“But you are still here,” Clytemnestra says. “What upsets you?”
“I had never seen a dead thing before,” Electra says simply.
This strikes Clytemnestra. A flash of Helen sitting on their bed when they were sixteen comes to her. “I have never killed anything,” Helen had said. But still, as innocent as her sister was, she had seen plenty of dead men, women, and animals. Horses rotting by the river, children killed by illness in the helots’ villages, thieves thrown down the Ceadas, young boys killed in combat. But that was Sparta. In Mycenae, Electra is twelve and her life is shielded. She hasn’t bled yet. She hasn’t been touched by a boy. She has never been beaten. And she has never seen a dead body.
As if reading her mind, Electra asks, “You saw dead babies when you were my age, did you not?”
Clytemnestra looks away, the image of her dead son in Leda’s arms like a heated blade against her brain. Sometimes Electra says things that make her suffer, and she wonders if her daughter does it on purpose. It seems unlikely, but a thought creeps through her mind, making her restless: What if Electra can be as unkind as her father? What if she is not quiet because she is shy but because she is crafty?
“The first dead thing I saw was a boy,” Clytemnestra says. “It was in the gymnasium. He died because of an accident.”
Electra’s eyes go flat. “What did it look like?”
Clytemnestra tries to think. There was no blood, but the head was bent sideways unnaturally, as if the boy had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position. “It was bloodless.”
“Like a fish when it is caught.” This is another thing about her daughter: rather than asking many questions, her sentences come out as statements. Other children find it unnerving.
“Yes,” Clytemnestra says. “But fish gasp before dying. The boy didn’t suffer.”
Electra thinks it through. “Death doesn’t scare you.”
“It scares me, but less than it scares others, because I am used to it. Does it scare you?”
“Yes. Only a fool wouldn’t fear death.”
Clytemnestra smiles. “Your grandfather once said something similar.”
Electra stands, smoothing her dress. “I don’t want to eat in the hall tonight. I am sad and the elders are like spiders, speaking into Father’s ear, weaving their webs.”
Clytemnestra waits, looking at the light shifting in her daughter’s eyes as she thinks of the best way to ask. Finally, Electra says, “Can I stay in the gynaeceum and eat alone?”
Clytemnestra stands too. “You can’t eat by yourself. You know that.” Electra opens her mouth to reply, but her mother says, “I will talk to your father so you and I can eat together in your room.”
Electra stays very still, and for a moment, Clytemnestra thinks she will say no. Then suddenly, she smiles, and her serious face is lit, like the first glint of sun on water.
*
Later, when they have eaten their fish and lentils, they lie down in Electra’s room, the frescoed ceiling above them like the summer sky. Clytemnestra had the gynaeceum repainted when she found out she was pregnant with Iphigenia, every trace of her home scraped away. Now the walls are covered with frescoes of warrior women and goddesses, their spears sharp and precious, their skin pale and polished, like ivory. And on the ceilings of her daughters’ rooms, little suns and stars, like golden tears.
Clytemnestra closes her eyes. The image of Cynisca’s body kneeling on the floor, blood pouring through her palms, comes back to her, like balm on her skin. Did she think I would forget? That I would let her live after what she did to me? Time had passed and Cynisca had thought herself safe. But vengeance works best when it’s aided by patience. And patience is like a child: it must be nursed so it can grow day after day, feeding on sorrow, until it’s as angry as a bull and as lethal as a poisoned fang.
Believing her mother has fallen asleep, Electra nestles under her arm, keeping close though the room is hot. Clytemnestra feels her shoulder growing numb but she doesn’t move, afraid that her daughter might pull away. She pretends to sleep until she can hear Electra’s regular breathing against her neck. When she opens her eyes, her daughter is sleeping with her mouth slightly open, her limbs relaxed as they never are when she is awake. Soon, Electra will wake and her sharpness, her alertness will return. But now, as she sleeps with a half smile on her lips, she looks happy and vulnerable, like a goddess resting among humans by mistake.
*
She wakes to the sound of her daughters quarreling. Around them, the walls are bathed in light. Electra sits on the edge of the bed as Aileen arranges her peplos, fastening the fabric at the shoulders with pins. Iphigenia is walking up and down the room, speaking about a lyre competition Electra doesn’t want to take part in.
Aileen and Clytemnestra exchange an amused look. Every day, it is the same. Chrysothemis plays with other noblemen’s children, Orestes trains with the boys, while Iphigenia and Electra argue and challenge each other. They are so different that sometimes Clytemnestra wonders how it is possible that they came from the same womb. Fair in appearance, Iphigenia is stubborn, like a flower growing in the desert. Limits and constraints fall apart when faced with her intention, and her cleverness, the brightness with which she does everything she puts her mind to, leaves others speechless and in awe. Electra faces the world without the same confidence. She is never truly happy or satisfied, as if a worm is eating her from the inside, making her constantly fearful and frustrated. She tries to find her peace by shutting herself in the most remote rooms and nooks of the palace, but in the end, she always goes back to Iphigenia. It is as if she needs her sister’s fervor to light the world around her, but it reminds her that, without it, her life would be gray and musty.
*
The merchants don’t go to her, so Clytemnestra must go to them. She sets out late in the afternoon with her most faithful guard, a young man with thick dark hair and umber eyes. Leon has served her for a few years, after winning a wrestling game organized by her husband. He had thrown his opponent into the dust, walked to the dais where king and queen were seated, and knelt in front of Clytemnestra. “All I desire is to serve you, my queen,” he told her. Agamemnon laughed, but Clytemnestra let him kiss her hand and told him she would be happy to have him as guard. He is the kind of man Castor would like—smart and loyal. She could hear her brother say, “That is a rare combination. Intelligent and devoted as a dog. You will need one of those every now and then.”
The streets are busy at this hour and the heat almost unbearable. Children are running, jumping, playing catch-me. Vendors shout in the fly-infested air. Clytemnestra and Leon take a side alley that leads to the back gate, where the houses are so tall that they shut out the sun. There is the stink of piss and fish.
“Are you sure they are here?” Clytemnestra asks as they step aside to avoid an old slave pushing two pigs down the road.
“Yes, my queen,” Leon says. “I came here myself once. Artists and merchants drink here every evening.”
She lets him show her the way. He turns left into an alley lined with wine barrels where the smell of fish lessens and then into a shadowy room lit by three torches. The space is empty except for a woman with long, wavy hair covering her bare breasts and a man cleaning a shiny cup with a rag. Clytemnestra takes off her cloak and they gasp.
“My queen—” they start, but Clytemnestra quiets them. She can see a door covered with a long piece of cloth at the end of the room and hears voices coming from beyond it.
“No need to announce me.” She turns to Leon and hands him the cloak. “You wait here.”