*
For a long time, there is darkness. Her sister never leaves her, not even when Clytemnestra pushes her away. Helen keeps talking to her about the wind that can’t bend the strongest trees, about the heroes who are never forgotten, about bird songs carrying the word of the dead. She keeps talking to Clytemnestra to remind her to stay in the world of the living.
“Think of all the golden masks made for our heroes. The goldsmiths will prepare one for Tantalus, as beautiful as his face, and under it he will sink into the most peaceful sleep,” Helen says.
All Clytemnestra can think of is the image of Tantalus’s body dragged through his own blood, the feel of his lifeless hands, too cold in her own. Agamemnon’s stare as he cleaned her husband’s blood from his sword. He knew he had broken her, but there was no regret on his face.
Her boy, dead in the arms of Leda. His little body was motionless, his turquoise eyes closed. Clytemnestra wanted to touch him, shake him, wrap herself around him. But arms held her, her sisters’, keeping her away, rocking her.
Outside the windows, life goes on, its sounds scratching the sky like claws. Clouds form, then scatter. In the night, the stars twinkle and swim in the sorrowful sky. When Clytemnestra falls asleep, Helen lights the lamps and covers her sister with thick blankets.
Clytemnestra dreams about something that happened a long time before: when she was seven, she witnessed a fight in the gymnasium when a young boy’s neck was broken by another Spartan, an accident. The boy was left in the burning sand, like a bird with crushed wings, until his mother came and cried to the gods. He died fighting, Tyndareus said.
Clytemnestra wakes from the dream, sweat and tears streaming down her face. “My boy didn’t die fighting,” she whispers.
*
Timandra brings her food, but Clytemnestra doesn’t touch it. She is sitting by the window, listening to voices rise and fall from the village. The tears on her cheeks have dried and there is a coldness in her, grief freezing into anger.
“You should eat,” Timandra says. Her voice is so soft it doesn’t even sound like hers.
“She won’t,” Helen says from her corner of the room. “I have tried.”
Clytemnestra’s head sinks into her palms. She doesn’t see the point in eating. She doesn’t see the point in anything. Nothing she can do will bring back those she has lost.
Timandra steps forward cautiously. “Their bodies have been washed and burned,” she says. “Their ashes are safe in the royal tomb. Together.”
And there they will rot and be forgotten. The worst fate of all, to fade and wither into obscurity. Clytemnestra wanted to clean Tantalus’s body, to dress him in his best tunic, but Tyndareus wouldn’t let her out of her room. She feels something tearing under her skin as she thinks of another woman laying out her husband’s body, touching him and mourning him. Was it her mother? Was it a servant?
“Agamemnon wasn’t alone in planning this,” Timandra says after a long pause.
Clytemnestra’s head jerks up. She looks at her younger sister. “My own father betrayed me,” Clytemnestra says. Helen stirs a little, surprised to hear it.
“He did,” Timandra says. “But others supported Agamemnon. Some servants and Cynisca.”
“Cynisca,” Helen repeats, frowning.
“Yes.” Timandra looks tentatively at Clytemnestra before going on. “She followed me in the street. She hit my head and left me unconscious so I wouldn’t come to help.”
Clytemnestra stands, her palms sweating. She takes the bowl of food and starts eating the bread, slowly. Timandra and Helen look at each other, torn between fear and relief.
“Why would Cynisca do such a thing?” Helen asks.
“She wants Agamemnon,” Clytemnestra says before Timandra can speak.
“Yes,” Timandra agrees. “I think he has promised her that he will take her to Mycenae with him.”
“He would never do that,” Helen points out, frowning. “Agamemnon will not settle for anyone less than a princess.”
“Cynisca is among the Spartiates,” Timandra says. “Her family is rich, her father a renowned warrior.”
Helen shrugs. “Outside Sparta, no one cares who she is. Agamemnon will never marry her.”
“I hope he will,” Clytemnestra says quietly. “Monsters deserve each other.” The bread tastes sour in her mouth. She waits a moment, then adds, “Do you know the servants who went to Tantalus and brought him to Agamemnon?”
Timandra nods.
“Good. Bring them to me.”
*
The next morning, Clytemnestra pulls a mantle over her head and follows Timandra to the kitchen. It is still early, and the sun’s fingers are cold and shy. The palace is strangely quiet, the corridors empty. Their steps echo softly, the sound floating in the dim light.
“Come back,” Helen pleads, hurrying to match Clytemnestra’s pace. “Let someone else do it.” She has been running after her sisters all the way from the gynaeceum, grabbing Clytemnestra’s arm, tears swimming in her eyes.
Clytemnestra shakes her away. “Keep guard outside,” she orders. “Don’t let Tyndareus come.” Or the Atreidai.
Inside the kitchen, under the feeble light of a single lamp, two servants are kneeling by the sacks of barley, their hands and feet tied. They are staring at the stone floor, bare-chested, shivering. Timandra walks to them and kicks them. They look up, their dark eyes shiny, the skin stretched on their cheekbones. Their faces are already like skulls.
“Where are the women?” Clytemnestra asks. Almonds and nuts are scattered on the wooden table, as if left by someone in a hurry. Overripe apricots in a bowl smell sweet and rotten.
“Gone,” Timandra says. Her fingers are tight around the handle of her bronze sword. “I made sure of that.”
The servants are staring at her, pleading and fear on their faces. She can see the marks and blood crusts on their arms, and she wonders if Timandra beat them before she brought her here or if it was someone else.
“Tell my sister what you told me,” Timandra orders, her voice empty of any warmth. “How you were with the king of Maeonia when he died.” She looks strange in the shadows, unnerving.
Clytemnestra stands still. The hatred inside her is growing roots. She can see it on her sister’s face, and something else beneath it, blistering. If her brother were here, Timandra wouldn’t have to do this, but Castor is far across the sea, following some hero’s quest.
“The king gave us the order,” one servant whispers. His voice is broken, a croaking sound. “We had no choice.”
She should pity them, she knows that, their existence made of orders and suffering, their lives like rafts pushed around by the waves. But it is easy to turn to the weakest when you are racked with pain, to hurt those who can’t defend themselves when you are unable to hurt those who have hurt you. This is how the world works, raging gods forcing nymphs and humans into submission, heroes taking advantage of lesser men and women, kings and princes exploiting slaves.
Clytemnestra doesn’t want to be like that. She is hateful, but she is not merciless. What good would it be to kick and hurt the helots further, to make their last moments insufferable? Let their deaths be quick.
She looks into her sister’s angry eyes and nods. Timandra walks behind the servants, her blade in hand. The men are praying now, their words quick, like shadows shifting on water.
“The gods can’t find you here,” Clytemnestra says.
They have a moment to look up at her, their mouths open to plead, their hands clasped. Then Timandra cuts their throats.
*