Clytemnestra hurries to the terrace, her heart beating fast, her palms damp. She stops just by the door that leads outside.
Dressed in a long lilac tunic that hides her lanky figure, Timandra is whispering into someone’s ear. Clytemnestra takes a step closer. It is a girl, with curly black hair that flows down her back and eyebrows shaped like a gull’s wings. The girl laughs at whatever Timandra is saying, then kisses her lips. Timandra kisses her back, her mouth opening with pleasure, her hands cupped gently around the girl’s neck.
“Timandra,” Clytemnestra says.
The girl jumps back and Timandra turns. She opens her mouth, and her hands tremble. Clytemnestra tries to keep her composure. “We are late,” she says.
Timandra nods, clutching one hand with the other to stop the shaking.
“Leave us,” Clytemnestra tells the girl, who runs away, terrified.
Because her hands won’t stop trembling, Timandra bites one. Clytemnestra reaches out and takes it into her own before walking her sister back inside.
“People can see you here,” she says.
Timandra opens her dark eyes wide. “Has anyone—”
“The sons of Atreus just passed.”
Timandra gasps in horror. “Please!”
Clytemnestra tightens the grip on her hand. “Don’t be sorry. If they say anything, you deny it. I will protect you.” They are at the entrance of the megaron now, the voices in the hall loud and clear. “But be careful, Timandra. You are not a child anymore.”
Before Timandra can nod, Clytemnestra drags her inside. The servants close the doors behind them, and Clytemnestra takes Timandra to one corner where Penelope is standing by herself, partially hidden by a column.
“Ah, here are my daughters,” Tyndareus says, his voice loud in the high-roofed hall. “We shall begin.”
The room suddenly falls silent, and the men turn to him, waiting.
“You will offer your gifts to Helen,” Tyndareus starts. Many kings whisper in confusion. They probably expected to present their gifts to Tyndareus, the king, not his beautiful daughter. “But before you do that,” Tyndareus continues, “I have been told that this gathering may cause some trouble.”
Diomedes scoffs. Ajax and Teucer frown, flexing their arms menacingly. Menoetius mutters, “We have been deceived,” a little too loudly. Agamemnon looks at the throne, his face indecipherable, while Menelaus whispers in his ear.
Tyndareus ignores them. “It is only fair that before each of you gives his precious treasure to court my daughter, you accept that she will choose only one man.”
Some princes look back at Tyndareus as though he were stating the obvious, but the faintest trace of understanding is now spreading over Agamemnon’s face. Clytemnestra understands too. Her father is trying to avoid a war against the rejected suitors.
“But surely, king of Sparta,” the old Nestor says, looking around, “you trust these heroes?”
“I do,” Tyndareus says calmly. “But I have been told that last night there was a fight after someone boasted he would be Helen’s husband. Nothing serious,” he adds as everyone cranes their neck to see who it might have been, “though it suggested that many of you may not accept rejection.”
Ajax’s face is purple with fury. Next to him, Menestheus, king of Athens, a short man with beady eyes, is staring at Tyndareus as though ready to slice his throat.
“I do not wish to give grounds for a quarrel, so I offer you an option. If you want to stay here and present your gift to my daughter, you will also swear an oath.”
“An oath?” Idomeneus asks, frowning.
“Yes. An oath that you will accept Helen’s choice and that you will support and defend her husband should he need help in the future.”
Nobody moves. Suddenly the air feels suffocating and the room hums with unspoken violence. Then Menelaus steps forward. His flaming red hair glows as he bows to Tyndareus. When he looks up, Tyndareus nods, and Menelaus walks to the dais where Helen is sitting.
“I will swear the oath,” he says, staring at her with his golden eyes. “I will respect your choice.” Helen blushes but manages to keep her face still. “This is my gift for you, princess of Sparta.” As Menelaus shows the tunic, Clytemnestra can’t help but admire the figures woven on it: King Minos and Queen Pasipha? of Crete in their palace of dancers and traders, their daughter Ariadne kneeling beside them. Penelope casts a worried look at Clytemnestra.
The other suitors move forward.
One by one, they walk to the dais and bow, swearing the oath and presenting their gift: golden bowls, a shield decorated with copper leaves and flowers, a double-headed Cretan ax.
“That was a smart move,” Clytemnestra whispers in Penelope’s ear as the suitors keep pledging their allegiance.
“Making them swear an oath?”
“Yes. I wonder who suggested it to Father.”
“That would be me.”
The two women turn. Odysseus is behind them, a half smile on his face.
“You?” Clytemnestra asks, more angrily than she wants to.
“Yes,” Odysseus says, his voice low to make sure others don’t hear.
“Why would you suggest such a thing if you have to swear an oath yourself?” Penelope asks.
“Ah,” Odysseus says. “But I am not swearing anything as a suitor. You see, Agamemnon is not the only clever man here.” He stops because Clytemnestra snorts. “He is clever, as much as you hate him.” When she shrugs, he goes on. “I have no wish to risk everything just to court one woman, especially when the world is full of them.”
“So?” Clytemnestra frowns.
“So what?”
“What’s in it for you? What do you gain by telling Tyndareus this?”
Odysseus grins, shaking his hands. They are ruined, fit to work in the fields, not the hands of a prince.
“I have asked Tyndareus for something in return, but he told me it was not his decision to make.”
“Well, what is it?” Clytemnestra asks. She is getting impatient, as the line of heroes courting her sister is about to end. Idomeneus is now kneeling in front of Helen, his painted face almost touching the floor.
Odysseus steps closer, positioning himself between Clytemnestra and Penelope.
“It is you, Penelope,” he says. As he says her name, his voice is warmer for a second, soft. “I wish to marry you.”
Penelope stands silent. Her face has a stubborn look that Clytemnestra knows too well. “You wish to marry me, yet you came here to court another woman?”
Odysseus waves his hand casually. “I never intended to marry Helen. I did not even bring a gift and did not think I stood a chance. My land is barren and my property smaller than any of these kings’.”
“Why come, then?”
Odysseus shrugs. “I wanted to see what everyone was talking about. But as you may have noticed, I am not interested in beauty, if it comes alone. I wish to marry you because you seem a clever woman.”
Penelope stares straight ahead. “I will think about it, son of Laertes. But this is neither the right time nor the place. The suitors are done.”
She is right. The room is silent again. Leda seems tired, Tyndareus agitated. Next to Helen is a high pile of gifts, bronze, gold, and painted amphorae glistening under the torches.
“You have all sworn,” Tyndareus claims, standing. “Now, Helen, choose the man you desire as your husband.”
Clytemnestra feels a flutter of panic in her chest, but Penelope’s unflinching gaze reassures her. She has just taken a deep, calming breath when Helen speaks.
“I choose Menelaus, son of Atreus.”
*