*
“Are you scared of leaving?” Helen asks. They are standing together in front of the tub, staring at the water as it sparkles under the torches. The light of the sunset pours in from the small window, illuminating their skin with pink and orange. From up there, Sparta looks nothing more than a group of small villages, scattered across the Eurotas, like a herd of brown goats. Tantalus has often told Clytemnestra that the valley makes a poor show compared to his own homeland. Yet she will miss the view of the mountains, their peaks wrapped in white clouds.
“You will soon leave as well,” Clytemnestra says, removing her tunic and stepping into the tub. Warm water laps at her skin.
Helen starts washing her, the soap perfumed and oily on her fingers. “Why do women always have to leave?” she asks. She still thinks Clytemnestra has the answer to her every question, as she did when they were children.
Why do women always have to leave? Clytemnestra repeats the words in her head until they lose meaning. She doesn’t know the answer. She knows only that leaving doesn’t feel like punishment to her but rather a blessing. Life at this moment is like being at sea, open waters all around her and no coastline in sight, the world brimming with possibilities.
Helen keeps silent for a while. There is a strange light in her eyes as she gazes at her sister’s body. They have seen each other naked a thousand times, but now it is different. Arms, legs, hips, neck, everything that Helen is touching has been touched by Tantalus, and they can’t ignore it. His mark is deep inside her, not visible yet, but it is there, and soon Clytemnestra’s body will transform because of it—it will become ripe, swollen. Helen’s eyes are shiny with wonder, though there is also anxiety in the way she clings to Clytemnestra’s shoulders as she scrubs them, an eagerness she puts into wringing out her sister’s hair.
Clytemnestra lets her be, listening to the sound of dripping water. She understands her sister’s pain. Helen will be forced to sit and witness her biggest fear: Clytemnestra’s body slowly becoming different from hers, until there are no similarities to hold on to.
When the water has cooled, Helen stands and takes a step back from the tub. Her eyes are shining, eager for her sister’s attention.
“Mother told me that two brothers will soon be here,” she says, “the sons of Atreus, coming from Mycenae. They have been exiled and have asked Tyndareus for help.”
When Clytemnestra says nothing, Helen adds, “Atreus, the man who murdered his brother’s children and fed them to him! Castor used to tell us about them, remember?”
Clytemnestra sets her eyes on her sister. “You won’t have to leave if you don’t want to. Your future can be as you want it to be.” She offers her words as reassurances, rolling them out clearly and carefully, though they seem to fade in the dim room.
Helen looks down with a sad smile. “Maybe for you it can be that simple. But not for me.” Then she leaves, back to the room the two of them have shared all their lives.
*
As the sun sinks behind the mountains and the pale blue sky becomes the color of silver, two tiny figures ride across the valley, following the serpentine shape of the river. Agamemnon and Menelaus ride alone, their horses galloping as if being chased. The night is silent and the valley looks like an empty shell, soon to be filled with the echo of violence.
7
The Sons of Atreus
SHE IS STANDING by the doors of the megaron, hidden behind one of the columns. Her hands are clasped, her breath held as she listens to the sons of Atreus speak to her parents.
Agamemnon has strong, scarred arms and greedy, intelligent eyes. His face is asymmetrical, all sharp lines and edges, and there is something unsettling about the way he stares, as though he is searching for weakness in the people around him. Menelaus’s features resemble his brother’s but remotely, like a lynx resembles a lion. He is leaner, handsomer, and his face lacks the cunning that shows on Agamemnon’s face.
They arrived late in the night, their horses wearied to the point of exhaustion. Servants clustered around the columns at the entrance to the palace, eager to see the exiled brothers, doomed offspring of the king of Mycenae. Tyndareus welcomed them, though there was still blood on Agamemnon’s sword, fresh cuts on Menelaus’s face. They had ridden for their lives, and it was Tyndareus’s duty to let them stay in his palace. A guest is always sacred in their lands, no matter his deeds and crimes.
“Mycenae was taken with force and deceit,” Agamemnon is saying to Tyndareus. “Our cousin Aegisthus murdered our father and now rules with our uncle Thyestes.”
“But the people despise father and son,” Menelaus adds.
“Deceit runs in your family,” Leda says coolly. “The house of Atreus is doomed.”
Agamemnon takes a step forward, as if to attack her, and Clytemnestra almost does the same. When her mother looks in her direction, she hides behind the column. Tyndareus ordered everyone to steer clear of the megaron, which only made Clytemnestra more eager to eavesdrop.
Menelaus takes his brother’s arm, as if to hold him back. Agamemnon keeps still.
“We will take back Mycenae,” Menelaus says. “And we will rule.”
A short silence follows. Tyndareus stares at them quietly, then asks for more wine. A servant girl springs up from her place at the foot of the throne and hurries outside. When she walks past Clytemnestra, they look at each other for a second, two girls in the shadows, unnoticed by everyone else, their eyes gleaming. Clytemnestra puts a forefinger to her lips, and the servant hurries away.
“Didn’t your grandfather plan the murder of his host and father-in-law in a chariot race?” Tyndareus asks.
“He did,” Menelaus says. Agamemnon keeps silent, tense beside him.
“And your father, Atreus . . . Didn’t he murder his half brother Chrysippus?”
“He did. And he was exiled for it. Banished to Mycenae.”
“So Mycenae didn’t always belong to the Atreidai,” Tyndareus says, using the name for Atreus’s bloodline. “Who ruled the city when your father was exiled there?”
“King Eurystheus,” Menelaus says. “But he was away, fighting, so our father ascended the throne uncontested.”
Tyndareus opens his mouth to speak again, but Agamemnon is quicker. “The people of Mycenae respect us. And Mycenae is a powerful city, destined for greatness. King Eurystheus died far away, fighting, and never proclaimed an heir. Our father took what was his to take. Our family is doomed for our predecessors’ deceit, not for our ambition.” He lays out each word slowly and clearly, his voice steady and bold.
Something shifts in Tyndareus’s face. It is an expression Clytemnestra doesn’t know, and she doesn’t like it. Leda moves forward to speak, but Tyndareus stops her.
“Sons of Atreus,” he says, and his voice is different, warmer somehow, “our country honors the bond between host and guest, and I will not be the one to break it.”
Agamemnon kneels, and Menelaus follows suit. For a second only, Clytemnestra sees her mother cast a look of utter surprise in her father’s direction. Then, before the brothers can rise and notice her, Clytemnestra leaves the room as silently as she can. Anger is rising inside her, burning her chest, but she doesn’t understand it.
*