“Why did Heracles fight for Tyndareus? What did he care?” Clytemnestra asked.
“Hippocoon hadn’t welcomed Heracles when he needed shelter in Sparta. So Heracles killed Hippocoon and his sons, and your father took back his throne.”
Clytemnestra understands now. Tyndareus hadn’t repeated Hippocoon’s mistake and turned away two warriors in need. Still, how can he not see that Agamemnon and Menelaus are cruel? That they lack honor? Her father has always been a good judge of character.
“Anyway, your father is angry today,” Leda says, interrupting her thoughts. “That is why he went hunting.”
There is an edge to her mother’s voice that makes Clytemnestra brace herself as if she is about to be hit. “Why?”
“The priestess just delivered a new prophecy.”
“Father doesn’t believe in prophecies.”
“Well, this time, he is annoyed.”
“Because he knows it is the truth,” a hoarse voice behind them says. Clytemnestra turns so quickly she almost strains her neck.
The priestess is walking toward the throne, her black hair parted in the middle, her feet moving as silently as leaves carried by a stream. Leda is sitting straight in her chair, revulsion plain on her face. It is no secret that she hates the priestess. A cruel woman, leeching off the strengths of others: that was what Leda called her when Clytemnestra asked her why she always left when the priestess entered the palace to speak to the king.
“Did someone summon you to the megaron?” Leda asks.
The priestess stops a few feet from them, her pale hands poking out of her sleeves like claws. “I came here to deliver the prophecy to your daughters.”
“Then no one summoned you,” Leda remarks.
The priestess ignores her. “Aphrodite is angry,” she tells Helen and Clytemnestra. “Your father never sacrifices to her.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be worshipping Artemis?” Clytemnestra asks.
The priestess glares at her. When she speaks again, her voice screeches like a blade against stone.
“Leda’s daughters will twice and thrice wed. And they will all be deserters of their lawful husbands.” She sets her eyes on them, the same look she gives her beasts before a sacrifice. “That is the prophecy.”
Clytemnestra stares at the priestess. Deserter of her husband? How can the priestess even think such a thing?
“It is the will of the gods,” the priestess says. “You will be despised by many, hated by others, and punished. But in the end, you will be free.”
Helen turns to her mother. She looks confused. The priestess has never delivered prophecies to them, much less about them. Leda puts a hand on Helen’s shoulder as if to protect her from the priestess. “You have spoken your prophecy,” she says. “Now leave.”
“You cannot give me orders, Leda, as you know,” the priestess retorts. Her eyes linger on the empty wine cup on the floor, and distaste runs over her face.
Leda stiffens. “You are not welcome in the palace. Go back to your temple.” Anger contorts her features, and her hand runs to the jeweled dagger she keeps at her waist, though she doesn’t draw it.
The priestess is not intimidated. She raises her chin and says, “You are the stranger here. Remember, I was in your husband’s bed long before you fell for that foreigner—” Her eyes settle on Helen.
“GET OUT!” Leda shouts, losing all self-control. “OUT! OR I WILL KILL YOU MYSELF. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
The priestess smirks. Leda closes her fingers around the handle of her dagger, and the priestess lingers as if to challenge her. Then she walks away, her feet bare and pale as the moon, her long tunic fluttering behind her. Leda storms down from the throne and follows her to the door, her eyes bloodshot.
“I DON’T CARE IF YOUR GODDESS IS ANGRY. SHE IS NOT MY GODDESS AND NEVER HAS BEEN!” she shouts after her.
The priestess disappears beyond the door, and Leda turns, breathless. Clytemnestra and Helen still stand by the throne, frozen.
“You two also leave,” Leda orders. “Now.”
“You always said anger was something to keep under control,” Helen says, defiance in her eyes. The priestess’s words are sinking in.
“I don’t care what I said. Leave.”
Clytemnestra takes her sister’s arm and drags her out. When she turns to look back, her mother has fallen to her knees, her head in her hands as if she is afraid it could break at any moment.
*
Leda doesn’t appear at dinner, and Helen and Clytemnestra don’t inquire. Helen eats slowly, lost in thought. Clytemnestra stares at the meat spread on her platter, though it makes her feel sick.
The evening is bright and cold. The last rays of the winter sun light the hall, and through the window, the mountains are sharply outlined, their peaks covered with sprinkles of snow. Timandra has been to the gymnasium during the day and is telling Phoebe and Philonoe all about the wrestling.
“Menelaus is so fierce he almost broke Lycamede’s head! Without weapons, just his fists! I saw it.” She shovels food into her mouth as she speaks, her face brimming with excitement. “Agamemnon waited until the end, then challenged the strongest man. I think he wanted to see them fight first so he could choose.”
“He’s as strong as a Spartan but smarter,” Tyndareus says. He cuts the pork on his platter into big, irregular shapes, then sticks his knife into a piece of meat.
“Why, Father?” Clytemnestra asks.
Tyndareus chews slowly, thinking. “He’s afraid of death,” he says and puts more pork into his mouth.
“How does that make a man smarter? The gods envy us because we’re mortal,” Helen says. Tyndareus ignores her and Helen looks down, her cheeks flushed.
Clytemnestra takes her hand across the table. “Agamemnon didn’t fight his cousin Aegisthus when he had the chance, even though Aegisthus had killed his father and usurped the throne of Mycenae. He ran away and took refuge here. That was a clever move—a guest is always sacred in Greece.”
Tyndareus nods. “He has patience, a quality few men possess. I’m sure he will have his revenge.”
The respect in her father’s voice annoys Clytemnestra, but she tries to ignore it.
“What about Menelaus?” Helen asks.
This time, Tyndareus acknowledges her question. “Menelaus is a powerful man, only eclipsed by his brother. Soon they will rise as heroes and gain their thrones.”
Clytemnestra sits back in her chair. If Agamemnon eclipses Menelaus, does Helen eclipse her? The most beautiful woman of all their lands: that is what Helen is called throughout Greece, while no one knows about Clytemnestra. But in Sparta, it is Clytemnestra who is most loved and respected. And when Tantalus had the chance, he chose her, not Helen. “Your sister is pretty, it’s true,” Tantalus told her once, “but something in her is tamed. You both have fire in your hearts, but she pours water over hers, while you add more logs to yours. That is beautiful.”
When she looks up, Helen is staring at her, her face changing in the firelight. Guilt seeps into her. She wonders if her sister can hear her thoughts, because Helen stands, her chair scraping.
“I am tired,” she says. “I will rest.”
*
The next morning, Clytemnestra decides to watch the Atreidai fight. Outside the palace, the air is as cold as a bronze blade pressed to the skin, and the bare trees look like arms stretching toward the sky. When she gets to the gymnasium, Leda is already there, sitting in a high-backed chair in a corner of the yard. Next to her, Timandra is polishing a spear, her knees and elbows muddy. When she sees her sister, she jumps up.
“Look,” she says. “They’re about to fight.”
On the wrestling ground, Agamemnon and a young Spartan boy are walking in a circle. They look like a lion and a wolf, Agamemnon with his long, wavy hair that falls onto his broad shoulders, the boy with his skinny, hairy body. And a lion is always stronger than a wolf—Clytemnestra knows that well. It fights alone, while a wolf needs its pack.
“That one is smart and quick,” says Timandra excitedly, pointing at the boy. “I’ve seen him fight.”