When she sat on the bed, Helen seemed already asleep, so she lay down in the dark and pulled the covers over her.
“They played dice,” Helen said suddenly, her voice so low that Clytemnestra barely heard her. “They played dice and Theseus won. So he had me for himself.”
Clytemnestra stayed silent. She rolled over to Helen’s side and put an arm around her. She forced herself to stay awake all night. When dawn came, she collapsed, her arm numb but still wrapped around her sister.
*
The day after their fight, Clytemnestra doesn’t know where to go. She paces the room, eager to scream or break something. But all she seems able to do is walk, her restless feet stepping back and forth, back and forth. There is a buzz in her head, and she can’t think clearly. She splashes her face with cold water and leaves the room to find her sister.
As she passes the busy servants and sweaty boys coming from practice, her mind twists. Maybe Helen isn’t angry any more. Maybe she has understood that it isn’t Clytemnestra’s fault. Maybe she has spoken to their mother, who has explained why she kept Helen’s father a secret. The possibilities are like broken rafts, barely keeping her afloat in a stormy sea.
Under the trees that surround the wrestling ground, a wounded boy is sitting at the physician’s feet. The man is cleaning the boy’s temple, where the skin is swollen, a hard dark lump protruding like a sea rock. Next to them, Helen is grinding herbs, her brow furrowed in concentration.
When she sees her sister, she stops grinding but doesn’t walk away from the physician.
“Helen,” Clytemnestra says, unable to find any other word.
Her sister shakes her head. She is looking at her but not really seeing her. Her eyes are blank. Clytemnestra winces, feeling denied. Helen has never looked at her like that, not once. She is usually watching her, intent, as a hunter watches the trees for the slightest movement.
“Can we—?” she starts, but Helen interrupts her.
“You should have told me the truth,” she says coldly.
She is right, and Clytemnestra has nothing to say to that. She considers replying “I did it to protect you,” but that would sound foolish.
She feels all happiness flowing away from her, as water drips to the ground when a soaked tunic is squeezed. She turns her back to Helen and walks away.
*
Days pass. Winter becomes colder and windier. The water in the Eurotas freezes, and children play on it. The days are dark and the trees are bare.
Clytemnestra has never felt so alone. She yearns for her husband. He must have arrived in Maeonia by now, sitting on his gilded throne, announcing his marriage and heir. Clytemnestra imagines the faces of the men around him, their reactions. She can see their glittering clothes and jewels, precious fabrics and perfumed oils. Then she thinks of Tantalus’s hands on the back of her neck, his arms around her belly, and her stomach tightens with longing.
Timandra is the only one who gives her solace. She often accompanies Clytemnestra to the megaron now, sitting with her and Tyndareus as commoners make their requests. In the high-roofed hall, she listens, learns, and often whispers in Clytemnestra’s ear, eager to speak her mind and make her own suggestions.
“You are too young,” Clytemnestra says.
“I am only three years younger than you,” Timandra reminds her. Though her body remains lean and athletic, like a child’s, her face has grown older, more mature. Her eyes are dark as a starless night, her hair brown like hazel bark.
“Just listen for now,” Clytemnestra orders.
“But you never listen when others tell you to keep silent,” Timandra points out. Clytemnestra laughs and even Tyndareus smiles, amused by his daughter’s remark.
It is late afternoon and they have been listening to the people’s requests for hours. The fire of the hearth smokes thickly and the hall is too warm.
It is then that Menelaus comes in, alone. The sunset light falls on him, on his flaming red hair, the color of fire sparks in the darkness. He places his bronze sword aside on the floor, a sign of respect, and walks closer to the throne. Clytemnestra bites her lip. She is wary of his kindness, of the way he always bows to Tyndareus. He reminds her of Theseus when he first arrived in Sparta—handsome and violent, arrogant but respectful.
“I was not expecting you, Menelaus,” Tyndareus says mildly. “I thought you would be in the gymnasium.”
Menelaus smiles. His eyes are golden brown, like Agamemnon’s, but the look in them is not as hard. “I have come to ask for your help.”
“And your brother?” Tyndareus asks.
“He will be here soon. I have two requests, and one is best made by myself alone.”
Tyndareus nods and calls a servant forward. “Bring us water and food,” he orders. Then to Menelaus, “I will listen to your requests, son of Atreus, but let us also eat something. The day has been long.” The servant disappears from the hall and runs back again shortly after, a silver basin in one arm, for the rinsing of the hands, and a platter with meat and cheese in the other. Timandra, who was standing and untangling her hair, restless, sits quietly on the stool next to Clytemnestra.
Tyndareus grabs a piece of fat loin and asks, “Tell me, Menelaus, what do you want?”
Menelaus doesn’t hesitate before speaking. “Your daughter.”
Timandra gasps, and Clytemnestra instinctively lifts one hand to her stomach. Tyndareus turns to her, chewing, then back to Menelaus. “Which daughter?” he asks.
Menelaus frowns. He looks at Clytemnestra and Timandra, as if only just realizing they are here as well. Then, with a tone that suggests the obvious, says, “Helen.”
“I see.” Tyndareus spits the bone onto the platter.
“I hear she is ready for marriage and I would make her the queen of Mycenae, which, as you well know, is among the richest of cities.”
“I see,” Tyndareus repeats. He brings a hand to his temple as if easing a headache, showing the wrinkly scar on the back of his hand from when, as a young man, he was training, fighting wolves in the forest.
“What do you say, Tyndareus?” Menelaus asks.
“In Sparta, it is women who choose their husbands as often as not,” Tyndareus points out.
Menelaus seems taken aback, though he quickly composes himself. “I have heard that. But I don’t think it would be a problem.”
“She would never choose you,” Clytemnestra says before she can contain herself.
Menelaus lets his eyes rest on her. Timandra bends toward her as if to whisper something in her ear, but Clytemnestra stops her with a gesture of her hand. She wants to listen to the men.
“Even if Helen wanted you,” Tyndareus says, “her beauty is known throughout our lands. Many suitors, all over Greece, are waiting for the moment she is ready for marriage.”
“Summon them all, then,” Menelaus says, “and let Helen choose.”
There is silence. His words echo in the back of Clytemnestra’s head. Here he stands, believing himself superior to anyone else, believing he can have Helen. She almost laughs. Again, Timandra leans toward her, eager to speak, but Clytemnestra squeezes her sister’s hand, telling her to know her place.
“I will do that,” Tyndareus concedes. “I will send word that Helen is ripe for marriage and ask all suitors to come to Sparta. But even then, you would have no lands or riches to offer. When you first came here, you told me you had a plan to take back Mycenae. You have been my guests a whole season, and Mycenae is not yours yet.”
“You are right,” Menelaus says. “This brings me to my second request.”
Before he can speak further, Agamemnon enters the hall. He looks at the sword his brother put down but keeps his own hunting blade at his waist. He was eavesdropping, Clytemnestra realizes. As he takes his place next to Menelaus, she forces herself to look up, into Agamemnon’s hard eyes. He ignores her presence.