Timandra stabs the wooden table with her knife. Everyone is looking at her now.
“What were they doing?” Tyndareus asks, staring at Timandra.
“They were close,” she says. “They were talking and—”
“And what were you doing there, Phoebe?” interrupts Clytemnestra. “Aren’t you ashamed of spying on your sister like that?”
Phoebe looks down, her eyes wet with shame. Timandra seems on the verge of tears too, but nothing comes out of her eyes. Spartan girls never cry, let alone for such a reason.
“Dinner is over,” Leda says before her husband can speak. “Away, all of you.”
Timandra knocks over her chair and runs outside. As she does so, her mother shouts, “And behave yourself! You are women now—you are expected to behave, not to do as you please!”
*
In ten days’ time, an envoy arrives at the palace. He is taken inside quickly and meets Tyndareus, Leda, and Clytemnestra in the megaron. His tunic is ragged and his skin covered with sweat and dirt.
“My king,” he says, panting, “I bring news from Mycenae.” His voice is cracked: he must have ridden fast without stopping.
“Bring him some water,” Tyndareus orders.
The messenger looks up at him gratefully, and when a servant girl gives him a cup of diluted wine, he drinks it all.
Tyndareus leans forward. “Speak.”
“The city has fallen back into the hands of the Atreidai. Lord Thyestes has been executed. His son Aegisthus has fled.”
Clytemnestra watches her father, but his face is impenetrable.
“Very well,” Tyndareus says. He turns to the servants, dutifully waiting by the door. “Bring this man to the tubs, wash him, and give him a warm tunic.”
“Thank you,” the envoy says, bowing.
When he has left, Tyndareus relaxes against the back of his chair. “I knew they would take the city back.”
“You said so,” Leda says.
“They are great warriors.”
Leda turns to Clytemnestra, then back to her husband. “You know we disagree on that.”
Clytemnestra feels the baby kicking and brings a hand to her belly to soothe him. It is over, she tells herself. You will never see them again. But the more she repeats it, the more she feels this is not the truth.
9
The Flaming-Haired and the Many-Minded
A WOMAN IS riding along the twisting shape of the Eurotas, alone. Two Spartan guards follow her from the palace, their eyes fixed on the face hidden behind a veil, on the cloak flapping in the wind. She passes the yellow patches of burned grass, the hard ground surrounding the fields, and the rocky terrain at the foot of the palace. There, close to the gate, Clytemnestra is waiting for her. The woman sees her and dismounts the gray horse. She walks closer to Clytemnestra, her steps slow and steady. Finally, she draws off her veil, revealing brown-streaked hair and clever dark eyes.
“Welcome back, Penelope.”
Penelope smiles, her eyes on her cousin’s pregnant belly. “Did Uncle Tyndareus send you here? He knew I was coming.”
“I came of my own accord,” Clytemnestra says, holding out a hand to her. “Come. You must be tired.”
*
She takes Penelope to the gynaeceum to wash and rest before dinner. They walk along the dark corridors, deserted at this hour of the afternoon, until they reach the baths. Two clay tubs have already been prepared by servants. Both women start undressing, the torchlight caressing their bodies, one darker and swollen, the other paler and softer. Penelope lets her cloak and tunic fall onto the cold floor, then reaches out to touch Clytemnestra’s belly. It ripples as the baby kicks.
“Not long until he is born,” Penelope says.
“A couple of months.”
Penelope peers down at herself as if looking for changes. But her skin is still pale, her curves soft. She feels the temperature of the water with her fingertips. “Have any of the kings come yet?” she asks.
Clytemnestra can’t help but think of Helen, always pulling back from cold water. “No. Most of them will arrive tomorrow.”
“You know why Icarius sent me here?”
“To find a husband, I presume.”
“Yes.” Penelope smirks. “He wants me to marry a man who comes to Sparta to court another woman. Isn’t that pathetic?”
“It is,” Clytemnestra agrees. She sinks into the water, the ends of her hair tickling her shoulders.
“The palace seems quiet without your brothers,” Penelope says, wetting her arms and face. “I imagine they won’t be back soon.”
“Many things have changed since you left.”
Penelope gazes at her. “Like the fact that you and Helen are not speaking?” Her sweet face is sharper in the shadows of the torchlight. “You were always together before,” she adds.
They are silent for a while, the water in the bath cradling them.
“She wants to marry the son of Atreus, Menelaus,” Clytemnestra says finally.
“That would be unfortunate,” Penelope says. “The family is cursed, their crimes bloody and unforgivable.”
Clytemnestra doesn’t say anything. She already knows this.
“Do you think Menelaus will come and court her?” Penelope asks.
“I am afraid he will, yes.”
“Let me talk to her,” Penelope says, confident. “I will persuade her.”
Clytemnestra thinks about it. She hates to admit that her own sister would listen to Penelope rather than to her. But it is for a good cause. She gives a small nod, and Penelope smiles.
*
Kings start arriving the next afternoon. A thin layer of snow covers the plain; it is one of the coldest days the valley has ever seen. From the terrace in front of the main hall, Clytemnestra and Penelope watch mules and horses travel to the palace, their packs heavy with gifts.
Nestor and his son Antilochus are among the first to arrive. They recognize the man from his thin white beard—he is old and his wisdom whispered to be legendary. His son seems no more than twenty, and his skin is brown like copper. Their city, the sandy Pylos, is washed by the sea, with burned yellow grass and water as blue as a cloudless sky.
“And that is Diomedes,” Penelope says, pointing at a small group of men barely visible on the other side of the valley. They are ten soldiers, their armor glistening, all gathered around a man on a black stallion.
“How do you know?” Clytemnestra asks. She squints but can’t see the man properly.
Penelope shrugs. “I guessed. Argos is in that direction.”
They spend all afternoon on the terrace, looking left and right, jumping excitedly whenever they spot a new crew. They see Menoetius and his son, who looks no older than a child; Ajax the Lesser from Locris; Menestheus, king of Athens, a long column of soldiers behind him.
And then, traveling from the port, Ajax the Great and his cousin Teucer from the island of Salamis; soldiers escorting a Cretan prince, their shields with the symbol of a double ax engraved on them; Ephenor from the large island of Euboea, an important source of grain and cattle, the crucial junction between Greece and the East; a man traveling with only two guards coming from what Penelope recognizes as Ithaca, a small island of rocks and goats to the west.
“Who is the king of Ithaca?” Clytemnestra asks.
“I don’t think I have ever heard of him. Laertes, maybe? But he is too old now surely. His son may have succeeded him.”
Clytemnestra thinks of Ithaca, so small that others don’t care to remember it. It must be horrible to live on a forgotten island until you are old and wrinkled. Laertes’s son must crave the honor of marriage to the daughter of Tyndareus.
The last to arrive are the men from Thessaly, a land far north, farther than Delphi even. Among them are Machaon, expert in the art of healing, and the archer Philoctetes, an old man with thick gray hair, like sheep’s wool. They sway on their tired donkeys, their bags of food almost empty after the long journey.
As the sun sets, the servants call for Penelope and Clytemnestra. When they finally leave the terrace to ready themselves for dinner, their hands are chapped, their eyes watering in the cold.