Clytemnestra shattered her own cup against the wall. She stood while a servant hurried to clean the wine spreading on the floor. Everyone fell silent, staring at her.
She looked into her father’s eyes and said, “Sooner or later, you will die. And I will not mourn you. I will look at the flames consuming your body, and I will rejoice.”
She left the room then and hurried along the cold corridors. There was one thing that she noticed before leaving: Agamemnon’s face as she spoke, his lips curled into a smile.
14
Mycenae
ON HER LAST morning in Sparta, Clytemnestra wakes alone. The mountain peaks are shrouded in a sun-glow mist while the valley appears clear with daybreak. Most helots are already working the land, cutting the grass, their backs bent so that, from afar, they are crescent-shaped, like the sickles they hold. Vines are blooming on the walls of the village houses, and beyond the fields, the meadows at the foot of the mountains are tinted with yellow and lilac.
A sudden knock on the door makes Clytemnestra jump, and for a moment, she fears it is Agamemnon. Her muscles tighten. Her hand flies to her dagger when Helen comes in, the earliest sunlight glimmering on her messy hair. The bruise on her neck is fading, like an old fresco. She gets into the bed without a word, and Clytemnestra remembers when they used to lie down together as children, putting their hands next to each other, measuring the length of their tiny fingers.
“I always thought I would leave this place,” Helen says, “but it seems I am doomed to live in Sparta forever.”
“You should have gone to Mycenae, not me,” Clytemnestra says.
“It is already decided. I heard Tyndareus say that with Agamemnon in Mycenae and Menelaus here in Sparta, ready to take Tyndareus’s throne when he passes, the strongest alliance between Greek cities will be forged.”
Clytemnestra almost laughs. “Sparta has always despised alliances.”
Helen nods. “Alliances are for the weak.”
“No more, it seems.”
“You know how shepherds take their sheep and cows to the market so that everyone can inspect them before buying?” Helen asks. “They check their wool, their hoofs, their teeth.”
“Yes.” Clytemnestra knows where her sister is going but lets her finish anyway.
“We have been sold like cattle for the Atreidai’s stupid alliance.”
“We are not cattle.”
Helen produces a muffled sound between a laugh and a cry. Clytemnestra moves closer and touches her cheek. She wants to speak but she is afraid she will cry, and she has cried enough already.
We will see each other soon. Our lives are being torn apart now, but we will find a way back to each other, just as water always finds its way around rocks.
*
She leaves her home a few hours later. Her sisters at her side, she walks to the palace gate, where Agamemnon and his men are waiting, ready to escort her. A breath of wind makes the trees dance, and the scents of olives and figs drift to her.
Tyndareus and Menelaus are standing together, the palace looming behind them. A few steps away, the priestess is staring at Clytemnestra, her hands clutching her thin dress. Clytemnestra stares back, trying to read her face. The prophecy echoes in her mind, as if spoken in the depths of a great dark cave. Leda’s daughters will twice and thrice wed. And they will all be deserters of their lawful husbands. The memory gives her relief, like cold water on a burn. Twice and thrice. She looks at Agamemnon as he prepares his horse and imagines piercing his skull, squashing the brain. Oh yes. No man can touch what isn’t his to take without being punished. You will keep climbing, trampling everything and everyone, but sooner or later, you’ll make a mistake. And you will fall.
She feels Phoebe’s and Philonoe’s hands on her arm. They have come to hug her, their cheeks streaked with tears.
“Can we come soon and see the great city of Mycenae?” they ask, their little faces as fresh as drops of water.
Clytemnestra kisses their foreheads. “You will come when Mother lets you.” Philonoe smiles and Phoebe nods solemnly. Leda pulls them back to take their places next to their father. Clytemnestra waits quietly for her mother’s goodbye.
“You are broken now,” Leda tells her, pushing a strand of hair off Clytemnestra’s face. “But pain will leave you. I promise. The gods are merciful to those who deserve it.” Her face is mournful, her sad green eyes fixed somewhere behind her daughter.
Clytemnestra doesn’t say that the pain has seeped in too deep, that it’s now in her every limb and muscle, in her every breath. She turns to her sisters, and Helen and Timandra come forward, their arms entwined, their hearts beating as one. They cling to each other until Agamemnon grabs Clytemnestra’s arm and shakes her away.
“Time to leave,” he says. “We don’t want to ride at night.”
“Take this,” Leda says, her arms outstretched, her eyes shiny like falling stars. She is holding a small jeweled knife. “It was your grandmother’s.” Clytemnestra touches the point with her finger, and a drop of blood appears on the tip.
“It is very sharp, though no one suspects it. Everyone is distracted by its beauty.” Leda gives her daughter a final meaningful look, then turns away. Clytemnestra watches her raven hair bounce on her shoulders as she walks. The soldiers around her spur their horses. The last thing she looks at before leaving is Helen, her light-blue eyes spilling tears like summer rain.
As they move farther from the palace onto the plain, the sun peeps through the mist and blinds her. Here I am, she thinks. I was a princess of Sparta and queen of Maeonia . . . Now I am married to the man who murdered my family.
*
They arrive in Mycenae in the late sunlight, the hilltops colored in violet and purple shades. Shrubs and rocks are scattered for miles and miles on the land around her, and in front of her, the citadel stands on a rocky outcrop, massive. The limestone blocks of the outer walls are bigger than bulls, pale against the dark mountains behind. The road to the citadel is steep and unprotected, each approaching visitor at the mercy of the guards stationed on the walls. Clytemnestra wonders how Agamemnon and Menelaus ever managed to retake the city. It looks impregnable.
The suburbs stretch like cobwebs, traders and other workers running their last errands of the day. As Agamemnon and Clytemnestra ride through, the people stop and kneel. They look filthy and strangely thin, like helots. They are not soldiers, Clytemnestra can tell. Her horse steps on some bread crusts on the pebbles, and guards ride on both sides of her as if to protect her from the people.
Two soldiers are waiting for them by the gate, holding a bright banner—a golden lion on purple. The banner flaps in the wind, and Clytemnestra follows its dance. Behind it, the gate is unlike anything she has ever seen. Perched above the posts and lintel, two carved lions stand on their hind legs, their front paws on each side of a column. Their heads are turned to look straight at her. They bathe in the light, quiet and watchful.
The guards let them through. Inside the walls, they follow streets that become narrower and narrower as they draw closer to the palace. At the summit of the citadel, she can make out a small temple. One of the guards talks to Clytemnestra in a low voice.