*
She has been with a man already, a boy not much older than her. It was during a village feast, a summer night. The stars covered the sky vault and illuminated the villagers as they danced and jumped on the yellow grass. Helen, Clytemnestra, Castor, and Polydeuces had watched the dance, captivated by the thud of feet, the paint on the villagers’ faces. Then Helen was clapping and singing to the rhythm, and soon the four were dancing, holding each other’s hands, laughing.
Afterward they drank until the stars were spinning and the paint on the villagers seemed like a dream. Helen and Polydeuces continued dancing together, while Castor vanished with the village beauty, an older girl with big eyes, like the goddess Hera. A boy with dark curls took Clytemnestra’s hand, and they ran and hid among the tall grass, their bodies light with excitement.
After, as they shivered beneath the silent moon, pleasure slowly fading, the boy asked if he could see her again. She shook her head. She could smell the odors of fig trees and mud, jasmine and sweat. The boy fell asleep quickly, and she left him there, dreaming under the trees.
She walked around the village, eager to find her siblings. Helen and Polydeuces were gone, but she found Castor sitting alone in the orchard, a small smile on his lips. She lay down next to him, her head on his lap, bright fruit hanging above her like small suns. The familiar feel of Castor’s hand on her head soothed her. She slept curled up next to her brother until dawn came and the villagers woke them.
*
She wakes in the darkness of a room she doesn’t immediately recognize. No tapers are lit, and the thin curtains dance with the gusts of wind. She lifts herself onto her arm, and a lock of her hair falls onto Tantalus’s face. He smiles without opening his eyes. Still, Clytemnestra feels he can see her.
“You don’t sleep much,” he says.
“I like to think.”
“You like to observe.”
Clytemnestra wonders how to reply. She is usually good at answering, but he seems to be even better. It must be because he talks about me and not about himself. She looks at his dark eyelashes, even thicker than her own. He opens his eyes, and they gleam like the ocean under the moonlight.
“So tell me,” he says, smiling. “What do you see?”
She lies down again and stares at the bare ceiling. “A stranger who doesn’t feel like one, and a Spartan who feels like a stranger in her own palace.”
Tantalus laughs and kisses her neck, her cheeks, her collarbones.
A king is always a king, even when far from home, thinks Clytemnestra. What about a queen? What makes a girl a queen? Surely she is a woman who can protect herself and her people, who gives justice to those who deserve it and punishes those who betray her.
Her head is heavy with sleep. Tantalus smells of spiced wine and tastes like mint, the one used in the kitchen to add flavor to insipid food. His head resting on her shoulder, she feels as if she is flying, a bird diving in the dark-blue sky.
For a moment, she thinks about Helen, alone in their room. Of all those nights they have lain awake together, wondering about being with a king.
She pushes away the thought and presses closer to Tantalus.
5
The Clever Cousin
THE WEDDING IS to be celebrated quickly, before Castor and Polydeuces leave. Tyndareus’s permission is easily given. Leda is the only reluctant one.
“Tantalus isn’t strong,” she says, eating ripe apricots in the megaron. Phoebe and Philonoe are running around her, playing with sticks. Their feet are crusted with mud, their hair messy. Rays of sun caress the frescoes, making the colors sparkle, like raindrops on grass.
“He has a different strength,” Clytemnestra replies. “He is clever and curious.” Leda raises her eyebrows, and Clytemnestra knows she is wondering how curiosity can equal strength.
“Do you think he would be a suitable father?” her mother asks.
“Much better than any Spartan.”
Leda frowns but keeps silent. She calls Phoebe and Philonoe and they come quickly, their tunics stained with apricot juice.
“Go and have a bath. Tomorrow is an important day,” Leda orders. “Your sister is getting married.” Phoebe claps her hands, delighted, but Philonoe couldn’t have cared less. Marriage is far away from her. “Go, hurry,” Leda repeats.
The girls run away. Before Phoebe disappears beyond the door, she turns, sullen, as Philonoe pulls her hair. Clytemnestra winks at her.
“Not many people will come tomorrow,” Leda says, “but your father says his brother and your cousin Penelope will arrive tonight.”
“I like it better without many people.”
“I know you do. It was the same for me when I was your age.”
Clytemnestra kneels by the throne and rests her head on her mother’s lap. “You are not sure about this union,” she says, “but trust me, Mother.”
Leda sighs. “When you are this stubborn, it is no use trying to contradict you.”
*
After dinner, her uncle King Icarius and his daughter arrive from Acarnania, a northern land of green hills and glittering rivers near Aetolia. Clytemnestra and Helen can hear Tyndareus welcoming them in the hall, urging them to rest after the journey. They have been instructed to wait in the gynaeceum for their cousin Penelope, where they have saved flatbreads and honey for her.
Penelope is about Clytemnestra’s age, seemingly mild and delicate, yet clever and stubborn, like the climbing rose vine that grows on the palace walls. When they were little, they spent much time together. Penelope was more like Helen, a well-behaved child, quiet, yet both found a way to say what they thought, to claim their own space. Clytemnestra respected that.
“Welcome, Cousin,” Helen says when Penelope arrives wrapped in a dark-brown cloak, a light veil arranged around her face.
“I am very happy to see you.” Penelope sits on the wooden stool Clytemnestra offers her and draws off her veil, revealing brown-streaked hair, like a lynx’s coat. She has changed since the last time they saw her. She is still short, her face almond-shaped, her eyes gentle, but her body has developed soft, adolescent curves.
Helen pushes the bowl of flatbreads in her direction and Penelope takes one slowly, as if she isn’t hungry. As she tears off a piece, she sets her mild eyes on Clytemnestra.
“Congratulations. You are marrying a foreigner, I heard.”
“I am. King Tantalus of Maeonia.”
Something flickers in Penelope’s eyes, like the sudden sparkle of silver under the torchlight. “You are leaving then.”
“Yes, but not soon.”
Penelope nods, her face impassive. Clytemnestra knows that expression well. When they were children, Penelope was always following her around, trying to discourage her hasty choices. When she couldn’t, she made excuses for her cousin to the elders. She was a very good liar.
“You disapprove?” Clytemnestra asks.
Penelope smiles. “I never thought you’d be the first to marry, that’s all. But I am happy for you.”
“You must be tired,” Helen tells Penelope.
“A little,” Penelope says. “But I haven’t seen you in too long. We have a night’s worth of stories.” She stares at them, her face thoughtful. Then she takes Clytemnestra’s hand. “So tell me about Tantalus. I want to know everything.”
*