When the sun sets, crowning the hills with gold, she stops near some stones that might once have been a temple. The blocks have grown darker, and weeds have found their way through each crack. She ties the horse to a tree and walks in the growing darkness, following the feeble sound of water. She finds a stream hidden by tall grass and flowers and bends to fill her empty wineskin to the brim.
A rabbit hops a few steps from her. She looks up and their eyes lock. How small it is, she thinks, and yet it isn’t scared of her. Her hand finds the handle of her dagger and throws it. It sinks into the soft fur around the animal’s neck. She grabs it, limp and dead, and walks back to the old temple to clean it. Her horse rests while she prepares a small fire and eats the meat.
Sparks glow around her like fireflies. The wind rises, and she wraps her goatskin around her shoulders. Though summer, it is always cool at night in the hills. She lies down by the fire and closes her eyes, but nightmares are already forming behind the lids, black figures dancing in the flames. They have been following her for years. She imagines fighting them, putting her hand right into the flames until her skin becomes scorched and the figures disappear. But no one can fight fire. It is the element of the Furies, goddesses of vengeance, ancient creatures of torment.
So she thinks of her children—Iphigenia, Electra, Orestes, Chrysothemis—each of them a root that keeps her steady. Iphigenia, with her swanlike neck and golden hair; Electra, with her solemn eyes and wise words; Chrysothemis, with her sweet smile. Even Orestes, who looks so much like his father, is a joy. Agamemnon can’t take this from her. She has carried them in her womb, nursed them, watched over them at night, their breath in her ear, their little hands fitting in hers. She has clutched her children one by one, shielded them until they have grown, and in return, they have given her her life back.
Stars dance in the vaulted sky, and Clytemnestra drifts to sleep.
*
She arrives at the palace of Alea the next evening. It is much smaller than Mycenae—simple wood facades on a base of rough stone—and around it, sheep and goats graze on the land. At the entrance, standing by two tall columns painted crimson, Timandra is waiting for her. Her features seem different, more refined under her regal circlet, but maybe it is just because, for once, her hair isn’t in her face. She is wearing a light-blue tunic pinned to her left shoulder, and Clytemnestra can’t help but notice an ugly scar at the base of her neck, dark and jagged.
“That was our father,” Timandra says, following Clytemnestra’s eyes. “One of his many courtesies before he died.”
“Don’t talk badly of the dead.” She can hear the contempt in her own voice and hopes her sister won’t.
“You once said that the dead can’t hear us,” Timandra replies. Her body is still lean, her eyes dark, like the sky at night. With her newly cut hair, she looks much like Clytemnestra. Timandra reaches out and hugs her. She smells of mint and wood, of the strong flavors of the kitchen and the thick scents of the forest.
“Welcome to Arcadia,” Timandra says.
*
They walk inside, where the halls are lined with big painted jars, and the walls look naked and gray without any frescoes.
“It is a small palace,” Clytemnestra says.
“Don’t say that in front of my husband. It was built by his grandfather Aleus, and Echemus loves to talk about it whenever he has the chance. In fact,” Timandra says as she turns to her sister, “he will surely talk about it at dinner. He likes to boast.”
Timandra had married only a few months before Tyndareus died. When an envoy had come to Mycenae to give Clytemnestra the news, Agamemnon forbade her to attend the wedding. There were too many embassies in the palace to be dealt with, too many guests and quarrels to be resolved. So Clytemnestra had held audiences and discussed land disputes and army training while her sister married the king of Arcadia.
“You don’t like him,” Clytemnestra says.
Timandra laughs. “Of course I like him. He is my husband.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“He bores me to death,” she admits without bothering to lower her voice. “But at least he lets me do what I want.”
They reach a small bedroom, the floor covered with sheepskin rugs. A single bed has been pushed against the wall, where a fresco of a nymph is fading. Clytemnestra sits, her joints aching.
Timandra watches her. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks. “Go back to Sparta?” Her hair is a dull brown, not as rich as her sister’s, but her eyes are so lively that they make her whole face glow. Clytemnestra knows what Timandra is thinking—of the day when she wished her father dead. I will not mourn you, she had said.
“I have to,” Clytemnestra says calmly.
Timandra nods. “I will let you rest, then. Be ready for dinner soon.”
*
When the sun has set, servants come to accompany her to the dining hall. Timandra is sitting near the head of the table, men of all ages around her, talking. There are only a few women on the benches, gold circlets gleaming in their hair. A young man with muscular arms and olive skin sits beside Timandra. He stands when he sees Clytemnestra and opens his arms in a theatrical gesture.
“Welcome, queen of Mycenae,” he says. “I have heard the most wonderful things about you.” His voice is sweet but with a sticky quality, like honey when it is spilled on the table. Echemus motions to the benches, and Clytemnestra takes her seat at her sister’s side, next to a woman with curly black hair. Servants move under the light of the lamps, bringing meat and wine, herbed cheese and dried fruit.
“I was sorry to hear of your father’s death,” Echemus says as the room grows livelier with chatter. “My wife tells me you were his favorite.” My wife sounds funny in his mouth, as though he felt the need to clarify Timandra’s position.
“I was, once,” Clytemnestra answers truthfully.
“My envoys report that King Menelaus has organized one of the biggest funerals our lands have ever seen.”
“How typical of Menelaus,” Timandra comments.
Echemus ignores her. “And you will ride there tomorrow?” he asks. “Aren’t you tired?”
“We will leave first thing tomorrow morning,” Clytemnestra says, looking at Timandra. “He’s been dead for four days already. The ceremony can’t wait.”
Echemus nods, his expression suddenly grave, and Timandra turns to her right, smiling at the curly-haired woman. Clytemnestra follows her stare and freezes on the bench. Eyes clear as water springs, hair as dark as obsidian . . . Timandra is faster than her. Before Clytemnestra can speak, her sister’s features have tightened into a smile.
“You remember Chrysanthe, sister?”
Chrysanthe smiles, and her cheeks redden. Clytemnestra remembers how the girl had flushed when she had caught them kissing years ago on the terrace in Sparta. “How could I forget?” she says.
Echemus clears his throat. He straightens in his chair and touches Timandra’s hand. Timandra looks down as if his finger were a worm but doesn’t draw away. “My wife brought Chrysanthe from Sparta as her companion,” Echemus says. “She has grown up in a large family and is often lonely here.” He speaks as though Clytemnestra didn’t know her sister, as though they hadn’t spent every day playing and wrestling together in Sparta.
“How lucky you are that Chrysanthe keeps you company,” Clytemnestra remarks.
“I am the lucky one,” Chrysanthe intervenes, “for I can serve my queen every day.”
Timandra smiles and rips a piece of meat from the bone. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to. Clytemnestra can see that her sister holds the reins in this palace. She sips some wine from her cup and puts all the sincerity she can into her smile. “Although I am sure that you can manage loneliness, Timandra.”
Timandra raises her eyebrows, but it is Echemus who speaks again. “My wife is very lively, always looking for new activities. It isn’t easy to tame her.” He sounds as if he was talking about a horse.
“Impossible to tame her, I might say,” Clytemnestra adds.