“Here on the right is one grave circle,” he whispers as they pass a massive stone construction guarded by two soldiers. “Those are warriors’ houses.” Tall buildings along a paved path. And then a barn. A blacksmith’s forge. Bakers passing with loaves. Slaves carrying fruit and meat for their masters. The smell of honey and spices coming out of an orange-painted store. Naked little boys and girls playing with sticks. The stone steps are worn smooth in the fading sun. They climb until they reach the top and the palace—big and glowing, each terrace surrounded by fire-red columns.
Once inside, Agamemnon disappears with some counselors and Clytemnestra is taken along shadowy colonnades and perfectly lit corridors. The windows have been covered, and the light comes from golden torches hung every few steps. They pass hall after hall, each leading to a corridor lined with painted chambers. She glimpses deep-blue ceilings and columns ringed with roaring lions, griffins, and fearful deer. As they reach her quarters, the air feels still, cooler.
Two slaves are waiting for her in her bedroom. The younger one has dark-red hair and wide eyes, the older a crooked nose and a large scar on her cheek. They stand with their arms dangling down the sides of their bodies, staring at Clytemnestra with hesitant eyes. They feel threatened, she realizes. She ignores them as she puts down her things and looks around.
The bed is carved and covered with a lion’s skin. Next to it, a painted stand, a chair, and a footstool. The paint of the frescoes on the walls is still wet. The images must be meant to remind her of Sparta. Anemones have been painted around large windows, and a river framed by tall reeds flows in front of her bed. She smells the walls and hears the servants whisper.
“How old are you?” Clytemnestra asks them abruptly, fixing her eyes on them.
“Twenty-five, my queen,” the older slave says. “I began serving the Atreidai when I was ten.” She speaks with a hint of pride, but Clytemnestra feels sorry for her.
“And you?” Clytemnestra asks the red-haired girl. Her eyes are gray, sad like clouds before they shed their tears.
The older servant answers for her. “Aileen is fourteen.”
“My sister Timandra is that age,” Clytemnestra says, even though she doesn’t know why she should mention her sister. When neither of the slaves reply, she orders, “Leave me.”
They don’t move. “Lord Agamemnon has ordered us to stay here until he comes back,” the older slave says.
“It doesn’t matter what he said. Now that I am here, you take orders from me.”
The slaves exchange a frightened look, and their eyes shine with uncertainty.
“He will flog us,” the red-haired girl whispers, her voice barely louder than a breath.
“I will not allow it,” Clytemnestra replies. She makes sure her voice sounds firm. The slaves hurry outside.
When their steps have died away, Clytemnestra finally sits on the bed. Painted trees surround her. Fish swim and jump between the reeds. Above her, stars shine on a brushed evening sky, its color as deep as the open sea. The frescoes of the Spartan megaron are nothing compared to this. But then, Mycenae is the richest city of all their lands. There are beautiful carved chests for her clothes, and bowls and tripods. An ax hangs near the window, painted doves and butterflies flying around it.
She looks at every image and bright color, at the lies they tell. This is my life now. Everything I love is gone. She will never see Tantalus again. She will never rock her son to sleep. Grief streams inside her, and she doubles over, her hands pressed to her heart. She closes her eyes, her limbs aching with sorrow and exhaustion, and drifts into sleep.
*
She wakes to the strong smell of meat. Agamemnon is standing in front of the bed, a cup of wine in his hand. He looks drunk: his cheeks are flushed and his eyes slightly unfocused. Outside, it is late night, the stars veiled by thin clouds.
“Eat,” Agamemnon says, sitting on a chair by the side of the bed. Clytemnestra stands slowly and walks to the window. On a stool, a plate is filled with bread and goat meat. She considers smashing it on Agamemnon’s head.
As she eats, he watches her, sipping his wine. She finds herself looking at his hands. They are big, with thick fingers, and Clytemnestra thinks of Tantalus’s light-brown hands, his long, elegant fingers brushing her body like feathers.
When she gobbles the last bite of bread, Agamemnon stands. Clytemnestra doesn’t move, not even when he is close enough that she can smell his breath. He unpins her dress and it falls at her feet.
“The slaves said you are to give them orders from now on,” he says.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t give you permission.” He seems almost amused, though Clytemnestra can’t say why.
“I don’t need your permission. I won’t take orders from you.”
A shadow passes on his face. He takes her hair in his hand and pulls. She takes a step back and he moves with her.
“I know what you think of me, and you are right. I am a bad man. But I don’t regret it. Do you know why? Because admitting what you are is the only way to get what you want.”
And what do you want? You have already taken everything from me.
He grabs her waist with both hands and pushes inside her. She feels her body resisting, trying to draw back, so she focuses on the torches that brighten the frescoes on the walls, the painted fish and birds. When she feels pain, she tries to imagine being the painted nightingale by the door. She remembers the story of the girl Philomela, transformed into a nightingale after being raped and mutilated by her sister’s husband. But she got her revenge first. Philomela had killed the man’s son, boiled him, and served him as a meal.
She stands with her back against the wall and lets Agamemnon kiss and bite her. As he shoves inside her again and again, she licks away the blood on her lip and keeps looking over his shoulder at the wall opposite.
At last, he grunts and moves aside, breathless. She feels the inside of her thighs wet and wishes she could clean herself. She puts her dress back on, ready to leave, though she doesn’t know where to go.
He grabs her arm. “I have chosen you because you are strong, Clytemnestra. Stop being weak now.”
She shakes him away. Her nightdress flutters behind her as she walks the lit corridors, leaving her chamber far behind. She reaches a window. The corridor feels hot and close and she climbs out, landing on stairs that seem to run toward a garden. She follows the path, almost running, stumbling in the dark, and stops only in a spot where she can see the entire valley stretching below her, resting in the quiet night. Above her, she recognizes the temple she had glimpsed as they rode into the city, its columns as white as a baby’s teeth. Engraved on the stone, the name Hera. The most vengeful goddess, her mother always said.
She feels for flowers under her bare feet, patches of color in the shade. Stop being weak, he said. She thinks about the meaning, and suddenly she understands, his words as clear as an ice-fed pool.
He desired her strength because it was a challenge to him. He wished to bend her to his own will, break her. He wanted to show he was stronger by subjugating her. Some men can be like that.
She feels the flowers swaying in the wind, then plucks them.
He will not break her. She will break him.
Part III
So Leda’s daughters,
two lethal brides,
will twice and thrice wed.
One will launch Greece in a thousand ships, her beauty the ruin of her land, and the men sent to rescue her will come back ashes and bones.
The other, the queen hell-bent on revenge, will rise in the house of Mycenae, loyal to those who revere her, savage to those who oppose her.
15
The Queen of Arcadia
Fifteen years later
CLYTEMNESTRA’S BACK HURTS, but she doesn’t stop riding. Mycenae is far behind her now, and in front of her are the endless hills of Arcadia, lush and bright as ripe pears. She follows hill after hill dotted with yellow flowers toward a plain with clumps of dark-green trees. She has been riding for a day already and hopes to reach King Echemus’s palace before dusk falls tomorrow.