“We are ready,” Helen says. The priestess gives them one last look, then walks away. Helen waits until her figure has gone, then says, “Maybe you shouldn’t practice.” She is staring at Clytemnestra, frowning. “You are sweating.”
“I feel fine,” Clytemnestra lies.
The girls group together on the sand, some carrying bronze and wooden shields, others just the spear. Leda and a broad-shouldered man step in the shade of the trees—Lysimachos, one of Tyndareus’s most trusted warriors. Clytemnestra looks away from them. Whenever Leda comes to watch her train, she does her best to impress her mother, but today she feels sick, her stomach rattling, her hands shaking. She clenches her fists to make them stop. All are given a xiphos by Lysimachos, a short sword with a slightly curved blade. Clytemnestra ties hers to the belt around her tunic.
“Split into groups now,” Leda orders. “And start practicing with the spears. For those of you who have a shield, remember you can also use it as a weapon.”
Lysimachos starts pacing around the group while the girls gather in threes and fours to fight. Clytemnestra finds herself with Eupoleia, Ligeia, and a short girl who resembles a stray cat. She is relieved to notice that Cynisca carefully avoids her, as one does a poisoned blade.
They start with target practice. They draw little circles in the sand on one side of the courtyard and gather on the other to throw their spears toward the goal. They jump, their right arms bent over the shoulder, and launch the spear toward the ground with all their strength. All except Ligeia reach the target in Clytemnestra’s group. But Spartans leave no one behind, so they keep practicing until Ligeia has also thrown her spear inside the circle in the sand.
Then comes combat training. Taking turns, each group pushes one of the girls to the center of the ground while the other three attack her. Eupoleia is first. She holds her shield up so that it covers her from chin to knees while the others come forward. Ligeia moves her spear with precision while the short girl jumps quickly around Eupoleia, looking for a weak spot. When Clytemnestra throws herself against Eupoleia’s shield, the short girl is quick to take Eupoleia’s spear in her arms and thrust it aside. Together, they take Eupoleia down and start rolling and fighting in the sand.
“Use your xiphos,” Lysimachos reminds them. “Aim for eyes and throat.”
Clytemnestra grabs her short sword and points it at Eupoleia’s throat while Ligeia kicks Eupoleia hard in the face.
“Well done,” Leda says.
They stop. They help each other up, patting Eupoleia on the back. Ligeia doesn’t last long when it is her turn against the other three. The short girl, on the other hand, manages to remain standing for a surprisingly long time, using her spear so fast to fend off the others that they struggle to anticipate her movements. Eventually, Eupoleia takes the girl’s spearhead into her own hands, blood dripping down her fingers, and Clytemnestra breaks the cornel wood in two.
“Good,” Lysimachos says. “But you need to last longer. You need to find better tactics to push back your opponents. Use your legs to balance yourself. If you lose balance, you are lost.” He points at the broken spear on the sand. “Someone takes your weapon from you? You do not falter. You find a new balance.”
It is Clytemnestra’s turn. Eupoleia wipes her bloody palms on her tunic and picks up her spear. The short girl takes a new one. Ligeia blows her black hair from her face and grabs a shield. The girls attack as one, jumping forward like a three-headed snake. Clytemnestra spins away while her spear darts forward. Eupoleia slashes at it, but Clytemnestra avoids her. Ligeia grunts under the shield’s weight. Clytemnestra thrusts again, and bronze screams on metal as the spearhead scratches the round shield.
It goes on for longer than any other fight. They move across the courtyard in spirals, jumping back and forth, while the girls’ spears flicker in and out, aiming at Clytemnestra’s head, throat, and hands.
“Take her down!” Lysimachos yells. “Take her down!”
But Clytemnestra keeps dodging cuts from the others’ spearheads. She kicks Ligeia’s shield so hard that the girl loses her balance and stumbles. Clytemnestra takes advantage of it and throws the shield aside. The short girl hurries to help Ligeia to her feet as Eupoleia takes the shaft of Clytemnestra’s spear. For one moment, the two remain still, each pulling the spear. Then, Clytemnestra lets go with one hand and draws her short sword, cutting Eupoleia’s cheek. The girl steps back, her hands leaving bloody fingerprints where they held the spear. Clytemnestra prepares to attack again. Her grip tightens around her sword, when, as sudden as thunder, a sickness takes hold of her. She stumbles, feeling suffocated as if she were lying under a slab of stone. Eupoleia’s xiphos flashes in the air, and Clytemnestra feels pain on her cheek. She slaps Eupoleia hard in the face and tries to regain ground, but she is shaking now, her head spinning. The three girls close in on her while she throws up on the sand.
“Stop!” Leda orders.
“What happened?” Lysimachos asks, but Leda is kneeling next to her daughter.
“Stand. We are going back to the palace,” she orders Clytemnestra. She tries to help her up, but Clytemnestra feels her gut boiling, her stomach rattling. She has only ever felt like this before when she saw the corpses of rotting horses on the riverbank after a fight between the Spartans and some rebellious helots. She pukes again, vomit spreading on the sand. Ligeia steps back, disgusted. The girls are all watching her, curious. For a moment, there is silence, like the silence near the altar stone after an animal has been sacrificed, when blood is dripping and birds are fluttering away.
“I said stand, Clytemnestra,” Leda repeats.
Clytemnestra opens her eyes. She grabs her mother’s arm and pulls herself up.
“Have I been poisoned?” she asks.
Her mother shakes her head. “Come with me.”
*
Leda brings her to the palace kitchen. Her sickness seems to be getting worse, but her mother drags her along the corridors without letting her stop.
Helen walks close behind them. “Do you wish me to call Tyndareus, Mother?” she asks, but Leda ignores her.
In the kitchen, two women are slicing reeds and fruit. Almonds, hazelnuts, and small quinces are piled on a large wooden table. In one corner of the room, under the golden light of the torches, a helot no older than thirteen is crushing small dark olives in a mortar. The room smells of oil and ripe apricots, even though there aren’t any in sight.
Leda pushes Clytemnestra forward. “Check her,” she orders the women. They stop cutting the reeds at once and walk closer to Clytemnestra. They have dark hair, but one’s is dry and dirty, the other’s shiny and vigorous, with waves like the ocean at night. They grab the hem of Clytemnestra’s tunic and lift it over her head. She stumbles and sits on the floor, seized by a headache so strong it momentarily blinds her. The women pinch her breasts, hard. When she opens her eyes, Helen is gazing down at her, her small hand on her sister’s arm.
“How many times have you slept with Tantalus?” the women ask.
Clytemnestra tries to think. “You mean—”
“How many times was he inside you?”
“I don’t—”
“When was the last time you bled?”
“It’s been a while.” She vomits again, next to the sacks of wheat stacked on the floor. The women scowl.
“Call Tantalus, Helen,” Leda says. “And then tell your father your sister is pregnant.”