“Do our people fight only to defend themselves?” Clytemnestra says. “Do we harm only those who have offended us?”
She can feel the buzzing of Electra’s thoughts now. She can almost hear her daughter think, Would that be such a bad thing? There would be fewer wars.
But Orestes says, “No.”
“Start again then,” Clytemnestra says, stepping aside to make room. The boy Orestes was fighting walks to the center of the yard again, his feet unsure. Everyone is watching now, and silence is curdling around them.
Orestes casts one last look in his mother’s direction. Then he cuts the boy’s face. Blood spurts onto Orestes’s tunic, and the army master nods approvingly. When the boy steps forward again, his fists clenched, Orestes cuts his leg and leaves him kneeling on the ground, his palms soaked red.
Leon walks into the yard and helps the boy to his feet to clean his wounds. The other boys’ whispers flutter like bats through tree branches. Clytemnestra turns to her daughters. Iphigenia’s eyes are wide open, torn between terror and relief; she is holding Chrysothemis’s hand, though her sister doesn’t seem scared. Electra’s face is as dark as the sea.
“Does he hate me?” Orestes has walked to her, blood dripping from his sword. He is staring at the boy as Leon cleans his face with water; the cut goes from the temple to his chin. It is a deep, angry gash, and it will soon swell.
“It doesn’t matter,” Clytemnestra says. “Next time he will fight harder, and he will defend himself better.”
Orestes nods. Clytemnestra doesn’t touch him—she can’t touch him now, not in front of all the other boys—but she will hug him later and tell him he has been brave. Warmed by the thought, she turns to her daughters once more, but next to Iphigenia, there is only Chrysothemis, frowning as she looks at the wounded boy. Electra has disappeared.
*
Mousike lessons are in a spacious room that opens onto the inner courtyard. The floor is of the purest white marble from Paros and the ceiling painted a brilliant red. When Clytemnestra walks in, a woman with long, black hair and thick gold earrings is arranging the instruments in front of Iphigenia and Electra. Out of the corner of her eye, Clytemnestra sees Electra frown—her daughter is still angry after the scene in the practice yard.
“Out,” Clytemnestra tells the music tutor, lifting the lid of the lyres’ chest. “I will teach them a song today.”
Iphigenia cocks her head, curious, and Electra scoffs. As Clytemnestra’s fingers caress the chords, a shimmering sound fills the room. “Our tutor in Sparta taught this song to me and my sisters,” she says. “Do you know the story of the goddess Artemis and the hunter Actaeon?”
Electra scrutinizes her mother, her eyes narrowed.
“He watched her as she was bathing?” Iphigenia says. “And called the rest of his hunting party to watch too?”
“He was driven by lust, as men often are. But Artemis punished him and turned him into a stag.” Clytemnestra sets her eyes on her daughters and begins to sing.
“Foolish Actaeon!
You thought you could
humble the Unharmed.
“Look at yourself now!
The hunter is devoured
by his own hounds”
Iphigenia shifts uncomfortably on her stool. Electra’s eyes are as cold and serious as a raven’s. “I love the songs on Artemis,” Helen had said when she heard the story for the first time. “She is ruthless, but at least she never gets hurt.”
“Maybe those men wouldn’t have done anything to her,” Clytemnestra says. “Maybe they just wanted to see her body. But have you ever heard of a man who stumbles upon a naked goddess and just walks away?”
Iphigenia shakes her head.
“It is noble to be gentle, to save others from pain. But it is also dangerous. Sometimes you have to make life difficult for others before they make it impossible for you.”
*
In the following days, every time boys are cut, Clytemnestra teaches them how to clean wounds and which herbs to use to stop infection. Leon helps her, and Iphigenia and Electra join the boys as they learn. Iphigenia is especially talented: her fingers are firm and gentle, her memory of the right herbs to use never wavering. She doesn’t stop in front of anything, not even the most gruesome head wounds.
One morning Clytemnestra and Leon go to the practice yard to find Iphigenia cleaning a boy’s knee. He is disheveled, his knees scabbed and his hair dirty—he must have come from the village outside the city gates. Iphigenia bends forward, swiping some salve onto the injury, whistling a tune to calm him. Her profile is soft in the morning light, and Clytemnestra finds herself at a loss for words, not wanting to disturb her perfect daughter.
Before she can stop him, Leon darts forward. He kneels next to Iphigenia and holds out the herbs she needs. She looks at him with a grateful smile and his face shines, like a flower in the sun.
“Mother, come!” Iphigenia says when she sees her lingering at the edge of the yard. “I found him in the village outside the walls. A dog bit him.”
Clytemnestra walks closer. She studies her daughter and Leon’s adoring stare as they kneel together on the dusty earth of the yard. Agamemnon once told her that Leon desired her, but he was wrong. It is Iphigenia he wants. Rage mounts inside her, as it does every time someone wants to take away her daughter.
But then she sees the focus with which Leon hands Iphigenia the herbs, his care in staying far enough from her, his gentle eyes. He won’t harm her. He wants only to stay close to her and feel her light, her warmth. Who but Clytemnestra can understand that?
*
One of Agamemnon’s spies is reporting on the recent trades of Troy when the doors of the megaron are thrown open. Clytemnestra watches as a bearded warrior drags his son forward, ignoring the guards who invite him to wait by the anteroom. The boy is tall, with the face of an angry dog, and on his forehead, a gash is dripping blood down his cheek and onto the shiny floor. The spy stops talking and looks at Agamemnon, waiting for instructions.
“I imagine, Eurybates, that this is your son,” Agamemnon says.
Eurybates bends. He is broad-shouldered, his skin the color of walnuts. “Yes, my king. Kyros. Fourteen years old and the fastest runner his age.” As he approaches the throne, Agamemnon’s spy moves aside, blending with the shadows of the hearth columns.
“And you interrupt me this morning because your son has been hurt,” Agamemnon says with amusement, looking at the gash on Kyros’s face as if it were a fleabite.
Eurybates’s jaw tightens. “Yes, my king, he has been hurt but not during training or in a boys’ fight.” He falters. “Two girls did it.”
Kyros’s face grows purple with shame. Agamemnon stifles a laugh, then shakes his head, annoyance growing on his face.
“Do not bother me with this. Take the girls and flog them.” He has just spoken when two men—Kyros’s brothers, with the same angry face—bring Electra and Iphigenia into the hall.
Clytemnestra’s hand flies to her dagger and the men take a step back, pushing her daughters forward. Electra is staring at the floor, tears on her cheeks, but Iphigenia’s eyes are narrowed, focused on Kyros with an expression of pure hatred.
“This is what you get when you marry a Spartan woman. Unruly daughters.” Agamemnon’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You demand punishment, Eurybates?”
“He wanted to rip our clothes,” Iphigenia hisses, fire in her eyes. “He chased us in the streets shouting that we would be forced to marry him after he was done with us.”
Agamemnon speaks without even looking at her. “Do not interrupt, Iphigenia.”
“As you said, they should be flogged, my lord,” Eurybates says. He is avoiding Clytemnestra’s eyes.
Agamemnon sighs. “Do as you wish. Though if your son can be taken down by two girls, he’ll never be a man.”