After that, everything is very quiet. Menelaus steps forward again, at the foot of Tyndareus’s throne, a triumphant smile widening on his handsome face. Tyndareus rises from the high-backed chair and pats his new son-in-law on the shoulder while the other suitors stare, rage boiling beneath the skin. Clytemnestra watches them, angry figures thrumming with brutality. A sense of repulsion takes hold of her as she sees the men clench their fists and their teeth. They have the look of predators when another takes their meat right before their eyes.
“Silly girl,” Clytemnestra hears Odysseus say quietly. For once, he doesn’t seem amused. Penelope is gaping at Helen, incredulous. Clytemnestra has never seen her so shocked.
“Thank you for your many gifts, kings and princes,” Tyndareus says. “Sparta will not forget them.”
Kings can recognize a dismissal. One by one, they walk away, emptying the hall of its violence, until only fear remains. Clytemnestra turns to watch Helen, though the sight causes her unbearable pain. She is pale, like someone who has taken poison and is waiting for death.
Menelaus walks to her, beside the frescoed hunters and their dying prey, and takes her hand. Feeling an old instinct stuck to life, Clytemnestra almost wants to step forward, but her father and Agamemnon are staring at her, so she wipes all expression from her face and walks away, past the hearth and the columns, the painted swans and deer. Out of the hall, she casts a glance over her shoulder, but Agamemnon has already closed the door behind them. Her sister is beyond her help now.
10
Sweat and Blood
WEEKS PASS AND the winter ice melts. The air smells of the earth as kings and princes leave the palace of Sparta, and the sun grows warmer. Philoctetes and Machaon are the last to ride away, their donkeys swaying under the weight of bread, cheese wheels, and other food supplies.
The suitors leave, but Odysseus and the Atreidai remain. The son of Laertes spends much time with Penelope and Clytemnestra, wandering around the palace, laughing and telling stories. He doesn’t press Penelope about the marriage, and she doesn’t give him any answer. But she studies him, her gentle eyes always on him, never missing a move.
When they walk to the edge of the forest, Odysseus shows them which plants have moist roots and which berries are venomous. When they visit the craftsmen’s workshops and stores around the palace, he teaches them carpentry, which he enjoys at home in Ithaca. He tells them everything about goat’s milk, cheese, and butter, how to make and store it. Penelope listens eagerly and Clytemnestra relaxes, thinking of her husband and his wonderful myths. Odysseus and Tantalus tell different tales, but they both speak clearly and passionately, and they have the gift of making interesting to others whatever delights them.
For a few weeks, the three are inseparable. They collect wood for fires as the sun sinks beyond the mountains and the rooms of the palace grow cold. They touch Clytemnestra’s belly and speak to it, telling her child stories while she feels him kicking softly, eager to participate.
Her stomach has grown so large it is difficult to sleep. She spends the nights staring at the cold moon, thinking about her baby. She imagines dark hair and ocean eyes like his father’s and a voice so sweet it makes her heart melt. Tantalus must be on his brightly painted ship by now, coming to take them with him. Each night she waits, and each morning she goes to the megaron to see if messengers have brought any news.
She knows Helen is always watching her. When her sister is not caring for Phoebe and Philonoe, she follows Menelaus around the palace, a sad expression on her face. Sometimes she lingers by the terrace and stares at Clytemnestra, Penelope, and Odysseus from afar as they walk by the river, holding each other’s hands and trying not to slip on the muddy banks. Clytemnestra wonders if she thinks them happy.
*
She is cutting salted meat in the dining hall when Timandra enters. Penelope is resting, and Odysseus has gone hunting with Tyndareus, Agamemnon, and Menelaus. Apart from a servant boy dusting the weapons that hang on the walls, she is alone. When she hears her sister, Clytemnestra turns. Timandra’s features are changing. Her chest is still flat and her hips narrow, but her face is leaner, her dark eyes bigger. “You look different,” Clytemnestra says, smiling.
Timandra frowns. “How?”
“Older. Prettier.”
Timandra flushes. She fixes the animal fur around her shoulders. “I won a match today,” she says, her voice strangely expressionless.
“Good,” Clytemnestra says, then notices that Timandra isn’t smiling. “What is it?”
“I had to fight my friend. Father forced me to do it.” Her voice cracks. Clytemnestra remembers the girl with curly black hair, her lips on her sister’s. “We were always a team before,” Timandra adds.
Clytemnestra casts a glance at the servant boy. He seems buried deep in his work and uninterested in the girls’ conversation.
“Is your friend hurt?” she asks quietly.
Timandra looks down and her brown hair falls around her face, covering her shame. “Yes. I had to.”
“I understand. Did you hurt her so that Father would think you do not like her?”
Timandra nods. When she looks up, her eyes are as dark as a well.
“You should go to her,” Clytemnestra says. “You should go now. I will cover for you.”
Timandra falters a little. “But you know it is not right.”
“I don’t know what is wrong and what is right. How could I? We are young. But if you want to go to her, then go. Do it while you still can. You know you will have to marry one day.”
Timandra nods sadly. “If Father learns of this, he will punish me.”
“He will. So ask yourself, is it worth it?”
“Yes.” Timandra speaks with no hesitation, her voice bold, eyes wide.
Clytemnestra smiles. “What is her name? Your friend.”
“Chrysanthe,” Timandra says, and her gaze sweetens suddenly, like a peach under the sun. Golden flower, the name means.
“It is beautiful,” Clytemnestra says. “Now hurry.”
Timandra is out of the hall in a flash, silent and quick as a breath of wind. Clytemnestra resumes eating, thinking of the curly-haired girl, Timandra punching her on the wrestling ground. She can see her sister’s fierceness—she is among the strongest warriors of her age—and Chrysanthe’s helplessness, Timandra’s anger and Chrysanthe’s pain. The images taste of sorrow. This is the life she has always known: an endless chain of brutality, with strength, pride, and beauty only bursting from the blood that someone else has spilled—nothing precious can ever blossom on a barren earth. Maybe that is why she chose Tantalus. His world seems much more hopeful than what she has always been forced to believe. And if everything he told her about Maeonia is true, her baby won’t have to be beaten to learn, to be whipped if he disobeys.
The servant boy is done with the cleaning. He bows to Clytemnestra as he leaves. She stands to follow him, but Odysseus is by the door, leaning against the jamb. There are fresh cuts on his face, and he is still holding his hunting blade.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he says.
“Is the hunt over already?”
He shrugs. “We killed a small boar. I brought it back. The others wanted to go on hunting, but a storm is coming. Soon they will be drenched and the forest will be a mud lake.” He comes to the table and sits. Clytemnestra looks outside, and sure enough, the sky is gray and the air already smells of rain.
“Do you want to wake Penelope?” she asks.
“No. I wish to speak to you alone.” He gives her his handsome smile, and his gray eyes twinkle.
“Speak, then.”
“Your sister Timandra has interesting tastes,” he says.
Clytemnestra pours herself some wine. “Like everyone else.”
“I don’t think so, no.”
Clytemnestra stares at him. It is useless to hide meanings in her words with Odysseus: best to cut straight to the point. That always bothers and amuses him. “You are right. She has interesting tastes. What do you care about it?”
“I don’t, really. I just think she should be more careful. Other men wouldn’t approve.”
“And do you approve?”
He sits back in his chair, leaning on the carved arm. “Young men often lie with their companions,” he says. “Why shouldn’t women do the same?”