingly foreign to my ear, but the prose in this book has been stylized with the specific intent to draw such a comparison. A nickname like “Nestra,” for example, feels straight from a Brontë novel. It’s inarguable that ancient children used to play with dolls, but we don’t have access to primary sources that describe how they would care for them. If I were to guess at influences for this and the way they play pretend, I’d point either to Little Women or Little House on the Prairie.1 These decisions have a neutral impact on the quality of the novel (independent of their execution), but like any other creative decision they cater to a target audience. Suffice it to say that I fall outside that target audience.
Dependent on the execution, this novel succeeds on its merits. Setting my personal tastes aside, I can recognize a well-researched, informed novel on the ancient world when I see one. Heywood maintains a strong connection to the ruling families of the Aegean throughout the novel. It’s easy to look at the catalog of ships in the second book of the Iliad as a roster of military forces alone, but the author breathes life into the relationships that these characters and their countries may have had. It is, for example, a very peculiar matter through the lens of palace intrigue to have two daughters wed to the same royal family with the intent to strengthen relations between their civilizations. The way we learn about Helen’s marriage in the traditional account is that Menelaus wins her in the contest between the suitors, but taking this stance would conflict with the Victorian-ness of the novel. Women were still treated as objects into the 19th century, but not to the same degree as in Mycenae and Sparta. The contests are still part of the marriage games, but it’s still up to Tyndareus whom his daughter will wed. The reasons he chooses Menelaus is also a trope that comes straight out of the Bildungsroman genre during that same time period, but in the interest of preserving as many key details for readers to discover on their own, I’ll leave out the particulars here.
It is also worth noting that this is a novel that focuses on sex. This is not necessarily in a romantic way in the same sense as some of the previous novels we have covered in the romance genre, but it has more of a focus on how such things control people. At different times the author portrays sex in different scenarios; Menelaus penetrates a 17 year-old Helen in order to consummate their marriage, but does not have sex with her. Furthermore, he recognizes a danger in impregnating her at her age and stage of development, and holds off for about two years, according to the book. On the other hand there’s Clytemnestra, whose infamously flagrant philandering and its consequences is detailed in Aeschylus’ Oresteia cycle. Here, her perspective on the matter serves to justify her actions at least in part; the historical record holds her as a cruel and domineering person, whereas this novel sheds a light of sympathy on her story. Naming her as the scorned heiress to Sparta, and then further allowing Agamemnon to be the first to brazenly defile their marriage-bed (in defiance of the gods, even).
There’s an interesting juxtaposition between the relationships of the two women as well; one desperately opposes sexual relations at every corner but wants her husband’s affection, while the other wants more children and more sex but desires distance from the man she married. That being said, Heywood definitely takes the position that Helen participated in her own abduction that exists in many readings of her myth outside the Iliad. Furthermore, the forces at home seem to almost push her out. Whether this is an indicator of divine intervention (supported by Paris’ golden eyes) or it has broader thematic implications is up to the reader’s interpretation. Religion is present in the narrative, but on the surface level it only appears in ambiguously answered prayers or bad omens. On the other hand, her voluntary departure gives a greater feeling of Helen’s feminist liberation, while also maybe taking the boon of the crown of Sparta for granted. Ultimately, if we interpret this story as an apology on behalf of Clytemnestra, then making Helen out to be the “bad guy” in this way supports the idea that depriving the murderous queen of her alleged birthright was a tactical mistake as well as a moral one.
As mentioned before, we do not have the ability to read firsthand accounts of women’s childhoods around the ancient Mediterranean, and that gap in knowledge is part of the point of this novel. Rather than adopting the generic tropes of the “feminist retelling” genre, this book becomes transformative. The Japanese art of Kintsugi is the process of repairing a broken object with a lacquer mixed with precious metals. Similarly, this novel mends the gaps between our understanding of historical facts about ancient Greek culture with something the author values highly. This interpretation of history, regardless of the actual facts about the period, makes for an entertaining and educational experience all around. One star.
I should note that I haven’t read either story, but one may or may not be on the docket for an upcoming entry in a running series.