“Ah, Agamemnon,” Tyndareus says wearily. “Help yourself to some food.”
The servant walks out of the shadows once again, holding the meat platter out to Agamemnon, who picks up the bone Tyndareus spat out earlier, moves it aside, and swallows a piece of cheese. “It is time to take back Mycenae,” he says. “We cannot wait any longer.”
“I agree,” Tyndareus says. “It must be done before the people get used to their new king.”
“Thyestes is no king,” Menelaus points out, but Agamemnon silences his brother with a look.
“You have been a generous host, Tyndareus,” Agamemnon says. “And it pains us to ask for one more favor, but I assure you that we will pay you back ten times more.”
Tyndareus lifts his eyebrows, waiting. When Agamemnon doesn’t speak further, he says, “I can’t give you my army.”
Agamemnon shakes his head, a cold smile on his face. “All we need is your blessing and ten of your best men.”
*
The plan is ingenious—even Clytemnestra is forced to admit it. Agamemnon chooses ten warriors, the best and fastest climbers. With the Atreidai, they will ride to Mycenae, hide the horses far enough from the citadel, and climb the city walls. The entrance to Mycenae, the Lion Gate, is impossible to penetrate without raising the alarm, as Menelaus explains, but once inside the walls, they will run in the narrow streets of the lower part of the city, where the people live. They will slaughter the guards who hide in the alleyways, then climb to the higher part of the citadel, up to the palace. When Clytemnestra mentions that the people might raise the alarm, Agamemnon shakes his head. “The people hate Thyestes,” he explains. “They will be faithful to us.”
“And if they are not?” Tyndareus asks.
“We will kill them before they can run.”
Clytemnestra thinks about his words. It shocks her that, for the Atreidai, one life is worth the same as another. In Sparta, she has grown up knowing that equality is a product of nature and that some men and women are homoioi, the same, while others are not. It has been hard for her to watch Spartans kill helots for offenses no greater than walking past them, but she endured it, thinking it was the only possible way of life. But Agamemnon and Menelaus speak of killing men without regard to their status and origin. No life matters to them, apart from their own.
She walks the twisting corridors of the palace, her hands on her belly, her legs sore. They will leave, she tells herself and the baby. They will leave and never come back. A small smile breaks across her face. She feels the soft curve under her hand: soon it will start to show through her tunics as well. And the more her baby grows, the closer she is to Tantalus.
She steps into the dining hall, eager for a drink. The room is empty except for Timandra, who is sitting with her feet on the table, gobbling bread and salted fish.
“If Leda sees you like this, she’ll have you whipped,” Clytemnestra says.
Timandra swallows a big bite of fish, taking a bone out of her teeth. “I doubt it,” she says. “Besides, she does the same when she is in here alone.”
Clytemnestra takes a cup and pours herself some diluted wine.
“Can I tell you now?” Timandra asks.
“Tell me what?”
“I tried to speak to you in the megaron, but you wouldn’t let me.”
“It was important to listen to what Menelaus had to say.”
“Yes,” Timandra replies. “But I saw something the other day.” She takes a fig and bites into it, the dark flesh opening under her teeth. As she does so, she casts a look at Clytemnestra, a look that suggests she enjoys having a secret, something others long to know too.
“What did you see?” Clytemnestra asks.
“Helen with Menelaus.”
Clytemnestra chokes on the wine. Timandra laughs but then, catching her sister’s expression, turns serious quickly.
“They were together near the orchards outside the palace,” she adds.
“Did you hear what they were saying?”
“Menelaus said that as soon as he took Mycenae back, he would give her a rich purple-dyed cloth, something from Crete, I think.”
Clytemnestra stands, even though her body is hurting. “And what did Helen say?”
Timandra shrugs. “I don’t remember. It was cold and I was in a hurry—I had to meet someone else.” Clytemnestra sees the disappointment in her sister’s eyes when she doesn’t ask about her meeting. She turns to leave but Timandra says, “I am telling you this because I think Menelaus is right. Helen might choose him.”
Clytemnestra nods, even though she doesn’t understand or believe any of it. She needs to talk to her sister.
*
For a long time after Theseus took her, Helen would wake up screaming. For a few moments, before she understood that she was safe in bed with her sister, her body would twist and struggle as if she was being tortured. Clytemnestra never left her side. She held her wrist, feeling her pulse climbing, and lifted her hands to her sister’s cheeks.
“He has come again,” Helen would always say. Clytemnestra could see that her mind was somewhere else, still imprisoned in her dream. “I fight, but he finds a way to knock me down.”
To keep the pain at bay, Clytemnestra would dream of taking down Theseus. How handsome he looked, how gifted, yet for what? Heroes like him are made of greed and cruelty: they take and take until the world around them is stripped of its beauty.
“Something bad will happen tomorrow,” Helen said when she was back with her sister. “It always does when I dream about him.”
Clytemnestra shook her head. “Dreams are dreams. They don’t become real unless you give them power.” So Helen would fall asleep again.
But one night, the dream felt so real that Helen woke and ran outside, leaving the palace behind. Clytemnestra followed her, barefoot, the wet grass dirtying her soles, the moon pale and shy in the mournful sky. Helen darted across the plain until she reached the temple of Artemis, sobbing and panting. There, close to the spring spilling water, like a cascade of tears, she sat down and hugged her knees. Clytemnestra watched her, thinking of the priestess’s words, “It would be an honor for any girl to lie with Theseus.” All lies.
“What happened? Has someone hurt you?”
Clytemnestra turned and Polydeuces was there, fear dancing in his eyes, a spear in his hand. He must have heard them running outside.
“It’s Theseus,” Clytemnestra said. “He comes to her in her dreams.”
He sighed with relief and put down the spear. “You mustn’t cry, Helen. Theseus is gone.” He never used that patient tone with anyone else.
“It still hurts,” Helen whispered, and Clytemnestra knew she was speaking neither of the memory nor of the dream. It was her body that still hurt.
Polydeuces knelt next to her. “I understand—”
“No, Polydeuces,” Helen snapped back, a flicker of fury in her bright eyes. “You don’t. How could you?” You’re a man.
She didn’t say it, but Clytemnestra heard it. Sometimes she could feel Helen’s pain in her own body, her sister’s sadness wearing her down. It was as if their hearts were beating together, as if they’d learned to keep in rhythm after all this time spent side by side.
Polydeuces clenched his fists, then pressed his hands to his face as if trying to erase the thought of Helen’s pain from his mind. Clytemnestra lowered herself next to him. They exchanged a look, then reached out to their sister. Helen’s skin felt thin and precious under their touch, like a butterfly’s wing. She looked up at them, face streaked with tears.
“Helen,” Clytemnestra said, “you’re safe now because we are with you.” And we love you. She didn’t need to say it, because she knew her sister could hear her too.
*