“He is discussing the war,” Iphigenia says. “Every city fears Troy, it seems, but no one wants to fight.”
Clytemnestra leads her daughters up the steps to the entrance of the palace. Behind them, Aileen follows, her arms filled with tunics and sandals. When they step over the threshold, the air is suddenly fresher.
“I will see your father now,” Clytemnestra says. “Find Electra and prepare for dinner.”
*
The courtyard that leads to the megaron is cool and quiet. Clytemnestra half expects to see Electra there, eavesdropping on her father, but there is no one under the shadowy colonnades except the frescoed griffins, sitting proudly by every column.
She can hear the whispers coming from the hall in the anteroom, with its bare walls and stone floor. The air there is moist, the light scarce. An older servant approaches to wash her feet. She stands still as the woman unties her sandals and cleans her in the footbath. When her feet have been wiped with a dry cloth, she steps forward into the bright light of the megaron.
The hall is richly adorned. Its walls are decorated with frescoes of warriors and lions fighting, their spears flying, chasing the fleeing beasts. The first time she saw the frightened lions, Clytemnestra laughed—no one who ever hunted lions saw the animals in such a state.
“This speaks of the power of our city,” Agamemnon had said.
“It is a lie,” she replied.
“It is a story. Stories draw people together; they lead armies and form alliances.” As much as she hated him, she knew he was right.
Four guards stand with their backs to the walls, holding spears and shields. Clytemnestra waits by the columned entrance as one moves forward to announce her presence to the king. Beyond the hearth that occupies the center of the room, she can see Agamemnon seated on his raised throne, the steps that lead to it gilded and shiny. A boy is seated at his feet while a group of older men whisper, their voices hissing.
“The queen is here,” the guard announces, and the king and elders turn. Clytemnestra walks past the frescoed battles of Mycenaeans against barbaroi, the lions, and deer toward the throne. Orestes jumps to his feet about to run to her, then stops, controlling himself. He is olive-skinned, like his mother, with dark curls that fall around his face. The elders kneel, their faces touching the floor at Clytemnestra’s feet.
“Please stand,” she says. “There is no need.” It troubles her to see them so obliging, when all they do when her husband isn’t here is challenge and contradict her.
“My queen,” one says, straightening. He is a brutal man called Polydamas, whom her husband respects above all. “I hope the journey from Sparta was not too tiring?” His breath smells like fresh flowers, but Clytemnestra knows there is something murky about him, like the mud that hides under the bulrushes after a wet season.
“It was pleasant,” she says.
“And how is your sister?”
“Helen is well. She has plenty of time to spend with little Hermione, especially now that King Menelaus has taken an interest in the helots around the palace.”
Orestes looks at his feet. Your father has taught you never to look down in front of his counselors, Clytemnestra wants to say. She will tell him later. The elders close their mouths, embarrassed.
“Leave us,” Agamemnon says, and they nod, relieved. They walk away slowly, their limbs old and knotty as oaks. When they disappear into the anteroom, Clytemnestra caresses her son’s curls. He doesn’t draw away but relaxes under her touch. Agamemnon steps down from his throne, his eyes wary.
“The merchants I asked you to deal with are complaining again,” he says. No greeting or questions, but then she doesn’t expect her husband to behave in any other way.
“They want to be paid more in exchange for the losses with Troy,” she says. She had dealt several times with a group of angry merchants before leaving for Sparta. They demanded that Mycenae keep exchanging goods with Troy, while Agamemnon was trying to boycott the city.
“Yes. But there is another matter,” Agamemnon says.
“Speak.”
“They don’t want to deal with you anymore.”
Orestes looks at his mother, worried.
Clytemnestra wipes any expression from her face. “What did they say exactly?” she asks.
“That you are not fit to give them commands. But it doesn’t matter. You will talk to them tomorrow and you will teach them to listen.”
“Good,” she says. One of the few things she doesn’t despise him for: he likes it when she is in charge, when she takes matters into her own hands. He wasn’t convinced at first, but when he saw how everything in the city functioned under her command, he was smart enough to let her do the work.
“What of Troy?” Clytemnestra asks. “Will there be war?”
Agamemnon shakes his head. “No Greek king wants to fight. They need a reason to do so. Troy is rich and dangerous to us, but that is not reason enough for them.”
She frowns. “You go to war because that is what you are trained for.”
“I agree. Still, they will wait until the Trojans are on our doorstep.”
“The Trojans will not come. They have gold, they control much of the sea, and they have the mines at the foot of Mount Ida. They have no reason to come to us.”
His eyes shine for a moment. He comes closer and kisses her forehead. “So we will go to them,” he says. He turns to leave but lingers by the door. “I didn’t ask about your family. How are they?”
She is almost surprised by the question and braces herself for the snake hidden among the flowers. “They are well.”
“And your stay in Alea was good?”
She doesn’t like the look in his eyes. “Yes.”
“I imagine Timandra is now fucking Arcadian women.”
Orestes gasps next to Clytemnestra, but she doesn’t flinch.
“I always liked her best, Timandra,” Agamemnon continues. “She is tough, like you. I just wish she would visit more.” He gives her a sly leer.
She moves toward him, covering the distance between them in a few steps. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. Then she whispers in his ear, low enough for Orestes not to catch the words. “If you talk about my sister again, I will strangle you in your sleep.”
*
She goes to the storage rooms to find her daughter. Dinner is ready—the smells of vegetable soup and fish sauce fill the palace—and Aileen has told her that Electra is nowhere to be found, so rather than washing herself in a cool bath, Clytemnestra takes the corridor that leads to the storerooms. Leaving the frescoed halls behind, she follows the stone steps that go deep into the underground vaults of the palace. There is the faint smell of the earth and the spices and oil that come from the clay vases lining the dark corridors. She reaches a room where a single dim lamp shines feebly. On a shelf, there are old offering bowls and sacrifice knives still stained with dried blood. The shadows they cast on the walls resemble claws and fingers.
Electra is hiding in a corner, her head resting on her knees. Her breathing is rhythmic and quiet as if she is sleeping. Clytemnestra takes a step forward, and Electra’s head jerks up. A sliver of light from the lamp touches her cheek. “You always find me,” she says.
Clytemnestra sits on the cool floor in front of her daughter. “It is time for dinner. You shouldn’t be here.”
Electra examines her fingernails and keeps quiet. Finally, in a calm voice, she says, “I saw a dead dog today.”
“Where?”
“In the alleys close to the Lion Gate.”
Clytemnestra doesn’t point out that Electra wasn’t meant to be there by herself. Her middle child is always the most difficult to talk to—sometimes Clytemnestra wants to unspool her brain, picking through her mind one thought at a time. “What did it look like?” she asks.
Electra thinks for a moment. “A rag,” she says. “It was pushed against the potter’s door. It must have died on the street and someone kicked it out of his way.”
“What did you do?” Clytemnestra asks, though deep down, she knows the answer.
“I washed it, burned it, and buried its ashes by the back gate.”